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The Grand Dark
Richard Kadrey
‘The Great War was over, but everyone knew another war was coming and it drove the city a little mad.’A new fantasy world from the bestselling author of SANDMAN SLIM.
Copyright (#uee51e213-a568-55fa-9da5-f2b2cdc5d29f)
HarperVoyager
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2019
Copyright © Richard Kadrey 2019
Cover design by Jeanne Reina © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover illustration © Will Staehle and Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)
Richard Kadrey asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008288853
Ebook Edition © May 2019 ISBN: 9780008288860
Version: 2019-05-17
Dedication (#uee51e213-a568-55fa-9da5-f2b2cdc5d29f)
To Drexel and Conan,
both of whom should have been
around a lot longer
Epigraph (#uee51e213-a568-55fa-9da5-f2b2cdc5d29f)
There were a few short, wonderful years of euphoria when the slaughter was over. Of course, nothing had been settled and we knew it but, in its own way, watching the cataclysm hurtle toward us made the madness of the wild time even sweeter.
—Günther Harden, Cocaine and Bullets: My Lost Years
CONTENTS
COVER (#ue5e5e7ab-3d5f-5529-a2f8-a880c08fa6e0)
TITLE PAGE (#u0b88d854-8b37-5942-aa69-e2ff7acbd5a7)
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
EPIGRAPH (#u8f387c41-c88a-5917-88c2-3778115d5a1d)
MAP
CHAPTER ONE
THE CITY. THE AIR.
CHAPTER TWO
THE SECRET FETE
CHAPTER THREE
A CURSED PLACE
CHAPTER FOUR
ABOVE THE CITY
CHAPTER FIVE
HINTERLAND
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE REFUGEE ROAD
CHAPTER EIGHT
EUGENICS
CHAPTER NINE
SERVANTS AND WARRIORS
CHAPTER TEN
AT THE STREET MARKET BY THE CROSSROADS
CHAPTER ELEVEN
XUXU: ARTISTIC MOVEMENT OR ACADEMIC PRANK?
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE WALKING WOUNDED
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE WONDERS OF THE SOUTH
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE SHAPE OF THE WORLD
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE CORRUPTER OF INNOCENCE, ACT 1
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
FOOTNOTES
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY RICHARD KADREY
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Map (#uee51e213-a568-55fa-9da5-f2b2cdc5d29f)
CHAPTER ONE (#uee51e213-a568-55fa-9da5-f2b2cdc5d29f)
The great war was over, but everyone knew another war was coming and it drove the city a little mad.
Near dawn, Largo Moorden pedaled his bicycle through the nearly deserted streets of Lower Proszawa. It was exactly one week since his twenty-first birthday. Fog from the nearby bay and smoke from the armaments factory left the center of the city looking like a flat, ashen mirage. As Largo sped over the Ore Bridge, the edges of Gothic office buildings, dwellings, and cafés coalesced into view. Streetcars gliding atop silent magnetic tracks in the street and above, old church spires—shadowy outlines a second before—solidified and were gone.
At the bottom of the bridge, where Krähe Vale crossed Tombstrasse, a line of Blind Mara delivery automata sat waiting for the crossing signal to change. Some of the larger contraptions—the Black Widows carrying machine parts for the factory—resembled wrought iron spiders the size of pushcarts, while the little tea and breakfast Maras were wooden bread boxes decorated with wings and carvings of flying women. Largo was tempted to veer into the line of machines and kick over one or two of the smaller ones. He knew that someday soon the Maras were going to put human couriers like him out of business. Each time he thought about it, a little wave of panic bubbled up from his stomach because, aside from a strong set of legs, the only things Largo possessed that were worth money were his bicycle and an encyclopedic knowledge of every street and alley in the city.
To Largo’s surprise, while the crossing signal still read HALT, one of the little winged bread boxes crept past the other Maras and whirred quietly across Krähe Vale. With a mechanical rumble, a squat, armored juggernaut carrying soldiers sped around a corner and crushed the bread box under its metal treads without slowing. All that was left of the little carrier were a small motor sputtering blue sparks, splinters, and a flattened sandwich. Largo hadn’t eaten for a day and the sight of food made him hungry. Still, he smiled. Indeed, the Blind Maras would put him out of business one day, but not today, and not for many days to come. When the signal clicked to PROCEED he guided his bicycle through the remains left in the intersection as the rest of the automata split up, carrying their goods all over Lower Proszawa.
The clock over the Great Triumphal Square—renamed, perhaps a touch optimistically, after the war—showed that it was just a few minutes before six. Largo had spent far too long in bed that morning with Remy, his lover, but it was so hard to leave her. He bent over his handlebars, pedaling faster, knowing all too well that being late at the beginning of the work week was a good way to have Herr Branca snapping at you until Friday. Worse, it could result in a humiliating dismissal.
The edges of the plaza were coming to life. Bakers laid out loaves and pies in the windows of their shops. The newspaper kiosk attendant by the underground tram station cut open piles of tabloid yellowsheets full of political intrigue and reports of the previous night’s murders. All-night revelers wandered through the square, still jubilantly drunk from the evening before. Along the gutters, purring piglike chimeras cleared the street trash by devouring it.
Beyond the edges of the plaza, prostitutes flirted with men in strange masks made of steel and leather—Iron Dandies, they were called, but never where they could hear it. They were war veterans considered too disfigured to be glimpsed by the city’s ordinary citizens—Largo among them. He’d heard that if you stared too long at a Dandy he’d rip his mask off, giving you a good look at his mutilated face. Seeing a Dandy that way was considered bad luck.
Bad luck or no, the truth was that Largo didn’t want to see what was under the masks or think about how the wounds, or the war itself, had happened. He just put his head down, pedaled harder, and arrived panting at the courier service as the plaza clock rang six.
Dropping his bicycle next to those of the other couriers, Largo ran up the stairs to the office and made it inside before the head dispatcher, Herr Branca, noticed his tardiness. He lingered at the back behind the other messengers so that his supervisor wouldn’t see him sweating.
Herr Branca was a burly man, one of the strange sort who seemed to have been born old. None of the couriers knew his age, but depending on the season and whether he’d shaved or not, they guessed it to be anywhere from thirty to sixty. He wore the same thing every day: pinstriped pants, matching vest, and a white shirt with an old-fashioned starched collar that he left open except when visiting their superiors. The bottom button on his vest was always missing. This could mean only one of two things: that Herr Branca was an eccentric who cut the bottom button off all of his vests, or that a second vest was beyond his means. No one at the service took Branca for an eccentric, so that had to mean their supervisor was so poorly paid that his choice in clothes was no better than the couriers’. This possibility always depressed Largo. He liked being a courier, but if Herr Branca was his future, perhaps it was time to make other plans.
But what?
Different futures weren’t easy to come by in Lower Proszawa.
As he did every morning, Branca leaned heavily on a standing desk, shouting names and the addresses where couriers were to go while old, battered Maras handed them whatever documents or parcels they were to deliver.
When Branca had called most of the morning’s deliveries and the room was nearly empty, Parvulesco, Largo’s closest friend at the service, gave him a worried look as he carried a parcel out the door. Largo shrugged. Maybe Branca had seen him come in late and was keeping him back for a good talking-to. There was nothing to do but wait and endure whatever was coming. Parvulesco mouthed, Good luck, before heading out.
Soon, everyone else had been given an assignment and it was just Largo and Herr Branca. The supervisor didn’t look up for two or three minutes as he took his time filling out a small pile of paperwork. As the seconds ticked by, Largo imagined all sorts of scenarios. A simple dressing-down. Having his pay docked. Maybe he’d even be fired. He stood still, hoping to not draw attention to himself, but after a couple more minutes passed he couldn’t stand it anymore. He cleared his throat.
“Do you have a cold, Largo?” said Herr Branca. “If so, kindly keep your distance, as it would be inconvenient for me to be ill at this time.” He spoke quietly. Branca always spoke quietly, no matter the topic or circumstances. The couriers joked that if he were an executioner, you’d never know he was there until your head was on the ground.
“No, sir. It’s nothing like that. I was just wondering if …”
“If I noticed you come in late, then hide in the back like a cockroach from the light?”
“Yes,” Largo said. “Something like that.”
Herr Branca looked up wearily. “Rest easy, Largo. While you were tardy and more than a bit insectile in your earlier behavior, you’re not going to be fired.
“In fact, you’re being promoted.”
