Copyright

HarperVoyager an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2016

Copyright © Peter Newman 2016

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Peter Newman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007593163

Ebook Edition © March 2017 ISBN: 9780008201043

Version: 2016-09-19

Dedication

For Daniel

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

One Thousand, One Hundred and Thirty-Seven Years Ago

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

One Thousand, One Hundred and Twenty-Six Years Ago

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

One Thousand, One Hundred and Twenty-Five Years Ago

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

One Thousand, One Hundred and Sixteen Years Ago

Chapter Ten

One Thousand, One Hundred and Sixteen Years Ago

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

One Thousand, One Hundred and Fourteen Years Ago

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

One Thousand One Hundred and Thirteen Years Ago

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

One Thousand One Hundred and Eleven Years Ago

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

One Thousand One Hundred and Five Years Ago

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

One Thousand One Hundred and Two Years Ago

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

One Thousand and Ninety-Seven Years Ago

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

One Thousand and Ninety-Seven Years Ago

Chapter Twenty-Six

One Thousand and Seventy Years Ago

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Acknowledgements

Coming Soon …

Also by Peter Newman

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

In the south, the Breach stirs.

For over a thousand years it has grown. Slowly at first, a hidden cancer under the skin of the earth, a hairline crack exhaling alien wisps, disturbing yet harmless. But beneath the surface, pressure grows until the crack becomes an opening, and the opening splits wide, a gaping womb, a wound in the world, erupting.

Infernals pour forth, shapeless nightmares that slaughter their way into reality, inhabiting the bodies of the fallen and mutating them, taking the natural order and tainting it, corrupting plants, animals, even the air itself.

As the infernals take on physical form, they find identities and names: greatest of them is the monstrous Usurper, who raises itself to power by force of will, who strikes down Gamma of The Seven and breaks her armies. It is the Usurper who heralds the end of hope and the retreat of humanity’s influence.

But Gamma’s living sword is not destroyed and its continued presence nags at the marks left on the Usurper’s essence, festering, weakening. The Usurper sends its horde in search of the sword, named Malice by the infernals, but their efforts fail. A man takes the sword from them, and in time its power topples the Usurper and a kind of peace returns. Not true peace, too much is broken for the world to simply recover. This is merely a pause, a holding of breath. It is but a temporary thing. For in the south, the Breach stirs.

*

On the other side of the world a man stands by a window, his amber eyes intent on a small figure outside. Her name is Vesper. She is doing nothing of note and yet the man smiles as he watches her, her very existence comforting, warming like the suns.

For a long time he was alone and lost, a vagrant. Now he has a home, a family and more goats than he knows what to do with. It is a good life.

And yet lately a shadow seems to loom around the corner, a hint of coming disquiet. His home is built outside the Shining City, a step removed from people and politics and the expectations of others. News has to battle to get to his door. This is no accident.

Behind him, the sword begins to tremble, rocking back and forth, folded wings tip-tapping on the wall, but the eye remains closed. For years it has slept, deeply, peacefully, a quiet companion.

He turns to it, a smile sliding from his face. Absently, he scratches at old scars, on his thigh, his face, the side of his head. It has taken years to heal. Years of gentle work to make a new life, a safe space for those he loves.

His attention goes back to Vesper, who chats idly with the goats. Slowly, he returns to work but the tapping of the sword continues, like a thorn in his boot, needling, never quite out of mind. Lips form a line. At his sides, fists clench.

The sword is taken to his room, the door shut.

It is not enough.

He wraps the sword, making a thick bed of fabric for it, muffling the sounds it makes.

It is not enough.

Though it no longer bumps against the wall, the sword’s unease comes out in half-made notes, little things that catch on the edges of his soul.

He finds himself standing at the door, staring, one hand starting to open it, to reach out to the sleeping sword. It would be a small matter to lift it, to wake it once more, to …

‘What are you doing?’

He starts, turns to find Vesper standing there, face bright. With her, every day is a marvel. How tall she has become! How reminiscent of her mother.

Her head tilts to one side, trying to see past him. ‘What are you doing?’

He musters a half-smile, shrugs.

‘Are you okay?’

He nods.

‘What’s in there? I thought I heard a noise. Can I have a look? Is it an animal? It sounded unhappy. Can I see?’

He waves the questions away and puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, moving away from the room and taking her with him.

Later, when other distractions have led the girl away, he returns to the room with tougher materials and a box.

But it is not enough.

*

Twenty years have passed since the first wave of infernals came into being but the Breach has not ceased. A steady trickle of twisted creatures has dribbled from it, sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs, occasionally in gluts, but always, always, it grows; by inches, getting a little bigger, convulsing, then stretching again.

For eleven of these years, Samael has watched.

He stands on a rusting hill. Once a snake of mechanised metal, now a monument to things forgotten. Beneath his feet native moss does battle with tainted strains. Spongy carpets, yellow and brown, spreading with intent. Samael does not notice, his attention is on the Breach. He first came here on impulse. Drawn by voices he couldn’t quite hear, buried deep within his essence. He likes his impulses, just as he likes his habits. They give him direction.

It is twelve years since his second birth, since he was taken from his life on the sea, and only his hair remains unchanged. Beneath his armour, Samael’s skin is bone white, fossilised into a mockery of cracked marble. Unlike the rest of him, his hair is full of life. He wears it tied up, a horses tail that flows from a slit in the top of his helmet. A vanity he knows his creator would disapprove of. The thought brings a shudder and a smile.

Of course, his creator, the commander, was destroyed by the Malice, along with the other Knights of Jade and Ash but that doesn’t stop Samael thinking about him. Or seeking approval. He wishes it were different.

The armour he wears is a collection of mismatched plates, dug up from the battlefield and roughly beaten into shape. The result is ugly and ill-fitting. It feels right. A second skin he has made for himself. Wearing it has become habitual. Of this at least, his creator would surely approve. He hopes so but cannot be sure. Since the commander’s sudden end, he has been left with freedom and too many questions.

A fresh wave of essence bubbles from the Breach. Once, the chasm could not be seen from this hill and a village stood between his vantage point and the great crack. The village is gone now, swallowed by the earth, sucked down to other unknowable realms, deep, beyond the Breach.

Samael does not know how he knows this, but he does. He remembers buildings, faces, their hope fading as he passes them, leaving them to die. This flash of memory that is both his and not his goes as quickly as it arrives, leaving behind a cauldron of unprocessed feelings.

Grudgingly, his mind returns to present.

This is where the demons find their way in. He cannot change what has been done to him, cannot stop the infernals further north from plaguing the world, but here, he can make a difference. Here, he can at least stem the tide.

Clouds of unborn essence begin to form on the Breach’s edge, along with a host of skittering, hungry scabs, the lowest of the infernals. The scabs spread out, hunting for food amidst the dirt. The unborn spirits search for a way into the world, needing host bodies if they are to remain.

Samael smiles, knowing they will fail.

The few remaining corpses he cleared years ago, those not already claimed as hosts, condemning any new infernal to haunt the Breach’s boundary, dissipating slowly, horrific concepts never finding expression.

He has watched this sight countless times but it never fails to please.

Something is different this time, however. A second wave of unborn clouds confirms it. His half-breed eyes read the patterns in their essences. They are desperate, yes, this is common, but the flavour of fear in their smoky swirls is new. It is not the hostile world they have arrived in that scares them most. It is something else. Something behind them.

They are running away.

A rumble passes through the earth, radiating outward until it shakes the metal hill. Samael throws his arms out, balancing, riding the shockwave until it has passed. Another rumble comes quickly, and the sound darkens the sky, essence spewing from the Breach, thick and black and purple.

Samael is thrown from the hill, landing heavily in the dirt. The half-breed pulls himself up quickly, untroubled by physical pains. The ground still shakes, constant now, as the Breach heaves, trying to dislodge its burden. Earth trembles, gives, and reality retreats a little further north.

The thing that emerges is too big, stretching through dimensions even Samael cannot see. It is both great and small, contained and limitless. But more than that, it has purpose. Without a host, without a birth, it exists.

The Yearning has come.

Samael does not need a second look, the first has already found a permanent place in his consciousness. He falls back on another old habit, and runs.

*

Far to the north, across the sea, in lands of waning green, lies the Shining City. An invisible field defines its boundary, tuned to the infernal taint, ready to burn. Within this field windows peek from grassy hillsides, hinting at the tunnels, pods and infrastructure hidden within. Pillars of silver punch towards the sky, landscaped gardens attached to their sides and tops. Within the circles of hills and spires is a grand open space. At its centre stands a set of steps, polished, dazzling. They climb fifty feet straight up, ending in nothing. A further twenty feet above the top step, a giant cube of metal floats, turning slowly, colossal, held by invisible strings.

The cube is packed full of secrets, with its own hierarchies and troubles, both above and beyond the world below.

At its heart is the sanctum of The Seven.

Even here, in this haven, miles from any infernal, they feel the quake. Even here, behind walls of denial and power, platinum and energy, the shift in earth and essence stirs them.

Alpha of The Seven is the first to wake. His eyes open, matchless orbs, sparkling with the wisdom of his maker and a thousand years’ experience. They sweep across five other alcoves, each a home, a tomb for the immortal within.

Heads turn slowly, moving to meet his gaze. Stone flakes fall from faces as they emerge once more, tentative.

No words are spoken, no songs are sung, not yet. Their power is there, waiting to be called but there lacks the will to call it.

Alpha feels the question in the eyes of his brothers and sisters. A new trouble has presented itself. They want to see his response. He flexes fingers, freeing them from their stony prison, and looks towards his sword. It is buried, a barely discernible lump, shrouded in grey rock. His siblings’ swords are no better, covered in tears of stone, wept in the years of grief.

It is time to take them up again.

Alpha lifts his hand and the others inhale together. Five hands tense, ready to take action.

An invisible force draws Alpha’s eyes to the third alcove, the empty one. Once their sister, Gamma, resided there. Now there is nothing.

She is lost to them.

Lost.

That which they thought immutable was brought low, broken by the Usurper’s power. If they go to war, will this new threat claim another? Even the idea is too much to bear.

Alpha stills his hand, lowers his head.

Five other hands relax and six minds retreat, returning to darkness and sweet oblivion.

A few miles away, hidden in darkness, wrapped in cloth, wrapped in wood, wrapped in dust, an eye opens.

*

A bird drifts in the sky, lazy. A worm dangles from its beak, frantic, hopeless. With a flap of wings, it ascends, riding the currents, spiralling around a great pillar. At the top sits a gleaming sky-ship and cradled within its turrets are a number of nests.

The nests should not be there. The workers should have scrubbed them away but there have been no inspections, not this year, nor the four before that. Nobody can see the top of the sky-ship from below, so the workers don’t clean them. An indulgence that goes unnoticed. There are others. Tiny flaws in the slowly rotting Empire of the Winged Eye.

Shrill voices penetrate the air, begging for food. The bird ignores them, moving towards its own offspring, letting the worm fall towards a trio of gaping beaks before diving away, carried by currents to new adventures.

Far below and several miles distant, a girl watches the bird through an old, battered scope. Her name is Vesper and her feet itch to travel to the pillar, her hands to climb it. But the pillar, along with everything else around the Shining City, is forbidden. They are but images, only dimly understood, no more real to her than Uncle Harm’s stories.

She tucks the scope into a pocket and looks around, seeking inspiration. None comes and her eyes go back to find the bird, staring enviously until the curved line becomes a black dot. Soon even this is gone. Without it, the sky appears blank, uninteresting.

Because she is young, because she is sheltered, because she is different, Vesper plays. She spreads her arms and runs, flapping them like a bird. Enthusiasm cannot defeat physics however and she remains earth bound, an amusement for the goats that crowd the fields.

She arrives at the border of her world, panting. No energy field prevents further travel, just a simple fence and the endless warnings of her family.

Vesper takes a step towards it. She does not need to fly to cross this obstacle. A glance over her shoulder stops the plan before it can form. Her father stands outside the house, amber eyes searching her out. Feigning innocence, Vesper raises her hand, waves. Her father’s hand calls her back towards home.

She loves her father and her Uncle more than words but sometimes she wishes they weren’t there. Not forever. Just for an hour, or an afternoon. As she trudges back up the hill, she imagines the glories such an afternoon might bring.

Before she gets back, however, an angry bleating demands her attention.

‘Here we go,’ mutters Vesper and starts to run.

The male goats follow her a few paces, then stop, knowing their place well.

At the top of the hill, next to her house is another, smaller one. Inside, offerings litter the floor, some barely recognizable remnants, others only half chewed. A mutigel cube has been spread thin across the floor, like a translucent pancake. A blanket partly covers it. The goat stands on top, unsteady, her belly swollen with young. Dark eyes regard Vesper bleakly as she arrives. The goat is old now, too old for such nonsense, yet it keeps happening. The goat is not sure who needs to be punished for the latest in a long line of pregnancies and so tends to bite at anybody stupid enough to get close.

Vesper has learnt this the hard way. She stops at the doorway, absently rubbing the old scar on her hand. ‘Don’t look at me. It’s not my fault.’

The birth is quick and blunt, a few moments of sweat and struggle. A newborn slides into being, deadly still, wearing its membrane suit like a shroud.

The goat eyes the bundle disapprovingly, and waits. During the early pregnancies, she tended her young but she too has learnt.

‘Go on!’ Vesper urges.

The goat ignores her.

‘Quickly!’

The goat ignores her.

With a curse, Vesper pulls a rag from her pocket and starts to wipe the mucus from the newborn’s head. Practiced hands find their way into the kid’s mouth and nostrils, unplugging goo. Vesper curses again, borrowing words overheard, exotic, adult. Slowly, the gunk is removed, some of it finding its way to the floor, much of it adhering to Vesper’s trousers.

The goat’s eyes glint, victorious, and she begins to pick at some stray tufts of grass by the door.

Still, the kid does not move, a damp lump, not quite dead but not fully alive either. Vesper strokes the little animal’s side.

‘Come on, you can do it. Breathe for me.’

Vesper keeps stroking, keeps talking. She doesn’t know if the kid can hear her, or if it helps but she does it anyway.

The goat flicks the stump of her tail in irritation and trots over. She gives her child a quick inspection, flicks her tail again, then kicks out.

The kid judders into life, gulps down air, whimpers a little.

Vesper scowls at the goat. ‘Was that really necessary?’

The goat ignores her.

Injury forgotten in sudden hunger, the kid looks between the two figures, mouth open and eager.

‘I take it you’re not going to feed him?’ Vesper rolls up her sleeves. ‘Didn’t think so.’ Alert for retaliation, she snatches up a nearby bucket and starts to milk the goat.

Too tired to fight, the goat decides to be merciful.

When she finishes, Vesper stands up, hefting the bucket. ‘I need to get a bottle, don’t go anywhere, okay?’

The kid watches the girl leave. He turns to his other mother but she has already gone. Tongue lolling, he swings his head back and forth, unsure. He takes his first steps, stumbling into the goat’s domain.

There is a thud and a squeal.

A moment later he scurries out, running for safety. He doesn’t dare look back.

Tin bowls sound like anemic bells as they are moved, and a soft voice chatters in the kitchen. Vesper attends to the words and pauses, holding her breath. She does not go through or say hello, preferring to wait. If they do not know she is there, they will be their other selves, the ones that worry more, that hint at secrets.

As usual, her Uncle Harm does the talking while her father potters, bringing order to a space bent on chaos. ‘You know, a messenger from the Lenses came again today. They wanted to know if everything was alright here. I told him things were nice and quiet. All the usual questions but something felt different this time. He was agitated, kept scratching at something. I almost asked him in for a drink. Poor man seemed exhausted with stress. I suppose they all are up there. Of course, he wouldn’t tell me anything.’

A soft whirring begins. Her father must be Bondcleaning the surfaces.

‘I’m sure,’ Harm continues, ‘if you went and spoke with them yourself, I’m sure we could find out more. They’re only here for you, after all.’

The cleaning device is clicked to a higher setting and the whirring gets louder, irritating. Vesper takes another deep breath and edges closer, daring a peek into the kitchen.

Her Uncle Harm sits in the good chair, steam curling from the mug in his lap. He raises his voice, managing to keep the tone gentle. ‘I know you’ve made up your mind about this but it wouldn’t hurt to know what’s going on. Please, go and talk to them? It would put my mind at rest. And can you come over here? I hate talking to you when you’re far away.’

The whirring of the machine slows, becomes irregular, stops. Broad shoulders sag. Vesper retreats a step as her father turns and limps across the kitchen. His hair grows long now. Vesper has spent many evenings watching Uncle Harm brush the long brown-grey strands. Even so, it does not hide the scars running through the hairline. Apparently, these could be fixed, just like the missing teeth and the scarred leg, but her father always refuses any offers of surgery. Harm says he’s as stubborn as the goat, which makes her father smile. But he never changes his mind.

Vesper likes the scars. They’re proof of a different life. When her father was the heroic knight that her Uncle talks about, not this tired man who frowns too much.

Her father stops by the chair, leans on it, stoops forward. Harm’s hands fumble their way upwards, searching for his face.

‘There you are.’ Fingers brush features: a chin that needs shaving, crow’s feet deepening around the eyes. They find lines furrowing the forehead and smooth them away. ‘They know you’re not going to fight again. Nobody’s expecting you to. But I think we should at least know what’s going on, just in case.’

Soothing hands are taken in callused ones. The two stand peaceably, enjoying the moment.

As usual, Harm is the first to speak into it. ‘I hear things. From the people who bring us offerings. There aren’t so many as there used to be but some still come. Apparently, Sonorous has declared independence and the First has recognised them. There’s been no official response from the Empire yet but either way it won’t be good. And have you heard about what’s going on in the south? There’s a rumour that—’

Hands break apart. Amber eyes fix on the doorway. Vesper is caught in their glare. She smiles quickly, and goes in, clearing her throat. ‘What rumour is that, Uncle?’

‘Ah, Vesper,’ comes the bright-voiced reply, ‘it’s just gossip, nothing important. How’s the goat?’

‘She’s getting worse. Didn’t even bother with this one. It would’ve died for sure if I hadn’t been there.’

‘That’s the third you’ve saved now, isn’t it?’

‘The fifth, actually. But each time, she’s doing less.’

‘If I was her age, I doubt I’d be much better.’

‘How old is she, Uncle?’

Spontaneously, both men smile. ‘We’ve got no idea. But old. If she were human, she would be long past having babies, that’s for certain.’

‘Well, she’s having them but she’s not feeding them. I need to get a bottle.’

‘Go ahead.’

Hands ruffle her hair as she goes past. She feels her father watching her, and moves quickly. In her haste she fumbles the teat, dropping it. ‘Any news from the City?

‘Why do you ask?’

She crouches down to collect the teat. ‘I … thought I saw someone come to the house.’

‘It’s true, we did have a visitor. And they did come from the City.’

‘What did they say?’

‘Not much.’

‘But they must have said something.’

‘You know what it’s like, there’s always something going on –’ Harm hears her excited intake of breath ‘– but nothing for us to worry about,’ he adds quickly.

‘Oh.’

Getting nowhere, as always, she collects the teat from the floor and leaves.

Fed and full, the kid goes to sleep in Vesper’s arms.

She sits on the front step, enjoying the warm weight of him until her own belly demands attention. The kid grumbles as she puts him down but doesn’t wake. Vesper lets out a relieved breath and creeps into the house, her mind already busy conjuring images, succulent and mouth-watering.

Out of habit she listens at the kitchen door, hearing nothing but the sound of soft snoring. A peek reveals Uncle Harm slumped in a chair, enjoying his afternoon nap.

The snores continue, undisturbed by clinking cutlery and enthusiastic consumption.

As she leaves the kitchen, she hears a noise coming from the storeroom and freezes. The door is open a crack but not enough to see what’s inside. Curiosity and fear briefly battle within her. She hears another noise, a soft scuffing sound that she cannot identify. Whoever is inside is moving carefully, stealthily.

It must be her father. She wonders what he is up to and reaches out to push at the door, praying that it won’t creak. Experience has taught her that if she wants the truth, it is better to look for it herself than to ask questions. The gap widens slowly, half-inch by half-inch.

When she sees inside, her eyes widen considerably faster.

He stands with his back to her, fists trembling at his sides. A low humming sounds near his feet, like a hornet, angry.

Slowly, his head shakes from side to side and the humming gets louder.

She can taste the tension in the air, can see the effect of invisible hands pulling at her father, sees him resisting, leaning back, as if fighting stormy winds.

His head shakes again, faster this time, less confident. His jaw moves but if he says any words, they are too low to make out.

Something seems to break and her father leans down quickly, the movement desperate. There is the sound of a box lid slamming shut.

The humming diminishes but does not vanish.

Her father leans heavily on the box for a moment then stands up.

Vesper pulls back from the door but it is too late, he has seen her. He always sees her.

She adopts what she hopes is a neutral expression. ‘Are you alright?’

He marches up to the door and nods curtly. His amber eyes are bloodshot, puffy, and she wonders if he has been crying.

They look at each other for a moment and she feels the need to say something, to reach out to him. She has no idea where to begin and offers him a weak smile instead.

His lips move, threatening a sentence and she dares to hope that, for once, he is going to open up, but he cuts it off in its infancy with another sharp nod.

The door closes between them.

With an angry mutter, Vesper plonks herself down on the hillside. The kid comes and sits next to her.

‘It isn’t fair!’ she exclaims, making the kid look up in alarm. ‘He never tells me what’s going on. And he never lets me go anywhere or do anything. I am so bored of goats and grass.’ To take the sting out of her words she strokes the kid’s soft head. ‘But you are very cute.’

The afternoon is spent watching the horizon, scope in hand. Scanning the distant edges of the Shining City, hoping for glimpses of a place featured in her Uncle’s stories but never visited. Today she is rewarded. A group of young people gather in a circle. She maximises the zoom on the scope to drink in the details. Their clothes are all alike, unadorned, white; there is no fashion for the young in the Shining City, and their hair is of uniform cut. There is something formal about the way they stand and she wonders what it is that they do.

The formation is familiar, sparking the chip in her head to take action. It analyses the group, noting formation and age, and categorises them, popping the noun into Vesper’s brain: a choir. In the Shining City all young people are grouped into choirs from an early age. This keeps them from becoming too strongly attached to parents or siblings. Every six months the membership of a particular choir changes to prevent social bonds growing too deep. This way, loyalty to the Empire is assured.

Vesper does not see social engineering or the sparks being slowly stifled. She sees mystery and is hungry for more.

For a time, she watches, noting every movement and gesture. She has no idea what they discuss but is certain every word is fascinating.

She does not notice the man until he is nearly upon her. He appears as a giant in the scope, a portion of pale scalp suddenly filling her vision. With a shriek she falls backwards, sending the kid scurrying back up the hill and out of sight.

Embarrassed, she sits up, looks a second time. Without the scope the man is much less scary. His clothes are black, robust, and a badge of the winged eye stands proud on his collar. His hair is red and wiry and struggles to escape, springing wide on the other side of his hairband. One of the Lenses, like the visitor her uncle spoke of.

‘Hello,’ she says, giving a hesitant wave.

The man looks up the hill at her. ‘Good afternoon, Vesper.’

‘You know my name?’

‘Yes, we’ve met. A long time ago. I helped your father once, got him into Six Circles and across the sea. My name is Genner, did he ever mention me?’

‘Nope.’

Genner stiffens. ‘As I said, it was a long time ago.’

‘Are you here to see him?’

‘I’m here to help him. At least I would be if he’d let me.’

She nods, knowing exactly what he means. ‘You think he needs help, too?’

‘I have a feeling he will soon. Do you think you could persuade him to come out and talk?’

‘I don’t know. He’s …’

‘He’s what? It’s very important you tell me, Vesper.’

Words come and go, none fit. She shrugs. ‘Difficult. Something’s going on but he won’t tell me what it is.’

He comes and sits beside her and they both look out towards the city as he talks. ‘I’m one of the Lenses. We watch for trouble and when it comes we guide the Seraph Knights and the armies of the Winged Eye to where they’re needed in order to protect us.’

‘You know Seraph Knights?’

‘Oh, yes. I even give them orders from time to time.’ He takes a moment, enjoying the awe on her face, then sighs. ‘Something is very wrong in the south, Vesper. The Seven feel it in their sanctum, and we’re sure Gamma’s sword feels it too. We need your father to take up the sword again, and when he does, I intend to make sure he isn’t alone.’

Vesper is quiet while clouds flit by, fluffy, incongruous. ‘Is it dangerous?’

‘Yes.’

‘What if he doesn’t want to do it?’

‘It doesn’t matter if he wants to or not. There is nobody else.’ He takes his gaze from the sky and turns it on her. ‘What I really want to do is burst in there and order him to help us. But your father is chosen of The Seven, it puts him beyond my authority. I need him to come of his own free will. I need you to talk to him.’

She gets up. ‘My father is a hero. When he realises how bad things are, he’ll help, I know he will.’

‘So you’ll talk to him?’

‘Yes.’

He waves to her as she runs back up the hill. ‘Winged Eye watch over you.’

At dinner, the scrape of knife on plate sounds sharp in the ear, the noises of eating too loud. Harm’s banter is subdued and her father’s attention fixed on food barely touched. Vesper glances at the two of them, uncertain of her chances. She tries anyway.

‘I was thinking, now I’m older, it might be time to see more of the world.’

A frown appears on her father’s face.

Harm reaches for her hand, finds it and gives it a squeeze. ‘Your father and I were talking just the other day, about how fast you’re growing, every time we turn our backs it seems!’ Her father’s frown deepens. ‘But to be safe out there–’ he nods towards the Shining City ‘– we feel there are still things you need to learn. To be safe—’

‘What if you came with me? Both of you. We could go to the Shining City. It isn’t far. That way I could see things and you’d know I was safe.’

Her father gets up, collecting the used plates, and Harm replies, ‘Now isn’t a good time.’

Vesper’s face darkens. ‘It’s never a good time.’

‘I know it feels that way.’

‘I’m not a child any more.’ Her father looks round at that, an eyebrow raised. ‘I’m not! I know something is going on! And I want to help.’

She feels the weight of their attention, hesitates. ‘A man from the Lenses spoke to me today. He said things are getting bad. He said they need you to be a hero again, like you used to be, and this time I want to come with you.’ Her father shakes his head and she falters. When she finds her voice again it is small. ‘You’re going to leave me behind.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Harm soothes. ‘We’re not leaving you behind. We’re not going anywhere. Everything’s fine.’

‘That’s not what the man said.’

Harm nods sadly. ‘Things out there are never fine. Even before the Breach there were wars and plagues and floods, and goodness knows what else. We can’t look after the world.’ He glances at her father. ‘We’ve learnt that the hard way. But we can look after each other.’

‘He said father had to do it. He said there isn’t anyone else that can bear Gamma’s sword.’

‘That sword can speak for itself. If it wanted to be used again, we’d know about it by now.’

‘But it does!’

‘I doubt that.’

‘I’ve heard it and so has he.’

‘That’s enough,’ warns Harm.

She looks at her father for confirmation but sees only his back as he does the dishes. A frown of her own appears, a tiny mirror of her father’s. Tears of frustration build, and the discussion ends, abrupt, unsatisfactory, with no mention of Genner or the threat to the Shining City.

The frown stays with her for the rest of the day, a constant companion.

Vesper snaps awake, heart pounding. She sits up, peering into the comfortable dark of her room. She is alone. This surprises her. She was sure of the opposite. Bare feet slip onto cold floor and she pads to the window. Outside, the only lights are distant, unable to penetrate the moat of darkness at the base of the hill.

The house seems quiet. Vesper waits for her pulse to settle and listens. She begins to detect the soft murmur of Uncle Harm’s voice and beneath it … something else. She frowns, unable to place the sound. It is a kind of humming, more felt than heard. It stirs the blood. She remembers the sound from earlier in the day, and her father’s fear.

When it comes to sneaking through the house, Vesper knows all of the tricks. Squeaky boards are avoided, obstacles skillfully stepped around or over. Her door is opened just enough, so slow as to be silent. Soon she creeps past her parents’ room.

‘Ssh,’ says her uncle.

Vesper freezes, panic gripped until she realises that the voice is not directed at her.

‘It was just a dream. I’m right here. Vesper’s asleep next door. We’re all okay … Ssh … Go back to sleep.’

Against all reason, Vesper risks a glance inside. Uncle Harm lies beside her father, propped up on an elbow, stroking his brow. Her father’s eyes are closed and Vesper relaxes a little.

As her father drifts back into sleep, tension falls away, making him appear suddenly younger. Not young, Vesper decides, but not as old as he looks in the day.

She doesn’t stop to wonder if her uncle is lying or simply unaware, and moves quickly downstairs, determined to do something to help.

Since her previous visit to the storeroom, boxes have been stacked in front of the door, blocking it. Young arms struggle with the weight and she is forced to place them heavily. She winces as each one clunks against the floor, waiting for the tell-tale sounds of her father or uncle being disturbed.

But upstairs, all is quiet.

Sweating, she removes the last obstacle and goes inside. The room is small, more a glorified cupboard than living space. Junk is stacked messily on top of boxes. Vesper begins to pull things down. She is often distracted. An old rubber lung catches her eye. She squeezes it and it sighs for her. The sound is comforting. She sniffs it, enjoying the faint tang. There are other things, half-finished carvings that her father has abandoned. One is of a smiling knight with bulging muscles. Most are of a woman, vague shapes never fully realised.

When she lifts the first box clear the humming gets fractionally louder.

Excitement and youth make quick work of the pile. Boxes are dumped behind her, scattering across the kitchen floor, haphazard. Without them, the storeroom looks spacious.

Vesper frowns, listens again. She searches the corners, now accessible, finding only dust-heavy webs, long vacated.

Nothing. The storeroom is empty.

As quickly as it came, excitement vanishes. Vesper hangs her head. But humming persists, not imagined, invisible. She feels it through her feet. With a vengeance, excitement returns. Vesper presses her cheek flat on the floor and sees a board not quite aligned with the others. Fingers work the edge, teasing it up until purchase can be found. She lifts the board and sees space underneath. She lifts two more, revealing a shallow hole lined in trembling plastic. She dares to touch it, feels the humming through her fingers.

More carefully now, reverent, she pulls it back to reveal a long dusty box and a pair of old boots. The boots release a heady musk, mixing damp, old sweat, and other less savoury things. Vesper pulls them on anyway. She tries walking in them, imagining herself as a mysterious traveller. But boots soon fall from little feet, one thump, then another. They remain upright, stiff from experience.

The box is heavy and Vesper struggles to lift it out. Twice it slips out of her fingers, sliding back into the hole at an angle. She does not try a third time, instead leaning into the hole and flipping the catch. The lid creaks as it opens, protesting. A cloud of dust puffs out, demanding its tribute of coughs. Vesper obliges, once, twice, thrice.

An old coat has been used to pack the box. Vesper takes it out. The fabric is worn but tough, reassuring. The coat has been stitched together in places. Lower down, scorch marks and bite marks decorate, left by tainted dogs and unearthly fires. She puts the coat on. It is too big for her, almost a robe. The reality of how she looks in it makes no impact on Vesper’s imagination and she keeps it on, grinning.

Only then does she look down.

The humming has quietened, softening into contentment. At the bottom of the box lies a sword. Sheathed. Silvered wings wrapping the hilt unfurl, reach up to her. Open, they reveal an eye set in the crosspiece, staring, waiting.

One Thousand, One Hundred and Thirty-Seven Years Ago

In a storm of purple lighting where clouds look like egg sacs and the sky like a cavernous throat, a baby is born. Only the baby can see the storm, however. To the others the sky appears as it always does, a haze of light pollution and smog.

They wonder why the newborn is showing signs of distress. Experts circle her glassy pod, examining. She seems healthy, a good strong set of lungs, a decent heart. All limbs appear in working order. The experts shake their heads, concluding it is just a temperamental issue, merely emotional. They dose the baby with calming drugs and, as expected, it settles down.

Years pass and the baby is given a name, a gender and a social class. The baby becomes a girl, Massassi, and she is put into the lower middle echelons. Her supervisor is warned of her predisposition to irrational outbursts and authorised to medicate where necessary.

The girl becomes an apprentice mechanic and proves skilful. At the tender age of eight, she is assigned work on the great construction mechs, crawling into nooks and crannies, repairing. It is dangerous work. The mechs are automated and held to rigid schedules. They pause rarely and never for very long. The girl must be quick or dead. She darts between pistons, removing blockages, replacing worn parts, squeezing into spaces too tight for adult bodies. For the first year, she is quick enough.

Perhaps it is a mark of respect that she is trusted with such deadly work, or perhaps it is because she does not get on with her peers or her supervisor, or anyone else. Massassi is a brooding, angry girl. Too clever for her age but not clever enough, not yet.

She enjoys the thrill of her work, finds the thought-invading anger that haunts her nights is sated by daily brushes with death.

There is no time off, no holiday to take, but all workers have enforced downtime, carefully scheduled activity changes to maximise efficiency. More than anything else, she dreads the mandatory social gatherings. One day, after three consecutive events, the anger grows so strong that she starts to break things. Immediately, an alarm sounds on her supervisor’s HUD and he whispers an order.

Implanted dispensers in Massassi’s spine go to work and anger fades, humbled.

She remembers little of these times but doesn’t complain, even prefers it that way. When she requests dangerous levels of overtime, her supervisor doesn’t check too closely.

Massassi is ten when she has the accident.

Her thoughts are elsewhere, cloudy with free-floating emotion. She is supposed to be fixing the shoulder motors of Superior Class Harvester 4879-84/14 but all she wants to do is tear them apart. For the first time, she wonders why she is different, and if perhaps everyone else is not at fault after all.

Preoccupation, however slight, is dangerous. Massassi combines hers with fatigue and a self-destructive streak. Too late, she realises the Harvester is reactivating. Massassi tries to throw herself clear but her sleeve catches on a piece of wiring, wiring she would normally have secured.

She cannot free her arm.

Engines roar with power, blades spin, lights flash.

The Harvester moves.

Massassi screams.

Blood smears between metal plates, bones grind to chalky powder.

On her supervisor’s HUD, an alarm sounds.

CHAPTER TWO

Thoughts come like the tide from a distant shore. They get closer, louder, more insistent. Gradually, they gain form, lifting through the fog, breaking the spell.

As awareness returns, Vesper finds herself leaning into the hole, hands hovering inches from a feathered hilt, perfectly aligned with the upturned wings, like partners before a dance.

The girl blinks, the sword does not.

It glares at her for a few moments, judgemental, then the eye closes with sudden disinterest. Apparently, she is not the one it wants.

She thinks of her father, standing in the same spot earlier that day, and she begins to understand why he was afraid.

It is tempting to repack the room and turn her back on it but she knows that won’t work. The sword will keep calling and wearing her father down. He is already tired, it will only be matter of time before he succumbs.

Something must be done.

She swallows, realising that she has come to a decision.

The sword has to go. She resolves to take it to Genner and let him deal with it. There are many knights after all. They will find one and give the sword to them. Afterwards she will come home and it will be safe again. Her father will be free.

She removes the sword from the storeroom to the kitchen and returns its box to the hole, covering it with floorboards. Then she replaces all of the boxes, trying her best to match their original positions. Finished, she shuts the door and blocks it as her father had earlier.

With luck, she thinks, he’ll never know what’s happened.

Only after she’s finished does she realise she’s still wearing the old coat. She gives a shrug, happy, deciding to keep it.

Vesper creeps back to her room and dresses in silence, quickly. She collects the sword last, wrapping it in an old plastic sheet. Scared it might wake again, she tries to make as little contact with it as possible, being especially careful to avoid the hilt and the eye twitching within.

When she opens the door a cold breeze touches her cheeks. She shivers and sets off, not noticing the small body curled by the front door. At the sound of her passing, the kid blinks awake, springing up. He looks round, sleep forgotten at the sight of his good mother, and follows.

Both forms are quickly swallowed by the night.

The sword is lighter than it looks, but still heavy for a young girl to carry. In the dark, familiar ground becomes strange, and Vesper stumbles down the hill, jolting her legs, the bundle bouncing in her arms. Despite plastic wrapping, its edge digs into forearms, painful.

She pauses halfway down, looks at the sword again, sure that under the four layers of plastic, it is looking back. She swallows, sniffs. Dust tickles nostrils and she wipes her nose on her sleeve, only to discover her new coat is filthy. Sneezes come.

Paranoia makes her look back towards the house. But instead of her father, watching from a window, she finds the kid at her heels.

Shifting the weight of the sword onto one arm, she points back up the hill with the other. ‘Go, off you go. You can’t come with me. Go home.’

A warm head butts against her hand.

‘No. You need to go back. You need to …’ Vesper trails off, finds herself stroking the kid. ‘I suppose we won’t be gone long, are you sure you want to come?’

The kid looks at her, eyes full of love, mouth full of hunger.

She sighs, returning to the house to grab a bottle of milk from the kitchen before hurrying back. ‘Come on then.’

Together, they continue, picking their way across uneven ground. More than once, she trips in the dark. ‘Stupid! Should’ve packed a torch.’

The kid bleats, hoping for food.

‘Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll find our way.’

As if in answer a light winks into existence at the bottom of the hill, illuminating a man in dark uniform, the only decoration a badge of the winged eye at the collar. As girl and goat approach, the figure resolves into a familiar shape: Genner. He shines his light on them. ‘Vesper? What …? His light travels to the sword and back up to Vesper’s face. ‘What are you doing with a relic of The Seven?’

‘I’m sorry!’ she blurts. ‘I had to, I—’

Genner’s frown smoothes suddenly. ‘It chose you!’ he exclaims. ‘We expected it to call your father … but it’s you! You … you are the new bearer.’

Caught between trouble and truth, she nods, her eyes darting back towards the house with the lie.

He goes down on one knee, lowering his head. Ginger hair refuses to be sombre, springing from its tie like an angry bush. Words are intoned, soft, musical, their meaning lost on Vesper. Genner looks up. ‘Thank The Seven. Bearer, we must—’

‘Me?’ She stifles a laugh. ‘I’m not … I just thought, well, if my father doesn’t want to use the sword, I should take it to someone who did.’

‘Vesper, you don’t understand. The sword lets you carry it. It has chosen you.’

She remembers the way it looked at her and doesn’t believe him. ‘I suppose so.’ Vesper looks warily over her shoulder.

Behind Genner, the air shimmers as if struck by the summer suns. A beat later, the space is filled by a sky-ship. Vesper’s eyes widen, taking in the stars reflected in its surface, and the tapering wings where twin engines spin, murmuring.

Genner smirks. ‘That’s exactly what I said when I first saw one.’

The kid is less impressed, diving for cover behind Vesper’s legs.

‘Are you ready, bearer?’

On the side of the sky-ship a door opens, swinging upward on a hinge. ‘This way,’ Genner says, gesturing to the door. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’

Vesper allows herself to be led aboard, hesitating briefly as thoughts of her parents flare, worried faces, words of disappointment, and that frown.

The kid panics. Before he can make a decision, the girl and the man have climbed inside. With a cry, the kid dashes after them.

The door shuts before he gets there.

The kid cries out again.

The engines spin faster, light building, taking the weight of the sky-ship, preparing to leap towards heaven.

The door opens again and Vesper’s head appears. ‘Come on then!’

This time the kid doesn’t hesitate.

As soon as he has leapt inside, the door closes again. Light pulses, pushing down, and grass sprays outward. The frame of the vehicle trembles, the air around it becoming opaque.

A moment later, the sky-ship is gone.

The first of the suns begins to rise, charging the air gold. Its light picks up a house on top of a hill. The house is quiet, full of tension. The door opens and a man steps out. He limps quickly across to the smaller house and looks inside.

Dark eyes glare at him.

He ignores them and goes back into the other house. Minutes pass and he appears again, this time with a hand-carved staff. The wood is worn with use, much like the man that carries it. He sets out quickly, wincing as he goes, amber eyes hunting the grasses.

Harm steps out soon after, moving slowly. He also carries a stick but, rather than leaning on it, he lets it brush the earth by his feet, bouncing lightly, testing for bumps.

‘Any sign of her?’

Vesper’s father doesn’t answer, continuing his study of the ground.

Irregular footprints are easily found in the dirt. Nodding grimly, he follows.

The red glow of the second sun tints the clouds as he reaches the bottom of the hill.

He stops, frowning at the carnage inflicted on the ground. Powerful forces have churned earth here, eating the trail. His frown deepens. No tracks appear on the other side.

He looks up, shielding his eyes from the light.

Nothing.

Eventually, Harm’s hand finds his shoulder. He allows himself to be turned round, takes a breath to speak but, instead of words, tears fall.

For a long time they stand, two men joined in sadness, their shadows circling, the suns slow-dancing across the sky.

*

Away from the hustle and bustle of the imperial port, three figures haggle. Waves lap the rocks. Gossip and insults fly back and forth, changing hands faster than goods. Underneath gruff exteriors a strange affection lies. Each has survived long enough to weather the distaste of the other. Each has a secret.

One is a woman who fled from the south years ago. As her companions fell around her, she found the strength to move forward, fuelled by their failure. Sometimes she dreams of those days, waking with the taste of raw meat on her lips.

One is a man who steals goods from others, passing them off as his own.

One is neither woman nor man. Appearing to mortal eyes they appear as a woman of middling years. Perhaps her hair is a little lank, her skin a little pale, but this is hardly uncommon for those forced to live beyond the Shining City’s border.

The three hide their true natures, keeping well clear of the Winged Eye’s agents, skulking in the fringes.

As they continue their haggling and grumblings, a sky-ship passes overhead, quick, invisible.

Two of the figures do not notice. The third looks up sharply, as if a wasp has stung her on the crown.

‘You alright there, Nell?’

She pauses. The others cannot see the essence flow around her. Normally, the First keeps each of its fragments buried deep within mortal shells, to protect them from the rage of the world. However, a link between them remains, faint, a spiderweb drawn in watercolour, more memory than substance, an echo. And while each is distinct, evolved slightly away from the original, they can, for a moment, become one again.

The First takes the moment. Experiences jar together, jumbling, confusing, multiple timelines jostling, arranging themselves, finding order. Briefly, the First breathes easily, unconstrained.

Then the burning starts and it is over.

Lines of essence fade and consciousness divides, shrinking down.

In total, the pause is little more than the heartbeat of a hummingbird, but that is all it takes for the information to pass unseen across the ocean.

Such exertions cause the First terrible pain but impulses are easily controlled. In a dozen different places, faces twitch, stammer and reset to normal.

‘Can’t complain, Jacky,’ replies Nell. ‘Reckon we might be havin’ a storm soon though.’

‘You reckon?’

Nell looks up at the apparently empty sky and scratches at her belly, making the action appear spontaneous. ‘Feel it in my bones so I do. It’s a storm alright. A big one.’

CHAPTER THREE

Samael walks the last mile to the Fallen Palace. He does not need to slow down. Muscles can be forced beyond human limits and fatigue is a stranger to him, a person passed by in another life, no longer relevant. He walks to appear more powerful. He walks because, despite the growing threat behind him, it feels like the right thing to do.

Mud clings to his boots, to his shins, reaching up to his knees like a desperate lover. Flies buzz in close orbit, circling, never landing, both drawn to and repelled by his rotting body.

Ahead of him the Fallen Palace rises from the swamp. Once it flew, an airborne fortress for Gamma of The Seven. Infernal forces brought it low, smashed it, climbed inside. A haven of demons ruled by the strongest. For a long time the Usurper held that title, now it is in dispute. Infernals turn on one another. The strong fight the weak, crushing them, making followers or bloody examples. Factions form, face off, break apart. Despite several attempts to take it, the Usurper’s throne remains empty.

The residents of the Fallen Palace are ever watchful. Any could rise to the top and all are fair game.

This is why Samael walks.

Over the years, the Fallen Palace has begun to sink, like a boat going down in slow motion. In tiny incremental shifts one half plunges lower, exaggerating the tilt of the floor, raising the other half upwards. The increased strain shakes foundations. From time to time, towers break, sometimes caught between their fellows, sometimes sliding into the swamp, piling onto one another, forming new habitations.

Samael works his way up, pulling himself onto a turret that has toppled over and become a path. The slippery curved sides have been battered into rough flatness by many feet. Boots ring out on metal, clanking dully, off key.

Beneath them, things stir. Red and green eyes appear at glassless windows, peering upwards, angry. Samael ignores them, continues at a steady pace. An infernal hauls itself out of a hole, blocking the way. A beast with two backs, joined at the hip, at the chest, at the chin. Like a person pressing themselves against a mirror, it stands on four legs, toes touching their opposites, fused together. With effort, it twists its heads towards him, skin pulling tight where they join.

Samael is forced to look up to meet its gaze, higher ground emphasising their greater size.

In each hand, the creature holds a weapon. A rock, the claw of a victim, a rotting branch and a Dogspawn dangling from a chain. Of the four weapons, only the half-bred hound remains animate, broken legs kicking feebly, mouth still strong, savage.

The sword that Samael carries is a simple piece of metal, sharp but voiceless. He draws it and prepares to fight.

Immediately, the creature swings for him, misjudging the distance, and Samael rushes forward, sword high. The infernal stumbles back, bonded legs unable to accommodate the demands of combat. At the last second it raises all four arms, making an ugly barrier.

Samael continues forward, turning so that shoulder, not blade, makes contact. Not a cut but a push.

There is a slam, then a squeal. The infernal pitches backwards. Soles of feet are briefly visible, then it is gone, Dogspawn and all, swallowed into the swamp.

Samael sheathes his sword and walks on.

His progress is steady. Soon he reaches the point where tower meets floor and steps onto sloping stones. He passes another half-breed, hauling a sack of ill-gotten gains. Her body is naked to the air, the skin healthier, greener. She is one of the younger ones, born tainted. Though both have a mix of mortal and infernal essence, the two could not be more different.

Studiously, they ignore one another.

Many watch Samael as he climbs higher, intent on the Palace’s heart, but none dare attack. This last tower remains whole, both broader and taller than its fellows. A place of power, fit for a king. The gleaming metal walls are covered in green veins, thick and lumpy.

Samael finds he does not like this, feels an impulse to scrape them off. It is everything he can do to resist, to not kneel down and tear away the offending growths.

At the base of the tower is an archway, leading to a spiral staircase. He climbs inside and begins to ascend. Because of the way the tower leans, he alternates between using steps and wall to tread. Up he goes, cutting through webs as thick as ropes. The silk patterns are irregular, lopsided, spun by spiders drunk on tainted essence. He feels a surge of pleasure to be destroying them.

He came here once with his creator. The tower did not lean so badly then. He recalls how vacant his thoughts were at that time, when he was merely a follower, a tool. In many ways his own life was facilitated by his creator’s death.

Retracing his steps, he muses, half present, half in the past. He walks through corridors, winding, and ducks through angled doorways, pulling himself up the floor until, at last, he comes to it: the tomb.

Fly eggs gather in piles by the door, like swollen grains of rice. Samael has another urge, to crush them under his boot. This he resists.

The door opens before he can knock, revealing the figure he has come to see. Samael pauses, not sure which words to apply to the Man-shape. Friend? Ally? Co-conspirator?

Though the essence that flows within the Man-shape’s shell is completely alien, outwardly it appears the more human of the two. Its skin has barely changed since the initial possession and muscles have remained in correct proportion. Unlike most of its kind, the Man-shape wears clothes, choosing them with care. How they remain clean is a mystery.

Its immaculate presentation makes Samael feel like the monster. Reluctantly, he removes his helm.

The Man-shape moves forward, until noses touch.

Samael opens his mouth and the Man-shape does the same, revealing a dark where tongue and vocal cords should be, cavernous.

Two mouths nearly meet, forming a tunnel of sorts. Inside, essences rise, tentative.

Usually, such a sharing would be hazardous between pure infernal and half-breed, but both are careful and the Man-shape excels at treading lightly.

With utmost care, essences brush together, two bubbles threatening to become one.

‘You have been away too long. You are needed here, you know that … you … you are troubled.’

‘There is trouble at the Breach. A new threat.’

‘There are always threats at the Breach but they cannot reach us at the Palace. You should concern yourself more with what is happening here. We have new challengers for the Usurper’s throne: Hangnail, the Backwards Child, Lord Felrunner, Gutterface. You could fight them.’

‘You deal with their kind all the time. You fight them. Why bother me?’

‘They have been patient, built their strength. I am a king-maker not a king.’

‘I am not a king either.’

‘What are you then?’

‘I …’

‘I see a man riding land that flows, is this what you are?’

‘I …’

‘I see a man dressing up, playing as something he is not. Is that what you are?’

‘No. I … I don’t know.’

‘Exactly. You do not know. But I know. We are what we are made to be. In you the essence of your creator lives on, and the essence of the Usurper was in your creator.’

‘Stop distracting me. My place is at the Breach. There is a new threat. It is bigger than anything I’ve seen before.’

‘As big as our master?’

‘The Usurper was not my master.’

‘As big as my master was?’

‘I don’t know, I never saw your master, not until its end.’

‘I could show you.’

‘No. Let me show you.’

‘Yes.’

Samael thinks, remembers the Yearning, its strength. Memories rise up like ghosts on glass.

The Man-shape never physically smiles in public, though it practises often in private. Nevertheless, Samael feels the intent to smile. A brief flush of smugness washes over him, not his own.

‘What is it?’

‘Perhaps I was too hasty before. Yes, I see it now.’

‘See what?’

A second wave of smugness comes, more emphatic. ‘The answer to all our problems.’

*

Inside the sky-ship, there is little sense of movement. Gyroscopes and energy fields work hard to maintain peace, buffering, adjusting. Padded straps hold Vesper close; she in turn holds the kid and a bottle of milk. Greedy sucking sounds loud above the hushed song of the sky-ship’s light drives.

Above and around her, others sit, the lines of seats describing a dome. Men and women, squires mainly, their armour highly polished, their weapons ready, all trying not to stare.

Genner sits opposite, holding himself in a position of authority.

Vesper glances round at the serene faces, then frowns. She takes a breath to speak, glances again and lets it out, noisily.

‘What is it?’ asks Genner.

‘Are we actually flying?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘That depends on you. This –’ he spreads his hands outward ‘– is all to protect you. Tell us what you need and we’ll provide it. Tell us where you need to go and we’ll take you.’

Vesper scratches the kid behind its ear, contemplating. ‘Well, do you think I could have a torch?’

‘We are all your torches.’

‘Oh. Does that mean I can’t have my own?’

Genner’s expression flickers between amusement and irritation. ‘No – I mean, yes, you can have one but that’s not the point.’

Nuances bounce off the girl’s smile. ‘Then I’d like a torch please. And some more milk for my goat.’

‘We’ll see you get them. Now tell us, what are Gamma’s orders?’

Her smile falters. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Ever since your father returned Gamma’s sword to us, we have been watching, waiting for it to act. Our sole purpose here is to facilitate your mission. So tell me, what are Gamma’s orders?’

‘I don’t know about any orders.’

‘Yes, you do. Something made you take up the sword. That was Gamma.’

She shakes her head. ‘I just wanted to bring the sword to one of the knights. Then you could use it against the demons and my father’s life would go back to normal.’

‘But the sword didn’t call to me or a knight, it called to you. And if you let it, the sword will communicate its wishes to you. All you have to do is listen.’

Vesper’s smile falls away completely as she thinks. The sword is quiet. No sound comes form it, no edicts spring into her thoughts. After a pause, she says, ‘You said the problems were in the south?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then we need to go there.’

‘Where in the south? Does Gamma mean to return to the Breach?’

Vesper looks down at the sword for a moment before mumbling something ambiguous.

‘I knew it! And she intends to destroy the infernals there?’

A blush creeps across Vesper’s cheeks, and she nods.

‘And the Breach itself, she’s going to seal it, isn’t she?’

Vesper’s nod, tiny, timid, is more than enough for Genner.

‘This is incredible!’ he exclaims, and takes a deep breath, freckles fading on reddening skin. ‘Forgive me. We have waited a long time for this. You should ask your questions now. There may not be much time to talk when we land.’

‘Why is it so important to seal the Breach?’

He looks at her for a moment, calculating, making her worry. ‘Outside of the Shining City, the world is very different. It’s going to be a shock for you, Vesper, but I’ll do my best to prepare you for it. There is a thing called the Taint. Sometimes it can be seen as a kind of smoke but mostly it’s invisible to the unaugmented eye. It changes everything it touches – plants, animals, people – mutates them. It’s like a poison being pumped into our atmosphere and it all comes from the Breach. And then there are the infernals. The smaller ones will hurt you if you’re lucky, eat you if you’re not. The larger ones possess people, make them their slaves. An infernal is stronger and faster than we are. They don’t get tired and they can twist and break you from the inside. I don’t mean to scare you …’

Vesper pulls a face at the suggestion. ‘You aren’t scaring me. My uncle told me about the infernals, but he said they weren’t all bad.’

‘Yes, well. They’ve taken control of the south, more or less, and their reach is getting longer. There are thousands and thousands of them and every single one has come from the Breach. The only way for the Empire and humanity to survive is if we close it. And only one of The Seven –’ his eyes go to the sword ‘– has the power to do that. Gamma was chosen for the task and you have been chosen to bear the sword that holds Her remains, to bear Her.’

Vesper opens her mouth to protest but Genner continues regardless. ‘But remember, you’re not alone. Each person on board is within the top one per cent of the Empire’s finest and all of us are ready to fight, and die if need be.’

‘Are there knights here?’

‘Twenty-five are with us, all veterans hand-picked by the Knight Commander himself. Each has three squires. In addition, we have a small infantry unit packed into the base of the ship.’

Vesper begins looking around again, then points excitedly at the people either side of her. ‘Are they knights? Are you knights?’

One stares straight ahead, contemplating infinity. The other looks back at the girl, catches herself and looks away.

‘This,’ says Genner, gesturing to the two women, ‘is Duet. She’s a Harmonised, which is incredibly rare—’

‘Is that a special kind of knight?’

‘Well, no, not exactly. The Harmonised are a subset of the Order. They’re guardians, specially trained to protect against infernal influence.’

Vesper nods, disappointment peeking through the gesture. ‘That sounds good.’

Despite the girl’s lack of enthusiasm, Duet remains stoic beneath her visors.

Genner’s reply is earnest: ‘It is. Where we’re going it won’t just be your body at risk but your mind and spirit. Any contact, even just being close to an infernal, is dangerous and there are a lot of infernals between us and our destination. That’s why we’re travelling fast and light. We should be able to sail straight over the enemy’s forces. If the Winged Eye wills it, we’ll be able to set you down right next to the Breach.’

Minutes tick by and Genner settles back like the others, meditative. Vesper bites her lip and strokes the kid, who has fallen asleep in her lap. ‘How long till we get there?’

‘Four hours.’

She tries not to be sick. A lip receives further mauling. Toes wriggle, heels tap repeatedly against the wall. Everyone else remains still.

Nerves overwhelm her. She contemplates confessing but dares not, nearly asks Genner to turn the sky-ship around, but between mind and mouth, the question wilts into something mundane. Anything to fill the silence.

‘So we’re actually flying?’

Genner opens his eyes. ‘Yes. We’re actually flying.’

‘I wish we could see outside.’

‘Only the pilot needs to see.’

‘Where’s the pilot?’

‘In the iris pod.’

Feet pause their tapping. Vesper’s brow creases in thought. She begins to open her mouth, pauses.

‘What is it?’

‘Please, would it be possible for me to sit in the iris pod?’

‘That’s not standard procedure.’

‘Oh. I understand.’

Genner makes a speech, about safety, about protocol, trying to explain, to restore the happy face of moments ago. ‘I’m sorry, that’s just how it is.’ Before he can say more, a square lights up at his throat, then another within his ear.

The communication makes the young man sit up, straps cutting into his shoulders. He speaks rapidly. ‘How many? How do they even know we’re here? Is the stealth active? Yes. Yes. I’ll await your report.’

As lights fade from skin, Genner meets Vesper’s eye.

A quaver disturbs the girl’s voice. ‘What was that?’

‘Rogue sky-ships, three of them. They’re on an intercept course.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means no more talking. Brace for impact!’

Figures tense, gripping the arms of seats about and above her. No words are said but many mouths move, intoning the litany: Winged Eye save us, protect us, deliver us.

Three sky-ships move in formation. Once, they wore their allegiance to the Winged Eye proudly. Now, those signs have been defaced, with blood or with knives, symbolic. They swoop down together, ready to attack. Their target is invisible, hidden from mortal sight. This does not stop them, for the First guides their hand, finding the needle in the sky and plucking it.

Missiles fire, and the three ships peel away, keen to avoid retaliation.

The target makes an optimistic attempt to evade the attack. It spins, dives, spits balls of light in its wake, distractions that sparkle, tempting.

But the pilot’s manoeuvres are as out of date as the countermeasures. Superior missiles find their mark, shattering shields, tearing engines.

In a gasp of fire, the Light-drives fail.

As the sky-ship begins to fall, a cloud of pods explodes from it in every direction, like a sneeze. Each pod is just bigger than the adult it carries. Orders mobilize them and they streak towards the nearest landmass; a formation of white-tailed comets heading to a half-made island, home of the Harmonium Forge and the airy prison: Sonorous.

Part prison colony, part port, Sonorous looms up from the water, buildings bolted onto a vast semicircle of rock. Within the sheltered waters, ships rest. Lifts sway gently as they move between the different sectors, from the dock level at the bottom to the watchtower three miles above. The prison is built on the outer curve, cells dangling from chains over the open ocean.

Tiny roads spiderweb between crammed buildings on the lower levels. By contrast, Sonorous’ main road, the Tradeway, sprawls out like a fat tongue, running from the port to the mountain’s edge. From here it angles mildly up, a leisurely spiral snaking towards the mid-level, where it meets the machine factories.

Only the Tradeway is large enough to support the four crawlertanks as they groan from their hangars. Mechanised legs bear heavy oval bodies, packed with troops. They travel the length of the Tradeway at speed, warming cannons as they go, for the island kingdom has only recently declared independence and when its rulers see the flurry of pods streaking overhead they assume the worst.

Fearing that the Empire of the Winged Eye has come to reclaim its wayward colony, they summon their soldiers, send a message to the First for aid, and hide in custom-made bunkers, prepared for just such an occasion.

Above, the pods decelerate and spend the last of their reserves in fields of energy, dazzling, sparking as they take the impact of landing.

They come down, some in the streets, some punching through walls. Metal rain that destroys noisily.

People run. Unable to tell which way is safest, they go in random directions. Dust plumes around them, lending a gritty mystery to the scene. Gradually, noise settles. Air clears.

A pod sits in a trench of its own making. A rectangle of white fades up along one of its sides. Soon after, there is a popping sound, soft, anticlimactic, and a segment of metal falls away, allowing a man to stumble out. He brings a hand to his forehead. His fingers come away moist, a much darker red than his hair. He wipes them quickly, then pulls a gun free from its holster.

He scans the streets, counting pods, watching them disgorge their contents onto the floor. Aside from his own people, the streets are empty.

They will not stay that way for long.

The man intones his name, not Genner, his real one. In answer, knights clank to attention, drawing swords, saluting. Squires rush to their sides and soldiers come limping, come running, moving as best they can into formation.

Duet does not join them, choosing instead to watch through a hole in a cracked wall. She stands either side of a pale-faced Vesper, fencing her between steel and stone.

The girl straightens, trying to peer through the hole. ‘What’s—’

Duet’s hands find her shoulders, silencing, pushing her back down.

Before the wall cuts the scene from her eyes, shots ring out. A squire catches a bullet with his hip, spinning twice before falling. The bullet continues on its merry way, barely slowed, bouncing off walls, looking for more targets. Knights and soldiers disperse, returning fire.

Behind the wall, Vesper struggles to make sense of the chaos outside. She hears more orders being given. They are under attack. More shots, shouts, the sudden belching of fire and screaming, like pigs being savaged by wolves. Pushing aside Duet, she manages to catch a glimpse of the action. Bodies twisting and tearing, people running, some of them on fire. She does not know who is dying and suddenly it does not matter. Nobody should suffer this way.

Vesper ducks down, unwilling to see further.

But the sounds continue, forcing past hands pressed over ears. Fire rumbles, steady, underscoring the highs and lows of battle, constant against the chatter of guns and screams of the injured. Time stretches, each moment heaping age on Vesper’s shoulders. She weeps, but war cares little for tears or the children that shed them.

Then, twenty-five voices rise together, thrumming along sacred blades, irresistible. And even though their judgement is not directed at her, even though the girl knows that this is the sound of the Seraph Knights joining the fight, she shivers.

In her arms, the sword is heavy and cold.

Hands release their pressure from Vesper’s shoulders but they do not leave. Duet nods, two heads moving as one. ‘It is safe –’

‘– For now.’

Her voices are complementary, not identical but seamless in the way they join their sentences.

Vesper looks from one to the other, quickly wipes her eyes. ‘I don’t understand … they weren’t infernal, they were just people. Like us. All the blood!’ Her mouth twists with horror. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t …’

Duet looks down at her and her sentence dies, unfinished.

‘They are –’

‘– Calling us.’

‘We must –’

‘– Go now.’

Duet guides her around piles of rubble. On the far side of the street, Vesper can make out something charred, smoking. Fascination and horror come hand in hand. For a while she cannot tell which side the body belonged to. No, she thinks, it is not one of theirs. Flecks of magenta in the uniform identify the unfortunate as Sonorous independent military. The realisation brings little relief.

A palm presses in the small of her back, moving her on. There is so much wreckage for such a small skirmish, she cannot take it all in, nor can she stop looking. Limbs, bits of clothing, unrecognisable hunks of meat, still sizzling on the stone. Smells invade nostrils, snake up into the brain to make memories, lasting.

On broken chunks of brick, she sees blood glistening. The sight makes her stop. There are no corpses here, just bricks flecked crimson and a dark puddle spreading between them. The strangeness of it holds her, troubling a traumatised mind.

‘What happened here?’

‘It doesn’t –’

‘– Matter.’

‘But how did the blood get here? Who did it belong to? This doesn’t make any sense.’

‘This is war –’

‘People die. That’s –’

‘– All.’

‘But there has to be more to it than that!’

Duet exchanges an exasperated look with herselves. ‘They are traitors –’

‘– Who side with demons.’

‘It’s them –’

‘– Or us.’

Vesper’s eyes are too wide, staring but not seeing.

‘We have –’

‘– To go.’

She doesn’t hear Duet, doesn’t catch the urgency in the Harmonised’s tone. ‘But who were they?’

‘We have –’

‘– To go.’

‘This was a person once.’

One of Duet tuts, the other sighs heavily, and both take one of Vesper’s arms, dragging her the rest of the way.

As they get closer to the main group, Vesper sees that Sonorous has lost many troops this day. Their own forces have fared better. Only one knight has fallen. Squires attend their dead master, reclaiming armour and sword. Such items are priceless, made by the creator when the Empire of the Winged Eye was born. Stripped of office and dignity, the corpse is placed with the others. There is no time for ceremony, so the soldiers move quickly, levelling their lances, incinerating remains. A knight’s death is regrettable, an untainted corpse left behind for the infernals, unforgivable.

Genner strides over to meet them. ‘You’re unharmed?’

Duet answers for the young girl. ‘The bearer –’

‘– Is unharmed.’

‘Then all is not lost. Help is coming but it will take time to reach us. We’re going to take the forge and hold out for rescue.’

‘This is wrong!’ Vesper exclaims, clutching the fabric of Genner’s uniform in her fists. ‘These people have died because of me! I’m not the bearer. I’m just a stupid girl. You take the sword. Here.’

He leans closer to her ear, lowering his voice. ‘It’s too late for that. You are the bearer, you have to believe that and they –’ he gestures to the troops and squires, patching wounds and forming up behind him ‘– have to believe it too.’

Tears stream down cheeks, mixing with snot on her top lip.

Genner turns to the Harmonised. ‘She’s in shock. Get her some stims and keep her under cover until we’re ready to move.’

There is a pause that threatens to become a protest but Genner kills it in its infancy. ‘Step to it!’

Duet salutes and escorts Vesper back towards the wall. One of her hands is firmer on the girl’s shoulder. Vesper grits her teeth, stifling complaint.

They climb through a dusty hole into a washroom. Vacuum pipes coil untouched in transparent cases. A crashed pod covers most of the space, spearing the cleaning booth, like a dart in a board. Duet releases Vesper in a corner, then turns, wrenching the door from the booth and placing it across the hole.

Vesper’s thoughts are a jumble, she doesn’t know what to do or say or think. To her surprise, she sneezes.

She blinks. A moment later, she sneezes again.

Dust is tickling her nose. She looks up, sees a trickle coming from a crack in the ceiling in bursts, uneven.

In seconds, Duet is by her side.

Through the silence, footsteps can be heard, multiple and fast, each one sending a fresh spray of dust as it passes overhead.

From outside, a new noise invades: a rumbling, heavy and distant, heralding the coming of metal beasts.

Duet moves either side of the door and raises her swords, ready.

‘What should I do?’ asks Vesper.

‘Hide –’

‘– In there,’ replies Duet, pointing to the booth.

Before she can go further, invisible forces hammer the door, wrenching it half from housings to swing drunkenly open. Vesper’s mouth mirrors the spirit of the movement.

A metal ball the size of a baby’s fist rolls into the room.

It stops, clicks.

Instinctively, Vesper leans back.

And Duet is moving, breaking harmony. One throws herself at the girl, trying to push her clear, trying to put herself in harm’s way. The other’s sword sweeps down, flicking the ball back the way it came. The move is quick, sure, too late.

Halfway out of the room the ball explodes, filling the air with corkscrew slivers, burning hot. They carve through Duet’s chestplate, biting a hundred times into flesh beneath.

She takes two paces back, then two more, sword slipping from her fingers. She sways like a reed in the breeze before following her blade, a graceful slide onto her knees. While one woman goes down, the other leaps up, eyes intent on the doorway.

Bullets come first, fired wild to clear the way. Figures follow, vaulting into the space at angles, making room for more behind. Even hurrying, they are stealthy, magenta battle suits muted to shadow grey. They see the injured woman and the young figure curled in the corner. They see the other woman flying at them, sword glinting as it falls.

They do not see the gun in the injured woman’s hand.

Lights and sharpened steel flash, strobing the room.

Vesper watches the silhouettes on the ceiling, making their jerky way towards death.

When it is over, a dozen bodies lie contorted in a thin puddle of blood.

Duet reunites. Worried hands rest on shoulders, move to take off a battered helmet.

They are pushed away. The gesture is not hard but it sends one half reeling, uncertain.

Alone, the injured woman opens a panel on her bracer. From it she pulls a tiny needle and injects it under the strap of her helm. Alone, she stands.

The noise outside is louder, closer.

Genner’s face appears at the broken wall; it does not flicker at the sight of the bodies. ‘Report.’

‘The sword –’

‘– And the bearer –’

‘– Are intact.’

Genner nods. ‘And you?’

‘We are –’ There is a beat, barely noticeable as one glances towards her battered counterpart.

‘– We are fine.’

Whatever else Genner might say is superseded by the floor starting to shake. ‘Move!’ he shouts, pointing towards the door opposite. ‘Move now!’

CHAPTER FOUR

Vesper and her escort run, weaving through houses, forcing doors with boots and cannon, trampling on privacy, bursting onto streets again. Soldiers move in packs around her, protective. Light bombs and smoke canisters are deployed often, signalling location but obscuring individuals.

The roar of the enemy is close now. But the Crawler Tanks cannot reach them easily. Each time the group change direction they gain a little time while tanks force their bulk through too-small gaps. Great cannons fire on them anyway, trying their luck. Shells arc over rooftops, decimating homes, obliterating a pair of unlucky squires. New holes appear in the roads, some so deep that water breaks through in hissing streams.

Tanks stop and men and women, armed for war, spring from their metal bellies. On fresh legs they give chase, magenta shapes cutting stark through swirling grey.

Vesper runs in the eye of the storm, surrounded by guardians arrayed in concentric circles. Soldiers form the outermost, followed by squires, then knights and, finally, Duet, who orbits her like a pair of angry bees. Her wide eyes cannot see far and her brain doesn’t bother trying to process the madness. Thoughts recede, tucked away under a blanket of adrenaline.

Sometimes Duet is close, pulling her unpredictably, sometimes the Harmonised abandons her for a few frightening seconds, swords dancing over and around one another, spearing smoke, snipping the legs from would-be assailants. They pause by a cluster of bins, crouching, then running, turning, turning again. Perspective and direction are lost, abandoned with the bodies of the fallen.

Up ahead, the enemy cobbles together a barricade. Portable generators power panels of solid light, springing up across the street. But such relics grow rare and there are not enough to seal the way on. More low-tech means are used to make up the shortfall, chairs and cabinets thrown on their faces and piled into the gaps.

Genner raises his hand and, immediately, his forces pause. Sub-vocalised orders come through to every ear. ‘They’re trying to funnel us towards the Tradeway and those Crawlers. Attack! Punch through the barrier.’

Soldiers comply without question, surging forward into open ground.

The enemy have inferior weapons and nobody with knightly training, but there are more of them and they are not in a rush.

Using the last of their grenades, Genner’s forces rush across the space. For such a short distance the tax is high, paid in bravery and blood.

Bullets spray, continuous. In the open, skill and experience mean little, knights and squires falling alike.

Vesper sees the people thinning around her, sheared away one by one. She has time to think that she may die, to marvel that she lives, to be certain the next step is her last.

And then they reach the barricade.

Swords sing, metal sparking on barriers, song penetrating. Generators overload and a panel of light vanishes. With it goes the courage of the defenders. Most run, making targets of their backs. A few, more foolish, surrender. While the knights decimate what’s left, opportunistic squires swipe portable defences. Two minutes later, the group moves again.

Behind, tanks continue to threaten and foot-soldiers harry, but ahead, the way is clear. High rocks loom ever higher until, at last, they reach the natural border of the island. Huge power generators nestle into the rock, taking energy from the sea and passing it to the Harmonium Forge, housed in a great block of silver. Genner leads his people to the wall it makes, taking cover between the humming metal pillars.

‘Set up a barrier,’ he orders. ‘Let’s hope their power supply is more important to them than killing us.’

Squires comply, using the stolen Light Shields to create a curving fourth wall.

Two hundred metres away, a building falls over and four tanks lumber into view. Squads of soldiers march alongside.

Collectively, Genner’s troops hold their breath.

There is a pause, filled by heartbeats, fast, excitable.

The roar of the Crawler’s engines becomes a grumble. Cannons power down.

Collectively, the troops exhale.

Genner quickly gives orders. Shifts are divided. Some take watch, some tend to the injured. The lucky ones rest.

Satisfied, he turns his attention to Vesper. She appears somewhere between shock and despair. Duet stands close by, one of her standing next to the girl while the other lies back, allowing a field medic to attend to her injuries. The medic holds a magnet over her chest and Genner watches as metal shards leap up from her wounds, one by one, like tinkling rain.

‘Vesper, we’re at a crossroads here. It may be that support will arrive in time, it may be that it doesn’t. I want to know if Gamma has any commands for us. Has the sword spoken to you?’

Vesper blinks, comes back to the world.

‘I said, has the sword spoken to you?’

‘Once, I think. Back at home. It called me and it … it’s hard to put into words.’

‘Do you think you could speak to it again, now?’

She looks down at her hands, mesmerised by their trembling. ‘No.’

Genner turns his attention to the Harmonised. ‘Did you stim her?’

From the ground, Duet speaks: ‘We were interrupted.’

Then from Vesper’s side she adds, ‘And we thought –’

‘– Purity would –’

‘– Be better –’

‘In the presence of –’

‘– The Seven.’

Heat rises in Genner’s cheeks. ‘At this point we don’t have anything to lose. Stim her now. I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.’ He looks pointedly into Vesper’s eyes. ‘Hurry, we don’t have long.’ The girl nods, her face white under the dirt. Genner glances back to Duet. ‘And just so we’re clear: if we survive this, your inability to follow simple orders is going to be a special feature of my report.’

Duet salutes. She waits until his back is turned to glare. Without ceremony, she produces a needle and punches it into Vesper’s arm.

‘Ow!’

The noise causes several heads to snap round in her direction.

‘Sorry.’

Powerful drugs suppress shock, bringing the makeshift camp into sudden focus. Vesper looks at the field medic applying a new layer of Skyn to Duet’s injury. She looks at the soldiers lying on the ground and the eyes that flick away when she tries to meet them. ‘I … I need some privacy.’

‘This is –’

‘– As good –’

‘– As it gets.’

‘Okay. Can you at least turn away?’

Duet complies, one of her sighing pointedly.

Vesper nods and unwraps the sword, lays it down carefully and takes a deep breath. ‘Winged Eye save us, protect us, deliver us.’ The sword is as still as it ever was. Vesper bends over it, until her lips are inches away. Fine hairs stand up on her neck and arms. ‘Hello,’ she whispers. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should never have taken you and I know you didn’t ask for any of this, but we really, really need you. Please. I don’t want any more people to get hurt. I don’t want any more blood.’ A memory brings a sudden shudder with it. ‘If they attack again, we’ll all die and there won’t be anybody to …’ She trails off, unsure. ‘To take you to the Breach.’

She waits, intent on the sword, and time seems to stretch. She stares so hard she forgets to blink. Vision blurs, suggesting movement where there is none. But then, finally, there is something. Not the wings, but something beneath them, as if the eye behind were moving beneath the lid, restless.

The girl dares not speak. She sees a second movement: something is disturbing the sword.

Genner’s voice, suddenly close, makes Vesper jump. ‘How’s she doing?’

‘Nothing yet –’

‘– But she is getting there –’

‘– Slowly.’

‘Well, she’d better get a move on for all our sakes. We’ve got incoming sky-ships, known hostiles. The First is on its way.’

*

Three sky-ships spiral into Sonorous. Engines rotate as they glide to a halt in the air, hovering outside the great watchtower.

Worried faces peer out from windows, nobody daring to move until the ships have finished their leisurely descent.

Thirty feet above the Tradeway, a door in the lead sky-ship’s side opens and figures tip out. A line of black dominoes, blank, spotless, falling.

Loose fabric ripples in the wind like water, flowing from outstretched arms.

A pause, not quite two seconds, then stones crack under boots, armoured and black. A cloak settles.

The First straightens, steps forward.

A second later, not quite two, another figure, identically dressed, lands behind it. Gestures are copied, they land, straighten, step forward, following their leader as the next one lands.

Fourteen times, the sequence repeats, exact, as if time was stuttering, caught in a loop. With each one, the cracks in the stones expand.

They walk together through empty streets, following the trail of destruction.

The First stops by an ash pile, slowly scattering in the breeze. It shakes its head, the others behind mirroring the gesture, then moves on.

Above them, three sky-ships wait.

None of the figures carry weapons, though all wear protective clothing, covered from head to toe in lightweight armour, featureless. This adds to the illusion that they are identical. However, there are differences in height, weight, gender and age. In other circumstances they would dress differently too, perhaps favouring the clothes and mannerisms of their original selves. But when the First calls them, awakening the sleeping essence in their bodies, their masks of humanity fall away, irrelevant.

Several times they pause on their journey, distracted by the shape of a broken building, or a bed half hanging through a ceiling. Sometimes the First stops by a body to close its eyes, sometimes it stops to open them. For not everyone has died in the combat: a few hover, hearts fluttering on the brink. On these occasions one of the group comes, scooping up wounded soldiers as if they were dolls made of leaves. Prizes in hand, they fall back, returning to the sky-ships.

When the First reaches the Crawler Tanks, only three of the group still follow empty-handed.

The Sonorous military back away long before the First arrives, allowing it to pass by unimpeded. An officer awaits the infernal, trying hard to hide his nerves, unaware that such deception is impossibe. The First reads souls rather than tone of voice or facial expressions. All of the officer’s feelings are laid bare before the First’s gaze.

‘Welcome to Sonorous. I’m Captain Ujim, and, on behalf of the council, I want to thank-you for your quick response. I’ve been authorised to give you every support. The enemy is well armed and well trained.’ He is suddenly aware how small he appears, reflected in the First’s faceplate. His throat dries, his voice shrinks. ‘They used the terrain against us, so we haven’t been able to bring our Tanks to bear. And they have knights, at least fifty of them by our reckoning.

‘Still, now that you’re here, our combined strength should be more than enough. We’re ready to attack on your order.’

The First stares into the captain. Behind it, three heads shake. ‘In my dealings with your … people over the years, I am always surprised how eager you are to kill each other.’

The First moves past the captain, leaving the protection of the Crawler Tanks behind.

‘Wait,’ stammers the captain as the identical figures walk by in single file. ‘What are you going to do? What are our orders?’

The fourth figure pauses as it passes. ‘I am going to do what you should have done from the beginning … I am going to make them an offer.’

‘Someone’s coming out, sir. Is that him? Is that the First?’

Genner squints through the spyhole in the makeshift shelter. ‘It’s not a him, private, it’s an infernal. And, yes, it’s the First.’

‘I’ve got him, it, in my sights now. Should I take the shot?’

‘Not yet. Keep ready but no-one fires until I say so.’ Genner turns to his troops. He sees fear in them, mixed with eagerness. Many of the knights have lost sisters and brothers to the First, many of the squires have grown up on bitter stories. ‘If we get the chance to rid the world of the First, we’ll take it. But remember, our primary mission is to protect the bearer, keep the sword safe, and take it to the Breach. We cannot let it fall into enemy hands. I want options.’ He points as he talks. ‘You two, see if we can climb the wall behind the cover of these generators. Demolitions, see if there’s any way you could punch through to the sea from here and, if you can—’

‘Sir, I think it’s about to do something.’

Genner spins back to look through the gap. ‘Shit!’

The First stops, midway between the tanks and the bunker. It raises its hands, palms open, then removes its helmet. A face is revealed. A young woman, hairless, pockmarks on her cheeks. ‘I am the First and I am not here to destroy you. Not unless you … invite me.’ The First walks closer, face slack as it thinks. ‘I do not … enjoy the idea of fighting. Something offered is so much more valuable than something taken. This body was given to me. The woman that wore it was sick. Not through contact with my kind. This was an infection native to your world, though no less … deadly for it. I am told such a condition used to be treatable but your science is in retreat, your medicine rare and costly. The woman had neither the friends nor the resources to get the treatment she needed. And her … community was afraid. Could she be infectious? Would her sickness spread? They did not know. The knowledge was lost to them. And so, she came to me. And though your kind would consider her rotten, to me she was … pure.

‘A part of her lives on within my essence. Not in any way that you would understand, but be assured that she does. She had no illusions about what she would become. I tell you this because in taking on this form I made an observation that I would like to share with you.’ The First pauses, seeming to stare through the wall of light to the many eyes on the other side. ‘Humans are desperate to live. Given the choice between an existence of any sort and death, she chose life. Once against the disease, carrying on despite the knowledge that it would kill her, and then once again when she met me.

‘Soon you will have to make that same choice. To die here and now or to continue a little longer. In the heat of the moment, it is easy to court death. But we are not yet at that moment. Wait. Think. Listen to what I have to say. I do not speak to your leaders alone, I speak to every one of you. If you wish to live, it is simple. Shatter your swords and swear yourselves to peace, and to me. I cannot allow the knights to leave but I promise that I will treat them fairly. The rest of you may do as you please. Stay, go, or come with me. Above all else, the Malice must be destroyed. Do these things, these … simple things and not only will I spare your lives, I will see to it that you can return home, or start anew. Whatever you wish.’

The helmet is raised once more, put into place.

‘Consider my words … carefully. I will wait for your answer.’

Behind the barrier of light, all eyes go to Genner, then to the girl leaning over the sword, whispering, frantic.

One Thousand, One Hundred and Twenty-Six Years Ago

Thought fragments float across Massassi’s consciousness, pieces of mosaic, disconnected. They blend with voices, also floating, near her head. She cannot tell which belong to the past, which to the future as she drifts through them, a happy phantom.

Words become clearer, more pressing. She recognises the speaker, identifies the words but their impact is distant, barely felt.

‘… And all I’m asking for is a moment of your cooperation. Then everyone can get on with their lives. Surely, you’d agree, that’s for the best?’

Massassi goes to speak but a mask stops her. Her eyes flare and she coughs, choking on the tube jamming her mouth, running deep.

‘Ah, I think she’s waking up.’

A second voice joins in, less familiar. ‘Let’s not get hasty. The body is recovering, yes, but cognitive function has to be verified if you want her statement to stand.’

Someone bends over her. She tries to bring the shape into focus. It is a head, blurry but recognizable. It belongs to her supervisor. He looks tired, bags like baby slugs sit heavy under his eyes.

‘Doctor, look! That was a smile. She recognised me, I’m sure of it.’

‘That’s hardly conclusive. It may just be a muscle spasm.’

‘Massassi? Massassi, can you hear me?’

She manages a nod.

‘Good. That’s good. Now pay attention: you were in an accident, a serious accident. We need to talk about what happened. There are arrangements that need …’

The words start to fall away, dropping into a chasm that opens up between them, her eyes closing.

‘We’re losing her. Do something.’

‘Her body has been under incredible strain. It’s natural that she’ll want to rest.’

‘But for how long?’

‘Difficult to say. It could be days, it could be more.’

‘That won’t do. We need to close the file and move on. We’ve spent too much on this already.’ The supervisor begins to pace, hands folded behind his back, reminiscent of a woodpecker strutting on a branch. Massassi smiles again. ‘I can’t go back without an answer. We need to wake her up.’

‘I can’t force her to wake.’

‘Yes, you can. Give her a stimulant.’

‘With the levels of pain she’s in, coupled with her medical history, I don’t advise that course of action. If I wake her suddenly, the shock to her system could be catastrophic. She needs to be stronger before she learns the extent of her injuries.’

‘I only need her conscious for a few minutes. Once she gives consent, you can keep her here as long as you like.’

‘I want it on record that I don’t endorse this action.’

‘Your objections have been filed, doctor. Now get on with it.’

The doctor moves out of sight, makes adjustments.

The feed of sedatives slows.

Pain climbs back inside, making muscles strain and knuckles white. With it comes something else. The world resolves itself in sudden focus, lines so sharp they cut into the brain.

‘Keep calm, Massassi, and listen. I promise I won’t make this last any longer than it has to.’

Her eyes lock to his, drawn to the lights starting to fizz inside the supervisor’s sockets. They have always been there, invisible to normal sight; manifestations of the man’s essence.

But not to Massassi’s unclouded mind. Not any more.

Unaware of how dramatic his face has become in Massassi’s eyes, the man continues, giving a speech repeated so often it has become a script: ‘You were in an accident. A serious one. As a result, Superior Class Harvester 4879-84/14 was shut down following emergency protocol. Hours of work time were lost, not to mention the cost of recovering your body, covering your shifts and ongoing medical care.’

He pauses to smile, a practiced calming thing. Massassi notes that it does not reach his real eyes, the ones that glow behind his face. She also notes his second mouth, the one etched in light, pale, remains sour. Around the tube, Massassi smiles back. The supervisor does not note its feral edge.

‘I want what you want. To get you back on your feet and working as soon as possible. You’re going to need a new arm, and a partial reconstruct of your upper body. The mods you’ll need will be expensive. Now, I’ve looked at your funds and you have a lot saved up. However, with the enquiry costs and the mounting medical bills, I’m afraid there won’t be enough left to restore functionality.

‘But don’t worry, I’ve got a solution. If you admit full responsibility for the incident then we can turn this into a criminal issue. We’ll lower your echelon class and take full ownership of your rights until the debt’s worked off. Heavy, I know, but it will make all the problems go away. I’ve got pre-approval to fund your operation based on your work record. We could have you back on the mechs before year’s end. What do you say?’

She tries to speak, begins to cough.

‘Can we take the tube out now, doctor?’

‘Yes, hold on.’

A command is given and the tube recoils smoothly into the mask, which the doctor removes, equally smooth.

Massassi coughs, then accepts the water offered by the doctor. A genuine frown appears on her face as she looks at the formless sheet covering her body. ‘I’ve still got my arm. I can feel it.’

Supervisor and doctor glance at each other. The doctor clears her throat. ‘I’m afraid that’s a common misconception. Your brain is so convinced the limb is still there, it fabricates sensation.’

‘I can see it.’

‘You want to see it? Well, if you’re sure.’

The doctor pulls back the sheet.

A plastic cap is fixed to her shoulder, running all the way to her right hip. Her left wrist is fixed to the bed. There is no tie for her right wrist. There is nothing there to attach it to. Despite this, she smiles. ‘There it is … what did you do to my arm? It’s … beautiful.’

Another glance is shared. They both retreat to the other side of the room, whispering.

‘Perhaps this was too soon.’

‘I did try and warn you.’

‘We’ll try again the next time she wakes. If her condition persists, it may actually work in our favour. How long before you can certify her?’

‘Normally, a month but, given the circumstances, we can come to an arrangement, I’m sure.’ The doctor returns to the pod. ‘Lie back, you can rest again now. This will get easier, I promise.’

Massassi does not relax. She sees the spark of thought appear in the doctor’s essence, the desire to silence her. ‘I’m not crazy, my arm is right here. Look!’

‘Yes,’ her supervisor says, adopting an expression of polite pity. ‘That’s good, that’s very good. You’ll be back to work soon, I know it.’

Drugs are authorised, dulling pain, dulling sense.

‘No!’ she screams, glaring at the space where her arm once was. At first, they do not see the luminescence, thin as bone, following the line of a lost limb. Then it brightens, thickens, light intensifying, hardening, like silvered diamond. Compared to the light she sees in their faces, her arm glows with a star’s fury.

Now they see it, falling back in their fear, legs scrabbling like a spiders on the slick floor.

With her shining fingers, she tears through the bonds on her left wrist and jumps from the bed. Weak muscles cannot manage the sudden demands and she falls.

For a moment the two adults relax, though they continue to back away.

Massassi extends her arm. One tug is all it takes to slide her over to them. She touches the doctor first. Silver fingers press against flesh, passing through to touch the soft light within. She does not mean to kill, but the action is too quick and anger-fuelled. The bubble of the doctor’s essence bursts, burns and is gone.

Like a doll, the doctor’s body flops over onto the floor.

‘I need immediate assistance in here!’ shrieks the supervisor. Suddenly, he remembers his authority, realises that a single command will shut her down. Before he can give it, however, Massassi reaches out and touches his ankle, and through it, his soul.

In the supervisor’s mind, she finds thoughts, treacherous. She squeezes them between finger and thumb, molds them anew.

Footsteps pound down a corridor. Burly men burst through the door. Inside, they find a dead doctor, a maimed, unconscious girl and a man on his knees, weeping.

‘You called us, sir?’

The supervisor gives a broken nod. ‘I was responsible for the accident. It was my fault. I thought I could bury it. I didn’t know the girl would wake up and tell the doctor the truth. So you see, I had to silence them. I killed the doctor first and I was going to kill the girl but then I wondered, where would it end? I’m sick. Sick in the head! You need to take me away. You need to process me.’

The men are so intent on the supervisor’s ravings that they do not see Massassi’s smile.

CHAPTER FIVE

Behind its wings, an eye twitches, restless. Vesper watches it, desperate for it to open and give guidance. She feels the group looking at her, expectation pressing down. As tension rises, nerves break out in quiet ways. A foot shuffles. Throats are cleared. Armour creaks.

The pressure to do something, anything, becomes too much.

Vesper stands, the sword cradled in her arms. Heads tilt up, following the motion. All shuffling stops.

The girl walks towards the glowing barrier. As she does so, soldiers and knights and squires kneel. Even the wounded stir themselves, biting back pain to demonstrate proper deference.

She thinks of her father’s sure hands. How they have always carried her, kept her safe. She wishes she had inherited their confidence.

The sniper at the barrier moves aside for her and Vesper looks out over shimmering light. She sees the First waiting, and double takes, sure it would be larger. Beyond the infernal she sees soldiers massing around Crawler Tanks, like waves around rocks, and beyond them she sees the First’s sky-ships.

There are so many of them she cannot believe they could fight and win. All she can think of is the blood that will be shed, the blood that will be on her hands.

She feels movement in her arms. Metal feathers slide over one another as wings part. An eye opens, flicks up at the girl, then fixes itself on the infernal outside, narrowing.

Vesper turns back. The kneeling figures wait, letting heads hang, weary. Many are injured. Together they number less than a third of the forces outside. She looks at Duet, one half of the Harmonised standing watchful, hopeful, the other less so, the holes in her chestplate like the sky punched clean of stars.

The sword tugs towards the First, towards battle. To Vesper’s surprise, the motion drags her with it, till her elbows rest on the barrier. Light fizzes where blade and barrier brush, and the First looks up.

Eyes and eye meet.

The sword begins to hum, soft.

The light barrier quivers and the First tilts as if suddenly struck by a strong wind.

Vesper tries to retreat, feels resistance. Young biceps strain, bobbing under sleeves like a pair of apples, and she steps back.

It seems as if the sword wants to fight and she wonders what that might mean. For a moment eyes squeeze shut. No, she thinks. No more fighting. Unable to bear it, she tests the lie in her mind. It feels wrong but anything is better than more bloodshed. She clears her throat. ‘The sword has spoken to me.’

Beside her, Genner lowers his head. ‘We are yours to command.’

It is hard to tell if the sword vibrates or the girl’s hands shake. ‘Gamma … Gamma of The Seven … does not want you to fight today.’

A few look surprised, most simply accept it.

Slowly, an eye swivels away from the barrier and back to the girl, glaring.

From the back, a voice murmurs. ‘And so it was, for Gamma knew when to strike and when to hold back.’

‘And so it was,’ intone the others.

Vesper nods, finding a little confidence. ‘You can’t beat them today. Gamma doesn’t want any more of you to die. If you surrender, you can live on. And when the time is right, you can fight again.’

‘But what about our swords? They cannot be replaced.’

A bead of sweat escapes Vesper’s hairline. ‘I’m sorry, Gamma didn’t say anything about the swords.’ A muttering passes between the assembled knights and she quickly adds, ‘Maybe they can be remade. With The Seven’s grace.’

‘With The Seven’s grace,’ they echo, but another question drowns it out: ‘What about the knights? The First won’t let them go.’

‘They’ll be prisoners, yes, but they’ll be alive.’

One of the older knights looks up. ‘You won’t forget us?’

Caught in the veteran’s gaze, Vesper finds herself speaking. ‘I’ll come back for you. I mean, Gamma will, I promise.’

The old knight salutes and others follow. ‘So be it. But I beg you, give our sacrifice here meaning.’ His eyes hold hers as he speaks. ‘Make it count.’

‘I will,’ she says, meaning it.

Genner stands up. ‘Gamma has shown us the way. The bearer will go south to finish the mission. It is our job to make that possible.

‘We will stall the First here as long as we can while the bearer escapes. Demolitions, we need an exit and we need it now.’

A hand goes up. ‘The moment we start blasting, they’ll be on us.’

‘No,’ the old knight replies. ‘They won’t hear a thing. The death song of our blades will drown you out.’

Genner nods. ‘Good. Go to it then.’ While soldiers spring into action and knights prepare their farewells, Genner kneels before Vesper. ‘I’m sorry things have turned out this way. We have a contact in Sonorous. Another of the Lenses. She will help you to escape.’

‘You’re not coming with me?’

‘No. I need to report to the Winged Eye and communicate with our allies here. They need to know what you’re doing if they’re going to help.’

‘Can’t you do that and come with us?’

‘No. When I send the signal, I’ll draw too much attention.’

‘You won’t …’

‘Die? It doesn’t matter about me. The sword is what matters.’

Vesper bites her lip, blinks hard.

Genner’s face softens. ‘If it makes you feel better, I’m not planning on it. If I can escape, I will. And don’t worry, you won’t be alone. I’m sending Duet with you.’

‘Okay.’

‘Yes. Now get yourself ready. You’ve a long swim ahead of you.’ Genner turns to go but is stopped by a lip, trembling. ‘Here,’ he says, ‘we need to fasten the sword to you. May I?’

‘Yes,’ replies the girl.

‘It’s too big to sit by your waist, you’ll have to strap it to your back. If you wrap it and hold it in place, I’ll secure it for you.’

Vesper does as she’s told, relieved to cover the sword up again. Genner takes his time, careful not to touch the sword itself. ‘There. All done. How does that feel?’

‘That’s fine.’

‘There’s one more thing.’ He takes his pistol from its holster and presses it into Vesper’s hand, singing softly, secretly. Light glows from Genner’s palm, flowing around the grip, growing with the note, then fading with it. ‘I’ve keyed the gun to you now. Keep it safe and out of sight.’ Vesper nods, slipping it away into the pocket of her coat. ‘And do the same yourself, for all our sakes.’

Duet presses the foam into Vesper’s ears, covers them with her hands.

One of the knights raises her sword towards Vesper, then the sky. A final salute.

On instinct, Vesper closes her eyes.

The knight brings it down hard but the angle is wrong. Sparks fly and metal screeches. People flinch and grit their teeth.

Her sword doesn’t break.

She screams and lifts it once more. This time, her aim is true.

Even through the layers of protection, Vesper feels the sound cutting through her, the sensation sharp enough that she checks herself, half expecting to be injured. She also feels the explosion, more mundane, as demolition charges punch through stone.

Outside, the First sits motionless. Within its shell, essence ripples, pleased.

Inside the shelter, more knights come forward, a queue of mourners, faces stiff with grief. Swords are raised in salute.

Vesper manages a quick bow before Duet steers her to the newly made hole, still smoking. She peers down, hears water sloshing in the darkness.

Duet presses a mask to Vesper’s face. Clear plastic that covers her from forehead to chin. The mask adheres instantly, misting over briefly, then correcting, clearing.

Genner smiles at the girl, salutes and jumps down the hole. Red hair waves briefly and is gone.

Vesper mumbles something in return but, through the mask, through the breaking of steel, through the last song of the knight’s weapons, her words are lost.

Duet lowers one of herself into the hole. The other helps Vesper, then follows. They slide and climb their way down, the tunnel trembling around them as more swords are shattered above.

Stone is cold but water is colder, smacking legs in the darkness, stealing sensation. Vesper tries to pause, to prepare herself but Duet’s boots say otherwise, finding shoulders, urging her on.

Rigid with fear and cold, the girl allows herself to be pushed by Duet, pulled by her, handled through the tunnel and out into wider waters. Away from the rock, light finds its way underwater in fingers of red and gold, like two hands reaching from the heavens. They follow the shafts as if lifted by them, up, up and up, until heads break the surface, bobbing at the cliff’s base.

Too heavy to swim easily, Duet drags herself and Vesper along the rocks. It is slow jerky progress, punctuated by bumps, by numb fingers slipping on slick stone, by chattering teeth and unbidden grunts of exertion.

Behind them, perched high on a ledge like a black spider, tiny, Genner begins to signal, shining a light towards the sky that flicks on and off. Code flashes, fast and complex, baffling the uninitiated.

But even the most foolish can understand that a message is being sent and even the most foolish can trace the signal to its source. Before Genner has finished, a sky-ship rises above the rocks. It rotates slowly, opening a side door. A figure climbs out, dressed in black armour and loose black fabric and throws itself into the air without fear. Another fragment of the First.

It plummets, arms spread starfish wide, getting faster and faster until it passes Genner, plucking him from the rock face.

For a long three seconds, they fall. Water splashes, surging up in a circle. Then nothing.

*

In the streets of Sonorous, in a rusting house, a woman watches a window. She reads the distant winking light, stuttering on the underside of the clouds.

When it is finished, the woman stands up, snatches a bag hidden beneath a dusty sheet and goes to the door. She glances out. It is eerily quiet. People hide in their homes, in their workplaces. Too-calm voices speak at intervals, suggesting people stay safe, reassuring that everything is under control.

The woman smirks at that, then moves into the street, closing the door behind her. As she walks towards the docks, a figure peels itself from the shadows and follows.

She hears the footsteps getting closer. She considers running but checks the instinct. Instead preparing the dart hidden beneath the skin of her wrist.

Gradually, the second figure catches up with her, falls into step alongside.

The woman wraps her arms around herself as if cold. Seemingly by coincidence, her wrist now points towards the figure’s neck.

The new arrival appears weathered, tough as old meat. ‘This may come as a … surprise to you but we have something in common. Both of us pretend to be normal residents of this city when in fact our true loyalties lie … elsewhere. You are in truth, an agent of the Winged Eye and I am the First.’

The woman cannot help surprise writing itself into the curve of her eyebrows.

‘Did you know that there is something that moves faster than light?’

She shakes her head, humouring, thinking, furious.

‘There is. I move faster than light. Not this … shell, though it is certainly fast by your standards. My true self. And that is why I will always be … superior.’

They walk for a few more paces. Despite the cold wind, dark circles grow under the woman’s arms.

‘I know what you are. I know your plans and they will fail. But all is not lost. I am here to make you an offer. Don’t react. Don’t fight. Listen. Think. Decide for yourself how much you want this life.’

Abruptly, the woman stops. She flexes a muscle in her wrist and a dart fires.

Not as fast as light, but fast enough, the First moves.

*

Duet does not bother to hide her weapons. There is no-one around, no crowd to blend with. One of her moves ahead, eyes alert for changes. She checks left, checks right, squints at dusty windows, then beckons. The other follows, pulling Vesper with her.

The houses they pass are faceless cubes, temporary structures never replaced. Simple boxes designed for efficient use of space and little else. Aesthetics trampled in the name of speed and cost. In places the cubes are stacked to make flats, or linked up, for more affluent residents. Since independence, the people of Sonorous have begun to decorate, to distinguish. Childlike efforts to create art, without the ease or charm of childhood.

Where the maths goes wrong, or where the space runs out, pathways are squeezed to accommodate extra habitation, resulting in tiny alleys, accessible only to the small and slender.

Duet and Vesper barely pass, sidestepping through, the walls dragging across their chests. They dare not slow, for the sounds of pursuit have already begun. Tanks whirring back to life, soldiers shouting to each other, marching.

Above them, three sky-ships move, searchlights sweeping the streets. Before they arrive and pick them out, Duet shoulders her way into a house.

As the door splits open, a man is revealed. In one hand, he holds an autohammer. Behind him, tucked under furniture, his children squeal.

The tool is already set to maximum strength. He swings it at Duet’s head.

One of her ducks while the other steps in, sword held high.

The autohammer swings wide, burying itself in the door-frame again and again.

The man falls backwards, clutching his arm.

Duet steps onto him, boots pressing down on armpits, crushing.

The children squeal again.

‘Shut them up –’

‘– Or we will.’

For emphasis, Duet charges her pistol.

Vesper reaches for her but the other’s hand stops her, firm. She tries to reach the Harmonised with words instead. ‘Don’t kill them!’

‘We won’t –’

‘– Unless –’

‘– We have to.’

The family is bound with wire, hidden behind furniture. It is telling how quickly they capitulate. Vesper turns away, goes to the window. Through the grime, she sees lights pass by. The beams point eagerly, hoping to find a target. Once, twice, thrice, they appear, circling, moving on.

Vesper leans against the sill, resting her head on toughened plasglass. Muscles tremble, allow themselves a brief respite.

Time passes while she stares into space, seeing the outside world but mostly not seeing anything. Then, flitting past her line of sight, a small shape, bleating and frantic. Before she knows it, she too is running.

Duet’s voice is a chorus at her back. ‘Wait!’

But she doesn’t. A sudden burst of energy takes her through the broken door, onto the streets and away. She ignores the sword, heavy on her back, ignores the fatigue.

‘Wait,’ she calls. ‘It’s me. It’s Vesper.’

At the sound of her voice, the kid stops and looks round.

Vesper slows, crouches, opens her arms.

Little hooves skip across stones. Bleating becomes lighter and the kid throws himself into Vesper’s embrace.

‘There you are. I’m so sorry, I thought I’d lost you.’

The kid rubs his head against the girl’s. Lips clamp gently around an ear.

‘Come on, we can’t stay here.’

She gets up to find Duet towering over her. Their faces are hidden behind visors but she can guess enough from the two pairs of eyes. She is not afraid though. Compared to her father, their disapproving looks seem amateurish.

‘Are we going back to that house?’

‘No –’

‘– We have to keep ahead –’

‘– Of the search parties –’

‘– And get to –’

‘– The port.’

‘Genner said help would come.’

Duet takes her arm, talking as they go. ‘Help will –’

‘– Find us.’

‘Or the First will,’ adds the injured one, bitter.

Troops spread through the city, a net of people, threading between buildings. Crawler Tanks speed down the Tradeway, joining others already squatting at the port’s entrance. Sky-ships move in random patterns, combing the air.

Harmonised, girl and goat run, hide, run some more.

Slowly, the trap closes around them.

There is no longer time for care and Duet sprints, half dragging, half carrying Vesper between her. The girl tries to keep up, tries to help, but weary legs stumble, unable to find their rhythm again.

Nearby, a door opens and from its shadow, a man gestures, inviting them in.

They take their chances, bundling inside.

Vesper and the kid collapse gratefully into a corner. Duet does not have such luxury. One of her places herself between the stranger and her charge while the second leans against the wall, sword in one hand, the other resting on her injured chest.

The man closes the door quickly, then turns, tanned hands open, empty. ‘You’ll be safe here for a while. Don’t worry, I’m not your enemy.’

‘We’ll be –’

‘– The judge –’

‘– Of that.’

‘Yes,’ the man replies. ‘Perhaps this will help.’ A bag is placed on a table. Duet investigates, finds supplies. Rations, medicine, money, tools, all marked with the seal of the Winged Eye.

She frowns. ‘You are –’

‘– Of the Lenses?’

‘No. But these things once belonged to one. She would want you to have them.’

Against Vesper’s back the sword begins to stir.

‘Then who –’

‘– Are you?’

‘As I said, I am not your enemy. But I am not with the Empire.’

Duet raises her blades.

The sword hums louder.

‘Is this your … judgement?’

‘For infernals –’

‘– There is only –’

‘– One judgement.’

‘Are you certain? You do not … appear so. How can you be? The very words you speak are not your own. They are simplistic phrases designed to keep you simple. Only one judgement? If that is so, why are The Seven not here in person? Why do the Empire’s people turn away from Their leadership? If there is only one judgement for … my kind. Why was I asked to come here by yours?’

Almost imperceptibly, Duet’s sword wavers.

‘You are called a Harmonised. You are an attempt at a deeper union, a different kind of existence. I understand this … need. This desire to be greater than your physical self allows. Through me, you could experience complete fusion. It is not too late. Lower your weapons and I will give you want you truly want.’

The First takes a step towards Vesper. Duet does not move, one of her blocking the way, the other remaining by the wall.

Duet raises a pistol in her spare hand, points it at the First as it advances. ‘We will not –’

The sentence hangs, unfinished.

Duet looks to her partner, still by the wall, silent. ‘Stay with me!’

The First shakes its head. ‘But you are not … together on this. You’ve never truly been together. You are a pretence of oneness. You are a mockery of it.’

The pistol begins to charge. ‘Shut up!’

‘You would rather fall to violence than admit the truth of your position? How sad.’

She squeezes the trigger. But the First has already stepped aside. Powder explodes from the back wall as she swings the gun round trying to track the infernal.

There is a blur of movement, too fast for the human mind to follow, and a broken gun falls to the floor. Moments later, Duet joins it, groaning in the dust.

The First turns to the other half of the Harmonised. ‘And you? What is your … judgement?’

She looks at the trembling girl and her dazed counterpart. ‘I don’t know.’

‘But you do. Allow yourself the thought and it will come.’

Her blade lowers. ‘She’s yours. But I want what you promised.’

Vesper chokes back a sob.

‘And you shall have it.’ The First crouches by Vesper, leans forward until only inches separate them. ‘You are lost. How could you not be? That broken … relic cannot help you. It is a reminder of something dead, nothing more. Give it up to me and I will let you go.’

Vesper shakes her head, the movement slight, fearful.

The First reaches out to touch the girl’s face. The kid flinches and Vesper tries to retreat. But there is nowhere to go, all she can do is twist away, hiding her face from the inevitable. The First is suddenly presented with Vesper’s back and the sword strapped to it.

Humming builds to a sudden roar and metal wings part, flaying the plastic that covers them.

An eye opens.

In the space between the First and the sword, air ignites, burning blue and angry.

The infernal staggers back, stunned, one arm across its face.

Vesper drops the kid and reaches into her pocket. The action swings the sword away, forcing it to glare at an innocent wall.

‘So this is the Malice,’ says the First, swaying as it speaks. ‘I had hoped for more … nuance. You are a tool without a user, a shoe without a foot. You are … nothing.’

In a shaking hand, Vesper raises the gun. The trigger pulls too easily, activating with little more than a touch. Light pokes a hole through the First’s body. Blood spurts and essence hisses.

The First lowers its arm, staring at the new wound. When it speaks, there is no trace of pain in its voice. ‘Our … agreement … stands. Hold her … here.’ With infinite dignity, the infernal sinks to its knees.

Duet levers herself from the wall, crossing the room with sudden speed. Her sword flicks out, making to disarm.

Too late, Vesper realises the threat. The flat of the Harmonised’s blade smacks the gun from her hand. Vesper wants to run but Duet raises the sword again, threatening.

‘Don’t move. There is—’

The tip of a blade protrudes from her stomach, sudden, cutting her off.

‘– Only one judgement.’

Duet looks down to find her counterpart awake, sword in hand. Last words are gargled through blood, then she falls, beating the First to the floor.

As it sinks down onto its back, body weakening, the First’s eyes remain steady, locked on Vesper’s. ‘I will … remember … this … You … cannot—’

Duet’s sword comes down, silencing. ‘I said: shut up!’

The statement echoes in the bare room, hollow.

She stabs the First again just to be sure but cannot bring herself to look at the other body. Vesper does. She picks up her gun and points, watching intently. Duet’s chest is still, like a lake on a calm day. Lifeless. She puts the gun away.

Outside, soldiers move from door to door, knocking, searching, not far now.

Vesper’s gaze remains on the two corpses. ‘What are we going to do?’

Duet doesn’t answer. Her sword droops and blood runs down the blade. Vermilion tears, dripping, heavy.

CHAPTER SIX

Off-colour rain patters on the tilting square. At its edges, things gather. In the centre of the square is a hole, known as the Pit of Whispers, and within the hole lives a lonely creature, all limbs and barely covered bones. The denizens of the Fallen Palace call it Slate. Little sense rattles within its hollow skull but even Slate knows when there is to be a display.

Too stupid to run, Slate presses its face against the dark wall of the pit and, momentarily, the world goes away.

At the top of the pit, the Man-shape waits, Samael by its side, while, in factions, the infernals cross the square to meet them.

First come the Felrunners, carried on an abundance of weeping legs. Their Lord stands foremost among them, proud. Raised to power by the Usurper and gifted with a crown of green muscle, it is as close to popular as any of the contenders.

Next comes Hangnail, alone, head studded with claws, its coat of skins flapping in the wind, ragged.

Then, a small girl riding a large Usurperkin comes: the Backwards Child, stretched neck coiled like a serpent, half-breed followers lumbering behind.

Lastly, comes Gutterface. Sometimes called the Unspeakable, even its peers do not care to look at it for long. Swarms of the lesser infernals infest its many pockets and crevices. An army of dysfunctional young, suckling at a hundred teats.

When all have arrived at the pit’s edge, the Man-shape reaches down, finding one of Slate’s many appendages and lifting it high. One by one, the others copy the gesture, until Slate is lifted slightly off the ground, murmuring and clicking to itself.

Whenever infernals converse there is danger. Even if both parties are peaceful, essences can mix, desires swapping or implanting themselves. No one challenger dares outright confrontation and yet, to end the stalemate, each needs to display its power to the others. A good enough display could convince the others to submit, giving the winner the infernal throne without conflict.

Slate’s essence is weak, allowing other infernals to make contact without risk. They use it as a conduit, a patchy curtain that divides like gauze, keeping them apart but allowing communication.

With careful timing the infernals bring the limb they hold deeper into their shells, until it connects with the essence inside them. Now, when any of them forms a thought, it travels into Slate, into the pit and the others can read the echoes.

Inevitably, there is posturing. Each trying to appear bigger than the other, probing for changes, hoping that time will have made new weaknesses. The Man-shape allows this to happen, keeps itself small, unreadable. It suspects that Lord Felrunner is ready to make its bid for power and that Gutterface has a secret it struggles to contain. The other two give little away.

All share a moment of pleasure that the other challengers have not dared come. Then the Man-shape presses itself onto Slate’s essence.

‘I was made to serve …’ the Man-shape begins.

‘Lesser.’

‘Taste.’

‘Evres.’

‘Us.’ Swirl the responses.

‘… And for much time, I served the master.’ It notes the ripple of unease the reminder of the Usurper still brings. ‘Where the Green Sun blazed, there is only void. Which of you will fill it?’

Four answers come, declarations of suitability.

‘So you say. But the master did not trifle with words, the master took and others trembled. Now a new master comes, one that will take, and change, and wipe us away.’

Questions come thick and fast and Slate’s essence stretches dangerously thin. The Man-shape casts a shadow between them, the image of their new enemy.

‘It is called the Yearning and it gathers itself upon the Breach. I pledge myself and the master’s throne to whoever can end it.’

There is a pause, quicker than the beat of a hummingbird’s wing, an eternity between essences. Then there is noise. Lord Felrunner accepts first, the others immediately after.

Slate is discarded roughly, falling back into the pit while infernals scuttle, stride and shuffle away. Already, plots are forming, plans of attack, dreams of victory and what follows.

On the inside, the Man-shape permits itself a smile and wonders if any will return.

*

Vesper stares at the two bodies, her gun shakily pointing at them. Neither stir. ‘What are we going to do?’ she asks repeatedly. The question is directed as much to herself as to Duet, who has not spoken for too long.

Eventually, the gun lowers and Vesper’s breathing calms. She goes to the bag of supplies, searching for inspiration, nudging the kid’s head out of the way as he rummages for food. Most of the objects are identifiable, if not familiar. She touches the block of Skyn, the flexicast and nine different tab containers, presumably medicines of some kind. She finds a mutigel pillow, some water, some powdered food and a set of tools. One reminds her of the Navpack her father used to let her play with. She still remembers his face when she broke it.

She picks up the new Navpack and asks it to activate.

The Navpack does not recognise her voice.

‘Activate!’ she repeats, desperation making the end of the word rise.

On her back, the sword begins to hum.

Vesper spins round, reaching for her gun, but the First remains where it fell, eyes still staring, glassy.

The sword’s hum rises sharply, pointedly, then stops.

With a happy ping, the Navpack activates.

A map shines onto the floor, showing Sonorous from above. The outer wall a thick dark line, curving like an inverted pair of horns, and, within it, a grid of roads, packed either side with little squares, countless. Vesper sees her location represented by a white dot that flashes excitedly. She taps it with a finger and the map zooms in, showing the house they stand in, the neighbouring ones and the criss-cross of alleys nearby.

Beneath them, purple, is another network. Passageways made for secret journeys, known only to the agents of the Winged Eye, entrances scattered about the island.

Vesper’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘This is it. Duet. Duet! I think I’ve found a way out.’

‘It doesn’t …’ she begins, but there is no-one to finish her sentence. She chokes back a sob.

Using the Navpack as a guide, Vesper moves across the room. The view zooms, scaling itself exactly to the space. A purple square of light overlays an incongruous corner. The girl runs to it, followed by the kid, who shares the excitement if not the understanding.

Fingers search for a gap or a handle, find none. Fumbling becomes frantic, a droplet of sweat falls from her hair, dampening dirt. Then, for no discernible reason, a square of plastic pops up, raising two inches proud of the floor. Vesper grabs it, heaves.

Cheeks turn from red to purple, muscles burn and the panel begins to lift.

With an excited bleat, the kid gets his head into the gap and pushes.

Girl and panel flip over, landing on their backs.

The kid tips forward, hooves scrabbling over empty air. For a moment he wobbles, precarious, then falls into the newly revealed hole.

There is the sound of an abrupt landing and disgruntlement.

Vesper scrambles to her feet. ‘Duet, look!’

She does, but nothing changes in her eyes. ‘It doesn’t …’ She twitches. ‘… Matter.’

Vesper’s hand finds Duet’s, squeezes. ‘Please come. I need you.’

Duet doesn’t squeeze back. Her head gives the smallest of shakes. But Vesper doesn’t let go and when Duet feels the pull, gentle, insistent, she is surprised to find herself moving.

Together, they descend.

From scattered places across Sonorous, black-visored figures stop, heads turning sharply. Leaving behind the soldiers at their backs, each one begins to run. Legs blur, making fan shapes beneath them as they race through the streets, faster than should be possible.

Witnesses can only stare and shiver.

Quickly, fourteen identically dressed figures converge on a house.

Inside are two bodies. One is of a man, aged by time outdoors, eyes staring towards infinity. They gather by the body. From two sword cuts and a hole made by angry light, essence escapes in little puffs of smoke.

Working as one, the figures capture the wisps, weaving them together. A coherent ball begins to appear, cupped in protective hands. At the same time, the group begin to excavate the essence in the body, clawing it out from the deep places, adding it to the ball. When they are finished, they close the man’s eyes.

Then the ball is taken to the second body, that of a woman, half of an abandoned Harmonised. They press it into the wound in her chest, then bind the cavity shut.

Any last spark of the woman flutters away in the flicker of eyelids.

The First opens its eyes and stands.

Restored, it lowers its head and the others do the same, until fifteen skulls tap together, sharing knowledge, making plans.

Less than a second later they break, ten of them sprint for the door, the other five move to an innocent looking corner of the room, reaching for the hidden doorway, glimpsed through dying eyes. But for the First, the panel refuses to open.

Gauntleted hands clench and the First leans over the rebellious plastic. Fists move like pistons, drumming, hammering, penetrating.

The passageway is narrow, forcing them on hands and knees. The kid bounds ahead, a perfect fit. From Duet’s visor a diamond flares into life, pushing back the gloom.

Vesper shoots her an envious look.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

They crawl on. Vesper lets out a sigh, murmurs: ‘I wish I had a torch.’

‘You’ve got …’ She pauses, taps the side of her head irritably. ‘… Two.’

‘I do?’

‘The Navpack … and the … gun.’

‘They’re torches?’

‘They’re torches.’

Distant drumming reaches them. Then a single crack, a dulled burst of thunder.

Duet accelerates, knocks into Vesper. ‘Go faster.’

‘What’s going on?’

She punches the girl in the back of the thigh. ‘Go faster!’

Vesper yelps, complies. Behind them comes a rasping sound, of lightweight plates sliding over stone, rapid and numerous.

In their haste, knees are bashed, knuckles caught on the tunnel’s sides, a catalogue of minor traumas to be pored over later. Several times the tunnel divides but Vesper doesn’t hesitate, following purple lines held tight in memory.

The sound of the hunters pauses.

Vesper slows, takes a breath to speak but Duet knocks into her, hissing in frustration.

When they come again, the sounds of pursuit are diminished.

‘They don’t know the tunnels,’ Vesper pants. ‘We’re dividing them.’

‘It doesn’t … matter. Even one … of them’s … enough.’

All at once, light hits the end of the tunnel. A solid wall, decorated by damp, and, in front of it, another hole. Vesper pulls out the Navpack and shines it down. The beam dances on water and bends around the long cylinder of an escape vessel, bobbing leisurely on the surface. Where the light hits the side of the hole, bars glint. Each one is as wide as a giant’s hand, inviting them to climb. Vesper does so.

Before she reaches the bottom, the cylinder cracks open, welcoming. Vesper drops from the last bar, her impact absorbed by the cylinder’s thick inner lining. Girl and tube wobble in the water but neither tips over.

Vesper rocks the cylinder gently, testing buoyancy. Then she shines the Navpack around the chamber, mapping a shape not much bigger than the boat she sits on. She points the Navpack down, switches it from torch to navigator. Lines of light quickly describe a way out. Vesper frowns. ‘The exit is below us, we need to go down.’ She pats the side of the cylinder. ‘In this. It’s safe, I think.’

Above her, in the tunnel, Duet crawls backwards. Slowly trying to rotate in the cramped space. ‘No.’

‘What?’

‘You go.’

‘What about you?’

She completes her turn, then tries to work her sword free. ‘I’m staying.’

‘But why?’

‘To protect …’ Her elbow cracks against the side, painful. ‘… you. Give you time.’ Her sword is nearly free but within the confines of the tunnel she cannot fully straighten her arm. The tip remains caught in its scabbard.

‘Don’t leave me. I need you.’

‘It’s better … this way.’

Vesper lowers her head, hesitates, mouth moving quietly, planning the words before she says them. ‘It’s not up to you. The sword wants you to come.’ Duet edges back, feet dangling over the edge. With effort, she twists her head, craning until she can look down at the girl, suspicious. ‘Gamma’s sword spoke to me, remember? It needs me to carry it and it needs you to keep me safe.’

Duet just stares, face unreadable behind the visor.

‘Don’t be stupid! You can’t even swing a sword up there. They’ll kill you in seconds and you’ll have died for nothing. If you want to protect me then you need to come down, now!’

Her voice echoes in the tunnels, repeating and fading, fading and repeating, travelling, retreading their steps. When it has gone, silence follows.

The sounds of pursuit have stopped.

Girl, Harmonised and goat freeze, wondering who else listens in the darkness.

Then, sudden and decisive comes the sound of armoured limbs, battering the tunnel, supernaturally fast, gaining.

With a muttered curse, Duet lets her sword fall back into its sheath and lowers herself into the hole. The descent is controlled and quick, her landing soft. Fractionally, the cylinder dips, high sides untroubled by lapping water.

The kid appears at the top of the ladder, afraid to jump, afraid to stay.

‘Come on,’ encourages Vesper.

‘Leave it.’

‘No!’ She reaches up, smiles encouragingly. ‘Come on, you can do it. Jump. I’ll catch you.’

The kid bleats, extends a hoof into space, then retracts it hurriedly.

‘Don’t be scared.’

Duet speaks quickly, forcing words where she would naturally pause. ‘There’s no time, we have to go, forget the animal or we’ll all die.’

Vesper stands her ground. ‘You can do it. Jump.’ The sword begins to tremble against her back. ‘Come on,’ she calls, voice fake and positive. ‘Jump!’

The kid closes his eyes and with a final bleat, throws himself into space.

Hooves flail.

Duet swears.

Vesper’s smile falls away.

There is a collision. Cries of alarm and pain mingle together. Water sloshes.

Vesper finds the kid in her arms, finds herself pitching backwards. Then Duet’s hand finds her collar, pulls her upright.

‘Thank you.’

The cylinder is built for comfort, for one. Vesper and Duet wriggle together, making what space they can. Fortunately, one is not full grown and the other’s armour is streamlined, built for speed. Even so, the sword is hard on Vesper’s back and the bag is crushed between them and contents press outward, sharp edges digging into hips and stomachs.

The kid turns round three times, then sits in the space beneath Vesper’s feet.

Without being asked, the cylinder begins to close. Hands and heads are tucked inside, hasty. With a sigh, the split sides of the cylinder meet, sealing instantly.

Tiny holes appear on the outer layer of the metal, greedily sucking in water, taking on weight and, with a sudden lurch, the cylinder drops beneath the surface.

The First reaches the end of the tunnel, stopping by the hole. It peers down, not needing a torch to penetrate the darkness.

There is nothing but water slapping the sides of the chamber below.

Others come from behind, hurrying through the network, their growing proximity comforting.

The First does not wait for them. It plunges into the water, head first, a black shape welcomed into inky depths.

Down it goes, down and down, a silent missile that finds new tunnels branching away. It reads the eddies and currents, quickly narrowing options until only one remains.

The First does not swim. Instead, feet and hands push against the bottom of its chosen tunnel, propelling it forward in bursts.

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