Scorio waved away solicitations, ignored the desperate cries of young boys who beckoned for him to come to the doorway of various establishments, studiously ignored the smoldering consideration that the beautiful men and women cast his way as he strode beneath their balconies, their forms draped in exotic furs, long cigarettes burning from between their careless fingers.
The city soon changed, however, as he continued north; he must have entered a new ward, for the dubious nature of the businesses and enticements were replaced by more rigid and severe buildings, the lighting more functional than alluring. Small squares opened up, benches arrayed around dead fountains or broad canopied trees; he began to see harried workers making their way home, their uniforms indicating House allegiances.
Ducking his chin, Scorio turned radially west, cutting through the imposing buildings, ignoring the gazes that trailed him as he went. There was a different allure to the people here; the very severity of their outfits, the callous indifference of their manner, the strange way they coiffed their hair, rouged their lips, the confident way they held themselves, all spoke to as alien a world as the decadent one he’d passed through first.
Mercifully he left the Chimera ward behind, only to realize that he had no idea where he was. He plunged into a teeming night market where a hundred stalls were packed close together, forming a labyrinth through which a crowd streamed. Garish lights were strung from crisscrossing strings overhead, hung from building corners and reaching branches, and by their blacklight, Scorio saw a wide array of goods set out for sale, the owners watching the passersby suspiciously, with more than a few having powerfully-built young men and women standing close by, hands resting on the hafts of clubs.
“Excuse me,” said Scorio, stopping at a covered stall whose owner was busy chopping a fistful of roots with numbingly fast precision. “How do I get to Ward 11?”
“Ward 11? Ward 11?” The old woman cried the question back to him as if he’d insulted her deeply.
Scorio took a step back. “That’s right. Ward 11.”
“Mischa!” Her cry was just short of raucous. “Tell this idiot where to go!”
Her guard, a bored-looking man with an eyepatch and red-stained teeth, gestured for Scorio to step away from the stall’s front, and immediately draped a muscled arm over his shoulders in a manner that made Scorio deeply uncomfortable.
“Ward 11? Oh, man.” He said this as if commiserating over a deep loss. “You’re destined for trouble; any fool can see that. But even I, a humble guard, can recognize destiny when it appears before him.”
The man smelled pungent, as if he’d been standing inside an incense-choked room for days. Carefully, adroitly, Scorio disentangled himself and stepped away.
“Just point out the direction and I’ll be much obliged.”
Mischa stared dully through Scorio, his pupils enormously dilated, then blinked and focused on him. “Oh. Yes. Radial west another four blocks, then walk north till you hit the rim. Ward 11. Kraken turf. Watch yourself.”
Scorio traversed Bastion, keeping to the copper-lit streets, hurrying now, avoiding the crowds, no longer trying to keep track of the changes but simply seeking his destination.
Finally, an old busker who was busy tuning his oud blinked up at him from a doorway and smiled.
“Ward 11? You’re here, my friend. Where every fist coming at your face is clutching a roll of coins. Is there anywhere in particular you wish to go?”
Scorio rested his hands on his hips and considered the avenue on which he stood. Broad, clean, well-tended, the buildings and people spoke of wealth and refinement. The busker was, if anything, the only element at odds with the manicured street.
“A new establishment,” he said. “Music oriented. Run by two ladies, Feiyan and Helena.”
The busker’s eyes lit up, their gleaming surfaces flashing pink in the overhead blacklight’s illumination. “Ah, you and everyone else! It’s the talk of the ward, and those next to it, besides.” At which point the old man considered Scorio speculatively. “Though it’s a refined establishment, I’m sorry to say. The likes of you and me wouldn’t be welcomed through the door.”
“I’m old friends with the owners,” said Scorio, trying to sound nonchalant. “If I can get their attention, I’ll be fine.”
“So says every novice seeking admittance to the halls of glory.” The busker placed his oud carefully in its case and closed it efficiently. “But come! Old Memek is done caterwauling for octs tonight; I will take you to The Flame, and if your claims are true, perhaps I will gain admittance as well.”
Scorio smiled. “It’d be my pleasure. I’m Scorio.”
“Scorio. An interesting name. Archaic, is it not?” Old Memek began hobbling along the street, favoring his left leg. “How is it you know the proprietors? Can you tell me aught of their past? It is shrouded in mystery, and speculation is rife. Is it true that they were both secretariats in House Hydra, overseeing matters of life and death, and grew tired of their onerous responsibilities?”
Scorio laughed. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps.” Old Memek glowered at him. “You plan to keep their cards close to your chest. Either you are truly their friend, or you know less than I do.”
“An accurate analysis,” said Scorio. He felt relieved to have met a friendly guide at last, and to relinquish the responsibility of finding his way through this strange and perturbing night city. “The Flame is doing well?”
“It is indeed. Small, refined, open to a select crowd but boasting high-quality music and scandalous adherence to impropriety. Those who cannot get in scorn it, while everyone else angles for a ticket.”
“Sounds about right,” said Scorio. They reached the top of a broad flight of steps that led down into a canyon formed between two close pressed buildings, the far end opening to reveal a broad canal. “And yourself? How is it that an illustrious oud master has been denied entry?”
“A terrible injustice,” sighed Memek, making his way carefully down the deeply worn steps. “When I was young, my ballads were the talk of the ward, no—the city! I recall one night when I was invited by a Hierophant to play at the Constellar Gardens, and oh, what a night that was. You will think me a liar, but I received such praise that night that my head literally swelled to twice its size; my hosts grew concerned, and called for Varigard the White, a Great Soul who perished—has it been two decades already? How has time flown—”
Old Memek spoke on, regaling Scorio with a fanciful tale that seemed endless in its permutations, and soon had the oud player fleeing House operatives as he escorted an orphaned Great Soul to safety at the Academy.
They descended the steep steps and emerged at the canal, whose broad length was dark and reflected the blacklights of the far bank with iridescent sensuality.
“… to which I declaimed, ‘Never shall I regret a moment with divinity, though it cost me my fame, my talent, and perhaps even my life.’” Old Memek paused to frown at a small crowd gathered outside a non-descript building that faced the canal, and from which the muted sounds of a dozen stringed instruments being violently played seem to come.
“There it is, The Flame. The crowd is fierce, my young friend. The chances of our success plummet by the moment.”
“Come on,” said Scorio, tapping the old man’s elbow. “Let’s give it a try.”
They approached, and the music grew more distinct, numerous guitars being played aggressively with virtuoso skill, the rhythm fierce and tempestuous, accompanied by a strange, clacking sound. Cries of laughter and delight emerged faintly from behind the heavy closed door, before which a broad-shouldered man with a shaved head stood, his robes tightly belted around his waist, his meaty and heavily tattooed arms crossed over his oxen-like chest.