Tim Lebbon - Echo city

Twice in as many days. Gorham hated coming down into the Echoes.

Jail Ten was in the first Echo below Course Canton. It had been abandoned almost a hundred years before, soon after the salt plague and subsequent purge had turned Skulk Canton into a wasteland. The jail's prisoners had been moved to Skulk in stages, all three thousand of them, and legend had it that the brutal jailmaster had remained behind in Jail Ten, never to be seen again. The story went that he still considered it his duty to incarcerate anyone who wandered into the underground complex, whether by accident or on purpose. Gorham and his fellow Watchers had sensed phantoms down there, and some even claimed to have seen them, but no one had seen the jailmaster.

It served them well to perpetuate the myth.

They carried oil torches similar to those the Baker used in her own underground retreat. There were no chopped down here to guide them, however, and Malia and the other Watchers navigated by memory alone. They had been using the jail for little more than a year, and they went there only when it was absolutely essential.

Gorham was feeling unsettled, uncertain, yet he could not let that show. The Watchers had almost been destroyed three years before, the crackdown by the Marcellan bullies and their Hanharan priests reaching deep into the heart of the organization and all but tearing it out. The memories of those times were still vivid and depressing, and he tried not to dwell on them too often. But seeing Peer walking ahead of him brought it all back. Her wrists were tied before her, and he wondered how painful her right arm would be. She limped slightly, and he wanted to ask about her hip. But he could not, of course. If he voiced his thoughts, guilt would break him down, and it was his job now to be strong.

We should be in each other's arms, he thought. Normal lovers separated for so long would have swept each other away. But they were not normal people and never had been. And these were not normal times.

They reached one of the few entrances to Jail Ten that was still functioning. Malia signaled a halt, and she and another Watcher, Devin, edged toward the heavy steel door. It was propped open by a bundle of rags. Malia whispered some words that hissed around that subterranean space, and beyond the jail door something moved away. The darkness in there was suddenly not quite so deep, and Malia nodded that the coast was clear.

The Baker had given them that. She said it was chopped from a razorplant and given a rudimentary mind, and for three nights after learning that, Gorham had not been able to sleep, terrified at what such a mind might think.

Peer stood fast, the tall man she called Rufus beside her. Gorham heard her breath coming harsh and scared, and the man seemed to be shedding a tear.

"This way, killer!" Malia said to the man, but Gorham stepped forward.

"Let me," he said. He stood before Peer and looked her in the eye, closer than he had yet been. He inhaled her breath, and it sent a thrill of nostalgia and recognition through him-a warmth that had been missing for so long. "We're not bringing you down here to hurt you," he said.

"Really."

"Things are changing, and the Marcellans think we're finished. We can't let them know otherwise."

"Why?"

"Because there's much to do. I'll tell you all of it soon, Peer, I promise."

"So we're down here for your own protection?"

Gorham almost smiled. There, the strong-minded Peer still lives. But she did not look strong right then, and he remembered the terrible truth he had yet to reveal. There was no way he couldn't, but he dreaded every word.

"And yours," he said. "You and your friend."

"He's more than you think," Peer said.

"Tell me inside."

"Bastard."

Does she know? he wondered. But, no, she could not, because there was no way she'd be able to keep such knowledge to herself.

"I never forgot you," he said.

"Nice way of showing it." Her voice broke on the last word. He went to say something else, but Peer shoved past him.

They made their way down through corridors lined with doors, all of them closed. There could have been anything in those small dark rooms, but the doors had been locked shut for decades, and whatever dwelled inside remained alone. Their echoing footsteps disappeared into the warren of rooms and corridors. The stench of stagnant water and old secrets hung heavy in the still air. It was a place never meant to be empty, and being so filled it with stark potential.

As they neared the center of the jail, Devin ran ahead and went about lighting scores of torches lining the walls. The huge room revealed what had once been an exercise area, three stories high and open to the sky until this part of Course was developed overhead. That was perhaps two centuries ago, according to Gorham's advisers' best guess. They trusted that this place was all but forgotten.

"Over here," Malia said. Peer and her tall companion were edged toward the far wall, and there the Watchers set about tying them fast. At Gorham's request, they sat Peer first, making her comfortable before securing her arms to the wall and her legs to the metal chair.

"I came to you because I trusted you," she said.

"You still can."

"Yes?" She was glaring at him now, and he wondered, What the crap has she gone through these last three years? He had no idea.

"You want me to start right away?" Malia asked. She was keen to begin. She'd already taken a folded leather pouch from her belt, and she was arranging its contents across an old mess table.

Something whispered in a dark corner of the massive space, and Devin and the others shifted nervously.

"Only phantoms," Peer said. "Already seen several today."

"No," Gorham said. "Not yet. I want to talk to her first." And he knelt before his old lover as if seeking her blessing and forgiveness.

But what he was about to tell her would surely damn him in her eyes forever.

"We gave you up," he said. "I was already higher in the Watchers' echelons than you knew. The part you worked with, the political arm, had always been intended as dispensable. It was a useless gesture, trying to give our ideals a political voice. You know the Marcellans: They sometimes allow beliefs disparate from their own, but they'll never grant them any sort of power. So your group was… expendable. A front. Ready to be given away to the Marcellans should they ever move on us. We hoped the time would never come."

Peer was staring at him wide-eyed. She said nothing.

"We were nurturing you and the others. Preparing you. And the time did come, when they heard rumors that we'd started using the Baker again."

"The Baker's dead!" Peer gasped, and Malia laughed bitterly.

"This is the new Baker," Gorham said. "She was killed twenty years ago, yes, but she chopped herself, knowing what was happening. It's how generations of Bakers have continued their line. So now we deal with… well, her daughter. And her mother handed down all she knew."

"So you betrayed me for your cause," Peer said, smiling. There was nothing behind the smile-no humor, no life. It was a rictus grin, and Gorham had to turn away.

"They took you and the others in the political arm. We hoped that dismantling our public face would satisfy them, but they came further. Bad times, Peer. We lost so many. We never suspected the ruin would run so deep. There were betrayals that led to scores of deaths-the Marcellan Canton's walls ran red for weeks afterward, and they announced a two-day feast to celebrate what they called the 'defeat of heresy.' But with you… we never knew-"

"Of course you knew what they'd do!" she shouted, but then she sighed and hung her head. "They tortured me, Gorham," she said, head still dipped.

"Yes."

"They made me hurt, demanded that I renounce my beliefs and accept theirs. And when I didn't, they smashed me."