Djinn City, page 38
“How many?”
“Estimated twenty thousand according to the Daily Star.”
“That many?”
“They’re having trouble explaining what’s causing all this,” Maria said. “Underwater earthquakes in the bay seems to be the consensus.”
“Fuck. We’re really running out of time.”
“You best be persuasive with Memmion then.”
The Hub was somewhere in the tropics, invisible to the human eye, approachable only through the route mapped out in Golgoras’s prized RAS charts. It had been created long ago, with magic not easily replicated today, for it occupied a slant of space slightly altered from reality. Precise turns and maneuvers had to be made to enter this pocket universe in an invisible four-dimensional lock; one wrong step would send you spinning back out to empty sky. At last, after an hour of careful navigation, the port flashed into view through the haze of distortion, brilliant from the sun, a series of interlocked giant spheres made of reflective burnished copper, like droplets of fire, moored airships dotting their circumference.
They were all awed, standing on the deck, marveling at something completely alien hanging in the sky in plain sight, the first real evidence of the superiority and might boasted by the djinn. The Hub had three central spheres made of crystal, each large enough to contain a city block, connected by wide tubes. Inside were the functional habitats for the djinn and Ghul who crewed the airships, warehouses for stashing loot, and manufactories for repairing and, indeed, assembling the ships themselves. Long ago there had been great foundries and shipwrights for making everything, but nowadays, they mostly just ordered the parts in from Hyundai.
The bottom halves of the spheres were given over to nature, giant trees growing upside down, the canopy trailing earthward, teeming with a riot of confused birds. Further, smaller spheres and tubes spoked out from the main circumference, forming docks and ancillary structures, some with obvious functions. Rais counted something like fifty airships of various sizes moored, about half of them small pleasure craft.
“I can’t see the dreadnought.” Golgoras’s eye telescoped alarmingly. “Something is wrong. Memmion hasn’t left the Hub in two centuries…”
The Hub was strictly for use by the RAS, an avowed egalitarian club espousing strong republican views, yet there were still some perks for seniority, because Golgoras made straight for one of the choice central berths around the largest sphere and was permitted to moor the ship with minimum delay. There were no officials at hand to greet them, just a uniformed Ghul leaning expressionlessly against a wall. Everything was apparently self-service.
“Where is the harbormaster?” Golgoras said. “Something is wrong.”
The pilot hurried Rais and Maria down, leaving Roger and the crew with the ship. They followed a winding, sunlit corridor to the club bar, where a smattering of djinn greeted Golgoras in a variety of tongues. This was not the captains’ bar, which was much nicer, Golgoras explained, but sadly out of bounds for visitors. Even at the club bar, there was a large book at the door where he had to sign their names and expend a minute quantity of his auctoritas to gain them entry.
“What’s going on?” he asked the bartender. “Where is everyone?”
“Over at Memmion’s.”
“I was heading there next.”
“Half the sphere’s there,” the bartender said. “He’s gone.”
“What?!”
“He got some visitors, and then they got into the dreadnought and flew off.”
“He took the ship? Left? Why? With who?”
The bartender shrugged. “Who the fuck knows? Between you and me, Memmion’s been acting odd the last fifty years. Erratic as fuck. Time we think about a new chairman for the society, maybe…”
“He built the Hub,” Golgoras growled, turning to leave. “And bartenders don’t get a fucking vote.”
“He’s going to spit in our drinks next time we come here,” Rais said. He had to run to keep up with the djinn.
“He’s an Ageist cunt. That’s one of those neo-clubs where they sit around talking shit about the Lore. There’ve been more and more of them around. I’m going to tell Memmion to sky a few of them when I see him.”
By the time they reached Memmion’s door, it was fairly clear that he had left abruptly, and the crowd of djinns thronging the corridor had no clue where. Golgoras interviewed a few of the higher-ranking ones, including the chief mechanic of the sphere, who claimed that the dreadnought had left with her full complement of Ghul crew, but none of the Ifrit officers. Three visitors had come in the night with a hired craft, which too had left with the dreadnought. No one had noticed them; they had apparently known the ward keys for entering the sphere undetected through Memmion’s private dock, a backdoor entrance into the Hub long unused and mostly forgotten. Memmion’s own security of interlocking spells, brutally powerful, were undisturbed.
The dreadnought, properly named the Sublime Porte, the pride of the fleet, the largest, most dangerous ship ever built by the Royal Aeronautics Society, had not slipped moorage for over a hundred years, the last time being when it had accidentally come loose from its ties during a rare conjunction of telluric disruption and a thunderstorm. Now, both the elder djinn and the dreadnought were gone without a trace. The steward of the Windward Sphere was visibly distraught, and people were looking at him accusingly, as if he should either produce the missing edifices immediately or furnish everyone with a ready-made explanation.
The hall was now completely crammed with onlookers, the entire sphere jammed up like the site of a major disaster, the djinn being much addicted to gossip and conjecture.
“Full Assembly of all captains present in twelve hours!” the steward said, brushing aside Golgoras. “I will present my findings then.”
The steward promptly locked himself in his office and refused to entertain any further visitors. Fuming, Golgoras led them back to the ship.
“It’s Matteras! They said three djinns—it must be them,” Rais said as soon as they were back on the bridge. “He kidnapped Beltrex and Elkran, and now he’s taken Memmion.”
“How, hmm? Memmion is four hundred pounds, with a field that’s like a brick wall at a hundred yards.”
“I don’t know how!” Rais said. “With threats, or blackmail, or ambush. You said yourself Memmion hasn’t left the Hub in hundreds of years. How fighting fit was he? Maybe he was asleep and they just carted him off wrapped in a carpet…”
“And the Sublime Porte?”
“They took the ship, Golgoras. It’s Matteras, for god’s sake—he’s smart and ruthless, he’s running rings around everyone.”
“We should wait for the Assembly,” Golgoras said. “Find out what the steward knows.”
“He doesn’t know shit! Did you see his face? He was shitting his pants. What will the Assembly achieve? They’re going to dither around for a bit and then eat canapés and get drunk. We’ve got to fly! We can catch them, Golgoras! We’re just a day behind!”
“Ah, Your Excellency, what are you going to do once you catch them?” Maria said. “Like don’t they have the big ship now with all the guns?”
“Sephiroth can take her, maybe,” Golgoras said doubtfully. “If we can sneak up above her. It’s going to be tough, though. We’ll take casualties.”
“We’ve got the rockets,” Roger said. “Tenoch’s snipers are really good. We could probably hit a bunch of them before they even see us.”
“Guys, don’t worry, we’re not going to fight,” Rais said.
“They’ll just give up and hand everyone over, I suppose?” Golgoras asked.
“We are going to negotiate.”
CHAPTER 45
Kaikobad
Kaikobad stood on the north wall, where defenders silently manned scorpions armed with iron-tipped bolts. Bougainvillea had grown along the ramparts here, decking the heights with purple flowers, back when defenders and scorpions had both been unthinkable. The vines were long dead now, flowers pulped underfoot.
The last besieging army was outside, a pathetic force compared with what had come before, testament to the staggering losses on all sides. The remaining names had arrived at last, the original instigators finally ranged against the city. Memmion was in the sky in his new floating warship, raining down missiles. Bahamut churned the waters of the bay, ever threatening. The famed Gangaridai armada was nearly gone, battered to kindling by repeated hurricanes smashing the seawall.
Barkan, Elkran, and Davala commanded the Nephilim armies, circling the northern walls in a double line. Behind them was Horus, named the Broken by the Ghuls, leading his client army at last against the First City, the Ghuls armored in black, carrying their fifteen-foot-long spears. It was the end, and the mood of the city befitted the gravity of the moment.
Buskers were gone from the drowned promenade; minstrels, poets, playwrights all silent. The town crier, who used to go to every plaza and park shouting his news, sat at home in a drunken stupor. No one wanted the news anymore; people could smell it in the air, feel it in the water sloshing at their feet.
The city was flooded. Almost all the streets were ankle-deep in water, black with ash, mud, and sewage—a rank wartime soup. The famed mosaics of the old district were chipped and damaged, some of them deliberately vandalized with chisels. People did strange things in wartime. Dead dogs floated on the grand avenue, abandoned pets unable to fend for themselves. It was a full degradation, a complete collapse of civic duties. Almost all services were suspended, except for the breweries, which continued to churn out cheap alcohol. The taverns did roaring business: it seemed as if half the city was crammed into them.
There were rumors that Kuriken had left. He had gone outside and not returned. Watchers on the wall claimed to have seen him meet Givaras on the field. Some claimed that he had killed their nemesis. Some claimed that Kuriken had lost heart—he was a coward. Kaikobad knew that it was a moot point anyway. The First City was fading away at an increasing rate now. Entire quarters were so tenuous that they could not be approached, their inhabitants insubstantial as ghosts, seemingly unaware of their own condition.
The High King at last walked the bones of the city, surrounded by dark-eyed Horologists, stalking some pattern through the ancient ley lines, laying the final nails of his crowning work. This had been his intention all along, everything else mere posturing, all the fighting and the bloodshed just the interlude to the main act. Perhaps Kuriken had recognized that, understood his own role as the joker of the pack, and decided to walk away. He, at last sight, had at least still been one of the living, still a physical presence, his vitality too strong to fade so easily.
Kaikobad followed the High King with professional interest, appreciating a true master. The exhausted Horologists were marking the cardinal points in the city, the exact spots that aligned with the sacred constellation, the three stars of Orion, and the High King himself was doing the final spell work. He was, in fact, the only sorcerer, Nephilim or djinn, capable of such a thing. Kaikobad watched him in awe, only now understanding the full scale of what was being attempted here. The sheer hubris of it, the impossible ambition, made something sing inside him, and he understood the nature of the High King’s war, how small the enemy outside was, how insignificant and petty. This High King was fighting against reality itself, Horus, Memmion, and the others just ticks on his back that he did not have the time to swat away.
The High King sensed him, but there was nothing he could do. Kaikobad existed on a level below the surface; there was no way to pry him loose. In the end, the High King visibly shrugged, the red-masked face showing wry amusement. In a way, perhaps he was glad for an audience, a lone witness to his brilliance. This would, Kaikobad realized, literally be his last act on earth, the last hours of his existence, in fact. That he would spend it with a ghost from another time was poignant.
When the work was finished, the High King sat on a stool in the middle of the central plaza and breathed in the gentle mist from the last fountain in the city, a river dolphin made of bronze, gurgling water out if its mouth, on occasion spraying it high in the air. Once, children had played here, racing boats in the runoff drain, while lovers pitched coins into the water. Those people were long gone now, stored away someplace safe. One by one, even the Horologists went, either back to the tower or fading to some other world, it was impossible to tell.
The High King sat for a long time, and Kaikobad waited with him in companionable silence, as all around them the city began to unravel and spin away like cobwebs in the wind.
CHAPTER 46
Gangs of Old Town
Indelbed woke up inducted into a gang. It wasn’t something he had scheduled. This was his first encounter with the monthly migration of the street boys: feral juvenile drug dealers who used a rotating circle of habitats, the entire city their home, the garbage dumps their pleasure domes, the bridges their secret roads. The pipe yard was next to a Water and Sewerage Authority pump house, a spacious plot containing the tube well that supplied water to the block. WASA owned pumps and wells all over the city, under the rule of entrepreneurially spirited pump operators. The pump operators here had erected a phensedyl bottling factory in the extra space. Phensedyl was a cough syrup that people took to get high. It worked. The original cough syrup had a slightly higher codeine content, which was enough to attract an early user demographic of recreational substance abuse aficionados.
Ironically, it wasn’t the extra bit of codeine that was making them high initially, but rather the promethazine, which, among other things, served as an anticholinergic, an overdose of which caused hallucinations. It was like a Dramamine high, only milder, suitable for unregulated, continuous abuse. Of course, as soon as phensedyl became a massive money earner, pharmaceutical factories in West Bengal had started churning out special batches with extra-high codeine content, thereby proving that customer service was alive and well.
All month, the phensedyl factory in the WASA pump house diluted and bottled their product. On the last weekend of each month, the boys descended to resupply. They lived in the pipes for three days, settling accounts; mapping out routes, distribution points, and where the dangerous spots were; marking a ledger of all the beat cops, who was greedy and who was nice; noting who was missing, who’d been hurt or killed. At the end of the conference they left with the new supply, a month’s worth of benediction for their clients.
The leader was a twelve-year-old who looked ten, a mass of old scars on a short, compact body and a close-cropped head. His eyes were ferocious, black, almost cross-eyed with intensity, and he was somewhat jowly, unusual in a street kid, possibly the very source of his power.
This was the face Indelbed saw, staring at him upside down. It was impressively ugly from either direction.
“You too big to live here,” Boss Kid said. “Pipe too small.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Indelbed was now aware that a knife was hovering around his throat. It wasn’t a kitchen knife. This one looked small and professional, a stabbing instrument.
“I’m the djinn of the pipes,” Indelbed said with a grin. Knives made him laugh, unless they were made of bone.
“You djinn?” Boss Kid didn’t give anything away, ever. You could tell him the world was ending, and he’d ask a phlegmatic “When?” and then recalculate his margin.
Indelbed reached out with his field. The knife got hot, too hot to hold.
“Djinn,” Boss Kid spat, refusing to drop the knife, even though his palm was smoking. “Plenty djinn in slums. You go there. This is pipe. No such thing as pipe djinn.”
“Now there is.”
“Then I’m your boss. You live here, you work for me.”
“You sell those bottles? What is it? Cough syrup?”
“Hundred percent top-quality foreign phensedyl, pacca, no cut.” Even Boss Kid’s sales pitch was atonal. “You drink it, I kill you.”
“That all you guys deal?”
“Ganja, hashish, heroin, beer, Viagra,” Boss Kid counted off on one hand. “My boys best in Dhaka. I give food, protection, salary, free housing, and insurance. Also holiday every six months. Go home to the village.”
“Insurance?”
“Health insurance, motherchode, like the multinationals, no? One bottle phensedyl a month. No cough, no runny nose.”
“You want me to go around peddling all this stuff?”
“No, you too big.” Boss Kid measured him up with a practiced eye. “Police get you quick.”
“Maybe I can stay here protecting your stash. Look menacing.”
“Hmm. Maybe. Half salary, you sit on ass all day.”
“I’m a djinn!” Indelbed protested. “I should get double.”
“You weak djinn. But first djinn in crew. Okay. Basic salary. You follow me one week. Trial period. Eid bonus if fighting.”
There was no fighting. Boss Kid was an extraordinarily savvy leader. He saw the world as a desert, and he hopped from oasis to oasis, cannily nursing his resources while his enemies floundered in the sand. Everyone owed him a favor; he ate for free in restaurants, ran the bar for the Wari football club, kept his drugs stashed in the ward commissioner’s house. He worked for the police and RAB as a valued informant, and when they were off duty, he got them booze and drugs. He murdered and robbed, and for a fee he got rid of bodies. He was an ace disposal guy. He didn’t give a shit; if there was a profit, he’d do it. But Boss Kid never peddled in flesh. His face darkened whenever propositions like that came up, and if anyone took his boys, he made them pay with blood. This one redeeming factor in his fast-receding humanity was enough for Indelbed. They were kindred souls, more or less.
When the week was up, Indelbed suggested that they take over the pump house. It was a question of higher economics. Boss Kid controlled distribution, but not supply. In this case, supply was easy to manage, because Boss Kid already knew the broker at the Benapole border who supplied the barrels of concentrated stuff, and moreover, he also knew the ward commissioner whose nephew actually sanctioned this pump house. The pump operator was simply a middleman, eating up precious commissions.
