Tale of 2 Cities: The lies we weave
Everyone has something to hide. That's a different kind of deadly in this city.
The story so far…
Who do you trust?
Jem chose a dream over her family and lover, Lilian betrayed Jem to keep her safe. Kinley sought refuge from his Padfoot lifestyle in Alinakard only to be given up by his fellow guards to Jem’s father. Now trapped in Aeon, they are all dependent on a ragtag group of soldiers who have survived the city for the past ten years (or months, depending on your perspective). Afizere, Jere and their squad all have their agenda, as does the talking skull Kinley picked up at the cemetery.
Everyone lies, especially to themselves. The question is; who will be caught out first?
You can read last week’s post here, or start from the beginning with The City On The Other Side. There are links at the bottom of each post that will jump you straight to the next chapter.
“Turn right!” yelped the skull from the crook of Kinley’s arm. He adjusted his course around the corner, hampered by his robes. Jem skidded after him, hurling her ridiculous straw hat on the ground. Further up the street, they could see a market taking place, the stallholders turning towards them in astonishment. That was due to the large and noisy mob pounding after the pair.
“Huh. That’s new,” the skull grunted. “Into that shop.” Kinley swerved again, grabbing at Jem’s arm to pull her behind him.
“Are you sure?” Jem said with a touch of nerves. She was right to be dubious. It was a leatherworker’s residence with most of the shallow shopfront taken up by hanging belts and jackets. The dimple-cheeked owner sat at her desk in stunned silence, her awl in hand as she stared at them.
“Back door,” Kinley panted. “Gotta have one.” He dived through the hanging curtain that separated the living quarters from the shopfront, then slowed down to navigate the stacked rolls of leather on either wall.
"The skull cackled. “Give the man a hand-clap. All craftsman must have a residence with a back-door, so they don’t litter the street with the results of their trade.”
“Like that one?” Jem asked from behind them. The fabric tunnel had given way to a simple kitchen, hung with pans and potted herbs. The split door here also functioned as the window, with the upper half open and the lower bolted shut. Kinley fumbled at the latch, swearing. They could hear the rising whine of the shopkeeper’s voice, shouting to the mob outside.
“Oh, let me,” Jem snapped. She pushed him aside and deftly unhooked the door. “Where now?”
“Straight down to the canal path,” the skull replied.
That was easy enough. They spilled out through the shared courtyard, half-filled with rubbish baskets, down the worn steps and onto a cobbled towpath next to the flat, calm waterway.
“No boats. Cōleī!” the skull snarled. “We’ll need to do it the hard way. Well, you mouth-breathers will anyway. Follow the canal westwards. Look for a metal grating mount.”
Sweating, Kinley did so. He quickly spotted one, the handle gleaming in the sun standing out from the stone that lipped the canal.
“Pull it up. Hurry!”
Kinley handed the skull to Jem, who winced. He hauled up the grating, the rust protesting in his hands.
“Now, step down.”
“Really?” Kinley asked. “This was the reason why I stopped being a Padfoot.” He could see the stagnant water, a foot below, with a mess of branches poking through the surface. Oddly, the water level was lower than the canal.
“It’s a storm overflow chute,” the skull snapped. “It’s this or the mob. Your choice.”
“Swive it,” Jem grumbled and jumped past Kinley, feet-first into the quagmire. “Are you coming?” she called back, the skull clasped to her chest. “I was told being a Padfoot means ‘survivor.’ So you don’t get to opt-out.”
With a groan, Kinley followed, letting the grate slam down behind them. Bent double, he followed Jem into the darkness. It was hard to tell over the sound of the water, but he thought he heard the skull snigger.
*
Lilian was frustrated. She was supposed to be looking for clues to the builder of the fight court; something that linked that blood-soaked place to Gowan’s Tower. Instead, she was searching through the list of books requested by Sergeant Jere here in the archives; a visit he had neglected to mention. They ranged from celestial poetry to old arcanum, stuffed with spells on every topic under the sun. Lilian flicked a finger at the last curled page: a recipe for treating lined foreheads. That was the only thing all the books had in common: an obsession with youth. Which was odd, because vanity was the last thing she would associate with Jere. He looked comfortably in his skin, with the experience of age and that large, brown moustache. He had stayed to face a demon with her, whilst younger men had fled. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t see him applying anti-wrinkle cream.
“Here are the texts you asked for about the Fight Arena,” the guardian offered, bustling up to her with a handful of scrolls. “It was built in the second generation after the Tower’s Founding and there are several law judgements concerning it’s use. We used to send condemned criminals there, but due to overcrowding, the Curia decided to use the river instead.”
“The Curia?” Lilian asked absently, pulling open the first scroll. It was a works order, with the builder’s signature scrawled at the bottom. She could just make out the surname: Arkhitekton.
“Ah, yes, you are an outsider,” the guardian said with a touch of condescension. “We are ruled by the Curia on all public matters. They would have been the ones to commission the court.”
Lilian blinked. “You wanted a Fight Court here?” she asked, astonished. It was like hearing a council had invited a firestorm into their town. Such an act would have been unthinkable back in Alinakard. If a settlement wasn’t a desolate waste ground before the demons arrived, it would be after.
“No, of course not. Look…” he leaned forward and Lilian leaned back, keen to avoid his pickled breath. “…it’s not on the official record, but when you go through the private journals and inscriptions, it’s clear they had to do something with the demon. As soon as it took up residence in our ancient law courts, our ancestors bottled it up. We still don’t know how. Then, they extended it to the, um, current structure. We used to send our condemned criminals to the place before it got…too overcrowded.”
Lilian realised her mouth was hanging open as the guardian wound down his sentence and snapped it shut with an audible click.
“You fed people to that thing?” she asked her voice rising.
He shrugged, his curls bouncing. “What else could we do with them?”
“I - you, - no, I won’t swear. I’d call your Curia bloody stupid, but I think I went past that point myself when I entered this city. Look, do you have anything about Gowan’s Tower? How is it related to the Arena?”
The Guardian’s face hardened. “What did you say your research area was, Scribe Lilian?”
She swallowed, one traitorous finger creasing the edge of her tabard. “Ancestral architecture, of course.”
“Permitted by the current Legata?”
“Yes.”
The Guardian marched briskly past her and rang a small bell. The chime echoed through the archives and she heard the slam of a door in the distance. Then he was back at her side, deftly removing the scrolls from her hands. Lilian clung onto the last one and he had to unpeel it, finger by finger.
“What are you doing?” she asked through gritted teeth.
“You truck in diseased knowledge,” he hissed at her, his smooth face wrinkling with malice and disgust. “You foul our town with your speculation by crossing Gowan’s name with that abomination.”
“So they are linked and everyone knows it,” Lilian said, her heart beating fast. She could hear footsteps marching up behind her and the Guardian now had her wrist squeezed in his larger hand.
“Never,” he snapped back. He transferred his attention to the man and woman standing behind Lilian. She half-turned to peer at them; servants’ robes and workworn faces with utter apathy in their stance. They were both bigger than her.
“Take her to the Magistum,” her captor barked out. “She has blasphemed against the city.”
I liked how the two scenes in this one contrasted each other. The Chase was an open conflict (with Jem being the real shot-caller throughout), while the tension between Lilian and the guardian was subtler - suitable for someone searching an archive under false impressions. Can't wiat to see what's in the sewer, or who the 'Magistum' is.
One thing I noticed: "Further up the street, they could a market taking place" - I think it should be "could *see* a market". I only noticed because the editing (in all the pieces) is generally faultless.