K - Karyon Marlinson

Karyon Marlinson was at war with her own nature. Some people follow rules because they are good ideas, and others follow because the rule is the rule. She had spent her life as the second type of person. The only problem was that she was a thaumaturge, and that was strictly against all rules. She could move and transmit thaumatic energies, so her very existence was illegal.

Lucky for her, she was stolen away from her parents as a young child.

There was no ransom to pay. There were no threats or negotiations. After enough time had passed, she was assumed dead. And life for everyone close to her just . . . went on.

This was what would always happen to a young thaumaturge. Their family would quietly pretend they had never been born, or had run off. Or maybe they had been eaten by a predator somewhere outside of whatever walled city they came from. Someone always turned them in. Often it was the mothers, who were the most fearful of their own possible role in a child born thaumatic.

Karyon was from the city of Oshen, the largest port city on the north-east coast, but it was the same everywhere. Anyone with the power to destroy what remained of the environment just disappeared. This was part of the hard peas of living on Gioveda. It was expected. It was required. Ambassadors would come and spirit the child away. Questions were irrelevant.

There was a fine mist falling inside the cramped, muggy, and sweaty event hall in the SoCro neighborhood, the southern crossroads on Alauna Boulevard where the uppers met the downpods. The main avenue running north and south through Hatra was crossed every direction by every sort of person, but SoCro was where everyone went to impress, or oppress, according to their station and ability.

Hours past dark, and the dubzhiots were pouring. The beats were pounding. The skirts were flowing and the navels showing. The party was almost in full swing. That’s when Karyon arrived at the reception. She wasn’t invited, nor was her sponsor, Nandec Ventarian, but they arrived dressed predictably inappropriately for a wedding, but carrying the only credentials they had ever needed: the carved emblem of the ambassador corps. The symbol, the head of a bird facing to the right with an awkward squared-off beak and a swirl where the eye should be, brought fear and respect instantly. Unlike Nandec’s, Karyon’s badge bore a white stripe on a diagonal from the upper rightcorner.

The room hushed as they entered. Nancec waved dismissively to let the entertainers know to carry on. They weren’t there to crash the party, but they were there on business. Two pieces of business.

“Applicant Karyon,” Nandec said loudly into her ear so she could hear him over the noise. He was just over thirty, and bore many small scars on his face. His gaze was partly obscured by the long, dark waves of hair that hung enough in his face, enough that most observers couldn’t understand how he was able to see out from behind the thick hair. They could never understand even if he told them. He never did, because that would require him to separate them from their life.

“Yes, Instructor Ventarian?” She too was yelling.

“I’m going to handle the extraction tonight. Can you cover the rear exit on your own?”

“Yes, instructor.” She buried her disappointment so he would not see it, “Are there any special laws or customs which I need to be careful of? This is, after all, a wedding.” Karyon flipped her hand idly about in front of her indicating the foppish revelers whirling and gyrating around the dance floor.

Nandec smiled slightly in the dark, feeling his hair begin to weigh down with the expensive indoor drizzle. “You know the laws that apply here, do you not?”

“I do.” She smiled at her pun. “I mean, yes, Instructor, I am aware.”

“Very good. Then let’s get the job done and get ourselves to sleep at a descent, perhaps even a respectable hour.” He tugged his watch from the little pouch where it rested on his cuff. He always wore the oldest technology.

Karyon followed Nandec from a step behind as he strode to the bar along the wall to her left. The bar was very old, appearing as if the entire length of it was carved from a single block of quartz. The surface was worn slightly in spots roughly shoulder-width apart, making it clear that it had been a watering hole for centuries. The age was hard to guess since much of the detail on the front edge of the stone had long-since been slivered off in thousands of brawls. Still the gray-pink-white stone boldly asserted its dominance over this side of the room. Directly in front of it, about three meters away, were a series of columns supporting the enormous arched ceiling constructed in a series of square domes. Each dome was coated in what looked like millions of tiny tiles, forming a series of mosaic drawings with geometric borders and an odd mix of familiar constellations blended with mythological creatures.

The applicant surveyed the room, noting the half-dozen people sitting in front of the bar, watching the spasmodic gyrations that passed as dancing in Hatra. Everyone in the room was dressed in high-dose clothes. The sort that cost a month’s wages for a butcher or a tailor. Much of the fabric was imported. Probably the tailors, too, she thought. Every collar and hem was sewn in the asymmetrical pattern of the current fashion, except one old gown floating in the middle of the room. She was young looking, probably younger than Karyon’s seventeen annums. The bride.

“Keep!” Nandec shouted at the barkeeper over the music. The middle-aged man sauntered over wearing a scowl, a blousy shirt with a laced string closure at the top, and a high-waisted set of trousers. All were pretty standard requirements for the job, at least in the finer establishments.

The bartender’s glance flitted to the pin on Karyon’s barely used fighting vest. He turned back to Nandec. “What you need, you and your white-bar girl?”

“I need to know which person is Sereah?”

“Which one? There’s three at this wedding.”

“Get out of here.” Karyon spoke out of turn. She glared at him, trying to look menacing, but not pulling off more than a pouty-teen face. Nandec gave her a scalding and reproachful look over his shoulder.

“In two more hours and . . .” he checked the clock hanging on the wall behind him. “. . . thirty-six minutes I’ll do exactly that.” The small bald spot on the back of his head shone in the swirling party-lights.

And I thought Nandec was extravagant. This party must be costing thousands of doses.

The ambassador continued, undaunted. “I need Sareah Congreaves. She’d be a bit older than her.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at Kayron.

“So. Nine or ten annums?” The bartender smiled at his jibe. Karyon glowered even more severely and looked more like an older pouty teen. The barkeeper looked back at Nandec with a grin. Clearly Nandec wasn’t returning the mirth. The man finally pointed toward the far corner. “At that long table to the right of where the bride is sitting. See there? Third from the right. That’s Sareah Congreaves.”

Oh, step-mother with a crap sandwich. She’s a bridesmaid?

“Thanks.” Nandec said. He turned and gave another quick survey of the room.

Probably looking for exits to block. The oldest buildings had very few ways in or out.

They stepped away from the bar, and Nandec pulled Karyon closer to be heard by her and no one else.

“What do you see, Applicant Karyon?”

You purg. You call me ‘Applicant’ when you and your cult kidnapped me.

She jutted her lower jaw out. Nandec stared at her without expression. “Front door. Two windows low enough on the far side to break through. One exit to the alley, likely behind the dais on our left.” She stared at him with no expression. “No guards. No fights needed tonight.”

“Good. Cover the back.”

“Sir.”

Nandec sighed and wagged a finger in the direction she was to go. She walked away with purpose. She knew the penalty for dismissal from the ambassador corps. An ‘applicant’ who failed was never seen again. She slipped behind a curtain that obscured a few stairs that led up to a door with a hallway extending to the right behind the elevated area at the head of the room. She moved quickly down the corridor, ensuring there was only the one door, then turned back toward the steps. There she waited behind the curtain.

An argument broke out. Nandec is not messing about, is he? A man was yelling something about the wrong person. There wasn’t a thaumaturge in the entire family. There’s three of them here, he’ll say. He did. A scuffle and some foot stamping, and then women screaming. A loud, wet thud, like a gourd bouncing on stone. Another scream that led into a wail. Well, this is going flawlessly, eh Nandec?

A figure burst through the curtain at the bottom of the stairs. Female by the shape. The shadow raced to the top of the stairs, but clearly couldn’t see Karyon waiting in front of the door. The woman flew toward the handle and in a split second, Karyon’s blade was out.

The woman crashed into her trying to press on the bar to release the door latch. They both fell roughly out the door and into the alley, rolling over once in a pile of wet, warm garbage. Please be garbage.

The woman tried to stand and run, but Karyon could not allow it. Would not. She rolled over and swung her blade, catching the woman in the back of her leg. A spurt of blood came out along with the scream. The woman fell. Karyon jumped up and closed the gap between them. The woman’s eyes pleaded.

No. I’m not here to kill you.

Karyon bent over the woman and pressed her hand hard on the wound. Then she very quietly sang. The words were not Hatran. They were ancient. Words of power. Her hand heated up and a faint blue glow emanated.

The bleeding slowed. Then stopped. Karyon stood and helped the woman to her feet.

“How did you . . .?” The woman’s eyes showed white all around the orange-brown irises.

“Shh. There are laws and they must be obeyed. Come with me. It’s time we go.”

* * *

#AtoZChallenge