In which Giliana sees behind a mask.
***
Esra is silent. Gil almost feels herself again, not having to constantly combat the mystic’s presence in her brain. He’s cowed by his own helplessness, unable to assist Gil as she wanders the dim fringes of the Spire markets, unable to single out anyone who seems …
The truth is that she doesn’t know what she’s looking for. Esra needs to commune with someone in the city. Hardly a narrow search without any identifying factors. When Gil thought to ask why Esra’s command of the unseen doesn’t allow him to seek out this mystery liaison, Esra’s only response was a cryptic, The raven shuts her eyes to me.
Gil doesn’t pretend to understand, except so far as gleaning that Esra is coming up against limitations. That information on its own could be useful.
Too late, she notices a young woman appraising her from a street corner. A performer, playing the panflute for coins, still braying soft notes as she glares right at Gil, who realises she’s out in the open and slips back. The flutist abandons her street corner and follows, calling out as soon as they’re both in the shadowy side streets behind the markets. ‘Hey!’
Gil decides she’s tired of running and stops to confront the performer. ‘What, then? Know who I am?’
‘The one the Concord’s looking for, right? They’ve been asking about someone like you.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Fine by my reckoning. Concord doesn’t like you. That means I do.’
Gil doesn’t have a response for that.
‘So, going to stand there all night? I have somewhere you can hide.’
The performer introduces herself as Padma, and takes Gil deeper into the decrepit cracks and fault lines that run along Spire’s main roads, the alleys no one would think to look for if they didn’t already know they were there. Soldiers from the Concord are patrolling the main streets, searching stalls and homes at random, and it’s only by Padma’s graces that Gil avoids detection – the performer seems to have eluding the guards down to a fine art. She’s small and unassuming, keeping her hair in a tight braid that barely skips past her shoulders, and her clothes are a subtle kind of drab, with flashes of colourful fabrics hidden under shawls the colour of treated hide. She is dressed to both stand out and blend in, depending on her intentions.
Finally, they arrive at a house wedged between an abandoned stable and a chandler’s workshop – the stench is overpowering. Padma knocks three times and enters nonetheless.
‘This is my father’s home,’ Padma says briskly. ‘No one pays him any mind these days, you’ll be safe here.’
‘I can hear you dishonouring my name,’ comes a crackling voice from inside. It seems sprinkled with good humour.
Gil passes through the cracked doorway and sees Padma’s father, slumped into a roughly hewn chair. The dwelling is dim and dusty, its original stone framework patched up with timber all over the interior. The place won’t stand strong for much longer.
‘So, I suppose my daughter has decided you are a guest. Call me Morell. And you are?’
‘Giliana Shale, Clan Whisper,’ Gil murmurs out of routine.
‘Don’t get many from the deep wood clans here these days. Thought you’d want to stay where there’s less Concord to muscle through.’ Morell’s tone is light and capricious, although his eyes are sharp. He’s a man who wears his age, half-hidden behind his unkempt beard and clothes that are tailored well, but maintained poorly with stains and loose threads.
‘There’s a lot happening in the clans,’ Gil says. And before she can stop herself, she tells him about Watersong and Esra. The notion of a mystic inhabiting her head like this is nonsensical, yet Morell looks like someone who’d accept it. Moreover, Esra doesn’t try to stop her, allowing the words to spill out without resistance. Perhaps he sees merit in the discussion as well.
Padma looks incoherently puzzled, and keeps glancing at Morell to hear his view on the matter. Morell is also silent, now puffing on a pipe. With his beard and wrinkled skin he looks like he could be a forest spirit like in the old myths, a squat demihuman perched on a tree stump watching the dim-witted human stumble around in his domain. When he speaks, his tone is still jovial. ‘So are you this thing’s puppet now?’
‘No,’ Gil snaps, and she’s only half-sure it’s her own voice. ‘But we have a bargain. I find this person, and Esra helps me with the Grimwood plague.’
‘A poor bargain made from desperation.’ Morell sighs and finally allows some fatigue to bleed into his words. ‘But perhaps you have little choice. I don’t know anyone who can cure a plague reminiscent of the Old Times, do you?’ He snorts. ‘I may be able to help you find what you’re looking for.’
‘You can?’
‘For a price, of course.’
Padma acts out for the first time that conversation, slapping her father across the back of the head. ‘You won’t extort this one.’ She turns to Gil. ‘My father has made greed a habit.’
‘It’s a healthy habit if it pays for the food!’ snaps Morell. He sighs heavily. ‘Fine. Call it a favour then. You’ll owe me one day, Giliana Shale of Clan Whisper.’
‘That’s fine,’ Gil says quietly.
‘Although I’m surprised your … friend can’t call upon augury to aid his search, being a mystic of powerful means.’ Morell doesn’t hide his derision.
Esra is silent, but Gil answers on his behalf. ‘He said before that the raven shuts its eyes to him.’
‘Oh. Interesting.’ Morell gets up at length and proceeds to the cold fireplace, gesturing for Padma to get a fire going for him. ‘I’ll need a drop of your blood, Giliana. The blood of your passenger would be best, but I suppose you’re the vessel here. Are you sure you want to help him?’
‘I have few other options.’ Gil says as she accepts a nail from Padma and jabs her thumb with it.
‘You’re clearly a woman of strong spirit, Giliana. I’m not sure you realise how much you allow others to define the direction of your momentum.’ Morell goes silent as he takes the blood-soaked nail and throws it into the budding embers of the fire. Something flickers in the flames, almost like a face. Gil sees the ripples in the fire, hears the pulse of something unseen flooding through the room, but it’s not revealed to her. This is Morell alone who plumbs the flames with his extended sight, and he does so with uncanny care.
‘Ah. Yes. It’s not a full augury, but I can piece this together based on the paths to be taken. You’re looking for Tio Windstraker.’
Padma’s cackle bursts from her. ‘Papa Tio? That useless stick of flesh?’
‘He prefers Papa Tio,’ Morell explains to Gil. ‘He’s a merchant, fancies himself as a driving force behind Spire’s coming rejuvenation. Rarely leaves the customs house grounds, but that’s always under heavy watch from the Concord.’
‘I can handle that,’ says Gil. ‘But I could use a place to rest a little before seeing it for myself.’
‘We can’t feed you but we have some space,’ says Padma, cutting off her father with a look. ‘Compensation is not required. We’re not an inn.’ She looks back to Gil. ‘Anything that cleaves at the Concord is fair payment in my book. Do me a favour and cut a few fat foreign clerks short while you’re in there.’
***
The next morning, Gil manages to get close to the customs house without detection from the increased patrols. Captain Talan clearly has no intention of giving up the hunt. At effort, she manages to scale the side of one building and look into the customs house grounds from above.
The wall is thick but not especially tall. The house itself is reinforced and fortified, a massive block of masonry with few windows. There are storage warehouses on the grounds that seem less guarded. The patrols seem stretched thin based on the haphazard changing of shifts. Her incident yesterday, drawing as much attention as this, might help her in the long run.
Then someone comes out of the customs house, strolling towards a warehouse. She knows at once that it’s Papa Tio – a thin, middle-aged man with oddly groomed and oiled facial hair, curling away from his face in a style she’s never seen before. He wears a paper-thin smile, a fakery of good graces. He seems ostentatious, ridiculous, and otherwise wholly unremarkable. And yet the world around Gil seizes up when she see him.
The roof feels unsteady beneath her. Esra’s presence in her mind is unprecedented, blazing like a new sun being born behind her eyes. Something fractures and spills outward from the connection between her and Esra, and she glimpses what he has seen – what he knows, despite the ravens turning their back on him. They are visions of fracture and ruin, although Gil can’t discern any details. She only knows that Esra is here as a force of chaos, but also as something determined to avert the coming calamity.
Simply glimpsing Tio was enough to spark revelation. Just what is she stepping into?
Gil isn’t on the roof any more. She’s in a place of shadow, a mimicry of the world she knows but wreathed in secrets and lost things. Esra is standing there, resplendent in his old robes and blue-painted wooden mask. She knows this is Esra’s home now, more so than the world she knows.
Esra only stares at Gil. The mask is everything; there are no eyeholes, only a void. Even if Esra intends to prevent a great disaster, there is nothing virtuous about his bearing. Perhaps Esra will succeed, but what will he bring in its place?
Gil gasps, feeling as if she’s just woken from a traumatic sleep. She’s not on the roof. She’s not in the realm of shadows. She’s somewhere else in Spire, disoriented. She trembles, feeling vulnerable and naked. But the feeling passes, the shock subsides. And to keep herself from dwelling too much on the experience she’s just had, Gil elects to return to the task at hand. Papa Tio is waiting, whether he knows it or not. And their meeting may answer more questions that standing around in agape confusion ever will.
***
It’s getting harder to avoid the search parties on the streets, but once she gets back to the customs house, avoiding the guards there is uncannily easy. They watch the carts going in and out more then they spy for intruding thieves, and Gil is quick enough to avoid detection, scaling the wall and creeping over to one of the warehouses, crawling in through a split between two timber boards at the back. She observed Papa Tio visiting the warehouses regularly, so she’s confident he’ll come to her soon enough.
The warehouse is dark, a thick wooden structure open to the elements on the side facing the customs house. Up back where she squats, she can’t hear much, the piles of crates and barrels muffling what little sound reaches this far. She feels cut off from the rest of the compound’s activity, which is fine by her.
Papa Tio takes a couple of hours, but he does finally come to this warehouse, carrying an unfurled scroll. He seems to be checking for some specific item in holding. Gil waits, and he comes closer in his search. She picks her moment and creeps around, approaching him from the direction of the entrance. ‘Papa Tio?’
The merchant gasps, dropping the scroll and clutching his chest dramatically. ‘My, you have soft boots! Where did you come from?’
‘Sorry, Papa Tio, I just have a favour to ask.’
He breathes heavily, but still manages to speak like a jester. ‘How did you get in? You’re not one of my clerks. Are you a wagoner?’
‘No, I’m … I’m here on behalf of Esra Mooneyes. He wants to … extend good wishes to you, and open a dialogue.’
Gil has no clue what Tio’s reaction could be. The eccentric little man could ask any question now and she would have no satisfying answer. He looks puzzled at first, then seems to reach an understanding, to her relief. ‘Ah. I see.’
‘You … do?’
Tio exhales, and slumps forward. He seems different now, more relaxed. He speaks in an even tone, measured and deliberate. ‘The King of Masks sends me his regards. And a little lamb for the slaughter.’
Oh, Esra echoes in Gil’s head. Giliana, you should leave, now.
What’s your game here, Esra?
I’m afraid our friend is not playing the same game. He’s not even human.
‘I hear you two chattering away in there,’ says Tio, his speech now slurred. His jaw seems to hang loose, his skin now pock-marked. ‘It’s too late. I will not bow to the King of Masks.’
Tio lunges, throwing the top half of his body forward in a way that seems to dislocate a part of his back. Gil falls back, still unsure what’s happening. What happened to the flamboyant merchant? She hadn’t thought she was walking into a fight.
The merchant throws down a pile of racks and fittings, and weapons clatter out of one rack. Tio grabs a sword and swings it wildly; Gil ducks underneath and kicks at his feet. The leg contorts, even though she didn’t kick that hard. Everything about the man is wrong now, a distorted thing in a roughly human shape. It should terrify her. Maybe it will, later or in her dreams. For now it’s trying to kill her.
Then she looks at Tio’s face. The skin is melting off, something twisted and inhuman beneath. ‘It’s too late,’ it slurs again, and she can’t discern the tone – mocking? Mournful? Gil allows herself a brief feeling of shock, then sees the sword coming for her again and reacts, slamming against the thing’s arm and seizing the blade for herself. As the arm snaps back, Gil takes the opportunity and plunges her newfound weapon into Tio’s chest. The thing shrieks.
Gil presses the attack, pushing the sword in deeper and kicking at Tio as she’s able. Tio meets her force, the flailing arm returning like a thick whip – the fingers dig into her flank as any dagger might. Gil gasps, taken by surprise by the strike.
Tio is trying to press her down towards the ground now, its loose jaw snapping. She still can’t see what’s underneath the loose and peeling skin, and she decides that she’ll be damned if she ever finds out. She doubles her grip on the sword and pulls, tearing across the thing’s torso. When the sword comes loose she sees she’s nearly severed the abomination in half.
With that mortal blow Tio is out of the fight, collapsing with a feeble mewing sound. Gil doesn’t stop, ripping its fingers out of her side and chopping with the sword, again and again. Its limbs jut at impossible angles, curling up like a dead spider. She keeps hacking, and then scrambles away, looking anywhere but at the thing that had worn the face of Papa Tio.
At length, she reaches for Esra. You knew, didn’t you?
I knew Tio was more than human. I didn’t expect this.
Gil pants, letting a sob through here and there. So much for a simple errand, or extending ‘good wishes’. She came to Spire for nothing, nearly got killed for nothing. She’s just a puppet after all, thin on friends and thick on enemies. All of them steering her on some bloody, hopeless track towards her own demise.
And beyond her own problems, something is wrong – something at a greater scale than plagues and rogue mystics. There’s a balance that’s been upset, an impending chaos that’s already in the making. The Concord holds some of the blame, their paranoia of the unseen fuelling their purge. The old ways must keep the world barred against things that are being forgotten – and the Concord is blind to the true extent of the damage being wrought, even as something born from the unseen comes to consume them. That’s what she saw through Esra, she’s sure of it.
She can’t stop it. Perhaps not even Esra can, considering how blind he is to creatures such as Tio. But there’s old wisdom still out there, hidden in the secrets of the clans and in other pockets of the Ironlands. I’m not a puppet, Gil decides. I’m going to be the one to restore the clan mystics and the old knowledge. ‘You hear that, Esra?’ she says aloud. ‘To the pit with you presiding over every step I take, issuing orders and forcing me into bargains. I don’t care how powerful you are, this is beyond you … and you know it.
Esra registers this but doesn’t respond. He seems subdued, either from the confrontation with Tio or from Gil’s newfound resolve.
‘Still, we had an agreement,’ Gil continues. ‘I found Tio. It’s done. The cure … I’ve earned it.’
Esra’s normal haughtiness returns briskly. Earning something implies fairness, Giliana … something in short supply in our world. A pause. But yes, we had an agreement. I’ll instruct you on what to gather and how to brew the cure. Our business in Spire is done for now.
Esra, for all his blind spots and arrogance, sees at least some measure of the grander play here. She’ll still see him forced out of her head, and she’ll still press for Watersong’s freedom. But for now, he’s an ally. And the balance has changed between them. Gil can feel the strings being cut.
Submitted October 31, 2019 at 07:33AM by HotsuSama https://ift.tt/332lDoD
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