The Observatory of Shelaë-Tien might not literally be the greatest achievement of modern necromancy, but it certainly ranked high on Ellep's list. She would know, she worked there.

Every day she left her cozy little home on the surface and climbed into her palanquin. Most surface citizens aspired to greater heights. "The Council is developing industry further down to hoard all the sunlight," they'd say. Despite her loyalty to the Council, she sometimes wondered if there wasn't some truth to it. In any case, Ellep enjoyed seeing the imprint of history on the architecture, and so the ride down was a pleasant one for her.

She could imagine herself guiding a noble from the distant principalities she studied in the Observatory through the labyrinthine layers of the City:

"The streets of the surface are permanently bathed in daylight, and no matter where you stand, you can see the sky reflected in a mirror, for the comfort of the citizens."

"But why should the Council accommodate the wishes of the citizens?" would ask the woman in jewelry - they wore jewelry as a sign of social status, the more the better. "The Councilors already live in the highest towers, with perfect access to sunlight and fresh air. Do they go down so often that it benefits them as well?"

For this metic aristocrat, the idea of a just society based on unity of purpose and rights would be utterly unthinkable. Even after years of observation, Ellep was still sometimes surprised by their alien perspective.

While the risen heaved and pulled on the elevator’s pulley, she would gesture eloquently at the murals depicting the Council that adorned every public infrastructure in recognition of their benevolent oversight, and she would speak in conspiratorial hushed tones to recount the descent of Sheléaque.

And the foreigner would interject: "How quaintly familiar! We too celebrate our heroes, with statues and paintings!”

Patiently, in the gruff tone of those old scholars who are allowed to instruct the nobility, Ellep would point out that the Council seeks to instruct the citizens for their own benefit, and that personality cults are a plague that undermines any civilized society, and the foreigner would be so stunned! After a period of shock, she would foolishly assume that it must be the grace of a "god" that allowed such perfect social cohesion, and Ellep would only smile graciously in response, so as not to offend the foreigner's sensibilities.

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

The City had no need of superstitions, for the citizens shared a singular purpose in their work. No matter the growing rumors of dissent or the rarefaction of light, it was as the Council said: the City was Eternal. Shelaë-Tien would endure, prevail, and ultimately conquer all.

And in her own little way, Ellep participated in that great project when she worked at the Observatory.

The elevator came to a halt and her servants lit up torches before moving into the high city. To her imaginary guest, the crowded tunnels would be hard to bear; noblewomen became ill in the presence of too many people, and would easily faint even outside - though it was a point of debate among scholars whether their biology was unnaturally reversed in this way, since nobles preferred to stay indoors when sick, although they still enjoyed the elevation of a tall building.

Metic anatomy aside, it made no doubt that a foreigner would not find the high city comfortable. It had grown like a lich’s lair, from a hardened nucleus into a writhing hive: it was the original site of the City’s foundation, when the ground still obeyed Sheléaque’s word and His faithful had sought refuge underground from Tinnia’s decadence; but in the radiance of their glory, the citizens had quickly relocated on the surface as their influence began to spread outward in all directions. From hastily dug rooms where risen craftsmen could feed the surface’s appetites, the high city had grown and grown as the City expanded on the surface and brought back armies of slaves from the colonies.

This organic, unplanned growth and the dearth of living presence had made lightwells unnecessary on this level and only very few remained that once connected to the original settlement. The walls were rough and unadorned since no child would run their hand along them nor gaze at their lack of murals. The ground was uneven, smoothed by the tireless tread of the undead. And it was in the high city that the Council had decided to build the Observatory as the nec plus ultra of espionage technology.

It was understandable, even necessary, when you understood the big picture: the surface could not grow horizontally indefinitely. The walls, the farms and the upper quarters put hard limits on how much space could be allocated to the citizens’ welfare from above, so the only solution was to expand downward. And if you moved the citizens down, you had to move the industry down with them. In all likelihood the Council was preparing to repurpose the whole high city, and the businesses of the high city would be moved to the low city, and the businesses of the low city would, well, they knew what they were doing.

As she pondered, her palanquin had moved from rough tunnels to cobbled corridors, walking in a gradually sparser stream of risen until she reached an imposing building with the faces of Councillors carved into its walls. From within the torch-lit rooms, she could hear the soft gurgle of the Palhéda which flowed through the walls to carry water and necessities. She took a deep breath of the fresh air ventilated from the surface to clear her mind of the heavy smell of decay in the high city. No matter how hospitable the Council wanted the level to be, there was still a long way to go, and she was glad to be back in civilized society.

She ordered her undead carriers to carry her into the Observatory.