Knaves Over Queens

by George R. R. Martin

  Not on the list. He gave a slight nod to the man, got up, relieved, and turned to find Bird in the doorway. She was covered in gore, nearly all red save for the gleam of eyes and teeth. The chainsaw growled idly at her side. ‘What you got there, Green?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s time to go.’

  She took a step towards him. ‘You’re hiding something.’

  He raised his arm and grabbed the edge of the doorframe, blocking her entry. ‘We’ve got our five, and the police will be here any minute. Let’s go.’

  ‘Five is good, six is even better.’

  ‘That’s …’ he paused. She was being so ridiculous he barely knew where to start. If there was one thing Roger hated more than anything else in the world, it was arguing with stupid people. ‘Look, we had files on the others, we knew the kind of people they were. Killing indiscriminately is another matter entirely.’

  ‘He’s a nat. What more do I need to know?’ She put a hand on his chest. ‘Now get out of my way.’

  He tried to think of some way to dissuade her. Clearly there was no rationality or honour to appeal to. ‘Wait. If you let him live, he’ll spread the word of what happened here. A living witness will do so much more to put fear of the Twisted Fists into the minds of the people.’

  Bird’s face screwed up as she thought about it. ‘Maybe. I’m still gonna kill him, though.’

  ‘But why?’ he asked as she pushed at him.

  ‘Insurance. One day, this little fucker is going to come after us. Revenge. Can’t do that if he’s dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Bird, but I will not let you do this. It’s not right.’

  ‘Blister’s the boss, not you.’ She raised the chainsaw. ‘Last chance. If I can’t go past, I’m going through.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. You’d attack a fellow joker simply to satisf—’

  The chainsaw came down, biting deep into his arm just above the biceps. Since the virus, pain had barely been able to touch Roger. When someone struck him, he was aware of it, but only distantly, as if muted. This was different.

  Agony rooted him to the spot. His jaws clacked together, his body shook, his eyes fixed on the spray of woodchips and the whirring teeth of the chainsaw as it worked its way through his arm.

  No blood leaked from the wound, just a thick sap, dark as the feelings slowly welling inside.

  There was a soft thud as his arm landed on the carpet.

  Bird nodded to herself and stepped through the cloud of sawdust towards the whimpering figure under the bed. It was her nonchalance that finally broke Roger. If she’d seemed exultant or appalled he might not have acted, but the fact that he had been maimed and it meant nothing … that his life meant nothing … was too much to bear.

  He caught the collar of her jacket as she passed him and flung her back onto the landing.

  Bird flew. Not like a bird, but like a stone cast from a sling. She sailed the length of the space and slammed into the opposite wall, denting it, nearly passing through to the other side. One part of Roger was shocked by his own strength while another was struck by the cheap building practices.

  ‘Okay,’ said Bird, spitting bits of plasterboard as she hauled herself out of the wall, ‘now it’s on.’ There was an awkwardness to her movement – he’d obviously done some damage – but she came on nonetheless, chainsaw buzzing and ready.

  Roger ran to meet her. He was stronger, much stronger. He might only have one arm, but that was more than enough to deal with the likes of her.

  Bird waited for him to get in range, then swung the chainsaw in a wide arc. Roger jumped back but was unable to stop it cutting through his clothes and scoring a line across his chest. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so in control. The anger that had powered him stuttered and began to teeter on the edge of becoming fear.

  Bird grinned and pushed forward, jabbing at him with the chainsaw. Her mutated arm was long, giving her a much better reach. He couldn’t get to her without putting himself at the mercy of her weapon.

  He continued to retreat as she advanced, until he was backing into the bedroom where the fight had started. His foot stepped on something uneven and the next thing he knew, Roger was on his back, Bird far too close for comfort.

  He’d managed to scrabble onto his knees before he realized she hadn’t actually attacked him. Though he couldn’t hear her very well over the noise, a single look confirmed the reason why. She was laughing.

  ‘You fell over your own arm! Ha ha! If you could see yourself! Oh God, it’s too much!’ she declared, then threw back her head to laugh some more.

  She was right. He had tripped over it. The anger returned but cold this time. He knew exactly what he was going to do, even as he started to act. He took his severed arm by the wrist and lifted it. The joints had become solid. Not a living thing any more, he thought. Just a lump of wood.

  Bird was still laughing as he stood up but she stopped when she saw the look in his eye. He swung his severed arm like a club. Bird managed to get the chainsaw in the way but it didn’t matter, the force was enough to send her staggering.

  He went after her, bringing the arm down again, and again, tireless, furious. She kept the chainsaw up, shielding herself as she tried to find her feet and recover. Roger didn’t give her the chance, hammering her with relentless power.

  At some point, he caught her on the elbow, shattering it, and the chainsaw swung down, taking a chunk out of her thigh. Bird fell, screaming.

  Roger kept going.

  The chainsaw stopped.

  He brought his limb down directly on her unprotected skull.

  There was a horrible crunching noise.

  Bird stopped.

  Roger kept going.

  By the time his cold rage had passed, there was little left to recognize.

  The sound of sirens brought him to his senses. It was time to go. With an arm still dangling from his hand, Roger rushed out of the house and into the waiting van across the road.

  Blister slammed the door shut behind him and the van pulled away into the night.

  Roger slumped at the back. He wasn’t sure how he was going to explain what had happened and survive, but he knew that he should say something. But what? However he dressed things up, the bottom line was that he’d fought a member of the Fists to save a nat. They’d kill him for sure.

  A glance at Blister did little to reassure him. Normally the man seemed open, but something had changed in his demeanour. It was as if he already knew. Roger wanted to ask what was going to happen but no words came, and the silence stretched to the point where it became unsafe, tense.

  It stayed like that for a long time.

  The cellar was small but secure, with two chairs and a working sink. It bothered Roger that the chairs didn’t match, just as it bothered him that the mop and bucket they used for cleaning down here were perpetually filthy. Why bother trying to clean at all if you’re just swapping new muck for old?

  The stump of his right arm was tingling in an odd way and he had a strong urge to be outside in the fresh air. However, in his current predicament, what he wanted was less than relevant.

  Blister followed him into the room, closing the door and gesturing for Roger to sit. He did so and tried not to stare as the joker lurched awkwardly across the room.

  After some careful positioning, Blister settled his lumpy form and regarded Roger in a manner several degrees from warm.

  ‘I imagine you’d like to know what happened.’

  Blister shook his head. ‘I already know what happened. You and Bird took out the targets, then you took out Bird. What I want to know is why?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll explain. Although the truth is this really isn’t about Bird.’

  ‘Come again?’

  Despite himself, Roger frowned at the use of language. ‘What I mean is, this is about the Twisted Fists. What they stand for and what they hope to achieve. If you’ll indulge me, I’d like to talk a little about Mrs Thatcher.’

  Whatever Blister had been expect
ing him to say, it clearly wasn’t this. ‘If you think it might save your life, go ahead.’

  Roger swallowed. ‘I’m certainly hoping it will, though I rather fear you’re not going to like it, as it will involve my being somewhat critical of you.’

  ‘Of me?’

  ‘Well, not you personally, rather the Twisted Fists and the way they’re run.’

  The bandages around Blister’s mouth rippled as he barked out a laugh. ‘You’re going to justify Bird’s murder by criticizing the Black Dog?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes. Should I begin?’

  ‘Why not? It’s your funeral, Green Man.’

  ‘When Mrs Thatcher went up against the miners two years ago, there was a lot of talk about right and wrong, and what was best for the country, but none of these things mattered in terms of why she was able to defeat them. People often think it’s about ethics but it isn’t. They get added later, once the fighting is over.

  ‘The conflict between the government and the miners’ unions was a war on two fronts. She knew a fight was coming and she was prepared for it. In the past, the miners’ unions had been able to hold the country to ransom, but this time Mrs Thatcher had stockpiled enough coal to enable us to last well beyond any strike the miners could manage. In effect, she pulled their teeth before the fight began.

  ‘One battle took place on a practical level – their ability to damage the economy versus hers to endure – but the real war was one of perception. You see, the miners were sympathetic figures. Closing a pit also meant breaking a community. They were victims, hard-working people that were easy to empathize with, but she managed to turn them into law-breakers, invalidating their moral position.

  ‘As I hope I’ve made clear, there was never any danger of the strike itself defeating her, but if the public had sided with the miners, Mrs Thatcher would have had no choice but to make concessions.’

  Blister waved a hand. ‘There a point to all this?’

  ‘Yes. The miners lost not because they were wrong but because they were outmanoeuvred.

  ‘In many ways our predicament is even worse than that of the miners. Jokers are easy targets for the press, and we have no representatives at a higher political level. No one to speak in our defence. It doesn’t matter that terrible things happen to jokers because nobody cares, at least nobody with the power to make a difference.

  ‘For that to change, the Twisted Fists need to change.’

  ‘Are we at the point where all this relates to Bird yet?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Well, that’s fairly simple. We’d killed our five and Bird wanted to kill another. The rule is five for one, not six for one. I tried to stop her and she,’ he glanced at his stump, ‘attacked me. I killed her to protect myself and the honour of the Fists.’

  ‘You chose a nat over one of us. That goes against everything we stand for.’

  ‘With all due respect, you’re wrong.’ Blister’s eyes narrowed as Roger continued. ‘The point of the Twisted Fists is to put people like us on equal footing with everyone else, to make clear that our lives matter too. It is not to prove that jokers are superior to nats. And can I say I dislike the terminology as it’s really quite loaded.’

  ‘You chose to kill Bird rather than let her kill the nat. You gave his life more value than hers.’

  Roger raised a finger. He didn’t mean to but the argument was animating him now. ‘The only thing that elevates us from being the worst kind of criminals is honour. The only thing. If we lose it, we lose everything. Don’t you understand? If we are known to play by certain rules then people can deal with us. If we have a code, if we really stand for something, then we have to abide by its rules.

  ‘And yes, I did give his life more value than hers, but I would have done that regardless of any virus. She was a foul-mouthed sociopath.’

  ‘She was one of our best agents.’

  ‘Then you and Black Dog need to be more discerning about whom you recruit. I’d rather be alone than have her at my back.’

  Blister reclined in his chair and looked at the floor. He seemed sad, though it was hard to tell if this was because of the state of the Twisted Fists or that he was about to have Roger put down.

  Roger wondered if he should say something more or if he had already said too much. At least if he died, Churchill would tell Wendy and his children that he wasn’t a traitor to his country. That seemed like small consolation.

  The chair scraped loudly as Blister pushed it back. ‘Stay here,’ he said, and walked out of the room.

  Roger breathed out a long sigh. Had that gone well? As he reviewed the discussion in his mind he managed alternately to convince himself that he would be all right, that it had been a disaster and he was about to be executed, that Blister hadn’t made up his mind yet, and that he’d made no sense at all.

  How had it come to this? He knew the steps leading to this point, could follow the logic that linked them, and yet when he tried to put it all together, he couldn’t quite believe it. ‘Absurd,’ he murmured.

  The door opened behind him, and Roger instinctively straightened, as if some fine-tuned sense could detect authority even before it had entered the room.

  ‘I hear you have a problem with me.’

  The voice was deep, a rich blend of accents, the kind that resonated in the gut as much as the ear. Roger would have sold several members of his family and all of his in-laws to have one like it.

  The owner of the voice swept past him in a swish of black robes. He was tall too, and powerfully built, plunging Roger into a bottomless lake of inadequacy. Something wasn’t right about the face. Rather than being concealed by the hood, part of it protruded, the muzzle and teeth of a snarling dog. A black dog.

  It was then Roger understood just how bad his situation was. He’d finally managed to meet with Black Dog, but in the worst way imaginable. As the initial shock subsided, he realized that it wasn’t Black Dog’s face he was looking at, but a mask. Combined with the robes, it created a grotesque kind of theatre that should have been laughable but absolutely wasn’t. The man was terrifying and all he was doing was standing there.

  Roger had imagined this moment many times. Because he’d never been sure of exactly when he’d get to meet Black Dog, he’d prepared three different core speeches with a number of movable points that could be bolted on where appropriate. Hours had been spent in their creation and, privately, Roger was rather proud of them.

  Could he remember a single bloody word of them now?

  No, he bloody well couldn’t.

  ‘Is the problem me?’ asked Black Dog. ‘Or is it you?’

  Was that a reference to what had happened with Bird or was it deeper? Did he know that Roger was a spy? If that was the case he was about to be tortured, and if there was one thing Roger was more certain of than anything else, it was that he could not bear being tortured.

  The words came out of his mouth before he’d had time to consider them. ‘You’re too reactive.’

  Black Dog folded his arms.

  ‘Killing five for one is simple and powerful, but what does it achieve in the long run?’

  ‘It makes people think twice before killing our kind.’

  Roger had to fight the urge to nod in agreement. The man was a natural leader, who dominated the room just as Churchill did. It was not just that Roger wanted to win him over, he wanted to impress him as well. Nevertheless he made himself say: ‘And then what?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Even if the Twisted Fists succeeded, and no more jokers were killed, we are still unemployable in all but the worst of jobs, we have no representatives in Parliament, no support in the press. In fact we play directly into their narrative of being monsters.’

  ‘We’re only as monstrous as they make us.’

  ‘My point is that we’re not aiming high enough.’

  ‘Go on.’

  This time it was Roger who paused. He certainly had ideas of how to make the Fists evolve. It was impossible to be i
n an organization and not see the flaws. But his mission was to take the Fists down, not make them more effective. Still, he couldn’t complete his mission if he was dead, and the desire to prove himself to the Black Dog remained there, physical, like a hand at his back.

  ‘It will be a long time before one of us gets elected. If we want to make change now, we need allies. Normal allies. Preferably ones with pull in their communities or with a platform to speak from. The Fists have funding, I know that much. There are a lot of poor and hungry people we could help. The kind being neglected by the government, like us. They’re desperate and we can save them. People always remember who picked them out of the gutter. They’re natural allies and they can vote. We have to stop this being about jokers and nats, them and us.

  ‘If the Fists can become champions of the dispossessed, we can change the way we’re perceived. We can be Robin Hoods rather than Sweeney Todds. I happen to know some rather troublesome journalists who love this sort of thing.

  ‘As to sympathetic politicians with power, that’s more difficult. However, I do know a few rumoured to be up to no good. If we could have them followed, perhaps find some evidence, I’m sure they’d listen to our needs with fresh ears.’

  Black Dog nodded, the action exaggerated by the movement of his snout. ‘You like to talk. Me, I like to see things done.’ From the sleeve of his robes he produced a traditional Green Man face. It was intricately made, with carved leaves framing the eyes, nose, and mouth, before flowing down into a long beard. He placed it in Roger’s hands.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s your mask. From now on, this is who you are. This is who the authorities will hunt. When you need to go in public unseen, take it off.’

  Roger knocked on his cheek. ‘I’m sorry, but have you seen my face?’

  ‘Cover it with make-up or prosthetics when you need anonymity. Find a way. You need to become something bigger if you are going to lead this branch of the Fists.’