The Orphans Revolt (Star Plague Journals Book 1)

By Paul Smith

This is the original, collated edition of this work. I'm currently releasing it episodically here and deviantART whilst I write the last volume in the series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Smith
• Release date: Feb 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310715686

Paul Smith

PAUL SMITH is a dedicated father of two and an expert trainer in leadership and storytelling techniques. As the author of the popular Lead with a Story, he has seen his work featured in The Wall Street Journal, Time, Forbes, The Washington Post, Success, and Investor's Business Daily, among others.

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The Orphans Revolt.

(The Star Plague Journals, First Night.)

Written and illustrated by Paul Smith.

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The Orphans Revolt (Star Plague Journals, Book 1)

Paul Smith

Copyright 2014 Paul Smith

Smashwords Edition.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to people, places or events is purely coincidental, and bears no malicious intent.

ISBN: 9781310715686

For more information on my work, and to keep up to date with new releases please follow me on Twitter @tattooloverboi or check out one of my galleries:

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Blog: http://paulsmithauthor.wordpress.com/

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For my beautiful husband, Rich. Love you forever, handsome man.

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‘And she wrapped their temple in thorns. A bind, for their Devil’s soul.’

From Kelosine’s Journal, Poems. The Book of Tine, Part One.

‘Come sailor, follow me down debauched streets. Dare you walk in the Nefiit’s shadow? Dare you tread in the immortals’ footsteps? You have heard the rumours, you say? They are all true. Here, you will find your hearts desire. Better, you will find the satiation of that lust that creeps in the shadows at the corner of your mind.

We have seen it all. Nothing you want will surprise.

So come, fill your cup, empty those swelling loins. Here, we turn no one away.’

Chorus, from The Last Tango of Roijana, by Inian Maurain.

*

Prelude: Dreams.

It’s all about symbols.

The city’s reflection stretched away into the distance, consummate as smoke, a mirror to its corporeal twin on the flip side of the grid. A thing of subtle lines and gauzy walls. Beneath its insinuation, the Garden shimmered. A consensual hallucination, shifting on the winds of that other concept of place. Born from the minds of those whose blood granted them the Affinity to see.

Mark’s slumbering body shifted on his bed, seeking a more comfortable position for his aching bones, hips protesting enough that the vision before his minds eye wavered uncertainly, threatened by consciousness. Just at the edge of waking his body shifted again, falling into a more comfortable pose, hips aslant the hard mattress, and deeper sleep came flooding back in like the tide.

Staring out in the slightly groggy way of the unconscious, all seemed quiescent, the metropolis picked out in suggested detail; the tall spires of the Council of Equal’s Auditoria, the broad, canopied expanse of the Alluvial Market.

The brooding inference of the old mansion of House Nefiit.

Leaves from the city’s marsh willows sung like wind chimes, early fallers scattering through her streets.

A twinkling point caught his eye.

Gathering play of light, like sunset, off the spinning chime’s metal planes.

He realised what he was seeing as the light swelled, spiralling outward, growing in intensity as it took in more and more of the surrounding grid strands, clawing at the fabric of the Garden like a child clutching at its blanket, expanding with the ugly finality of a dying sun.

He was screaming even as his consciousness fought desperately clear of the horror before his mind’s eye, fighting to escape the all consuming absence that sang siren sweet at its heart.

He landed sharply against the cool floor, cries of terror becoming invectives of pain, though the haunted undertones continued to colour his blasphemies as he struggled to his feet, unwinding the bed sheets from their tangled mess about his limbs. Sweat glistened across skin that tingled with goose flesh, though the night breeze was balmy with its promise of the prairies of south-eastern Nianen, across the sea.

Rubbing his sore ribs, he hauled himself back up onto the bed, glancing out the window, almost expecting to see a distant flare of light marring the darkness. But of course the only stars were those climbing the heavens, their bright points winking against velvet black.

A telltale liming at the horizon warned of the imminence of dawn, casting broad shadows back up the curve of the Ring.

Rubbing his hand across a face that was starting to run to jowls and bags beneath the eyes, Mark sighed. Sleep, ever an elusive mistress for him, would not be returning tonight.

With the stoic resignation that comes only with age, he hoisted himself to his feet, hooking a robe from the back of the chair at his desk as he crossed the cold stones and deep piled rug, going in search of a hot mug to calm his trembling hands.

*

The thicket of limbs overhead shivered in an errant breeze. A renegade zephyr, snuck down from the boundary of the Grove, at the caldera’s edge. It set the leaves to whispering, though the architectural limbs of the cathedral remained immobile. In the midmorning sun the spaces beneath them were a maze of gold and viridian.

Casting a nervous gaze to right and left, he made his way up the aisle, passing round pools of uninterrupted light deep as gilded aquariums, where breaks in the foliage permitted the rays to reach down, unobstructed, to the carpet of grasses and wildflowers below.

Trailed a hand through one as he passed; his skin sang at its touch, the Briar that bound his bones flexing in appreciation.

Ahead lay the central glade, an elongated ellipse of open ground, uninterrupted but for the shadows cast by the twisted limbs of the tree that stood at its centre, the sunset corridor at its far edge still currently in shadow.

Passing out into the central space he managed two steps into the direct light before the chloroplasts littering his skin had engorged beyond his ability to control, co-opting his limbic system in a wave of juddering ecstasy that was only enhanced by the fresh hit of Fizz coursing through his arteries.

For a time it was all he could do to contemplate the slow shifting of the fractal shadows, cast by the leaves about the edge of the clearing.

Eventually, through an insurmountable effort of will, and only because the whispering of the old ones about him was becoming so disturbed, he managed to inch one hand up far enough to get his fingers round one of the thorns piercing the skin of his left forearm.

Kye took a firm grasp and wrenched.

The pain was excruciating, as always, but served to break the fugue. Gasping, he stumbled forward as the gesture overbalanced him, catching himself before he fell. The thorn he tossed into the trees; it was useless to him now, and no Daiku thief would dare risk this place for such a trinket. His palm was smeared in crimson, where he’d lacerated himself on the thing’s knife-like edge, and the hole in his arm where it’d broken through his skin was bloody and raw.

Raising the wound to his lips, he sucked absently, the sensation satisfying in that oddly self-reliant way masturbation is: you know the source of the pleasure is your own will, and that takes away some of the thrill. But it substitutes a certain self-affirming comfort in its place.

Thus reassured, Kye approached the Locus.

The light had shifted noticeably whilst he’d been in rapture, the sun stood at a definite angle now, no longer near the apex of its curve. About him the trees had calmed, their mummified hearts quiescent now they sensed purpose in their midst.

Before him, the Locus rose silent and foreboding, its stunted limbs lacking the grace of those it shared the Grove with, yet possessed of a beauty all their own; an elegance borne more of the sensibilities of old age and refinement than the trappings of youth.

It was the centre of his world. Though he knew some of the others harkened back to the other, at Carpassan, for him it would always be this place, in its high eyrie on the northern edge of the Congregate’s influence.

A little piece of tropical nirvana, hidden away behind the Grove’s protective ice.

The tree itself was not large, barely twice his own height, and he wasn’t tall. It stood at the centre of the open meadow, surrounded by the concentric circles of tangle-limbed boughs that formed the cathedral itself. They stretched away from it on every side, the thrumming network of roots beneath them forming a rich web of light clearly visible to any with the Affinity, that pulsed and hummed in the loamy darkness.

Kye stopped before the trunk, standing just beyond the span of its branches, alert for any nuance in the air. When nothing came to him, he moved forward again, stepping in beneath the tree’s shadow. His awareness of the outside world diminished as he shifted perception, daylight replaced by the burning lines of the Garden; the briar twisting through his innards engorging in a rush of sap as he thrust forearm and cheek against the Locus’ bark, the thorns breaking his skin there sinking into the trees flesh with exquisite ease.

The voices came stampeding in, bringing their cloud of memories billowing behind, tasting of sea air…

In the dusk you could see the nervousness on their faces, these Captains and Torsmen, with their rich merchant Family leash holders. To a man they looked as you might expect for one about to face his maker, having lived a very sinful life.

Rusa chuckled, holding his side where the motion pulled skin and briar taught, drawing spots of blood from the thorns that broke through there. Ignoring the veiled looks of those around him, he reached for the slim pipe in the pocket of his waistcoat, emptying the crushed residue from a folded packet into its bowl and igniting it with a quick gesture of finger and thumb.

The Snap leaped everything into sharp focus, liming the edges of the sunset world with crystalline rainbows. Not necessarily a good thing, Rusa mused, as he spied the hulking figure approaching from the corner of his eye, moving across the deck with the sway of the ship.

I ask again, are you sure this wise?

Rusa turned to survey the figure before him. General Molchari Daeon was not a beautiful man by anyone’s standards; even handsome would have been a stretch. Tall and bull shouldered, with arms like structural pillars, his jaw looked like it had been hewn from the marble that littered the sea cliffs, to the north of Incarnate. His only redeeming features were his eyes; gorgeous deep chestnut wells with lashes that must drive the court ladies insane with jealousy. In his padded leather and iron skull cap, scarlet cape thrown dismissively over one shoulder, he looked like something out of the Book of Tine; a cautionary tale for restless vassals.

General, we’ve been over this a thousand times, Rusa glanced at the others, waving his pipe dismissively towards the great haft of land that rose from the waters beyond their hiding place, amidst the Needles. The mouth of the Gold Leaf lay just around the side of that bluff, their goal upon its far shore, amidst the sycamore forests that dominated the lowlands of Faeron.

Though the Needles were not an ideal hiding place for a fleet – a smattering of jagged uprisings that broke the waters just south of the fjord’s southern wall – they nonetheless provided some cover from the lookouts Daeon was certain would be peering from the heights above. A necessity at this stage in the game, if only to muddy estimates of their numbers.

Sighing, Rusa fixed the General with a level stare. When we take prisoners, we need them to be able to lead us to the others. They can’t do that if they disintegrate the moment they step out into the light. He glanced about at the others, whom he knew were listening intently. Nobody liked the idea of storming the city at the cusp of night; stories of the horrors that had occurred when they took the Imperial Precinct had travelled faster than any of them would have liked.

The logic was simple: the Wraethi would fight longest and hardest under cover of dark; any attack during the day would simply prompt them to go to ground, defeating the object of the exercise. You can’t kill someone when you don’t know where they are.

The General regarded him with poorly disguised distaste, but said nothing. Turning, he set off back across the deck, heading for the forecastle and his maps. He knew the Nym was right and there was little he could do about it. Molchari Daeon was many things, but a fool was not one of them.

A sudden insight made Rusa wonder if it was truly the failing light that was bothering the General.

They’ll be here, he called suddenly, stepping away from the rail, one hand partially raised in an uncharacteristic gesture of reassurance.

Daeon turned, regarding him leisurely. They’d better be, or the old legends of their honour beside the Compact will be replaced with stories of cowardice in the face of our strife. Switching back, his cape whirling about him, he strode off, the boards of the deck creaking beneath his boots. Rusa glanced up at the junk’s crow’s nest, but the woman who currently sat it was silent, had been for most of the day. Overhead thick cloud cover obscured the darkening sky, making it seem later than it actually was, but he could see glimmers of the sun, far to the west over the horizon.

He glanced at the jagged shadow stood at the rail behind him.

Suchain raised eyes like liquid gold to meet his, nodded once, his tuft of shocking blond hair swaying in the breeze. Rusa watched him turn, linen tee flapping in the wind about his slight frame, making for the aft entrance to the hold, where one of the Myson was acting as Hub.

It was nearly time.

A hand on his shoulder, the voices attenuating with the loss of physical contact; sunlight streaming about him in a siren blaze that took his breath away for a few moments, left him feeling light headed and weak kneed with want.

Here.

A touch of warmth: a mirror had been placed in the flow, diverting some of that golden solace away from its course, bathing his chest, soothing the inner craving.

Better?

Kye managed a nod; he pushed to the surface out of the noise, forcing his sense of self to the fore.

Thank you, Ikari.

I was told to come get you, the Cabal wish to know what you have learned.

Kye nodded, taking a moment to study the younger Nym. Ikari looked like a corpse when compared to the bustling sailors he’d just been dreaming, aboard the junk. His skin bore the strange, pale green gold cast of their kind, though it was still several shades lighter than Kye’s own. His body had wasted to an almost alien extent, where internal organs had withered from disuse. A spine and a pelvis, supporting a ribcage and surprisingly broad shoulders for one of their kith, all bound about with the tangle of the briar that infested their bodies from within. Thorns traced the lines of individual branches where they broke the skin; a spiral across his left pectoral; framing the socket of his right eye. In a curve down his right forearm, culminating in a twist at the centre of his palm.

Ikari bore this scrutiny with unwavering eyes, like pools of ice at sunset, shining lambent.

Then we should not keep them waiting, eh? Holding out a hand, he let the other help him to his feet, glancing back once to the tortured limbs of the Locus, now casting a long deep shadow back behind them from the setting sun as it blazed down the corridor at the far end of the clearing, framed by the deep cleft in the caldera’s western wall.

He let Ikari lead the way, tracing the line of shadow to the edge of the open space, where they passed beneath the bows, into the twilit halls of the cathedral beyond.

Overhead, the first of the stars winked into view.

But why now?

Deliana cast her gaze about at the rest of them, the flecks of gold littering her blue eyes picked out brightly in light of the lamps, her skin almost warm in their soft glow.

We’re like a council of scarecrows, Kye mused, not for the first time, as he gazed about at his fellows of the Cabal. Each of the six men and women present a caricature of who they might have been. The briar twisted all in their own way. For some, like Ikari, it was a kiss, imparting a beauty ethereal in its strangeness. For others, such as Rusa, it was a cruel thing, leaving the recipient a horrific shadow.

Because something has disturbed them. Old Tom regarded them each in turn across the table they occupied in the Grove’s commons. Outside, the wind had picked up, as it often did at night, here on the ridge, whistling straight down from the wastes to the north, across the unbroken ocean, though the boundary kept any hint of arctic chill firmly on the outside. We’re not children, and I for one am most certainly not an idiot. He gestured between them. Kye, will you share?

Kye nodded his ascent, climbing up onto the table; Deliana balled her shawl up, forestalling his head whilst she placed it on the table as a pillow. He lay back, letting his shirt fall open across his narrow chest, feet bare at the far end. The room began to thrum in his ears as he felt the others through the Garden, their reflections there shimmering in his mind’s eye on the far side of the grid.

Someone had lit a censor of palm; its smell so intrinsically green it was unmistakeable. Narcotic smoke drifted out across the gathering, planes of whorled white separating the room into discrete spaces.

The thorns began to pierce his skin even as his eyes fluttered shut, here becoming something subjective, yet shared, as their consciousnesses mingled. Relaxing, he let the impressions gifted earlier unfold once again on his inner stage…

The nightmare of twilight into darkness was even more vivid the second time. Waves shimmered like liquid silver beneath the bow of the junk as it broke from cover. Its ribbed sails bellying in the wind off the Arc Sea, carrying them through the vast Gateway, with its twin lighthouses, onto the Gold Leaf, running cross current in the lengthening shadows, towards the distant lights of the waiting city.

The walls of Galairel looming in the dusk, black as the night that crept up from the edge of the world, their heights limed in torchlight.

The Daiku defenders raining arrows of fire down upon their fleet with the vindictive desperation of the cornered, vast pieces of volcanic stone falling amongst them as the trebuchets sought to find their marks.

The House loyalists had been exultant in those early minutes.

Then the terrible screams as the Drakes rose from the waves like vast cormorants, wings raining down water in a hurricane of spray as they fought for the skies amidst the war galleys, their armoured hides glistening in the illumination from the surrounding ship’s lanterns.

Blistering fire, like a star brought down from the heavens, spewing forth from their distended maws as figures fled the walls in terror, hundreds dying in that first wash of light.

Claws ripping stone, tearing at the fortifications with a sound like thunder.

As the ships swept in like gulls to finish the slaughter, their crews were baying like wolves.

Brandishing steel ready to paint the streets in blood.

*

Rusa’s heart was just beginning to calm as the young Nym came to him in his crib.

Except I’m not he, Kye chided himself, shivering at a fresh wash of pleasure. Lifting the straight pipe to his lips, he drew deeply, watching the crystals at its narrow tip feed off the rush of air, lighting the shadowy corner where he reclined in his hammock.

I was told to attend you… Ikari asked uncertainly as he stepped through the drape of fabric that served as a door. He paused part way across the threshold, face uncertain.

Easy, my boy. Kye gestured at the cushion he’d had placed next to his low table, near the centre of the broad room, where the lamplight was strongest. Please, sit.

Ikari did as he was told, folding long legs underneath himself in one smooth motion. He glanced at the papers and chart before him, and the package beside them, bound in a leather thong.

Yes, Kye muttered round the pipe stem, eyes half lidded as he relit it. We need you to go to our brethren.

Ikari regarded him, head cocked slightly. You fear intrusion.

And so the message must be carried. We cannot guard against interception when we don’t know who might be listening.

Ikari nodded. I’m to remain ignorant.

Bury the long face, Kye replied softly, sitting up; a hand rose from the shadows to his chest, preventing him from shifting too far; sighing, he settled back, submitting again to his companion’s ministrations. Brushed his own palm gently over the back of the head in his lap, sighing as it lowered once more. You’ll be there for their winter solstice; it’s quite an experience.

That long?

In the quiet, the soft wet sounds mingled with the wind, sighing amidst the ruins littering the floor of the caldera. Ikari drew breath, but Kye spoke.

We’ve agreed an exchange. His eyes crept open. That much we could do.

A mixture of thrill and desolation warred across the young Nym’s features, before he nodded his ascent.

You should probably go, Kye murmured, his voice gone thick, one limp wrested hand gesturing limply down, teeth gritting as he shuddered. Come back to us…

Gathering up the papers and package, Ikari fled the room, blood singing in his veins.

Contents.

Beginning.

Prelude: Dreams

Act 1: Intimations of Insanity

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

Interlude: Night Sky

Act 2: Inadvisable Actions

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

Interlude: Night Flight

26

27

28

29

30

31

Interlude: Smoke in the Rain

Act 3: The Final Charade

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

Interlude: Aquarium

Cadenza

Coda: Dreams

Acknowledgements

Act 1: Intimations of Insanity.

1.

Are you sure?

He glanced out from beneath the mop of dark hair spilling over his eyes. Positive.

Won’t the Sarista Daran be upset?

To be honest, I doubt she’ll even give it a second thought.

Snickering around the room from the other girls.

What about Lucas?

He glanced across at Sian, where she lounged in a negligee and stockings, right leg hanging artfully over the arm of one of the room’s plump chairs.

Okay, I’ll give you that. Rivan smiled ruefully as she licked her finger, swiped a line in the air. He’ll get over it. He turned back to Caitlin, who knelt in front of him on the sheet. Do it.

She quirked a smile. It’s your temple, honey.

He closed his eyes.

Soft snick-snick sound as the scissors did their work.

Caitlin was quick; a lot of the girls came to her rather than paying the prices of the grooming salons. She had an undeniable flair with a pair of opposed blades.

So, did you enjoy last night?

She made a face, peering over the broad line of his shoulder. As I’m sure you can imagine…

He grinned. If nothing else I’m guessing he was an easy job.

You would have thought. Her fingers touched the nape of his neck, her other palm gentle but firm on the back of his head, tilting it to the required angle. A few moments of silence whilst she concentrated. Clatter of the scissors as they left her hands; scrap of a razor on skin. I would say he must spend a lot of time alone with his right hand, except I’m not entirely convinced he can reach that far.

I did see.

I mean, for god’s sake, the man took forever!

Bet it was like being on a water bed, Anara put in from across the room.

I did feel a little seasick at one point.

At least there was plenty to hold on to, Maora put in as she passed them on her way through.

Where’s she going?

Caitlin rolled her eyes. Her and Brandon are going her for her dress fitting…?

Oh yeah. Sorry, I forgot she’s being loaned out by the Ashran Family this weekend.

I know. It’s alright for some. She tilted his head to the side, indicating he should twist slightly into the light as she picked up the scissors again. I’m surprised you weren’t asked…?

I suspect Sarista Daran’s husband will want that particular honour. Besides, I’m not sure the Madam would be too keen to let me go.

Not with all the sailors in port, for the Summer’s Wake Festival.

Aye. The salt of the sea.

Rivan!

Watch it girlie, those scissors are sharp!

Caitlin gave him another swat, then slid to her feet. Look, see? as she put them on the table. You’re all done. Take a look in the mirror.

Standing, he bushed himself down over the sheet, then stepped forward to examine his new crop. Tufty mass of fringe disappeared into neatness about his ears, tapering to a point at the base of his skull. He’d swear his hair was darker; almost chocolate brown against his pale skin. Caitlin held up a mirror behind him, so he could admire her handiwork.

Nicely done… he allowed, nodding. I almost feel bad about not paying you.

One dark eyebrow arched as she crossed her arm. High praise, indeed.

He turned, reaching out to enfold her in a bear hug.

Oh no you don’t! she danced back past the chair Sian was lying on. The blonde girl lifted her legs out of the way. Go and stand under one of the sluices in the baths. I’ll go shake out the sheet.

He proffered a mock salute over his shoulder as he pushed through the side door.

"I know why she keeps coming back, Sian mused, as the door swung shut again, but I still fail to see how he doesn’t irritate the hell out of her."

Caitlin shrugged as she stood with the bundled sheet in her arms. Crossed towards the opposite door, which led out into the courtyard, nodding thanks as Anara held it open for her. Maybe she gets fed up dealing with rich bitches everyday? she called over her shoulder as she knocked the door shut with her hip.

The sun was warm through the cherry leaves as she skipped across the courtyard towards the laundry rooms.

Later, after she was assured she wouldn’t be attacked by skinny boys from Nianen, Caitlin went to use the bathes herself. They were situated beneath the main structure of the Manse, as was the custom throughout most of the Floating City. This had nothing to do with using the waters of the river delta the city was built across, which frankly weren’t fit for washing shit in, in her private opinion, and everything to do with water pressure from the aqueduct network. As she pulled the chain that opened the sluice, water poured out in a hissing torrent, startlingly cold as it always was, yet invigorating none the less. She let it course over her, reducing her long dark hair to a sopping rope down her back, puckering her nipples before she shut off the flow once again. Wiping liquid from her eyes, she made for the bathing pools and their relative warmth. The one on the western side of the chamber still sparkled with sunlight from the circular stained glass windows set high in the wall.

Pinching her nose, she jumped in, bubbles tickling across her body as they fought for the tattered surface, the warmer water delicious as it enfolded her in comfort. The last rays of the day were beautiful against her skin, bathing it in glittering creases of light.

Kicking off from the side, she did a few brisk laps.

It wasn’t a large pool, and the heated washing tub was even smaller still, but the luxury of somewhere private to swim was enough for her. Best take the chance now, whilst the others were still busy picking outfits in Wardrobe.

It wasn’t that she disliked their company; most of the girls at the Bleeding Heart were lovely, as were the lads. But recently Caitlin Durz had been feeling the need for a new challenge. The gossip in the corridors was that Jaeni Bluisan, the Madam, was looking for a new door doll. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy whoring, last night’s fiasco notwithstanding. It had its rewards, like any job. But she didn’t want to end up like the lonely shadows you saw stalking the edges of the Market after dark, or loitering outside the taverns that littered the back streets, down near the harbour wall.

If her mother had instilled one thing in her, it was to plan for the future.

Surfacing at the end of a length, she pulled for the side, muscles tingling. Her legs and pubic mound needed shaving; she’d attended to her underarms the previous night. And she needed to eat. One of the house rules: no food on duty, unless it was offered or expected by a patron.

Explains a lot, she murmured, hauling herself dripping onto the pools edge. Time for a quick dip in the hot tub, and then she’d have to think about heading up.

The patter of bare feet on marble announced the first of the other’s arriving. Sighing, she grabbed her towel and headed down the central walkway towards the tub.

A Consort’s day was a lot longer than most people appreciated. Images of waking to the lazy afternoon sun, of spending your nights lounging amidst silk sheets, were a fallacy fostered by those who also believed that a knight in shining armour would appear to carry his peasant love away from her tyrannical father.

The reality was quite different.

Each day began middle of the morning, granted – their proprietor’s sole concession to the late hours they kept – with a bout of house keeping duties. The Manse didn’t clean itself, and whilst the place did boast a team of general staff, they were largely employed to facilitate the events of the night, and aside from the chef and Dorn, their live in security, did not actually reside on the premises. So it was left to the Consorts to see that the day to day housework was done.

Rivan hadn’t believed there could be so much bed linen in one place until he woke up that first morning at the Bleeding Heart. The courtyard looked like a congregation of ghosts by middle of the day, once all the washing lines were strung. Oblongs of white divided the broad space into discreet alleys of soap scented air, cotton and silk walls fluttering gently in the onshore breeze.

Then there was the provisioning of the pantry and cellar. Like any good Manse, the Bleeding Heart maintained its own bar, stocked with the finest of the local vintages as well as imports from across the water; Phor brandy from Faeron, vodka from the townships of Isklar to the north, and beer from around the shores of Lake Peshra. Then, too, there were the sacks of grain and baskets of fresh produce to be brought down to the cold room.

Coming from a farm, Rivan had already been used to the hands on approach, unlike some of his city-bred colleagues. Where he saw the opportunity of a ready-made workout, they saw slave labour; their habitual bitching formed a constant backdrop on delivery days.

Not that all of them were like that though: there was Caitlin, obviously, though the first time he’d watched her trying to manhandle a beer barrel he’d been too busy laughing to realise she’d given up long enough to deal him a nasty bruise on the arm. And Sian, for all her posturing, got down on her hands and knees to scrub the floors with the best of them. Rumour had it one of her regulars liked to see her with her hair bound up in a scarf, scrubbing brush in hand, as the climax of his night.

None strange as rich folk. His mother’s words, echoing wryly in his head.

Rivan shook his head, murmuring an apology to the woman he jostled as he threaded round the side of a stall. Clasping the canvas bag hanging at his shoulder close as he moved down the thoroughfare, purposefully keeping to the middle of the street, where it was less crowded. He was running on borrowed time now, a kindness the head chef doled out to those who curried her favour. Her errands were sought after as a legitimate excuse to spend time beyond the Manse’s four walls, over and above free days, and there was an unspoken understanding that if you pleased her your expected time of return would be treated with a certain flexibility.

He had become something of an expert in putting these stolen moments to best use, over the last eight years.

Switching track, he dove through a gap in the crowd and made for the approaching entrance, with its silk canopied seating area, at the end of the walkway. The sprawl of the Alluvial Market took up two major squares and a host of connecting streets and alleys, some of it covered over, other areas open to the beating sun, stretching across three of the delta islands that provided the solid foundations for the city, and clinging to (and in some cases hanging beneath) the bridges that connected them. The entrance he was now making for was the Eastern Gate, which led out onto the water front plaza, and the harbour wall, one of his three favourite places in the city, and his choice of destination for today’s cache of time.

Bag swinging against his hip, he made for the press of bodies congesting the space between the carved pillars. When he’d originally arrived in Kharpal, he’d been obsessed with the extent of the relief-work that seemed to litter the city’s architecture, like fungus in a forest, cropping up in the oddest of places. By turns beautiful and haunting, it gave silent testament to the city’s previous landlords, and one of their more unique modes of self-expression. Having a body as resilient as the bones of the earth had its advantages.

Gazing up, he ran his eyes down the length of the northern pillar, marble if he remembered Dorn’s explanation correctly, with its intricate, squirming surface of clown fish and anemones, coral and the octopi that were the bane of the local crab fishers. You couldn’t tell from here, but the detail was exquisite. He knew; he’d spent hours over his first few weeks here on each of his off days with sketchpad and charcoal stick, ignorant to the throng about him, drinking in the imagery.

Finally, he made it through the gap, and the crowd began to ease about him. Sighing with relief, he paused to shake out the knots he always ended up with in his shoulders after a stint in the Alluvial’s dim interior. He could never decide if his stooping under the low-slung canopies of the covered areas brought them on, or whether it was an unconscious reaction to the press of bodies about him. Bending over to touch his toes, he noticed a scuffmark on the leg of his trousers. Sighing, he straightened again, brushing at it to remove the worst of the dust. It wasn’t really visible against the burgundy of the material anyway, but a constant awareness of one’s appearance was not something you could simply turn off. Grimacing, he put it to the back of his mind, rearranging the bag, and pushing the silver feather he wore on a leather thong about his neck back inside his waistcoat. Then he set off across the plaza, towards the lip of the harbour wall where it jutted above the pavement. Benches had been carved as recesses into its length, some covered by tiny verandas to keep the midday sun off. He made for one of the open ones, weaving through the other foot traffic that frequented this part of the city. The wealthier merchants whose vessels made port here kept an office along this stretch of the seafront, which in practicality meant almost all the shipping Families of the Arc Sea, though there were those who eschewed the city for various reasons. This was strictly a working district; particularly given it was the quickest route on foot between the harbour proper, the Alluvial, and the Merchant’s Quarter and Commerce District, along the waterfront’s southern stretch. Sailors in worn deck gear were as common as the Family scions in their finery. Not forgetting the small army of clerks and bankers who kept the city’s life blood flowing.

Stepping up to the wall, he stood for a moment, enjoying the feel of the wind through his newly shorn hair, the tang of the salt spray on the air this close to the sea itself. Raised a hand to peer out towards open water, a mile or so distant. The intervening space was a wash of masts, stretching out below him towards the distant harbour mouth. The sea wall curved away to either side, blazing white in the late afternoon sun. As he watched, an elegant junk was unfurling its twin ribbed sails, the teams of oars men in their tugs sitting back to watch her glide out on one of the main channels. Out to sea he could just make out the hulking silhouette of a freight runner, making its slow way in from the south. Out of Incarnate, most likely, late in their dash across the water, for this evening’s festivities.

Clambering up onto the bench, Rivan parked himself on the wall top, feet on the seat, and rooted in his bag for the filled roll he’d brought with some of his tips from the previous week. There was also a waterskin lurking in the folds of cloth; he’d have to find some way to thank Chef without being obvious about it.

Unwrapping the roll, he bit into it, hastily sucking in air as he realised the filling was still piping. A quick douse of water removed the immediate problem, and careful probing with his tongue suggested he may have caught it just in time. Reaching for the roll again, he took another, more careful, bite.

It was then that he spotted the young woman in the slashed skirts and embroidered blouse, staring at him from beneath the parasol she carried daintily over one shoulder. A group of similarly dressed women behind her must be sisters and her mother, who was caught up in polite conversation with a clerk, from the look of the ledgers cradled in his arms. Rivan lowered the roll, wiping his lips decorously with a corner of the cloth he’d wrapped it in.

Sixteen at most, if that, he mused. A rich Congregate daughter, possibly a Kairl or even one of the lesser branches of the Daeon.

Reaching into the low slung neckline of his waistcoat, he affected to absently rub his side, exposing most of the left half of his chest in the process – he wasn’t wearing anything underneath it – and felt a slow smile spread across his face as he watched her gaze shift raptly to the exposed flesh.

She must have caught his change of expression, as her eyes shifted back to his face. He winked, and had the pleasure of watching her colour rise.

She looked away swiftly.

Grinning to himself, he turned away, tucking into his roll again as he watched the junk make the harbour mouth.

An hour later he was approaching the Manse once again. Kharpal was a relatively small place; the Floating City’s architects only had so much solid, dry land to play with before the delta dissolved into broader channels and swampy everglades and wetlands to the south and west. They’d got around this with a plan of water and walkways that worked through three dimensions, woven over and through the various levels of the delta islands. The end result was something resembling one of the Kuan’s mandala, with many of the waterways in particular often becoming tunnels as they past beneath a neighbouring district, and streets often crossing intervening islands at height, with neat switchback stairs granting access to the streets below. The heart of the Merchant’s Quarter, and the eastern edge of the Pleasure Quarter in particular, saw a lot of this, sitting as they did several meters closer to sea level than the rest of the city.

Two great bridges connected the waterlogged metropolis to the rest of Taiiruz, along with the main channel of the river Elysae, immediately to the west of the Bee Houses. The city was divided into districts according to the function of the majority of properties there; the Pleasure Quarter, having no direct bearing on the trading of goods, did not rate a waterfront position, but was nonetheless easily accessible from the harbour via several of the major thoroughfares, though one of those was, of course, irrevocably clogged by the Market.

Trust a merchant to ruin a good plan, Rivan muttered.

He raised a hand to clasp wrists with Dorn as he stepped up to the Manse’s front door. What d’you know, Dorn?

The giant man grunted, shaking his head. The fox has been stirring up the other girls; something about the state of the entrance hall?

Rivan rolled his eyes. I bet someone traipsed mud through after she’d finished scrubbing it. He glanced guiltily at his own sandals, slid them off before he pulled the door open. Exchanging a nod with the burly ex-militia man, he continued on into said hall, whose chequered floor shone like something out of a faerietale castle. The offending mess was long gone, the culprit no doubt already re-rostered to latrine duty on the morrow. Madam Bluisan was nothing if not even handed, and in all fairness Sian did put her back into it when she was on floor duty.

Wonder who caught the sharp end of her tongue, he mused, passing through the discreet door beneath the entrance stairs, that led down a short corridor along the southern side of the central courtyard.

Mr Fehr, you’ve returned. Chef Layne stepped away from the broad oak table as he entered the vast kitchen. Thick armed, with hair going to grey in its thick plait, her sharp eyes and fine boned face still bore traces of the beauty that had led her into work within the Manses. Her skin was a shade darker than Caitlin’s coffee and cream complexion; rumour said she drew her line right back to the original Tribes that occupied this part of the world back when the Ice Lakes still covered the Arc Sea.

She gestured to one of her girls to take her place, crossing the room. But there must be some mistake? I asked for cinnamon and green water pupae, not dusty sandals!

He shifted the sandals behind his back, shrugging the bag off his shoulder in the same movement to proffer it in their place with a quirk of the eyebrow.

Ah, that’s better. Wiping floury hands on her apron, she took the bag, placing it on the side before reaching in to remove one of the carefully wrapped packages. Unfolding the slick, oily paper, she took out one of the bright green pods from within, turning it over in her fingers. He give you any trouble?

Rivan shook his head. Mr Iaco was the soul of assistance.

She smiled. Good. She noticed his fidgeting. Go! I’ll not hear the end of it if you’re not suitably scrubbed and attired for tonight.

He nodded thanks, scampering across the kitchen towards the far door.

Not…! But she gave up as he dodged round one of her assistants at the main oven, already halfway across the room. Nice haircut! she settled for instead, shaking her head.

The sandals were lifted in acknowledgement before he vanished through the far door.

He was lost in the cascade of cool water across his scalp when he felt a sharp slap across his arse cheeks.

Hey! Groping for the chain, he shut off the flow, pushing water out of his eyes and shoving damp hair back on his forehead to reveal Brandon’s grinning features.

The other boy winked. Couldn’t resist. Thrust a towel at him. The Madam says you’re going to have to skip the soak, she wants you in Wardrobe now.

I hope we’re wearing a little more than that, he said, gesturing to the small pair of trunks Brandon was sporting.

The dark skinned man raised an eyebrow. It’s not like you to be shy, Rii.

Rivan aimed the wet towel at him, but Brandon had already dodged out of the way. The new hair looks good.

Thank you.

Cat’s becoming something of a pro. He brushed a hand through his own crop of fine dark locks, which stood up like a brush across the ridge of his scalp. I might ask her to have a go at mine next week.

My god, the great Melian locks! Rivan gestured for him to lead the way, draping the towel over one shoulder as they ascended the stairs up into the rest of the Manse. Are you sure?

Well, she’s done such a good job on you, pretty boy…

Marcos Ru will be devastated, you do realise?

He knows where to find me.

Like he’s going to part with the denari…

Care to wager?

What’s the bet? asked Sian as they entered Wardrobe. She glanced round from her seat, where Chysra and Diescz were busy applying tiny beads of coloured glass across the planes down one side of her face. One of the other girls wolf-whistled from across the room; Rivan threw the towel at her, but it snagged on the corner of the mirror backed screen that stood folded round one of the dressing tables.

Not helping, Caitlin called, from behind.

Rivan laughed, turning back to Sian. Mr Melian thinks the Barber of Sycamore Row will put his hand in his purse, for the pleasure of his company.

Sian glanced at Brandon judiciously. You’re reasonably confident about this?

The man can barely keep his hands off me while I’m in the salon.

She pursed her lips, fingering one of her braids. …I’ll support you on that, she allowed finally, winking at Rivan.

No…! Rivan grinned. Anyone else want to throw their money away?

Several voices piped up from round the room.

We should agree a time limit, Rivan said.

Let’s give him a cycle, Sian suggested, glancing at Brandon. He gave a slight nod. That should be long enough to stew.

Who’s holding book?

I will, Cailtin offered, appearing from behind her screen in feathers, a sequin Basque and pop socks. Her eyes narrowed. Rii, you’re still naked.

Your powers of observation… he trailed off as the chimes of the hall clock rang out. Shit.

Come here, we’ll get you sorted, Brandon said, leading the way across the room to the line of dressing tables along the side wall.

I’ll do his skin, you worry about his clothes, Cailtin suggested, the sound of her feet rustling on the hardwood floor as she followed them across to where Rivan was sat, before one of the candle framed mirrors there.

Best make the most of tonight, you’re going to need the funds, Sian said, as the girls resumed their task with tweezers and a pot of paste.

Rivan grinned. Worry about yourself, toots. My foundations are sound.

We’ll see, farm boy, we’ll see.

The Bleeding Heart was by no means the most opulent of the Manses that served as cornerstones of the Pleasure Quarter, but it was certainly one of the more popular. If local mythology was to be believed, the building had once belonged to House Nefiit; certainly the aura of mystique that engendered in today’s younger generation had done them no harm. Indeed the building’s interior column-work, courtyard and bathing room all displayed the unmistakable touch of Wraethi hands. Caitlin could never decide whether she found the sensuous renderings inspired or disturbed. Some of the imagery was a little abrupt, even for her.

Shaking her head, she turned away from the entrance hall banister; the candlelight was making the figures on the upright dance in an unsettling fashion.

Feet scuffing on the doormat brought her attention to the three figures stepping in from the cool evening.

Welcome to the Bleeding Heart, gentlemen. She stepped up to the table placed at the base of the stairs, lowering herself into the plush seat behind it with practiced grace. How may we be of assistance this evening?

A quick fuck’d be nice, one of them replied, his teeth shining briefly in a grin that lit his swarthy features. His mates laughed, one of them folding his arms to lean against the banister. The three of them were dressed in silk vests, one sporting a leather waistcoat on top. Loose cotton trousers tucked into their leather boots. The one who’d spoken bore the mark of a tattooists needle winding down his right arm: bold geometrics in black that followed the lines of his muscle in tessellating patterns, like a stylised flock of swallows. It was an affection first started by the Kuan, though lately taken up by the well-heeled youth of the League Families.

Caitlin bit her lip. Sorry boys, I’m not on duty until later. You’ll have to come back at the change of days.

Tattoo boy glanced at the clock. You’ve got a bar up there I can wait in?

You sure it’ll still work by then, Mikael? his friend at the banister asked. The third one burst into laughter at the slightly hurt look on Mikael’s face, giving him a friendly jab in the ribs.

I’ll tell you what, Caitlin said, leaning forwards slightly across the desk. Their attention shifted with the gesture, drawing a small smile to her lips. I’ll have a word with the Madam, see if someone can’t spot me for half an hour.

He’ll need longer than that Miss, we’ve been at sea since the Midsummer Dance, said the third, with a salacious wink.

I can make it worth your while, Mikael added, reaching into his top to pull out the leather pouch hanging from one of the thongs he wore. He shook it experimentally, before extracting a selection of coins. Our entrance fee, he said, proffering the required amount, and a little something for you, in anticipation of your presence before the chimes… She grinned despite herself as he pulled the coin out of the air by some sleight of hand.

I’ll see what I can do… she replied, tongue buried in her cheek to try and smother a grin. You boys have fun now, she called after, as they ascended the stairs.

Only if the others are as gorgeous as you, one called back, raising a hand over his shoulder.

Caitlin allowed herself a smile as she noted their arrival in the ledger, dropping the coins into the safe box chained to the floor at her feet. The tip went into the pocket sewn inside the top of her boots. She glanced up at the balcony overhead as one of the lads padded between reception rooms. Hey, Kai! Tell the Madam I need a quick word?

The blond boy nodded, disappearing through the door on the far side.

Candlelight flickered over her skin, bringing out the reds and bronzes there. It would also, she knew from experience, have rendered her irises a deep gold. The breeze from the window made shadows dance about her breasts as he played lazily with one of the nipples, the areola slick with sweat from their exertions.

You sure you don’t want to go again?

He grinned, hoisting himself up on one elbow so he could look down on her over the twin mounds of flesh. I’d love to, but I’m not sure I could manage it, truth be told.

Ooh, I don’t know. Caitlin squeezed experimentally and felt an answering pulse. I think I sense life there still…

Aye, he tweaked her nipple playfully, but I need to be able to walk tomorrow without wincing at every step.

It’s your money darling.

He smiled wickedly. And if unloading goes well tomorrow I’ll be back with more.

She narrowed her eyes, lips pursed playfully. Oh? What sort of Captain leaves his cargo abroad overnight?

The sort that is running late into port, and doesn’t want a revolt on his hands.

Understanding bloomed across her features. You’re off the galleon that came in this afternoon.

You saw us arrive? He was sitting up, shifting towards the edge of the bed across the rumpled silk. He’d paid for one of the best rooms; she still couldn’t decide whether it was to show off to his mates, or her. Or both. Drink?

Yes please, the brandy. And pass me the tobacco?

He nodded, tossing the pouch to her before turning back to the drinks. She admired the curve of his buttocks and back as he worked; the soft chink of glass on glass accompanied the slurp of liquid as he poured.

I didn’t, she said, but one of the lads who works here was down at the harbour wall this afternoon, saw you break the horizon.

You know, I never got that, he mused, sliding back onto the bed again. He gestured with her glass, placed it on the bedside table as she nodded in that direction whilst she rolled.

What’s that?

Well, why a guy would get into this line of work…

I assure you, it’s fairly easy, if you’ve the right attributes.

He grinned, sipping at his own drink. I guess I was thinking more of how they make their money.

Caitlin gave him a level look.

What I mean is…

… you want to know what sort of customer base they work from?

Yes, exactly. He hung his head sheepishly. Sound like a proper ignorant sailor boy, don’t I?

She leant over to ruffle his mop of curly, sun-bleached hair. A bit. Dodged his half-hearted swipe. Let’s see… she leant over to light her efforts from one of the candles on the bedside table. Brandon tends to specialise in peacekeepers; girls from the local militia. Though he used to do frustrated merchant’s wives back in Ibaeran.

But there aren’t any brothels in Ibaeran.

Hence why he had to leave. She grinned. He’s a wicked scar on his inner thigh from where he almost didn’t make it out.

Mikael nodded in appreciation.

Caitlin sent a plume of smoke towards the window. Now Kai, he’s your typical rich man’s plaything.

He the blond guy?

Who looks like he’s stepped out of a church window? That’s him.

He looks about twelve!

I think that’s the point, love.

Fair play to him.

She nodded, took a sip of her brandy. Ooh, that’s good stuff. Thank you.

Welcome. They chinked glasses. Go on.

Well, then there’s Rivan, who is popular amongst your colleagues, let’s say…

Ah ha.

And Denva is currently doing well off the Family members we get slumming it down here sometimes, though Rivan did end up stealing one of his clients.

Bet that didn’t go down well.

Let’s just say things were a little icy for a few weeks.

He nodded. And what about you girls?

Caitlin shrugged. Quiet similar really, just different names. Sian and Maora work mainly with the more well to do gentlemen; they’ve both the background for it. And Anara is queen of the wharf rats, as we like to call her – no offence, meant.

None taken, he assured her, bowing slightly and taking a swig.

I usually go for the fusty scholars and accountants. But only because they pay well.

So I’m something of a break from the norm for you?

She smiled slyly. You could say that… but don’t go getting a big head.

Not just yet. He winked, and she gave a small nod.

We do also hold a running agreement with the Kuan Circle, one of only two Manses to bear the… honour, of their guaranteed trade.

I’d heard they can be hard on their lovers.

She shrugged, knocking back the rest of her drink. We’ve never had any trouble here, though I did hear horror stories from some of the girls I used to work with, back when I first moved to the city...

Leaning over to stub her cigarette out, she clambered up on all fours, crawling across to kneel between his outstretched legs, where he sat leant back against the headboard. Now, let’s see if we can coax a little life out of you one last time, without leaving you needing to walk bow legged on your way out.

Mikael grinned as he folded his arms back behind his head.

*

The drums had died down long ago, and even Gilli, their regular guitarist, had gone home. The bar area was all but deserted, bay windows open to the balcony beyond, where it overlooked the courtyard. The blunt slap of oar on water rose from the nearby canal; one of the city’s ubiquitous gondoliers no doubt, transporting some trustafarian back to his bed.

Caitlin was sat on one of the plush chairs by the open window, gazing out at the last of the stars. The horizon was already limed with a faint luminescence, the sky to the east staining a deep indigo like ink across wet paper.

Rivan glanced at the bar, where Sian was cleaning a glass. Across the room, Kai sat chatting with Anara over a couple of steaming mugs. Sian popped another glass on the counter, hefting a bottle of spirits questioningly in his direction.

Yes please, Rivan said, crossing the plush carpet to sit up onto one of the stools.

Rough night?

He smiled ruefully. You could say that. Reaching up, he ran fingers through his hair, pushing it back in stringy locks. Worth it though.

The blonde girl smiled. There’s nothing like that first night in port to get their money flowing.

Not once the flood gates open.

Rii!

Sorry. He fingered the bracelets encircling his left wrist. You still look amazing, how do you do it?

Practice, darling. She grinned impishly. That and I had my perfectionist in at the end of the night.

Ah. All hands to the cosmetics.

Quite.

Did you do well?

She lifted a pouch from between her breasts, shaking it to reveal the jingle of coin.

Very good! That’s after the Manse’s cut?

Yep.

He smiled. You’re still the best of us.

She took a sip from her drink. Everyone needs someone to look up to. I’m just providing a service.

Terribly considerate of you to think of the little people.

She stuck her tongue out.

You two bickering again? Caitlin asked, sauntering over to place her empty glass on the counter. Sian refilled it from the bottle, topping the other two up as well.

Just discussing the charity work of our queen bee, Rivan said.

Oh come off it, like you didn’t rake it in tonight, Sian replied. I’m sure there’s a pirates wet dream lurking inside those leggings.

True, he replied, eyes sparkling as he shifted on the stool, fingering the lacing that ran up the side of each leg.

You’re incorrigible. But she laughed, glancing from him to Caitlin, who was also smirking into her glass. And what about you? I heard you had to be taken off the door?

By special request.

Sian and Rivan both raised their eyebrows.

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