III - Mechanical

Vengeance

Sirrus could feel the cold glass of the window through the curtain against his back. The heavy shaft of the spear rested against his knees, which were folded uncomfortably high as he sat on the low metal shelf.

"Sentiment, little brother."

He was facing his brother, enthroned, a helmet covering his unruly dark hair, his broad hands hidden by studded gauntlets, a spiked mace resting across his knees.

"Sentiment," Achenar said again. "It'll kill you someday."

Almost the entire skin was covered now. Achenar had stretched it on a metal frame as soon as he'd peeled it off the captive pirate, had cured it carefully with a mess of chemicals and smeared the surface with blood that had dried to a reddish brown. Now he was painting over it, a pattern of red curves, tightly twined, decorative. Mocking his brother.

The rose turned into a skull and vanished.

The owner of the skin was curled in a box in the next room where he'd bled to death--he'd been alive when it was taken from him, when Achenar had carefully carved off every bit, leaving the muscles bare and twitching.

Sirrus couldn't move.

"I just hope you'll learn before then, little brother. Because someday I won't be there to take the hands of the next woman who wants your heart from under your ribs."

Sirrus screwed his eyes shut and dropped his head against his bare chest, his short beard scratching against his skin. He couldn't move. The chains were bolted to the corrugated metal wall. He couldn't even move his knee away from the bloodstained spear, or his eyes away from his brother's mad gaze, from the mace in his hands. Couldn't speak either, as if he'd swallowed his tongue. The rose turned into a skull and vanished.

"Most people reach through the bars of the cage, desperate, little shaking fingers. She just crouched there, wild-eyed, staring at her hands. I'd left them on a shelf. Why are you crying, little brother? She tried to kill you. She was throwing herself against the bars, shrieking like a banshee. Even wounded. Begging for mercy for the sake of her child. I'd torn off her pretty dress." Achenar's voice was hypnotizingly calm. Not like him. Not like him at all. "I held the circuit closed for as long as I could. The arc was stable for so long I could hardly breath. Lightning in my hands, little brother. Lightning in my hands." His grip tightened on the mace. "Her hair was standing on end and sparks were jumping between her eyes and her teeth. She couldn't move in the arc. She couldn't stop screaming. She didn't even go limp when she died. Everything stayed stiff. Like she was carved out of wood." Achenar's voice trailed off, and his eyes raked over Sirrus. "You were lucky that I could do that. I saved you."

Sirrus jerked in the chains, and the rough metal rubbed at his wrists. A seven-year-old boy ran through the grass down to the woods, past the marble basin of water in which his brother had dunked him the day before. Clouds moved. The mist rolled out in the morning. Flames licked impotently at smooth marble. Journals lay open.

"Foolish little brother." Achenar rose and hefted the mace easily. "Stop crying. You're going to get yourself killed."

Sirrus was frozen in the chains. There was a grinding of gears. He felt it vibrating deep through the wall and through the chains that bound him. The spear slipped from its precarious balance and clattered across his legs. Then the floor moved, the room, the fortress. Spinning, faster and faster, never slowing. The rose turned into a skull and vanished. Sirrus found his voice at last and screamed as Achenar swung the mace up for the killing blow, the iron spikes etched black and so clear against the twisting walls, his blank expression turning into a grimace of rage, his eyes turning blood red.

His vision blurred in watery streaks. Fast heartbeats in damp heat. A thump against his head, and a sickening rush as his eyes flew open.

The sheets tangled around him were sweaty, sticking to his body. The back of his head throbbed where he'd banged it against the thick wooden headboard. He struggled his way out of the sheets, wide-eyed against the darkness, wishing desperately he could find light, water, anything to relieve the terror. He tumbled onto the floor, bumped into an empty wine bottle, and lay there for a few moments, staring in disorientation at the ceiling.

It was the windmill, out the window, that anchored him. The white sails turned slowly in the night breeze, luminescent in the moonlight. The glass in the window was stained in one corner. Channelwood. He was safe.

Sirrus stumbled to his feet, his head still throbbing, and prodded the bump gingerly--no blood, just tenderness. He went over to the basin in the corner and slumped over it to take a long drink of musty cool water, then drew more and sloshed it over his head, letting it trickle down his bare chest until it dampened the tops of his loose trousers. So cold down his back, washing away the slick fear sweat at the nape of his neck. He rubbed fiercely at his short, narrow beard, at his short, wet hair, at his eyes.

Just a dream.

Only a day ago, she'd been alive. He remembered first meeting her, on the balcony on Aspermere. So beautiful--pure beauty. She had made him so indulgent in pure beauty. Only a day ago she'd still had her hands, soft white hands that would stroke again and again through his hair. Only a day ago he hadn't known how much she hated him--

He choked, ran more water, drank furiously.

The rose turned into a skull and vanished.

The bandage on his ribs had slipped during his thrashing, and the long, shallow cut across his side was starting to ache, a piercing throb with every beat of his heart. Sirrus moaned and peeled the bandage off. Dried blood flaked onto his hands. He shuddered. The blood had been fresh on her hands. Even when Achenar had hacked them off.

He closed his eyes. The world spun. The mace swung towards his head.

Just a dream.

His eyes shot open, and he stared at the windmill, trying to lose the nightmare. The empty bottle was rolling slowly across the floor. His head was throbbing in rhythm with the knife wound, in rhythm with the bottle passing across the panes of marquetry. Branches outside creaked; he abruptly remembered he was fifty feet above the ocean and groaned with vertigo.

The world spun--

He'd had a string of jewels in the box on the arm of his throne, ready to give to her. She'd handed him her gift first, a holographer, and he'd smiled, looked over at her brightly, wondering what sweet thing she'd recorded.

The rose turned into a skull and vanished.

Silence.

"That is what happened, Sirrus." Her strange accent seemed harsh then, rather than winsome, and her eyes were very dark. "That is what happened. I can never forgive you now."

Vengeance, slashed into his body.

Sirrus leaned against the wall, staring at the windmill. His knees felt weak.

Achenar had waved to him with one of her hands when he came out of his torture chamber, a giddy grin on his face.

A heavy feeling in his stomach. Chained by the wrists to Achenar's wall, the curtained window against his back.

Just a dream.

Sirrus wondered how close it was to dawn, whether he'd sleep again. Then, after a long worried while, he tied on a fresh bandage, took his clothes from a chair, and left for Mechanical.

It was dawn on Mechanical when he linked, and the sun was forcing new color into the never-ending dark clouds, painting half the sky over as a bloodied rainbow even as thunder flashed amid the colorful billows. The old man, the oldest survivor, who'd relinquished even his name to the passing years, was standing like a statue on the south island, ignoring the spurts of sharp ocean dew which flashed through the air like rare needles; only his ragged white beard moved in the wind. Sirrus looked up from the empty bookshelf to see the old man, still motionless.

"Is my brother here?" Sirrus asked, not even glancing at the lurid and dazzling panorama of the sky. The old man remained silent a still for a long moment, then finally turned his head.

"He has gone out with the youngsters." That was what he always called the four survivors who were still young enough to do battle. "He's had his ship fixed again, and now he's searching for pirates."

"Very well, then." Sirrus turned on his heel, crunched over the pebbly sand of the island, and strode down the walkway to the fortress. He paused inside the door, out of eyeshot and alone, to lean against the wall and rub his hands over his face, shaking. Eventually he peeled himself off the corrugated metal and walked down the hall to his room, his stomach sinking with every step.

The holographer was on his throne and the bloody knife on the floor. The carpet was badly stained.

Sirrus stood there for a long time. The box of jewels was still there too, right where he'd already been reaching for it when the skull had wavered before his eyes. A phantom goblet hovered on the arm of the throne--Aspermere holography, a pretty toy she'd given him long ago.

He didn't dare look at her portrait.

But something else was compelling him, and--although he felt vaguely ill already--he went reluctantly out the other door of his room, through the back hallway, and into Achenar's lair.

His eye fell on the window first. There were no chains on the walls and the spear was missing--Achenar had left it by the door instead. Something within him eased. He went to lifted the curtain, blinking as the light flowed into the dark room.

Achenar had hung a pirate captain on the mast of his reefed ship and left him there to rot in the sun. Sirrus shook his head and, despite the darkness, dropped the curtain and turned to look at the rest of the room. And then, even more reluctantly, he went over to touch the small, yellow-striped door beside Achenar's throne.

He was greeted by a stick of ozone and rotting flesh.

He barely looked before he pulled back and closed the door.

He leaned against the wall again, his legs bumping against the rotation simulator, his eyes closed. He could remember her so well. She had been so wonderfully soft--not fat, soft. Brown hair like wings, matching eyes. The manner of a true princess, noble and elegant, sparked by moments of exquisite mischief. A loving heart, a smile like a curlicue.

Not a face he could imagine angry. Not a voice he could imagine threatening his death.

The rose turned into a skull and vanished. Sirrus felt a chill through his whole body.

There was a sudden noise from the distance, as if somebody was coming into the fortress. Then a thud, a groan, the sound of a body being dragged over the floor.

Achenar was home.

They'd brought a captive pirate, who was half-slumped at Achenar's feet, his arms tied behind his back and a wad of cloth stuffed into his mouth. Blood seeped from a wound on his shoulder and his face was battered--most likely from the heavy gauntlets secured on Achenar's broad hands. Danir, the youngest and grimmest of the survivors was with them, keeping a tight grip on the pirate's arm, and though Achenar was grinning broadly, only a faint spark in Danir's gray eyes betrayed his triumph.

Achenar stopped for a long moment to stare at Sirrus.

"Odd place to find you," he laughed, "propped up against my wall with my spears. Still upset?"

Sirrus pulled himself up but couldn't muster much more than a cantankerously glum expression. "What are you up to this time, dear brother?"

Achenar forced the pirate onto his knees, then looked at Sirrus with a broad smile. "Dealing with the enemy. What else?" Achenar grabbed a handful of the pirate's hair and yanked his head back. "See, bilge. This is my brother. You could almost say he is your lord, body and soul. For as long as you'll live, that is."

Sirrus looked at his brother for a long moment, then down at the pirate. Raw fear radiated from the captive's eyes; sweat beaded and ran into the bloody bruises on his face. Achenar reached down, his eyes shining, and pulled out the gag; he tossed the red-spattered rag at Danir's feet.

"Would you rather receive him in your room, brother?"

"The carpet's stained enough as is," Sirrus said dismissive. Everything seemed distant, vaguely surreal. His head was pounding. The pirate was begging; while the sounds reached his ears, the words didn't. "I leave him to you. He'd hardly be of any use to me at the moment." He glanced at the captive again and noticed the string of lopsided chunks of gold around his neck, then held out his hand to Achenar.

"I was wondering when you'd notice." Achenar laughed and handed him a dagger. The pirate struggled wildly as Sirrus leaned over him with the blade, but Achenar caught his jaw with one hand and held him still while Sirrus cut the necklace from his throat. Raw nuggets pooled with sweet clatter and sweaty warmth in Sirrus' hand, and he handed the dagger back to his brother, trying not to look at the pirate. He was upset, he told himself. That was the only possible reason that he couldn't ignore the familiar miasma of terror, couldn't quite dismiss the eyes like those of a pain-maddened animal, the sweat and blood sticking in the loose and ragged hair, the constant, barely coherent, almost inaudible begging. Please please I'll do anything, just don't leave me with him, please--

Sirrus pulled back in disgust. He could see the ropes biting into the pirate's flesh, and the full extent of the wound that had conquered him--a open gash that tore halfway up his back, then looped over his shoulder as if he'd been diving away when Achenar's blade had caught him.

Danir stood against the wall, his pale face expressionless, his eyes as blank as the ocean. The string of scalps on his armor were inky patches in Sirrus' vision.

"As I said, brother," he heard himself say, "I leave him to you."

"My brother his not quite himself," Achenar explained conversationally as he grabbed the pirate's hair again and held him in check like a dog on a leash. "You see, his lover decided recently to kill him. You'll meet her shortly." He yanked the pirate bodily to his feet by his hair and shoved him towards the door beside his throne. Sirrus twined the string of gold round his fingers, feeling the familiar, comforting weight. He didn't look up when the door opened and the smells roiled out again, or when the pirate screamed. His ears caught everything: a clatter as the captive was pulled entirely into the room. Achenar's quick whisper, dismissing Danir, and then his searing laughter. The pirate whispering, hoarsely, "Why, why, why in all the glory of the Goddess do you do this to us?"

"You--get somebody to clean my carpet," Sirrus hissed at Danir. Then he left by the back door, shaking.

Along with the midday meal, the old man brought news.

"There is a man who wishes to see you, Lord Sirrus."

"Who?"

"A pirate." Sirrus arched an eyebrow; the old man continued, unfazed. "He is a defector, come to seek asylum. He swam ashore just recently, after being adrift for several days."

"Fascinating." Sirrus leaned back and tapped his fingers on the armrest for a moment, drawing comfort, drawing dignity, from the familiar solidity of his throne--trying to forget that he had been sitting just there when she had slipped the knife into her hand. "Bring him in after I'm finished with my meal. I admit to curiosity."

"Are you well, Lord Sirrus?"

"Of course," Sirrus said dismissively--a king should not admit weakness before his subjects. "The wound was quite shallow. I'll have to change the carpet though, which will be a bother."

There was a hint of disgust in the old man's eyes before he turned and left Sirrus to his meal, but he remained, as always, inscrutable, though perfectly obedient. Sirrus did not trust him, of course, but neither had he any reason to fear him. The old were always self-righteous, he knew--his father had proved that--but they were also cowards. So he comforted himself, shepherding all thoughts away from her. And from him--from his brother, the man who had tortured her, murdered her. His side ached; he choked down rich roast and fine wine like sawdust.

An expansive hour later, one of the other survivors led in a scruffy-looking, black-haired pirate, his hands tied behind his back, and forced him to his knees before the throne.

"He bore only these." The survivor held out a red silk scarf; in it were wrapped two small jeweled daggers, a cutlass, and another necklace of gold nuggets. Sirrus took the bundle carefully, not wanting to cut the fine cloth, gave it a cursory examination, and set it aside. For a moment, just a moment, his hand rested on the box of jewels. He remained haughtily silent while the pirate fidgeted.

"Lord Sirrus--" the pirate started to say.

"Silence. You will speak when I give you permission."

The pirate stilled. Sirrus searched his face. Fear predominated--but not the animal terror of the pirates Achenar broke, rather a certain calculated subservience.

"Are you a brave man?" Sirrus asked finally. The pirate's brow furrowed in silence. "Answer me," Sirrus commanded.

"If I were a brave man, my Lord," the pirate said slowly. "I would be doing battle with your brother."

"You were not captured in battle, and you address me your lord. Do you dare to think of yourself as an ally of mine?"

The pirate hunched into himself in a semblance of a bow.

"Forgive me, Lord Sirrus. I come in hope of asylum, of protection. I could hardly expect friendship."

"You could hardly expect to live."

The pirate flinched slightly. "If I may explain myself--"

"Go ahead. Amuse me."

The pirate took a few deep breaths.

"I ask for protection from your brother. From Achenar."

Sirrus arched an eyebrow. After a pause, as if gathering his words, the pirate continued.

"When we of the Black Ships gather to speak of our enemies, we speak of the Lord Sirrus, who harvests the wealth from our fallen ships, and the survivors from the old city, who sail against us in war. But when we speak in fear, when we list our dead, we do not speak of Sirrus--we speak of his animal of a brother." The pirate spoke slowly, deliberately, his shaggy dark eyebrows never moving from their low set over his eyes. "This is no longer a war, Lord Sirrus. You would conduct it as a skirmish of might and wealth, and though we grudge any man our treasure, we understand it as a stake of war. But..." He paused to steady himself.

"Our ways of doing battle, our expectations, our very way of life, have been shattered by this Achenar. His atrocities are unimaginable, violating our dedication to the Goddess. Honor is not a stake in war, Lord Sirrus, not by our code, and he destroys our honor, of man and ship and of our entire race, with almost every one of us he fells. He sends some of them back to us, as you might know, to tell stories. There are things which should not be done to any man, yet he does them. I've seen men I've shared bread with all my life hung over the strands to be picked by gulls, denied even their final return to the open sea."

At that a sudden chill went through Sirrus. Of all the pirates he's killed--he's never let one of them fall into the sea. Not if he can help it. And he's doing it on purpose. A second chill went through him. I never would've guessed he'd be that careful. I underestimated him. Only a little, but I must not do it again.

"Your people destroyed their city, a civilization that had done you no harm," Sirrus said finally. Exactly as Father would have said. My irony will kill me someday.

"It was by the will of our Goddess."

I must know more about this cult of theirs. "So you're asking me for protection from my own brother?"

"That man is out of control and I am terrified of him. I will do anything you ask if you keep me out of his grasp."

Sirrus leaned back, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, and let the small replica of the Selenitic clock tick away.

"And what would you do if I denied you that protection?" he asked at last. The pirate looked away, his fear getting the better of him.

"I'd rather die."

"We wouldn't let you. You know that."

"Please, Lord Sirrus, I beg of you--"

"Is that it? Would you beg for our mercy? Or rather mine, because he has none?"

The pirate shivered.

"Yes, yes."

Sirrus leaned forward, his gaze raking over the pirate.

"Would you serve me, to be safe from him? Would you fight your own people?"

"Yes."

Sirrus stood, slowly.

"What is your name, pirate?"

"Akos."

"Do you have a master, Akos?"

Akos nodded.

"And what is his name?"

"Sirrus, my Lord. His name is Sirrus."

A cold smile crept across Sirrus' face, and he turned to the survivor.

"Release him."

Once Sirrus was alone, he did not leave his throne, just settled deeper into it and leaned on one elbow, his fist over his mouth.

What an unexpected development. And a useful one. Oh, so useful.

A map formed in his mind, a vast sheet of blue, with dotted lines tracing the ocean currents.

Achenar thinks it will not be long until their next attack. If this Akos is mine...

"We are at war, brother," came a heavy voice from the door. Sirrus started out of his reverie, and looked over his shoulder to see Achenar in the back door, dressed in his everyday clothes but with a piece of studded leather armor slung over his shoulder. "This is not one of your games."

"Of course it is," said Sirrus archly. "That man is a tool, a weapon."

Achenar took a few more steps into the room and tossed the armor onto one of the marble urns. Sirrus winced. "He is an enemy," Achenar said.

"No. He is somebody whom the enemy thinks is a friend--rather a different matter. And he is mine. I will control him."

"Fool," Achenar whispered. "You can never own a man, except in blood or death."

"Fool yourself!" Sirrus shot back. "If it wasn't for me, where would you have been on Aspermere, on Narayan?"

"Saving your silly heart from your women, of course, and your wagging tongue from itself." Achenar shrugged and laughed derisively--low and barking, not his usual high giggle.

"They would have seen through you in minutes if I hadn't been talking to them, if I hadn't convinced them with my wagging tongue that you were anything other than a brute!"

Achenar's broad face darkened like a storm cloud. "And where would you be without me to protect you, little brother?" he asked, ominously quiet. "If Akos were a woman, I'd have killed him already."

Sirrus shot to his feet and launched himself at his brother, grabbing his shirt, his sheer momentum driving the other man back into a wall.

"You stay out of my love! It's none of your business, none of your concern--and if I catch you laying a finger on my Tisha again, I'll--"

"You'll what? Throw necklaces at me?" Achenar tossed Sirrus off of him. "Your Tisha is dead, little brother. Because she saw what a snake you were."

"No," Sirrus hissed. "She's not dead. An idea can never die." He was grasping at straws, just wanting to get his brother out of his hair, but as he spoke it, he suddenly realized it was true.

"And you think I'm mad," Achenar whispered, barely inaudible. He turned sharply and paced off towards the other door, then along the wall, his face unreadable, and Sirrus watched him in confusion, his breath coming in pants. Suddenly Achenar lunged, grabbed him from behind, clamped one arm over his throat and one broad hand over his mouth, and hissed in his ear as he struggled uselessly.

"An idea can kill you, little brother. I have an idea of war and it's killed hundreds. It's an idea made real and alive by blood and it's an idea I will not let you betray with your foolishness." Sirrus bucked wildly in Achenar's grasp, trying to wrestle, but Achenar pinned him securely and continued. "If you were in charge of this war you would have gotten both of us killed by now. This is not your Age, Sirrus. Count your gold and dream of the white cities of Aspermere all you like, but it will never do a whit of good here. Your little games of court have no meaning to the Black Ships. All that matters is blood." He shook Sirrus sharply. "Blood." Achenar took a deep breath. "You are blinded by your greed, little brother. And it's only a blind man who runs onto a knife."

Sirrus struggled again, knocking Achenar sideways into the telescope, which clattered to the floor. He broke free, almost losing his balance. Achenar kicked the telescope away from him and rose with slow and peculiar grace, a dark hulk of predator outlined against the elegant weave of the tapestry.

"I'll always be better than you!" Sirrus shouted, shaking with outrage and animal fear. "I'm sane and you're not! I'm not doing everything I do because of a few nightmares!" He gasped for breath, seeing Achenar freeze in his tracks. "I've known that since I was child, dear brother." His voice lowered to a shaky murmur. "I've always been better than you." Achenar's face distorted with shock and anger, and Sirrus knew with a giddy and childish pride that he had struck home--then Achenar's fist collided with the side of his head and he dropped to the floor, his vision blurring, and when he staggered to his knees, Achenar was gone.

He still hadn't taken her portrait down. He could hardly stand to look at it, yet he could hardly even consider the thought of removing it. It watched him where he sat, that gentle, dignified glance constantly upon him. It seemed almost as if she was there, flesh and blood and loving him again, her dress brushing with the ruffle-whisper of silk across the stained carpet.

He remembered lounging on a balcony high above the plains of Aspermere, with the low and silver-leaved avenues of trees sparkling in the sun and the smooth stone of the palace gleaming, with a smooth stick of graphite tucked behind his ear and a crisp, blank sheet of paper resting on his knee. She'd been playing a violin on the roof above him, and the eerie strains of music drifted down to his balcony. He'd gone over to the wide marble railing of the balcony, so wide he could have lain upon it, to write. It was polished so smooth it shone and the paper could glide across it like a bird. He remembered watching the sharp edge of white glide effortlessly over the delicate network of glimmering veins.

I am in love with an idea, Tisha. I was in love with it long before I met you. Yet you kindled its passion to a height I could never have imagined. Because you are the idea, made only more perfect by your very humanity. And that is why my love can never die.

She'd laughed when she'd read it, laughed with delight, then leaned forward, the paper still in one hand, and whispered sweetly in his ear.

"How well can an idea kiss you, Sirrus?"

Sirrus slowly opened his eyes and saw her portrait hanging on the cold metal wall and whispered hoarsely to the empty room.

"How well can an idea's ghost haunt you?"

The halls of the fortress seemed longer than usual, their cold metal walls dimmed as if seen through water, when Sirrus went to visit Achenar, to stand in the door of the empty bloodied room and cry out to nothing that he was okay. A pale-haired seven-year-old ventured down the steps of the fore chamber to where the light dripped down the walls above the alcove benches. There was a lump of soft Stoneship gold in his hand. He was going to tell his brother that everything was all right.

The floor was slick with blood.

"I didn't love her!" The tiling was barely visible under the red. "I love the idea of her! The only thing you killed was an ungrateful creature that betrayed me!"

The door behind the throne was open. A blade thudded into something solid and slightly giving. The wood turned red. The halls were as long as snakes.

"Achenar! Where are you?"

The walls threw his words back. Who are you, who are you, who...

"I haven't giggled in days," said a quiet, deep voice behind him. "This is the way I need to be."

"I didn't love her," Sirrus told his brother. "I've never loved anything you killed."

"Of course not. You can't kill the inanimate." Gold plinked on the floor of the fore-chamber.

Sirrus squinted into the darkness. There was his brother, half naked and striped with paint like a Channelwood monkey. There was his brother, nine years old, balancing on the rim of the imager, laughing. Everything was all right. Cloth tangled his arms; his vision swam; pain beat in his side. His own feet scrambled on the imager. Tumbling down.

And down, further. The ocean rushed up before him, rocks crackling underneath, and then the ocean was blood and the blood was a woman, and then--

Again? was the first conscious thought in Sirrus' mind.

Stoneship this time. Richly stained wood beneath him, sheets a tangled mess, pillow flopped beyond his reach. His arm was aching where he'd bumped it when he'd fallen out of bed. Sirrus slowly pulled himself up to sit on the bed, his back slumped, his bare feet planted on the floor, one fist propping up his head, staring so fixedly at one spot on the wall that it began to swim before his eyes.

I don't have nightmares like this. I never used to. Achenar had the nightmares, not me. Sirrus suddenly felt cold, but his shirt was slung over his desk chair and he felt too shaky in the knees to get up. That's why he'd never sleep in Mechanical--the nightmares.

He shook his head and stared at the pillars, the orbs in the corners, the paintings on the walls, trying to take comfort in the gold.

"I am not going mad," he whispered, very softly.

It was a long time before Sirrus moved off the bed to get his shirt, and a while more after that before he shimmered into existence on the gear-strewn dirt of Mechanical.

Akos proved his worth within a week. With Achenar's grudging cooperation, Sirrus' plan had been put into action, and Sirrus watched it all from the telescope in the fortress, his eyes narrowed and cold.

Achenar and the four able survivors had taken Akos out in a swift sailboat upon the approach of the next black ship. They'd weighed anchor, rolled down the sail and bound it to the boom so they wouldn't drift away, and dragged up Akos from the bilge and bound him, apparently, to the mast. Achenar had stood on a block on the deck with a knife and put on a spectacular show, rife with maniacal laughter, and as he shouted to his enemy the exact details of how he'd kill his "captive," the two ships drifted ever closer.

Sirrus hissed with triumph when the black ship threw the grappling hooks across the sea and Akos slipped his bonds--ropes knotted loose for show. But he hadn't anticipated the slight wrench in his gut when Akos slammed both fists onto Achenar's head and his brother slumped to the deck.

Sirrus drew back from the eyepiece, glanced over at her portrait, shook his head slightly, and stuck his eye back to the telescope.

Akos had already "knocked out" the other four in the boat and was standing as if to greet the pirates swarming like monkeys over the ropes, a cutlass in each hand and a mad, triumphant light in his eye. And, as Sirrus watched, he greeted the first of his former comrades--with a sword across the gut.

At the shriek of the felled pirate, Achenar and his warriors sprang to their feet, armed and ready.

One of the few pirates remaining on the ship screamed with animal terror and flung himself over the rail, never to surface.

Achenar and his men swiftly drove the pirates back to their own ship with the sheer ferocity of their attack, and Akos took a moment to change course and lash the helm tight and askew. Sirrus' eyes tracked the drift of the black-stained hull with satisfaction: within moments it would be aground on the reefs around the step island. Achenar was tearing through the pirates with a giant battle-ax like a reaper, huge in his armor, blood and sweat spattering his face. Akos and the survivors fought much as the pirates did, darting and flashing and striking, but Achenar was the one who took the most down, and whom the most rushed to attack.

"They attack when they're afraid." Danir had once told him at length of the strategies of the pirates, his pale face void of expression and his words flat as he spoke of the bloody battles. "They try to take down the most dangerous, the most awe-inspiring, first; then they sweep up the stragglers."

Achenar didn't even break his pace at the sickening thud of keel into rock; he merely thrashed his way through to the prow and jumped down into the knee-high water with a holler of challenge. At least half of the remaining pirates swarmed after him, their gold necklaces flashing in the sun.

Bloodstained silk littered the deck. Two of the survivors had one of the feistier pirates pinned against the railing, and it took him long and painful minutes to die, bleeding from too many wounds to count. The captain had jumped up into the rigging with the agility of a cabin boy, and Akos had followed him. They were playing cat-and-mouse through the blocks and tackle, a spare line lashing in Akos' hand.

Sirrus turned the telescope on his brother--the battle was so close now that he couldn't see all of it at once.

Achenar was standing near the shore, splattered head to toe with gore and saltwater. Pirates ran at him and pirates fell back, dying. The bilge ran bloody at his feet, bodies broken in the high tide, to be left dry on the sands when the waves rolled out. Sirrus could hear--or maybe it was his imagination--distant screams, bellowing shouts, the hollers of battle.

A sail flapped to the deck, slashed lines writhing like snakes through the air. The captain followed, Akos' borrowed sword through his neck; his body flopped, tangled, rolled up in the heavy black cloth. For one long moment, the pirates were still.

The crescent and cross flag fluttered loosely in the wind and drifted off to sea. Akos was clinging to the top of the mast, the captain's blood covering half his face, screaming madly and waving his sword, the severed ropes of the flag dangling about his head.

"With their captain and their flag gone, they'll give up on fighting. Their ship has lost its honor; all that is left to do is escape with their lives."

Then Achenar tossed his ax to his nearest ally and caught the pirate closest to him before he could splash off through the bilge. Holding him by the scruff of his neck, he drew the pirate's own short sword.

Sirrus closed his eyes before he could see Achenar finish disemboweling the man.

"And after that, if they can't escape, it's a massacre. With your brother on the loose, they're utterly demoralized. They fight blindly, like trapped animals, and that makes them weak."

"No survivors," Achenar had said darkly when they'd set out. Because there couldn't be. Nobody to tell the rest about Akos' betrayal, lest Sirrus lose his tool.

And he'll enjoy that too, Sirrus thought. He'll just kill them all.

So these are the two men who are trying to kill us all.

Akos leaned against the wall of the back hallway of the fortress, lost in thought. His wounds from the battles he'd fought on the brothers' side were starting to heal, becoming only a few more scars to add to the many that already stitched his salt-worn and sun-burnt skin. He missed the weight of the string of gold around his neck and the softness of the red silk bandolier he was used to, but Sirrus had stripped him of his treasures.

Our ships are coming slower now. Their fear is growing. Maybe by now they know what I've done. Akos looked up at the metal ceiling, listening intently for signs of the brothers. I hope they don't. It'll make things easier.

I'm lucky that Sirrus is dense enough to believe me. Achenar's smarter than he looks. He didn't trust me. If I were Sirrus, I wouldn't trust me. A hard smile formed on Akos' lips. Of course, I am terrified of Achenar, and they know it well. I am not all a liar.

Monsters. Even amongst themselves, they are monsters. No pirate could kill his brother's lover and keep her body in his hold without answering for it under the eyes of the Goddess. And her teeth would find his throat.

Akos laid his hand against the cool metal of the wall, as if asking the fortress itself if he were alone.

"The northern star is bright and the southern cross is downwards," he murmured. "The waves lie quiet and the sea is blacker than the night." The words were older than he, older than his ship or his mates or anything he knew but the ancient tradition he lived by, but the shadow of the goddess herself on the sea. "Gold is in the stars and blood is in the water." He shut his eyes and bowed his head. "Bless me, Great Lady, for the time is right and my blade is willing. Bless me in battle, She-Wolf of Death. Bless my coming over the water, Mistress who walks the sea. The storm clouds gather at Thy whim, and I ride among them at Thy will." Akos knelt for a moment, still with one hand on the wall, but the other over his chest, over the ragged weave of his shirt, over the wide line of his worst scar, over his heart. "Bless my death, should it come. May Thy paws take my heart. May Thy wheel bear me beyond. May my blood return to Thy sea."

Akos swallowed, dipped his head with the resolution of a dying man, and rose.

I'm unarmed--they won't let me bear arms outside of battle. I don't know when they're coming back. But I do know that they have magic, strange magic, magic that is giving them the power to change this world, and that magic is in books. And I know where Sirrus' store-chamber is.

Akos padded down the hall to the back entrance of Sirrus' room, his bare, horn-hard feet making no sound on the smooth tile. He stopped for a moment to look at the empty throne, the portrait, the shining wheel of the sun. A silent snarl twisted his lip.

"Fool," he whispered. All you have is your magic and your brother. For you certainly don't have me.

Then he crouched down beside the throne, opened the small hatch of a door, and slid through into Sirrus' store-chamber. His eyes widened in the dusty light.

So much gold. Scores of ships worth of gold, taken from us in an ocean of blood. Monsters, monsters, monsters. His eyes trailed over the wine rack; then he started lifting the lids of the chests, searching through them. He pocketed as many coins as he could by pure custom, then found a string of raw nuggets like the one he'd once worn and dropped it over his head with a smile.

Ah. I've missed that. He brushed his hand over the rough metal, then went back to his search, hauling a chest to the side, the battle-honed muscles in his arms and back straining against the weight of the gold. Too much to carry now--but if I find their magic, that'll be worth everything. He pried open the lid of the next chest, then stopped, a smile spreading across his face. Finally. He picked up the book, running his hands over the cover, opened it to watch with awe the jewel-perfect picture as it spun through trees, past walkways and huts hung in them--strange things to him, very strange--over the lapping water, around the windmill. Finally.

Clutching the book to his chest, Akos turned to leave. He crouched to go through the low door, then stood, the book in one hand.

His eyes barely had focused on the room before the knife stabbed up beneath his ribs, right in his solar plexus, the point catching his heart.

"I knew you'd betray me," the quiet voice whispered in his ear as he slid to the floor, glassy-eyed.

I...knew...you'd betray me too.

A choking rattle escaped Akos' throat and he went limp, the book falling from his hands. Blood stained the cover--blood had spattered everywhere. Sirrus pulled back slowly, then grimaced and wiped the dagger on his already spotted shirt.

"Fool," he whispered.

Sirrus paused in the door of Achenar's room and, almost without thinking, dug a nail into the pad of one of his fingers.

I'm not dreaming.

"Ah, Achenar, you will change our world." Danir's voice drifted out from Achenar's room. "Turn it around so far the pirates'll be left sailing their ships into the bowels of hell. We'll have our vengeance on every one of those bitch-worshipping bastards. You're leading a revolution of eight and we'll kill 'em all!"

"I don't care about changing the world," Achenar replied, his voice hoarse with drink. "Pass the bottle."

Hah. I'm playing the final step in my game while he's off getting drunk and making a fool of himself. As usual.

"Achenar," he said, stepping into the room, the knife in one hand, the book in the other. "Akos is dead."

Achenar looked up at him slowly, and then a sharp realization sparked in his eyes. Then he started to laugh--not the giggling, but deep, fierce bellows of laughter that echoed off the narrow metal walls. Danir just stared, blinking at the blood-spattered book, as Achenar flung his head back and roared with laughter.

"Here," he called, between gasps, "have a drink, little brother." He flung the nearly empty bottle; it shattered on the wall next to Sirrus' head. "Here...ha...I...told you so."

Sirrus smiled.

"You were two steps behind me the whole way. Poor dear Akos planned to betray us from the start. I knew that. I used him, I planted the trap, and when he took the bait..." Sirrus hefted the book indicatively. "I killed him. And you, of course, thought I was a fool all along, which only led Akos to trust me more."

Achenar stilled, dumbstruck, anger muddling through the alcohol-induced haze in his eyes.

"You led me on, little brother?" he said at least. "You dared to lead me on?"

"Oh, but of course. You're the war god they fear. You're my most obvious tool."

And then Achenar started laughing again. He lurched to his feet and grabbed Sirrus by the scruff of his neck.

"Ditch that dagger and drink, little brother! We have a lot of dead pirates to celebrate, don't we?"

"One more now," said Danir, smiling thinly and pouring himself another glass. "The only good pirate is a dead pirate." As Achenar yanked Sirrus down to sit on the floor next to him, Danir raised his glass in his left hand, the one that was missing two fingers. Only the waver in his voice betrayed how drunk he was. "To my mother," he declared, "who they stabbed in the door of my burning room."

Achenar stuck a brimming glass under Sirrus' nose, and Sirrus took it with a sharp bark of triumphant laughter.

"You've got a lot to catch up on, little brother." Achenar clapped him on the shoulders with one hand as he downed his glass with the other. "I know, Danir, how about a couple verses while he finishes this lot?" He plunked a bottle down in front of his brother and started bellowing something that vaguely resembled a tune, which Danir quickly picked up on.

Hoooooooooo yo the black ships
under the blacker skies!
We'll wrestle their timbers out to sea
and drag 'em down to burn!

By the end of the night, Danir was the only one left on his feet. He wasn't too far from passing out himself; even his steel-hard mind, forged by bitterness and quenched with blood, was affected by that much alcohol. Achenar was slumped at the foot of his throne, a helmet askew on his head, one hand still clutching the neck of an empty, broken bottle. Sirrus had managed to pass out with a hint of nobility; he was propped against the wall, a faint sneer on his face even in sleep.

"I assume my lord's brother would wish to return to his chambers?"

Danir's voice was slurred and distorted even before it echoed off the walls. He received no answer, just as he expected, and so grabbed Sirrus under the arms and started dragging him back to his room. He didn't quite manage to plant Sirrus properly in his throne, and so settled for letting him sprawl on the twice-stained carpet instead, then leaned against the wall and watched the room spin gently. He staggered back to Achenar's room and looked at the gently snoring pile on the floor.

"Wonder what he dreams about?" he murmured, before he passed out in the hallway.

The room was dark, metallic, vast, the walls ribbed with fine patterns, repeating and repeating, spinning and flickering as his gaze trailed across them. The light intermittent, leaving corners dark and uncertain, leaving the walls jolting in and out of shadow. Leaving him marooned in a puddle of light--blindingly bright, piercing light that turned his skin to ice. Afraid, so afraid. Whimpering? Crying? The shadows were so vast.

Achenar crouched in the light, a high whine of fear stuck at the back of his throat. A hint of an animal stench--blood, death--wafted at him; at the same time a hollow smell, of vast, ancient space. And cold, cold. The light was freezing him. The light and--

--the laughter--

Achenar let out a cry of despair.

The laughter.

It came from all around him, dripping out of the shadows and the flickering walls, echoing a thousand-fold off the metal. Like insects clicking, like mandibles, like feathers on his skin. Terrible laughter--sniggering, giggling, mocking. He wanted to scream. His eyes watered. Naked in the light, naked and freezing.

(Foolish one, impotent one, we laugh at you. Silly thing--we laugh and laugh and laugh.)

Then he did scream--there were voices, hissing little voices amid the giggles and the snickers--

(You want to be big and scary. You want to be a great warrior. We just laugh and laugh and laugh.)

Achenar buried his head in his arms, shaking uncontrollably. The shadows were darkening; the light was brightening. It could kill him, this light, tear him apart like a thousand needles. The walls were spinning, dizzyingly fast, and there was the shuddering groan of stressed metal.

(We laugh because you laugh.)

"No," he sobbed.

I haven't giggled in days.

"Go away, go away, go away..." It turned into a hoarse whisper, a toneless and desperate chant, lost amid the voices as he rocked back and forth on his knees. Voices from nowhere, tears where there shouldn't be--

I haven't giggled in days. This is the way I should be. Hadn't he said that once? Hadn't he?

(It'll never happen, don't you see? Nobody's afraid of you, nobody understands you, because you just look like a little boy playing, nothing more, nothing more...)

The moon, a crescent hung about with ragged clouds, had already sunk beneath the horizon, and the gray mists that heralded distant dawn were starting to ghost along the surface of the water. Far out in the deep ocean a keel sliced the waves, and a single fierce howl broke the night. Their dreams had spoken. Their prophets had spoken. Dishonor and terror and mutiny and the rotting flesh of the she-wolf's great children in the noonday sun had spoken all across the sea. The goddess herself had spoken, in every language and sign: it was over. The harrower of the sea was dead, defeated, doomed to the fate of gods whose believers cast their eyes down in despair. It was time for her to return to unlife, to follow her long-lost white sister into the sleep of death. The brothers and their fortress had, inconceivably, won.

The mistfolk marched in gray columns towards the horizon. A pirate lay dead on his deck, wrapped in burlap; he would be turned into the sea with the rising of the sun, all respects paid. He'd slit his throat earlier that night as the goddess deserted them. Black flags rode half-mast in despair and grizzled captains wailed their sorrow to the empty waters. On the secret islands of women, children cried in the night and infants died in their swaddling, and the strong-backed black-eyed mothers of pirates cut red lace into their arms in last solace and sacrifice to the dark mother with whom they shared souls. It was over.

Soon, perhaps, the black ships would stove themselves on the rocks, or sail off the edges of the world, or drift with their crews all dead on the decks, or throw themselves in despair against the might of the fortress. Soon they would all be dead, the magic of their goddess dispelled by the magic of the men from books. Soon, perhaps very soon, a nameless old man would sit on the south island and watch the clouds break to reveal a sky of unimaginable blue. The gears had turned. The fate of Mechanical had been decided, and Atrus would never know why.

There was black and light and people laughing at him; then he was alone, without the people, and crying and crying and crying; then there were crickets, and he was screaming at them. Then he was going through his own back room, only it was much bigger, and there were lots of people there, too, but they were all dead. He'd killed them. Everybody he'd ever killed was there. He was laughing again--no, he was giggling, and he'd promised he would stop giggling.

"You sound like an idiot," somebody told him.

"Oh, shut up. You're dead." He struck the corpse carelessly across the face; the jaw clattered to the floor. He passed the skinned man, who'd lost his eyes by now, and a Narayani he didn't recognize, who sat on the floor, exploring his own torn entrails with interest. Sirrus' idea floated near the ceiling, loudly protesting that she wasn't dead.

"Do you remember my name?" called another voice, coming from a brown and bony man.

"Go fish." He shook his head, closing his eyes. A monkey shadowed him, a furred face that had once hovered over his child-self. "Why are you all here, anyway? Why are you here? You aren't even dead yet."

"Because I have to laugh at you, of course. It's my job."

"It's our job," added the monkey.

He glared at Branch and Mathriv.

"Did my father hire you, then?"

"No." They all said that together, even the pirate swinging by his neck from the ceiling.

"Mother?"

"She'd never."

"Brother?"

They all exploded into fiendish laughter. He shut his eyes, turned, and ran, but they still seemed to be there, hovering.

You don't matter, it doesn't matter, you're nothing, doesn't matter that I killed you, doesn't matter that I know you, doesn't matter, I'm not sorry, I'm not going to scream, I'm not going to cry, I do what I do and nothing else matters, you don't matter, nothing really matters...

He stumbled, tripped, fell, screamed, realized he was crying.

I can't take this anymore!

"Why?" asked a pirate with dagger bobbing in his throat. "Would you rather we were alive to torture you?"

"NO!" He jumped back and started running again, blind fear overwhelming him. Not that, anything but that, especially with her watching, that crow crone they call their goddess, that morrigan, that bitch...

"She's dead."

He stopped short--he'd just slammed into Akos, who was standing before him like a statue with a strange fire in his eyes and tears of blood running down his face.

"You don't belong here either," he babbled.

"She's dead," Akos said again.

He turned with a choking scream to see his brother, chained face-to-face to a woman's corpse--the chains around her legs and neck because she had no hands--reaching out with shackled wrists, mouthing words he couldn't hear.

"Leave me alone!!"

And then he turned again, and all the dead people had gone flat white and had no eyes, and he knew they'd drag him down to hell, as they had before, as they would again, and again, and again.

Achenar awoke in total silence. He never had awoken screaming from those dreams; they paralyzed even his voice. He stared at the metal wall, his stomach churning, cold sweat running down his back, and could only wait, his mind locked in one long silent scream of agony, until he awoke enough to move, to think. Then the headache kicked in, savage and pounding, and he clutching at his temples, almost grateful for the pain that forced him away from sleep, away from the dizzying pull of nightmare. That made him realize where he was--Mechanical.

"Idiot," he spat, his voice hoarse and unsteady.

Slowly he took stock of the tumbled bottles, the bloodstained book and dagger still lying in one corner, and remembered. He went to move and the headache got worse; it took him three tries to get to his feet, even with the aid of the ledge beneath the window. He weaved back and forth across his room, becoming just a little steadier as he went, cursing himself aloud, but only a little. He had slept in Mechanical--nothing mattered but clawing his way out of the sheer pain and terror of it.

Finally he stopped and thumbed open the curtain. Morning soon. "Need to do something," he whispered, high and unsteady. First he found a tankard of musty water and drank it; then he explored just far enough to discover that Sirrus was still passed out on his own floor and left him there. Making the rounds, he opened the door to his torture chamber and ducked inside. The stench walloped him, the stench from the body of his brother's lover. He frowned.

"I really should get that out of here." He unlocked the cage and dragged the bone-stiff corpse as far as the main room, then hauled it slowly up to his shoulder. His steps were slow, heavy. "Didn't want to wait much longer anyway," he grunted. "Wouldn't want the damn woman to fall apart on me."

Achenar trudged down the darkened hallway, sidestepping Danir's silent form. It was near dawn outside, with just enough light to cast a steely glow on the waters. He squinted in surprise, then stood still for a very long time, reeling at the clear sky, a flawless wash of dark blue, peppered with fading stars, promising a slow and luminous sunrise suffused with pale and subtle light. Never again the riotous color of the past. It was lightening even as he watched.

The corpse slid from his shoulder with a crack against a stone, and only then did Achenar move. "Oh," he said, with a little giggle, and looked down at the thing sprawled twist-armed on the ground, then back out at the expanse of ocean. "Well," he said very softly. "She's dead."

He hadn't done it because of the sky. Not now that he was grown up.

This one I can throw in the water. He hauled the body up again with a long groan and started down to the deep falloff at the end of the island, compelled to silence by the infinite expanse of heaven above. His feet crunched on the sand as he picked his way slowly amongst the gears and debris. Yes, this one I can throw in the water.

It was a satisfying splash.