"What kind of father tries to kill his children?" I asked.
The demon took off his spectacles and stood quietly for a long time, pulling at his pigtail of a beard.
"I know," he said in a quiet voice. "That first time the storm came through my hand and into me, before we learned to contain it, I saw everything."
"It bothers you, doesn't it?"
Misrix shook his head. "Why did he do that to the woman with the green cloth? Why did he shoot the man? Why did he make the soldiers scream with pain to become wolves? The knowledge came to me through him, but also there came a small stinging insect, always buzzing through my thoughts. Everything I have come to know is poisoned by the sting of this creature. At night I cannot sleep for wondering."
"Why do you stay here?" I asked.
"He is my father."
I told him what had happened at Wenau—about the exploding bird and the sleeping disease.
"Yes," he said, "I know."
"Please. I must help those people," I said. "Take me to him. Let me reason with him."
"Come, Cley," he said.
He waited for me to get out of my chair, then led me through the door, holding it open as I passed. We walked in silence down a long, door-lined corridor, and I marveled at this beast with a conscience. What struck me was that as depraved as Below was, he was somehow capable of raising a "child" who had a sense of morality. I thought I might be able to enlist the son as an ally.
At the end of the corridor there was another door. As we approached it, Misrix reached out and put a hand on my shoulder, the claws curving down to point at my heart.
"You must promise that you will not hurt him," he said.
"Me, hurt Below?" I said. "I was hoping that you would protect me from his anger."
"That won't be necessary," he said as he turned the knob and pulled back the door.
The room was small and dimly lit by one candle. It took me a moment for my eyes to adjust, and in that time Misrix had entered and was standing beside me. The candle sat in a holder on a small table next to a large bed with an ornate headboard. Lying in the bed was Drachton Below, his eyes closed. His head was propped up on cream-colored pillows as though resting on a cloud bank, and he was dressed in blue silken pajamas. In the time since I had last seen him, he had grown a long mustache and beard, the same color as the pillows. His face was remarkably clear of wrinkles for one as old as he, but the thick hair that he had once worn in an impressive wave was now all but gone.
Misrix walked over to the side of the bed and reached out to pat him lightly on the head. I approached and asked if I could awaken him.
"I wish you could," said the demon.
"What do you mean?" I asked. Before he could answer, though, I noticed the expression on Below's face. He wore a subtle grin, the same I had seen back in Wenau on Roan and Jensen and the others who had succumb to the disease.
I turned to Misrix, and he simply nodded. "We were in the laboratory three days ago, and he was preparing one of his metal birds. He told me, 'Another gift for my children at Wenau/ There was a small beaker of steaming yellow liquid in his hand that he was preparing to pour into the mouth of the bird. He began to tell me something, and when he did, the beaker slipped from his fingers and crashed against the floor. I was on the other side of the laboratory, and I began to rush to his aid. By then a thick yellow smoke was rising around him. He spoke excrementally, and motioned for me not to come near him. I stayed at a distance, because he kept his finger pointed at me to remain. Then his eyes rolled back in his head. He said, 'Good night/ and fell onto the floor. I have not been able to wake him since."
I felt a tightening in my stomach. "Is there an antidote? Do you remember him mentioning or working on a cure for the yellow smoke?" I asked.
The demon nodded his head sadly. "Yes. When he first created the smoke, he made an experiment using one of the werewolves. He put the creature to sleep and then after two days awakened it with a needle full of something."
"What was it?" I asked.
"I never knew," said Misrix, and I saw him begin to get upset.
"That's fine," I told him. "It's not your fault." I put my hand on his arm. "Do you know where he keeps it?"
"Yes," he said.
"Where is it?" I asked.
With the tip of a claw, he touched Below's temple. "In there," he said.
6
I ASKED MlSRIX TO TAKE ME TO THE LABORATORY, BUT HE said it would be impossible until daybreak, when the werewolves would be sleeping. It was situated on the main floor of a partially intact building all the way on the opposite side of the ruins, and the path to it led through some treacherously narrow spots that were havens for ambush. The lab itself was unprotected, and the creatures knew how to get in.
"They could trap us there, and we'd never get out," said the demon as he took one last look at Below before shutting the door.
"Why did your father keep a laboratory so far away from your living quarters?"
"Two reasons," he said. "In case one of the experiments escaped while we were sleeping, and he used the daily journey to it as a way to get physical exercise."
"Can you carry me through the air?" I asked, as we walked the long hallway.
"During daylight, the metallic birds guard the sky. They will not strike us on the ground, but flying is too dangerous while the sun is up. They are set to intercept anything that crawls or walks outside the City walls and anything that flies over it. My father was particularly frightened of an attack by military balloons or rockets.
"This is my room," he said, and opened it for me. He set about lighting the spire lamps as I looked around. The place was enormous, well lit, and spotlessly clean. It was divided into a small living area and the rest was more rows of library shelves. He beckoned me over toward the shelves, and I followed.
"I've gotten rid of the books in here and begun my 'Museum of the Ruins/ These shelves are lined with the most interesting items I have salvaged from the Well-Built City."
I looked to the shelves and saw row upon row of artifacts—bullets and skulls and huge shards of soap-bubble crystal, obviously scraps from the false paradise. As I moved along the aisles, staring at the remains and reading the hand-printed cards that went with each small display, the ghost of the City came over me, and I remembered so clearly. In my memory, I rode the crystal-enclosed elevator to the Top of the City, while in actuality I walked past squashed shudder cups, a demon horn, bracelets, dolls, teeth, mummified toes, and a severed head from one of Below's gladiators—gear work showing through empty sockets.
"Remarkable," I said to him, as he followed, hands clasped as if in prayer to his accumulations.
"What did your father think of this?" I asked.
" 'Abhorrent' was the term he used, but he never demanded that I dismantle it."
"What made you start?" I asked, turning to watch him.
"I had the feeling that there was a story in all of this," he said. "If I just put the right pieces together it should all become clear to me—the story of the Well-Built City."
"You've done a fine job here," I said. "But what do you make of this story?"
"A love story, I'm sure of that much, but after that I lose the thread in a small object I cannot make out the meaning of. It's down here," he said and walked past me, leading me deeper into the aisles of shelves.
He finally stopped in the last row, at the very corner of the far-flung room. "Here," he said as I caught up to him. He pointed at the shelf and stared.
There, in a display between an empty Schrimley's bottle and the blue hand of a hardened hero, sat a white fruit at the moment of ripeness.
I reached toward it, but was quick to bring my arm up short, landing my index finger on the paper card that held the message: unknown fruit—plucked from tree growing among the ruins.
"What is it?" he asked.
"This is the fruit of the Earthly Paradise," I said. "A kind of miracle engine. I've seen people poisoned by it, and I've seen it bring back the dead."