by Col Buchanan
Already Bull’s two companions were climbing up and out of the tree. The big man took a last glance back when Cole spoke aloud.
‘You run across that brother of mine, you go easy on him, you hear me?’
Bull nodded, and with a grunt heaved himself upwards. The women watched him go in silence.
Kes remained still in Nico’s arms, though she was blinking at him now.
How do I leave her now? he wondered. Lacking an answer, he bent forward to kiss her gently on her pouting lips.
‘I suppose we should be moving out too, then,’ said Shandras, without much conviction. The women muttered and started to rise. The baby was mewling softly.
Slowly he clambered free from Kes, then helped her to her feet. His father was watching them both from where he stood leaning on his upright rifle, and as Nico held the girl’s hands before him, he saw Cole release a heavy sigh and drop his head.
‘All right then,’ sighed Cole’s voice as he looked at them all. ‘I’ll help you as far as I can. That’s all.’
‘Father?’
‘You have two choices here,’ Cole declared to the women gathering around him in sudden hope. ‘You take your chances striking out for Husson alone, or you try reaching the city wall same way as Bull is trying. And I take you most of the way there.’
What’s this?
‘But you heard the man!’ called out Shandras. ‘He said he couldn’t take us with him.’
Cole shrugged with a tilt of his head.
‘Fellow didn’t say anything about following them.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Dreamer
What a luxury, to spend some time alone with her thoughts away from the bustle of the inkworks.
Shard the Dreamer sat in the wooden outhouse at the back of the building, where a field of trampled earth ran all the way down to the canal. In the cold night air she jiggled on the wooden rim of the privy for warmth, blowing hot breaths into the cups of her hands – still too weak even to ignite a simple heating glyph about her body.
I need to get out of here, came the cold clear words in her head. I need to get back to my home and my work at the Academy while I still can, before I end up buried by this war.
She was tired of this war already. Tired of her weakened condition. Tired of risking her life every night trying to break through the Mannian’s blockade of the city’s farcrys. In her mind she pictured the slopes of the Painted Mountain overlooking the green island of Salina, and the bright buildings of the Academy perched on their terraces, where wisdom and art, curiosity and innovation, were entwined by an ethos of open learning for all. She wanted to be there more than anything else in the world.
Shard straightened with a start as the door banged closed in the neighbouring privy, separated from her own by thin lengths of driftwood. She saw a flicker of lantern light through the cracks. Heard a rustle of clothing and a woman sighing loudly from the other side of the wood.
A sob crept through the thin wood, followed by another.
She couldn’t stop herself as she leaned forward to peer between the ill-fitting planks. She saw a figure dressed in black leathers. A young woman with hair that was a wild vertical crest above her skull.
It was Curl, the medico apprentice who had accompanied them on their expedition into the Windrush forest to enlist the Contrarè.
The girl had arrived here a few hours earlier, accompanied by other surviving rangers of that expedition and replacements she did not know, claiming that Coya had offered them new quarters in the inkworks. Weary and cold, they had made themselves at home even as the Rōshun grumbled from the far side of the room.
Shard liked the young woman. She recalled the intelligent curiosity she had expressed towards Shard’s craft during their travels. Her quiet strength, for all that there was something vulnerable about her too. And so it was awful to see her burying her face in her hands and crying into them, sobbing with shuddering breaths.
There were times in life when Shard felt truly at a loss as to what to do in the presence of other people’s emotions. Should she respect Curl’s privacy, or offer her support in some way?
She really didn’t know.
Just then the girl banged the wall with a fist and startled Shard back from the gap. But she was only venting her distress, for she banged it again and again, growling in frustration.
What has distressed you so? Shard wondered, and she reached out with her mind to sense the life-force pulsing around the young woman. In a surprising flash of intuition, she sensed the faint second life-force within her.
Curl was with child.
Air hooked in the back of Shard’s throat. No wonder the girl was so miserable. What a time to find yourself expecting a child.
The Dreamer blinked, surprised even more by the sight of Curl producing a leather bag from a deep pocket, dripping tears as she opened it upon her lap. A smaller bag of white cloth sat within it, next to a wooden pipe. Slowly, Curl peeled open the smaller bag like the petals of a flower to reveal a mound of white powder within, which she began to scoop into the pipe.
‘Oh my girl,’ Shard breathed aloud without thinking, and Curl twitched in shock and looked around to spot the eye watching her through the gap.
Instantly Shard sat back and held her breath, pretending she wasn’t there.
This is ridiculous, she considered, after a long moment’s silence.
‘Sorry,’ Shard ventured. ‘I heard someone crying. Are you all right?’
‘Shard?’
‘Yes. Guilty.’
A sniffle. More silence.
Really, what to say? What to do?
The girl was in need of help, and a hot flush of frustration overcame Shard’s inertia. It propelled her to her feet with sudden intent, so that she hitched up her trousers even as she opened the door with a kick of a boot, then stepped outside into the darkness.
With a tug she pulled the other door open, to reveal the startled features of the young medico. Curl’s mouth gaped open as a gust suddenly filled the space of the privy with the white powder that had been perched so delicately, so preciously, upon her lap.
‘That stuff will do your child harm in those doses. It’s really a very bad idea, you know.’
‘You bitch,’ Curl shuddered, staring down at the now-empty bag. The powder was sticking to her hair and her face so it resembled some kind of desperately applied make-up. ‘What would you know anyway?’ she asked between breaths.
‘About dross addiction? More than I ever wanted to.’
‘Addiction?’
‘Your hands are shaking. Dead give-away.’
Shard managed a smile and held out a friendly hand for the girl to take. ‘Come. I can help you. I can help you both.’
*
At the back of the inkworks, a set of wooden steps was fixed on the outside leading up to a door on the first floor. Holding hands, Shard led Curl up to the door and inside.
Back in her work room, her assistant Blame was nowhere to be seen. He’d left a kettle boiling on one of the little stove burners, and muttering through the clouds of steam Shard lifted it from the flames and put it to one side, wondering where he’d got to.
She set about preparing a special hot brew for the young woman. Hugging herself for warmth and comfort, Curl sniffed around the tables at the back of the room – an office, once upon a time – where most of Shard’s portable exotics were arrayed like the fleshy, pulsing, bleeding exhibits of a freak show. She recalled how fascinated Curl had been with the idea of the Black Dream. How her interest had longed to delve deeper.
‘How long have you known you were pregnant?’ Shard asked across the room.
‘I didn’t, not for certain.’
Curl was facing one of the sink tanks, puzzled by the snaps and splashes in the briny soup. ‘How could you tell?’
‘Call it a Dreamer’s intuition. Here,’ Shard said, bringing a steaming mug to her. ‘This will help with your dross cravings, a little.’
; The girl blew across the dark liquid for a moment, frowning, then tried a tentative sip. She gagged. ‘That’s really appalling.’
‘You intend to have this child?’
‘I – yes. Of course I do.’
‘Then you can’t take any more dross. I can give you a supply of this tea to help you with that.’
Suddenly a smattering of concussions caused the building to shudder on its foundations. Battles raging in the air.
‘I’m frightened,’ admitted Curl. Shard reached out to grasp her cold hand again, and to rub it soothingly.
‘The father,’ Shard tried. ‘Is he around? Can he help you?’
Her expression changed, as though she’d just swallowed something sour and unwanted. A stiff jerk of her head. A tear spilled clear.
‘I would not ask for his help. Not ever.’
‘Have you no one in the city?’
‘I did,’ she rasped, squeezing her eyes shut. ‘But they’re gone. Lost in the sky raids.’
‘Then you must come with me, when I finally leave this city.’
Curl sniffed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Come back to the Academy of Salina, and I’ll show you all the Black Dream you want to see. You can learn, and develop whatever talents you like, while you raise your child.’
‘Really?’ she croaked, and her tears were flowing freely now.
‘Really.’
‘But—’
‘Curl. It’s going to be all right, you hear me?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Diplomat
Ché was cursing to himself when he returned from the latrine escorted by a guard, and made his way back through the darkened inkworks towards the stairs, his skin red raw where the heavy manacles chaffed against it.
The damned cripple still refused to free him from the chains. Not yet, Coya had told him. Not until I’ve had the chance to question you more thoroughly. Not until you’ve proven you can be trusted.
And when would that be? Ché wondered grimly. How much more could he offer to prove his sincerity?
Lanterns glimmered at the far end of the inkworks where some of the Rōshun were hunkered down for the night. So far they had refused to speak to him, unhappy, it seemed, at whatever deal they had made with the cripple to not cause him harm. Besides, they appeared to be occupied with other things right then. Like squabbling with the new arrivals about keeping to their own space – these Volunteer rangers who had arrived earlier that day.
As Ché clanked and rattled towards the back stairs, a figure cleared his throat from the nearest shadows. A match flared, and Ché saw the face of Fanazda in the sudden flaring of light, staring at him with his black eyes as he lit a cheroot; just waiting there for him.
The veteran Rōshun said nothing for a moment, puffing away with an expression of sly humour.
Ché ignored the man and shuffled onwards.
At the back of the space more lanterns dispelled the darkness. Some of the rangers were bedded down there, tired and grim from fighting at the northern wall.
Ché froze, spotting a familiar face amongst them. A pretty girl with her hair formed into a spiky crest.
Curl!
He hadn’t seen her in a few months. Not since they had both fled the fall of Tume after their brief night of passion together; not since she had found out who he really was, a Mannian deserter, her hated enemy, and had alerted the Khosians to arrest him.
The girl spotted him too in that moment, and when she did, her face flinched with obvious horror.
‘What are you doing here?’ she cried out, causing her companions to follow her wide-eyed stare to his shackled, hobbled form.
‘Curl,’ he said, too stunned for thought. But she only backed away from him, then hurried off.
‘Curl!’
In his mind he saw once more the awful expression contorting her features as she first laid eyes on him.
She really hates me!
*
Ché didn’t know if the Rōshun Fanazda was only toying with him or not. He remembered the fellow’s dark wit, back when Ché had been a young apprentice and Fanazda had taught the craft of silent killing with a knife. But he remembered too how there had been something vicious about the man, something hard and unforgiving.
In his work as a Rōshun, Fanazda’s speciality was slitting people’s throats while they slept. Sometimes he had described those slow deaths to the apprentices in a way that no other Rōshun ever would have. Thinking back on it now, having grimly killed his own fair share of people as a Diplomat, Ché realized that the man truly enjoyed it.
If anyone was going to make a move against him, it was Fanazda.
On the upper floor of the inkworks, in a side gallery filled with dusty boxes and crates, Ché feigned a stumble against his tired guard and managed to steal the man’s knife from his belt without him noticing. Both cursing each other, Ché retreated to his sleeping furs in the corner and stashed the knife beneath them where he could reach it quickly, then lay down to sleep.
He lay there for a long time, staring up at the darkness of the high ceiling overhead, sore with his bruising and his raw skin, thinking of the girl Curl. His mind turned and turned. Sleep was impossible, for all that he was bone weary.
Eventually he got up again, slowly gathering his chains in his hands. His guard was snoring nearby on a chair. Ché shuffled past the man in his clinking leg irons, and found the stairs to the roof and followed them upwards.
On the flat roof of the inkworks, he stood watching the columns of smoke rising from the north of the city, where imperial shells were falling through the darkness. The glow of burning buildings flickered against the cloudy overcast. Brilliant beams of light tilted across the sky.
Up on the roof, a few rangers were sitting around a brazier of glowing coals, sipping chee and talking quietly, keeping themselves apart from the snipers stationed around the edges – looking south towards the silent, looming walls of the Shield. They scowled at the sight of him, knowing who and what he was now, and Ché scowled back. In a perverse way he was starting to enjoy this constant animosity towards him. He had always been an outsider in life, deep down anyway, where his antagonistic peers and arrogant superiors of the Mannian order would never notice. Such hostility now was familiar ground for Ché, ground upon which he felt sure-footed, even bolstered.
But then he noticed the figure of Curl sitting alone on a far corner of the roof, and such notions fled him.
‘Still chained like a dog then. That must be getting tiresome, I bet.’
The voice came out of the darkness by his side. A figure sat perched there on the low parapet surrounding the roof, nursing a steaming mug of chee.
‘Wild?’ Ché ventured. Through the gloom he could just make out the fellow’s great swooping moustaches and his familiar sharp features.
The veteran Rōshun took a noisy sip from his mug.
‘How’s life?’ he asked.
Ché glanced towards Curl again with her back turned, feeling torn.
‘Just like how it looks,’ he told Wild. ‘You?’
‘Not much better, I suppose, when all’s accounted for.’
‘You joined the war, then. I didn’t take the Rōshun for the kind to choose a side. Nor you.’
With a grimace Wild stared at Ché with his quick, dangerous eyes. At once Ché knew his mistake.
‘I lost a home when you led the Imperials to Sato. I lost friends and brothers. Oshō was like a father to me.’ Wild meant the old leader of the Rōshun order, one of many slain during the assault on their mountain monastery. The man nodded, certain of what he said next. ‘I will see some justice in this world, some rebalancing of the scales against the Empire, before I taste the dirt in my mouth.’
‘Any of that retribution include me?’
‘You? No, lad. I gave my word you would not be harmed. Coya insists you’re more valuable to us alive than dead.’
For now, his tone implied.
Still, Wild seemed friendly e
nough.
‘You’re about the first person here hasn’t wanted to spit in my eye.’
‘Oh, I still hate you, Ché. But hatred tends to blind when you need to see most clearly. Best to loosen yourself from its grip, I always thought. Just like the old farlanders always taught us.’
‘Ash, Baracha – where are they?’
‘Dead, we think. Somewhere on the other side of the Shield.’
Ché looked to the south where the dark walls stretched across the isthmus. Dead, he repeated in his mind, and didn’t quite believe it.
The thunder of heavy guns drew his gaze northwards again, towards the glow of fires across the north of the city.
‘You think these people are anything but doomed?’
‘I wouldn’t be here if I thought so.’
‘Still. The Rōshun should have a way out. Just in case.’
Wild said nothing. It was so strange to see the man here after all this time. He didn’t seem any different, no older at all; as though it had been only yesterday since they had last spoken, Ché still a young apprentice and Wild an easygoing instructor in cali, the Rōshun fighting style.
It was Ché who was different now; another person entirely.
Wild was reading his expression with bright eyes.
‘So the Mannians played with your mind, made you think you were someone you really weren’t. That’s your story, is it?’
Ché tensed in his chains.
‘They just made you do it?’
How to explain it to the man? That for Ché’s whole life he had never had any choices in what he did. That being born into the Mannian order, the priestly ruling elite of the Empire, meant being born into a world of fanaticism, of dogma and expectations.
A scrape of boots, and Ché turned to see Wild stepping off towards the stairs without another word.
Ché stared after him for a moment, then returned his attention to Curl.
*
When he tried to approach Curl, two of the rangers rose in his way. But Ché just shoved through them and kept on walking until he was standing behind her, his chest rising and falling fast.