City of Burning Shadows (Apocrypha: The Dying World) Page 2

  Except there he stood at the security station. A face I knew well. “Micah?”

  “Ash!”

  I gripped his offered hand, a reflex, and squeezed it harder than was polite as a complicated storm of emotions ran through me. Relief that a friend—a fellow priest was still alive. And joy to see him. But deeper down, in that churning part of my soul that never seemed to quiet, I was pissed. “Where did you come from? Where have you been?”

  Micah had obviously been through hard times. A jagged diagonal scar marred what had once been one of the handsomest faces in Miroc. It continued under his jaw, down his neck, all the way to the iridescent lines of his Bright God tattoo. His clothing, too, was new for him. He was dressed like me, in the light linen robes that were the best way to survive now that the true desert climate had enveloped the city. In those plain drapes of fabric, who would guess he’d once been the darling of Kaifail’s stage, the shining jewel of Bright Kaifail’s church?

  He frowned, doubtless measuring me in the same way, taking in the new shape my nose had healed into and the scars that trailed rough dark lines across what had once been smooth brown skin. I’d accepted these changes as a small price to pay for the fact I could still draw breath. “It’s good to see you,” he said.

  “I didn’t know anyone else made it out. I thought everyone was dead.”

  “So did I. Until I saw your name in the directory.”

  I yanked my hand back. “You’re here for Price & Breckenridge?” Add betrayal to the emotional soup in my head.

  His smile faded. “I’m sorry. I can’t pretend I’m not. Believe me, I’m grateful to find you, too.”

  “I’ve been here.” A sudden roughness in my throat made it hard to talk. “I’ve been here for months. Where have you been?”

  We’d risen together through the priesthood, both gifted kids from families who couldn’t afford to pay for secular education. Micah’s face and talents had drawn the attention of the Bright Church’s scouts, while my own interests had pointed me towards the Dark Church’s studies, but we’d remained close over the years. Despite what outsiders might think, there has never been enmity between the two sides of Kaifail’s church. Competition, sure, and even a sibling-like rivalry, but we have always been one church, not two.

  Which made it so much worse that it was Micah—that he’d only come here because he needed something.

  Micah glanced at the security guard, who was watching our interchange with shameless interest. Micah twitched his chin to indicate we should step out of earshot and put a hand on my arm—a normal, friendly gesture that I jerked away from faster than I could think.

  But when he walked a few steps away, I followed. “I’ve been in hiding,” he whispered. “With people…people trying to help. Trying to do something.”

  It was hard not to read accusation into his words. “I’m done with crusades.” I had to clench my fist to stop myself from compulsively running fingers along the scars that traced my arms, hidden under the loose sleeves of my robe.

  “I know.” Micah’s tone was placating. “I feel terrible asking you for anything. I do. But we need help. We need your employers’ help. I need you to—”

  “No.” I turned away from him, strode to the elevator, and pushed the button. Whatever was going on, whatever trouble, whatever crisis, I wanted nothing to do with it.

  The elevator arrived with a ding. The door slid open. But Micah hadn’t given up.

  “Ash.” His voice was soft. “There’s no one else we can go to. And this is important. I can’t tell you how much. Please. I don’t know what else to do.”

  I stood with my hand on the elevator door. A couple more steps and I could leave him behind. Walk away. Abandon him to whatever problems had driven him out of hiding. Driven him to me.

  “What do you want from P&B?” I asked without turning around.

  “Just a meeting at first. My friends want to see a representative from the firm. It’ll be worth Price’s time to talk to us. We have information she’s interested in. Information about the city council.”

  Gods-dammit, I was going to do this. “I’ll talk to Amelia.” I stepped into the elevator. “No promises.”

  The doors slid shut behind me, cutting off any response he might have made.

  #

  The door to Amelia’s corner office was open, and I could see Iris inside, sitting on Amelia’s desk, leaning in close to read what Amelia had up on her computer. On the touch-screen display that filled the wall to their right, a map of the city was displayed, marked with a number of circles and Xs. Whatever was going on had both of them frowning.

  I lingered in the doorway, unsure if I should interrupt.

  No question it was Amelia I needed to see. Jonathan Breckenridge was a brilliant attorney, and he had earned his name on the door a hundred times over, but P&B was Amelia’s firm. Everything funneled through her.

  Amelia’s office wasn’t the cluttered mess of my workspace, but, like Miroc, it had seen better days. The fountain that had once trickled soothingly in the corner stood dry and the potted ferns that used to soften the light from the wide, ceiling-to-floor windows had been left to die as the price of water soared.

  Miroc had been a green city. Sure, no one was ever going to call it pretty, but once upon a time, it had looked alive, not baked brown by the desert sun. Through the thirty-third-floor windows, I had a clear view of scorched parks, cracked roads, and crumbling high-rises. High in the sky, fluttering shadows under the afternoon sunlight—the bird priests wheeled in the air, praying to a goddess who no longer answered. Not since the Abandon had their aerial dances brought the rains that used to keep this city lush and beautiful. Despite that, they were the only remaining priesthood no one in the city dared attack on sight. Because we never entirely give up hope.

  And at the city’s edge, untouched by the decay far below, the glittering glass dome of the Crescent stood serene and untouched. If we all dried up and blew away, would the Jansynians even notice?

  “Are you here for the view, Ash, or is there something I can do for you?” Amelia’s question startled me back to the present. She and Iris were both staring at me.

  Stronger men than I have been lobotomized by one of Amelia Price’s stares. “If you’re not too busy, can I talk to you about something?”

  Iris slid off the desk. “Might as well. We’re nowhere with this.”

  Amelia turned a tight, but affectionate smile at Iris, then swiped her hand across the wall, sending it dark. “What is it you need?” she asked me.

  Brevity was my ally. “A friend came to see me this morning. He wants to hire Price & Breckenridge.”

  “I’m sorry.” Amelia’s dismissal was quick and painless. “We don’t have the resources to take on new clients right now.”

  And that was that. Easy and over. Until Iris got involved. “What friend?”

  I tried to think if Iris had ever met Micah. She and I had crossed paths a few times before Iris had met Amelia and settled into the person she was now. Back then, Iris had spent a lot of her time working freelance for the university, tracking down random and obscure bits of information for the senior students. And on occasion for priests of Kaifail.

  “Micah Talmadge. He was—”

  “An actor, wasn’t he?” Amelia asked. “I saw him in Songs like the Ocean. And that play about the Twins. He was really quite something.” She paused, thoughtful. “What was it he wanted?”

  “A meeting. He didn’t say what about.” I could have left it there. But no amount of petulance justified not giving Amelia the full story. “He said his employers knew something about the city council? Something you would want to know?”

  Iris’s head jerked up, like she’d been stabbed. Amelia’s only response was to narrow her eyes. If I hadn’t been looking straight at her, I would have missed it.

  With the churches gone, Miroc’s council was the only thing holding our city together. They regulated what water we had left, negotiated with the Jansyn
ians for the trade deals we could still manage, and organized the various police and security forces that kept the city from erupting into violent chaos. “What’s going on with the council?” I asked.

  “Nothing you need to worry about,” Amelia said smoothly. “But I think I will have you take that meeting.”

  Now it was my turn to be surprised. “Me? Shouldn’t you send someone with experience? Iris or Josiah or—”

  Amelia cut me off with a sharp shake of her head. “He approached you. He trusts you. Find out what he and his employers know—and, if you can, how they know it.”

  “Isn’t there some kind of training? What do I say? What do I do?”

  Amelia sighed, impatiently tapping her perfectly lacquered nails on the surface of her desk. “It’s the end of the world. We’ve moved past probationary periods and promotion tracks. Ask questions. You know how to do that. Whatever they tell you, bring it back to me.”

  It sounded straightforward enough. It wasn’t what I would have chosen to do, but Amelia was the boss and I couldn’t say no. “I can do that.”

  Amelia waved her hand, finished with me. “Off you go.”

  Iris followed me out. “I can come with if you need me. Amelia won’t tell me no.”

  The offer was beyond kind, especially after I’d snapped at her earlier. “Thanks, Iris. I appreciate it, really. But I should be able to talk to people without getting myself in too much trouble.”

  She shrugged, and her eyes whirled a cheerful rainbow of colors before returning to violet. “We’ll see about that.”

  Bathed in the warmth of her friendly amusement, I went back to my office to call downstairs and tell Micah it was done.

  #

  No surprise the nightmares came again. The fight at the tube station, the stress of seeing Micah—I should have expected it.

  Tonight I didn’t dream of the riots. Which was a change, at least. If my subconscious was determined to make my nights a living hell, at least it was good enough to offer up some variety in its punishments.

  We take the small comforts where we find them.

  I was in an alley at night. The glass and concrete walls to either side of me reached claustrophobically high. The still-lucid sliver of my mind called out that I shouldn’t be here, that I should know better than to be alone, after dark, in this part of town.

  It wasn’t enough to break the dream. Because I had been here. I had done this, even knowing at the time that I shouldn’t.

  “Hello?” my dream self called out, and my voice echoed all around, the word stretching and twisting and growing louder and louder until I had to cover my ears from the deafening thunder.

  I’d come here looking for other priests in hiding. I’d come alone because none of the other survivors huddled at the temple were in any shape to walk the streets. But the little girl who’d stumbled in this morning—dehydrated, bruised, and cradling a broken arm—had said her mother and four other priests were trapped. They’d been spotted coming back from a trip out to find food. Their attackers had set fire to the building and the priests had been caught when the building collapsed.

  Ellie was the girl’s name. Alana was her mother. Alana had been one of mine, a priest of Dark Kaifail. I had to try to find her.

  The bastards were waiting for me.

  The blessing and curse of dreams is that they are not real. The pain I felt as they broke my bones, cut my face, caved my ribs—it was a shadow of what the reality had been. But the terror, the soul-deep anguish, the horrific loss—these things were worse for countless repetition and the knowledge I would never see any of these friends again—not the one I’d left behind in the temple; not the ones I’d come to save.

  I woke to the echo of my own voice, a sobbing scream that no one but me was there to hear. Further sleep was out of the question. Once the nightmares started for the night, they’d keep coming back.

  My apartment was small—a one-room efficiency—the best I could afford. These days, it wasn’t space that ran up your cost-of-living; it was the utilities to make it habitable. Water wasn’t the only thing that had become more expensive as Miroc limped closer and closer to being swallowed by the desert.

  I stumbled over to the tiny sink that served both bathroom and kitchen functions and slid my hand over the panel that activated the small sconce above it. I dribbled water onto the washcloth that hung on the wall and scrubbed my face.

  Reflexively, I rubbed again at the rough lines that traced my skin over my collarbone, across to my shoulder, several inches down my chest. Kaifail’s stone doorway, with the swirling vortex in the center and the basic symbols of magic worked in all around. I knew it well enough I only had to trace it with my fingers to see it in my mind. This morning, it had gotten me out of a beating. Other times, like the night I’d just been dreaming about…

  Among the Thirteen, there were gods who taught tolerance and love. Who guided their followers to forgive their enemies and bear no judgment against those who wronged them.

  Kaifail was not one of those gods. Which was good, because I wasn’t sure I could ever forgive those people. I wished them countless nights of nightmares worse than mine and eternal judgment from whichever god they belonged to—whichever god they had turned their backs on to commit atrocious acts against the servants of all the Thirteen.

  “Ellie,” I said into the mirror. “Alana. Jason. Molly.” I’d lost them on that horrible night. When I woke up in the hospital, days later, no one could tell me what had happened. In the months of my recovery, I couldn’t get in contact with them or any other refugees from Kaifail’s temple. So many friends and colleagues and people I considered family—all gone. I’d assumed they were dead, but seeing Micah today had opened up the possibility that anyone could still be out there.

  Amelia had found Iris, and Iris and found me, but who else was looking for these lost souls, these broken men and women who could be anywhere in the city, desperate and alone, condemned to their fate by the tattoo we all bore?

  Kaifail couldn’t help us. Or Kaifail wouldn’t help us. It amounted to the same thing. For years we had served him, and then he and the rest of the Thirteen had disappeared without a word of warning. They’d left the world to this dismal fate, left their priests behind to bear the ire of a civilization slowly collapsing.

  I couldn’t bring the gods back. I couldn’t save the ones they’d left behind. The best I could do was hope my friends found some kind of peace and shelter and fellowship as we all counted off the days remaining until the end.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Copper

  Kaifail was a liar. I’m his priest; I can say that. And it’s not like it was any great secret, especially to anyone who took thirty seconds to look.

  For followers of the Bright God, lies were a way of life. They celebrated Kaifail the storyteller, the trickster, the scoundrel: the Kaifail who stole the secrets of magic as a gift to his children, who conned three different goddesses into believing they were his one and only true love. The Bright Church was full of itinerant storytellers, actors, artists, and politicians—crafters of fiction, every one.

  Those of us who aligned with the Dark God, we venerated a different Kaifail. Our Kaifail hoarded puzzles and stalked mysteries but he was no more honest than his other face. Maybe priests of the Dark God didn’t lie as often as our bright brethren, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t.

  I didn’t want to see Micah again. Didn’t want to meet with his people. Had no interest in whatever they needed from Price & Breckenridge. But because Amelia had told me to, and because I still needed to pay my bills, I would go and I would listen and I would report back.

  My apartment had no windows, but my bedside alarm informed me the sun was up and it was time to get moving. I had work to do. I dressed, packed up my NetPad and wireless and made for the tube station.

  I transferred to the yellow line today, since I was headed for a different part of town. I rode to the last stop and still it spit me out with quite a few block
s to hike. I pulled up my hood as I stepped out into the glaring sunlight. I was alone on the sidewalk. Flat-faced warehouses offered neither canopies nor decorative trees for shade. Cargo trucks, the street’s lone occupants, jetted clouds of smoke into air that was already hot enough to suffocate. This was the only part of the city where regular traffic still moved, and all these trucks were going in and out of one place. I squinted up at the most visible landmark, the shining expanse of glass and steel, high above the city, shimmering in the heat. The beating heart of Jansynian industry: the Corporate Crescent.

  After us humans, the Jansynians probably had the highest population in Miroc—in the world—but you’d never know it by faces on the street. They kept to themselves, lived, worked, and played in their private, glassed-in and fenced-off complexes.

  Mostly. As it turned out, I knew a great deal about the Jansynian city above because of one woman who had stepped down from the sky to be with me. Years ago, before everything fell apart. Our story was as old and worn as time. We’d been in love, but life had intervened.

  And then the world had ended. So points for originality right there at the end. Still, a failing grade overall.

  The Crescent was the one place in Miroc that hadn’t changed since the Abandon and the subsequent collapse. It had always been its own world, a self-sufficient haven for those who belonged, an impenetrable fortress to those who didn’t. The Crescent didn’t seem to be suffering from any of the problems that plagued Miroc, but how would anyone know? I’d lived in this city all my life, and I’d spent three years intensely involved with a Jansynian woman, and I’d still never been any closer to the Crescent than this.

  The city in the sky began a hundred stories above the street on which I walked. The outside was a shell of reflective, tinted glass, a sleek dome covering the Jansynian city that protected them both from the elements and any outsiders who might want in. A dozen different corporations each had their own enclave within, providing all the space their employees needed to work, live, and play. Most Jansynians were born in a corporate complex and never saw the need to leave. The Crescent had its own sources of food, water, and power. As Miroc starved and withered below, the Jansynians went on as they always had.