Chapter 257
The cart of a hundred jars at the top of the path. The two crews facing it. Iskall in front, lamp high, its flame still half-size from the Circle. And the tall grey man walking round the cart toward them, the vials in his coat-lining clinking softly with every step.
bowing slightly to the little girl, courteous, beautiful, his glassy eyes empty.
chin up.
stepping forward, a dealer sizing up a dealer.
flinching.
going completely white.
Vigolas, first, an Emerald Knuckle at the grey man's face. And Skymning, without hurrying, uncorking an empty vial, holding it up toward the charging pirate, saying one word:
mid-leap, and a thin red stream pouring out of his chest into the little vial, and his face going blank: no anger, no drive, the punch arriving at half speed, polite, almost a tap. Skymning sidestepping it and corking the vial.
Rougeina Swapping in behind him: "Resolve." A silver stream, pok, and her blades pause, uncertain, in mid-air. She stares at them as if she's forgotten why she drew them.
Smurjan charging: "Hunger.", aimed at Bakasura's shadow. The shadow sighs, and goes still, not hungry for the first time in his life, and Bakasura's jaws close, puzzled. "…Huh."
Kompis with Bror levelled: "Courage." And the vial fills, gold, and Kompis's hands shake, and he lowers the gun.
trotting straight at the grey man, growling. Skymning, amused, uncorking a vial at him.
And nothing happens. The vial stays empty. A thin gold mist rises off the dog and slides off the glass like water off a duck.
looking at the empty vial, at the dog, for the first time slightly unsettled.
(Mingus bites the hem of his dove-grey coat and pulls.)
The seventh hill of Lumen, a battle draining: pirates and Up-Again crew mid-charge, and out of their chests, streaming through the air like coloured ribbons, their feelings: Vigolas's red fury, Rougeina's silver resolve, Kompis's gold courage, Bakasura's amber hunger, all of it flowing into a dozen small glass vials held up in the long pale fingers of a tall grey man in a dove-grey coat, who corks them one after another, pok, pok, pok, and slips them into his lining with the others.
The crews standing in the middle of the fight, weapons lowered, faces blank, as if they've forgotten what fighting is for.
A golden dog with his teeth in the grey man's coat-hem, pulling, the only creature on the hill with all his feelings still his own.
lamp high, running between the drained, holding the white flame up to their blank faces one after another.
in the white light, his joy blooming over his head again, the Marka's deck at night, and his face flickering, remembering, the red coming back into it, not fury but something.
(He can't remember why he was angry. He remembers why he's fighting.)
watching the little girl undo his work with a lamp, his glass eyes narrowing, almost admiring.
reaching into his coat, taking out a vial of warm gold light, someone else's joy, uncorking it, and drinking.
And for one panel, his beautiful empty face lights up: a smile, wide, real, a man feeling something. It lasts exactly as long as the light in his throat. Then it fades, and his eyes are glass again.
watching that, very quietly, to Emma.
beside them, rolling his shoulders, grinning, untouched so far, the only one of the front line with nothing bottled.
Krydog charging the grey man, a coat of a thousand patches flying, the bandaged fist coming round like a falling anchor.
not even turning to look, uncorking a single vial with his thumb, held out to the side toward the charging captain.
mid-charge. And out of it, streaming, a thick silver-gold ribbon, more of it than any of the others, so much of it, pouring and pouring into the little vial as if a lifetime of getting up were all being poured out at once.
filling, glowing like a small sun, and Skymning's thumb pressing the cork home.
Krydog's charge stopping, not slowed, just stopped, mid-stride, as if he'd forgotten why his legs were moving. And a Dimmer, almost lazily, shoving him in the chest. And Krydog going down. Flat on his back on the grass of the seventh hill.
lying on the grass, looking up at the sky. Not hurt. Not dazed. Just lying there.
The whole hill going quiet. Both crews, the Dimmers, everyone, turning to stare at the man on the ground. Waiting for him to get up. He always gets up.
He doesn't.
holding the vial up to the lamplight, a little sun of silver-gold in his fingers, admiring it like a jeweller.
The Dimmers using the silence to fall back to the cart, hauling it down the far path, Skymning strolling after it, the vials clinking in his coat, the silver-gold one in his breast pocket.
standing over Krydog on the grass, whining, nosing his face. Krydog's hand coming up, slowly, to rest on the dog's head. That's all.
The whole Up-Again crew kneeling round their captain on the grass: Emma, Daniel, Tihi, Roffe, Jeppson, Perne, Flexsnus. Vigolas behind them, his own fury still in a jar, staring.
small, tugging his patchwork sleeve.
flat on his back, looking up past all of them at the starless sky, his voice quiet, puzzled, utterly flat.