Silk Fire Read online

  First published 2022 by Solaris

  an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,

  Riverside House, Osney Mead,

  Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

  www.solarisbooks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-78108-975-0

  Copyright © 2022 Zabé Ellor

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are products of the writer’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  eBook production

  by Oxford eBooks Ltd.

  www.oxford-ebooks.com

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Interlude: Age Six

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Interlude: Age Twenty-Two

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Interlude: Age Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Interlude: Age Fourteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Interlude: Age Eighteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Names and Pronunciation

  The honorific ‘dzaxa,’ commonly applied to the ruling class of the War District, is correctly pronounced ‘dza-HUA’

  Koreshiza Brightstar (koh-REI-shi-zah), called Koré (koh-REI)

  Riapáná Źutruro (RIA-paa-naa ZHU-true-row), called Ria

  Faziz (fa-ZEES)

  Vashathke (va-sha-THI-kay) Faraakshgé (fa-rock-SHE-gay)

  Dzaxashigé (dza-hua-SHI-gay)

  Dzaroshardze (dza-ROSH-ards-EY) Faraakshgé (fa-rock-SHE-gay) Dzaxashigé (dza-hua-SHI-gay), called Dzaro (dza-ROW)

  Akizeké (acki-zeh-KEI) Shikishashir (she-key-SHA-sheer) Dzaxashigé (dza-hua-SHI-gay)

  Rarafashi (rah-rah-FA-shi) Akéakireze (ah-key-AH-key-rez-eh) Dzaxashigé (dza-hua-SHI-gay)

  Geshge (gesh-GAY) Akéakireze (ah-key-AH-key-rez-eh) Dzaxashigé (dza-hua-SHI-gay)

  Eprue Zucho (EP-rue-ey ZU-cho)

  Źeposháru Rena (zyeh-POSH-a-rue REI-na)

  Toźätupé (TOH-zyah-TWO-pey)

  The Megabuildings of Victory Street and their Owners

  An Incomplete List

  Skygarden, property of Judge Rarafashi

  The Palace of Ten Billion Swords, property of Magistrate Vashathke

  The Surrender, property of Lady Dzaroshardze

  The Slatepile, currently unincorporated

  The Archive, property of Lady Xezkavodz

  Towergarden, property of Lord Rezadzere

  The Prizeheron, property of Lady Fidzjakovik

  Old Dread, property of Lady Jeshethize

  The Elemental Substances

  To support the vast architecture of Jadzia, the eleven elemental substances allow skilled artisans to manipulate the laws of physics. The scholars of Victory Street sort them as follows:

  The Four Principals

  Holdstone, source of all Jadzia’s minerals

  Holdmetal, source of ores and alloys

  Holdlife, universal substrate for growing all vegetation

  Holdwater, source of Jadzia’s oceans, rain, and plumbing

  The Three Ethereals

  Holdair, to bind and control atmosphere

  Holdweight, to manipulate and redirect gravity

  Holdlight, to cast and shape illumination

  The Three Powers

  Holdice, to maintain superconductors and craft weapons

  Holdspark, to power electronics and craft weapons

  Holdfire, to fuel engines and craft weapons

  The Grand Prime

  Holdfast, to bind all things physical and immaterial, in service of construction

  To all who yearn for the light.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Atop the statue of the stone dragon

  19th Zxo, Year 92 Rarafashi

  “Above all, a wedding is a financial transaction. Dress as richly as if you own a bank and behave as politely as if you owe that bank money.”—Men’s Life Magazine: “Ask Jasper.” Published and distributed in the Palace of Ten Billion Swords

  “A good boy is a jeweled chalice. A stupid boy is a leaky sieve. A bad boy is a water pistol. I’m a bad boy.”—Hishura, Blood and Stone 3: The Bloodletting (Modern Jiké subtitles)

  The father of the groom stopped halfway up the aisle to spit in my face.

  With the bright store of essence tied to my soul, I could have dodged. But I didn’t believe another man would behave so crudely in public until the hot, wet missile struck my cheek. The guests – mostly wealthy dzaxa, with a few Engineers for added prestige – tittered and laughed. My pale skin went scarlet. I yearned for the pavilion to collapse on my head.

  “Whore,” the groom’s father growled. “You humiliate chaste men and rob essence from our marriages. Behind that pretty face, your soul is shit and worms.”

  I said nothing. I couldn’t deny the charge. All Victory Street knew Koreshiza Brightstar, courtesan and proprietor of the High Kiss brothel. And I stood out starkly beside this man, who, though dressed in rich purple velvet, had the lined face and prominent pores of a dull. He’d invested most of his essence in his child, leaving him weak and worn. I’d gathered essence from my patrons in their pleasure, brightening myself with flawless skin, racing wits, and the strength to shatter steel.

  Small wonder this man’s wife had hired me to warm her bed tonight.

  The groom’s father marched on, to the dais, where his wife and the bride ceremonially haggled over dowry goods. The groom stood between them, silent in a skirt of translucent white. Staring at me like his eyes could dagger an unwelcome guest. Spit was sliding down my neck, and I’d brought nothing to wipe it away with. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t act.

  I deserved this shame. I’d accepted a contract for a wedding and invaded the most important day of the young groom’s life. I’d done it not for money, not even for essence, but for an excuse to get in and introduce myself to the woman I hoped to place on the imperial throne.

  My long and winding path to vengeance, sundering another family.

  “It’s okay,” whispered a serving man with long, dark hair, passing me a tissue. “Your client made the mess, not you.”

  I wiped my cheek and neck as the ceremony began.

  The groom’s father trembled as he touched his son’s temples. Space fluttered around them, a flock of soundless starlings. The lines on the father’s cheeks deepened, cracking through his makeup. Silver furrowed through dark hair, and the skin of his chin sank low. Light bloomed in the boy’s eyes, turning his red irises deep as wine, tightening pale curls and deepening muscle lines. Shaping alluring beauty from a merely pleasing smile.

  The last tithe. I hoped the groom enjoyed this part of the ceremony, if nothing else. He’d surrender most of his essence to his wife before she chose to conceive. He’d never shine so bright a
gain. But Victory Street would know him for a good dzaxa husband, a respectable member of the ruling class. Most men found that a worthy trade.

  The groom’s mother gave the wedding speech, detailing the goods she’d exchanged with her son. She and the bride signed the contract; then, fashionably progressive, let the groom sign too. The bride nicked her finger, and the groom’s, on a ceremonial razor, and pressed both together.

  As the cheering crowd pressed forward to congratulate her, I sought my mark.

  Akizeké Shikishashir Dzaxashigé, Magistrate of Armory Street, pushed to the head of the receiving line and embraced the bride. Her eyes were the stewing hue of old blood; her white-blond hair fell neatly to her chin. Crow’s feet and stretchmarks lent her maturity and wisdom, and the wedding pavilion shook in echo of her laugh. The picture of a traditional politician—albeit one with little traction so far in her campaign to succeed our dying judge.

  If she chose me as one of her campaign strategists, I’d have every notable from southmost Coldwater District to the blighted border of the Lost District demanding her ascension. Every wealthy lip on Victory Street would endorse her for the throne with the same eagerness as they begged me for private sins. I’d spent years preparing for this moment. Building connections. Collecting debts. I would flip the succession contest over as easily as I’d dangle downward on the dancing pole.

  That was what I’d told myself this morning. Now a dzaxa magistrate was walking past me on her way to the bar, draped in gold and sparkling steel. Her stagnant campaign needed help, but suddenly, it seemed I’d have an easier time restoring the gods to life than convincing Akizeké to put her political future in the hands of a sex worker.

  “Pardon me, Magistrate,” I said as she passed, lifting a hand. “If I may have a word—”

  “A photograph? Of course!” Akizeké flashed me a toothy smile, a politician’s grin even dull eyes could pick out from miles away. She slung an arm around my hip and pulled me in, closer than I normally let strangers come without charging. The serving man who’d given me a tissue—one of her personal staff, perhaps?—shouldered a camera. “Think how pissed off your father will be if he sees his bastard making nice with his chief rival.”

  His only remaining rival. I smiled as the orange holdlight bulb flashed. A piece of photo-paper spat out below the lens, slowly resolving. The glare off Akizeké’s gold-trimmed pauldrons had wiped my face from the image. “Actually, Magistrate, I’d love to speak with you about my father and the campaign—”

  She patted my shoulder and tucked the blurred-out photos into my sash. “Hold onto those. Tell your future children how you met me just months before I ascended to judgeship.”

  “Thank you, and I will.” I tried to sound gracious, grateful, but I had to make my proposal before someone more important stole her away. “You’re my political role model. How you defended Armory Street’s salvage rights in the border ruins. How you’ve funded the War District’s museums. I only wanted to know… are you looking to hire more campaign strategists? I have excellent references.”

  Akizeké considered me. I shivered under her clotted gaze. “You’re young. Pretty. Well-connected. But there’s a hundred million other boys in that exact same position. If you want a job on my campaign, earn it.”

  My cheeks flamed. Venomous whispers in the pit of my stomach hissed fool and imposter. But I hadn’t come empty-handed. I spoke for my aunt, and her allies. I could offer Akizeké a powerful block of supporters—

  “Magistrate Akizeké!” A young man clad in green and white, like a living lily on the stem, shouldered in between us. “Have you scheduled a date for your concession speech? I need to file permits for my candidate’s coronation parade.”

  She laughed. “Announcing six foreign endorsements in one day was an excellent trick, Zegakadze Kzagé. Your boss scared half the candidates into dropping out. But tricks won’t keep me from my throne. And when I rule as judge, I won’t need parades and parties to prove I have power.”

  Shaking her head, still chuckling, Akizeké set off toward the bourbon fountain with the hungry purpose of a stalking raptor.

  Well. She certainly had an ego sized for the judge’s throne.

  “You’re looking for a campaign job, Koré?” Zegakadze Kzagé—Zega, as he’d bid me call him when we’d been a couple—turned to me, faint humor playing around his lips. Brown curls framed his fair face in casual disarray. “A natural progression from sex work. Only in politics, you don’t get to wear a condom when someone fucks you over.”

  “I hardly bother with prophylactics. Getting a prescription costs a fortune. Quite a few inappropriate itches plagued me when I entered the industry, but I gained immunity when I brightened.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. I wished I could believe him. His pillow-soft words too often concealed slaps. “You don’t want to work for Akizeké. She’s too far behind to win. Join us. Magistrate Vashathke will find you a place on his campaign staff.”

  “As a pretty party favor?”

  “As his son. He loves you, underneath everything. He’s always asking me to tell stories about you.”

  “How convenient. He becomes a caring father the moment a visible bastard can hurt his career most. Who does he plan to marry me to in exchange for their support? It can’t be anyone too important. I’m used goods.”

  “I would never let him marry you off against your will. Because I still care for you.” He declared that like a gambler revealing a winning hand. But I knew what was written on the back of his cards. You didn’t protect me from my marriage, Koré. You didn’t care enough. And you owe me yourself for that.

  I was done being someone else’s tool. Even if they said they loved me. Even if they were my own skin and bone. If it meant I had a heart of stone, so be it. Only stone survived Victory Street untouched.

  My client was posing for photographs with her new daughter-in-law. Akizeké was circling the pavilion shaking hands. I had more than enough time to learn how far Zega would play this.

  “How kind of you,” I purred to my ex, offering him my arm. “Shall we go for a walk and discuss?”

  He slid his elbow through mine. The lily perfume drenching him flooded my nose, blooming from the lace choker at his throat. My skin tingled where his delicate blue veins brushed my inner wrist. A dead reflex. My brain, not my heart, led me now in the great and small games I played. Careful to keep my smile vapid and my steps directionless and light, I led us outside the tent and onto a granite walking-path.

  The wedding pavilion ran along the top of the stone dragon, a massive, ancient sculpture carved to mark some pointless, bloody victory. Its hollow body held only seventy thousand apartments, making it one of Victory Street’s smaller buildings—and one of the quietest. Even my bright, sensitive ears couldn’t find the background din of hallway traffic, arguing voices and clashing jazz harmonies that rang out life on Victory Street. The dzaxa landlady who owned this building had raised rents and driven folk from apartments they’d rented for generations, turning her building into a luxury address for the rich and bright.

  All because Magistrate Vashathke had undone the old rent-control laws. Dzaxa who’d sworn a man couldn’t rule Victory Street now praised him as an innovator while stuffing their bank accounts. The dull children begging on the yellow, brontosaurus-sized cobblestones of Victory Street—their ranks swollen from mass evictions—knew Magistrate Vashathke by cruder names. “Bully” was the tamest I’d heard.

  My father had picked wrong when he’d bullied me.

  “This is such a boring building,” Zega moaned. “Forget my cousin’s wedding. Let’s jump down to the crossway and find a jazz bar. With how bright we both shine, we could be dancing together in minutes, and the whole place would queue up to buy us drinks.”

  “You’re a respectably employed widow. You can show off your essence. People get upset if I remind them a bastard sex worker can punch through sheet metal.”

  “What’s the point of power if
you can’t have a little fun?” He pulled a compact from his purse and flipped it open. Red powder flashed inside. Zega grinned, then ducked into the sheltering nook of the stone dragon’s carved, empty eye socket. I slipped in after him, bending my tall head to fit the space.

  “Power isn’t a toy,” I said as he snorted the firepowder. “What’s left of the War District’s influence could also fit up your nose. We all must use what little we have strategically.”

  “Or—” He held out the compact. I shook my head. “—or we could simply accept the slow death of our world and enjoy the fall on our way down. Be as tiresome as you wish, Koreshiza, you’ll never bore these beacons to burn bright.” He tapped the side of the socket.

  Once, everlasting ruby fire had burned in the great statue’s eyes, reflecting the glory of our massive neighborhood’s dragons. But the dragons had died with the gods, and the supply of fresh essence they breathed had dwindled to drought. The Temple District had crumbled into the Lost District, from which no explorers returned. The survivors of the cataclysm, and the wars that preceded it, had brokered a city-wide peace, ensuring no district would lose valuable essence in the battlefield dead. They’d created the playing field Zega and I stood on today.

  No battles. Fewer bombings. Higher stakes.

  “Zega,” I hissed. My ex shivered at the first brush of a high. “Listen to me. I can’t work for Vashathke, but that doesn’t mean there’s no hope for us. You’re no longer a boy trapped in a bad marriage. Don’t keep following Vashathke’s bloody path to power. Take your skills and connections. Help me get on Akizeké’s good side. We can raise her to the judgeship. Together.” My heart stuttered on the final word. Reckless. Bidding so plainly for his loyalties was a gamble, even if all I stood to lose was the faint flickering hope I could fix our relationship if we tried again.

  “Elevate Akizeké and share half the credit with you?” he scoffed. “You’ve grown more selfish since you left. Or perhaps you’ve just grown more like your father.”

  The comparison ground into me like broken glass. My parentage was an open secret, and people often compared my looks and manner to Vashathke’s. But Zega knew my history, and saw the deeper tie—I, like my father, wove plots and treacheries behind gold-lined scarlet eyes. “I was born with Vashathke’s face stamped on mine. You chose to serve him.” My voice rose, half-hysterical, slipping beyond my control. “Have you forgotten how he had me and my mother thrown out on the streets?”