The Broken Tower--A Novel, page 39
“Did it work?” Ida said.
“It must have. She’s not dead, is she?” Liam said, and headed after her.
Korsa followed, too. Theron might have told her where he remembered his tools being, but this was not the world that Theron remembered, and he did not want the thirteen-fourteens out in it on their own. He’d had so little exercise in the past six months that by the time he caught up to Liam and Florence, at the entrance to the old wing, he was breathing heavily. Raghri and Giorsa, the physically strongest of his four kagirhi, would very much disapprove of his weakness.
Liam was young and strong and barely sweating at all. “Where is she going?” he said.
Too winded to speak, Korsa shook his head. With no hesitation, Florence marched down a dusty corridor, up some stairs, down another corridor. Recently swept, this time. The door where she stopped wasn’t locked, and they followed her through it into a room with a bare floor. Four utilitarian cots—the same kind Korsa and the thirteen-fourteens used—were squeezed into the room, as well as a small table with a washstand. Crude hooks holding assorted unidentifiable garments hung from the walls.
But under the hooks, those walls were covered in faded silk. Across the room, a gracious glass door—chained shut—led onto a sunny terrace. Empty holes in each of the other two walls had clearly once held doors, now long gone, and through one of the openings, Korsa saw a grand carved bed. The bedcovers looked like the same coarse cloth as those on the cots.
“I’ve been here before,” Korsa said.
But Florence was already moving toward the other room, so Korsa and Liam did, too. Inside was another ornate bed, but now Korsa could see two more cots squeezed in with it. Off to the side was a tiny room holding a third cot, and barely big enough for it.
“This must be where the women sleep,” Liam said, softly. His eyes darted away and back as he tried not to look too closely at the garments that hung from hooks here, too.
Florence went straight to a narrow table jammed up against a window. There was a washstand here, too, as well as an assortment of hairbrushes and cosmetics. She stared down at the table as if it wasn’t what she’d expected to see. Then, abruptly, she dropped onto her knees, and burrowed beneath the grand bed.
Liam’s brow furrowed, but Korsa found himself drawn back into the main room, to those gracious glass doors. The handles were solid brass and the glass had a decorative bevel. Out the window, in the distance, he could see the Wall, and the ivy that covered it, and the dense thickets of shrubbery at its base. This room had not been built for a servant. Korsa realized that this was the place where he’d first met Theron, the place the Highfaller called the parlor. It had been stripped of everything of comfort or value that would fit through the doors, but this is where Theron had lived. It was too easy to think of the places he saw in the kagirh-space as places apart from the real, actual House, but they weren’t. Theron wasn’t. He had slept in that room, and stood on that terrace. He had been alive once. In Korsa’s old kagirh, everything was as real as everything else. Kagirh, there, was merely another way of speaking and being. But whatever was happening here in the House was something different. Something sadder.
Florence emerged from the bedroom with dust in her hair, a burlap sack in her hands, and Liam a few steps behind. “She found what she was looking for,” he said. “It was in that bag, under the bed.” As he spoke, Florence marched back out of the room without so much as a glance back. As Korsa and Liam scrambled after her, Liam said, “What do you think’s in that bag, Chief?”
“Tools,” Korsa said. “Theron’s tools.”
Liam looked confused. “Who’s Theron?” he said, but Florence was already gone, and Korsa followed her.
* * *
In the workshop, Florence picked up her box of scraps and dumped the bag holding the tools on top of it. Then she carried the whole dusty, clanking mess back up the stairs into the tower. Korsa sat on the settee, watching her pull knobs and gears out of the box and wiping them carefully with her not-particularly-clean skirt before fitting them into a device that looked exactly like the one she’d built in kagirh, as seamlessly as if she were referring to a diagram. The colored-glass window above her head shone. Korsa decided that he would close his eyes for a moment, and naturally fell asleep.
At some later point—not enough later, from the hot, gritty feeling of his eyeballs—Florence shook him awake. It took him a moment to see the fully assembled not-quite-a-telescope against the colored window, and a moment more to find his words. “You’re finished,” he said to her.
She held up a vial of the mind-herb. He could see that she held another in her own hand. Both were uncorked.
Korsa groaned. “I need more sleep.”
She shook him again, more insistently.
“All right, all right,” he said, and grudgingly sat up. Among his own people, he could slip into kagirh as easily as he’d slipped into sleep, but doing it here felt like pushing himself into a crowded room full of people who refused to move. He wondered if people in Highfall had ever heard of coffee. The elixir in the vial was a poor substitute, but in a moment they were back in the purple maelstrom, where Florence’s outline only grew the slightest bit hazy before she grabbed a wad of purple. Just as she did, Theron appeared.
“Is it a telescope?” he said, puzzling over the device Florence had built against the window.
“Other direction,” she said. “Not out, but in.”
Gripping the thread of purple that kept her solid in one hand, Florence moved something in the tracery of the window with the other. A lever popped out. When she pulled it, a panel of glass sprang open, and she slid the device neatly through the open space, into whatever strange sort of outside existed beyond. Tracing a path down the device with her finger, she said, “Collects the power from out there, pulls it in, focuses it down and—” her small finger, grubby even here, moved along the lead between the panes of colored glass “—this way. Into the stone, I guess. But I made some alterations. We’re going to use it backward. Tower is full of purple stuff, right? So this pulls the purple stuff out of the stone, and into us. So we can stay.”
Theron, obviously intrigued, moved closer. “How?”
Florence turned a knob, then another knob, and then twisted the parts of the device gently. The tower trembled slightly under their feet, as if somebody were slamming a door in another room, but the slam lasted seconds instead of an instant. A power that could make solid stone tremble was a power to be wary of. Korsa couldn’t help stepping back, toward the stairs. Theron didn’t bother—he was already dead, after all—and, in fact, he nodded.
“The tower didn’t like that,” he said.
“The tower,” Florence said, “is a tower.”
As they watched, the tip of the device—where one would put one’s eye, if it really was a telescope—began to shine, and expand, like a drop of water falling from a leaf. But instead of water-clear, the drop was the same sickly purple as the webbing that filled the other layer of the tower. It was also brilliant, like fire.
Florence put out her hand. The drop fell into her palm. For an instant it rested there, like a jewel. Then it sank in. She let go of the purple wad. Her outline stayed sharp and distinct. “There,” she said. “Shall we bring the others up now?”
* * *
The thirteen-fourteens accepted the purple—and Theron—without question, and no little excitement. It wasn’t quite the kagirh that Korsa had told them about, but even the ones who had trouble walking could now travel wherever they wanted in the House, simply by following the purple threads. The tower filled with a faint hum as they shouted excitedly to each other about the things they’d found. The gardens, the catacombs, the food. Ida raved about a room made entirely of glass, and Jesse kept them all up-to-date on what was cooking in the enormous kitchen. When Korsa touched the web, he still felt that jolt of too-many-too-much that he had before, but this time, the thirteen-fourteens were among the multitudes. It was like recognizing a specific voice in a crowd of singers.
“This isn’t exactly what the Seneschal wanted,” Korsa said to Theron. “You know him better than I do. Will this satisfy him?”
“Florence and the others are all linked to the purple,” Theron said. “I don’t know if it will work outside the tower, and eventually the Seneschal is going to want to test that. But in the meantime, they’ll be able to communicate with each other, even if it’s not exactly how Gavin and Judah did it.”
“How did Gavin and Judah do it?”
Ida flashed into existence, grinned at them brilliantly, and vanished again. Korsa noticed that she had not created legs for herself. Theron smiled, bleakly. “Pain. When one of them was hurt, the other was. The Seneschal tested it extensively. Knives. Acid. Hot coals.”
“That’s horrible.” Korsa shook his head. “It should not be this way. Kagirh should be easy, natural. And once you know, inescapably, that other people feel things just as strongly as you do—”
He stopped, unable to say any more. Everything that had happened since he’d met Theron had distracted him from the sadness, but now it slid back down onto him, suffocating and bleak. Raghri and Giorsa, Faolaru and Meita. Five fingers on a hand, five members of a kagirh. Together, a fist.
“You’re missing your friends,” Theron said. “I miss mine, too.”
Korsa forced a smile and said, “If it helps at all, I think your brother has managed to escape. The Seneschal said he—how did he put it?—lost access to him.”
Theron looked up sharply. “What does that mean? And what about Elly?”
“I don’t know. A lot of what he has told me makes no sense. He said the other woman, Judah, jumped from a tower—this tower, I suppose—” Theron’s eyes widened “—but he still seems to think she is alive. He is still looking for her. All of this, what I am doing with the thirteen-fourteens, is in case he doesn’t find her.”
Theron let out a low whistle. “Jumped from the tower, eh? That’s impressive.”
Confused, Korsa said, “You are not concerned about her?”
A wry smile twisted Theron’s thin lips. “Always. Chaos follows Jude wherever she goes. But if you mean am I concerned that she’s dead, no.” He gestured around him. “This purple stuff is bound into her as much as it is me. She’s very much alive. She’s just not here.”
“How do you know?”
“How do I know anything?” Theron lifted his hands and dropped them again. “None of this makes any logical sense. For instance, I’m dead. But I can feel her, that’s all. And I would very much like to know how she pulled off that jumping trick.” Theron chewed his lip, his brow furrowed, and Korsa had again that sense of unseen motion as the young man’s mind considered. “I’ll tell you one thing I do know,” he finally said. “I don’t think the Seneschal is the only one looking for her. And I don’t think any of the people looking for her should find her, including him.”
“I don’t know what we can do about that,” said Korsa, and Theron said, “Neither do I. But I’m thinking.”
* * *
That night, back in the reality of the workshop, the young people picked at their food—even Jesse, who generally ate twice his share and anything the others didn’t want, as well. The thirteen-fourteens always ate well. Korsa was concerned. “Do you still feel ill?” he said, to anyone who would answer. “Is it from the elixir?”
At first, nobody responded. Then Ida said, “No. It feels pretty terrible to come out, but my stomach’s all right now.” Liam and Jesse murmured unenthusiastic assent. But something hovered over the table, threatening and dour. Korsa waited for it to fall.
Sure enough, not more than a few breaths had passed before Liam threw down the crust of bread he was gradually tearing to pieces and said, “They barely feed the workers who live in the barracks. That’s what I’m thinking about. This is a feast compared to what they get. They work so hard and they’re so hungry.”
“And scared,” Jesse said. “The guards don’t care if they get hurt or sick. At least in the orphan house, they let you stay in bed when you were sick.”
“What about the boys and girls who work on the pleasure side?” Ida said. “You know what they go through? What happens to them, there? Some of them are sick, too. They get to see a magus, at least, but he’s—” She shuddered.
“Some of them are our age,” Liam said, barely audible.
Florence had brought a piece of metal to the table, and was carefully turning it over and over next to her untouched plate. But Korsa knew she was listening.
“Why is everything horrible?” Ida said, and Korsa was shocked to see that her eyes were filled with tears. “The orphan house was horrible. The streets are horrible. This entire place is horrible, except for us. What’s the point of living? So we can experience more horribleness?”
“The point is,” Korsa said, gently, “to try to make it less horrible.”
“How? We’re prisoners, too,” Jesse said, and there was a murmur of agreement. All of those eyes turned to Korsa, waiting for him to answer. Korsa was not sure what to say. Theron was right: they could only fake the bond for so long, and when the Seneschal figured out that it was not the bond he wanted, it would not end well for any of them. He did not want the thirteen-fourteens to suffer—but the prisoners suffered, the pleasure-women and men suffered, the orphans still in the orphan house suffered. And what was there to do about any of it? What solution was there, to this unsolvable problem?
“Your minds are not prisoners,” Korsa said. “The Seneschal is not a wise man. He thinks that kagirh is merely about communication. It’s not about talking. It’s not even about seeing. It’s about knowing.”
Ida snuffled. “I wish I didn’t know about those girls. I knew about brothels. But I didn’t—know.”
“Who wants to know something so awful?” Liam said. Korsa could feel the unhappiness coming off him in sharp, dangerous spikes. “But now we do, don’t we? So far as I can see, we either figure out how to live with the knowing or we do something about it.”
“What can we do?” Jesse said, again. “Look at us. We can’t even do the worst of the factory work, can we? Can’t even crawl on the floor picking up scraps.”
Ida wheeled on him. “Do you want to, Jesse? Do you want to crawl on the floor picking up scraps? Because that’s what living with this will feel like to me.”
“Yeah, well, what’s your suggestion?” Jesse said.
“Burn this nasty place down to the ground,” Ida said, and began to cry.
“It’s stone,” Liam said, morosely. “Stone doesn’t burn.”
Florence slammed her hand down on the table. The plates and bowls jumped with the force of it, and all of the thirteen-fourteens turned to stare at her, shocked into silence. Her lips were pressed tightly together and her eyes swept around the table—not stopping long enough on any one person to make anything like eye contact, but close enough.
Korsa waited.
Ida raised her head. Her face was still covered in tears, her nose dripping and her lip trembling. But her eyes were bright. “We can move through stone,” she said, and Florence smiled triumphantly.
TWENTY-ONE
“Don’t talk, and don’t lag behind,” Saba told Bindy before they left New Highfall, and then glared at the magus. “Her food comes out of your share, Nathaniel.”
“I brought my own food,” Bindy said, and Saba said, “I said, don’t talk.”
At the Harteswell Gate, Saba bought a map from a trader and three places on a paper bale wagon with real money, not scrip. He rode on the seat with the wagon driver, and in no time at all they were passing the driver’s flask back and forth, and Saba was making the man laugh. Bindy was happy in the back, sitting next to the magus. The paper bales were solid as bricks and not very comfortable to sit on, but as far as she was concerned, the farther she was away from Saba, the better.
Despite the circumstances of her departure, Bindy couldn’t help but feel a sizzle of excitement as they passed through the gate. She remembered the giant map on the warehouse warren roof, all of Highfall drawn out as big as the canvas. On Saba’s map, that massive city, with its streets and alleys and factories and the House and a whole entire river, all fit inside one tiny dot. She’d never even seen the Steel District on the other side of Highfall, and now she was going all the way to Tiernan.
On the western side of the road, as the paper wagon left the city, Bindy saw a shantytown. People there lived in huts made of all sorts of thrown-away things: planks of splintered wood, patched-together pieces of burlap and canvas, even old bones. She knew these shantytowns existed—it was where you went when you were too poor for even Brakeside—but it was one thing to know about them and another to smell the cooking fires and latrines, to see the thin children staring with big, hollow eyes at the passing cart. Bindy thought she knew poverty, but what she knew was nothing like this. Then she remembered that more than one alley in Brakeside was filled with shacks like these, and that she didn’t like to go there because it was depressing and scary. And that made her feel guilty, because there were probably children there, too, and not looking at them didn’t keep them from existing.
Past the magus, the other side of the road was filled, as if by agreement, with sturdy, serviceable tents. The people lolling outside them had all sorts of colors of skin and hair and eyes. Some wore ordinary Highfall clothes, but some wore beautiful costumes that Bindy had never seen before. For that matter, some wore plain costumes she’d never seen before, and she found those just as wonderful. She was fascinated and terrified by all of the difference that apparently existed in the world, and all of the people who lived lives totally unlike hers, with completely different histories.
