Sigmund’s laugh was sad and forced. He made the southern hand sign for no.
“Forget the old myths and tales about creatures that eat people’s souls. That’s all crap. You can’t suck up a soul. Well, I mean you can, but you can’t start a soul on fire or digest it or turn it into nothing. It’s indestructible. Eating souls is an ass-stupid idea made up by someone who likes to think about impossible shit for fun.”
His hand cut a wide sweep in front of him as though brushing away the concept.
“But what’s the next closest thing to murder, eh Caph? What’s the next cruelest thing you can do to someone?” Sigmund didn’t wait for a response. “Lock ’em away in a cramped tight space, right? An oubliette, a shit-hole dungeon where they gibber for months until they go piss-pants insane. That’s the next closest thing to murder. And that’s what solvitriol power is all about. Plus murder to boot.”
“I don’t understand. How—”
“No, look, it’s so simple. So ball-jerking simple.”
Sigmund stood up and started walking around like Caliph sometimes did, in agitated circles. “You have to extract a soul, right? You have to catch it before it floats away to wherever it floats away to. That’s a whole other topic of debate better left to priests. What I’m talking about is putting a body in a coriolistic centrifuge. Not a dead body, but a live one. Maybe someone sick or old.
“Then you start the spin. Only the coriolistic centrifuge doesn’t just spin off in the dimensions of known physics. We’re talking about other dimensions here. Branes. Shadow worlds. We’re talking about separating undefined matter from flesh, bones, body fluid, straining off blood and fat. Decanting the soul for Palan’s sake!
“Look, you stick some poor sod in the tube, spin him ’til he dies and don’t even let him escape. You trap his soul in a holomorphic tube of treated glass before it can slip off to sweet oblivion, plug him into some machine and let him work for an eternity.”
For a long time Caliph and Sigmund once again regarded each other with an appalled, almost stupefied stare.
Finally Caliph said, “That’s not right.”
“No shit it’s not right!” Sigmund was off and running at the mouth again. “There’s this hierarchy thing going on too. Like you could stick a cat or something in there instead of a human, only your results might vary. Half power or quarter power or whatever. I don’t understand how they categorize solvitriol batteries yet but—”
“Iycestoke does this?”
Sigmund looked annoyed at the interruption.
“Yeah. They probably power half the city on it. Like I said, cruel evil bastards. But that’s an ochlocracy, right? Why waste medicine on the sick when you can power a city block on ’em dead?”
“And you want me to use this in the Iscan military?”
Caliph’s appalled look did not fade. He began to regard Sigmund with a look of horror.
“That’s just it, Caph. Like I said you don’t have to use people. You can use animals.”
“You sick bastard!”
Sigmund glared. “Hold on—”
“I’ve heard enough!”
Sigmund raised his voice in desperation. “Wait! I told you I had some new ideas based on this. Stuff nobody’s ever tried before.”
There was an urgent knocking at the door. Caliph didn’t even glance at the sound.
“Look, if what you’re saying is true, if this solvitriol power comes from murdering life and sentencing it to endless enslavement then I’m not interested in hearing anything more about it. It’s heinous, disgusting crap as far as I’m concerned and I don’t want any part of it. Gas and chemiostatic cells are just fine by me.”
“But Caph—”
The knocking on the door intensified. Mr. Vhortghast’s meticulous voice came from without the room.
“No!” Caliph nearly shouted. “Look, Sig. Keep your job in the military. Be an engineer. I’m happy to have you, really I am. But I don’t want to hear another thing about solvitriol power. I’m already sick beyond words from the shit I’ve seen since I took this miserable crown. Let me tell you, the last thing this city needs is another sin on its slate.”
Sigmund, visibly angry and frustrated at not having been able to share his vision, glowered in silence as Caliph answered the knock.
Zane Vhortghast stood just outside the room, pressing his fingertips together, looking slightly winded as though he had mounted the considerable staircase in a hurry.
Caliph briefly wondered if he had been eavesdropping.
“Your majesty. I am afraid I have some terrible news.” He noticed Sigmund at once. “Perhaps you should be alone to hear this. Perhaps you should sit down.”
Caliph smiled quizzically. He tried to imagine what news Vhortghast could possibly know that would upset him more than he already was. Nothing came to mind.
“Mr. Vhortghast.” He gestured for the spymaster to enter the room. “Please. I’m sure it can’t be that bad. Sigmund is an old friend. It’s perfectly fine to tell me here and now. I don’t need to sit down.”
“But your majesty—”
Mr. Vhortghast’s clay-like face twisted into some rare facsimile of regret.
“I’m fine,” said Caliph. “What is it?”
“Your father. Your father has been . . . assassinated.”
Caliph drew back sharply, wincing. “What? How?”
The unpleasant and grisly details followed and rested in Caliph’s mind.
Sigmund, distracted from his reprimand, looked disconnectedly sorry for his friend. He sat quietly while Zane Vhortghast described how Jacob had been jumped the previous night, a sack thrown over his head and knocked unconscious with something like a brick. The assailants had thrown him in the river.
“Sig—”
Sigmund was already headed for the door.
“I’ll talk to you later, Caph. I’m sorry. Sorry . . .” He disappeared into the staircase, a fading, sinking mumble of apology and hurried footsteps.
Gone was the recent excitement and debate over solvitriol power. Gone the sweetness of the creamy breakfast pastries in Caliph’s mouth.
Outside, one of the zeppelins sounded a piercing low Klaxon, plowing south over Bilgeburg and the ships in the glittering sea. It was carrying factory parts or refrigerated canisters packed with meat or metholinate or coal. The sun had finally risen high enough to reach the bay. Morning crept like something wounded toward afternoon.
Vhortghast maintained a look of well-conceived empathy as the High King swallowed his anger and began calculating even before he mourned . . . calculating his response.
CHAPTER 12
Sena leaned at the window of a dark bedroom over Litten Street, her face tense and solicitous.
Beyond the casement, laughter and song echoed from taverns and all-night cafés. The voices were weird and thin, sounding like wind-tossed cans off Sandren’s reeling vertiginous streets.
Sena hadn’t been home yet, having hitched a ride with a farmer all the way from the Stones to the ghettos of Seatk’r. That had been yesterday. She’d taken the ancient lift up to the City in the Mountain and stayed the night with Clea. But tonight was different. Tonight, contingencies had forced her into a room at the Black Couch: a lavish and discretionary inn that catered to the one-night stands of the reckless wealthy.
The tang of homemade perfume ruffled through her room. Behind her, the darkness stirred with human irritation as another gust swirled over the bedclothes.
“Sounds like it’s picking up.” A man’s voice came from the bed.
Sena did not answer. Her gaze dipped with mild amusement to where a band of cup-shot youths twirled and swaggered beneath marcescent statues that threatened to topple. The city was splintered with deep fissures and the boys crossed Lôrc Rift on a bridge of antiquated stone.