Read Online Those Above: The Empty Throne Book 1 by Daniel Polansky - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Daniel Polansky
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insisting that he has hit upon a new design for an aerial that is unique in its conception.’
‘The Lord of the Sidereal Citadel is a fine craftsman.’
‘The finest, though why he imagines I’ll be of any use in turning his conception into reality is utterly beyond me.’ The Lord seemed to think the matter over for a moment, though Calla had been among the High long enough to know that you could never really say with any certainty what their pauses meant, or if they meant anything.
He brushed his mouth with a silk handkerchief and stood abruptly. ‘Still, he always has some fine pieces of steamwork to display. Send a messenger to his estate, ask if I might call at the hour of the Starling.’
The food lay unfinished on the table, and there were six more dishes soon to be making their way up in the elevators. Now it would all be burned in the central fires of the Keep – nothing intended for the use or consumption of an Eternal could be wasted on a lesser species, be it it ant, dog or human.
‘Of course, my Lord,’ Calla said, bowing deeply. ‘At your command.’
4
T histle woke up well past the hour of the Eagle, the sun beating down shamelessly, though he didn’t know the time at first and didn’t care when he did.
He didn’t know because his sleeping quarters were a windowless shack built atop the slum tenement he lived in with his mother, siblings and a dozen-odd other families. He didn’t care because he had nothing to do, no labour to occupy the morning, no toil to carry him through until evening. So far as the world was concerned, he could have gone on sleeping until nightfall. Could well have never woken up.
The shack had been a pigeon coop. When he’d assumed residence in the spring, Thistle had spent three solid days – perhaps the only three days of work he’d put in over the sixteen years he’d drawn breath – removing the cages and various bric-a-brac, washing the floors over and over and over again. It hadn’t done much good. He could still smell them, the dander from their wings, the thick white goo of their shit. Thistle hated birds. He hated a lot of things, but he particularly hated birds.
Still, it was better than his mother’s apartment, two rooms separated by a wall the width of his little finger, four children packed into the front, his mother and little Apple in the back. The coop was his at least, and there wasn’t much else in the world he could lay sole claim to. In a few months it would be too cold to sleep there and he’d be back sharing a pallet on the floor. Best enjoy it while he could.
Thistle stretched, yawned, pulled himself up and out into the early-afternoon sun. He took a long piss off the side of the building, watched the stream of urine fall against the alleyway below. This time of day there was little chance of watering a passer-by, though Thistle held out hope.
He was about average height for a youth from the lowest stretches of the Roost, which would have made him short almost anywhere else on the continent. His face was coarse, his mouth brutish. The last year he’d grown a patchy bush of black hair thick around his neck and above his lip but sparse everywhere else, peach-fuzz unsure if it was ever to become a beard. He’d been an ugly child, become an ugly youth, and in all likelihood would end up an ugly man. His one distinguishing feature was his eyes, which were so dark a brown you could be forgiven for mistaking them as black. If you passed him you’d walk faster, and maybe take a quick backwards look once you were safely past.
Thistle lived in the Barrow, far down on the Fifth Rung, a short walk upslope from the docks. His building was the tallest in the neighbourhood, five storeys in crumbling red brick. To the east could be seen one of the great pumps leeching water from the bay and sending it on its long journey skyward. Of course it could be heard wherever you were , an unpleasant slurping sound like an old man farting. Didn’t smell
‘The Lord of the Sidereal Citadel is a fine craftsman.’
‘The finest, though why he imagines I’ll be of any use in turning his conception into reality is utterly beyond me.’ The Lord seemed to think the matter over for a moment, though Calla had been among the High long enough to know that you could never really say with any certainty what their pauses meant, or if they meant anything.
He brushed his mouth with a silk handkerchief and stood abruptly. ‘Still, he always has some fine pieces of steamwork to display. Send a messenger to his estate, ask if I might call at the hour of the Starling.’
The food lay unfinished on the table, and there were six more dishes soon to be making their way up in the elevators. Now it would all be burned in the central fires of the Keep – nothing intended for the use or consumption of an Eternal could be wasted on a lesser species, be it it ant, dog or human.
‘Of course, my Lord,’ Calla said, bowing deeply. ‘At your command.’
4
T histle woke up well past the hour of the Eagle, the sun beating down shamelessly, though he didn’t know the time at first and didn’t care when he did.
He didn’t know because his sleeping quarters were a windowless shack built atop the slum tenement he lived in with his mother, siblings and a dozen-odd other families. He didn’t care because he had nothing to do, no labour to occupy the morning, no toil to carry him through until evening. So far as the world was concerned, he could have gone on sleeping until nightfall. Could well have never woken up.
The shack had been a pigeon coop. When he’d assumed residence in the spring, Thistle had spent three solid days – perhaps the only three days of work he’d put in over the sixteen years he’d drawn breath – removing the cages and various bric-a-brac, washing the floors over and over and over again. It hadn’t done much good. He could still smell them, the dander from their wings, the thick white goo of their shit. Thistle hated birds. He hated a lot of things, but he particularly hated birds.
Still, it was better than his mother’s apartment, two rooms separated by a wall the width of his little finger, four children packed into the front, his mother and little Apple in the back. The coop was his at least, and there wasn’t much else in the world he could lay sole claim to. In a few months it would be too cold to sleep there and he’d be back sharing a pallet on the floor. Best enjoy it while he could.
Thistle stretched, yawned, pulled himself up and out into the early-afternoon sun. He took a long piss off the side of the building, watched the stream of urine fall against the alleyway below. This time of day there was little chance of watering a passer-by, though Thistle held out hope.
He was about average height for a youth from the lowest stretches of the Roost, which would have made him short almost anywhere else on the continent. His face was coarse, his mouth brutish. The last year he’d grown a patchy bush of black hair thick around his neck and above his lip but sparse everywhere else, peach-fuzz unsure if it was ever to become a beard. He’d been an ugly child, become an ugly youth, and in all likelihood would end up an ugly man. His one distinguishing feature was his eyes, which were so dark a brown you could be forgiven for mistaking them as black. If you passed him you’d walk faster, and maybe take a quick backwards look once you were safely past.
Thistle lived in the Barrow, far down on the Fifth Rung, a short walk upslope from the docks. His building was the tallest in the neighbourhood, five storeys in crumbling red brick. To the east could be seen one of the great pumps leeching water from the bay and sending it on its long journey skyward. Of course it could be heard wherever you were , an unpleasant slurping sound like an old man farting. Didn’t smell
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