Retribution Falls

Twelve

Olden Square sat in the heart of Aulenfay’s trade district, a wide paved plaza surrounded by tall apartment buildings with pink stone facias. On a clear winter day such as this, the square was filled with stalls and people, everyone buying or selling. Hawkers offered food or theatre tickets or clockwork gewgaws; street performers imitated statues and juggled blades. Visitors and locals wandered between the attractions, the ladies in their furs and hats, men in their leather gloves and greatcoats. Children tugged at their parents’ arms, begging to investigate this or that, drawn by the smell of candied apples or cinnamon buns.

The centrepiece was a wide fountain. The water tumbled down through many tiers from a high column, on which stood a fierce warrior. He was wielding a broken sword, fighting off three brass bears that clawed at him from below. On the rooftops, pennants of brown and green snapped and curled in the breeze, bearing the Duke’s coat of arms.

Frey and Crake sat on the step of a small dais. Behind them four stone wolves guarded an ornate, black iron lamp-post, one of several dotted around the square to illuminate it at night. Frey was holding a white paper bag in one hand and chewing on a sugarplum. He offered the bag to Crake, who took a sweet absently. Both of them were watching a booth in the corner of the square, from which three Awakeners were plying their trade.

The booth was hung with banners showing a symbol made up of six spheres in an uneven formation, connected by a complicated pattern of straight lines. The three Awakeners were dressed identically, in white single-breasted cassocks with high collars and red piping that denoted their status. They were Speakers, the rank and file of the organisation.

One of them was kneeling in front of a circular chart laid out on the ground. An eager-eyed man knelt opposite, watching closely. The Speaker was holding a handful of tall sticks upright in the centre of the chart. He let go and they fell in a clutter. The Speaker began to study them intently.

‘Seriously, though,’ said Frey. ‘What’s all that about?’

‘It’s rhabdomancy,’ said Crake. ‘The way the sticks fall is significant. The one behind him is a cleromancer: it’s a similar technique. See? He drips a little animal blood in the bowl, then casts the bones in there.’

‘And you can tell things from that?’

‘Supposedly.’

‘Like what?’

‘The future. The past. You can ask questions. You can find out if the Allsoul favours your new business enterprise, or see which day would be most auspicious for your daughter’s wedding. That kind of thing.’

‘They can tell all that from some sticks?’

‘So they say. The method isn’t really that important. Each Awakener specialises in a different way of communicating with the Allsoul. See the other one? She’s a numerologist. She uses birthdates, ages, significant numbers in people’s lives and so on.’

Frey looked over at the third Awakener, a young woman, chubby and sour-faced. She was standing in front of a chalkboard and explaining a complicated set of mathematics to a bewildered audience of three, who looked like they could barely count on their fingers.

‘I don’t get it,’ Frey confessed.

‘You’re not supposed to get it,’ said Crake. ‘That’s the point. Mystical wisdom isn’t much good if everyone possesses it. The Awakeners claim to be the only ones who know the secret of communicating with the Allsoul, and they don’t intend to share. If you want something from the Allsoul, you go through them.’

Frey scratched the back of his neck and looked askance at Crake, squinting against the sun. ‘You believe any of that?’

Crake gave him a withering look. ‘I’m a daemonist, Frey. Those people in there, they’d like to see me hanged. And do you know why? Because what I do is real. It works. It’s a science. But a century of this superstitious twaddle has made daemonists the most vilified people on the planet. Most people would rather associate with a Samarlan than a daemonist.’

‘I’d associate with a Samarlan,’ said Frey. ‘War or no war, they’ve got some damned fine women.’

‘I doubt Silo would think so.’

‘Well, he’s got a chip on his shoulder, what with his people being brutally enslaved for centuries and all that.’

Crake conceded the point.

‘So what about this Allsoul thing?’ asked Frey, passing over another sugarplum. ‘Enlighten me.’

Crake popped the sugarplum in his mouth. ‘Why the interest?’

‘Research.’

‘Research?’

‘Gallian Thade, the man who put Quail up to framing us. He’s the next one we need to talk to if we want to get some answers. I want to find out what he’s framing us for.’ He stretched, stiff from sitting on the step. ‘Now, getting to Gallian, that’s gonna be no easy task. But I can get to his daughter.’

Crake joined the dots. ‘And his daughter is an Awakener?’

‘Yeah. She’s at a hermitage in the Highlands. They keep their acolytes cut off from the outside world while they study. I need to get in there and get to her. She might know something.’

‘And you think she’ll help you?’

‘Maybe,’ said Frey. ‘Best idea I’ve got, anyway.’

‘Shouldn’t you be asking someone who believes this rubbish?’

Frey shifted on the step and settled himself again. ‘You’re educated, ’ he said, with slightly forced offhandedness. ‘You know how to put things.’

‘That’s dangerously close to a compliment, Frey,’ Crake observed.

‘Yeah, well. Don’t let it go to your head. And it’s Captain Frey to you.’

Crake performed a half-arsed salute and slapped his knees. ‘Well, then. What do you know?’

‘I know some things. I’ve heard of the Prophet-King and how they put all his crazy pronouncements in a book after he went mad, except they think he was touched by some divine being or something. And how they all say they can solve your problems, just a small donation required. But I never was that bothered. None of it seemed to make much sense. Like some street scam that got out of control, you know? Like the thing with the three cups and the ball and no matter what you do, you never win. Except with this, half the country plays it and they never get that it’s rigged.’ He snorted. ‘Nobody knows my future.’

‘Fair enough.’ Crake cleared his throat and thought for a moment. When he spoke it was as a teacher, crisp and to the point. ‘The basic premise of their belief posits the existence of a single entity called the Allsoul. It’s not a god in the sense of the old religions they wiped out, more like a sentient, organic machine. Its processes can be seen in the movement of wind and water, the behaviour of animals, the eruption of volcanoes and the formation of clouds. In short, they believe our planet is alive, and intelligent. In fact, vastly more intelligent than we can comprehend.’

‘Okaaay . . .’ Frey said uncertainly.

‘The Awakeners think that the Allsoul can be understood by interpreting signs. Through the flights of birds, the pattern of fallen sticks, the swirl of blood in milk, the mind of the planet may be known. They also use rituals and minor sacrifices to communicate with the Allsoul, to beg its favour. Disease can be cured, disaster averted, success in business assured.’

‘So let me get this straight,’ Frey said, holding up his hand. ‘They ask a question, they . . . release some birds, say. And the way the birds fly, what direction they go, that’s the planet talking to them. The Allsoul?’

‘When you strip out all the mumbo-jumbo, yes, that’s exactly it.’

‘And you say it doesn’t work?’

‘Ah!’ said Crake scornfully, holding up a finger. ‘That’s the clever part. They’ve got it covered. Margin for human error, you see. Their understanding of the Allsoul is imperfect. Human minds aren’t yet capable of comprehending it. You can ask, but the Allsoul might refuse. You can predict, but the predictions are so vague they’ll come true more often than not. The Allsoul’s schemes are so massive that the death of your son or the destruction of your village can be explained away as part of a grand plan that you’re just too small to see.’ He gave a bitter chuckle. ‘They’ve got all the angles figured out.’

‘You really hate them, don’t you?’ Frey said, surprised at the tone in his companion’s voice. ‘I mean, you really hate them.’

Crake clammed up, aware that he’d let himself get out of control. He gave Frey a quick, tense smile. ‘It’s only fair,’ he said. ‘They hated me first.’

They strolled up the hill from Olden Square, along a tree-lined avenue that led towards the wealthier districts of Goldenside and Kingsway. Passenger craft flew overhead and motorised carriages puttered by. There were fine dresses in the windows of the shops, displays of elaborate toys and sweetmeats. As they climbed higher they began to catch glimpses of Lake Elmen through the forested slopes to the west, vast as an inland ocean. All around, stretching into the distance as far as the eye could see, were the dark green pines and dramatic cliffs of the Forest of Aulen.

‘Pretty part of the world,’ Frey commented. ‘You’d think the Aerium Wars never happened.’

‘Aulenfay missed the worst of it the first time round, and got none of it on the second,’ said Crake. ‘You should see Draki and Rabban. Six years on and they’re still half rubble.’

‘Yeah, I’ve seen ’em,’ he replied distantly. He was watching a young family who were approaching on their side of the avenue: a handsome husband, a neat wife with a beautiful smile, two little girls singing a rhyme as they skipped along in their frilly dresses. After a moment the woman noticed his interest. Frey looked away quickly, but Crake bid them a pleasant ‘Good day,’ as they passed.

‘Good day,’ the couple replied, and a moment later the girls chimed ‘Good day!’ politely. Frey had to hurry on. The sight of their happiness, the sound of those little voices, was like a kick in the chest.

‘What’s the matter?’ Crake enquired, noticing Frey’s sudden change in demeanour.

‘Nothing,’ he muttered. ‘Nothing, I just suddenly . . . I was worried they’d recognise me. Shouldn’t have made eye contact.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry. I told you, I picked up a broadsheet in Marklin’s Reach yesterday. There was no mention of you. And Aulenfay isn’t the kind of place where they stick “Wanted” posters everywhere. I think you’ve been forgotten by the general public.’ He patted Frey on the shoulder. ‘Besides, considering the age of the photograph and your newly raddled and insalubrious appearance, I don’t think anyone would recognise you unless they had a particular interest.’

‘Raddled and insalubrious?’ Frey repeated. He was beginning to suspect Crake of showing off, in an attempt to belittle him.

‘It means formidable and rugged,’ Crake assured him. ‘The beard, you see.’

‘Oh.’

They came to a crossroads and Crake stopped on the corner. ‘Well, I must be leaving you. I have to go and pick up my equipment, and the kind of people who sell daemonist paraphernalia are the kind of people who don’t like non-daemonists knowing who they are.’

‘Right,’ said Frey. ‘Have it delivered to the dock warehouse. We’ll pick it up from there. No names, though.’

‘Of course.’ The daemonist turned to go.

‘Crake.’

‘Yes?’

Frey looked up the street, rather awkwardly. ‘That thing with Macarde . . . him holding a gun to your head and so forth . . .’

Crake waited.

‘I’m sorry it went that way,’ Frey said at last.

Crake regarded him for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he nodded slightly and headed away without another word.

Frey made his way to the South Quarter, a less affluent part of the city, where he visited a tailor and a shop that specialised in theatrical make-up. After that, he went looking for a game of Rake.

The South Quarter was about as seedy as Aulenfay got, which meant it was still quite picturesque in a charmingly ramshackle kind of way. The winding lanes and cobbled alleyways were all but free of filth and litter. Statues and small, well-kept fountains still surprised visitors at every turn. There were no rag-tag children or crusty beggars. Aulenfay had a strict policy against that kind of thing.

The Ducal Militia were in evidence, patrolling in their stiff brown uniforms. Frey kept out of their way.

Despite the risks of coming to a big city, Frey had allowed himself to be persuaded by Crake. He did have some preparation to do before he went looking for Amalicia Thade in her secluded hermitage, but that wasn’t the whole reason. The crew needed a break. The disastrous attack on the freighter, the escape from the Century Knights, that frustrating time spent bored and freezing in Yortland—all these things had worn them down, and they were sick and tired of each other’s company. A little time off would do them all good, and Aulenfay was a fine place for it.

Whether they’d all come back or not was another matter, but Frey wasn’t worried about that. If they left, they left. He’d understand. They’d each make their own choice.

It took a little searching to locate the Rake den. He hadn’t been this way for a few years. But it was still there, in the cellar bar of an old tavern: a little room with three circular tables and a vaulted ceiling of old grey brick. Smoke drifted in the air and the shadows were thick, thrown by oil lanterns. Rake players didn’t like their games too brightly lit. Most of them only had a passing acquaintance with daylight.

Only one of the tables was in use when Frey was shown in. Three men sat there, studying their cards, dull piles of coins before them. There was a thin, po-faced man who looked like an undertaker, an elderly, toothless drunk, and a whiskery, rotund fellow with a red face and a battered stovepipe hat. Frey sat down and they introduced themselves as Foxmuth, Scrone and Gremble, which amused Frey, who thought they sounded like a firm of lawyers. Frey gave a false name. He ordered a drink, emptied out his purse on the table, and set to the game.

It wasn’t long before he realised his opponents were terrible card players. At first he suspected some kind of trap: perhaps they were feigning incompetence to sucker him. But as the game went on he became ever more convinced they were the real deal.

They went in big with their money, chasing runs that never came up. They jittered with excitement when they made a low three-of-a-kind and then bet it as if it was unbeatable. They allowed themselves to be bluffed away whenever they saw Frey pick up a dangerous card, frightened that he was holding something that could crush them.

From the moment he sat down, he was winning.

Several hours passed, and several drinks. Scrone was too plastered to keep his attention on the game, and his money was whittled away on silly bets. Eventually, he made a suicidal bluff against Foxmuth who was holding Crosses Full and lost it all. After that, he fell asleep and began to snore.

Foxmuth was knocked out shortly afterwards, following a chancy call against Gremble’s Ace-Duke paired. Foxmuth’s last card failed to produce the hand he needed, and Gremble scooped up all his money.

Frey was only mildly disheartened. All his careful work in maintaining his lead had been undermined by the bad play of the other two. They’d given all their money to Gremble, making the two remaining players roughly even. He settled down to the task of demolishing his final opponent.

‘Just my luck,’ Foxmuth moaned. ‘The wife’s going to rip me a new arse when I come home. I wouldn’t have even been here if they’d had the parade today.’

Frey was only half-listening. He dealt the cards, three each, then picked up his. A thin chill of excitement ran through him. Three Priests.

‘Why didn’t they have the parade?’ Frey asked, making idle chatter to cover his anticipation.

‘Earl Hengar was supposed to be coming to see the Duke. Big parade and all. But with what’s happened . . . well, I suppose they thought it was in bad taste or something. Cancelled last-minute.’

‘I should think so. Bloody disgrace,’ muttered Gremble. He rapped the table to indicate that he didn’t wish to bet.

‘Bet,’ said Frey. ‘Two bits.’ He pushed the coins in. It was a high opening bid, but he knew Gremble’s style of play by now. Instead of being frightened off, Gremble would assume it was a bluff and match it. Which was exactly what he did.

Frey dealt four more cards to the middle, two for each player in the game. Two face up, two face down. The face-up cards were the Lady of Wings and the Priest of Skulls.

His heart jumped. If he could get that Priest, he’d have an almost unbeatable hand. But Gremble, to the left of the dealer, got to pick his card first from the four in the middle.

‘What’s a disgrace?’ he asked, trying to keep the conversation up. He wanted Gremble distracted.

‘About Hengar and that Sammie bitch.’

Frey gave him a blank look.

‘You don’t know? You been living in a cave or something?’

‘Close,’ said Frey.

‘It’s not been in the broadsheets,’ said Foxmuth. ‘They don’t dare print it. But everyone knows. It’s been all over this past week.’

‘I’ve been away,’ he said. ‘Yortland.’

‘Chilly up there,’ Gremble commented, taking the Lady of Wings as he did so. Frey thrilled at the sight.

‘Yeah,’ Frey agreed. The Priest was his. He made a show of deliberating whether to take one of the two face-down mystery cards or not. ‘So what’s the story with Hengar?’

Hengar, Earl of Thesk and the only child of the Archduke. Heir to the Nine Duchies of Vardia. It sounded like something Frey should be paying attention to, but he was concentrating on depriving this poor sap of all his coins. He picked up the Priest. Four Priests in his hand. If he played this right, the game would be his.

‘So there were all these rumours, right?’ Foxmuth said eagerly. ‘About Hengar and this Sammie princess or something.’

‘She wasn’t a princess, she was some other thing,’ Gremble interrupted, frowning as he looked at his hand.

‘Yeah, well, anyway,’ Foxmuth continued. ‘Hengar was having secret meetings with her.’

‘Political meetings?’

‘The other kind,’ Gremble muttered. ‘They was lovers. The heir to the Nine Duchies and a bloody Sammie! The family wanted it stopped, but he wouldn’t listen, so they was covering it all up. But this past week, well . . . All I can say is someone must’ve shot their mouth off.’

‘What’s so wrong with him seeing a Sammie?’ Frey asked.

‘Did you miss the wars or something?’ Gremble cried.

‘I wasn’t on the front line,’ said Frey. ‘First one, I was working as a cargo hauler. Never saw action. Second one, I was working for the Navy, supply drops and so on.’ He shut up before he said any more. He didn’t want to revisit those times. Rabby’s final scream as the cargo ramp closed still haunted him at night. He could never forget the awful, endless, slicing agony of a Dakkadian bayonet plunging into his belly. Just the thought made him sick with fury at the people who had sent him there to die. The Coalition Navy.

Gremble humphed, making it clear what he thought of Frey’s contribution. ‘I was infantry, both wars. I saw stuff you can’t imagine. And there are a lot of people out there like me. Curdles my guts to think of our Earl Hengar snuggling up to some pampered Sammie slut.’

‘So how did the news get out?’

‘Search me,’ growled Gremble. ‘But the Archduke ain’t happy about it, I bet. There’s already all them rumours about the Archduchess, how she’s secretly a daemonist and that. You know they say the Archduke has a regiment of golems helping guard his palace in Thesk? And that he’s planning to make more regiments to fight on our front lines?’

‘Didn’t know that,’ said Frey.

‘It’s what they say. They say the Archduchess is behind it. They say that’s why they’re doing all that stuff to undermine the Awakeners. Awakeners and daemonists hate each other.’

‘Yeah, I gathered,’ said Frey, thinking back to his earlier conversation with Crake.

‘And now there’s Hengar behaving like this . . .’ Gremble tutted. ‘You know, I always used to like him. He’s a big Rake player, you know that?’ He folded his arms and sucked his teeth. ‘But now? I don’t know what that family’s coming to.’

‘Speaking of Rake, are you gonna bet?’

‘Five bits!’ Gremble snapped.

‘Raise five more,’ Frey replied.

‘I bet all of it!’ said Gremble immediately, piling the rest of his money into the centre of the table. Then he sat back and looked at his cards with the air of someone wondering what he’d just done.

Frey considered for only a moment. ‘Okay,’ he said. Gremble went pale. He hadn’t expected that.

Frey laid down his cards with a smile. ‘Four Priests,’ he said. Gremble groaned. His own four cards were the Ace, Ten, Three of Wings and the Lady of Wings he’d just picked up. He was going for Wings Full, but even if he made it, he couldn’t beat Four Priests.

Unless Frey drew the Ace of Skulls.

The Ace of Skulls was the wild card. Usually it was worse than worthless, but in the right circumstances it could turn a game around. In most cases, if a player held it, it nullified all their cards and they lost the hand automatically. But if it could be made part of a high-scoring hand, Three Aces or a Run or Suits Full or higher, it made that hand unbeatable.

If Frey drew the Ace of Skulls, his Four Priests would be cancelled and he’d lose everything.

There were two cards left on the table, face down. Gremble reached out and turned one over. The Duke of Wings. He’d made his Wings Full, but it didn’t matter now. He sat back with a disgusted snort.

Frey reached out for his card, but there was a commotion behind him, and he turned around as a tavern-boy came clattering down the stairs.

‘Did you hear?’ he said urgently. Scrone jerked in his chair, startled halfway out of sleep, and then slipped back into unconsciousness.

‘Hear what, boy?’ demanded Foxmuth, rising.

‘There’s criers out in the streets. They’re saying why the parade got cancelled. It’s because of Hengar!’

‘There, what did I tell you?’ said Gremble, with a note of triumph in his voice. ‘They’re ashamed of what he’s done, and so they should be!’

‘No, it’s not that!’ said the boy. He was genuinely distressed. ‘Earl Hengar’s dead!’

‘But that’s . . . He’s bloody dead?’ Foxmuth sputtered.

‘He was on a freighter over the Hookhollows. There was some kind of accident, something went wrong with the engine, and . . .’ The boy looked bewildered and shocked. ‘It went down with all hands.’

‘When?’ asked Frey. The muscles of his neck had tightened. His skin had gone cold. But he hadn’t taken his eyes from that face-down card on the table.

‘Excuse me, sir?’

‘When did it happen?’

‘I don’t know, sir. They didn’t say.’

‘What kind of damn fool question is that?’ Gremble raged. ‘When? When? What does it matter when? He’s dead! Buggering pissbollocks! It’s a tragedy! A fine young man like that, taken from us in the prime of his life!’

‘A good man,’ Foxmuth agreed gravely.

But the when did matter. When meant everything to Frey. When was the final hope he had that maybe, against all the odds, he could avoid the terrible, crushing weight that he felt plummeting towards him. If it happened yesterday, or the day before . . . if it could somehow be that recent . . .

But he knew when it had happened. It had happened three weeks ago. They just hadn’t been able to keep it quiet any longer.

The Century Knights. The job from Quail. All those people, travelling incognito on a cargo freighter. The name of the freighter. It all added up. After all, wouldn’t Hengar travel in secret, returning from an illicit visit to Samarla? And wasn’t he a keen Rake player?

Gallian Thade had arranged the death of the Archduke’s only son. And he’d set Frey up to take the fall.

He reached over and flipped the final card.

The Ace of Skulls grinned at him.