City of no end, p.1
City of No End, page 1
Welund shivered in the nauseating wind of Dorith’s End. The air here was dry as old bone - it seemed to drink the water right from his lips and eyes, leaving him hollow. He had traveled to nearly every corner of the Realm over the last two decades. From poisonous Mold Marsh, where the water could kill a man in seconds, to the rubble-strewn Wastes, where the howling wind could turn flesh to ice in minutes, he had never found a place he despised so much as this so-called Holy Land, this spur of jagged metal and broken crete jutting out into the hungry void of the Abyss.
From his position standing on a dock on the outermost spur of Dorith’s End, he could gaze wistfully at the infinite expanse of the City, nearly any other part of which he would have preferred to be in. The End’s grim manors and cathedrals of quarried rubble squatted in the grey light as the Ambience faded, its last few rays dimming on the northwestern horizon. Tomorrow it would reignite in its eighth pattern-cycle, the last of the month, the last month of the year.
It would be just as dark then as now, for the eighth cycle shone from due north, and was blocked out by Hab Spire Rise, a range of structures that dwarfed even the scrapers. The scrapers that composed the Low Halls - and, indeed, most of the City of No End - were hundreds or even thousands of feet tall, so enormous they could be easily perceived even from the spur of the End peninsula. Yet, built as they were at the feet of the three nearest Spires, the multitude of towers might as well have been insects toiling in the shadow of a giant.
“What will you two do?” The question was posed by Joash, the Wastelander, blonde and baby-faced, his youthful good looks somewhat ruined by the fifty-odd tumors that hung in clusters at his throat and cheeks, and pushed out the skin around his eyes. Obviously, his meaning would have been better expressed as “how will you spend the money?”
Welund knew well the answer to this question. “Go home, live easy, watch the Ambience take a dozen Turns in peace.” He’d repeated this cycle quite a few times.
Gawen, the Spireman, head and shoulders taller than the other two, laughed. “Why live like a peasant for a year when you could live like a lord for a day? I wouldn’t pay a milli for the one. Gimme a choice twixt livin’ a hundred years in rags or a hundred days in riches, I know which I’d pick. Abyss, gimme a choice twixt a hundred years in rags and a quick death, I know which I’d pick.”
“So,” Welund inferred, “the finest drink and company money can buy?”
“Until my pockets are empty.”
“Then long may they be full.” A hundred geld, even split three ways, was a lot of glass. Three years’ wages for a soldier. Ten or more for a scav. “Well, boy, you’d not have asked the question if you didn’t plan on giving your own answer. So what will it be? Luxuries? Leisure? Responsible, forward-looking investments?”
Joash was red-faced. It looked kind of disgusting; his cheeks were a lumpy stew of white and crimson. “I was thinking… a flower.”
Welund frowned. “A what? Like stringweed? What kind of flower runs you thirty geld, and why in Crom’s name would you want it?”
“Not like the ones on a stringweed,” Joash protested. “These ones are a hundred, two hundred times bigger. Size of your whole hand. They grow ‘em up in Hab Spire Rise. Ywain Kendar himself’s got a whole room of ‘em. He sells ‘em. Gonna get me a big flat red one.”
“For thirty fuckin’ geld?” Gawen’s eyes widened. “Heard of those things, but that price… they gonna cure your face or sommat?”
“No, they don’t… they don’t do anything.” The reddening of the Wastelander’s face continued. “It’s just they look nice enough, and they have a perfume to ‘em…”
“Perfumed flowers?” Welund had eaten his fair share of clot, and picked his fair share of stringweed. Those tiny white protrusions smelled like a strong headache on a good day. “And again, that’s worth thirty good glass geld?”
“Twenty,” Joash corrected defensively. “The other ten…”
“Shove your other ten, lad. It’s this twenty needs explainin’.”
Welund nodded. “Aye, that’s an odd buy if ever I’ve heard one. Think even ‘noble for a day’ makes more sense. ‘Sides which, how do you know it’s worth it when you ain’t even seen one?”
“I have seen one. I’ve seen where they’re grown.”
“Please,” Gawen scoffed. “You’ve seen Ywain Kendar’s garden ‘partments? The Lord’s brother hisself?”
Joash responded only with a sullen expression. Welund chuckled. That was probably the only thing the kid could have done to make him believe his story. He knew too well what it was like to have seen things that nobody would believe existed, much less believe you had seen them. For all the hardship of the scav’s life, that was their great privilege: to be the final witnesses to a thousand fading secrets across the crumbling City.
The final traces of Ambience faded. A smooth black shape advanced through the swirling dust of the Abyss’s mad winds. The grav-ship swept silently to the dock, grey sails trembling, spindly stabilizers quivering like an insect’s legs. Welund made out half a dozen crewmen exactly. Through long and hard-earned habit, his fingers caressed the grip of the Ell-See holstered at his side. He took a deep breath and closed his fist.
As agreed, only three people approached them. Welund shot Joash a reassuring grin, then nodded to Gawen. “Let them see it.”
The Spireman grunted and shifted one of the chunks of fragmented crete that littered the area. From beneath, he retrieved the code cylinder. Welund found the concept of miniaturization fascinating. He was one of very few living people in the Realm who had seen a Golden Age keychip - they were tiny, no larger than a fingernail. Like a key to an ordinary lock, they could be easily carried, concealed, and used. The code cylinder was at the halfway point between the primitive iron key of the modern day and the incomprehensible glass key of a million years hence. It was two feet in length from handle to circular base, weighed thirty pounds, and took ten minutes to open the gargantuan lock it had been created for. It was worth its weight in glass, but Welund would be more than happy to get rid of it for a paltry hundred geld. Tech-theft usually carried a sentence of instant death in the Realm. Stealing tech from the Sorcerers was more likely to end in dissection.
Joash had, at one point, suggested they cut out the middleman and make use of the cylinder themselves. Welund and Gawen laughed at him. Holding onto the key for even two days was an enormous risk. Whatever was in the vault itself was far, far more dangerous. It was much better to pass it on to their well-paying and foolish client, who would be unable to implicate them when the raid inevitably went wrong.
The three men stopped at a comfortable distance. Gawen hefted the cylinder, making sure they got a good look at it.
“I have to admit,” the leader said, “I’m impressed.”
This was the man Welund had made the deal with. He had the look of one who was always thinking of ways to rip off everyone around him. Doubtless he thought he was getting the better end of this bargain by far. Well, if he is, more power to him. Welund would be more than happy to collect his relatively small pay. The rich man’s pittance was the scav’s fortune.
“Was it difficult?”
Welund didn’t trust that too-friendly voice. “We planned on difficult.”
“All I’m saying is well done. I have my sources, you know. None of them have heard any panic or whatnot in Fibre Tower. It’s almost like the Sorcerers don’t even know the key is gone.”
“Because they don’t,” Gawen boasted. “Nor will they until the next time they try to open their precious vault.”
“A switch, eh? Have to be a damn good fake to fool a Sorcerer...”
“Didn’t really come for small talk,” Welund interrupted. “I’d like to get this thing off my hands sooner than later. So let’s make the switch and part ways.”
The man laughed and shook his head. “Hasty one, aren’t you? But I know why you’re on edge - you’re expecting a twist. A last second… renegotiation. Well, I’d hate to disappoint. One hardly lets a deal stand unchallenged, these days. And yes, there’s been a change of plans.”
Welund’s gun was in his hand in an instant. Gawen unslung his big springun a fraction of a second slower, and Joash grabbed the axe propped discreetly against the chunk of rubble he was standing next to.
They’d been expecting this, alright.
“Really hope your ‘renegotiation’ is worth it to you,” Gawen growled. “You think your friends back there on your ship can cut us down before I put a nail in your brain?”
The man raised his hands slowly. “Not at all, not at all. We’re unarmed. All seven of us.”
Welund had counted only six.
A resounding crunch filled the air as some enormous object fell, crushing crete to dust beneath it. Only then did Welund notice the second grav-ship, hovering silently in the darkness above them.
The object - or person, for it was indeed a person - landed closest to Gawen. The Spireman whirled at the sound, facing the newcomer. With a loud click his springun fired, and the iron nail struck true. Yet the metal-clad being seemed unfazed. It advanced, black fluid oozing around the nail embedded in its iron skin. It seized Gawen’s shoulders with its clawed hands and ripped him in two with one casual motion.
Welund’s heart leapt into his mouth. He raised his Ell-See and fired, knowing already that it was useless. The Man of Iron was invincible, the inexorable enforcer of the Plan, most terrible servant of the Church of Ascension. Its flesh and self-interest had been agonizingly cut away and replaced wi
He fired three times before it reached him, each bullet striking sparks off the crusader’s iron skin. With a leisurely, almost clumsy swing, it backhanded him, knocking him to the ground. Its sharp-edged knuckles raked long gouges into his skin, and he felt ribs shatter. Pain and blackness began to overwhelm his vision - through the fog, he saw Joash swing his axe, leaving a small dent in the Man of Iron’s shoulder. It gripped the handle of the axe and snapped the weapon in half, then struck the Wastelander in the sternum with an open hand. He flew several feet backward and hit the ground. The young scav sat up. He opened his mouth, maybe to say something, maybe to beg for mercy. Blood poured out. He slumped forward.
The Man of Iron stooped and picked the cylinder up with one hand. “This was a tedious waste of time and resources,” it rumbled.
“They knew my face,” the deal-maker argued. “They could have…”
“If your paranoia results in our exposure…” The iron giant gestured to the carnage with its free hand. “The consequences will be severe.”
The second ship descended gracefully, alighting near the dock. The Man of Iron boarded it, cylinder in hand, and his accomplices hurried back to their own ship. In a few moments, they were long gone.
Welund was not naive enough to praise his good fortune. He felt the stabbing pain in his chest with every shallow breath he took, and knew what it meant. His luck had finally taken a bad turn - Gawen and Joash were much better off.
He closed his eyes and waited to die.
Contents
1 - The Funeral
2 - The Pool and the Plunge
3 - Starvation Diplomacy
4 - Faith, Fear, and Falsehoods
5 - Seeds of Conflict
6 - All Flesh Must Moulder
7 - Ladies In Waiting
8 - The Meek Shall Inherit
9 - Kith and Kin and Hint of Sin
10 - Partaker
11 - Defenders of the Realm
12 - Petitions of the Pious
13 - Cracks
14 - A Spark in the Marsh
15 - The Idols We Carved
16 - Tact and Tactics
17 - Other Charms
18 - The Tapper
19 - Heir Presumptive
20 - Blood in the Marshes
21 - Implausible Deniability
22 - The Offer
23 - Politics By Other Means
24 - Revelations
25 - Expenses
26 - Decisive Action
27 - Disjointed
28 - The Deed
29 - The Scent of Blood
30 - The Giant
31 - Damage Control
32 - Specify
33 - Of Bad News
34 - A Spark of Hope
35 - De Profundis
36 - Craven Images
37 - Strange Fire
38 - A Modest Proposal
39 - The Price in Glass
40 - The Murderer
41 - Flowers and Seed
42 - A Broader View
43 - Long Lost Son
44 - Social Norms
45 - My Brother, My Liege
46 - An Appreciable Strain
47 - The Man Who Burned the Ivory Tower
48 - Peace Talks
49 - Courting and Sentencing
50 - Peace in Our Time
51 - Cut a Man’s Soul
52 - Public Reasoning
53 - The Funeral
Epilogue
1 - The Funeral
“These narcissistic families have long been interdependent. The Receiver’s main purpose is to destroy their illusion of self-reliance and force them to think in terms of collective benefit. Only then can we begin to make progress.”
-Casran Janbald, Correspondences and Conversations of Jacob Crom.
The Receiver was dead. Every person of note had gathered in his Hall for the funeral. The garb of the assembled nobles was more muted than it was in most gatherings of this scale - it was necessary to appear to be in mourning. Few, however, were mourning. Most were quietly celebrating.
It wasn’t that Janrad Norn was particularly despised. Like every ruler, he had made enemies, some more bitter than others, but by and large he was respected, even liked. His death was cause for secret joy because it left his office empty. In the Realm, where nearly everything was passed down from father to son, the office of Receiver was elected.
This was, Ywain Kendar theorized, an act of deliberate genius by Jacob Crom, that exalted figure who had first conquered the Realm and named himself Receiver. In the five hundred years since, rebellion against the despotic power of the Receiver was almost unheard of, even by the mightiest of the noble families. Especially by the mightiest of the noble families. There was far less risk and far more gain in trying to fill the office than in trying to do away with it.
Ywain himself had no such aspirations. He was not the Elector of House Kendar - his older brother, Odham, held that honor. Persons other than Electors could be elected, but you could count such Receivers on one hand. Ywain stood over the casket of Janrad Norn, but he did not look down at the man who lay there in embalmed placidity. He looked over and past the late Receiver, fixing his gaze on the chair Janrad had occupied in life. He pictured his brother in that chair, stern and scowling, bringing order to the Realm.
The Hall of the Receiver was grim but grand. The enormous hexagonal table at its center currently served as the deceased ruler’s bier, but had another, far more important purpose: the thirty-seven Electors sat around it to choose a new master. The one who would rule for life was chosen here, amongst the towering grey columns and bleak slate floors of the Hall, but once chosen he would proceed inward, to the Temple, where the mysteries of rule began. No Elector was permitted within, nor any other person besides the Receiver and the enigmatic Cult that served him.
With some effort, Ywain tore his gaze away from the grand chair at the head of the table. His eyes swept the room. Odham was conferring with his only son, Roman - the nephew upon whom Ywain had lavished grudging affection for twenty years. Thirty-six other Electors filled the room with their families and retinues. Two dozen masked Cultists of the Receiver stood guard at the entrances and near the slanted walls. Ywain gulped down most of his remaining wine. That chair wasn’t going to fill itself.
The ringing of silverware on glass cut through the multitude of conversations filling the room, and the aristocrats quieted one by one, turning their attention to the tall man at the center of the room. Ywain stood on the central table next to the casket, near-empty drink in hand. When all eyes were on him, he cleared his throat.
“Cousins, peers, fellow citizens. With Janrad’s passing, we enter another interregnum, and another time of fleeting uncertainty. It is easy to guess where a Kendar’s hopes for his successor lie, so I will not waste your time or mine by attempting to sway you, certainly not at this ceremony of mourning. Instead, I would like to say a few words about our late defender and arbiter.” Ywain saw ripples forming in his wine - his hand was shaking. He had seldom set foot outside his apartments in the last eight years. Where was the statesman of Hab Spire Rise, Odham Kendar’s right hand? Had he let himself fall so far as to fear public speaking?
“The many disagreements between my family and Janrad’s kin are well-known to you all.” He heard Kavin Norn snort derisively at this understatement. Norns and Kendars had been butchering each other since Before Crom. “So therefore let me avoid hypocrisy and empty words, and pay Janrad himself appropriate compliments. He was a man we all respected. Whatever our conflicts with other Norns, ancient and recent, House Kendar never had cause to complain of him. He sought to do honorably by all citizens of the Realm, and to treat them justly regardless of their blood, birth, or faith.”
A few scattered murmurs of agreement arose, mainly from those persons unaffiliated with Big Three. No matter what Lord Odham’s brother might be saying at the moment, no Kendar vassal was willing to risk future consequences for cheering on public praise of a Norn. Likewise, no Norn was willing to acknowledge any praise that came from a Kendar, lest they legitimize the snide accusations they must assume were hidden therein. As for the Leibowitze, they clustered silently in their grey robes of coarse sulat, taciturn as all their kind.
