Steph Swainston - No Present Like Time

Lightning steadied himself with a hand against the stone and looked up. The building towered over us; its columns were fifteen meters high, their edges wavered in the gloom. Lightning patted a smooth corner block, whispered, “Can you climb it?”

“You do say some bloody ridiculous things sometimes. Look at it.”

“Damn. I hoped our scheme-”

“Well, of course I can.” I grinned. “This reminds me of when, before I left Hacilith to come to the Castle, I climbed the governor’s palace and left a blackmail note on Aver-Falconet’s own pillow. It was easy.”

Lightning’s volatile sense of morality flared. “What? I don’t remember you divulging that to the Circle!”

“Sh! It’s a long story; forget it.”

I had asked for a whole one thousand pounds and I was amazed when Aver-Falconet paid up. I thought it was a fortune; how little I knew. Still, I bought horses and new kit, and kept enough change to make it worth the highwaymen’s while when they robbed me of everything not ten hours later on the Camber Road.

“Stand here in the shadow until I return. Don’t move. Apart from if the shadow moves, of course.” I took a firm grasp of the stonework with both hands, found a toehold with my leg fully bent and kicked off with the other. Hugging my body close to the stone, my rangy reach gained another handhold and toe. I was fully above Lightning. He kept his arrow nocked and waited flanked by a column. The darkness gave grainy texture to his severe face.

I strained to make out cracks in the mortar. Tiny white pinpoints prickled in my night vision. I folded my wings tight because their weight pulled me away from the wall. I stabbed my strong, pointed nails into the gaps, my fingers clawed. I jammed my boot in, straightened my leg. I raised my weight and stretched out for the next hold. I undercut the grip, cheek to the chill stone, stepped up.

The wind was stronger here. It blew around the exposed corner and cooled off my sweat. I hung on with one hand and both feet, stood up straight and took a break. I exhaled a long breath of admiration at the view: hundreds of houses and twenty thousand lives that Gio had snatched as a stake in his game. Well, now he is dealing with Comet who learned to climb in the precipitous ice-split chimneys of Darkling’s cliffs.

Above me was a narrow ledge. I reached up and felt about in the seagull shit. I secured a good foothold, bent my knees, sprang gracefully onto the cornice. I ran lightly along it, rounded the corner to the side of the building facing the mosaic. I flattened myself against the architrave of Gio’s window. The brigands’ camp was below, at the other side of the square. If any of them glanced up, they would see me plainly against this white stone. I quickly pushed the shutter open and peered into the room. No one inside, so I hopped over the sill and landed in a crouch, silently on the mint-green tiled floor.

Gio’s apartment was enormous. A square bed stood in the center, no curtains as in the Fourlands, just a taupe silk coverlet. The walls were covered in a trompe l’oeil scene of a sumptuous feast. Elegant diners in Trisian robes poised with grapes halfway to their mouths or in the act of raising goblets. Their eyes seemed to follow me across the room as I skirted a wooden screen and approached an alabaster side table on which burned one of the open-flame lamps.

Beside it was a glass half-full of clear liquid and a bottle with a familiar label: Diw Harbor Gin, Gio’s tipple of choice. I released the lid of my ring and dropped both aconitum tablets into the glass. They dissolved instantly. I swirled the glass and set it down beside the lamp. The oil lamp was pure gold, in the shape of a breaching dolphin. Irregular coral in claw fittings and priceless pearl clusters encrusted its base. It entranced me-

“Yeah, right…” a voice came from just outside the door, “which I need like Mica Town needs more coffee shops! Goodnight, Tirrick.”

“Goodnight, Gio.”

Gio! I sprinted back across the room. Gio’s foot appeared at the door. I couldn’t reach the window. I jumped behind the screen. I was five clear meters from the window. Shit.

Poised to move, I peered carefully through the fine fretwork at the top of the folding partition. Gio slipped his coat off and threw it on the bed. He was wearing the same clothes as when he left the Castle, and though washed they smelled of ingrained mud and brine. He had still not bothered to find a shirt and wore the 1969 Sword slung on a double red belt across the waistband of his blue breeches. His bare ribs and hips were sinewy furrows.

Gio’s obsession for revenge might be just another form of despair, but it had kept him disciplined if not hygienic. The scar Wrenn had given him showed as a pale pink incision at the base of his throat.

I wondered feverishly what to do. I was fast enough to escape but Gio would certainly see me and he wouldn’t drink the gin; he would send his swordsmen against Stormy Petrel and Ata’s plan would fail. I kept still. I could stay here until Gio was either asleep or dead.

Beside the bed and ranged against the wall I saw six steel coffers. If they were full, Gio was undoubtedly a millionaire. Stacked on top of the strong boxes were three ormolu jewelry caskets with more primitive locks, because like many Awian mechanisms form is valued over function.

In front of my eyes, the paintings on the screen panels depicted domed buildings, nothing like those of the island. That they were ancient Awian palaces could not have escaped Gio’s notice.

He drew his rapier and practiced two or three sequences back and forth. He didn’t seem satisfied. I watched, excruciating pins and needles prickling my legs. My tight grip on my sword hilt was embossing an image of twisted metal wire into my palm.

Gio held his rapier over his shoulder, pounced to the side table and gulped down his glass of gin. Nothing happened. Gio returned to a cool first guard, began to spar with his shadow, leaving white dints in the plaster. I quietly stretched to see. He should be writhing in paroxysms by now, on the floor, in agony. He should be quickly asphyxiating, tongue too swollen to scream.

I could not for the eternal life of me think what had gone wrong. The poison was having no effect at all. In a few minutes Gio finished his exercises and, looking perfectly healthy, strode toward me. He was coming to close the shutters; I would be trapped inside. As soon as he passes the screen he’ll see me. He was just one step away.

I sprang out and made a dive for the window but it was too far. I landed in front of it, facing Gio.

His face was grotesque with astonishment. “Jant?” He snatched himself into guard, with me at sword point. His rapier’s bright tip hovered a centimeter away from my chest. I shuffled back until my calves pressed the window ledge, the night air behind me. I kept my hands down, in surrender. Gio’s crazed eyes were wide, amazement stayed his hand. He checked the doorway-if I was here, the other Eszai might be closing in. “Where’s Wrenn? What were you doing?”

He saw my glance flick to the empty gin glass. I was so confused, I couldn’t help but look. No man should stand upright after imbibing that much belladonna. “Poison?” he whispered; he knew my history. His face went white with fury. “You cowardly bastard! I’ll pour it down your throat! How long before it takes effect? Answer, damn you!” Fear high-pitched his voice. “What have I drunk? What is it? ”

I said nothing out of sheer bewilderment; Gio should be very dead by now. My coat leather split at the breast under the pressure of his rapier point. He shouted, “Tirrick! Help! I’ve been poisoned! Assassin! Quickly!”

Voices on the mezzanine took up the shout: “Gio’s been poisoned!” “I knew the Trisians would try something!”