The Fractal Prince

14 TAWADDUD AND THE SECRET NAMES

Tawaddud loves the way the Secret Names make her feel. When she was a child, learning them took endless repetition and practice, and stern instruction by Chaeremon the jinn. Meditating on the various forms of the Names, repeating their syllables, over and over. Tracing their interlocking geometries on sheets of paper until their shapes filled her dreams. The hard work had its rewards. Duny in particular delighted in playing with the Names. She would make outlandish cartoon images, receiving a stern warning from Chaeremon about body thieves, and rattle the jinn tutor’s jar with athar hands.

But Tawaddud would rather sit quietly on the balcony and listen to the words echoing in her head, over and over. The calm regal presence of Malik-ul-Muluk that made her feel like the queen of the world. The righteous red rage of Al-Muntaqim the Avenger. The gentle contemplation of Al-Hakim the Wise.

The common tongue nicknames given to them in the Book of Names capture only a fraction of their essence. The Names are the names of the Aun, and by calling them you control the world, access the functionality built into the foglets in Earth’s atmosphere, rock and water by the ancients. Tawaddud always feels they do not merely come from the outside, but that they wake something up inside her as well, like meeting old friends.

But the name she is shouting now with her mouth and mind as the Fast Ones attack is not her friend.

Her fear mingles with that of Al-Muhaymin the Guardian, whose touch turns the athar around her into a shell hard as stone. Lost old words from the Sirr-in-the-sky like emergency decompression containment flash through her head. A drill-like sound tears at her eardrums – Fast One needle guns. Her foglet shield sparkles with tiny impacts of projectiles and falling glass.

Sumanguru sways under fire. Red splotches blossom across his uniform. Then he is lost beneath a whirlwind of transparent wings. Tawaddud cries out and takes a step forward, but then two of the creatures whoosh down and hover in front of her.

By the standards of their kind, the Fast Ones are giants, both over a foot tall, clad in the white ceramic armour of the little people of the twin cities-within-cities of Qush and Misr. Their descent brings a rush of waste heat and a tangy smell of overclocked metabolisms. Their dragonfly wings are flashing blue-and-silver discs. The flywheels of their needle guns of ornate brass let out a high-pitched whine as they aim at Tawaddud’s head.

They stay still over a second, long enough for her to see their beadlike black eyes. They exchange a few words, chattering back and forth, voices shrill bursts of noise. Then they dart towards Arcelia the qarin, still sitting on its perch. One of the tiny warriors plunges a sharp spike into the back of Arcelia’s head. The metal bird beats its wings and rises up, a golden blur with two white riders. Tawaddud cries out as the bird flashes through the shattered ceiling.

The swarm clings to Sumanguru, making him a statue built of little people, screaming and chattering. Above him, a group of the creatures is laboriously manoeuvring into position, carrying a more substantial weapon.

Tawaddud shouts the first Name that comes into her head. It is Al-Qahhar the Subduer. The echo of the word spreads through the athar in ripples. A wave of confusion spreads through the swarm, and suddenly Sumanguru is free. The strange gun clatters to the ground. The gogol still holds his knife: its dazzling slashes leave a network of bright afterimages in the air. In seconds, he stands in the middle of devastation, covered in blood, transparent, wispy innards of Fast Ones and their chitin-like shells. The rest of the swarm scatters, joining the aviary chimera escaping their confinement.

For a moment, Sumanguru looks at himself with a look of utter disgust and confusion. He brushes some ichor away from his uniform collar and then rubs his fingers together gingerly.

‘Lord Sumanguru, they took the qarin,’ Tawaddud says. Arcelia is a golden pinpoint now, far above. Who sent them? Why didn’t the Repentants stop them? How did they know we found Arcelia? She swallows. Rumzan. No, that is not possible.

If they take Arcelia, no one will believe me.

She whispers to her jinn ring and summons the carpet.

‘Lord Sumanguru?’

The gogol looks sick and confused. His chest is full of scratches and wounds from Fast One needles and swords, and there is a deep gash across his forehead. He shakes his head, and for a moment, the chilly look returns to his eyes.

Then he turns away and retches.

When he is finished, Tawaddud touches his shoulder.

‘Lord Sumanguru, the two leaders got away with the qarin. I’ve summoned the carpet: we can still catch them.’ She swallows. ‘Question them.’

Sumanguru kicks at the scattered tiny bodies on the ground in frustration. ‘What about these?’ he gasps.

‘They are all dead. The little people do not value their lives very much. Much like the Sobornost, or so I am told—’

Then she sees the gun on the ground. It is made from black wood, a gentle, curving shape with gold and brass mechanisms and wheels with symbols and Names carved on them. She picks it up: the grip is smooth and cool in her hand.

‘What is that?’ Sumanguru asks.

‘A barakah gun. A muhtasib weapon: it destroys Seals. It speaks the Anti-Name, the Secret Name of Death. They were going to use it on you.’

‘Wonderful,’ Sumanguru mutters. He frowns. ‘And why did they leave you alone?’

The arrival of the carpet interrupts him. It descends into the aviary slowly, a sheet of silvery mist. It hovers in front of them a couple of centimetres from the ground, undulating waves running through it.

‘There is no time. We have to go!’

She steps on the carpet, and Sumanguru follows, swaying slightly. At first, it is like standing on the surface of a waterbed. Then her footing becomes firm as the carpet compensates for her weight and invisible hands support her. It is made from expensive utility fog uncorrupted by wildcode. Still, it requires several low-level jinni bound to it, constantly cleaning and updating the athar spells. The ring in her finger turns it into an extension of her mind, making it feel like she is holding both Sumanguru and herself in the palm of her hand.

With a thought, she lifts them up from the shattered aviary and into bright sunlight, flying after the golden bird as if in a dream.

At first, it is hard to see Arcelia against the sun. The sky above them is clear and, amidst the blueness above, there are faint traces of the Gourd frame, the cage around Earth, white and silver lines like segments of some giant spiderweb in the sky. But in the athar, the bird is a tiny star, easy to follow. It and the Fast One riders descend rapidly, following the Soarez Shard.

Tawaddud takes a deep breath. You can do this. It’s no different from jumping off the Gomelez Shard with Jabir the wirer boy, in the vertical lane with apple trees where the angelnet catches you.

She lets the carpet dive straight down.

The azure palaces like jewels, houses and gardens of the Shard become a blur. The Rivers of Light – the ancient windows of Sirr-in-the-sky – flash past them in bright sword-strokes. A wild tickle in her stomach almost makes her laugh. The wind tears at her hair.

She steals a look at Sumanguru: the gogol’s eyes are closed, and for a moment, he looks like a frightened child. She squeezes the handle of the barakah gun and focuses on the shape of the qarin below. It grows rapidly, and it seems like in a few moments she can touch it—

The Fast Ones swing their mount in a sharp turn away from the Shard. Tawaddud follows – into a dense forest of silver wires right in front of them. They are chimera bird tethers of an armada of rukh ships below – ornate platforms and cylinders of blue and gold, the colours of House Soarez, jinn wind sails blazing with Seals.

Arcelia weaves its way deftly past the shiny lines, barely visible in the sun, deadly and sharp. Tawaddud wills the carpet to swing around them, but it is too late. Not like this. She closes her eyes and waits for the wires to cut into her flesh—

A roar in the athar, like thunder. The Anti-Name. An explosion of white noise. Another and another. Tawaddud opens her eyes. Sumanguru is firing the barakah gun like a madman, sending out expanding waves of destruction, unleashing wildcode that cuts through the wires like a scythe in front of them.

‘Keep flying!’ he screams, eyes wild. Reeling, she rights the carpet and steers them through the unraveling rigging. They swoop past the giant rukh birds and their transparent wings. The carpet is buffeted by the wind from the creatures’ frantic escape attempts. And then they are in clear air, followed by angry shouts of mutalibun crewmen below.

Tawaddud swings the carpet around. Arcelia and the Fast Ones have lost altitude: the bird glimmers against the long shadows of the Shade quarter at the base of the Shard. Tawaddud’s heart hammers so hard she feels it’s about to burst out from her chest. ‘They are headed for Qush and Misr,’ she says, pointing at the beehive-like clusters of the Fast One parasite cities close to the gogol markets, surrounded by thick clouds of the little folk, so dense the shapes they make look almost solid. ‘We’ll never catch them there.’

Tawaddud removes the jinn ring and thrusts it into Sumanguru’s hand.

‘What are you doing?’

‘We are not going to catch them in time,’ she says. ‘You have to fly. I’m going to try something.’

For a moment, the carpet spins out of control, but then the gogol rights it, eyes squeezed shut.

Tawaddud fumbles with her beemee, tries to ignore the wind and the fact that she is almost a kilometre up, carried by tiny robots the size of dust particles, holding hands. A trace of any entwinement always remains. The joints in her hands still ache. And up here, the athar is clear and pure: it will carry her thoughts far.

Arcelia, come to me.

Pain, a needle piercing her. Her will is not her own. Her wings ache.

Arcelia, turn around. The voice is a light above, like the Sun, warm and pure and clear. She fights the wind, fights the pain and the needle. Tawaddud.

‘Catch her,’ Tawaddud whispers to Sumanguru. Her own voice comes from far away. The ghost of a needle stings her spine. She ignores it and keeps calling Arcelia’s name.

‘She’s coming!’ shouts Sumanguru.

Tawaddud opens her eyes. They have descended, a mere hundred metres up, just above the white rooftops of the Shade Quarter. People point and shout. The carpet’s shadow and Arcelia’s are coming together below. She looks up. The golden bird is rushing towards them straight ahead, white toy soldiers struggling on its back. Sumanguru stands up on the carpet and stretches his right hand towards it.

A flash below, in the rooftop crowd. The cold thunder of the Anti-Name.

Arcelia and the Fast Ones explode in a shower of blue sparks.

The shattering of the athar link is a hammer blow inside her head. There is only lightning phantom pain in the wings she does not have, and then it’s dark.

The light comes back with a throbbing pain. There is a rough hand on her cheek, and suffocating heat. Human voices, the bustle of a crowd.

‘Tawaddud?’ Sumanguru says. ‘Can you open your eyes for me?’ There is a strange tickling feeling all over her body, like the brush of a spiderweb. She forces her eyes open. The Sobornost gogol is crouched next to her, running a hand across her body: it crackles with the angel-hair sparks she saw in the aviary.

‘Don’t be afraid, nothing is broken if the q-dot probes are to be trusted. I could not fly your toy worth a damn, but I got us down before it crumpled into dust.’

He helps her to sit. His face is bloody and his uniform is torn. They are both covered in white powder – inert foglets are the only thing that remains of the utility fog of the carpet. I must look just as bad. Images of the mad flight swim in front of her eyes, inducing vertigo. I can’t believe I did that.

‘I suppose I could have chosen a better neighbourhood to land in,’ Sumanguru says. He flashes a grin that looks unnatural, like a brief mask on his scarred face.

They are in a small square, near the gogol markets: a quarter that is a maze of marketplaces and cul-de-sacs. The streets here are narrow, and the whitewashed stone buildings lining them teeter under the weight of Fast One communities. A small crowd of gogol salesmen, craftsmen and merchants has gathered to watch them.

‘Did you . . . did you see where the shot came from?’ Tawaddud croaks. Her throat is dry, and she shakes. She tries to summon a Repentant, but all her jinn rings are just as dead as the carpet, killed by the echo of the barakah gun. Gripped by sudden fear, she fumbles with her athar glasses and studies Sumanguru’s Seals: apart from the slight unravelling in Alile’s palace, they appear to be intact, as are her own.

‘I was too busy trying to keep us in the air,’ Sumanguru says. ‘Whoever it was, clearly they were worried about whatever it is that the qarin knew.’ He looks at Tawaddud seriously. ‘That is something we need to talk about – but not here.’ He helps Tawaddud up. ‘Lean on me. We had better get out of here before the attacker decides to try their luck again.’

‘My sister and the Repentants will find us soon,’ Tawaddud says. ‘And your injuries are more serious than mine.’

‘I’ve had much worse, believe me,’ Sumanguru says, gritting his teeth. ‘It is just flesh. But you and I – we need to talk.’

The dense cable networks joining the houses together and connecting them to the City of the Dead for the jinni servants block most of the sunlight. The air is thick with the smell of human bodies, ozone and the high-pitched chirping of the Fast Ones who surf the crowd just above peoples’ heads with inhuman speed. Tawaddud flinches every time they pass. She aches all over, and has a splitting headache, not dispelled even by a Secret Name. She realises she has not eaten all day. At her suggestion, they stop in a street kitchen run by a thick-bodied woman in a headscarf.

They sit on the edge of the shopping square of Bayn-al-Asrayn, at the base of a Sobornost statue, and eat tajini. The hot spices and the chewy meat restore some of Tawaddud’s fortitude. Sumanguru eats slowly, an expression of nostalgia on his face. It is gone when he looks up again, replaced by his usual stern visage. He touches his chest wounds thoughtfully. They are bleeding slightly. He rubs his fingers together.

‘I underestimated you, Tawaddud of House Gomelez. I will not do so again. You got us closer to the enemies of the Great Common Task than I did. Also, you saved this sumanguru from truedeath. You have my thanks, and those of my branch.’

‘I thought your kind did not fear death.’

‘The Great Common Task is a war on death. A soldier who does not fear the enemy is a fool. So, I thank you.’ He inclines his head slightly.

Tawaddud feels self-conscious, all of a sudden. Her hair is messy and full of carpet dust, and her clothes are torn. How long has it been since she had a meal with a charming man that was not set up by her sister? Far too long. Except for the fact that, of course, they are eating cheap tajini on the street, the charming man is a Sobornost mass murderer whose body was fabricated from raw materials by nanobots only a few hours ago, and the only reason they are here is that her ex-lover the body thief has started killing Councillors.

And then there is Abu. I will think about him later. Still, there is something peeking through Sumanguru’s shell that makes her wonder. He was so afraid on the carpet.

‘Lord Sumanguru,’ she says slowly, ‘there was . . . something else I saw in the qarin’s mind.’

Sumanguru says nothing.

‘A Secret Name. I think Arcelia was keeping it for Alile. It may have nothing to do with her death, but clearly it was something important.’ As she speaks the words, the Name echoes in her throbbing head again, as if wanting to get out, delicate bell-like syllables full of a strange innocence.

‘Tell me about the Names.’

‘I thought you were briefed on the history of Sirr.’

Sumanguru narrows his eyes. ‘Sometimes, it is more important to hear how a story is told than what the story is.’

Tawaddud puts her bowl down. ‘The Names are words and symbols the Aun taught us, to control the athar and tame wildcode. Ancient commands for the systems of the Sirr-in-the-sky and the desert. Seals are special Names, unique and irreplaceable, protection from wildcode: only the muhtasib know how to create them.’

‘And Alile wanted to give them to us so that we could continue the Task ourselves, without the need for your mutalibun,’ Sumanguru says. ‘Anyone who disagrees with that is a suspect.’

‘You will find many who disagree. The Seals are all we have left of our ancestors. A symbol of the Cry of Wrath,’ Tawaddud says. ‘To give them to you directly, to disrupt our gogol trade and economy, to allow Sobornost machines to go to the desert instead of our mutalibun and mercenaries – many feel strongly about that.’

Sumanguru’s pale eyes do not blink. ‘So how does Tawaddud of the House Gomelez feel?’

Tawaddud looks down. ‘That justice should be done.’

‘Interesting notion.’ Sumanguru squeezes the bridge of his nose, then blinks and lowers his hand. ‘Is it possible that whoever killed Alile did not care about the Accords but wanted this Name you saw? Do you know what it does?’

Tawaddud shakes her head. ‘Some of them can only be spoken in certain places, at certain times. I think this is one of them.’

Sumanguru gives her a sharp look. ‘The only two possible reasons for the killer to steal the qarin – or to prevent us from having it – are this Name and the possibility that the bird knew the killer’s identity. Think carefully: is there anything else you saw in the qarin’s mind?’

Tawaddud swallows.

‘I think you are protecting someone, Tawaddud of House Gomelez,’ Sumanguru says gently. ‘If you are, consider this: whoever they are, they want to fight a war with the Sobornost. And at war, you often find yourself becoming a twin of the enemy, just as bad as the thing you fear.’ He leans back and looks up at the Gourd, wispy lines now obscured by fluffy afternoon clouds, the Shards like a curtain in the horizon.

‘How much do you know about Sobornost history?’

‘I’ve only ever met hsien-kus.’

‘Hsien-kus are a small clan obsessed with the past. They would love nothing more than creating another Earth, a simulated Earth, for everyone who ever existed. They like to look back. But most of us look forward. Even when it comes with a price.’

‘What do you mean?’ Tawaddud asks.

‘After the first war, we realised that this,’ he taps on his temple, ‘was not enough. Human cognitive architecture only gets you so far with the Great Common Task. Sure, there are some fundamentals that the chitraguptas say are universal. Recursion, thoughts within thoughts. The basis of language, self-reflection, consciousness perhaps. But a lot of it is modules, inefficiently strung together by evolution. A kind of Frankenstein.’

‘A what?’

‘I keep forgetting, no fiction. Never mind. The point is, we started experimenting. And we ended up with Dragons. Beings with no consciousness, no modules, just an engine, a self-modifying, evolving optimiser. We could never destroy them: we could only put them inside virtual machines, box them off. What do you think the guberniyas are for? They are cages for monsters. Everything else is just surface.’

‘Are you sure you should be telling me this?’ Tawaddud thinks about the young man in orange, the political astronomer. She is sure no one in Sirr has ever heard anything about this.

‘Are you sure I shouldn’t be?’ Sumanguru’s mouth twitches.

‘And then what happened?’

‘We fought them. A war that lasted thousands of years, in guberniya Deep Time. They had no eudaimon, no inner voice. Intelligence without meaning. And we were losing. Until we started cutting things out from ourselves as well. Body language. Theory of mind. Empathy. To fight Dragons, we made gogols that were mirror images of the bastards.

‘Gogols like me.’

Tawaddud looks at Sumanguru. His smile is cold. ‘Oh, I can fake social niceties perfectly well, but it is just slave gogols moving my face, you understand. My emotions are outsourced. My private utility functions and pleasures are . . . quite different from yours.

‘So when you keep your secrets, Tawaddud Gomelez, think about two things. Is whoever you are protecting worth protecting or have they crossed a line?’ He leans closer and the machine oil smell in his breath is so strong that the food moves in Tawaddud’s stomach and bile rises into her mouth. ‘And do you really want to lie to someone who kills dragons?’

He picks up Tawaddud’s unfinished tajini bowl and spoons the remaining food with gusto.

They wait in silence until the shadow of a carpet appears: it descends slowly into the square, carrying Dunyazad and a tall, spiky Repentant thought-form. Tawaddud’s sister is clad in formal Council robes, Gomelez colours, black fabric and a gold chain in her hair.

She curtsies to Sumanguru, clasping her hands together, a look of horror on her face. ‘Lord Sumanguru,’ she says. ‘Are you badly hurt? We will take to my Father’s house immediately and tend to your injuries.’

Sumanguru shrugs. ‘Flesh will heal,’ he says. ‘If not, it will be cut off.’

Duny curtsies again and turns to Tawaddud.

‘Dear sister,’ she says, giving her a tight, quick embrace. ‘The Aun be praised that you are alive!’ But when she holds Tawaddud close, she hisses in her ear, ‘Father wants to see you. It might have been better to run away again.’

Duny pulls away and gives them both a radiant smile. ‘Please follow me: we have so many things to talk about.’