Since then the group had grown and they were now scavengers – in a non-diminutive sense, of course – that sold bits and pieces left over from the great Conflict. The privateers had often sailed over the sea-like lake looking for water-bound wreckage, but found nothing but ghouls and time-forgotten notes of distant music, rolling in through the thick mist.
The falcon descended and set itself down on the perch planted there for that purpose, rigged so that the bird’s weight activated a small electronic buzzer further within the camp. Henrique came out, took the message in his work-worn hands, and smiled as he patted the bird.
‘Good lad,’ he said. ‘Move along home, now.’
The falcon blinked its round eyes and took off into the darkness, calling in parting. Henrique returned the call perfectly with his hands curled around his mouth. He unrolled the parchment and ran an ore-stained hand over his ten days’ worth of facial growth. The old energy-blades were tough to come by in recent years, and unappealing straight-razors were all that were left. Henrique preferred not to shave at all.
‘Hmmm.’
It was another message from the Regent, but the preliminary note said it wasn’t for him, and his eyes weren’t permitted to read the rest. He read it anyway.
As he passed through the large open gates of the former POW camp, he was treated to the smell of steam-powered hydraulics and the accompanying rhythmic sounds. His ears had grown used to the racket after all these years.
His hands were dirty, so he put the scroll under his arm (which he admitted probably wasn’t the cleanest place to put it) and walked briskly through the wide open square of the yard, over the bridge that spanned the narrow-but-deep mining gully, getting himself soot-covered in the process, and finally to the entrance of the camp proper.
It took three knocks to get him in, but he was a familiar face so the password wasn’t necessary. Henrique nodded to the doorman and found himself in the filthy corridors of the inner camp, lit only by twenty-watt bulbs because more would cost too much electricity, and the decrepit holo-lights had powercells that could only be recharged with extinct power couplinks. Well, Henrique thought with a smile, they had people working on that. Soon this place would be powering itself, at minimal cost, and they could spare more money on the mining, which was what paid for the men and their meals.
He got to his room and shut the door. The machinery clunked and prattled in the background as he inspected the scroll more closely, then began making his routine copies. One for the archive – Henrique Martínez was know as the Last Bureaucrat by the others at the camp – and one more for the other party that may be interested.
Henrique made more money than anyone else in the camp, though he didn’t talk about it. He was a messenger and cook, and as far as everyone else knew, made a messenger and cook’s wage. Only he and his dying potted plant knew otherwise. He made thrice the messenger and cook’s wage, which was almost twice as much as even the head excavator made.
The reason was this: Henrique Martínez was a spy. He preferred to call himself an agent of espionage, but he could never tell anyone to call him that, because of the nature of his work. He was paid by various parties to copy interesting messages he received through his work and pass them on. It was a simple life, yet a luxurious one, and all the more interesting for being top secret. Only the other parties knew, and they knew nothing of each other.
It was an uncomplicated system, and all the more lucrative because of it. Not many people knew the name Martínez, so he wasn’t in any danger. They all knew where he lived of course – the falcons and runner-hounds had to know where to deliver the messages – but if they did try an offensive he could escape into the mines easily enough, and the other inhabitants of the reclaimed camp would lead them in the wrong direction until they got tired or died of carbon monoxide poisoning.
With the copies made, Henrique did three things: firstly, filing away his personal copy, for security; secondly, rolling the second copy and tying it with green twine, then fastening it to his belt; and thirdly tying up the original with blue twine and it to the other side of his waist.
With that done, he checked the time, estimated that there was enough time to be finished by noon (it was still barely past midnight), and left a note for one of the others recording his departure and estimated time of return.
He left on horseback, and made his way around the Lual toward Smugglers’ Run.
~
Smuggler’s Run was an old transport system from before the Conflict that had been used for fast shipping between the towns Milaca Duos and Goya, which was further west. Where Barreiras once was, the Lual now rested, and the original opening of the Run – then called “Transitway TW-409” – became flooded, having cracked during the bombings. However, a second line had been installed coming to the Northeast of Barreiras, and just happened to join half a mile up from the crack. It hadn’t been finished by the time the warheads hit, and the privateers, upon finding it, had dug the last few hundred yards to the join and found it travel-worthy. Even the rails were usable and free of rust.
Unfortunately, however, the Transitway was reasonably new compared to the rest of the country, and used hover-technology that had died following the Conflict. But the rails were adaptable – or rather, the cars were – and soon they had it running off simple electricity. The privateers laid claim to it, charged the few people who knew about it, and protected it the only effective way they knew: weapons and security systems.
The electric Transitway ran at a maximum of three hundred miles per hour, but was rarely used at that speed to save on maintenance. The current acceptable speed was two hundred miles per hour, which meant just over an hour’s journey. This was fine by Henrique, considering the distance, meaning he could deliver his messages and be back at the camp for lunch. No problem.
Ninety minutes of riding got him to the entrance of the Transitway easily and with no trouble at all from the forest’s less-sociable inhabitants. Yet Henrique worried about leaving his horse by the mouth of the tunnel, despite the fact that she would be protected by Phillip, a friend who now watched Henrique approach with a blade of grass between his teeth.
‘Yo!’ he called out amiably. ‘Off for another ride? You keep long hours, Henri.’
‘Not as long as you,’ he replied. ‘Will you ask me for the password?’
‘No need, my young friend. Travel safely. Speak kindly to our allies on the other side, okay?
Henrique strapped his horse to the pylon that Phillip indicated, patted her muzzle and whispered:
‘Don’t you worry now, señorita, you’ll be safe here with Phillip.’
The entrance was wide but partly collapsed. It hadn’t been cleared for fear of discovery. Phillip had his pistol there anyway, if the Caballeros or sanguisuga came by.
Henrique walked confidently into the cave mouth and down the gentle gullet of stone, finally coming to the control console that had been specially made to replace the broken-down electronic touchscreen. He keyed in some commands, allowing himself thirty seconds to lie down comfortably on the car before it activated.
The electric car started with a jerk, and built up in speed until it was going at the preset two hundred miles per hour. Henrique lay quietly in the depression in the centre of the platform, unnerved as always by the rush of air over his face. He tried to rest despite the horrible gut-wrenching feeling of movement and the wailing noise of the tunnel’s stale wind blasting past.
He ignored the rushing stalactites above him, instead closing his eyes and thinking of his adolescence: fifteen, out of school long enough to move and get a job with his uncle on a small farm, paid in the native currency that he barely remembered the name of. His pennies had gone toward a packet of sunflower seeds that he had been assured would grow, even in the roasting Castilian heat. They hadn’t, and after a year he had dug up the dried seeds and put the largest in a plastic clasp, fastened it to twine and hung it around his neck. The clasp now rolled against his chest as the car r
oared down the passageway, a solid symbol of freedom.
He must be under the water now: he had felt the jerk of the car switching tracks, the join where the new tunnel was connected. He was on his way directly to a small town just a few hours’ horse-ride from Goya. Henrique didn’t allow his eyes to open, but thought about the journey across the Atlantic Ocean, which had changed his life.
Leaving from the port of Lisboa at eighteen, with only a small backpack and the tiny seed around his neck, he had joined the crew of merchants that sailed regularly between Spain, the Gulf, Brazil and Foundland. He could give them nothing for the trip, which earned him a sour look from the first mate.
‘The next journey is to St. John’s,’ he had told Henrique.
‘I don’t know where that is,’ he replied. He felt pathetic; how little he knew of this world.
‘It’s in the Foundland. After that we sail to Recife, where you wish to go, yes?’
‘Yes. Where the artists and poets are.’
‘Then you can work on our vessel until then, from here to St. John’s to Recife. Then you may leave, and you’ll have paid your fare. How’s that?’
The bearded man with the greasy-looking skin – not unlike how Henrique’s was now – had smiled then, and shown him his silver tooth. It was the most wonderful thing the young Henrique had ever seen, and, dazzled, he agreed without a second thought.
The captain had been a little angry at the first mate for offering such a deal, but saw the zealous young man on the deck before him, grinning. He smiled back, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, ‘Welcome aboard, pequiño amigo! You’ll be our new swabber.’
Henrique hadn’t known what that meant then, but soon found out, and tired of it almost immediately. After the trip to St. John’s, where they had been delivering fine cloths made in his own country, he had been allowed to work in the kitchens with the Russian cook. Gregory had taught him about food and told him how, whenever he wanted a day’s shore-leave from the captain, he would pour five thimbles of moonshine vodka into his soup and ask him twenty minutes later. The cook always got his shore-leave.
Some months later they berthed at Recife, where he had said goodbye to the captain and the first mate, and Gregory the cook, who winked and offered him a drink of the vodka, which he kindly – and wisely – refused. Three weeks after that he stumbled across the mining camp, where he stayed for a year until moving on to São Jantuo. He’d heard about the lights of the Lual that played over the water all the way from the party-town of Goya, bearing through the mists to make the sky appear a canvas of colours. His first sight of that had been one he would never forget, though his four years in the service of the Regent had been equally memorable.
A shot of pain rolled up his spine and he was spun suddenly to his left, hurting his face on the floor of the car. He hurtled over the lip of the depression and sliced open an inch of his cheek on the sharp metal. The car had stopped dead. Was the hour up already?
He pushed himself to his knees, brushed himself down, and stood and looked around. Already he was at the other side, dust rising from the minor collision.
Henrique checked that the three scrolls were undamaged and then walked outside into the light, shielding his eyes, and talked for ten minutes with the two guards who sat nearby. They hadn’t received word that somebody would be coming through – they never did; how could any message get across the Lual quicker than the Transitway? – but they were friendly enough.
‘Ye a messenger?’ one asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Should be finished a few hours after sun-up. Will you two still be here?’
‘Aye, mos’ likely,’ said the other. ‘See ye then, ah hope.’
‘Nice talking to you.’
He’d already arranged to borrow one of the horses. Everyone of the privateers was a brother, however far apart they were, and since only a privateer or a friend of one was allowed to use Smuggler’s Run, they must be trustworthy enough to return a man’s horse if he borrowed it.
Henrique had mounted it and was about to leave, when one of the men walked up to him.
‘Hang on,’ he said quietly. ‘Ah have a warning fae ye.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Enemies ae about,’ he replied. ‘Even Latinos aren’t safe, ah heard. Keep ye weapon handy.’
‘I have no weapon,’ Henrique said quietly, looking down at the man from horseback. ‘I’m just a messenger.’
‘Then take thes.’ He offered a dagger. ‘It ain’t much, but ye mus’ ‘ave somethin’. We ‘ave a pistol we kin use.’
Henrique nodded solemnly, not clear as to what the danger was, but accepted the dagger and put it carefully into his belt, by his outer thigh so it wouldn’t hurt him in the saddle.
‘Thank you. I’ll be back.’
‘Good luck,’ the man said, and they parted.
Henrique didn’t know if the man had been referring to the Caballeros or the Luxers, but either way he wasn’t going to get caught. Anybody after his hide would have to wait ‘til he died of old age, because there was no way they were getting it otherwise. He dug his heels into the horse anyway, just for safety’s sake.
~
It took him an hour to arrive in the small town just outside of Goya – already he could see the lights from the fireworks – and tied up the horse outside the inn before going in to ask for directions. The place was cold and empty, not unusual for nearly five in the morning, but the barman was awake and cleaning up the previous night’s mess.
‘Mornin’.’
‘Morning. I’m looking for the church. I couldn’t see one when I arrived.’
‘Who ye aftae?’
Henrique usually mimicked the accent of strange towns – they were all strange this side of the Great Lake – but he was too tired for “ye”s and “aye”s. ‘I have word that there’s a priest living here – this is San Bueto?’
‘Aye, but ne’church here. Ye mus’ be meanin’ the mon’stry.’
Henrique thanked him and headed up the hill toward where he was assured a monastery hiding behind a row of trees. The monastery was grand in a quiet sense: plain, crumbling, windowless walls on all sides, and a simple square tower reaching far above them from somewhere inside the perimeter. Wall-mounted torches burned with heatless iconoil.
The gates were open, and beyond those the sand-carpeted courtyard was empty. Henrique boots crunched as he walked, and his morning shadow was long and bowed unnaturally up the eastern wall of the main building.
Once through the iron-gilded front doors, he handed over one of the duplicate messages to an acolyte and asked her to pass it to head monk, and to not look at it under any circumstances. The acolyte bowed low, her shaven head gleaming. Then she stood, smiled politely, and left. Henrique left the monastery feeling confident that the message would be passed on.
His next stop was the city of Goya, a place which gave him fond memories every visit. But the trip there was long and dangerous, even on horseback. The Caballeros were always an immediate problem, and he had run into them before. He never wished to meet those devils again.
Rumours said that the Caballeros de la Muerte – Horsemen of Death – were deployed by the xenophobes of Shianti that gave the city its nickname: Hermeticia. The zealous mercenaries were there to guard the precious piece of land cocooned in the safety of a giant bomb crater, and keep the troublesome outsiders where they belonged: outside. Hearsay talked of vast gold reserves beneath the crater, or catastrophically powerful weapons unearthed by the historic explosion. Some said that the secrets of the “Conflict” were buried amongst Shianti’s secrets.
Other hearsay about the Caballeros didn’t interest Henrique; but the rumours about demons in armour, red-eyed fiends that terrorised the cities surrounding the mountains and baked Sinh-ha plains, did. Their faces were cloaked in shadow, but their penetrating eyes and vicious teeth could occasionally be seen by the unluckiest. The fact that anyone got that close to a Caballero and survived to give such details was
what made Henrique discredit all he had heard and simply concentrate on getting where he needed to go.
The only facts he believed were the ones he had accumulated for himself: the fearsome steeds, black as the night; the intimidating armour, horned and gleaming like tar; the soul-rending voices, deeper than the pits of Hadentes, that had ordered him to stand still and accept his fate, that bitter night not all that long ago. Never again would he allow himself to fall under the mercy of such monsters, and never again would he travel the lands past the Lual without the muscle of a well-trained horse between his thighs.
It took three hours of hard riding before he heard the first of the fireworks. His face brightened with the skies at this iridescent greeting. The sun was up now, and he suspected he was hearing the last of the nightly celebrations. Nevertheless, the lights that were reflected against the underside of the clouds were his vision of Heaven. He would have fun this morning.
Nearly an hour later – the same hour that Caeles, Rowan and the magus left the pier of São Jantuo – he led his horse on foot through the large open gates of the town.
The man Henrique intended to meet would be waiting in the usual place, a bar named Ignacio where he waited every fourth weekend to collect information that might be useful to his boss from his various confidential sources. He wasn’t there when Henrique arrived, but came an hour later. He lived far outside of the city, Henrique had heard from another of his spies.
The man was tall and pretty well-built, with soft blonde hair and large strong hands. His eyes were a curious blue, his nose a peculiar shape, probably due to a fight he once had. His physique made it seem likely that he had won that battle, whoever the opponent.
He was dressed in a thin short-sleeved coat, gloves and boots. His long sleeves and hood were a thin cream-coloured fabric. He certainly looked dubious; the clothes seemed unnatural considering the climate. His name was Johnmal, pronounced “Yon-mah”, and his hair, eyes and build marked him as European.
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