Chapter 22

Groggy, Scorio lifted his head from his arm and blinked around his room. The window was dark, with the soft hiss of the dusk rain falling outside.

He sat up, stared at nothing for a bit, then crawled over to his water pail, dipping his hands into the dregs at the bottom and washing his face.

Despite his best intentions, he’d slept in. He recalled reaching his chamber, sitting down for a moment’s rest, and then—nothing.

Perhaps Naomi had been right. Even having slept the day away, he felt exhausted, his mouth gummy, his skin tight.

Rising to his feet, he moved to the window, climbed outside, and then scaled the wall to his rooftop. Clambered up and sat on a hunk of retaining wall, lifting his face to the night sky, the dried-blood sun-wire, and the sweet rain that fell upon all of Bastion.

After a moment he shrugged his way out of his robes and sat naked beneath the cool rain, allowing it to wash away days’ worth of dust, grime, and sweat. Simply sat there, enjoying the sensation, occasionally blinking the water away to gaze up at the far side of the city above him. At the distant fiery chasms whose light was momentarily muted by the falling rain, the plumes of steam rising from them and turning their depths from a smoldering crimson to near black.

The rain didn’t last long. Scorio rose to his feet, raked his fingers through his wet hair, pulled on his damp robes, cinched the belt tight, then gazed down at the street some four stories below.

For a moment he was tempted to ignite his Heart and attempt leaping down.

But then he remembered Naomi’s warning and simply climbed down the ruined wall till he was able to leap the remaining six yards safely to the rubble below. That accomplished, he set off toward Bastion’s living wards.

He’d never visited the city at night, but Naomi’s warning made the adventure even more exciting; now that he was an almighty Cinder, he was eager to prowl the narrow streets and see how exactly the city changed in the dark.

Scorio moved quickly through the ruins, passing softly glowing mana traps, seeing the occasional flicker of well-hidden campfires amongst the guttered buildings. He avoided all signs of life, and after some eight blocks, he slipped into the city proper, leaving the cracked stone and detritus for the alleyways and winding streets of the city.

It was like entering a different realm. Under the indiscriminate light of the sun-wire, Bastion was a massive, ponderous collection of dull buildings, the pervasive light rendering everything flat and dusty, banishing the shadows and painting everything the same golden hues.

But now it felt a city of mystery, darkness everywhere, as most of the narrow streets weren’t illuminated and most of the windows shuttered.

The main avenue, however, was a surreal ribbon of black light shot through with purple gleams, this illumination emitted by black spheres suspended haphazardly from poles, building corners, the underside of awnings, or within shop display windows that were still courting business.

The darkness, in contrast, took a dark, slate-blue hue, so that he felt as if he walked through a submarine world, strangers hurrying by on their nocturnal errands, some carrying closed parasols, others damp from the rain, most dry and clearly having just emerged from their homes or places of business.

It was easy to stick to the illuminated areas, instinctive, even; signs glowed overhead, curling glass tubes filled with radiant purple-black Coal light offering services of every kind, though Scorio had trouble deciphering the lettering.

And overhead, the barely glowing sun-wire, and beyond that, a city curved above, its avenues picked out in black light and pale, radiant copper, with serene pools of light, Iron-gray betraying the homes and streets of the wealthier wards closer to the Gate to Hell.

A rarefied world, everything gleaming and wet from the rain, the startling blacklight reflecting off the road in eddies and smears.

Bemused, Scorio allowed the sparse foot traffic to guide him, content to simply take in Bastion at night, so different from the day cycle city that he could have been transported to another world entirely.

Here were gathered stalls that vented steam from the back, hectic cooks under their damp awnings serving bowls of hot food to impatient customers; there, music skirled out of tall windows, a glowing sign above the bar’s doorway depicting a purple squid with wondrously complex tentacles; down a narrow street Scorio saw a raised stage on which a half-dozen women in elaborate costumes danced before a crowd six deep; there a building was stunningly decorated with gaudy, shining stripes of refulgent copper that contoured and embellished its architectural excesses.

Scorio waved away solicitations, ignored the desperate cries of young boys who beckoned for him to come to the doorway of various establishments, studiously ignored the smoldering consideration that the beautiful men and women cast his way as he strode beneath their balconies, their forms draped in exotic furs, long cigarettes burning from between their careless fingers.

The city soon changed, however, as he continued north; he must have entered a new ward, for the dubious nature of the businesses and enticements were replaced by more rigid and severe buildings, the lighting more functional than alluring. Small squares opened up, benches arrayed around dead fountains or broad canopied trees; he began to see harried workers making their way home, their uniforms indicating House allegiances.

Ducking his chin, Scorio turned radially west, cutting through the imposing buildings, ignoring the gazes that trailed him as he went. There was a different allure to the people here; the very severity of their outfits, the callous indifference of their manner, the strange way they coiffed their hair, rouged their lips, the confident way they held themselves, all spoke to as alien a world as the decadent one he’d passed through first.

Mercifully he left the Chimera ward behind, only to realize that he had no idea where he was. He plunged into a teeming night market where a hundred stalls were packed close together, forming a labyrinth through which a crowd streamed. Garish lights were strung from crisscrossing strings overhead, hung from building corners and reaching branches, and by their blacklight, Scorio saw a wide array of goods set out for sale, the owners watching the passersby suspiciously, with more than a few having powerfully-built young men and women standing close by, hands resting on the hafts of clubs.

“Excuse me,” said Scorio, stopping at a covered stall whose owner was busy chopping a fistful of roots with numbingly fast precision. “How do I get to Ward 11?”

“Ward 11? Ward 11?” The old woman cried the question back to him as if he’d insulted her deeply.

Scorio took a step back. “That’s right. Ward 11.”

“Mischa!” Her cry was just short of raucous. “Tell this idiot where to go!”

Her guard, a bored-looking man with an eyepatch and red-stained teeth, gestured for Scorio to step away from the stall’s front, and immediately draped a muscled arm over his shoulders in a manner that made Scorio deeply uncomfortable.

“Ward 11? Oh, man.” He said this as if commiserating over a deep loss. “You’re destined for trouble; any fool can see that. But even I, a humble guard, can recognize destiny when it appears before him.”

The man smelled pungent, as if he’d been standing inside an incense-choked room for days. Carefully, adroitly, Scorio disentangled himself and stepped away.

“Just point out the direction and I’ll be much obliged.”

Mischa stared dully through Scorio, his pupils enormously dilated, then blinked and focused on him. “Oh. Yes. Radial west another four blocks, then walk north till you hit the rim. Ward 11. Kraken turf. Watch yourself.”

Scorio traversed Bastion, keeping to the copper-lit streets, hurrying now, avoiding the crowds, no longer trying to keep track of the changes but simply seeking his destination.

Finally, an old busker who was busy tuning his oud blinked up at him from a doorway and smiled.

“Ward 11? You’re here, my friend. Where every fist coming at your face is clutching a roll of coins. Is there anywhere in particular you wish to go?”

Scorio rested his hands on his hips and considered the avenue on which he stood. Broad, clean, well-tended, the buildings and people spoke of wealth and refinement. The busker was, if anything, the only element at odds with the manicured street.

“A new establishment,” he said. “Music oriented. Run by two ladies, Feiyan and Helena.”

The busker’s eyes lit up, their gleaming surfaces flashing pink in the overhead blacklight’s illumination. “Ah, you and everyone else! It’s the talk of the ward, and those next to it, besides.” At which point the old man considered Scorio speculatively. “Though it’s a refined establishment, I’m sorry to say. The likes of you and me wouldn’t be welcomed through the door.”

“I’m old friends with the owners,” said Scorio, trying to sound nonchalant. “If I can get their attention, I’ll be fine.”

“So says every novice seeking admittance to the halls of glory.” The busker placed his oud carefully in its case and closed it efficiently. “But come! Old Memek is done caterwauling for octs tonight; I will take you to The Flame, and if your claims are true, perhaps I will gain admittance as well.”

Scorio smiled. “It’d be my pleasure. I’m Scorio.”

“Scorio. An interesting name. Archaic, is it not?” Old Memek began hobbling along the street, favoring his left leg. “How is it you know the proprietors? Can you tell me aught of their past? It is shrouded in mystery, and speculation is rife. Is it true that they were both secretariats in House Hydra, overseeing matters of life and death, and grew tired of their onerous responsibilities?”

Scorio laughed. “Perhaps.”

“Perhaps.” Old Memek glowered at him. “You plan to keep their cards close to your chest. Either you are truly their friend, or you know less than I do.”

“An accurate analysis,” said Scorio. He felt relieved to have met a friendly guide at last, and to relinquish the responsibility of finding his way through this strange and perturbing night city. “The Flame is doing well?”

“It is indeed. Small, refined, open to a select crowd but boasting high-quality music and scandalous adherence to impropriety. Those who cannot get in scorn it, while everyone else angles for a ticket.”

“Sounds about right,” said Scorio. They reached the top of a broad flight of steps that led down into a canyon formed between two close pressed buildings, the far end opening to reveal a broad canal. “And yourself? How is it that an illustrious oud master has been denied entry?”

“A terrible injustice,” sighed Memek, making his way carefully down the deeply worn steps. “When I was young, my ballads were the talk of the ward, no—the city! I recall one night when I was invited by a Hierophant to play at the Constellar Gardens, and oh, what a night that was. You will think me a liar, but I received such praise that night that my head literally swelled to twice its size; my hosts grew concerned, and called for Varigard the White, a Great Soul who perished—has it been two decades already? How has time flown—”

Old Memek spoke on, regaling Scorio with a fanciful tale that seemed endless in its permutations, and soon had the oud player fleeing House operatives as he escorted an orphaned Great Soul to safety at the Academy.

They descended the steep steps and emerged at the canal, whose broad length was dark and reflected the blacklights of the far bank with iridescent sensuality.

“… to which I declaimed, ‘Never shall I regret a moment with divinity, though it cost me my fame, my talent, and perhaps even my life.’” Old Memek paused to frown at a small crowd gathered outside a non-descript building that faced the canal, and from which the muted sounds of a dozen stringed instruments being violently played seem to come.

“There it is, The Flame. The crowd is fierce, my young friend. The chances of our success plummet by the moment.”

“Come on,” said Scorio, tapping the old man’s elbow. “Let’s give it a try.”

They approached, and the music grew more distinct, numerous guitars being played aggressively with virtuoso skill, the rhythm fierce and tempestuous, accompanied by a strange, clacking sound. Cries of laughter and delight emerged faintly from behind the heavy closed door, before which a broad-shouldered man with a shaved head stood, his robes tightly belted around his waist, his meaty and heavily tattooed arms crossed over his oxen-like chest.

The crowd milled in the copperlight, all of them young, most of them beautiful, dressed in artfully torn robes and with all manner of patterned silk scarves wrapped around their necks. They eyed Scorio and the oud player with distaste as they walked up to the large man, whose eyes narrowed in annoyance.

“Back of the line,” said the man, not even looking at Scorio.

“I’m a friend of Helena’s. Please tell her Scorio is here and would like to talk to her.”

“Back of the line,” said the man, his voice almost mechanical with boredom.

“Come, come, let us not tempt the fates,” said Old Memek, plucking at Scorio’s sleeve.

“What will it take to allow us inside?” asked Scorio.

“You make me repeat myself one more time, I’m chucking you into the canal,” said the bald man, still not even looking down at where Scorio stood.

“Into the canal, hmm?” He turned, considered the black waters, his pulse starting to pound. “So that’s the way it’s done?”

Old Memek gripped his elbow forcibly. “Scorio, dear friend, come, we do not wish to—”

But Scorio wasn’t listening. In a moment he’d summoned his Igneous Heart, and reached out with his senses, seeking mana. Copper wisps floated around him, but within the bright fuchsia overhead, it burned brightly, bottled up and refulgent.

Scorio reached for that nexus of power, drew it forth with his paddle, finding that his will could force it out of its container, and pulled it swiftly into his obsidian Heart.

Which, obedient to his will, immediately caught fire with a whoomph.

Smiling blandly, Scorio grasped the large man by the belt and shoulder, pivoted on his foot, and hurled him across the entirety of the pavement to disappear into the canal below.

A large gout of water burst up and spattered over the narrow street, eliciting shrieks of dismay from the crowd which pressed itself against the wall in horror.

The sign overhead had gone dark, the patch of pavement before The Flame now an island of darkness.

“There,” said Scorio, tugging his robe back into place. “Old Memek, shall we?”

The oud player was gaping at him but didn’t resist as Scorio guided him through the door and into the establishment beyond.

It was charged with music, activity, the smell of people, and lit by slender bars of blacklight set along the tops of the walls so that they shed no visible light but rather caused the dancers to glow.

Or more accurately, caused the pigments that were painted over their features and drenched into their hair to smolder with gaudy, impossible light. In the darkness people cavorted, moved to the charging rhythm of the guitars, their hair burning in bright, unnatural tones, their faces covered in constellations of vivid yellows and blues, oranges, and pinks, as if some fey power had blown magic, fluorescent dust across their features.

A dozen musicians sat atop a stage at the back of the room, all of them bent over their instruments, all of them stamping their feet and occasionally drumming their hands on the bodies of their guitars as they let loose a riot of sound. Scorio couldn’t guess how many people danced under the glow of the imprisoned Coal, but he didn’t care; slowly and methodically he pressed his way through the crowd, pulling Old Memek along behind him, looking all around as he searched out his quarry.

Helena was on the stage, looking wild and exhilarated, sawing at her fiddle in wild abandon, her wide lips revealing her glowing teeth, green stripes painted down her cheeks, the ribbons intertwined in her braid burning as if aflame.

And there—Feiyan sat at a recessed booth amongst a half-dozen others, sandaled foot up on the table’s edge, a cup of something in one hand, watching the musicians, the upper half of her face painted a blinding crimson which glowed like artificial blood, a black band crossing narrowly over her eyes.

Scorio moved to stand before the table, and when Feiyan glanced at him in disinterest he inclined his head and gave an apologetic smile.

For a moment Feiyan simply stared through him, and then recognition slipped into place, and she sat up, almost spilling her drink, eyes narrowing in fury.

But the music was too loud for them to converse, so rather than shout futilely at him, she slammed her drink down, escaped from the throng of friends, and rose to stand bristling before him.

Scorio met her gaze with equanimity, and when she stabbed him in the chest with a finger and then pointed over her shoulder, indicating that he should follow her, he nodded.

Old Memek, mesmerized, eyes wide and mouth opened wider, stumbled along behind him, clutching his oud case to his chest.

Feiyan led them both through a side door and into a narrow corridor whose length was littered with even narrower doors.

But that was as far as they were going. Feiyan rounded on Scorio and stepped right into his face, glaring up at him. “What by the ten hells are you doing here? How did you even get through the door?”

“The door?” Scorio blinked innocently. “It was just open. I let myself in.”

“You’re lying.” Her voice was low with anger, and he saw her pat her hip where her hammer usually hung. “I told you to stay well clear of us, Scorio. You broke your word!”

“I recall the warning. I don’t recall promising to obey it.”

“I want you out before Helena sees you. She’ll take every starving dog and beggar off the street. Come on—”

“I’ve an offer to make, Feiyan.” When she paused, he continued smoothly. “Be honest. You profited richly off our last exchange. You telling me you couldn’t use further treasures?”

She glared at him, then fixed Old Memek with her stare, causing him to shrink back. “Who’s he?”

“Allow me to introduce Old Memek, a fantastic oud player and immense fan of yours.”

“He part of your offer?”

“N-no,” stammered Memek quickly. “I am but a casualty of our mutual friend’s ambitions.”

To which Feiyan grunted and nodded at the door leading back into the darkened room. “Wait for us in there, then.”

Old Memek scampered back out into the music, and when the door closed Feiyan crossed her arms over her chest. “You’ve got one minute.”

“That’s plenty.” Scorio leaned back against the wall, affecting nonchalance. “In exchange for some information and a favor, I’m willing to bring you another sunphire.”

“What information? What favor?”

“The first one’s easy, I’m sure. I just want a way to get in touch with members of the Academy. Do you know of a means to get inside? Could you find one?”

“Great Souls?”

“That’s right.”

“There’s no need to get into the Academy. They come into the city every Eighthday to explore and spend their allowance in the markets. Keep an eye out and you’ll see your target easy enough.”

“That so? Excellent. There a particular market they frequent?”

Feiyan’s brows lowered. “I’ve not agreed to this deal yet. The favor?”

“Smuggle myself and another out of Bastion and onto the Rascor Plains.”

“Ha!” Her bark rang off the walls. “I gave up exactly those kinds of connections when I decided to make this my life. No.”

“Two sunphires.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t get that many.”

“Say I could. Would you help?”

“For two?” She frowned at him pensively. “Perhaps.”

“Then you start looking into it, and I’ll start collecting them.”

“Give me one first, and then I’ll start turning over old stones.”

“Fair enough.” Though he’d no idea how long that would take him. “And the market?”

She snorted. “Easy enough. The Academy is in Ward 7, and a stone’s throw from the Graveyard. Every Eighthday, the place turns into a circus. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.” He could ask for directions there from Old Memek. “You and Helena have done well for yourselves.”

He thought she might smile, but though her expression softened just a little, it didn’t completely thaw out. “We’ve started realizing some dreams, yes. And I know it’s thanks to your sunphire, so don’t think me ungrateful. But I swear to you, Scorio: if you lead Dola to us, and if Helena gets mixed up in any trouble, I will personally tear your spine out through your mouth. Do you understand?”

“I’ve missed you, too,” said Scorio, and then held up both palms as Feiyan’s eyebrows rose in disbelief that presaged further fury. “But yes. Fine. How can I contact you next time if I’m not to come here?”

She considered. “I’m not telling you where we live. Just come back here. But with the sunphire, or not at all. We clear?”

“We’re clear,” said Scorio. “Tell Helena I said hello?”

“No.”

“Fine.” Scorio took a deep breath, tugged on the hem of his robe, and inclined his head respectfully. “Thank you, Feiyan, and apologies for the inconvenience.”

“There’s a door at the end of this hall that leads into a blind courtyard. Head out that way, don’t come back.”

“Tell Old Memek I said goodbye, then. And give him a chance to play. He really is good with that oud.”

“Goodbye, Scorio.”

His parting smile was more grimace, and he stepped past her, down the hall, and to the last door. He could feel her watching him the entire time, the sensation of an intense stare only cutting off when the door swung shut behind him, and he stepped back out into the night.

Scorio began to make his way back home. Now, with concrete information at hand, he felt unsure; would Leonis and Lianshi remember him half as fondly as he did them? Would they risk their own careers as Great Souls by speaking with him? What would he do if they turned him away?

Sinking his chin toward his chest and avoiding eye contact, he paced on, making his way south, always south, back toward the dark and somber ruins.

There was only one way to find out.