After the storm had passed, First Sentinel and Blurred Fists spent two hours clearing rubble, performing first aid, calming panicked Spark-touched, and returning children from the school to their families. Several locals had opened up their homes to make an impromptu hospital, since the nearest real hospital was half a district away and was not worth the gamble. Per the Smiling King’s orders, his Spark-touched guard dismembered every tenth patient at random.
Stopping every half-block to respond to another plea for help, it took First Sentinel most of an hour to make it to the nearest safehouse. By his orders, the Shields gathered after every Spark-storm to compare notes, gather the injured, and learn everything they could to fight smarter the next time.
From the outside, Douk’s daily was a friendly neighborhood coffeeshop, well-placed on a corner in a decent part of Viscera city, in COBALT-3’s domain, surrounded by shops and offices. It was owned by Douk Tager and his wife Xera, pillars of the underground resistance arts community. The Tagers gathered dissident artists in secret meetings at night, where they shared paintings, poems, whatever forbidden art they could find from the handful of people willful enough to resist the tyrant-corrupted threads of the City Mother.
Xera was nearly a magician with her baking and song, bringing in musicians from around the city; Douk had contacts from the docks to Heartstown and a ready smile for everyone. They were also old friends of Wonlar’s and long-time Shield-bearers. The Shields’ supporters came and went over the years; some burned out, some went bankrupt, some were taken by the tyrant’s guards.
Without people like Douk and Xera, we’d have lost the war decades ago,
First Sentinel thought to himself.
First Sentinel swung past the front entrance and dropped onto the roof, watching to make sure no one had him in their sights. This neighborhood was fairly pro-Shield, which meant that people didn’t go running for guards when they saw one of the group. But it only took one informant to compromise a safehouse. First Sentinel opened the hatch on the roof and climbed down three flights of stairs to a basement hall that joined up with the loading cellar.
He rapped on the door in the Shield’s code: three short knocks, two long, and then five syncopated with both hands. A moment later, the door clicked and opened.
“Hello, old friend.” Douk’s well-trimmed beard outlined his chin like an exaggerated smile. First Sentinel had known Douk since he was a fresh-faced dissident, still in university and looking for a way to fight back against the tyrants’ regime.
There aren’t many whose passion was strong enough to overcome the City Mother’s controls. Anyone with the will to join the Shields’ fight was a hero in their own right, and Douk had shown his devotion a hundred times over.
The basement was laid out for storage more than service. Douk offered up his cellar to the Shields as a bolt-hole and staging ground, mixing in weapons and supplies with his dry goods. The Shields did their best to stay out of the way of his business, but over the years Douk’s daily had developed an underground reputation as a haven for Shield sympathizers.
Several lamps stood at the edges of shelves and at the walls, filling the room with a cross-hatching of shadows and light. The décor was a mix of storage basement, war room, and chic hangout. Douk had done his best to make it comfortable without giving the cellar away as anything more than a storage room with extra tables, should the wrong person find their way down the stairs and past the locks. The room was a perfect reflection of Douk’s contradictions—he insisted that they be comfortable, but also tried to protect them through stealth. Douk was a good man, but he lacked the makings of a spy.
Wenlizerachi reclined on a couch, his Blurred Fists raiment discarded in a heap at his feet. He had three plates of food balanced on his lap, chest, and legs, and his hands flickered from plate to plate to mouth and back.
Bira Qano and Sarii Gebb were sitting at one of the old glass-top tables, a game board set up between them.
Bira was still wearing her Ghost Hands raiment, mahogany robes that flowed and billowed when her powers were unleashed. Ghost Hands’ legs were crossed, hovering several inches off of her seat. Ghost Hands was First Sentinel’s oldest friend and steadfast ally. They’d joined the Shields on the same day, when the first Aegis had found them during a Spark-storm.
Like all Qava, she had no eyes, nose, or mouth, no orifices or features. Many found it unnerving, but after five decades of friendship, First Sentinel had long gotten used to it, and learned to read her small movements. She had the strongest talents in telekinesis and telepathy that First Sentinel had ever seen in a Qava.
Bira had confided to First Sentinel years ago that she wondered if her power was Spark-touched, but the Smiling King had never reached out to enthrall her, and her abilities had grown gradually over the years. Like Wenlizerachi or Sarii, she was a natural talent honed by years of pushing herself harder and harder.
In contrast to her wife Bira, Sarii wore her emotions carved into her slate-grey face. In her Shield guise, she was Sabreslate, mistress of stone. She balanced Ghost Hands’ reasonable optimism with staunch skepticism, questioning every plan as a matter of course. But even though she tried his patience, First Sentinel knew that their plans were always better because of her. Sabreslate sipped
dounmo
tea from a thrown clay mug almost the same grey as her skin. She wore her raiment of woven stone, the hood pulled back from her face.
Several steps into the room, Douk set a hand on First Sentinel’s shoulder. “Can I get you something to eat, a drink? Maybe send down a musician? They can be trusted.”
First Sentinel restrained a sigh.
What would they play? A rousing dirge for our pyrrhic victory against the insanity of the Spark?
“no, Douk. Thank you again.”
He wasn’t in the mood. Dozens dead, hundreds more homeless, and the only real relief would come from the few neighbors whose compassion outweighed their fear. The Shields would help where they could, but with the summit coming up, it would not be much.
Blurred Fists raised a glass in salute as First Sentinel walked over to the group—a warrior’s salute, not that of a celebrant.
The mood was somber, despite Douk’s eternal cheeriness. They had few things to celebrate most days, and this was no exception. The storms had been getting more and more common, but why?
First Sentinel took a seat with Ghost Hands and Sabreslate, lowering himself gingerly onto a crate filled with coffee beans. First Sentinel managed a small smile of greeting while the images of the monstrous school and the Spark-blasted streets hovered in his mind.
Ghost Hands floated the teapot and a mug from atop another crate. The cup settled into his cupped hand and the teapot tipped in the air, pouring him a drink. The teapot returned to its perch, and he lifted the cup to Ghost Hands in thanks. She nodded her featureless head.
Ghost Hands spoke directly to First Sentinel’s mind, reaching out with her birthright. Her voice echoed as if through a cave, distant but clear.
[You should take it easy, Wonlar. You’ll run yourself ragged
.
]
Sabreslate jumped in as well. “We have bigger matters to attend to,” referring to the summit. “When is the meeting?”
Sabreslate, bastion of empathy.
“It was an emergency. We were needed. The day we ignore the people’s troubles is the day we become just like the tyrants,” First Sentinel said, not meaning the words to sound as preachy as they came out.
Even if we can’t help them all.
First Sentinel wondered if anyone had died in the flight from the storm.
“Bad day, eh?” Sabreslate asked. Her carved features had gotten harder along the years—the chipping around her eyes showed her age.
We’re all getting old, the first of us Shields who remain. How many generations will it take? Will Aegis’ grandchildren fight for the city’s freedom during the one hundredth year of the oligarchs’ reign?
If we can’t turn the tide against the tyrants, chances are none of us will live to have grandchildren anyway.
First Sentinel sipped the tea. It was crisp, strong, and had clear notes of cinnamon, blackberry, and clove. Douk didn’t skimp. He’d bankrupt himself for their sake if they let him. Douk had claimed the Shields as family, and he was the kind of host that would give you the robe off his own back.
“Next meeting is tomorrow, my apartment, noon. Can’t do it now. I need everyone to bring plans and maps, especially of any district north of The Rack.”
Ghost Hands sighed in his mind.
[Have you heard from Selweh/Aegis?]
She thought both names at the same time, the private and public faces of his adopted son.
First Sentinel leaned back against the shelf, shaking his head. “He’s gathering information on the summit. He said he’d be back before the meeting, even if he missed the check-in.”
Please come home safe, Selweh.
Sabreslate gestured with her empty cup, pushing it out toward First Sentinel. “That boy will get himself killed one of these days. You’d think that growing up with you for a father, he’d have learned some caution.”
I wish.
First Sentinel leveled his gaze at Sabreslate, meeting her eyes, and then looked down. “He’ll do what he wants now. And who knows what news he might bring back.”
Another series of knocks rapped at the door. First Sentinel stood and drew a knife, only relaxing when the knocker finished the correct code. Douk opened the door and Rova hunched her way through, still in her raiment as Sapphire.
She wasn’t even six feet tall when we first met
, Wonlar mused.
Sapphire had a little girl with her, a Millrej with red hair and tufted ears. She looked terrified—probably in shock.
First Sentinel set down his cup and walked over to them, wincing as pain flared in his hip. Rova drew herself up to her full height once inside, two heads taller than the elder Shield and twice as broad.
First Sentinel took hold of Rova’s hands in the Freithin greeting between blood-kin. They nodded, and then First Sentinel knelt to look the girl in the eyes.
“And who is this?” he asked.
Rova swung the girl’s arm gently for encouragement. “Fahra.”
“Hello, Fahra. I’m Wonlar.”
She hid behind Rova’s leg, hands tight on the woman’s pants. First Sentinel rose to his feet, slowly, and looked to Sapphire. “Why is she here?” it was a huge risk bringing a stranger into a safehouse, no matter how young.
Rova leaned in, speaking softly. “She’s an orphan. She was being taken by one of Yema’s warlocks…in the Bowels.”
“Ah.” There was no way that could be good for anyone. “Any idea why Yema wanted her specifically?” Yema wouldn’t send warlocks into the Smiling King’s domain without good reason.
As Rova shrugged, the movement rippled muscles all the way to her elbow. “That’s why I brought her here. She has nowhere to go, and we shouldn’t let her out of our care until we know Yema’s intentions.”
First Sentinel turned and walked to Douk. “She’ll need a hot bath, fresh clothes, and some warm milk to help her sleep.” First Sentinel recalled the tricks he’d used to help a young Selweh get to sleep after returning from missions as First Sentinel. The boy had known his father’s secret calling even before he could read. He would wait at the door, sobbing and willfully ignoring his babysitter’s best efforts. Sometimes, it had taken Wonlar hours to calm the boy down enough to put him to bed.
Wonlar pulled back from nostalgia to hear Douk trading stories with Blurred Fists, who was working on his second round of plates.
First Sentinel mirrored Douk’s gesture, putting a hand on the café owner’s shoulder. “Douk, old friend, I have another favor to ask of you.”
He perked up, head turning from his conversation. Douk loved being useful, drew a thrill from being close to exciting events. It was a dangerous impulse, but Douk was smart and a smooth talker, so he’d been safe so far. “Anything for you, Wonlar.”
“Can you and Xera look after this little girl? She was targeted by Magister Yema three districts out of his domain—she needs to be kept safe.”
Douk’s eyes lit up. “Of course.”
He and Fahra danced the dance of introductions, the poor child barraged by unfamiliar faces.
First Sentinel poured himself another cup of tea. They moved to brainstorming the possible reasons for Yema’s move, the coincidence and correspondence with the Spark-storm.
Sarii suggested that it was likely a way to build an elite unit of full-blooded Millrej, Rova thought it was something about the hybridity, the possibility that Yema was doing some kind of ritual that needed Millrej, Wenlizerachi thought that the girl might not have been born Millrej but was instead made one by the storm, and that Yema wanted to use her to find a way to control the results of the Spark-storms.
Wonlar took in all of these theories, set them together in the tumbler of his mind, trying to polish away the imperfections and arrive at finished theories.
As they talked, the threat of the Five-Tyrant Summit loomed large in his mind.
We have to break their alliance, whatever the reason for calling the summit. But if we push too hard, it will only strengthen their resolve.
First Sentinel took a long sip from his mug and returned to thought.
For once, the chaos of Wonlar’s apartment was sincere. Stacks of maps and his journals made a mountain in one corner, with dozens more laid out, layered with thin parchment spread over them so he could take notes without marring the original maps. He’d been up most of the night thinking, only catching a few hours’ sleep on the couch, too tired to walk to bed.
Wonlar spent the morning pouring over maps of the city, charting the year’s Spark-storms, looking for a pattern.
Why this many one after another?
They were spread around the city, more toward the center, and far more frequent in the last few months, but they never ranged outside the canyon that housed Audec-Hal.
Wonlar cleared off his long dinner table, where he held the Shields’ meetings. He couldn’t remember the last time he and Selweh had actually used it to entertain.
Maybe last fall, for the harvest days?
With preparations for the summit, Wonlar the artificer would have to take a break for a while; sour luck for Jull Jeenks down the street. First Sentinel could mark the months by the neighbor’s calls for oven repairs. Wonlar kept the shades drawn, the door locked and bolted, the windows shuttered save for the one above his balcony for a quick escape. First Sentinel took every precaution imaginable, preparing for the most important meeting they’d had in years.
Almost noon, and Selweh wasn’t back yet.
Please come back safe, my boy. I made a promise.
Someone knocked at the door—with the right code— and Wonlar rustled papers crossing the room to answer.
Wenlizerachi shook Wonlar’s hand and dashed inside to take a seat at the table. He was dressed casually in loose running clothes, a messenger’s satchel over his shoulder.
When he wasn’t Blurred Fists, Shield of Audec-Hal, he was Wenlizerachi, freelance courier.
“Aegis?” he asked.
“Not yet.” Wonlar tried to hide the fear in his voice, hoping that Wenlizerachi wouldn’t notice.
“Kids.” Aegis was actually older than Wenlizerachi, but for the fast-paced Pronai, fifteen was middle-aged.
Wenlizerachi had only a few years left to him. His family had been Shields since the first years, passing the mantle of Blurred Fists down from his great-grandmother, just as Selweh was the fifth to serve Audec-Hal as Aegis. When the shield had found his son two years ago, Wonlar wept, remembering the ones who had come before. He wept for aria and the promise he would be hard-pressed to keep. He wept for the other bearers of the Aegis that had come before: for his fallen mentor, the founder of the Shields, whose real name he never learned; after him came Zenari, the office-worker who had taken up the Aegis and lead the Shields to destroy the first COBALT in a battle that played out atop the machine’s great zeppelin; the brilliant and kind Aria Enyahi Gara, love of his life, was third; Aernah was fourth, a life-long teacher who became a clever tactician and recruiter of Shield-bearers. And he wept for Selweh most of all, because no bearer had survived to pass on the shield of their own accord.
“Can I get you anything?” First Sentinel asked.
Wenlizerachi waved Wonlar off and produced a flask from his belt.
Each time First Sentinel heard knocking at the door, he tensed up while they rapped out the pattern, but each time the code was correct, and he opened the door to reveal a friend.
Relax, old man,
he told himself, to no avail. Twenty minutes later, everyone but Aegis had arrived.
Bira and Sarii came together. Bira floated in with her cloak over her arms. Sarii strode in beside her, a piece of stone rolling and flowing through her fingers. Rova came last, drawing Wonlar into a powerful hug after stooping through the door. The other Shields were all retired or dead. Mostly dead.
Rova took up two spaces on her own, elbows on the table, forward and attentive. Bira sat tall, arms crossed. Sarii leaned back in her chair, doodling with the same piece of stone. It shifted between a horse, a tent, a clock, and a pacing woman to illustrate her boredom, her power showing the artist’s career she could have had if the city were sane.
The Spark had never touched Sarii, but her control over the Jalvai birthright of stone-shaping was powerful enough to spin stone into thread or raise a fortress in minutes. Wenlizerachi just sat, drinking tea. For meetings, Wonlar had learned to just give the Pronai a whole pot and let him serve himself. He was Blurred Fists just as much when his hands moved over food and drink as when they pummeled the tyrants’ guards.
Wonlar cleared his throat and sat down at the head of the table, an empty seat beside him. “Let’s get started.” “what about Selweh?” Sarii asked.
Wonlar glanced over to the empty seat, a pit in his stomach. “He’ll be along. We don’t have time to waste.” “I hope he’s alright.” Rova laid her huge hand over Wonlar’s. The touch settled Wonlar’s stomach, but only a little.
“He’ll be fine.” Wonlar squeezed Rova’s hand, then let go and stood to start walking around the table, thankfully free of the pain in his hip.
Pacing helped him think, as the worn circle around the table proved. “Our latest intelligence indicates that Nevri is close to getting all of the tyrants to agree to the summit. When Aegis comes back, we should have confirmation of the details.”
Sarii huffed. “I’m surprised they’re even agreeing to meet after what happened the last time.” The last talks had been seven years ago. Those had ended with a civil war in the streets between Medai Omez and the Smiling King. Hundreds had died.
“Whatever it took, they’re doing it, and that’s our problem right now,” Wonlar said.
[
And if they come to terms now, it will be so they can be rid of us,
] Bira said in the Shields’ minds.
Wonlar nodded. “Perhaps. We’ve survived in between the cracks, playing off of their antagonism. If the summit goes through, if the tyrants actually unite, behave like the oligarchy they pretend to be, our job becomes far more difficult.”
“You mean they’ll hunt us like dogs until they’ve killed every last one and put our heads up on pikes in Republic Square.” her stone became a coffin.
Sarii, always a ray of sunshine in the darkness.
Wenlizerachi cracked his knuckles one by one, fast enough it sounded like one motion. “So what are we doing to screw it up?”
That was the challenge. First Sentinel stopped and put both hands on the table. “We need a plan we can pin on one of the other tyrants, turn them against each other, and get them to call off the summit before it can get underway”
Rova joined the conversation, her face-sized hand moving in broad sweeping moves as she thought. “A barracks. Attack their forces directly; leave the tools of another’s soldiers.”
Sarii shot her idea down. “Too obvious. We have to do something so big they’d dismiss it as anything but an attack by another oligarch.”
I don’t like where this is going.
“what did you have in mind?”
Sarii said, “we need to think like they do, plan an attack as if we were the Smiling King or COBALT-3.”
“You’re talking about casualties,” Rova said.
Sarii nodded. “It’s the only way to make it believable. We have to be the monsters they paint us as and know we aren’t.” Save for the Smiling King, who only printed unintelligible pamphlets, the tyrants pumped out a constant stream of propaganda with their wholly-owned newspapers. The Shields were “dangerous insurrectionists” and a “public menace.” Many people were scared enough to believe them. And thousands more read the papers just to fit in.
A fist slammed on the table. Wonlar was surprised to realize it was his own. “No. We will not sink to their level. I won’t allow it.”
Sarii stood up across the table from him, her flint-cold eyes seeking his gaze. “What then, Wonlar? This could be easy. If you just used your real power, we could be done with this nightmare by the end of the year.”
“For the hundredth time, no. I swore I would never use that power again.”
Wenlizerachi spoke, slow and clear. “Just this once. It’d only take one time to bring down their whole regime. Wouldn’t that be worth it?”
Wonlar’s voice filled the room. “Yes, I could twist the threads,
make
them betray each other. Then you’d have me change more threads,
make
the people of the city fight for us, and
make
the City Mother serve us again, using a power I should never have been given and never should have used.”
Aria has already paid the price for my hubris.
“and I don’t know if I’d have the strength to free the City Mother even if I tried.”
First Sentinel stood up in a fit, knocking a chair away from the table. “You know what you’d have if I did all of that? You’ve have a new tyrant, beloved by all, the master of the threads, an unchallenged hegemon. And any memory of the Republic of Audec-Hal would be buried for good. Is that what you want?”
For a moment, the room was silent, save for Wonlar’s heavy breathing, his face flushed orange. Sarii threw up her hands in exasperation. “Yes! I want the fighting to be over. I want to go back to my life and for the people on the street to be able to get food when they’re hungry, medicine when they’re sick. I want a fire service that works, and a city ruled by a good man instead of monsters. I want to retire with Bira and live out our lives in peace!”
Not what I was looking for.
Wonlar sat back onto his heels, looking to the other Shields for support or another counterargument to Sarii’s stubbornness.
“That would make me no better than Yema, than Nevri. Just another tyrant using his power to make the city in his own image.”
Sarii said, “You care more about this city than anyone, Wonlar. Why would it be so terrible?”
Wonlar turned and walked away from the table. Rova’s heavy steps followed him. Her hand cupped his shoulder, holding him back. He turned, but couldn’t meet her gaze
. I’ve failed too many times to trust myself with that much pressure. I can’t risk repeating what happened to Aria.
“We’ll find another way,” she said, her voice soft. “What is your plan?”
Wonlar faced the table again and took a breath, searching for his calm center. He grabbed a well-worn map from the floor beside his seat at the table and unrolled it on the table. Next he produced five statuettes that Sarii had sculpted for him years ago. Wonlar placed the slim suited figure of Nevri and over the head of the body, then the icon of Medai Omez in his hundred priceless scarves at the left shoulder. The bald robed figure of Magister Yema went on the left leg, matched by the intricately carved statuette of the mechanical COBALT-3 on the right. Lastly, he placed the Smiling King’s figure just below the ribs.
Wonlar looked at the figures on the map, marking their territories. He’d done this hundreds of times before, trying to hold the whole city in his mind. Districts and their populations, their industries, skirmishes fought, and civilians saved.
It all started with Nevri, a gangster who bought herself a Senate seat fifty-three years ago. Six months after she took office, a “mysterious” fire collapsed the Senate building, killing all within. Nevri was absent that day. Nearly everyone accepted her guilt as truth, but it had never been proven. She ruled her domain with an iron fist, but she protected her citizens, provided public services, and enforced gender equality across the board. Rapists were hung in public, men who beat their partners were whipped in public. She was, after all, Nevri the lash.
She was soon joined by Magister Yema, the most powerful sorcerer the city had ever seen. He’d made pacts with entities Wonlar had never heard of, but their power was all too real. His elite warlock Guard were normal citizens whose hearts were removed with a ritual, kept alive through the spell, with their minds and bodies bound to his will. Yema kept the hearts locked away somewhere in the city, another mystery Wonlar had never solved.
When Medai Omez arrived, he’d brought spawning pits and birthed hundreds of Freithin to be his personal slaves, working in factories to dominate industry. Omez had been weakened since the Shields freed Rova’s people and had played close to the chest ever since. He was a lesser power, but not to be ignored.
The Smiling King was Medai’s complete opposite: a raving lunatic who used his own madness to enrapture nearly anyone touched by the Spark-storms. The Smiling King had appeared around the same time as the Spark-storms, and Wonlar was mostly convinced that the tyrant was their ultimate source. The Smiling King called the Spark-touched his “family,” but used them like any another gang. Life in his district was a circus with constantly-changing rules. Walking on the eastern side of a street would win a citizen a prize one day, but the next it might earn them a public execution.
And lastly, there was COBALT-3. COBALT had come to the city shortly after the tyrant’s reign began and set up shop to conduct experiments on the citizens. The Shields had destroyed him (at the cost of the second Aegis), and later COBALT-2, his greatest invention, but not before COBALT-3 was made. The newest model took after her grand-creator, delving into experiments on the species of Audec-Hal, seeking to “improve” organic life.
Looking at the map, the memories piled up. Hundreds of battles, strengths and weaknesses, triumphs and failures.
My failures. If the tyrants come to an accord and work together to destroy us, the city will never be free.
“We have to stop the summit,” he said. “How?”
Rova leaned over the table, her shadow covering the map. She pushed the figures of Nevri and Medai together. “We strain the existing alliances and set them back to infighting.”
Bira added to the thought. [
What if we steal the next drug shipment from Nevri to the Smiling King, find a way to fence them to Yema. We make it known that the goods are hot, say they come from the Smiling King. They’re all suspicious of one another, more so now heading into the summit.
] The figure of Nevri slid to one side, Yema to another, leaving the Smiling King in the middle.
Wenlizerachi jumped in. “Then we let the information trail get back to Nevri through her network. Nevri thinks she’s been betrayed by the Smiling King and Yema.” he gestured to the Smiling King.