To Tune the Beast

By Sun Hesper Jansen

WELCOME TO CORUSCAR, WHERE MUSIC IS MAGIC...FOR SOME

It is 1928, a year from Coruscar's Bicentennial and the contentious merger of the classes. On a winter's day at Larimar Keep, a singer is wrongly executed for Class Agitation, the victim of a conspiracy among the dead as well as the living. One of many seeds taking root in a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ji Wai Books
• Release date: Feb 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798218285906

Book preview

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Taravi and Dvosk Pronunciation Guide

Cast of Characters

Part One

THE TUNER I. Prelude

THE AFTERDARK I. Purity

THE TUNER II. Renascence (Realside)

THE TUNER III. Renascence (Alterside)

THE TUNER IV. The Reception

THE FOUNDERS I. The Original Mode

THE TUNER V. Bloodthief

THE TUNER VI. Voyager Embarks

THE TUNER VII. The Toll

THE AFTERDARK II. The Conductor

Part Two

THE COMPOSER I. Two Worlds

THE COMPOSER II. The Slow Life

THE COMPOSER III. Adamantina

THE COMPOSER IV. Monsoon Arrives

THE COMPOSER V. The Caretaker

THE AFTERDARK III. The Requisite Condition

CONFLUENCE I. The Stranglehold

THE COMPOSER VI. Aidaro

THE COMPOSER VII. Half Raven

THE COMPOSER VIII. Rhapsody for Realgar

THE COMPOSER IX. Affinity

THE COMPOSER X. Perfidy

Part Three

CONFLUENCE II. Prisoners

THE TUNER VIII. Lessons

THE TUNER IX. Movement

THE TUNER X. Demands

THE TUNER XI. Alliances

THE AFTERDARK IV. The Boon

CONFLUENCE III. The Sleep of the Dead

THE AFTERDARK V. Interventions

THE FOUNDERS II. Season's End

THE TUNER XII. The Herrex Heart

CONFLUENCE IV. The Blood Harmonious

THE TUNER XIII. Master Liar

THE TUNER XIV. To Tune the Beast

CONFLUENCE V. Coda

Glossary of Common Terms and Phrases

Acknowledgements

TARAVI AND DVOSK PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

a    [a] between ah and at; when unaccented, [ə] as in but

ex. Ama [‘a-mə]

e    [e] as in bet except in Taravi ‘ee’ which is pronounced [i or yi]

ex. kestarra [ke-‘sta-Rə]; naveem [na-‘vim]

i      [i] between eat and it; in Taravi, often [yi]

ex. Osalím [o-sa-‘lim]

o    [o] closer to off than oh; in Dvosk, often [oəh] when terminal

ex. Osalá [o-sa-‘la]; seyó [se-‘yo]

u    [u] as in boot, but with lips relaxed

ex. ushkovó [ush-ko-‘vo]

y    [y] as in you

ex. yasvai [ya-‘sfai]

r    [r] a flap in Dvosk, rolled in Taravi

ex. centuravka [sen-tu-‘rav-kə]

rr  [R] rolled twice as long as [r], exclusive to Taravi

ex. vostharra [vo-‘stha-Ra]

sh  [sh] as in shy

ex. shorói [sho’roi]

sv  [sf] pronounced as one syllable

ex. svai [‘sfai]

j      [j] as in jar

ex. kejoyó [ke-jo-‘yo]

ch  [ch] as in chair

ex. chai [‘chai]

th  [th] as in bath

ex. thava [‘tha-va]

dv  [dv] pronounced as one syllable

ex. Dvoskara [dvo’ska-rə]

The vowels i and e are often palatalized in Taravi, especially in the Keeps and the Theater/kestarra subculture. So, the surname ve’Garanat is often pronounced [vye-‘ga-ra-nat], ‘Joffy’ is said [‘jof-fyi], and the word for ‘cousin’, naveem, is [na-’vyim].

The general rule for stress in both Taravi and Dvosk is that two-syllable words and names are accented on the first syllable. In words longer than that, the stress is on the penultimate syllable (kestarra [ke-‘sta-Rə])—with the following exceptions. Coruscar itself is pronounced [‘kor-u-skar]. Taravi words ending in a double consonant, or containing ‘ee’, take the stress on the final syllable (odineel [o-di-‘nil]; Najett [na-’jet]). And words in either language that end in -ai, -ei-, or -oi carry the accent on that syllable (pantalei [pan-ta-‘lei]). In both languages, diacritics helpfully mark stress that falls outside the rules (onzivá [on-zi-‘va]).

Names in Coruscar can present a challenge. Most Sul-rooted names are usually recognizable and easily pronounced, but so-called ‘Gem-names’, whose spellings vary wildly, might reflect modern pronunciation, or they could be archaic Sul in origin. These names (e.g. Euclase, Nepheline) date back to the Gem Rush and originated with the Vah (a.k.a. ‘the gods’). The Guild of Jewelers possesses a comprehensive listing of the original god-given spellings and pronunciations from 1729, but not every parent consults these, so names are often either spelled correctly and pronounced wrong, or vice versa. Mica, for example (a very common name in Coruscar regardless of gender) may also be spelled as it sounds—Maika.

The names of the four Tuning Houses (Barishai, Thanakai, Shathakai, and Kalekai) are also nonconforming, being based on notes in the Taravi musical system (Ka-Le-Na-Ba-Ri-Tha-Sha). They were originally sung in pitch, but in modern times the stress of the House name always falls on the first syllable. In the Cast of Characters that follows, pronunciations are given for all unique circumstances.

A Glossary of Terms regularly encountered in Coruscar is presented at the end of this book.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

† indicates a deceased individual, ‡ indicates a known revenant

THE CORES / BEASTS / FOUNDERS OF CORUSCAR

Garanat  [‘ga-rə-nat]

Smaragda [sma-‘rag-də]

Realgar  [ri-‘al-gar]

Larimar  [‘la-rə-mar]

THE JOFFEEN (and their Human partners)

Fortune ⚭ Euclase Kalekai

Perfidy ⚭ Chalcy Greenglass

Mirage ⚭ Andesine

Precipice ⚭ Malac Herrex 

Passion ⚭ Danavai Bardoshin

Wish ⚭ Sursa ve’Smaragda

THE HUMANS

—Tuners—

House Kalekai of Sphene  [‘ka-le-kai]

Master Euclase Kalekai  [‘yu-kles]

Prentice Mica Herrex-Kalekai  [‘mai-kə]

House Shathakai of Gypsum  [‘sha-tha-kai]

Master Auricha Shathakai  [o-’ri-chə]

Prentice Vanadine (Van) Takarr-Shathakai  [‘va-nə-din tə’kaR]

House Barishai of Prismatine  [‘ba-ri-shai]

Master Rubis Barishai

Prentice Raio Simmon-Barishai

†Prentice Amet Adarr-Barishai

House Thanakai of Diaspore  [‘tha-na-kai]

Master Thalma Thanakai

Senior Master Beryl Thanakai  [‘be-ril]

Prentice Dolom Dvorasko-Thanakai

—Caretakers, Consorts, and Keep Staff—

Garanat Keep

Chalcy (Chai) Greenglass

a courier, erstwhile Afterdarker, and illicit Composer

Nepheline (Nevai) ve’Garanat  [ne-‘flin]

Conscience of Eastern Coruscar

Osmun ve’Garanat

Nepheline’s Consort

Galt Galena (‘the Spear’)

Master of the Guard, Nepheline’s Executive Assistant

†Vajran ve’Garanat

Previous Conscience of Eastern Coruscar, Nepheline’s father

Esma Sevenspice

Head Cook

Yathas Heddle

Gate-Guard

Larimar Keep

Ferro v’Larimar

Conscience of Southern Coruscar

Kajall v’Larimar

Ferro’s Primary Consort

Malac v’Larimar

Ferro’s Secondary Consort; Mica’s brother

Ebra Taimon

Master of the Guard

Ettrine (Etty) v’Larimar  [et-’trin]

Ferro’s third daughter

Rubicella v’Larimar

Ferro’s second daughter and presumed Heir

‡Leivai v’Larimar

Ferro’s father, the former Caretaker

Realgar Keep

Anatase v’Realgar  [‘a-nə-tes]

Conscience of Western Coruscar

Kirrina v’Realgar

Anatase’s Consort

Dánavai Bardoshin

Anatase’s Executive Assistant

Vidaxa Chandler

Master of the Guard

Smaragda Keep

Olivine ve’Smaragda  [‘o-li-vin]

Conscience of Northern Coruscar

Sursa (Zuzu) ve’Smaragda

Olivine’s Heir and Executive Assistant

—Denizens of the Afterdark—

Nix (Nikhilo) Greenglass

Chalcy’s brother, a violinist, and leader of the Absent Root

‡Sidian (Sid) Malthouse  [‘si-di-ən]

a singer, musician, and martyr

Jasper (Jass) Nivosko

an employee of the Licensing Authority, and one of Sid’s lovers

Andesine Kallax  [‘an-də-sin]

an aerial dancer, magazine editor, and member of the A.R.

Rádavai Feldspar

an auditor for the Licensing Authority

Nelian (Neel) Weft [‘ni-li-ən]

a guitarist, member of the A.R.

Zois Freestone

a guitarist, Nelian’s musical partner

Najett (Na Zacha) Turner

bass player for Kestarra Heartswell

Murrás 

singer, guitarist, and leader of Kestarra Heartswell

Térrelen

lyricist and pianist for Kestarra Heartswell

Eisha

drummer and percussionist for Kestarra Heartswell

Seleen  [se-‘lin]

proprietor of the Passing Chord Guest House and Taproom

—Composers—

Geret Shorl

‡Tashmarine (Tasha) Torber [‘tash-mə-rin]

Thula Spinell

Jovai Bardoshin

Ravan Nivosko

—Other Notables—

Voro Martelo (among other names)

Dvosk scholar, artist, member of the A.R.

Adularia Takarr

an ambitious administrator, member of the Fermata

Madva Greenglass

Mother of Chalcy and Nix, a glassblower

Argent Selvedge Greenglass

Father of Chalcy and Nix, a tailor

Ama Bee (Bessandra Vasarr)

Mica’s fifth foster parent

Adamantina Herrex (among many other names)

an Extractor, Mica’s older sister

Marmor Herrex 

Mica’s eldest brother

Ferruzadi 

a courtesan

Mica Trona

a journalist

Horizon

a photographer

THE KARSTUSHIL (SHIL)  [‘kar-stu-shil]

‘Clouds’ - companion of Ettrine v’Larimar

THE VAH

Bavaön (the Sun Father)

god of fire and virility

Rivaga (the Dancer)

goddess of joy and pleasure

Thavaga (the Moon Mother)

goddess of water and fertility

Shavaön (the Player)

god of music, time, and chaos

Kavaïs (the Scholar, the Dreamer)

god of air, intellect, and agreements

Levaga (the Weaver)

goddess of fate and timing

Navaïs (the Fisher, the Destroyer)

god of earth and death

PART ONE

THE TUNER I. Prelude

Sphene, Thirdmoon, 1929

‘There is no soft place on Karst,’ the poet says, and nowhere is the world's hostility expressed more exuberantly than here. The land speaks in thorns, razor-edged leaves, bristles, and spines. Its thirst is quenched but once a year. Coruscar hisses to the visitor: ‘Expect no luxury here.’ But the soft places do reveal themselves, on their own terms. They will caress, but not be touched, and their memory is indelible.

—Tsavor Marl, An Unnatural History of Coruscar

THE PEACE WILL drive us mad if it lingers much longer. There’s nothing to do on these endless spring mornings except kill time hour by hour, waiting for the day to open itself to distraction and debauchery. Master Euclase has taken to moving his chair in front of the kitchen window, where he rocks precariously on its back legs. Tossing back cup after cup of black coffee, he reads journals of past Tunings, or snickers at my summaries of the gossip columns—always with one eye trained on the red dirt road from Sphene, hoping for a sign that our long winter lull is over.

Everything he feels, I feel. Such is the blessing and curse of the sixth sense we call affinity. So when he spots our visitors in the distance, moments before he’s jumped up with a snap of his fingers and said Mica, we’re on!, I’ve already caught his excitement and sprung up from the couch to join him.

Crossing the high-desert scrubland, at the center of a cloud of dust, is an ink-black Joffy. The horse-sized feline’s four legs seem to barely touch the ground as they sprint down our road, at such a speed that their rider lies almost prone against their bristly, high-shouldered back. Only a service commission would call for a courier from one of the Keeps, but in the six years that I’ve been apprenticed to House Kalekai, I’ve never seen one arrive with such dispatch. The old man’s anxiousness dovetails with mine as we squint to see the color of the rider’s livery—Smaragda’s emerald, Larimar’s milky blue, or Realgar’s vermilion. But when the dust clears, and the rider dismounts in a whirl of Garanat crimson, our hearts freeze for two different reasons.

God of Octaves, the Master says, the strangled oath taking the very words from my mouth.

Locking down my panic, I slow my breathing until the sole fear I betray is the one he and I have in common. It’s been nine years since Founder Garanat began his boycott of our Tuning House, blocking Euclase Kalekai and any of his associates from the Keep as a matter of criminal trespass. It would be naive to think that a commission now, after all this time, would be any less deadly a proposition for either of us—especially the old man.

Old man, I say, but even though I’ve always called him that, at forty-five he is ‘old’ only among Tuners. His hair, the same curly dark brown as mine but worn long and presently gathered in a topknot, shows no sign of grey, and the faint wrinkles at the corners of his hazel eyes—those, too, revealing our distant kinship—are more the work of humor than of time. But his face manifests a wear beyond his years, thanks to a lifetime of exposure not only to Coruscar’s punishing elements but to the singular hazards of our profession.

He pulls himself together with almost mechanical precision, and turns to me a grim smile that twists the scars furrowing his right cheek like a peach pit. I have never forgotten which of the Beasts made them.

Well, cub? he says, gripping my shoulder almost painfully hard. It seems we’ll be trying out those Number 12s sooner than we thought.

At nineteen, I’m no more a cub than he’s an old man. In less than a year, I’ll be a Master in my own right. If I live that long. But the endearment, like his grip, has a stabilizing effect.

Gathering up some of the swagger that has seen me through almost thirty Tunings, and most of my public life, I summon the proper amount of Bring it on into my grin. But fearlessness is an easy deception to work on the Master. Much easier than the one I’ve been working on him for the last nine months—which could now be exposed in a heartbeat.

I slow that beat down, willing everything into perfect calm as I turn on my heel, stride to the door, and prepare to meet—as coldly and professionally as I can—the one I love.

KEEPING HER DISTANCE on the periphery of our parlor, her gaze fastened to the rug at her feet, the rider in red waits for the Master to respond to the letter in his shaking hand. Whether or not she’s as intimidated by him as she seems to be, I cannot tell. One hardly needs to be an adept—as those with affinity are called—to feel the old man’s mounting anger as he reads the commission again and again. But this particular messenger, as it happens, is an adept, and disconcerting as it may be to have her affinity blocked from me, I’m comforted and awed as always by the skill with which she conceals her emotions.

One day, soon, Euclase will discover all of the things Chalcy Greenglass is, and all she’s had to hide. But for the moment, secrecy is imperative. Affinity has been carefully guarded by the Blood Harmonious—my class and the Master’s—for the last two hundred years. It’s been painstakingly bred to the point where any manifestation outside the Blood is considered a capital offense. In Chalcy’s personal circumstances, which I can only describe as unique, it’s hard to tell how she would be punished if her nature as a ‘Bloodthief’ were reported to Peace Enforcement. I find it hard to imagine the old man doing anything of the sort, to her or anyone else, but all the same I’m glad she’s taking no chances. What we risk every time we meet is more than enough for even my high tolerance for excitement.

I wonder if it was pure luck that the Caretaker chose her to deliver the commission today, or if Chalcy had to bargain for it in some way I probably don’t want to know about. Regardless of how it happened, I’m grateful. If there’s one face in the world I’d want to see on the last day of my life, it would be hers. Not that I’ll be content with the mere sight of it, and she knows this. From the moment I greeted her at the door, and we fell into the reprisal of the first roles we ever played—the famous Prentice Tuner Kalekai, and the not-entirely-shy fan—I have been scheming to get her alone. And if the Master would ever actually look at her, as I am most blatantly looking—measuring her statuesque height, the hourglass of her figure, caressing her long, sable braid with my eyes—he wouldn’t question why.

Chalcy steals a smoky glance at me, her smile slyly admonishing. When she jerks her chin almost imperceptibly in the old man’s direction, I answer with a nod of encouragement. Tentatively, she steps forward into the room that only she and I know she’s seen before. (What a mad day that was; I try my best not to think of it.) But neither the creak of her boots, nor the rustle of her long coat arrests his notice. She nests her gloved hands together in a tándavai, the respectful Taravi bow that means ‘holding heart’, and clears her throat.

Begging your pardon, Master Kalekai.

I have to smile when the old man’s attention is finally snagged, not so much by his name as by the timbre of her voice, a husky contralto with the inexorably falling cadences of the western Girdle. It’s disorienting for me to hear her speak Taravi so formally; I keep waiting for her to lapse into the hurtling, Dvosk-peppered argot that makes me miss Prismatine, the city she and I both call home. To utter even a single meaningless, half-whispered ‘seyó’¹ The word’s conscientious absence echoes in her every nervous pause.

May I inform Her Sovereign Conscience that you’ll be kind enough to accept the Founder’s commission tomorrow?

A choking noise of disbelief comes out of my mouth. Is Garanat seriously giving us a single day’s notice? The lead time for Season’s Opening is always short, being dependent upon the forecast from the Meteorological Guild, but it’s never less than two weeks. Tuning a Core takes days of mental and physical preparation, even when the Core in question is not a known psychopath with a personal grudge against you.

"Kind," Euclase repeats caustically, his affinity crackling.

Chalcy shrinks back from his tone, but even with her senses hobbled, she must realize that she isn’t his true target. He’s staring hard beyond her, out the front window, as if his resentment could stab all the way to the Keep.

"What do you say, Prentice? Shall we be kind and take pity on the poor, desperate Founder?"

I cock a curious eyebrow at him. Is he joking? A Tuning House always does have the option to decline a commission, but to do so without a verifiable scheduling conflict would be professional suicide. At least we stand half a chance of surviving the actual job itself.

"The situation is rather pathetic, Euclase goes on, waving the letter at me vaguely. The sharp glint in his eyes belies his flippancy. It seems that the Beast quite lost track of time and now all the other Houses are engaged at other Keeps! Can you imagine?"

He pauses to enjoy the incredulous pop of my eyes. His teeth flash in a mordant smile.

"Oh yes, after almost a full decade, Garanat’s embargo on House Kalekai ends not because he’s finally acknowledged that we’re good at what we do, but because we’re what’s available on short notice!"

He crushes the letter between his hands and tosses it over his shoulder. Chalcy gasps at the sight, and I try to overshadow her dismay by amplifying my own. I’m relieved when the old man appears to have observed nothing more than the wilting of her posture.

No, my dear, he sighs. Of course we’re accepting the commission. Please do convey my warm regards to Her Sovereign Conscience the Caretaker, who I’m sure is sincere in her regret for the short notice. She, of all people, understands my rather deep attachment to being well-prepared.

This last statement, he’s delivered while massaging his ruined cheek. I can tell he expects the messenger to exhibit the same response as everyone else who sees those famous marks at close range. Revulsion or morbid fascination. But Chalcy neither looks away nor stares. Her expression is both grim and gentle, and this is what finally gets the old man to focus on her for the first time, for better or worse.

As much as I’d known he would find her attractive, I bristle at the intentions that so obviously start forming in his mind. The conscious charm that’s begun to smooth his hard edges. My reaction, of course, only diverts his attention to me. But I am ready for him. It’s time, I decide, for my first tactical move. His regard narrows as he sees me scratch a nonexistent itch on my left temple—the well-established (and usually respected) code between us that means I saw her first.

Master, I wonder if, since we’ll be short on herbs for the Beastbalm now,(which we are not, and he knows this) I might accompany our lovely visitor as far as town.

The corner of Euclase’s mouth quirks as he observes the surprise, and the restrained delight, with which the rider meets this suggestion. Her glance at me is warm with possibility even before she raises her left hand to her chest and, under the pretext of adjusting a button on her coat, not-quite-surreptitiously joins her middle finger and thumb in Rivaga’s Sign.²

It’s impossible to tell if the Master’s cough is a laugh, or a snort of envious contempt. His true thoughts have been suddenly, unsettlingly, veiled from me.

I suppose, he drawls, it’s the least we can do to compensate the young lady for her time and my temper.

I’m already gliding off to the coat closet—bowing to Chalcy as I pass, deliciously terrified that I’ll betray the fullness of my joy—when Euclase’s next words stop me in my tracks.

Better still would be to see that she gets a decent lunch—at The Passing Chord if you have any sense.

I pivot slowly back to face him, not believing my ears. All of the frantic calculations I’ve been making—gauging how many minutes we might steal to devour each other at our old meeting place along the river, off the road to Sphene—have suddenly been stretched into the unthinkable luxury of an hour in a warm, blessed room with a bed.

And I daresay your partner, he says, speaking now to the courier, but with the same remoteness, could do with a rest before running all the way back to the Keep, yes?

Chalcy’s glance, newly uncertain, shuttles between us. Once again her uniform speaks the nervous shift of her weight from one leg to the other.

I’m sure he could, Master, thank you. And that would be wonderful, Prentice. But only if it doesn’t delay your preparations too much.

The Master’s thoughtful study of Chalcy’s face does nothing to break her unassailable cool, but I feel like I could faint from the effort of keeping calm. I open my mouth to stammer some reassurance, but the old man speaks first, glancing at me with a smirk. His crisp, sardonic tone is the one he always uses when we’re together in public, where it would not do for our close emotional bond to be known.

I assure you the loss of the Prentice for an hour or two will be of no critical consequence to our success, he says as he strolls grandly forward. His hands in the pockets of his velveteen housecoat, he shepherds us into the vestibule by the sheer gravity of his presence. And speaking for myself, I will benefit the most, at the moment, from a little solitude.

I feel a new sort of worry, hearing this, and a pang of guilt—none of which I hide from him. The openness of my feelings has the opposite effect on the Master, reinforcing his practiced brusqueness.

"Be certain you’re back by noon. I want a solid twenty-four hours before the Tuning, which means our fasting clock begins now. Nothing heavy for lunch, and no alcohol—if you can manage that. Fortune, of course, may have whatever she likes."

My heart sinks to hear the name. Fortune is the Master’s snide cobalt-blue Joffy, who tolerates me only when she’s commanded to, and then only if she can pass the time by apprising me of all the ways I fail to measure up beside her precious partner and rider-for-life. Generally, I prefer to have nothing to do with her, relying on a sleek little motorbike that gives me about half the speed of a Joffy but infinitely less sass.³

But it isn’t just our poor relationship that makes me balk at the idea of Fortune’s company. I have been diligent in keeping the Joffy as ignorant of my relationship with Chalcy as Euclase has been, and the very last thing I want is for the two of them to meet. As it is, I can only hope that Perfidy, Chalcy’s own bonded partner, has had the good sense to steer clear of her.

Master, I thought I would just—

"Yes, I know you’d prefer the bike, but it will only slow you down and annoy your company. If Fortune knows there’s a bowl of beer at the end, she’ll carry you without too much fuss."

His tone is much kinder when he turns to Chalcy. He even offers her a scant bow as he says, Until tomorrow. But there’s no luster in his eyes when he adds, When the Founder will find us as ready as we’ll ever be.

The door closes behind us before either of us can speak another word.

FOR THE SPACE of two breaths on the doorstep, just out of view from the parlor window where I suspect the Master is still watching, Chalcy looks me in the eyes—a grip as strong as anything she might accomplish with a touch.

"Taván," she apologizes in Dvosk.

Like most Coruscarians, we’re accustomed to switching between languages more or less unconsciously, but it’s Dvosk, the dominant root-tongue of the western Girdle, that tastes most like home to us. It’s also what she speaks when she’s very tired, as she clearly is now. Her music has kept her up late again. The farther we walk away from the house, and out of Euclase’s emotional reach, the more her affinity emerges, and it’s an effort for me to keep her fatigue from pulling down my own shoulders.

I’m not sorry, I tell her, slipping my fingers along the back of her arm and bringing her elbow up to link with mine. The obviousness of the intimacy startles her, but then she relaxes, trusting me to know what the old man expects me to get away with. I just wonder how I got so incredibly lucky.

I don’t need to see the roll of Chalcy’s eyes to feel it. And she’s entitled to her annoyance. I’m chronically paranoid of how much Sovereign Nepheline knows about us, and jealous of their close relationship—which is rank hypocrisy. I’m hardly chaste while she and I are apart, and she knows it. Ironically, few things have been protecting us better than the public maintenance of my notorious appetites.

Tell me, does Core venom affect the memory? she asks lightly, though her irritation flashes unheard, unseen, and electric. "Because you seem to have forgotten, Prentice, that nobody beats Perfidy for speed, and obviously this was a rush job, so all the luck you’re looking for is right there. Don’t get me started, seyó, or I’ll forget I’m supposed to be fawning over you fannishly. How am I doing, by the way? Maybe I should hang on you a little more."

As she leans her weight against me, I’m overcome by the memory of the day we met, a year ago almost to the day. It was nothing like this. She was so far from fawning. She was the most paradoxically forward mystery who’d ever walked into my life.

Maybe, she says, looking away down the path, with that dimple in her jaw that always presages mischief, "this is when I reveal the secret, unscrupulous professional designs I have on you. You see, Prentice Kalekai, I’m a musician. And I happen to know the reputation you have, both as a steadfast supporter of People’s Music and as a reliable—fuck!"

A laugh falls out of my mouth even though I’ve felt the jolt of her alarm, and am now staring at its source.

Outside the swinging doors of the little one-room mudbrick building that serves as Fortune’s shelter, two Joffies stand, and they appear to be getting on famously. As they casually groom one another’s glistening, shaggy mantles with their sharp little teeth, it draws forth a soft chime in Na minor. It’s the only sound that reaches our ears, but the Joffeen have no need of physical speech to gossip. And from the grin we can see on Fortune’s muzzle even from our distance, Perfidy has done a fair amount of talking already.

"I told him, Chalcy murmurs, aghast. I told him not to trust her!"

I don’t dare look over my shoulder, but even if sight is the only sense the Master has to track us with out here, his eyes are sharper than most, and he’s likely perceived the slowing of our step if not the change in our expressions. I keep us moving forward.

Easy, Chai, the show’s not over yet. Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks? My attempt at optimism falls flat. I try again. Maybe he’s only told her part of the story. If she has no idea you’re an adept, for instance…

Chalcy acts on that suggestion in a blink. I should be used to it by now, the sudden loss of her affinity, but it always unbalances me, like I’ve gone deaf in one ear. I will never stop hating it, but I force myself to match her poise.

Right, then, I say, bringing us to a stop in the hopes that, at the very least, I will get the Master to cease wondering what the hell’s gone wrong with my charm.

It makes her fidget to face me and stand so close, but as I lengthen my spine and raise my chin, she recognizes the artful shine of the Prentice in my eyes, and amused curiosity edges past her qualm. She bites her lip as she gazes down at me, waiting.

Before I attend to the saddling of a Joffy who holds my fate in her jaws, I tell her, and she almost cracks up at the silken impersonation of my own self, I fear appearances require me to attempt some small seduction. I beg your forbearance.

The dreamy smile that Chalcy has thrown on loses its falseness as I take her hand from my arm, gently turn it over, and pull back the edge of her glove from her wrist. The kiss that I brush into her skin is soft and lingering, and there’s nothing remotely performative in her yearning as she leans against me. The promises she whispers in my ear of what she will do to me when we’re alone—in Sul this time, the language we love in—are raw and rough and hot enough to melt my knees.

Or, I manage to croak, maybe I don’t have to beg.

Braced now for whatever’s to come, I stalk into Fortune’s shelter. I do my best to strike the perfect balance of anxiety and guilt in my thoughts. Until I’m certain of exactly what the Joffy knows, I must still dissemble, even if not as much as in the past months. I hold my heart steady as I return with her saddle, ignoring the scrutiny of her slitted golden eyes.

I bow to Perfidy first—distant but polite—then brace for Fortune’s reception. But the emotion with which she greets me, aloud in her gravelly growl, is not the scathing smugness I expect. It feels, impossibly, like respect.

Where am I carrying you today, Master Liar?

Fortune is forever calling me ‘Master’ This and ‘Master’ That—not to mock my subordinate professional status (she says) but to point out the many other things at which I excel. Her perennial favorite, admittedly rather a clever double-entendre, is ‘Master Layabout’. Her tone now, however, is shockingly clean of sarcasm. ‘Master Liar’ sounds almost awed.

The Passing Chord, I reply when I’ve found my tongue again. I will my hands to stay steady on the girth of her saddle. And there’s beer in it for you, as well as anything else you’d find a fitting exchange for silence on the subject of…of whatever it is you think you know. Contract?

Fortune takes her time responding, letting me sweat while I fit her breast strap and breeching. I’m always thankful that Joffies can simply communicate verbally with their riders—in fact they prefer speech over telepathy—and therefore require no bridles or reins. Their saddles are fussy enough, and a Joffy will certainly let you know if they aren’t sitting just right—usually with some degree of violence. I have a scar on my thigh that matches three of Fortune’s claws.

Contract, the Joffy grins. "I don’t need to be bribed, though. I’m quite satisfied with the gift of a secret kept so well for so long—nine months, Master Liar! That’s almost as impressive, she purrs, her attention gliding over to Chalcy, as what the Honored Composer has been hiding for even longer."

In her shock, Chalcy’s knees buckle, and I can see the whiteness of her knuckles on the side grip of Perfidy’s saddle. But her distress resolves swiftly into anger, and the expression that she raises to her partner—blazing with the full force of her affinity—is one I would never want to provoke in my lifetime.

"Is there anything, Perfidy, that you didn’t tell her?"

Of course, Beloved. Perfidy’s voice is like the slowest drag of a bow across the lowest string of a bass. There’s a percolating mischief there, always, accentuated now by the flick of one ear. "What joy is there in knowing everything? But the time was right in at least three ways for her to know all of the useful things, and now we have a valuable—and exciting—new ally."

Fortune’s sinister, pleased chortle brings Chalcy’s widened eyes to mine, and I can’t help but laugh. At least we know what manner of trade Perfidy was hoping to make with his information—and from all appearances, he’s liable to get it.

The black Joffy stretches out his long front legs, lowering himself so a stirrup dangles within reach of Chalcy's boot.

For Shavaön’s sake, his rider mutters before she mounts up—a good deal more gracefully than I do, since Fortune only barely crouches down to accommodate my much shorter stature.

Despite Chalcy’s vexation, I can tell that she’s already begun to do what she does best: adapting to the unforeseen. Improvising. She gazes up into the restless spring sky as if it’s a compositional canvas, and in a single deep breath, she seems to come to a decision.

Perfidy takes them a few steps ahead of us, chuckling at something his partner hasn’t spoken out loud. The bright, reckless smile that Chalcy throws over her shoulder is a kite, attached to my heart and my sex and everything I am.

Well, Fortune, welcome to my life. I hope you can keep up with it!

I brace myself the moment I see her lean low over Perfidy’s back. They are off before I can even blink, fast as an arrow loosed from a bow. With a hair-raising scream of joy, Fortune bolts after them, her speed nearly unseating me. Never before has she shown me half this velocity, and I’m amazed when she overtakes Perfidy, gloating, in a matter of heartbeats.

I cling to the double grips of my saddle, half-blinded by tears—from the chilly spring wind, and the rush of danger, and the keen awareness that the Master isn’t the only one showing me kindness on the eve of this Tuning. Fortune clearly realizes that the sooner we reach the city—and my room at The Passing Chord Taproom and Guest House—the longer Chalcy and I will have together. It makes me hug the Joffy to me as I never would’ve dreamed of doing before, and I don’t even care if she mocks me for it.

I tell her fervently, Alterside, even though the Joffeen prefer not to converse this way with anyone but their bonded partners and the Collective. Somehow, she’s made me feel invited.

Fortune doesn’t jeer. She frets, like someone who honestly cares. I’m stunned when she addresses me by my actual name.

He will be troubled. I mean, she’s got you entangled in the A.R. of all things!>

I realize a beat later that I’ve only managed to acknowledge my own investment in the Society of the Absent Root. I could still backtrack, fabricate something… But I’m just too weary of lying.

THE AFTERDARK I. Purity

Gypsum, Secondmoon 1928 (thirteen months earlier)

I was very particular about the timing of my return to Coruscar. If I were the kind of man content to merely watch history in the making, I’d have shown up in 1929, on the eve of the nation’s Bicentennial, just in time to witness the splendid, oversexed festivities of ‘the Merger’—as Phase Two of the Breeding Program was widely known. This was the momentous juncture at which commoners and the aristocracy, for the first time, were allowed to intermarry, thereby advancing the ultimate goal of Affinity for All. But I knew that arriving well ahead of that date would give me what I wanted most: to be a participant, not just an observer, in an extraordinary time.

I returned to find the atmosphere just as politically volatile as I’d predicted twenty years earlier. I fell in quickly with the more progressive side of the struggle. But it took time, and a tragedy, for us all to realize that that struggle involved more people than we could see with eyes of flesh and blood.

—Tsavor Marl, Afterdark: A Memoir of Two Coruscars

SIDIAN MALTHOUSE HAD played well that night, and sang better than well, and he swayed in the applause, buffeted by that wave of success and alcohol and tashtaka that always made him feel invincible, more than Human. Putting away his instruments, he scanned the crowd, and experienced that unique bolt of joy that came from spotting Jass there, sitting by himself at the bar, waiting for him. Sid could tell from his lover’s expression—and the number of similarly dazed faces in the room—that the Rush for the highbloods had been intense. He could see them all coming down from their euphoria as collectively as they’d been lifted up in it, their eyes all clearing together. In a single otherworldly moment, they fell into ecstatic conversation with each other, as if time had been suspended for them, then suddenly released.

One adept besides Jass sat apart from the others: Rádavai Feldspar, the Auditor from the Licensing Authority, who had been supervising his performances at The Motherlode for a good six months. She clearly enjoyed the assignment, and (he suspected) the view of him from her table. She blushed furiously when he stepped down from the stage, flashing a warm smile in her direction, then dropped her eyes shyly to her notebook and began scribbling her report. He could probably have her by the equinox, he thought, if he applied himself. And if Jass Nivosko didn’t command quite so much of his lust.

As Sid walked up to him, the older man’s gentle, enamored smile brightened—a moon and a guiding star at once. Sid’s sense of pride in his performance blurred with the power he possessed to all but erase the lines of time, care, and hardship from Jass’s handsome face. Even the touches of silver in his trim black beard, and his waist-long braid, seemed a mere trick of the light. Crossing the room at a light run, oblivious to the hopeful stares of his other lovers, Sid slipped between Jass’s knees—and Jass, with practiced ease, automatically relieved him of one of his two instrument cases, the better for the singer to embrace him. Sid played the sweetest trumpet in Gypsum, but it was on pragrava that he’d captured Jass’s heart. In fact, for the last year, Sid had been giving him lessons on it—an activity they both knew they would not be getting up to that night.

For Karst’s sake, Sid pleaded, take me home.

It was late morning before he could tear himself from Jass’s bed, even though he should have reported for work at the brewery hours before. His parents were used to it. As was his younger brother Citrian, who’d already run the first round of deliveries that morning by the time Sid finally showed up, and who handed over the truck with a habitual eye-roll. Sid spent the rest of the day in a slowly evolving haze, his mild hangover giving way to a fond assessment of body aches, and his mind shifting from erotic daydreams to an increasingly earnest consideration of what was changing, every time he left Jass’s side.

This was one of the weeks that they were scheduled to meet again, on Dancersday, for pragrava lessons. The fact that more and more of those evenings involved as much actual music-making as lovemaking carried a significance that Sid was not quite brave enough to face. But he’d felt it acutely that morning, in their protracted parting. In that lost, empty feeling that crept into his soul before he was even alone again. He was grateful then not to be an adept, because if he’d been able to feel what he saw in Jass’s eyes… He wouldn’t name that emotion, but oh, he recognized it, and the crowding panic that always, always, followed it, pushing him to run. He’d written too many songs about it. And he was increasingly sure that he wrote the last one, ‘I Meant to Stay,’ for Jass.

He believed, that morning, that he’d have time to confess this one day—if he dared. But he would not be staying anywhere, in the mortal world, for long.

IT WAS WEAVERSDAY morning when they came for him—two Guard officers in the cerulean garb of Larimar Keep. One of them had a crossbow slung across her back, but Sid did not run. This was Coruscar, and if you were arrested—either by local Peace Enforcement or the Keep Guard—it was because you were guilty of something. A good citizen submitted, if only out of curiosity to learn the nature of their breach of the Peace. But an Afterdarker—a People’s musician—was predisposed to presume a most particular kind of crime, and when confronted with Keep colors, the gravest possible consequence for it. Sid scrambled to recall what he’d played or sang on Playersday night that could have crossed the line into High Music, but he simply could not imagine it. Nor could he believe that shy Rádavai Feldspar would’ve reported him, even if he had committed an unintentional act of Class Agitation.

In the trial that afternoon, if he could call it that, he did not see Rádavai's report, but a summary of it. If he had seen the report, he would’ve been doubly confused. It was nothing if not complimentary. Too complimentary, as it happened. Sid had never met the person who wrote the summary, or his warrant, which he also was shown—nor had he ever heard the name Adularia Takarr. But she was the Deputy Assistant Director of the Southern Administrative Unit of the Licensing Authority, and she had claimed the power to determine that an Afterdarker could be guilty of Class Agitation simply by turning on too many highbloods at the same time.

What Rádavai actually wrote was: There’s nothing to report tonight, except that the frontman once again leaves us spellbound. It was that simple word, ‘us’, that held Sid’s death.

In Takarr’s warrant, the Deputy Assistant Director offered an analysis of that report and every laudatory audit that had come before it, and expressed the greatest alarm about the number of aristocrats who had been participating in this mass subversion. I can only conclude, the administrator said, that there is danger here, and a conscious, malicious disregard of that danger on the part of Citizen Malthouse. It is in fact the expressed intent of the Society of the Absent Root that the Blood Harmonious should be lured into the so-called Afterdark, and be made to experience, in these low establishments, the sacred Communion of the Amphitheater. (This, Sid assumed, was what the highbloods formally called the Rush.) By such means do they willfully harm the sanctity of High Music, the well-being of adept citizens, and most gravely, the Peace of Coruscar.

Sid did not see the face of his accuser, or anyone from the Authority, during his brief interview with Ferro v’Larimar, the Conscience of Southern Coruscar—whom Sid clumsily addressed as ‘Caretaker’, rather than the more respectful ‘Sovereign’. Sovereign Ferro was not a young man, but disarmingly good-looking. (This, the musician did know in advance, from the covers of newspapers and magazines he never read, except for the sections on local entertainment.) He wore a harried look as he flipped through the scant documents, as if he’d seen something unwholesome in them, from which he was in a hurry to distance himself. It was decided that there was no point in engaging the services of an Extractor—a mercy, under any circumstances.

Interrogation, said the Caretaker, won’t be necessary, if you acknowledge your intent. And well, it’s fairly obvious, isn’t it?

The man glanced up from his papers, his sharp grey gaze prompting. Sid was aware of making some sort of vague head movement in response, but the feeling was terribly distant. He was not yet ready to rule out the possibility that he was in the midst of a nightmare. His mind was much too calm, his body unreal. When the Caretaker spoke again—a single impatient Yes?—Sid couldn’t remember what the question was referring to.

Um… I’m sorry? he stammered. It was the wrong thing to say, and enough to damn him.

That’ll do, snapped Sovereign Ferro, then scribbled something on the warrant, hastily, as if it would burn his hand if he took too long. Master Ebra, he said to his Master of the Guard, who’d been standing at the ready behind Sid. Take him to the Founder.

No one made eye contact with Sid as he was borne away, stumbling on numb legs.

There were no public executions in Coruscar. One read the notices after the fact—in the newspaper, or in Sid’s case from his brother—and drew one’s assumptions about how gruesomely the criminal had been dispatched. Founder Larimar, according to Citrian, was particularly famous for relishing the traitors that were brought to her. It was an extremely effective disincentive, which his brother fruitlessly tried to reinforce, for the sort of behavior Sid was now apparently guilty of. He got the impression from the Master of the Guard that Larimar found it little too effective. Apparently, Sid was the first such morsel she’d had brought to her in some time.

No waiting, at least, the woman told him as they reached the scaffold in the Founder’s Arena. She had the outwardly flat affect of adepts who only seldom interacted with common-sensors. It’ll be over before you know it.

By the time Sid was seated at the top of the eighty-foot scaffold, he was fully awake to his fear. He had never been so high, in a vertical sense, as he was on that platform, gazing down at Larimar Keep—so he found himself grateful for the straps that kept him from slipping bonelessly from his chair and rolling off into space. He wished the straps were a little tighter, in fact, not yet realizing that there was a practical purpose to their looseness. They were designed to give way quickly, when the time came. When the Beast came.

Like most people of his class, Sid had only seen a Core from a great distance. And since he’d never developed a fancy for High Music, the longest he’d ever glimpsed one was during annual Foundation Day festivities at Larimar Keep. From the safety of the Public Pavilion, he’d considered the Beast’s towering, leonine shape beautiful. The Cores resembled the Joffeen, in a general fashion, because the gods had used the blueprint of the older, smaller, less musical species when the Beasts were created. But there was nothing about them that was less than fantastical. Larimar was a living work of art, seemingly spun from the sky, mantled with ice-blue stalagmites whose ethereal chiming filled the air when she moved.

Art and beauty were not the impressions that came to Sid in that moment, as she made her unhurried way toward him—her barbed, scorpion-like tail dancing lightly in the air above her. The pupils of her golden eyes were slits in the winter sun, and the many teeth in her mouth glinted like diamonds. He shrank from the sight, trying to squish himself small but only managing to squeeze out a hot stream of urine as her unnervingly Human face drew near—lightning-scarred, worn by centuries, and twice the size of his entire body.

If it were possible for him to survive that moment—if he might have merely been exiled, and left to the mercy of Mother Karst—Sid had heard nothing of the sort. Only much later would he learn there had been a choice, and it was not made in his favor. But he was granted a small kindness. The Founder stung him with her tail, with breathtaking force, before she consumed him—the poison rendering his body insensible to pain even though it removed none of the horror of being devoured.

She also surprised him, before that, by speaking to him directly—a whisper, for a Core; her full voice would have deafened him. Her Taravi was surprisingly vernacular, compared to what everyone else had been speaking at the Keep. And what she told him, in a grinding, crystalline voice that made him think of broken glass in a sugar bowl, would cling to his consciousness long after his body was rendered to pulp.

I know you were finally about to protest your innocence, she said. "I’m aware of all that. Sadly for you, you’re what your people might call a ‘sacrifice’. We used to think Humans needed the Vah for such things, but apparently not. I believe you’re dying for a Principle, which is like a god, only man-made. It seems to be called Purity. We don’t completely understand what it is, but it’s being chirped about more and more every day, so it’s clearly a new reality. I am sorry for that. Though honestly, you might be thankful for this day. I don’t think life under Purity is going to be good for people like you."

Sid would always be able to say one thing for Founder Larimar. She was indeed sorry. Even without affinity, and in his venom-benumbed state, he could tell that the Beast did lament that moment. The tedium of dealing with a species whose motivations and future she’d lost hope for a hundred years ago. The inevitable pathos of his fate. And he knew, from the sudden, hard hunger in her mesmerizing eyes, that the only true satisfaction his kind would ever offer her was the juice of a tender body, and the crunch of bones.

He would give this to her again and again, in his memory, for what would feel like eternity.

THE TUNER II. Renascence (Realside)

Realgar Keep, Thirdmoon, 1928

As a foreign scholar—not to be trusted on either count—they seated me where they could keep an eye on me, in the very first row, closest to the Orchestra platform and the Founder's Arena. This was the Honor Row, and I had lofty company, including the Composer of the day’s symphony. But I was less interested in what I was about to hear than what I could see, standing up and taking in the rest of the crowd behind me. Seven thousand faces filled the amphitheater, in every shade of Humanity from almond to onyx, root-heritage markers mixed pell-mell. A beautiful young woman in a sky-blue satin Taravi-collared jacket kept tucking the same wayward henna curl into her Dvosk-style braid, each time showing the vine-like Sul tattoos on her hands. She dressed and carried herself like a queen. But in Coruscar one learns quickly not to judge class from such superficial cues. Without the benefit of affinity, one must train oneself to recognize a multitude of verbal and physical mannerisms that distinguish one of the Blood, and even then—on the street, or in a shop, or at a performance of People's Music—you may be mistaken. But here at the Keep, they make it easy on foreigners and citizens alike. I knew my queen was a commoner because she was seated in Row Thirty-five.

—Tsavor Marl, An Unnatural History of Coruscar

THERE WAS A Tuning the day I met Chalcy, the previous spring at Realgar Keep. It was Opening Day of the Symphony Season, and House Kalekai had won the commission to tune the Founder before the long-awaited debut of Geret Shorl’s Renascence Symphony in Water-Flows-Under-Ice. Both events occurred outdoors in the only space that could accommodate Realgar’s prodigious frame: the Keep’s vast amphitheater, a venue as acoustically perfect as it was beautiful. Its concentric descending rows, carved into the native sandstone and flanked by natural towers of rock about the same size and vermilion hue as the Beast himself, hugged every note to the listener’s ear—regardless of whether they sat high among the Common citizens, or down with the nobles of the Blood Harmonious.

As the first Tuning of the spring, it would not be an easy job. The spines of Realgar’s mantle—the long ones that produced the Cores’ famous chiming sound—had last been tuned to a lower, autumnal Mode, and given the fact that they always grew back a few millimeters over the winter, rasping most of them two full steps up in pitch to our target Mode would take patience and stamina, especially in the unseasonable heat. I wasn’t even on the back of the Beast yet and I was drenched beneath my armored vest and close-fitting uniform. The vest was wool, and heavy with its lining of steel plates, and the fabric of the shirt and breeches was spidersilk—resilient, but not especially breathable, and all in the black of House Kalekai. Flashily embroidered with silver, the entire outfit was a burden in the sun even when we weren’t laden with our ropes and tools. But I’d done my best to keep fit and limber through the fallow months and I ascended the mechanical lift with my heart racing, anticipating the workout to come with the usual fervor of the season.

Realgar, whom we had serviced more than any other Founder, was not the largest of the Beasts—Garanat, at ninety feet tall, had a few feet over him—but he was the largest I’d personally tuned, and I enjoyed the familiar exercise of cataloging all the parts of his colossal body that could do me harm. His claws, when they weren’t retracted into his heavy paws, were five-foot-long swords, black and sharp as obsidian. The short, rough crystal ‘fur’ that covered his powerful limbs and most of his body—a stunning, translucent sunset color that changed in fascinating ways as the day’s light shifted—was capable of shredding exposed skin if one was unfortunate enough to slam against it, as Master Euclase’s face could attest. The longer spines of his mantle, most of which were taller than me and tapered into points, were actually too large to do any damage to us.

It was the Beast’s tail that I watched most warily as it floated and switched around his body with a certain jaunty felinity. At this moment, before the Tuning proper, the sharp barb at the end of the appendage was no real threat, but just as with the rows of razor teeth that grinned at us when we reached the top of the mounting scaffold, I knew better than to suppress the visceral fear the sight provoked. The first tenet of the Tuners’ Guild is Fear is Your Friend.

Realgar was in his usual prankish mood, retreating a few prancing steps back from us when we approached the edge of the scaffold. All of the Founders moved with remarkable grace and precision for their size—there was a reason we said they ‘danced’ their parts in High Musical works—but none of them quite had Realgar’s flair for physical comedy, aided by a face as expressive as it was jarringly Human.

Grotesque, foreigners so often said, but I’d always found beauty in a Core’s eccentricity, and in Realgar, an unhinged sort of charm. There was something expectant in the way his slim pupils dilated now and then that made me feel that I was forever on the verge of being let in on some phenomenal joke. But never for a moment did I let myself be fooled into forgetting that this endearing character had killed and devoured countless members of my profession—including the promising young Prentice Topaz Trona-Kalekai, my immediate predecessor, who took a tail-strike to the throat so forceful it all but severed his head from his neck.⁴

If Topaz’s fate, or our own basic potential danger, was anywhere on Master Euclase’s mind, one would never imagine it from his perfectly casual stance. Arms crossed over his chest, he heaved a weary sigh, and shook his head at our client, saying, Now, now, Venerable; come along.

The words had a certain airy tenderness which showed that the tashtaka leaves he and I were already chewing (and would throughout the procedure) were already working. The mildly psychoactive stimulant was useful for many reasons, beginning with its ability to sharpen the senses. It was critical for countering the effects of Beastbalm, the sedative incense whose jealously guarded recipe varied from House to House, but which in our case leaned heavily on Never-rue—and an especially potent variety of that plant that our apothecary imported from Sul.

Balm smoke could easily put us in the same stupor as our client if we breathed it too deeply, so I raised my mask over my nose and mouth before igniting the herbs I’d placed in the great urn on the scaffold platform. Tashtaka had its own drawbacks, of course; it was hell on the heart, particularly if that organ was weak to begin with, as mine was. (My first and only overdose after a Tuning educated me quickly that six leaves in an afternoon was my absolute limit.) And the stimulant’s most invaluable benefit—a desensitization to fear—was a gift that could work against us. In Euclase’s case, that regularly extended into a social incautiousness that got him in trouble more often with Humans than the Beasts.

Let’s get this over with, he said, his lyrical voice playful, while the Composer’s still sober enough to conduct, shall we?

I winced at the old man’s dig, casting a nervous glance down at the Honor Row where the Composer, Geret Shorl, and the other luminaries of High Music (including our rival Tuners from House Barishai, who were based in Prismatine and did not have commissions of their own that day) were seated.⁵ We may have been out in the sandy Founder’s Arena, with the further advantage of elevation, but the sound in the amphitheater could be just a little too good sometimes, especially on a calm day. Luckily, it didn’t seem that Shorl or any of his posturing entourage of Academy protégés and hangers-on had heard the snide remark, and I almost laughed to see the Composer take an unconsciously well-timed swig from his flask.

In another moment, though, with the sound of Realgar’s low, gut-stirring laughter, and the exquisite but unseasonable chiming of his pelt as he trotted back to the scaffold, every eye in the place including Shorl’s was upon us. The Beast put his face close to the urn of Balm, and while he breathed in the cloud of pungent smoke—it was a good batch; we could feel (as all the adepts in the Keep could) his consciousness start to drift almost immediately into the other realm—the Master and I uncoiled our safety ropes and launched them, hooking the anchors expertly into the sturdiest spines of his mantle. These we used to draw his rump just a bit closer—the scaly crystal craquelure there was as close as a Core got to bare skin, and it provided much surer footing for the grippy soles of our boots than the awkward, thick-bristled texture of his pelt.

The moment we leapt onto Realgar’s back, the cameras in the high Media perches clattered into action, and a ripple of reactions—both heard and sensed by affinity—rose up from the amphitheater. It sent a shiver through my body, as if every gaze was a touch. I’d learned a long time ago that I loved that complex churn of excitement from the audience. The palpable thrill of the adepts. The subtler energy of the so-called ‘common-sensors’. The bright notes of laughter, the pockets of applause and piercing whistles, the eddies of polyglot chatter. The Master loved