Retribution Falls - Chris Wooding [52]
“So let me get this straight,” Frey said, holding up his hand. “They ask a question, they … release some birds, say. And the way the birds fly, what direction they go, that’s the planet talking to them. The Allsoul?”
“When you strip out all the mumbo jumbo, yes, that’s exactly it.”
“And you say it doesn’t work?”
“Ah!” said Crake scornfully, holding up a finger. “That’s the clever part. They’ve got it covered. Margin for human error, you see. Their understanding of the Allsoul is imperfect. Human minds aren’t yet capable of comprehending it. You can ask, but the Allsoul might refuse. You can predict, but the predictions are so vague they’ll come true more often than not. The Allsoul’s schemes are so massive that the death of your son or the destruction of your village can be explained away as part of a grand plan that you’re just too small to see.” He gave a bitter chuckle. “They’ve got all the angles figured out.”
“You really hate them, don’t you?” Frey said, surprised at the tone in his companion’s voice. “I mean, you really hate them.”
Crake clammed up, aware that he’d let himself get out of control. He gave Frey a quick, tense smile. “It’s only fair,” he said. “They hated me first.”
THEY STROLLED up the hill from Olden Square, along a tree-lined avenue that led toward the wealthier districts of Goldenside and Kingsway. Passenger craft flew overhead, and motorized carriages puttered by. There were fine dresses in the windows of the shops, displays of elaborate toys and sweetmeats. As they climbed higher, they began to catch glimpses of Lake Elmen through the forested slopes to the west, vast as an inland ocean. All around, stretching into the distance as far as the eye could see, were the dark green pines and dramatic cliffs of the Forest of Aulen.
“Pretty part of the world,” Frey commented. “You’d think the Aerium Wars never happened.”
“Aulenfay missed the worst of it the first time round and got none of it on the second,” said Crake. “You should see Draki and Rabban. Six years on and they’re still half rubble.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen ’em,” he replied distantly. He was watching a young family who were approaching on their side of the avenue: a handsome husband, a neat wife with a beautiful smile, two little girls singing a rhyme as they skipped along in their frilly dresses. After a moment the woman noticed his interest. Frey looked away quickly, but Crake bid them a pleasant “Good day” as they passed.
“Good day,” the couple replied, and a moment later the girls chimed “Good day!” politely. Frey had to hurry on. The sight of their happiness, the sound of those little voices, was like a kick in the chest.
“What’s the matter?” Crake inquired, noticing Frey’s sudden change in demeanor.
“Nothing,” he muttered. “Nothing, I just suddenly … I was worried they’d recognize me. Shouldn’t have made eye contact.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. I told you, I picked up a broadsheet in Marklin’s Reach yesterday. There was no mention of you. And Aulenfay isn’t the kind of place where they stick Wanted posters everywhere. I think you’ve been forgotten by the general public.” He patted Frey on the shoulder. “Besides, considering the age of the photograph and your newly raddled and insalubrious appearance, I don’t think anyone would recognize you unless they had a particular interest.”
“Raddled and insalubrious?” Frey said. He was beginning to suspect Crake of showing off in an attempt to belittle him.
“It means formidable and rugged,” Crake assured him. “The beard, you see.”
“Oh.”
They came to a crossroads and Crake stopped on the corner. “Well, I must be leaving you. I have to go and pick up my equipment, and the kind of people who sell daemonist paraphernalia are the kind of people who don’t like non-daemonists knowing who they are.”
“Right,” said Frey. “Have it delivered to the dock warehouse. We’ll pick it up from there. No names, though.”
“Of course.” The daemonist turned to go.
“Crake.”
“Yes?”
Frey looked up the street, rather