The Composer of Screams

  Domina City

  Book 2

  The Composer of Screams

  By Matthew McCollum

  Cover by Natalia Junqueira (https://reedsy.com/natalia-junqueira)

  Copyright © 2020 by Matthew McCollum, all rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Acknowledgments

  This book is dedicated to my parents, my family, and my friends, for far too many reads and re-reads and re-re-reads.

  I am especially thankful to everyone who has read the previous versions of this book, in its painfully unfinished forms published on various sites over the years.

  Chapter 1: PIRATICA

  ARTEMIS

  Artemis pinched the bridge of his nose. “Give it to me straight, Mary.”

  The speakers hissed with static as she sighed. “I think you already know what's coming. I've been fending off a lot more hacks on our servers, specifically the public information sites.”

  “The changelings are lashing out over the boy's death.”

  “Yes sir. They blame us. They say we should have kept a better watch on him.”

  Artemis closed his eyes. “At least it's still limited to the digital plane at the moment.”

  “Ah... well...”

  He rubbed his forehead. “I don't have time to beat around the bush. What is it?”

  “Well, you see...”

  She usually wasn't this nervous when she had bad news. She was either pranking him, or it was really bad.

  “Mary Christina,” he said firmly. “I need to know what's going on. What's the problem?”

  “Okay... well, first and foremost, the Sky-Borne Lords aren't the only ones attacking us. Most of the Black Hats are joining in.”

  Changelings liked hacking. It was one of the areas they were level with everyone else, since they didn't use toys. Most of the clans could be sorted into Black Hats, who attacked enemies, and the White Hats, who defended allies. The Grey Hats switched between them, as one might expect.

  This wasn't the first time Necessarius had come under attack. It wouldn't be the last, either.

  “We can weather this,” Artemis said. “As long as they aren't shooting at us, my men have strict orders to return the favor.”

  “I'm well aware. The problem is that the White Hats are defending us.”

  That gave Artemis pause. The changelings never fought each other. Ever. To break that treaty would be...

  “I need a full list of who's aligned where.”

  “The Sky-Borne Lords are against us,” she said promptly. “Obviously. As are the Ever-Deep Waves and the Forgotten Names. The Blood-Doused Hunters, the Never-Known Thieves, and the Many-Faced Strangers are with us. Everyone else is begging for truce.”

  “Good,” Artemis said, and meant it. There were thirty changeling clans. If only six of them were involved, they definitely still had a chance to make this end without bloodshed. “Call up... Feless. Of the Firstborn. He'll have a grip on the situation, I'm sure.”

  “Of course, sir, I'll—oh.” She stopped as something surprised her. “It seems like he's already downstairs.”

  Artemis blinked. “Really? Alone?”

  “No... Heresh'ni, Difnaal, and Jereneg are there too, plus their bodyguards. They're asking to be let up.”

  “The Velvet Orchids, the Elder Lights, and the Darkened Signs... that's all of the Grey Hats, right?”

  “Including the Firstborn, yes, it is.”

  Artemis nodded. “I'll go talk to them.” He grabbed his cane and rose from his chair slowly. “Call down to our more important servers. Order them to be on high alert.”

  “You're worried they're going to try and use the distraction to slip in a commando?”

  He snorted. “I know they will. Whether they're actually against us is irrelevant; having a bug in our system would be invaluable for anyone, even allies.”

  “Fair enough. Eyes open, then.”

  The four leaders of the changeling clans were waiting for Artemis a short elevator ride downstairs, in the lobby of the first floor. His guards at the door looked nervous, but were well-trained, and knew better than to point their guns at visiting dignitaries. By pure dumb luck, the current shift were all completely baseline. Thank God for that.

  Feless of the Firstborn was the one Butler saw first, standing a little bit away from the others and waiting to receive him, arms crossed and an angry scowl on his face. Feless was of a medium build, with soft, Asian features—Korean, perhaps—and a Caucasian skin tone. He had sharp black eyes that missed nothing, and a well-trimmed head of golden hair. The hair was almost certainly not his natural color, but that's what his genes said it was, so that was how he kept it.

  The only female of the quartet, Heresh'ni of the Velvet Orchids, had taken a different route. She was likewise dark-skinned—in her case, probably Indian—but with a shaved head to hide her crimson curls.

  Despite Feless being closest, Heresh'ni was the one who spoke first. “Butler. Finally. This situation is getting out of hand.”

  “My men have yet to perform any acts of aggression,” he said, resting heavily with both hands gripping the head of his cane.

  “We are not claiming otherwise,” Feless said, stepping in smoothly. As the leader of the Firstborn, Feless was one of the very first changelings, along with Eccretia of the Never-Known Thieves and Meldiniktine of the Forgotten Names. He often acted as a mediator. “Heresh'ni was simply looking forward to resolving this as quickly and painlessly as possible.”

  Difnaal of the Elder Lights, a middle-aged man with white skin, matching hair, and bright green eyes, nodded. While he wasn't an albino like Artemis—he had white hair, not colorless hair—he was often mistaken for one. “This is all a terrible mistake, which must be rectified as soon as possible.”

  “Unfortunately, those involved in the fighting are not listening to us,” Jereneg of the Darkened Signs said. “So we'll need something else.”

  Jereneg was shorter than the others, though not by too much. Among the other three, his most outstanding feature was that he didn't have any outstanding features. He had a light complexion, brown eyes, and brown hair. No one would ever assume he was anything other than a normal baseline.

  Artemis sighed again. “What, exactly, do you all propose? I know changeling law. You must have retribution. If this were any other situation, I would have already granted it. But I can't allow you to tackle the Composer at this point. You will endanger the entire plan.”

  “You haven't bothered to explain this plan of yours,” Heresh'ni said. “Obviously, it involves not spooking the Composer. But if you give us more detail, perhaps we can adapt to each other.”

  “Just... just come upstairs.” Artemis turned back to the elevator. “I would prefer to have this conversation in private.” Besides, he needed to sit down.

  No one spoke until they were back in his office and everyone had found chairs. Artemis sank into his personal leather seat carefully, making special effort not to show any weakness before the changelings.

  “So,” Feless said. “What exactly is this plan of yours?”

  Artemis rubbed his forehead. “I don't have one.”

  Difnaal sputtered. “You have to have a plan. You're Artemis Butler. Gods of men and darkness, you couldn't possibly—”

  Artemis raised his hand, silencing
him. “Perhaps I should have worded that better. At our current intelligence level, we simply don't know enough to create any detailed plan with real strategies or tactics. Look what happened with the bleeders, and Loga'ha'shanar. Right now, our only option is to wait and see, to react to the Composer's attacks and try and create an accurate picture of his abilities and goals.”

  “You're flailing around in the dark,” Heresh'ni said.

  Artemis smiled a little. That wasn't far off.

  “Okay,” Feless said quietly. “Okay. We need to attack the Composer, you need us to not attack the Composer. We need to compromise, or we're at an impasse.”

  “Unless you are willing to send your troops to a false location—”

  “Certainly not,” Difnaal huffed.

  “Then yes, we have a problem. Anyone who raids the Composer's lair will be turned, I am quite sure of that. You do not want to throw away lives.” Artemis leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands. “So tell me, what do you propose?”

  “The only thing I can think of,” Heresh'ni said, “is to somehow scare off the Composer before we get there.” She shook her head. “But I can't imagine how we'd do that.”

  “And even if that plan did work, he'd leave behind enough traps to annihilate you and any evidence.” The changelings weren't used to tactics and strategies that didn't involve the digital plane, so they weren't offended by the reminder.

  “Perhaps a surprise attack with a much smaller force, to startle the enemy, would work better,” Jereneg said.

  “But if there are singers...” Difnaal started, but Artemis cut him off.

  “Mary Christina has managed to find a workaround for that. A set of headphones that filter out the singing. It's not fully tested, but it is far better than nothing.”

  Heresh'ni drummed her fingers on the armrest of her leather seat. “When can you get us a hundred sets or so?”

  “Immediately; we have them on hand.”

  “Then if we strike quickly enough, we might actually be able to do some real damage.”

  “Or at least force him to find a new hideout,” Jereneg said “A minor inconvenience, but a useful one. Someone might be able to track him as he's looking.”

  That was a possibility, though a bit unlikely. Asmodeus had been caught three times after Shendilavri before he finally managed to slip away for good, so the idea wasn't completely without precedence.

  But the whole situation still rubbed Artemis the wrong way. He hated politics, and having to deal with inflexible laws and customs was almost worse. The best thing they could do right now was wait and see. Forcing the Composer's hand could very likely lead them somewhere they did not want to be. Isaac had said that Laura had mentioned more than once she believed the Composer was holding back for some obscure purpose, and Artemis agreed with her assessment. The last thing they needed was to awaken the sleeping dragon.

  Artemis sighed.

  They had no other choice. The clans would revolt if they tried to hold them back.

  “Choose your soldiers,” Artemis told the changeling lords tiredly. “I want this over and done with by tomorrow night at the latest.”

  Because it was necessary.

  Chapter 2: PRAESIDIO

  MARIA

  TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS AGO

  Maria Pittaluga, daughter of Natale Pittaluga and Lelia Idoni, was an orphan. Both of her parents died ten years back, when she was starting middle school. She hadn't been too keen on the idea of school in the first place, and even less on a foster home, so she left. Through a series of hilarious misadventures which were not her fault, she ended up helping to build Domina City.

  That was three years ago, and she hadn't found reason to leave the island since. Victor—the cause of many of the aforementioned hilarious misadventures—and she had gotten a nice apartment in a skyscraper they had helped build, and things seemed to be going pretty well. Technically their terms had expired six months ago, but it was easier like this. They weren't rich or anything, sure, but they were surviving, and the city was getting better by the day.

  “I swear, the city is getting worse by the day,” Gloria Nervi muttered from her seat on the ground next to Maria.

  Maria had met Gloria on her third day in the city, when one of the guards tried to get Maria to translate for her. It turned out Gloria wasn't speaking Italian because she couldn't speak English, but just because she thought the guard was a dick and didn't want to deal with him. She still hadn't told Maria what her original crime was, but it couldn't be too bad. None of the prisoners had sentences worse than ten years.

  Maria patted her on the head affectionately. “C'mon Glory, it isn't that bad. At least the guards aren't screaming at us as much any more, right?”

  “Yeah, because they're dead or in hiding,” she snapped back with a scowl. “Christ, much as I hated those assholes, they were all that was keeping the city in one piece. You should be more worried. Without Eden—”

  “Bah. Details.”

  “Agh, you're hopeless. It's too nice a day to argue with you.”

  Maria would give her that, at least. It was September 8th, in the depths of a good autumn. The air was refreshingly cool, and filled with the smell of fall. Foot traffic was a little slow because it was a Sunday, which made our jobs that much easier.

  “I guess you're right,” Maria said, leaning back on her hands to look up in the sky.

  Gloria just rolled her eyes and pulled some kind of sandwich out of her lunch pail.

  Maria whistled. “That smells good. What kind of meat is it?”

  Gloria looked away, as though embarrassed. “It's... dog. One of the feral ones attacked me, and I fought back.”

  Seriously, this city was even turning her into a killer? “Silver moon and golden sun, Glory...”

  Gloria glared at her. “Oh, screw you. I did what I had to. At least I'm not eating goddamn people.” She shook her head and changed the subject. “And what is with that weird... thing you keep saying? What does it mean?”

  Maria shrugged. “It means that the moon is silver and the sun is gold. Does it have to have anything deeper than that?”

  She shook her head again. “Freak.”

  “Don't be cruel, Nervi,” old miss Ljunborg said gently from behind them. Maria turned to see her leaning against the door of the apartment complex they were sitting in front of. “I think their little quirk makes them cute.”

  “I didn't know you lived here,” Maria said happily. The old Swede had been sentenced over a few minor embezzlement charges, but everyone knew she had entire mountains of money her government hadn't been able to find. In Domina, she helped train people to handle finance—people including Maria.

  Of course, Maria had a tendency to fall asleep during her classes, but she still liked her as a person. It wasn't Ljunborg's fault her teachings clashed so much with Maria's skillset.

  Ljunborg smiled. “Just moved in a few days ago. Got transferred a little closer to the center of the city, so I realized I needed an apartment to match. What are you two doing?”

  “Lunch right now,” Gloria said around a mouthful of sandwich. “Obviously. But we're also helping to build that big storehouse over there.” She pointed at the skeleton of a building, rising on the other side of the intersection. “Mostly just organization and stuff while the boys move heavy things.”

  “Just organization and stuff?” Ljunborg said with a laugh. “That's management, dears. Most girls would kill for a job like that.”

  Maria shrugged. “It's small stuff. Directing traffic, double-checking to make sure we don't have one team digging ditches and another filling holes, that kind of thing. No actual decisions.”

  “Oh. Well, still. In my day, it was considered improper for women to be too close to physical labor. Count your blessings.”

  Gloria snorted in derision. “They still won't let me on guard duty.”

  Maria rolled her eyes. “That's what happens when you threaten to shoot them if you ever get your hands on a gun.
”

  “Hey, I was joking! Mostly.”

  “Well, you're the one always going on about tensions between the guards and the prisoners. You shouldn't rile them up.”

  “They started it.”

  Ljunborg kicked Gloria playfully in the side with a smile. “Someone always starts it. Just don't continue it.”

  “Words to live by if I ever heard them,” an unfamiliar male voice called out.

  Maria turned to see a tall, smiling Asian man a few feet away, his black hair tied up in a topknot. He wore a loose white t-shirt, jeans cut off to act as shorts, and steel-toed boots. His entire outfit was covered in dust and patches of grime, so he looked much the same as any other unskilled laborer running around the city.

  Except for the long Japanese-style sword belted to his side.

  “You have a sword!” Maria shrieked in delight, only refraining from bounding forward with an effort of will. “Where can I get a sword?”

  Gloria looked at him with narrowed eyes. “It's supposed to be impossible for prisoners to get weapons. Who'd you kill to get that?”

  The man just smiled. “No one. I brought it myself. I'm not a prisoner.”

  That made Maria do a double take. “Wait, you mean... you moved here? Voluntarily?”

  He nodded. “With my wife and daughter.”

  Ljunborg shook her head. “Why in God's name would you do that?”

  “I don't know, there wasn't any work on the mainland, and they had positions available for pretty much anything, so...”

  “That seems pretty stupid,” Gloria said. She had never been one for subtlety. “Your life back in Japan couldn't have been that bad.”

  “America, actually. Second-generation immigrant.” The swordsman shrugged. “And I'll admit it wasn't so bad, not really. But I just...” He looked behind him, at the skeletons of the new skyscrapers, stretching into the blue summer sky. “It just felt like I was needed more here.”

  “Oh! I understand that!” Maria cried. “The same thing happened with me and Victor!”