and look behind them. Two smoke trails in the air. Something flying over.
Subadwan glimpsed two black faces flashing by. Rhannan screamed. Aswaque yelled and sank to the floor. Before Subadwan could turn to see what had happened somebody at the front of the hall screeched, ‘Headbreakers! Headbreakers!’
Scant seconds had passed. Subadwan turned, saw Rhannan and Aswaque on the ground, their heads capped by a black hand, or so it seemed.
The crowds screamed and panicked. Everyone was shoving for the doors at the back.
Subadwan stared petrified at Rhannan and Aswaque. The headbreakers were clasped to their skulls. With a splintering crack both skulls split along the crown. Blood and brains spilled out. Subadwan stood mere yards away, and blood splattered her clothes.
Aswaque’s body lay still: Rhannan twitched.
Assassination. Subadwan stood rooted to the ground. She could not even scream because her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. Assassination!
Aquaitra must have run towards her: Subadwan was knocked to the ground, a screaming voice in her ear. Galvanised, she sprang to her feet and ran to the edge of the podium, as far away from the bodies as possible, then turned to stare at the carnage. The din of the panicking crowds almost made her panic, but she was too fascinated by the bodies to let herself go.
The black creatures melted across the podium, becoming two puddles of stinking tar. Aquaitra was standing now over the bodies.
Aquaitra turned. ‘What–’
Using Archive cant Subadwan signed, Quiet.
Aquaitra nodded. ‘Yes, Lord Archivist.’ It was said without sarcasm – naturally, automatically. Subadwan stared at Aquaitra, horrified. It was true. She was Gaya’s Lord Archivist.
Then she looked down at the brains and gore, and felt numb.
Still the people were screaming in flight. The hall was half empty but strewn with bodies, some motionless, some struggling, some jerking like electric puppets. There was nothing Subadwan could do to stop the crush. Twenty, thirty bodies she could see.
Subadwan ripped down the curtains at the back of the podium and covered both bodies. She caught sight of a plastic-armoured doorwarden. ‘Open all doors,’ she shouted. ‘Get the other doorwardens. Issue emergency orders, everyone out of the Archive. Take anybody living to the hospice wardens. Take the bodies outside, cover them. Find two plastic coffins. Quick, do it!’
‘At once Lord Archivist.’
‘And don’t call me Lord Archivist!’ Subadwan yelled after the man.
‘Subadwan, you are, ’ Aquaitra insisted.
‘Leave me alone,’ Subadwan said. She now felt an urge to leave the podium, leave the chamber, so that nobody would be able to stare at her. ‘Direct the doorwardens,’ she told Aquaitra.
‘But the assassin–’
‘Gaya’s love, the assassin’s long gone! Now do what I say.’
Aquaitra nodded – it was almost a bow – then ran off. The hall was quietening, only a few hundred people clustered to the rear, some still shouting, others staring back at the stark scene.
Hardly able to breathe, Subadwan ran all the way to the apex of the Archive, where she stumbled into Rhannan’s room and slammed shut the door.
She sat, not in Rhannan’s chair but in the chair that always stood on the opposite side of her desk. Golden light shone bright. Subadwan had no idea how to dim it. At the table of brews she poured herself more spearmint alcohol, but then found herself unable to drink it. She did not know what to do; what to feel. She worried that she felt nothing. Then, walking around the chamber in a circle – not realising this was what she was doing – she worried what people were thinking below.
They would be thinking of her, of course. All thoughts would ascend to this chamber. But Subadwan just wanted to remain alone. She scribbled a note on a sheet of plastic and stuck it to the outside of the door: No entry. I will appear shortly. Do not knock. No pyuter messages.
But as she sat
Subadwan glimpsed two black faces flashing by. Rhannan screamed. Aswaque yelled and sank to the floor. Before Subadwan could turn to see what had happened somebody at the front of the hall screeched, ‘Headbreakers! Headbreakers!’
Scant seconds had passed. Subadwan turned, saw Rhannan and Aswaque on the ground, their heads capped by a black hand, or so it seemed.
The crowds screamed and panicked. Everyone was shoving for the doors at the back.
Subadwan stared petrified at Rhannan and Aswaque. The headbreakers were clasped to their skulls. With a splintering crack both skulls split along the crown. Blood and brains spilled out. Subadwan stood mere yards away, and blood splattered her clothes.
Aswaque’s body lay still: Rhannan twitched.
Assassination. Subadwan stood rooted to the ground. She could not even scream because her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. Assassination!
Aquaitra must have run towards her: Subadwan was knocked to the ground, a screaming voice in her ear. Galvanised, she sprang to her feet and ran to the edge of the podium, as far away from the bodies as possible, then turned to stare at the carnage. The din of the panicking crowds almost made her panic, but she was too fascinated by the bodies to let herself go.
The black creatures melted across the podium, becoming two puddles of stinking tar. Aquaitra was standing now over the bodies.
Aquaitra turned. ‘What–’
Using Archive cant Subadwan signed, Quiet.
Aquaitra nodded. ‘Yes, Lord Archivist.’ It was said without sarcasm – naturally, automatically. Subadwan stared at Aquaitra, horrified. It was true. She was Gaya’s Lord Archivist.
Then she looked down at the brains and gore, and felt numb.
Still the people were screaming in flight. The hall was half empty but strewn with bodies, some motionless, some struggling, some jerking like electric puppets. There was nothing Subadwan could do to stop the crush. Twenty, thirty bodies she could see.
Subadwan ripped down the curtains at the back of the podium and covered both bodies. She caught sight of a plastic-armoured doorwarden. ‘Open all doors,’ she shouted. ‘Get the other doorwardens. Issue emergency orders, everyone out of the Archive. Take anybody living to the hospice wardens. Take the bodies outside, cover them. Find two plastic coffins. Quick, do it!’
‘At once Lord Archivist.’
‘And don’t call me Lord Archivist!’ Subadwan yelled after the man.
‘Subadwan, you are, ’ Aquaitra insisted.
‘Leave me alone,’ Subadwan said. She now felt an urge to leave the podium, leave the chamber, so that nobody would be able to stare at her. ‘Direct the doorwardens,’ she told Aquaitra.
‘But the assassin–’
‘Gaya’s love, the assassin’s long gone! Now do what I say.’
Aquaitra nodded – it was almost a bow – then ran off. The hall was quietening, only a few hundred people clustered to the rear, some still shouting, others staring back at the stark scene.
Hardly able to breathe, Subadwan ran all the way to the apex of the Archive, where she stumbled into Rhannan’s room and slammed shut the door.
She sat, not in Rhannan’s chair but in the chair that always stood on the opposite side of her desk. Golden light shone bright. Subadwan had no idea how to dim it. At the table of brews she poured herself more spearmint alcohol, but then found herself unable to drink it. She did not know what to do; what to feel. She worried that she felt nothing. Then, walking around the chamber in a circle – not realising this was what she was doing – she worried what people were thinking below.
They would be thinking of her, of course. All thoughts would ascend to this chamber. But Subadwan just wanted to remain alone. She scribbled a note on a sheet of plastic and stuck it to the outside of the door: No entry. I will appear shortly. Do not knock. No pyuter messages.
But as she sat
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