The Abyss Beyond Dreams (30 page)

‘Right. Send someone from the Treasury’s legal department round to see the family. Pay them off. Whatever it costs.’

‘Yes, sir. And the First Officer?’

Philious pressed his teeth together and took a breath. ‘I’ll speak with him.’

It was the day the Skylords were due to arrive – eighteen months to the day since Slvasta had arrived in Varlan. As customary, the mayor had declared it a public holiday.
The city was packed with departer families, coming to witness the fabulous ceremony, which signalled the start of their friends and relatives receiving guidance to Giu.

By midmorning the streets leading down to the city’s long waterfront were packed. Many people had eschewed their guesthouses and hotels to camp out along the quayside that ran the length
of the city. The psychic sensation that filled the aether above Varlan was one of anticipation and delight.

Slvasta walked along Walton Boulevard, the wide central thoroughfare that led all the way from Bromwell Park to the sprawling Captain’s Palace that lay at the centre of the government
district – block after block dominated by grandiose ten-storey buildings. Today, the scuttling drab-suited officials that usually swarmed the roads and alleys and intersections were all
absent, at home with their families or preparing for the evening’s festivities. Even the carts and carriages were fewer, though the flow of cyclists was as thick as ever.

He reached the junction to Pointas Street, marked by the fountain statue of Captain Gootwai, and turned down it past the Ministry of Transport. Holat trees lined the road, their long red and
yellow variegated leaves fluttering in the humid breeze. It was always humid in Varlan, something Slvasta still hadn’t accustomed himself to. This far south of the equator, it wasn’t
anything like as hot as his home county of Cham, but the clamminess from the Colbal, which at this point was over three kilometres wide, was extraordinary, and unrelenting.

Pointas Street ended at Okherrit Circus, and the buildings became slightly less stolid, with elaborate carvings on the stonework, and larger windows making them more open and welcoming. This was
a commercial district, with fashionable stores and many family offices. Today, of course, the businesses were all shut. He began the steep walk up Longlear Road, with its notorious open stream
bubbling and gurgling down a channel cut into the centre of the flagstones.

Major Arnice was waiting for him outside the Burrington Club, his scarlet jacket and white breeches seemingly glowing in their own little haze of extra-strength sunlight. But then, Arnice was
utterly faithful to the mould of a dashing officer and gentleman. He caught sight of Slvasta and raised a solemn hand in greeting. ‘There you are,’ he ’pathed.

Arnice was one of the very few people in the city Slvasta considered a friend – a fellow sufferer of duty on the Joint Regimental Council, and only a few years older than Slvasta himself.
They were the two youngest officers on the Council, with a shared contempt for its painfully bureaucratic workings.

Slvasta greeted him with a firm handshake. ‘Thanks for this.’

‘Delighted to help, old chap.’

They went into the club. And at once Slvasta felt a resurgence of that nagging insecurity he’d experienced since the day he arrived at Varlan. For a boy who grew up on a farm of modest
means in the countryside fifteen hundred miles from the capital, a sense of social inferiority was the inevitable fallback position. It didn’t help that the dark wooden panelling of the
club’s hallway, with its classic black and white marble tiled floor, reinforced his impression of the city’s casual wealth. Even his own dress uniform, a dark-blue tunic with discreet
brass buttons and olive green trousers, was far less ostentatious than Arnice’s resplendent Meor Regiment regalia.

‘The ladies are waiting,’ Arnice said as they made their way up the stairs to the lounge restaurant. There were no mod-dwarfs in the club, which was one of the main reasons Slvasta
had accepted the invitation. Here old men and women in stiff black suits with snow-white shirts served the members’ every whim with quiet efficiency. None of them would dream of taking a
holiday, not even on this day.

The club’s lounge restaurant had a wide balcony, with two dozen tables under an ancient wisteria canopy providing a grand view across the rooftops to the river Colbal itself. As such, it
was proving very popular with the members. Every table was occupied.

‘Best view in the city,’ Arnice said from the corner of his mouth. ‘Excepting Captain Boorose’s pavilion itself, of course.’

Slvasta followed his friend’s gaze. Down on the waterfront, the stone dome of Captain Boorose’s pavilion stood out against the more utilitarian warehouses and boatyards. It was on a
raised mound just behind Chikase’s wharf, a simple building open at the front where fluted pillars supported the roof. Palace Guards in full green and blue dress uniforms stood round it,
carbines held tightly across their chests. The elaborate black and gold coaches of the Captain’s family had just pulled up outside.

Captain Philious was the first to emerge, waving at the crowds, who waved back, every hand grasping a colourful blossom. It looked as if he was swimming in a wildflower meadow. His wife
followed, and they held hands and walked up the short steps to the pavilion, where a long table had been set up, allowing them to picnic while gazing out across the fast brown waters of the
Colbal.

His family followed, the smaller children giggling and waving enthusiastically back at the good-natured crowd. Then Aothori, the First Officer, climbed out of his carriage, the Captain’s
eldest son, clad in the suave black of a Marine colonel. The cheering quietened. Even from the Burrington Club, Slvasta could sense the mood of the well-wishers darkening.

‘Giu help us when that one becomes Captain,’ Arnice muttered discreetly.

Slvasta said nothing as he studied the young man through the public gifting. He’d heard talk about Aothori. About the extravagance and the arrogance. How people who complained about
incidents
involving their daughters or missing property and unpaid bills left the city unexpectedly.

He kept a neutral smile in place as they approached the table Arnice had reserved. There were two young ladies standing waiting for them – dressed, inevitably, in the yellow and blue that
Varlan’s younger aristocracy had decided was in fashion this season. He recognized one, Jaix – a nice girl in her late twenties whose features showed a strong Chinese heritage. She was
the fifth daughter of a merchant family, and as such a likely fiancée for Arnice, though they had only been courting for a month. Slvasta had spent the last three weeks listening to Arnice
talking endlessly about her – up until last week, when Arnice had withdrawn from social evenings in the city’s clubs and pubs and theatres. Now all Slvasta heard was how he spent every
evening visiting Jaix at her day villa over in the Gonbridge district. For propriety’s sake, the unmarried daughters of good family were supposed to return home by midnight.

Arnice introduced the other lady as Lanicia. She was tall and slender, the same age as Slvasta, with long strawberry-blonde hair arranged in elaborate curls. Her smile as he took her hand was
fixed and emotionless, like all women of her class. Slvasta didn’t really care; all he could focus on was her nose, which was petite with an upturned tip. On such a narrow face, it was
striking. He managed to look away before his stare became blatant.

But then she was directing her ex-sight at his stump. It didn’t help that he pinned the tunic’s empty sleeve across his torso, drawing attention to it. He wanted a jacket tailored so
the sleeve could be folded down his side, making it less obtrusive. And like so many things in Varlan, he hadn’t quite got round to doing it. Time seemed so very different here; the
city’s languid pace was insidious. People spent so much of their day in the pursuit of such small goals. But they did know how to enjoy themselves, he admitted.

Slvasta used his teekay to pull Lanicia’s chair out, as a gentleman should. Her eyes widened in appreciation.

‘That’s a very powerful teekay you have,’ she said as she sat down.

Slvasta caught the glance she and Jaix exchanged. ‘It’s a compensation,’ he explained.

‘How did it happen?’ Lanicia asked, without any of the usual semi-embarrassment most people had.

‘Slvasta’s a genuine hero,’ Arnice said loudly. ‘Don’t let him tell you otherwise.’ He turned to a waiter. ‘We’ll start with champagne, thank you.
The Bascullé.’

‘Sir,’ the waiter bowed.

‘It wasn’t heroic,’ Slvasta said. ‘I was caught by a nest.’

‘Giu, really?’ Lanicia asked, her hand going to her throat. ‘You’ve met a Faller?’

‘Yes. She and her mod-apes captured my squad. Then we were stuck to eggs. The Marines arrived just in time for me, but not my two friends.’

‘How dreadful. I don’t know what I would do if eggs Fell on Varlan. Flee, I expect.’

‘That’s the worst thing you can do,’ Slvasta said. ‘Arnice’s regiment is the one that will sweep the city for eggs. It’s a well-planned exercise. Unless one
lands in your house, just stay put and wait for the all-clear.’

‘Why shouldn’t we run?’ Jaix asked.

‘Because then there’s a chance you could stray into an egg’s lure and be drawn to it.’ All he could think of was Trooper Andricea staring at the last egg they’d
found, filthy from days on the sweep, determined never to succumb to the egg’s bewitchment, then swinging the axe furiously when it was her turn. So very different to these two refined
daughters of the aristocracy, who probably didn’t even know how to boil water on a cooker.

‘But don’t you gals worry,’ Arnice said. ‘There hasn’t been a Fall on the city for seven hundred years. And there’ve only been three since the
landing.’

‘What about a nest bringing eggs inside the city?’ Lanicia asked apprehensively.

‘The sheriffs remain vigilant for any signs of nest activity. There is none in Varlan, believe me.’

Slvasta held his tongue. There were always rumours of nests established in cities and towns, preying on the poor and friendless, people that no sheriff would care about. In some cases, like
Rakwesh Province, he knew it was a lot more than rumour. Reports from local regiments that crossed his desk were full of ‘disappeared’ people the sheriffs had compiled.

‘So do your family have an estate in Cham county?’ Jaix asked.

‘I gave the land up so I could serve in the regiment,’ Slvasta said. ‘I intend to spend my life fighting the Fallers.’ He hated replying in such a fashion – a vague
truth that didn’t actually answer the question. It was another unwelcome trait he’d come to adopt in the city. But, as Arnice constantly reminded him, if you were going to accomplish
anything in Varlan, you had to be accepted by the aristocracy. And the greatest barrier to that was being poor. As a serving officer with a position on the Joint Council, he could bypass that
requirement to some degree – except probably marriage.

‘That’s so noble,’ she said in admiration.

Arnice gave him a quick ironic smile as the bottle of Bascullé arrived. They toasted the day.

‘To Guidance.’

‘And Fulfilment.’

Slvasta would rather have had a decent beer, but sipped the champagne anyway, conceding to himself that it was actually rather nice. Sometimes he wondered if it was only his own prejudices which
were holding him back.

‘Oh, look, the boats are setting out,’ Jaix said.

From the quayside, thousands of pyre boats were casting off, pushed out into the fast flow of water by teekay from teary relatives. They varied from large and expensive craft with high pyre
platforms where those who were seeking Guidance waited on their comfortable beds, down to simple rafts with their owners sitting atop a pile of firewood.

Captain Philious stood at the front of the pavilion and waved graciously to the departing boats, smiling widely. The city’s harbour-master boats were trying to steer the irregular flotilla
out away from the quays and slipways. There hadn’t been a blowback fire for over nine hundred years, and the city authorities were keen to keep that record going.

As the four of them sipped their champagne, the boats moved out and the current started to carry them downstream. Nonetheless, they maintained a loose formation, with few stragglers.

‘How many?’ Lanicia asked.

‘The mayor’s office estimated about seventeen thousand people,’ Arnice said. ‘They come in from eight counties, after all.’

Slvasta sent his ex-sight slipping over his pocketwatch. The Skylord was due in another three minutes. The sound of the waterside crowd waving and cheering was audible even on the balcony.

‘Do you think it will come?’ Jaix said.

‘The Watcher Guild reported five approaching,’ Slvasta said. ‘Their calculations are usually accurate.’

‘So how come they can never be as accurate about the eggs?’ Lanicia asked.

‘You’re talking about two very different objects to spot in space,’ Slvasta replied. ‘The Skylords are vast and glow. They are easy to see at night, especially with the
large multi-mirror telescopes the guild uses at its primary observatories. But the eggs, now they’re as black as the space between the nebulas. The only way we can have any advanced warning
is if they’re spotted transiting during the daytime, and for that you have to have keen eyes and get very lucky. Usually, we only get advance warning for about one Fall in five; otherwise all
the guild sees is the descent contrail through the atmosphere – and we only get that if there aren’t too many clouds.’

‘I thought you couldn’t see space during the day,’ Lanicia said.

‘It’s the sun which is the problem,’ Slvasta said. ‘The Forest is directly between us and the sun. And you absolutely cannot look at the sun through a telescope;
you’ll burn your eyes out in a fraction of a second.’

‘Then how do they see the eggs approaching?’

‘Filters and a giant screen,’ Slvasta said, remembering his trip to the guild’s Polulor Observatory. ‘The telescope is rigged to shine the magnified image of the Forest
onto a giant screen, and I do mean giant. It’s a white wall probably half the size of this building.’