The common tongue nicknames given to them in the Book of Names capture only a fraction of their essence. The Names are the names of the Aun, and by calling them you control the world, access the functionality built into the foglets in Earth’s atmosphere, rock and water by the ancients. Tawaddud always feels they do not merely come from the outside, but that they wake something up inside her as well, like meeting old friends.
But the name she is shouting now with her mouth and mind as the Fast Ones attack is not her friend.
Her fear mingles with that of Al-Muhaymin the Guardian, whose touch turns the athar around her into a shell hard as stone. Lost old words from the Sirr-in-the-sky like emergency decompression containment flash through her head. A drill-like sound tears at her eardrums – Fast One needle guns. Her foglet shield sparkles with tiny impacts of projectiles and falling glass.
Sumanguru sways under fire. Red splotches blossom across his uniform. Then he is lost beneath a whirlwind of transparent wings. Tawaddud cries out and takes a step forward, but then two of the creatures whoosh down and hover in front of her.
By the standards of their kind, the Fast Ones are giants, both over a foot tall, clad in the white ceramic armour of the little people of the twin cities-within-cities of Qush and Misr. Their descent brings a rush of waste heat and a tangy smell of overclocked metabolisms. Their dragonfly wings are flashing blue-and-silver discs. The flywheels of their needle guns of ornate brass let out a high-pitched whine as they aim at Tawaddud’s head.
They stay still over a second, long enough for her to see their beadlike black eyes. They exchange a few words, chattering back and forth, voices shrill bursts of noise. Then they dart towards Arcelia the qarin, still sitting on its perch. One of the tiny warriors plunges a sharp spike into the back of Arcelia’s head. The metal bird beats its wings and rises up, a golden blur with two white riders. Tawaddud cries out as the bird flashes through the shattered ceiling.
The swarm clings to Sumanguru, making him a statue built of little people, screaming and chattering. Above him, a group of the creatures is laboriously manoeuvring into position, carrying a more substantial weapon.
Tawaddud shouts the first Name that comes into her head. It is Al-Qahhar the Subduer. The echo of the word spreads through the athar in ripples. A wave of confusion spreads through the swarm, and suddenly Sumanguru is free. The strange gun clatters to the ground. The gogol still holds his knife: its dazzling slashes leave a network of bright afterimages in the air. In seconds, he stands in the middle of devastation, covered in blood, transparent, wispy innards of Fast Ones and their chitin-like shells. The rest of the swarm scatters, joining the aviary chimera escaping their confinement.
For a moment, Sumanguru looks at himself with a look of utter disgust and confusion. He brushes some ichor away from his uniform collar and then rubs his fingers together gingerly.
‘Lord Sumanguru, they took the qarin,’ Tawaddud says. Arcelia is a golden pinpoint now, far above. Who sent them? Why didn’t the Repentants stop them? How did they know we found Arcelia? She swallows. Rumzan. No, that is not possible.
If they take Arcelia, no one will believe me.
She whispers to her jinn ring and summons the carpet.
‘Lord Sumanguru?’
The gogol looks sick and confused. His chest is full of scratches and wounds from Fast One needles and swords, and there is a deep gash across his forehead. He shakes his head, and for a moment, the chilly look returns to his eyes.
Then he turns away and retches.
When he is finished, Tawaddud touches his shoulder.
‘Lord Sumanguru, the two leaders got away with the qarin. I’ve summoned the carpet: we can still catch them.’ She swallows. ‘Question them.’
Sumanguru kicks at the scattered tiny bodies on the ground in frustration. ‘What about these?’ he gasps.
‘They are all dead. The little people do not value their lives very much. Much like the Sobornost, or so I am told—’
Then she sees the gun on the ground. It is made from black wood, a gentle, curving shape with gold and brass mechanisms and wheels with symbols and Names carved on them. She picks it up: the grip is smooth and cool in her hand.
‘What is that?’ Sumanguru asks.
‘A barakah gun. A muhtasib weapon: it destroys Seals. It speaks the Anti-Name, the Secret Name of Death. They were going to use it on you.’
‘Wonderful,’ Sumanguru mutters. He frowns. ‘And why did they leave you alone?’
The arrival of the carpet interrupts him. It descends into the aviary slowly, a sheet of silvery mist. It hovers in front of them a couple of centimetres from the ground, undulating waves running through it.
‘There is no time. We have to go!’
She steps on the carpet, and Sumanguru follows, swaying slightly. At first, it is like standing on the surface of a waterbed. Then her footing becomes firm as the carpet compensates for her weight and invisible hands support her. It is made from expensive utility fog uncorrupted by wildcode. Still, it requires several low-level jinni bound to it, constantly cleaning and updating the athar spells. The ring in her finger turns it into an extension of her mind, making it feel like she is holding both Sumanguru and herself in the palm of her hand.
With a thought, she lifts them up from the shattered aviary and into bright sunlight, flying after the golden bird as if in a dream.
At first, it is hard to see Arcelia against the sun. The sky above them is clear and, amidst the blueness above, there are faint traces of the Gourd frame, the cage around Earth, white and silver lines like segments of some giant spiderweb in the sky. But in the athar, the bird is a tiny star, easy to follow. It and the Fast One riders descend rapidly, following the Soarez Shard.
Tawaddud takes a deep breath. You can do this. It’s no different from jumping off the Gomelez Shard with Jabir the wirer boy, in the vertical lane with apple trees where the angelnet catches you.
She lets the carpet dive straight down.
The azure palaces like jewels, houses and gardens of the Shard become a blur. The Rivers of Light – the ancient windows of Sirr-in-the-sky – flash past them in bright sword-strokes. A wild tickle in her stomach almost makes her laugh. The wind tears at her hair.
She steals a look at Sumanguru: the gogol’s eyes are closed, and for a moment, he looks like a frightened child. She squeezes the handle of the barakah gun and focuses on the shape of the qarin below. It grows rapidly, and it seems like in a few moments she can touch it—
The Fast Ones swing their mount in a sharp turn away from the Shard. Tawaddud follows – into a dense forest of silver wires right in front of them. They are chimera bird tethers of an armada of rukh ships below – ornate platforms and cylinders of blue and gold, the colours of House Soarez, jinn wind sails blazing with Seals.
Arcelia weaves its way deftly past the shiny lines, barely visible in the sun, deadly and sharp. Tawaddud wills the carpet to swing around them, but it is too late. Not like this. She closes her eyes and waits for the wires to cut into her flesh—
A roar in the athar, like thunder. The Anti-Name. An explosion of white noise. Another and another. Tawaddud opens her eyes. Sumanguru is firing the barakah gun like a madman, sending out expanding waves of destruction, unleashing wildcode that cuts through the wires like a scythe in front of them.
‘Keep flying!’ he screams, eyes wild. Reeling, she rights the carpet and steers them through the unraveling rigging. They swoop past the giant rukh birds and their transparent wings. The carpet is buffeted by the wind from the creatures’ frantic escape attempts. And then they are in clear air, followed by angry shouts of mutalibun crewmen below.