“To see a god like that, or a demon; even just a hallucination! Something that strong, something to die for—surely you can understand that, Wendy?”
He was silent for a long time, staring at me and then past me, seeing something in the darkness of the Crypt Church, something perhaps in the bones he had scattered across the floor.
Finally he said, “There is a play the courtesans have, a play about twins.”
I nodded, my flesh prickling. “The masque of Baal and Anat.”
He beckoned at Fury. The aardman slunk back beside me, Trey following. “That’s right. Baal and Anat. I have seen it many times, I had the children perform it for me. But then I thought, how much better if there were real twins, that would give it more impact, more—”
He waved at the air, his hand stabbing at my chest. “More depth,” he finished.
“I—I don’t know the play,” I stammered. “It’s a sacred text of the Paphians, of the House Saint-Alaban. Waking the Magdalene—”
“It’s very simple, really. A sort of sacrificial drama. They fight. One dies, the other doesn’t. I’ve arranged a place for the performance—”
Abruptly he turned away, gesturing at the aardmen. “Bring her to the armory.”
He sounded weary, and limped as he crossed the altar. Before he reached the door leading upstairs he looked back at me.
“Even I must serve something,” he said, and began to climb the stairs.
I was half-carried out of the Cathedral. The wind had fallen, the air was still and cold and silent except for muted voices in the distance. A few stars showed through the clouds drifting across the sky. Trey and Fury dragged me hurriedly across the frozen ground, their flanks rippling as they shivered in the darkness. About me I heard the sounds of running feet, coughing, and urgent whispers.
In a few minutes Trey and Fury skidded to a stop, snarling and snapping. I fell between them, tried to brace myself against the ground. There was nothing there. Inches in front of me the earth fell away abruptly. At my side the aardmen hunched, panting.
We were on a ledge ten or fifteen feet above a gaping hole large enough to swallow the Crypt Church. Brilliant white light streamed from it. Many figures moved there, black against the glaring lanterns.
They had excavated a great pit in the earth. Frozen mounds of dirt and gravel surrounded it, heaps of stone and sand lay scattered about its floor. It was the ruins of an ancient arsenal. Banks of monitors and metal pilings, immense shining globes and myriad metal chairs had been lined around the perimeter in a feeble attempt at order. Spikes and rotting timbers protruded from the earthen walls, hung with lanterns or chains or frayed costumes.
In the center of the pit loomed some kind of launching mechanism, its hollow nose pointed skyward, jointed steel legs splayed across the uneven ground like those of a mantid. From within it protruded a long silvery missile. Nearby a small generator had been propped, its tiny operating lights blinking red and green through a film of dirt. Wires strung from it led to floodlamps pitched from crazily tilted poles and scaffolding made from warped wood and metal rods. The whole place was blindingly lit, so that it was impossible to ignore those who had died during the excavation, the stench of bodies heaped along the walls and beneath the launcher.
“Come,” said Fury. He nosed at the earth until he found something, the lip of a rickety metal ladder. He mounted it with difficulty, hind legs scrabbling at the narrow struts as he clambered down, until finally he slipped and fell the last few feet. Shivering, I followed, my hands sticking to the freezing metal, and stepped carefully to the bottom. Trey crouched at the rim of the pit, his eyes glowing as he stared down at us. After a moment a smaller shape joined him, foxy muzzle and ruby eyes watching shrewdly.
“This way, lady,” Fury ordered. I turned to follow him. Lazars squatted exhausted against the walls. Others dragged more captives down from above, and hurried to avoid us as we passed. I shielded my eyes against the glaring lights, stumbling against broken chairs, the gutted shell of some kind of robotic server. Beneath the missile launcher the ground had been swept clear except for a few metal screws, a tooth, and shards of glass. “Here,” said Fury.
As he turned away another voice cried my name, hoarse but unmistakable.
I whirled, tripping so that I grabbed one of the launcher’s legs to keep from falling. In the shadows behind a narrow scaffold stood Jane Alopex, her arms held tightly by a slender lazar still wearing a columbine’s purple shift. A bruise welled beneath one eye, but she held her head high and stared at me with relief.
“Jane!” The word came out in a whisper. Then I nearly wept, because from behind her a smaller figure emerged, dragged by a lazar scarcely bigger than herself. Her gown filthy, mobcap gone, limping slightly because she wore only one boot. “Miss Scarlet—”
Another person was pushed forward. Fabian, staring dazed at the ground. Even at this distance I could see him shaking, his torn clothes fluttering from thin wrists. Of Toby and the others I saw nothing.
“Well! We seem to have all the principals assembled. Not as large a cast as usual, but sure to be an interesting one.”
At the base of a ladder weaved Tast’annin, clutching at Oleander and Trey for support. Behind him stood Raphael Miramar, calm as though just awakened from untroubled sleep.
I drew myself up and called out, “Let my friends go free, Tast’annin! You have no fight with them, you had none with Justice—” I stammered the name, halted.
Tast’annin shook his head. He looked weary beyond belief, his eyes sunk within his ravaged face, his face almost bloodless as it turned from me to Raphael. As his gaze lingered upon my brother loathing writhed across his features, loathing and a dull sort of recognition. He raised one hand to Raphael, with the other grasped at Trey as though to pull him closer. For a moment I thought he would speak, command the aardmen to bear my brother back into the fastnesses of the Engulfed Cathedral, and slay him there as a final offering to the Naked Lord.
Then the light died in his pale eyes. He turned back to me, his voice a raven’s croak.
“No. It must be done—”
He pointed at the far wall where Fabian cowered beside Jane Alopex. “You—whore there, you actor —introduce them.”
Tast’annin’s hand flailed at the air. Fabian gasped, then was shoved forward into the ring of light.
“What—I don’t—”
“The masque of Baal and Anat,” prodded Tast’annin. He leaned heavily upon Oleander. The boy grimaced, moved the belt and sheath around his waist, and stepped forward bearing his master. Raphael followed them, then walked until he stood a few paces from me.
“The masque—” Fabian began in a wavering voice. The Aviator stared at him coldly, his lip catching on one upper tooth. “The masque of Baal and Anat, performed by—by”
Tast’annin grinned and clenched his fist. A cry as Fabian was struck and sank to the ground; and another lazar stood pale and trembling where he had.
“You may begin,” whispered Tast’annin. “Wendy—Raphael—”
My brother stared back at the Aviator as though for the first time. His hair had fallen unbound to his shoulders; his face was white as ash, his mouth red against its pallor. Blood caked at the corners as though he had been bitten. My necklace still hung about his throat. Then he turned to gaze at me, his unearthly calm finally shaken.
There was not a sound, not a breath, in that place. I felt as though even the freezing air had fallen away; I felt nothing, nothing at all.
“Wendy?” he asked, so softly that I almost could not hear him. He reached one hand to touch me, his fingers sliding from my wrist to my arm. Maybe I did not really hear him, maybe it was only that I knew what he would say, perhaps the name had been fluttering in my mind waiting only for him to say it. Not Aidan Arent but Wendy Wanders. Not a solitary wanderer but Raphael’s sister; not a research subject but a real girl. He stared where his fingers stroked my arm, marveling, shut his eyes for a moment as he traced the crook of my elbow.