That initial flurry of passes and parries ended with a clumsy lunge on my part. It was diverted with such ease that my opponent actually stepped back and made the clicking noise I knew to be a Yatsill laugh as I tottered sideways, only just regaining my footing.
The burst of rage this incited was immediately quelled by the realisation that he was trying to provoke me. I ducked and wheeled just as Clarissa shouted a warning and the three-legged Yatsill thrust from behind, aiming between my shoulder blades. I was lucky. As I sank down and twisted, he missed my face by a hair’s breadth, and the edge of my blade caught the flat of his with all the force of my spinning body, breaking his weapon clean in half. The point clattered away across the cobbles. I completed my gyration and raised my blade just in time to block my principal adversary. Now I settled into defending myself and did so without a single riposte, hoping the Aristocrat would exhaust himself. Dimly, under the chimes and scrapes of battle, I heard the two creatures behind me run from the square, probably under threat from Clarissa’s heavy spanner. That was the last thing, beyond my opponent, to impinge on my awareness, for now a sudden focus descended upon me—a sharpness of attention quite unlike anything I’d experienced before. It was as if time itself changed, so that every alteration in the angle of my adversary’s shoulders, every adjustment of his stance, could be examined and analysed in meticulous detail. Indeed, my mind appeared to encroach upon the immediate future so that my reflexes operated slightly ahead of his, allowing me to dodge every thrust, parry every sweep, evade every trick.
It felt as if many minutes were passing, although in truth they were mere seconds, but they were enough to drain his energy. Then I saw a slightly too careless thrust coming, deflected it with ease, stepped in, and used my left hand to punch him in the head. He staggered back in the direction I wanted—toward the fountain in the centre of the square.
The tables turned. I changed my tactic from defence to an all-out assault, putting into practice every technique I’d developed at Crooked Blue Tower Barracks. To earthly connoisseurs of swordplay—the Alfred Huttons, Egerton Castles, and Richard Burtons—no doubt I’d have appeared woefully clumsy. However, while I was no d’Artagnan, I began to feel myself a match for my opponent, and now forced him into retreat with a flurry of slashes and jabs that, I’m sure, from his perspective made my point seem everywhere at once. I struck the mask from his face, cracked the shell of his upper left arm, and scored a furrow across his trunk. “Stop!” he cried out, but I didn’t. Instead, I pressed my attack and demanded, “Who are you? Why did you try to murder my friend?”
“I don’t know!”
“Are you following orders?”
“Yes!”
“From whom?”
In an act of wild desperation, he exposed his entire torso to a thrust—which I didn’t take—and swung his weapon full force at my head. I raised my own at an angle to meet it, causing his sword to hiss along its length, showering sparks a good six inches above me, then stepped in and kicked him savagely between the legs—a barbarous move that was just as effective on a Yatsill as it was on a man. He doubled over, moaned, and dropped his weapon. I delivered an uppercut to his face, my fist squelching into the boneless flesh. He rocked backward, spraying blood into the air, tripped over the lip of the fountain, and went plunging into the water.
After kicking his sword out of reach, I waited for him to emerge. He struggled to his feet and swayed, weighed down by wet clothes and exhaustion. Blood streamed from his wounded arm.
“Answer me!” I snapped, levelling my blade at his chest. “Who ordered this attack?”
With difficulty, he clambered up onto the fountain’s low wall.
His four bead-like eyes met mine. Though they were expressionless, as was normal with the Yatsill, I detected a peculiar blankness in them, as though his mind wasn’t his own. He shook his head, then whipped up a hand, grabbed the tip of my sword, and propelled himself forward onto it. The metal sank through the vertical seam of his body shell and emerged from the middle of his back. His corpse thudded against me, causing me to tumble to the ground with it on top. My head cracked against the cobbles and everything blurred.
When the world came back into focus, I realised that Clarissa was dragging the dead creature off me.
“Are you all right?” I groaned. “Your shoulder is bleeding.”
“A small wound. Nothing I can’t fix with a poultice. And you, Aiden? Your hand is spouting blood and your cheek has been laid open. Is that the worst of it?”
“It is.” I pushed myself to my feet and looked at my right hand. At some point during the conflict I’d lost my little finger, though I hadn’t felt it. Now the pain began to throb abysmally.
I looked at the fallen Yatsill. “I couldn’t kill him.”
“You didn’t need to—he threw himself onto your blade.”
“But Clarissa, I had to kill him in order to protect you, but something in me prevented it. I was battling myself as much as I was battling him.”
“Good. You’ll have no more Jack the Ripper delusions, then!”
I gave a grunted agreement, but I was puzzled. My inner conflict had been far deeper than I could put into words and had felt somehow unnatural, as if my hesitancy hadn’t been wholly of my own volition.
I moaned as the pain in my hand grew worse, then shook my head to clear my muddled thoughts and asked, “Why, Clarissa? Why attack you?”
“I have no idea. Stay here—I’ll fetch my medical pack.”
My friend, as a Magician, had been trained to treat wounds using Ptallaya’s various herbs, many of which possessed remarkable healing properties. She now brought some from the house and applied them to my hand and lacerated cheek, fastening them against my skin with an adhesive leaf. Immediately, the pain was numbed.
“Your first duelling scar,” she murmured, “and your finger will quickly grow back.”
“Grow back?” I echoed. “How is that possible?”
“The miracle of Ptallaya. Remain here and rest. I’m going to report this atrocity. Shall I fetch you something to drink?”
I nodded wearily.
After treating her own wound and supplying me with a bottle of water from our kitchen, she mounted the autocarriage and drove off. I sat down and leaned against the wall of the fountain. The dead creature was sprawled nearby, still transfixed by my sword. Its blood seeped between the hard cobble-like shells, exactly as Mademoiselle Clattersmash’s had in my vision. All of a sudden, I was trembling violently, and, partly out of shock, partly at sheer relief at having survived, I began to giggle like a madman.
° °
I was still half-dazed and using the wall of the fountain for support when a convoy of steam-vehicles came panting into the square. Clarissa and Father Mordant Reverie disembarked from the first, Lord Upright Brittleback and Mr. Sepik from the second, and Colonel Momentous Spearjab and two guardsmen from the third. I straightened and greeted them all as they gathered around the corpse.
“I’d just delivered our sick chaps to the Magicians when I heard,” Spearjab said to me. “Harrumph! Are you injured?”
“Only slightly.”
“Humph! Humph! I understand the three Aristocrats were after Miss Stark. What!”
“Yes.”
Lord Brittleback exclaimed, “What a bloody mess!” He addressed Spearjab. “Are all your guardsmen accounted for, old fruit?”
“They are indeed, Prime Minister—harrumph!—and my troops are Working Class, not jolly old Aristocrats like the assailants!”
“Ah, yes, of course!” Brittleback responded. “I don’t understand it. The Yatsill are not violent. And the fact that Miss Stark is of the Aristocracy makes it even more incredible. Attacking one of our own? It’s bloody impossible!”
“Apparently not,” I put in.
Clarissa said, “Perhaps they were supporters of Yarvis Thayne and blame me for his murder.”
“They were acting on orders, I know that much,” I offered. “And if
they supported Yarvis Thayne, then they must also support Yissil Froon.”
Father Mordant Reverie shook his head. “If you’re proposing that Yissil Froon might be behind this, I have to disagree in the strongest possible terms. He’s one of my most respected Magicians, and the eldest of us all. If anything, your suspicion suggests two hidden forces at work in the city, one supporting the dissonance and responsible for the murder of Thayne, the other against it and the source of the attack on Miss Stark.”
“Or a single force whose motives are rather more complex than we can currently guess,” Clarissa suggested.
“Is there any discontent among the Aristocrats?” I asked.
The prime minister gave an awkward shrug—a gesture that didn’t come easily to a Yatsill. “The Workers are restless, but not the Aristocracy.”
“There’s a problem with the Working Class?” Clarissa asked. “How so?”
“They are becoming increasingly uppity. The glassmakers have ceased work completely and I’ve received reports of widespread carelessness and disobedience. It’s bloody inconvenient and, to be perfectly frank, I’m not quite sure what to do about it. But that’s all beside the point.” He thought a moment, before addressing Spearjab again. “Colonel, I want you to instigate a search for the two surviving assassins.”
Spearjab saluted and said, “Right ho! Perhaps the dissonance—” he gestured at Clarissa “—could provide a description? Hey?”
My friend glanced at me and shook her head. The Yatsill all looked similar to us.
“Their masks were the same,” Clarissa said. “Plain and unadorned.”
“One of them lost his right hand,” I added, “and the other the lower part of one leg.”
“Ah!” Brittleback said. “Well done! That’ll teach ’em! Father Mordant, perhaps these individuals will visit a Magician for treatment.”
“I shall make enquiries, Prime Minister.”
Brittleback wriggled his fingers and flicked a hand toward the corpse. “Colonel, would you and your men dispose of this bloody thing, please? And I’d like a couple of your troops on permanent sentry duty outside Miss Stark’s house.”
Spearjab replied, “Humph! Yes! What! I say, Prime Minister, it occurs to me that Guardsman Fleischer has contributed enough to the training of the City Guard. In addition to placing two sentries in the square, I shall assign him permanently to Miss Stark. What! What!”
“Bloody good show!” Brittleback exclaimed.
Spearjab looked at me. “Never leave her side, is that understood, old thing?”
“Perfectly!” I replied, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from me.
“Well then,” Brittleback announced, “we each have our part to play, but you, Colonel, will coordinate the investigation. I’d particularly like to know whether this has any connection with the murder of Yarvis Thayne.”
“Absolutely! Absolutely! I’ll place guards with Yissil Froon, too. He might be in danger. Danger, I say!”
“Good thinking, Colonel! Do it at once, please!”
So saying, the prime minister mounted his vehicle, was followed aboard by his tall, silent aide, and they departed. Spearjab and his two subordinates loaded the dead Yatsill onto their autocarriage and went rattling away.
Father Reverie looked up at the sky. Its pale yellow had deepened, taking on an orange hue. The shadows were lengthening. Drops of rain were beginning to fall. “Rest for as long as you need, Miss Stark,” he murmured without looking down, “then attend to your various projects. Whatever of them can be completed in short order, I recommend you get them done.” He lowered his head and turned his crow mask to me. “And you, Guardsman Fleischer, keep your sword sharp. The Eyes will soon be closing.”
He crossed to his vehicle, clambered into it, and without a backward glance, drove off.
“Oddly enough,” I said, “I feel much happier.”
Clarissa pushed me toward the house. “Because your training is finished?”
We stepped in and walked across the vestibule.
“Because we won’t be separated any more.”
As we entered the kitchen, I was overcome by an impulse. Grabbing my friend’s elbow, I turned her to face me then pulled her into a tight embrace. “I nearly lost you!” I whispered, pressing my face into the crook of her neck. “Clarissa, I nearly lost you!”
She put her arms around me. “But thanks to your own bravery, you didn’t.”
I held her, perhaps longer than our close friendship warranted, but I couldn’t let her go and didn’t care about decorum. The thought of being without her was unbearable—and it struck me that it wasn’t being alone on Ptallaya I feared, but the possibility I might be without Clarissa Stark anywhere.
I released her and stepped back, my hands still on her upper arms. She was beautiful.
“I’ve never asked you,” I said, looking at the dark goggles. “What colour are your eyes?”
“Brown.” To my surprise, she reddened slightly and quickly changed the subject. “You’re shaking like a leaf, Aiden—sit down. Are you still hungry? I’ll prepare us something to eat.”
I laughed. “Do you remember when you first arrived at Theaston Vale? It feels like such a long time ago, but you said you couldn’t enjoy my hospitality with the odour of the road upon you. In the same vein, I cannot sit here after a bloodthirsty battle while you cook for me, so, if you don’t mind, I’ll go and wash while you work your magic at the stove.”
A little later, while splashing water over my face, I paused and, with my eyes closed, revisited again that horrible moment when the Yatsill had thrown itself upon my sword. I re-experienced the grating vibration running up my arm as the blade slid through its shell, the hot blood spurting across my fingers, the weight of the body impacting against me, and the final exhalation rattling in my ear.
What had I felt? Did an internal Jack the Ripper relish the kill? Had a monster risen from my shadows?
No, there was no monster.
I’d been aware only of overwhelming shock and repulsion, but, again, there was also the strange notion that an exterior force had drawn the reaction out of me. Now I felt entirely differently. Grimly satisfied. I was glad the beast had died. Glad because he’d tried to execute Clarissa and I’d been responsible for his failure. Furthermore, having just killed, I knew for certain that it was for the first time. Whatever the darkness in me was, it certainly wasn’t the Ripper.
Clean, and somewhat calmer, I rejoined my friend.
“How’s your hand?” she asked.
“It doesn’t hurt at all.”
We ate a large meal, during which I asked, “Why don’t you manufacture a pistol? I’d feel happier if you were armed.”
“The Yatsill have forbidden it. They see no use for such weapons. Besides which, I’d hate to introduce firearms to this world. Our own has suffered enough because of them.”
“Will you at least carry a sword?”
“I’d be too clumsy with it. A dagger. I’ll carry a dagger.”
After our meal, we moved to the lounge where we sat and chatted. Outside, the rain had quickly developed into a heavy downpour. Clarissa stood and wandered over to one of the windows. Looking out, she observed, “There are never any clouds, yet it rains.”
“And it never rains but it pours—with ever greater frequency.”
“It’s late afternoon, Aiden. We have a very, very long night ahead of us. What a fool I’ve been!”
“Fool? Why?”
“Because it’s only just occurred to me to manufacture street lamps. Had I thought of it earlier, the whole city could’ve been illuminated by dusk. As it is, by the time I have them designed and the machinery to make them constructed, it’ll be too late.”
“The Yatsill must have managed well enough before our arrival,” I noted.
“Hmm. True. With burning brands in the Koluwaian fashion, I’d wager.”
She turned and stretched. Much time had passed since her immersion and subsequent t
ransformation but it was obvious that she still delighted in her healthy limbs and straight back.
“I think I’ll turn in,” she said.
I gave a sound of agreement. I was tired. We retired to our respective rooms.
° °
Time on Ptallaya is more subjective than on Earth and disconcerting in its effects. One might work and sleep, work and sleep, work and sleep again, look at the suns, and find they’ve apparently not moved at all—or embark on what feels like a short task only to discover, upon its completion, that the two orbs have visibly shifted and shadows have lengthened.
During the final stretch of the long Ptallayan day—I’d guess a month in Earthly terms but could be utterly wrong—the weather continued to worsen. A hot breeze started to blow from the land across the bay as if the Eyes of the Saviour, as they neared the horizon, were dragging all the air they’d heated after them. The quality of light around us gradually deepened to a rusty orange. The rains came more frequently, fell harder, and lasted longer.
New Yatsillat suffered. An alteration in the climate hadn’t been taken into account when the city was built. Various of its materials rapidly deteriorated as they were first battered by the ferocious downpours, then swiftly dried by the torrid winds, then hit by rain again. Buildings leaked. Roofs collapsed. Walls cracked. The new sewerage pipes overflowed and burst. A section of the eighth terrace—as it happens, the district where Crooked Blue Tower Barracks had been located—collapsed and slid onto the ninth level, burying part of the fishing village.
To make matters worse, the Working Class approached the required repairs with a complete lack of diligence, performing their work in a very slapdash manner, taking far too long about it, or, increasingly, failing to do anything at all.
Amid this erosion, the flu-like sickness spread through the city like wildfire. Those of the Workers who came down with it reverted to a near animal state. They divested themselves of their garments, gathered at the seafront, and refused to leave. Kata told us, “They think they are dying and await the call of Phenadoor.”