Lamplighter

by Law, Lincoln

  “You went out last night before you came back to bed. I heard the door open, and the umbrella vase. What did you go outside for?”

  “Oh,” he said. He paused awkwardly, as he decided how best to word it. “Well it was…there was someone looking in our window.”

  “What?!” she cried, cursing as she rose from the chair. The book fell from her lap, onto the ground, where it thumped, sprawled open on the carpet.

  “I saw someone looking in our window…and I think they may have been looking through our upstairs window too!”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He was limping as he ran away, which makes me think he jumped from the second floor. That, and he was scared when I went after him, and only guilty people run when followed.” He ran his hand through her hair, kissing her on the forehead once more. “But we don’t need to worry anymore because he’s gone for good.”

  “What happened? You didn’t hurt him, did you?”

  “No,” he replied, trying his best to avoid any argument, “but he was there, and now he’s gone. I can’t imagine anyone going in for a second look when they know they’ve been caught once.”

  “Well so long as he’s gone.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re safe with me.” He threw the blue jacket about his shoulders, buttoned it quickly. “I have to go now, else I’ll be late. Will you be all right by yourself?”

  “I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Really.”

  He shrugged, sighing. “Well, so long as you say so.”

  There was a knot of fear in his voice, but he covered it well with a false smile. He took an umbrella from the vase at the doorway and stepped out into the rain.

  It was freezing outside, the blustering wind penetrating deep through the thick fabric of his jacket, through his undershirt and even through the singlet he had on beneath that. He kept a hand wrapped around the umbrella handle, and his arms wrapped around himself as he fought against the cold.

  The streets were absolutely devoid of people. In the streets, the only alive beings—if you could call them that—were the fiends that lined the cobble alleyways, or sat on their haunches on the tiled rooftops, kept at bay by the smoke that rose from every chimney of every house in the city. The smell of the smoke mixed with the smell of the rain clogged up Faulkner’s nose, which was already rather stuffy from the cold that he seemed to be developing.

  He paused for a moment, suddenly worried. He reached into his pocket and sighed loudly, relieved when he discovered the box of waterproof matches. Though the lamps would most certainly not extinguish themselves, a beast could still somehow leap around the light and attack him. Though the matches only provided a small light, it would be enough to keep them at bay.

  He knew his wife would be safe at home—Harriet was a smart woman and would certainly have the doors locked, the candles in the windows lit and the windows shut tight. But there was something that worried Faulkner as he walked down the street. It was not something entirely substantial, or even very noticeable. But it was something. Some kind of portentous sense that niggled at him. It was not like he was being told something bad was going to happen today, but it was inferred by a gut feeling.

  She’ll be fine, he thought as he heard a fiend, crouched away beneath a sewer grate growling deeply, like a great roll of thunder.

  And then the sky growled, too.

  *

  The Blue’s headquarters was located in the western sector of Castore city, standing in the shadow of the Architect’s great, flame-topped tower and the five spires of the Vindicators—the five Blessed guards whom the God King trusted. The headquarters of the Blues was not a tower, like many of the more official buildings in Castore, or a garrison or a barracks. Rather, it was built in to a small section of the massively thick wall that protected the six tallest towers in Castore. That wall was again no taller than the huge wall that surrounded the city, but still dwarfed many of the houses and shops. The only buildings to come close to being as tall as the wall were the City Bank of Castore, with a giant domed and spiked top—atop which at present stood a grotsque figure, sniffing about the landscape—and two other, smaller towers to the east near the Tyndibar Well, both burning with fire light even in the heavy rain. Near the bank was also the Castore Court House, with its stone pillars and flat roof.

  Faulkner stepped up to the front doors slowly, staring at the guards that stood, stoic and silent either side of the steps, their rifles strapped about them and their uniforms neatly pressed. At about halfway up the long flight of stairs, Faulkner paused and looked out over the city in the direction of his house. As far as he could see, there were no blazes burning across the rooftop, no monsters clawing at the roof tiles, and no screams of terror in that direction. He sighed, considerably calmer.

  What would I be able to do at this distance anyway? he thought, feeling rather silly.

  The walls surrounding the city were made to keep any monsters, which existed on the barrenlands outside the walls, from entering. The guards knew better, however—along with probably a vast majority of the population. The wall was made to keep people in. Whether it was for the citizens’ safety, or that there was something the Architect did not want them to see, or that he did not want His people leaving, it was clear that no one was coming in, nor getting out. Castore was all anyone knew, and all anyone would ever know.

  People had visited, of course, but none had left. And even then, a visit with the Vindicators scared them out of speaking of the world outside.

  The fear of possible ramifications was always an excellent motivator for secrecy.

  It might seem strange that more people hadn’t questioned what the outside world looked like, but Faulkner shrugged the thought aside and continued up the last few sets of stairs.

  The doors opened smoothly and silently, pushed by the pair of guards dressed in blue at the top of the stairway. Above the tall door on the lintel, was a strange face wearing a pointed hat, carved into the wood. Its eyes were smooth and pupil-less, but the bottom half of it was obscured by what appeared to be a massive collar from an unseen cloak. Every morning Faulkner passed beneath this lintel and every morning he shivered, a jolt of cold bolting down his back, as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water over him.

  He knew whose faces they were, and it terrified him.

  He moved quickly through the many halls, signing in the logbook the time and date of his shift. He paused as he realised that beside his name was no note telling him where and what his position was today. Shrugging, he turned away from the book, placing the nib back into its groove. He would see his supervisor. He was stopped, however, as Rueben walked in, an odd, awkward look across his thin face.

  “Morning,” Faulkner said. “Anything the matter? Have one of those nights?”

  “What?” he replied, seemingly pulled from whatever trance he had been caught in. “Oh? No, no. I’m fine. Just thinking.”

  Faulkner shrugged the reply away. “Funny,” he said, “I’m rostered on, but it does not say what for.”

  “Oh! That reminds me. You have to go and see Robert.”

  “The supervisor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Dunno. He just passed me in the hallway and told me to get you to see him. That’s all I know.”

  Faulkner shrugged again. “Might see you later then.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  He ascended the next stairwell along slowly, knowing he had time to kill. His supervisor, Robert, was always running behind schedule before his day had even started. There was enough time probably for him to head home, have a cup of tea and some crumpets, and so long as he took a hansom cab back, would also have enough time to read a book before he would even have to consider making his way to Robert’s office. Today, however, he would go there immediately, if somewhat lazily. No need to rush what didn’t need to be.

  He arrived at Robert’s office and knocked, a muffled voice calling for him to enter.

/>   Today, it seemed, routine had been broken. The supervisor Robert was seated at his clean desk, his fingers tapping impatiently across the desk.

  “You took your time,” he said, rising up from the desk. The supervisor’s uniform was quite different to Faulkner’s. Instead of being a deep blue, it was a pale, powder blue, double-breasted, with gold buttons, black trousers, boots, and a number of gold-trimmed patches on his left arm displaying his rank within the royal guards. He strode about with a certain regal air that only his rank could provide, and the fact that he continually checked his pocket watch suggested he was a man with appointments he needed to meet and a schedule to follow—though both of those were completely non-existent.

  “I apologise,” Faulkner replied, bowing respectfully. “I only received your message from Rueben a few minutes ago,” he lied. “I came as soon as I could.”

  Not soon enough, it would seem.

  Robert dipped his head in acceptance. He made no other comment on Faulkner’s tardiness.

  “I’m sure you noticed that you have no station today, despite being rostered on.”

  “Yes, well, I found it a bit strange.”

  “Well there is a reason for it…obviously. Every now and then we like to give our guards a task to help strengthen them. Sometimes a task appears that needs doing and instead of going to the most obvious person, we turn to the one least likely to perform such an action. It can act as something of a test for them, and a way for us to gauge their ability.”

  “I’m guessing by that preface that I am the next guinea pig.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Very good,” Robert said, sounding sincerely astounded. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them, almost hungrily. “Well since you’ve worked out that much, you’ve saved me another ten minutes of explanation. Right then, into the meat of it. And it looks like I will be just in time for my…appointment.” The pause suggested that the appointment he spoke of was perhaps nothing at all. He might have to pour himself a cup of tea, or dust some shelves, but that was all Faulkner expected of the man’s appointment. “One moment,” he said, holding a finger up. He made his way quickly to the doorway and opened it, allowing a second man in.

  The tall, dark figure entered, moving gracefully, as if he was floating on air. Faulkner could not see the man’s feet, or any of the clothes he wore, due to the long cape that clung around him like a tight cocoon. It was ripped and torn at the bottom, the fragments of fabric curling up about the floor like smoke rising from a black flame. Shimmering within the fabric, appearing only when light struck it in a certain fashion, were symbols arcane and archaic perhaps a lost language that only the figure still knew.

  What have I got myself into? Faulkner thought as the cold that radiated from the figure struck deep into his heart, quelling all emotions but the need to feel hopeless and lost.

  The figure wore a tall, pointed hat, with a wide brim, midnight blue in colour. Its brim was torn or tattered in places, and the point bent back.

  The figure did not remove its hat as it entered the room, suggesting that it was of a higher rank that the supervisor, but took the second seat opposite Robert’s desk. It turned to Faulkner and stared at him with cold, shadowed eyes.

  Its lank, lifeless hair was white, as if the colour had been frightened from it. Its eyes seemed to glow, reflecting the warmth of the candlelight in the room. They were yellow, like a cat’s.

  Its chest did not rise and fall, as one would expect to see given that the cloak was so tight, but it did not sound to breathe either. It just sat there, still, staring directly into Faulkner’s soul. The skin on its face was coloured a soft blue-grey, and dark swirls crossed its skin, as though it was tattooed. The marking were, of course, the marking of a Blessed—those touched by the waters of the Tyndibar Well—but for some reason they remained uncursed. Perhaps something to do with the fact that they shared the Architects immortality.

  What requires a Vindicator? Faulkner thought. What needs to be witnessed?

  The Vindicators were the Architect’s own guard. They were the five most trusted followers of his, supposedly from the days when the city was still being built. They had helped build it, and so in their honour, he built five towers around his own, in which each of the Vindicators resided. What lay within those dark towers remained a mystery to all but the Vindicators, but very few people wished to have nightmares, so even fewer wondered about it.

  “I know that having a Vindicator here can be quite a shock,” Robert said, “but I promise that he is required.”

  “What is my task?” asked Faulkner, wishing that he could leave the room sooner rather than later. “If we need a Vindicator to witness your informing of me then it must be something big.”

  “It is no easy task, I assure you.” Robert paused, biting his lip in thought. “In fact, I could even go as far to say that this may well be the most difficult task you have ever undertaken. The Vindicator is here not only as a witness, but also…well…we’ll see.”

  “So, enough hedging. What’s my task?”

  Robert folded his fingers together, his eyes focused upon his hands. The man bit his lip, hesitating. Whatever caused the man this much trouble was clearly something with gravity to it.

  “It involves your wife.”

  “Yes? What about her?”

  “She’s pregnant, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” he replied. He did not intend to lie, but around the Vindicators, there was no way to avoid the truth. It was part of their Blessing, so the stories said, to ensure that no one lied. That particular ability made them apt judges. Court hearings were normally resided over human judges, but for those that required some publicity, due to the crimes being considerable, or because the government wished to connect a particular law to harsh punishment, a Vindicator was placed in the judges seat, and nearly always the gavel would bang following the coldly-spoken word ‘guilty’.

  “Well it seems that our God King, may he live for eternity, does not desire that particular child in amongst our citizens.”

  “What?” Faulkner said, fighting the desire to swear.

  “Your wife has had trouble conceiving, has she not?”

  “Well yes,” Faulkner replied, beginning to sound a little panicky, “but surely that makes this child a-a-a blessing.”

  “Not in the eyes of our Architect. He thinks…” and he looked in the direction of the Vindicator, “…a-a-a-as do I…that given your previously failed attempts, you really have no need to keep trying. And since, it seems, that your wife is pregnant, we need to remove it.”

  “What? That doesn’t make any sense. We’ve finally gotten what we’ve dreamed of, so in congratulations we’re going to get rid of it because some old man in a tower said so. No! No! This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me and Harriet. I won’t turn her over to…whoever I have to.”

  There was an intense moment between the pair, the Vindicator watchful, interested, but quiet.

  “The Architect wills as he wishes, and so you shall give us your wife else the Vindicator will collect her, and they may be less careful. Besides, we are not saying we want to kill her. Rather the opposite. But we do need to contain her until the child is born, to ensure that you cannot go into hiding and keep the child alive.”

  Faulkner felt his pulse rise, his chest burning with the pain of sadness. He wished to pinch himself, and wake up in his bed, beside Harriet. But none of that would happen. This was reality, and this would happen, whether he wanted it to or not.

  Where could I hide anyway in a city where every shadow you see could be your last.

  “But why?” he asked.

  Robert hesitated. The Vindicator did not. “The Architect needs no reason.” His voice…No, Faulkner thought, its voice…was like liquefied metal, smooth yet heated with something deeper and more powerful than anger. It was really quite astonishing, for Faulkner had always expected a Vindicator’s voice to be cold, like ice.

  For a moment, Faulkner thought that woul
d be it. He would not argue or respond. He would give in, raise his hands in defeat, and walk away. But something else inside him, something less submissive to the ethereal Vindicator’s abilities, told him to fight.

  And that something was louder, much louder, than the Vindicator’s oppression.

  “No.” He spoke quietly, but in that whisper lay a power that caused Robert to gasp, even if the Vindicator showed nothing. “We have fought and tried all our life together to have this child, and you will not take this miracle from us. It’s been too hard for us to simply give up.”

  It was his love for his wife and for his unborn child that spoke now.

  There was silence in the room. Silence and stillness, absolute and deafening.

  “You understand what this means?” Robert asked. “If the Vindicator witnesses your refusal, then you are forfeit towards whatever they must do. They will not wait for you to move out of the way.” Through all of this, the Vindicator remained impassive and unreadable, a cold sentinel over these ill proceedings.

  He wanted to argue and retort and yell, but nothing could help his cause. The Architect’s words were absolute.

  “I understand,” Faulkner replied simply. “I understand completely.”

  Faulkner rose from his seat. “I ask now, Robert, that you respectfully let me resign from my post as city guard.”

  Robert sighed. “Very well.” He waved his hand carelessly towards the door. “You are expelled.” He then rested his forehead on the same had, looking rather tired.

  Faulkner ripped the stripes from his shoulder, throwing them aside. He watched as they fell to the wood of the floor silently, and yet their falling had resonances within him beyond sound. It was the end of his safety within the City Guard. He bowed to the Vindicator—he was risking all by being so obvious about his choice, but there was no need to be rude. He had some difficultly in fighting the desire to punch the cold figure sitting in the chair, but he resisted.

  Leaving the room, an epiphanous wave washed over him as he realised what he had done and what he would have to do.

  What have I doomed Harriet and I to?