City Of Hope And Despair Part 22

"A door," Mildra replied instantly. "I think a hand pressed into this will open some sort of door, one which we can't even see as yet."

The two looked at each other. "You try," Tom said. "Since this is your G.o.ddess we're supposed to be visiting."

"True," and she smiled. "But I think this is something you have to do. After all, you're the one the prime master sent here. I just came along for the ride."

Tom raised his eyebrows, wishing he could argue the point, but instead he reached forward to press his right hand firmly into the depression. He was grateful for the glove. Without it, his hand would probably be frozen in place.

Nothing happened.

"I think it's supposed to be done with a naked hand, Tom," Mildra said quietly.

Unfortunately, Tom had a feeling she was right. Taking a deep breath, he pulled off the glove, spread his fingers and, before he could think about what he was doing, pressed firmly against the indentation, which was larger all round that his actual hand. There was no give, in fact no obvious response at all. To his considerable surprise, there was no sense of cold either. Perhaps, despite appearances, this wasn't ice after all.

"Keep your hand there," Mildra urged. Tom did so, but after another uneventful second he was about to stand back and suggest the Thaistess have a go, when there came a low rumbling; not loud, but seeming to emerge from somewhere deep in the ground.

The wall in front of them, which they'd taken to be a sheet of ice, started to rise. Water ran from its edges and dripped down from above, where the wall appeared to be sliding up into a wide slot in the ceiling. Beyond was darkness. Light from the open doorway fell onto the stone floor of what could only be a vast cavern but threw little illumination onto whatever waited further inside. The faintest of outlines were all that Tom could make out. The floor was solid, the waters of the nascent Thair emerging from somewhere beneath it. That was as much as Tom registered before the lights flickered to life, and the room's contents were revealed.

Two large caskets stood close to the back wall, dominating the room. Grey, moulded, perhaps metallic, although he couldn't be certain, they were supported by a complicated system of braces, almost upright but tilting slightly backwards. Each looked large enough to house a Kayjele and they were unmistakably humanoid in shape. There were other things behind, arranged against the wall, equipment and wonders enough for any curious mind, but Tom barely noticed them; the two caskets claimed his attention completely. Mildra, though, gasped on seeing them, her gaze sweeping along the various objects.

"Some of these things..." she murmured. "I recognise them. We have equipment similar to this in the temples."

Tom led the way into the room, Mildra at his shoulder, each absorbed by their own fascination. As a result, it was Tom who noticed the change first, who saw that the casket to his left was showing signs of what? life? Signs of something, at any rate.

"Look, the casket," he murmured, pointing.

The front no longer looked plain and grey, no longer resembled metal or anything else Tom could name. Instead its substance seemed to slide and shift, as if it were liquid rather than solid; a viscous gel that moved sluggishly but with apparent purpose. And it glittered, shimmering with internal light.

Beside him, Mildra's breath seemed to catch, giving rise to a quiet, "Oh."

Whatever transformation they were watching gathered pace the gel no longer moving slowly but instead seeming to race around within the confines of the casket's front, rippling with colour and light that spread across it in waves.

Mildra sank slowly to her knees, hands clutched before her breast.

Tom didn't.

He thought about doing so, if only for Mildra's sake, but instead determined to meet the G.o.ddess or whatever they might be about to face as a man, standing on his own two feet.

The bursts of light increased until they became dazzling, causing Tom to shield his eyes. For one horrifying moment he was reminded of the Rust Warrior, but as the light faded and he was able to look again, any such fears disappeared.

The front of the casket had vanished. The interior was padded in what looked to be soft off-white cushioned material. Cosseted within this nest was a figure that was unmistakably a woman. Outlandishly dressed in a pale blue one-piece suit which left only her head exposed, she was tall, slender, and had a face that looked to be settling comfortably into middle age, with high cheek bones and well-sculpted features a face that could be described as handsome, though hinting that it might once have been a good deal more than that. The unkempt hair hung long and straight, falling to her shoulders, and it was grey, though not lank or lacking in l.u.s.tre. This was the grey of burnished steel.

Then she opened her eyes.

Dark, incredibly dark, like Tom's.

"Holy Mother Thaiss, we welcome you," Mildra said.

The G.o.ddess ignored her and stared straight at Tom. "You're late," she snapped.

Tom stared, uncertain of how to respond. He wanted to look at Mildra for guidance but didn't dare. "I'm sorry," he said carefully, "when were you expecting us?"

"At least a hundred years ago," the G.o.ddess replied. She stretched her neck, flexed her arms. "Is Thaiburley still standing?" Barely pausing, she then answered her own question. "Of course it is, or you wouldn't be here. I'm amazed it's survived this long." She rubbed her eyes, and then skewered Tom with that intense gaze again. "The city is still standing, isn't it?"

"Yes," he a.s.sured her. "Yes."

She seemed to relax a little. "Good, then there's still hope."

The prime master scrutinised his hand, turning it over so that the vein in his wrist stood proud, then opening and closing the fingers, moving from the aggression of clenched claw to the spread of earnest entreaty and back again. No visible signs yet, but he knew it wouldn't be long. He could feel the joints stiffen, the skin solidify, and knew that scaly hardness lay just beneath the surface.

In the past few days he had utilised every discipline to stifle emotions, measures that were known to be infallible. So why did he sit here still feeling such fear, such frustration, such despair?

The weight of years suddenly sat heavy on his shoulders. The prime master sighed, bowed his head, and allowed himself the luxury of a single tear. It trickled from the corner of his left eye to drop from his cheek, a pinpoint of moisture sitting proud on the desk before him.

Was this really how his life was destined to end?

EPILOGUE.

Ol' Jake looked around the familiar taproom of the Four Spoke Inn. These were strange times and no mistake; Seth and Wil vanishing like that here one night, gone the next morning. It had been the talk of Crosston for days. Things hadn't been the same since. At times like these a man needed the rea.s.surance of familiar surroundings, and the Four Spoke Inn could at least be counted on for that.

He took a sip from his tankard, savouring the maltiness of the brew.

Jake was of an age where he didn't much care for change. A steady routine, things in their place and faces where he expected to see them; that would do him just fine thank you very much. Nor was he one for asking too many questions, not like some folk around here.

The regulars were thin on the ground tonight. Not even Matty had put in an appearance as yet, which meant Jake was short of good company. He could always go and join Col Blackman, but in truth he'd rather squat over a nest of agitated ladder snakes than share a drink with that twisted soul. He wouldn't trust him as far as he could throw him, and at Jake's age that was no distance at all.

A high pitched squeal drew his attention away from Blackman and he looked round in time to see the young barmaid Bethany slap the face of a garishly dressed merchant. That minx would come a cropper one day, but not this one it would seem; the merchant was clearly furious and looked fit to take things further, but his two friends were laughing and slapping him on the back. Jake hid a smile behind another swallow of beer as he watched the red-faced pompous a.s.s fight down his initial anger and attempt to muster a laugh of his own, more worried about losing face in front of his fellow fops than he was about seeking petty vengeance on an uncooperative tavern girl.

Bethany flounced back to the bar with the empties, her long, straight, strawberry blonde hair bouncing in time to the jiggle of her pertly modest bosom. Every eye in the house was on her an occurrence she always enjoyed.

The girl wrinkled her pretty little nose and batted her eyelids at the landlord as she set the empty gla.s.ses down.

"Everything all right, Bethany?"

"Of course," she responded, with a gratuitous flick of her dark-gold locks.

Jake and the landlord exchanged knowing glances, which fell just short of grins.

Jake had come to accept that life presented far more questions than it ever did answers. No point in fretting over that, it was simply the nature of things. Definitive explanations were rare, particularly where men such as Seth Bryant were concerned. Not that Jake minded in the least. He was simply glad to have Seth back behind the bar at the Four Spoke Inn.

"Same again, Jake?"

"Oh, go on then, Seth. One more never hurt anybody."

Something Jake had learned long ago: the more things change, the more they stay the same, and, as far as he was concerned, all was again right in the world now that Seth was back where he belonged.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Ian Whates lives in a comfortable home down a quiet cul-de-sac in an idyllic Cambridgeshire village, which he shares with his partner Helen and their pets Honey the golden c.o.c.ker spaniel; Calvin the tailless black cat; and Inky the goldfish (sadly, Binky died a few years ago).

Ian's first published stories appeared in the late 1980s, but it was not until the early 2000s that he began to pursue writing with any seriousness. In 2006, Ian launched independent publisher NewCon Press. That same year he also resumed selling short stories, including two to the science journal Nature. Nature.

He is currently hard at work on the final book in this trilogy, The City of Light & Shadows. The City of Light & Shadows.

www.ianwhates.com

Extras...

EXCLUSIVE PREVIEW.

City of Light & Shadows

The third book of the City of a Hundred Rows trilogy, City of Light & Shadows City of Light & Shadows, is coming soon. Here is the first chapter.

Stu hated this place with a pa.s.sion; it gave him the creeps. Typically, he'd drawn the short straw, so the responsibility of carrying out the day's final inspection fell to him. Inspection? Inspection? Of what, for Thaiss's sake? Weren't nothing here except a load of stiffs. Literally. And it wasn't as if they were ever going to cause trouble for anyone anytime soon. Of what, for Thaiss's sake? Weren't nothing here except a load of stiffs. Literally. And it wasn't as if they were ever going to cause trouble for anyone anytime soon.

Bone flu victims, row after row of them lined up along the floor side by side and then piled up on top of each other when there weren't no more room on the floor; each one as dead as the next.

There was something eerie about seeing a human body encased in a sheath of bone, like some hard-case method of embalming, let alone the couple of hundred that occupied the vast hall Stu was charged with patrolling. Especially when you considered that they'd all been alive just a few days before. And the bodies kept coming: more and more brought in every day.

The one saving grace was that you couldn't see their faces, which meant you could kid yourself these weren't people at all but just great big dolls or statues or something, newly made and waiting to have their faces painted on. That's what Stu did, that was how he coped.

This late inspection though, when there was no one else around just him and the stiffs he didn't like this, not one bit. It was easy to let your imagination run wild, to believe that these ominous figures with their k.n.o.bbly off-white coatings weren't dead at all but were only sleeping, waiting to catch some poor soul on their own. Just like he was now.If it were up to him the stiffs would have been burned straight away, the lot of them, or buried, or whatever it took to get rid of the breckers. Course, n.o.body ever asked for his opinion, and the doctors, they wanted all the victims stored so they could study them and try to work out a cure. All well and good he supposed, but did they really need this this many? many?This inspection was going to be a quick one, and to h.e.l.l with regulations. It was dark. The wan illumination that much of Thaiburley benefited from during daylight hours thanks to an ingenious system of mirrors, crystals and gla.s.s tubes leading from the walls had disappeared with the sunset, and this area didn't merit electricity, it wasn't posh enough. Nor were there any oil lamps lit here in the hall. What use did the dead have for light? So all Stu could call on was his big black battery powered torch. He hefted it in his right hand, rea.s.sured by its solid weight; a useful weapon if need be.

He strode quickly down the central aisle, swinging the torch from side to side, its beam playing across the dull white surfaces of the bone-encased bodies. Halfway. That was as far as he intended to go. The torch could reach the rest of the way from there. He'd play the light along the back wall, take a quick look to make sure everything was all right, and then get the h.e.l.l out of here, job done.

Two more steps and he reckoned that was about far enough. So he stopped... which was when he heard the cracking sound. A sharp, loud snap, and it had come from his left and a little ahead. He whipped the torch around, cursing as the beam flickered, but it steadied again almost immediately. Nothing. Just the same gnarly effigies of human form; there was no sign of movement and he couldn't see anything obviously out of place. He stood there, conscious of his heart pounding and of his own heavy breathing, too loud in all this stillness. So what was he supposed to do now? Any further investigation meant stepping out among these things, and he was hanged if he was going to do that. Ignore it, that seemed the best option.

No sooner had he reached a decision than the sound came again. He jumped, nerves frayed. It had been closer this time, almost at his feet. Stu shone the torch at the nearest bony cadaver. Had it moved, just as the light reached it? His feet shuffled a few steps backward. Was that a crack? He craned forward despite himself, leaning down for a closer look. Yes, definitely a crack, running down the side of where the face would be, from the top to the chin.

Then came the loudest sound yet, like an explosion, as the figure split completely, ripping apart. The small crack expanded all the way to the body's groin and the two halves gaped wide. Light streamed from the resulting gap, causing Stu to stumble backwards, shielding his eyes. Squinting and looking through the cracks between his fingers, he watched as something stirred and a figure began to emerge from the calcified body.

Stu hadn't got a brecking clue what this was, but he knew they didn't pay him enough to hang around and find out. He turned and bolted for the door, dropping his torch in the process. But he was too slow; far, far too slow.

a.s.sembly Member Carla Birhoff entered the grand hall and paused, casting her gaze around the room one final time before the first guests arrived. Her aim was not to focus on anything in particular every detail had been scrutinised and approved according to her exacting standards during previous inspections and she now felt confident that each individual element was as perfect as it could be. No, it was how those components fitted together that concerned her at this stage, the a.s.semblage which she had so meticulously planned. Her gaze, therefore, swept across the room, taking in the whole that was the sum of its many parts.

First impressions were paramount. The entire decor had been chosen with this one view in mind and geared towards maximum impact. She would greet her guests here on the mezzanine level, causing them to pause at the top of the small flight of steps that led down into the room proper. Then, as they turned to descend those steps, the whole vista opened up before them. She was determined that it should wow every single one of them.And it would, it would. would.

White tablecloths one traditional detail she had insisted on, though the potential starkness was alleviated by fine wide-mesh golden-brown gauze which flowed from the middle of each table to cover roughly two thirds of its area. At the very centre sat an arrangement of bright red berries nestled among autumn leaves and pine cones, while flecks of gold leaf had been sprinkled over the web-like gauze, causing it to sparkle. The fanned napkins before each place setting matched the golden brown of the arrangement, and the stylish chairs were wooden framed, boasting deep burgundy upholstery. Small gifts in gold boxes awaited each lady when she arrived at her seat: tiny khybul sculptures predominantly birds and fish. Simple pieces certainly, mere tokens, but all those in attendance would know the value of khybul and appreciate the c.u.mulative price of so many pieces, no matter their size.

The evening's seasonal theme was picked up again in a display that dominated the long wall directly opposite the stairs. A cascade of gold, brown and russet veils tumbled from ceiling to floor, transformed by artfully directed air currents and clever lighting into the wild rush of an autumnal waterfall. The illusion was completed by brown drapes gathered and pinned to the wall in imitation of rocks around which the veils flowed.Another treat awaited guests at the bottom of the stairs. In order to find their appropriate seats, they would need to consult the table plan which stood to their right. Proudly displayed on a gla.s.s plinth beside the plan was Carla's latest acquisition: by far the largest, most intricate, and breathtakingly beautiful khybul sculpture she had ever seen. Here, depicted in sparkling crystal, was an exquisite representation of Thaiburly itself. The straight walls of the city seemed to erupt from a base of rugged rocks, shooting upwards to culminate in a dazzling array of delicate spires, chimneys and crenulations. The design cleverly encapsulated the spirit of Thaiburley's wondrous roof, while the walls of the piece were marked with the suggestion of tiny windows and even, here and there towards the top, a balcony or two. And if the ninety-odd floors of the City of a Hundred Rows were not all here, who would quibble? None could dispute that this was an inspired work and that the unknown artist had captured the spirit of Thaiburley in all its grandeur.

The piece had been far from cheap but Carla didn't begrudge a single penny. As soon as she clapped eyes on the sculpture she simply had to have it. Others might own khybul figures but none had anything in their collection to rival this.Determined that no one would miss its magnificence, she had arranged for lights to be embedded in the gla.s.s stand, which then shone up through the sculpture and caused the whole piece to glow, while the tips of the spires sparkled with fairy light.

On the wall above and behind the crystal city hung a large painting, almost lost against the sculpture's magnificence. It was by the artist Arielle, once feted as the greatest painter of her generation. Completed more than two decades earlier, the picture depicted a ball, a lavish function much like the one about to commence. All present were evidently having a wonderful time. Faces glowed, smiles beamed, pale golden and deep burgundy wines flowed, the women were elegant and beautiful, the men dashing. Vibrant colours leapt from the canvas and it was hard to imagine that anyone involved had a care in the world. As you studied the painting, your eyes were inexorably drawn to the figure at the very centre of the composition: a woman, so young, so beautiful, so unmistakably Carla.

She had always loved this painting, for its vibrancy and the pure joy of life it expressed, as well as the memories it stirred and the emotions it evoked, yet she hadn't looked at it for some fifteen years; not since the scandal. Arielle had once been Carla's closest friend and then her bitterest rival. Look at them now. The once celebrated artist had disappeared, her reputation sullied and her work forgotten, never to be seen in polite company again, while Carla had gone from strength to strength, becoming a respected member of the a.s.sembly the administrative body of Thaiburley's government and the darling of the Heights' social circuit.

Carla looked at the painting again. In truth, she wouldhave been hard pressed to explain the whim that had caused her to take it from storage for this, her big night, except that it seemed fitting somehow that the painting should be present as she reaffirmed her position as society's queen; not as a centrepiece, no, but in the shadow of something even more beautiful, acting as a faded reminder of rivals vanquished and glories past.Her gaze finally reached the stage to her far right, where the multi-stringed duoharp was already in position, the great chordophone resembling a stylised heart. Its twin opposing soundboards met at the base, where they converged on the central pillar of polished wood and gleaming metal embellishments before sweeping upwards and outward like wings. Identical curved necks connected the rounded shoulders of the soundboards to the pillar's crown.

The instrument was to be played by the Gallagher Sisters, said to be among the finest musicians in all Thaiburley. The dark haired girl older and prettier than her sibling was already in place, studiously tuning her half of the harp, but the seat opposite her was empty. Carla felt a flash of irritation that both girls weren't ready and she was about to call out when the blonde sour-faced one hurried over to take her seat, licking her fingers and chewing on something, as if having s.n.a.t.c.hed a bite to eat before the performance.Carla pursed her lips. She was tempted to take the girl to task but in the end decided to put it down to artistic temperament. Instead she returned her attention to completing her survey of the room, which ended with a glance down at her own dress. Commissioned from Chanice, one of the Heights' hottest designers, the gown featured a beautifully arranged skirt of layered silks graduating from autumnal russets at the bottom to shimmering scarlet at the top, matching the bodice. The dress was so artfully cut that the skirt avoided being billowy while still drawing in tightly at the waist to emphasise her slender figure. Carla had studied herself from every angle before coming here, and was confident that she looked fantastic. Scarlet could be an unforgiving shade, one she probably wouldn't dare risk in another five or ten years, but she felt bold tonight and knew she still retained enough of her youthful glamour to get away with such audacious display. While she could, she would.Finally satisfied, Carla allowed herself a small smile. Everything seemed in readiness; soon the great and the good of Heights' society would be here to pay her tribute. She would accept their compliments with an appropriate degree of grace and modesty, of course, while privately secure in the knowledge that she had earned each and every plaudit.

An hour later found Carla in her element, meeting and greeting, sharing a few words with this couple, a sentence or two with another and a joke with the next, before flitting away to greet a late arrival. The Gallagher Sisters were playing divinely, though as more people arrived and the volume of conversation grew louder it was becoming increasingly difficult to hear them unless you were standing right next to the stage. Not that it mattered. The fact that Carla had secured their services when others had failed to do so for their own functions was reward enough.

She handed a barely touched flute of finest Elyssen champagne to a waiter she had been holding the gla.s.s for far too long and the wine had lost much of its chill and fizz and took a fresh one, savouring a sip of cool dry effervescence before the customary smile slipped back into place. She laughed politely at the end of someone's anecdote, a tale she'd only half been listening to. The smile was one which had been perfected over many years: the expression of a hostess who knows her evening is a success and is confident that it will only get better. In the corner of her eye she saw white jacketed waiters circulating with what should be the final trays of warm canapes. It would soon be time to usher the guests to take their seats for the meal. Glowing comment had already been made about her khybul sculpture, most pleasingly from young Xyel, a pretty little thing who saw herself as something of an emerging rival to Carla. Poor deluded girl. Her Summer Soiree had been pleasant enough but she still had a lot to learn. Carla reserved a special smile for her.A ripple of polite applause ran through the section of the room closest to the stage as the Gallagher Sisters finished their latest piece surely the penultimate one of their set and Carla noted waiters returning to the kitchen with empty salvers. She looked across and caught the maitre d's eye. He nodded, to show that he was on top of the timings. If things continued to run this smoothly, she might even be able to relax a fraction and enjoy herself during the meal.It was a little thing really in the context of everything else that was going on: the scream that heralded such a dramatic change of fortune for Carla and all those present. Most wouldn't even have heard it. The only reason Carla did was because she happened to be at the top of the small flight of steps, at the spot where she'd greeted the guests, and so was close to the door. The scream came from outside; high pitched and unmistakably a woman's. Conversation on the mezzanine level died and for a second there was a bizarre contrast between the silence to Cara's left and the continuing hubbub from the rest of the room to her right.

When no further indication of disturbance came, those closest to Carla resumed talking, with a shrug of their shoulders or a knowing rise of the eyebrows, and muttered comments such as, "Kids!"

Jean, the maitre d', had moved across to speak to the doorman, but n.o.body seemed concerned and Carla was about to dismiss the incident as a minor glitch soon forgotten, when the doors burst inward and h.e.l.l strode through the opening.The first figure was merely a giant, towering above Jean and the doorman. The latter tried to block the intruder's way, but the burly man was picked up and tossed into the room in one motion, crashing into a knot of startled guests. The maitre d' was simply brushed aside.More than one scream rent the air now.

Further figures were pressing through the doorway behind the first. One or two had human features but most seemed composed of nothing more than silver light, dazzling to look upon. All were of similar stature to the first. Carla gaped, unable to rationalise what she was seeing. She couldn't move, didn't know how to react. She was supposed to be the perfect party host, ready for any eventuality, but not for this. this. Several things then happened at once, snapping her out of her paralysis. The tall windows which dominated the wall opposite the stage shattered, seemingly all at once, sending shards of gla.s.s raining down on those nearby, and more of the silver light giants strode through the broken windows. This registered only at the periphery of Carla's awareness, whose attention was focused elsewhere. She stared in horror at the shimmering figure who reached out towards Jean, while the maitre d' was still recovering from his brush with the first giant. As a glowing finger touched him, a coc.o.o.n of light enveloped Jean's body and he froze, all except for his face, which took on an expression of wide-eyed horror that swiftly transformed into one of excruciating agony; eyes screwed shut, mouth thrown open as if screaming, though Carla couldn't hear him. It was a moment she would never forget, as if every tortured line of Jean's face burned itself into her retinas and hence into her memory. A second later the expression was gone, vanishing as his face exploded. No, that was wrong, the process was less dramatic. Jean's face, his whole body, seemed to simply drift apart. One moment there was a shape within the glow that was recognisably Jean, the next nothing human stood there at all. In the brief instant before the glow which had surrounded the maitre d' faded, Carla watched a cloud of russet flakes drop towards the floor like ruddy brown rose petals.

The glowing silver giant was no longer silver or glowing. It now looked like Jean.

Only then did Carla grasp the full horror of what was happening here; only then did she realise their doom.She stumbled away in a daze, with no clear idea of where she was going, just the certainty that she had to get away from these creatures. Somebody b.u.mped into her, causing her to stagger, and she was abruptly aware that pandemonium had broken out and that everyone everyone was trying to get away. The thin veneer of politeness, of etiquette, had been abandoned, to be replaced by the drive to survive. Men, women, young or old, it didn't matter; all were screaming, fighting, pushing and elbowing in their desperation to reach the stairs and escape. Never mind that more of the creatures waited below, a whole cordon of them, herding folk towards the stage, instinct still drove people to flee the most immediate threat, and a bottleneck started to form at the top of the mezzanine stairs. was trying to get away. The thin veneer of politeness, of etiquette, had been abandoned, to be replaced by the drive to survive. Men, women, young or old, it didn't matter; all were screaming, fighting, pushing and elbowing in their desperation to reach the stairs and escape. Never mind that more of the creatures waited below, a whole cordon of them, herding folk towards the stage, instinct still drove people to flee the most immediate threat, and a bottleneck started to form at the top of the mezzanine stairs.