City of last chances, p.1
City of Last Chances, page 1
CITY
OF
LAST
CHANCES
ALSO BY ADRIAN TCHAIKOVSKY
SHADOWS OF THE APT
Empire in Black and Gold
Dragonfly Falling
Blood of the Mantis
Salute the Dark
The Scarab Path
The Sea Watch
Heirs of the Blade
The Air War
War Master’s Gate
Seal of the Worm
TALES OF THE APT
Spoils of War
A Time for Grief
For Love of Distant Shores
The Scent of Tears (with Frances Hardinge et al.)
ECHOES OF THE FALL
The Tiger and the Wolf
The Bear and the Serpent
The Hyena and the Hawk
CHILDREN OF TIME
Children of Time
Children of Ruin
Children of Memory
DOGS OF WAR
Dogs of War
Bear Head
OTHER FICTION
Guns of the Dawn
Spiderlight
Ironclads
Cage of Souls
Firewalkers
The Doors of Eden
Feast and Famine
(collection)
CITY
OF
LAST
CHANCES
ADRIAN
TCHAIKOVSKY
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2022 by Head of Zeus Ltd,
part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © Adrian Tchaikovsky, 2022
The moral right of Adrian Tchaikovsky to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 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 both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781801108423
ISBN (XTPB): 9781801108430
ISBN (E): 9781801108454
Map © Joe Wilson
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM
Contents
Also by Adrian Tchaikovsky
Title Page
Copyright
Factions
Dramatis Personae
Map of Ilmar
Yasnic’s Relationship with God
The Final Moments of Sage-Archivist Ochelby
A Game of Chaq
Ruslav in Love Again
Blackmane’s New Collar
The Old Songs
Parliament of Fowls
Maestro in Durance
Mother Guame’s Interrogation
Mosaic: City of Last Chances
The Reproach of Statlos Shrievsby
The Pawnbroker
The Face of Perfection
Ruslav’s Master’s Voice
Jem’s Reasons for Leaving
Unleashing Hell
Mosaic: The Hospitality of the Varatsins
Ruslav in the Teeth
Nihilostes Loses a Convert
Going Home
Chains
Not Venom but Eggs
Conversations About God
Breaking Things
The Second Murder
Dancing on Air
Through the Bottom of a Bottle
Orvechin’s Boots
The Price of Rope
Evidence
The Day Gets Only Worse
Mosaic: Wings
Drinking Alone
The Bitter Sisters
Past the Threshold
Blackmane’s Reckoning
Mosaic: The Spark
Fire
Mosaic: The Dousing
Higher Powers
The Apostate
Hellgram’s War
The Fine Print
Unity and Division
Port to Nowhere
A Single Piece of Bronze
Mosaic: Resurrections
Mentioned in Reports
Another Round
Acknowledgements
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
FACTIONS OF THE CITY OF ILMAR
Allorwen – from the nation of Allor
Armigers – the aristocratic families of Ilmar
Divinati – from the nation of the Divinates
Gownhall – the Ilmari university
Herons – resistance faction of the riverfolk
Indwellers – the people of the Anchorwood
Lodges – criminal gangs
Loruthi – from the nation of Lor
Ravens – resistance faction of the Armiger families
Shrikes – murderers for the resistance
Siblingries – workers’ organisations
Vultures – resistance faction of the Ilmar streets
FACTIONS OF THE PALLESEEN OCCUPATION
Temporary Commission of Ends and Means – the ruling body of Pallesand
Palleseen Sway – the occupied territories as a whole
Perfecture – an individual occupied territory
School of Correct Erudition (Archivists) – responsible for learning and magic
School of Correct Appreciation (Invigilators) – responsible for art and the judiciary
School of Correct Exchange (Brokers) – responsible for trade
School of Correct Conduct (Monitors) – responsible for military and enforcement
School of Correct Speech (Inquirers) – responsible for religion, language and espionage
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Aullaime – Allorwen conjurer with the Siblingries
Benno – Vulture thug
Blackmane – Allorwen pawnbroker
Fellow-Monitor Brockelsby – Correct Conduct
Carelia – one half of the Bitter Sisters, Vulture leader
Cheryn – Vulture thug
Sage-Invigilator Culvern – Perfector of Ilmar, Correct Appreciation
Dorae – Allorwen antiques dealer
Dostritsyn – ruin-diver
Mother Ellaime – Allorwen landlady
Emlar – student
Ergice – Vulture thug
Companion-Monitor Estern – Correct Conduct
Evene – the other half of the Bitter Sisters, Vulture leader
Fleance – Heron gambler
Fyon – Shrike murderer
Archivist Gadders – Correct Erudition
God – divine entity
Maestra Gowdi – Gownhall master
Grymme – ruin-diver
Mother Guame – Allorwen brothel-keeper
Fellow-Inquirer Hegelsy – Correct Speech
Hellgram – bouncer at the Anchorage, foreigner
Hervenya – student
Hoyst – hangman
Jem – Divinati bartender at the Anchorage
Kosha – priest, Yasnic’s master, dead
Langrice – keeper of the Anchorage
Lemya – student
Petric Lesselkin – Siblingry scrapherd
Meraqui – ruin-diver
Companion-Archivist Nasely – Correct Erudition
Nihilostes – priestess of the divine scorpionfly
Fellow-Broker Nisbet – Correct Exchange
Sage-Archivist Ochelby – Correct Erudition
Father Orvechin – Siblingry leader
Orvost, the Divine Bull – divine entity
Maestro Ivarn Ostravar – Gownhall master
Maestro Porvilleau – Allorwen Gownhall master
Archivist Riechy – Correct Erudition
Ruslav – Vulture thug
Statlos Shrievsby – officer, Correct Conduct
Sachemel Sirovar – former head of the family, dead
Shantrov Sirovar – Armiger and student
Vidsya Sirovar – Armiger and Raven
Fellow-Invigilator Temsel – Correct Appreciation
Tobriant – Allorwen furniture maker
Johanger Tulmueric – Loruthi merchant
Maestro Vorkovin – Gownhall master
Yasnic – priest
Zenotheus, Scorpionfly God of Chaos – divine entity
Map of Ilmar
Yasnic’s Relationship with God
Yasnic the priest. Thin and not young, though not quite old. Half lost in clothes tailored for a larger man in the voluminous Ilmari style. Face hollow, hair greying before it should, thinning, creeping back from his temples like an army that, seeing its opposition is time, no longer has the will to fight…
That morning, God was complaining again. Yasnic lay crunched up in bed, knees almost to his chin and his feet twined together. Trying to tell from the way the light filtered in through the filthy window whether the frost was just on the outside, or on the inside again. He could have put a hand out to touch the panes and check. He could have put a foot out and kicked out at God. Or the far wall. It was, he decided, a blessing. A small room held his body heat longer. If he’d been able to afford anything larger, the
“It’s cold,” God said. “It’s so cold.” The divine presence was curled up on His shelf like an emaciated cat, and about the same size. He had shrunk since the night before, and perhaps that, too, was a blessing. Sometimes Yasnic could do with a little less God in his life, and here he was this morning, and God was smaller by at least a quarter. He gave thanks, his knee-jerk reaction ingrained from long years of good upbringing from Kosha, the previous priest of God. Back when Ilmar had been a more tolerant place, and old Kosha and Yasnic and God had lived in three rooms above a tanner’s and had meat at least once a twelveday.
Not a twelveday, he reminded himself. The School of Correct Exchange was levying fines and making arrests for people using the old calendar, he’d heard. He had to start thinking in terms of a seven-day week, except then he couldn’t look back on the way things had been and quantify the time properly. How often had they had meat, back when he’d been a boy learning at Kosha’s knee? What was seven into twelve or twelve into seven or however it might work? His mathematics weren’t good enough to work it out. And so, obscurely, it felt as though a swathe of his memories was locked away by the new ordnances. Also, he’d just given thanks to God that he had less God in his life, and God, the recipient of those thanks, was right there and staring at him accusingly.
“I need a blanket,” said God. “It’s only the beginning of winter, and it’s so cold.”
God looked all skin and bones. He wore rags. It was only a season since Yasnic had sacrificed a good shirt to God, but the diminished state of the faith – meaning Yasnic – tended to mean anything God got His hands on didn’t last. A blanket would go the same way.
“I only have one blanket,” Yasnic told God.
“Get another one.” God stared at His sole priest from His place on the shelf up by the low ceiling. His spidery hands were gripping the edge, His nose and wisps of beard projecting over them. His skin was wrinkled and greyish, hollowed until the shape of His bones could be seen quite clearly. “In the old days I had robes of fur and velvet, and my acolytes burned sandalwood—”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Yasnic cut God off. “I only have this blanket.” He lifted the threadbare covering and regretted it instantly, the chill of the morning taking up residence in a bed with room only for one. “I suppose I’m getting up now,” he added pettily.
“Please,” said God. Yasnic stopped halfway through forcing numb feet into his overtrousers. God looked in a bad way, he had to admit. It was easy just to think that God was being selfish. God had, after all, been very used to people doing what He said and giving Him all good things, back in the day. Back in a day long before Yasnic, last priest of God, had come along. Their religion had been dying for over a century, ever since the big Mahanic Temple had been raised. And yes, Mahanism had actively spoken against other religions, but more, they’d just… expanded to fill all the available faith. People went where the social capital was. And now, under the Occupation, there really were people purging religions. Making arrests for Incorrect Speech. Just as well it’s only me and God, Yasnic thought. Easier to go unnoticed.
“Ask the woman,” God said. “Ask her for another blanket. I’m cold.”
“Mother Ellaime will not give us another blanket,” Yasnic said. In fact, their landlady would more likely want to ask about last twelved—last week’s rent. And that was another thing, of course. Since the Occupation, everything had to be paid sooner, because of the weeks. And he couldn’t quite make the maths work, but it seemed he was paying more each day of the seven than he had each day of the twelve. And it wasn’t as though being the sole surviving holy man of God actually brought in much. There were few perks and no regular take-home wage. And, under the Occupation, begging meant risking arrest for Incorrect Exchange.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Clothes on, he shambled out of the room and went down for tea. One thing Mother Ellaime did provide her boarders with was a constantly churning samovar by the fire, and both fire and tea were just about enough to set up Yasnic for a day’s scrounging.
God hadn’t been with him on the stairs but was sitting beside the samovar down in the common room. Yasnic took down a cup from its hook and filled it with dark green, steaming liquid. He wanted to avoid Mother Ellaime’s notice as he jostled elbows with his fellow boarders to get space at the single table. God was there, though. God was hunched cross-legged on the tin plate Yasnic’s neighbour had eaten porridge off.
“Ask her,” God insisted.
“I won’t do it,” murmured Yasnic. His neighbour, the big man named Ruslav who never seemed to have a job but always seemed to have money, stared at him. He couldn’t see God sitting in the remains of his porridge. He probably thought Yasnic wanted to lick his plate clean. Jealously, he pulled it closer to himself, making God scrabble for balance. Yasnic winced, aware that everyone was looking at him now, even the student girl who’d turned up a tw—two weeks ago, and whom he dreaded talking to. She was very clever, and Gownhall people loved to argue metaphysics. He was afraid he’d listen to her tortuous logic too much and then look around for God, only to find God wasn’t there anymore. And he was afraid of what he might feel, if that were ever the case.
“Ask,” God insisted peevishly. “I command it.”
“Mother,” Yasnic said. “I don’t suppose I could beg another blanket from you?” Loud enough to carry to the old woman. Aware that his quiet words were expanding to fill the room. Feeling the student’s judging eyes on him. Feeling ashamed. And it wasn’t even a useful shame, the sort that earned you credit with God or, in this case, got you a blanket, because Mother Ellaime was already shaking her head. And if there was a little more money, there might be another blanket. And likely that would mean someone at the table, who had a little less money, would be missing a blanket, because it was a closed blanket economy here at Mother Ellaime’s boarding house. And if it had just been Yasnic, he would have accepted the lack of a blanket and known that he was making someone else’s life better, and tried to warm himself with that. But it was God, and God was old and petty and selfish, but God was also cold, and Yasnic had given himself into God’s service. And so he begged Mother Ellaime, with the whole table listening archly to every word. With Ruslav, who probably had two blankets or even three, snickering in his ear. God was cold, and God didn’t have anyone else. And it was all for nothing because there wasn’t another blanket to be had, not without money he didn’t possess.
*
When darkness and the cold at last drove him back to the boarding house that night, he still didn’t possess the money. He’d tried to find work, because he could translate two dead languages, he could teach, he could sing, and even though he was a priest, he could also lift and carry and scrub. Nobody wanted him to do any of those things, or at least not if it meant giving him any money. He mostly begged, but nobody wanted to give him money for that, either.
The common room seemed swelteringly hot as he came in, the fire banked profligately high, so that he was loosening his collars immediately and shrugging out of his shapeless, too-big coat. God was waiting for him by the samovar. Even smaller, of a size to fit into the teacup Yasnic reached down. He found barely half a cup left in the urn. The discovery felt like a blow. It had never happened before. Mother Ellaime treated her tea-making responsibilities with considerably more fervour than he treated his duty to God, and that was with God actually sharing a room with him.
“Ah…” Hearing his own voice, thin and cracked.
The room was oddly quiet. He hadn’t actually registered its contents, save for God – whom he could always see clearly – and the samovar, which he had found by long familiarity and the smell of roasting tea. He had the sense of more people than usual present, and a peculiarly pregnant silence as of all of them staring at him. He rubbed at his eyes and squinted, mole-like.
The front room of Mother Ellaime’s boarding house was filled with Palleseen soldiers. Or, if not filled, they had all the seats around the single table, and they had all the tea.
The old woman herself was waiting on them. She’d pulled her shawl close around her to hide the little beaded choker she had about her neck. Not because they might steal it – though they might, glossing the act with the word ‘confiscate’. But because it would tell them she wasn’t native Ilmari, and though the Occupiers weren’t exactly kind towards the locals, they could be a great deal worse if you were from over the border in Allor.
