The Strategist

by Gerrard Cowan

  A face appeared before him: Katrina Paprissi. No – it was not that girl. It was the One. Mother. The Strategist. All of this started with her. All of it. She peered at him through purple eyes, and for a moment it seemed as if she was about to speak. Is this real? Or my imagination? Or are they the same thing? Her gaze narrowed, and her mouth formed into a tight little circle …

  ‘What are you looking at?’

  Arlan was by his side.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Canning. It was true; the image had faded away.

  Arlan nodded, and passed Canning a cup of wine. The one-time Tactician was grateful for it. He smiled at the Controller, and took a drink.

  ‘Why do they call you a Controller?’ he asked.

  Arlan seemed taken aback.

  ‘It’s just a title, really,’ he said. ‘It makes us sound grander than we are. Chaperones would be better. We carry the Manipulators around, look after them, drag them away when they’re exhausted. That’s all. But it’s still a good job.’ He nodded at the land. ‘I think we’re the first people from the Remnants to go north in ten thousand years. That’s worthwhile, isn’t it?’

  ‘You were chasing the Duet all the way north?’

  ‘Hmm. We have heard about your Machinery. I think it’s calling to them, now it’s broken. Don’t get me wrong; I’d rather they were far away, than down here tormenting us. But you have to keep an eye on them. If they chose to leave, it probably meant they were planning something worse for us down the track. That’s the way they are.’

  ‘And so you followed them.’

  ‘And so we followed them, to try and catch them. But we couldn’t do it, as you well know.’

  ‘The Remnants sounds like a strange land.’

  ‘Stranger than one whose leaders are picked by a machine?’

  Canning laughed. ‘Perhaps not.’

  Arlan smacked him hard on his back, and the former Tactician almost toppled over the edge.

  ‘You shouldn’t worry so much, Canning. You’ve had a hard life. I can tell. But you shouldn’t concern yourself so much with the opinions of others.’

  ‘They are right. Sanndro and the rest. All of them are right about me.’

  ‘Sanndro! Don’t worry about Sanndro. He’s tired, and taking it out on you, not that it’s any excuse.’

  Arlan looked out to the sea again. ‘Maybe the Remnants is the place for you. It can be a bit … strange, but the people are nicer than in your Overland, it sounds to me. We have nothing, so we take nothing for granted, you know? All we do is fight.’

  ‘Sounds glorious.’

  The Controller laughed. ‘It’s not so bad, really, so long as you stay near a good Manipulator.’

  Canning nodded. ‘I’ve noticed something, tonight. The air feels different.’

  Arlan shot him a glance. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean … I don’t know. It feels heavier, somehow. It’s as if we’ve crossed a threshold, of some kind, into another place.’

  Arlan sucked in a breath, so quietly that Canning wondered if he was hearing things.

  ‘How interesting that you feel this way. I can never feel it myself. Sanndro claims to, but he’s a liar, I think. Only Manipulator Raxx ever really feels it. That’s why she’s locked herself down below; she might claim she’s still tired from the fight with the Duet, but I know better.’

  ‘Feel what?’

  ‘The Old Place. It is heavy, here. It sparkles in the very air. It makes Raxx sick, though she’d never admit it.’

  ‘I must feel something else. I don’t feel sick at all.’

  ‘Hmm. Perhaps.’ He smiled, though he seemed unsure. ‘Well, I hope you enjoyed your trip on the ocean waves, my friend Canning, for it’s almost at an end.’

  Canning turned and looked in the direction Arlan pointed. Far ahead, along the coast, he could just make out a narrow, black, semicircular bridge, set between two huge rocks. Along the edge of the arch there sparkled a strange blue light.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘That, my friend,’ said Arlan, ‘is the gateway to the Remnants.’

  Canning pulled his blanket around him, and stared into the night.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Thonn House was desolate in the morning light. It was always the same.

  Perhaps its physical isolation was the problem. Or maybe it was due to its elevated position, high up on the Habitation. Drayn never knew. But it was never a warm place.

  ‘Here we are again,’ said Alexander.

  The boy could see it, too. Drayn could tell by the way he held himself. He knew what kind of place this was.

  ‘I lived somewhere like this, once,’ he said. ‘Or the old me did. The Alexander who belonged in the Overland. Everyone wants to live somewhere like this, until they do.’

  Drayn nodded. ‘That’s it exactly.’

  Alexander looked up at the sky. ‘This is the clearest memory I’ve ever seen in the Old Place. Usually it’s all furry edges, or things are too perfect. Not here. I wonder why that is? Maybe you remember this place very well, and it’s spilled over.’

  ‘Yes. I remember it, though I thought I’d hidden it away.’ She turned to the boy, her guide through this madness. ‘Why is this happening to me, Alexander? I’d rather take my chances on the cliff edge.’

  The boy raised a finger. ‘Don’t say things like that. Besides, there’s no choice now. I’m here, you’re here, the Voice is watching, and we have to go in there.’

  He nodded at Thonn House.

  ‘Yes,’ Drayn sighed. ‘I know. Let’s go, then.’

  They shuffled to the great door together, the boy as hesitant as the girl.

  He has been through bad things himself, maybe. He doesn’t want to see them again, even if they’ve nothing to do with him. Or maybe he doesn’t care at all. Maybe he’s just toying with me.

  They went inside, along the myriad corridors of the creaking house. Drayn thought of all the times she had run through here, with Cranwyl at her side.

  Where are you, my Cranwyl? What have they done with you?

  ‘Here,’ she said. They stood before a tall set of double black doors.

  ‘Watch this,’ said Alexander, before walking through the closed door. He poked his head through and grinned at her. ‘We’re just observers, here.’

  Drayn nodded, and walked through the door, too, like a ghost.

  **

  All of them were standing in the middle of the Great Hall: Mother, Dad, and the younger version of herself. The dining tables had been pushed to the sides, and two long sofas sat incongruously in the centre of the space, with a wooden desk between them and a few chairs scattered around. The tall windows at the back spewed icy light down on the occupants, who were spectres, frozen in time.

  The chandelier was there, with that rope hanging from it. That rope.

  ‘Remember: it’s just a memory,’ Alexander told the real Drayn.

  She nodded. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

  The people of the memory came to life.

  ‘When is he getting here?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Soon,’ said Mother.

  ‘And Cranwyl knows … everything?’

  ‘He knows his role, yes. When things are done, he’ll come and stay with us. He would like to live here very much.’

  There came a sound of footsteps from a door at another side of the Hall.

  ‘Simeon is coming,’ Mother said.

  Dad rested a hand on the shoulder of the young Drayn: the Drayn of the memory.

  ‘We should let her go, Lyna.’

  Mother shook her head. ‘She’s staying.’ She turned her eyes on her daughter. ‘It’s not easy leading this House. It’s time you knew that.’

  Simeon emerged through the door at the back of the Hall. He had dressed as if this was a state occasion, which for him it probably was. He wore a red doublet, offset with the white fur of some beast, along with black trousers and heavy dark boots. His hair had been slicked back with the
Autocrat knew what muck, and his cheeks seemed to glow with a new freshness. Drayn felt a pang of anger when she saw him. He deserved what happened. But no – this was the voice of Mother.

  Cranwyl came behind, carrying a sheaf of papers under his arm. A sword hung from his side.

  Simeon clapped his hands as he approached the small group. ‘Well, here we are. The moment of justice.’ He grinned at his sister. ‘Lyna, I just wanted to say, I’ve been very impressed with your restraint. Cranwyl and his men were up all night, on patrol, waiting for your assassins. But they never came. And now, to find the doors of old Thonn House lying open for me … well, it’s been wonderful.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘But then, everyone on the island knows what you’ve done, don’t they? So you couldn’t very well kill me. And you all rather depend on me now, don’t you, as head of the House – you could be homeless at my word. So maybe I shouldn’t be so grateful. That’s always been one of my problems: I’m too trusting.’

  If you only knew.

  ‘Still, here we are. Cranwyl – the papers.’

  The servant bowed, and spread the parchments on the desk between the sofas.

  ‘This shouldn’t take too long,’ Simeon said. ‘We’ll get everything signed off, and all of us can get on with our lives.’ He reached into a pocket and withdrew a quill, which he handed to Mother.

  The woman took the quill, and sat down on a sofa. She opened the desk and withdrew a small pot of ink, before seeming to catch herself. ‘This is a serious business,’ she said, ‘but there’s no reason we can’t be civil about it.’ She placed the quill down and lifted a small bell from the table. ‘We will have wine.’

  She raised the bell, but Simeon stopped her with a motion.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Lyna. I’m not drinking or eating anything in this house until you’re long gone.’

  Mother feigned shock. ‘I’m hurt by your lack of trust, Simeon. Besides, you’ve got everything sewn up, haven’t you? Old Cranwyl has told half the island of my shame.’ She nodded at the servant, who stared coldly back at her.

  Good old Cranwyl, always so smart. He’ll get himself out of whatever mess he’s in. Of course he will.

  ‘Indeed so,’ said Simeon. ‘But it wouldn’t be wise of me to take risks now, would it? We all know what kind of people you are.’ He grinned at Dad. ‘Apologies, Teron, I don’t mean you.’ He nodded at Drayn. ‘Or you, my darling, for that matter. Neither of you deserved to get caught up in this. With her.’

  Teron nodded at his brother-in-law, and moved away from the little group, to the side of the Great Hall, where he began to set a fire in the stone hearth.

  ‘So,’ Simeon clapped his hands, ‘let’s get on with it, then.’

  Lyna shrugged. ‘It looks like you’ve got me in an impossible situation.’ She snatched up the quill, dipped it in the ink, and began to scrawl her name on the various papers. When she was done she placed the quill back on the table, and leaned back in the sofa.

  Simeon stared at the papers for a moment, in silence. He clasped his hands behind his back, nervously twiddling his fingers together. The real Drayn watched the memory Drayn, remembering every moment. She had locked these events away, but things like this could not stay locked up forever.

  Teron returned to the group, and glanced at the papers. His fire had sparked into furious life, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

  ‘It is done, then,’ said Drayn’s uncle. He turned to Cranwyl. ‘Finish the job.’

  The servant nodded, and unsheathed his sword, a heavy, ugly blade. Drayn had not been afraid. This dance was playing to Mother’s tune, like everything else in the House of Thonn.

  The servant walked up to Teron, and held the blade at the man’s throat.

  Simeon grinned at Lyna. ‘I really don’t trust you, you see, Lyna. I hope you’re not offended. In fact, you should take it as a compliment.’

  Mother stood, and dusted herself down. If she was disturbed by this turn of events, she did not look it.

  ‘How would you like to do it then, Lyna? Girl first, so she doesn’t have to see her parents’ blood? Or could you not bear to see her die yourself? It’s a tricky choice, but I leave it to you. The last decision you will make as head of the House of Thonn.’

  The real Drayn looked at her younger self, at that calm face and steady hands as the girl stood motionless beside her father. Would I be like that now?

  Lyna cleared her throat. ‘I don’t understand, Simeon.’

  ‘Then you are a fool. It has always been this way in the House of Thonn.’

  Mother raised a finger. ‘That’s not it. I mean, I don’t understand the mechanics of your plan. Who is going to carry out these murders for you?’

  Simeon hesitated, before nodding at Cranwyl. ‘My servant, of course.’

  Mother smiled. ‘That is not your servant.’

  Everything changed in a heartbeat. Cranwyl swapped Dad for Simeon, who made a strange, strangled little noise as the blade was pushed against his throat. Yes, that was it – a squeal. Drayn remembered hating him, in that moment. She hated him still.

  ‘This is not how you die,’ said Lyna. Her voice was quiet, but trilled with excitement. She turned to Teron. ‘Do it.’

  Dad ran to the side of the Hall and shouted an instruction. As he returned, the chandelier began to creak downwards.

  ‘What is this, Lyna?’ Simeon’s eyes shifted from the chandelier to the sword. ‘What the fuck are you doing? You’ve signed everything now! Cranwyl has told the island of your deceit!’ He swung his eyes to the servant, whose face held a ghost of a smile. ‘You did, didn’t you, Cranwyl? You told them, for me?’ Pleading, now. ‘You wouldn’t let me down, would you, Cranwyl?’

  ‘What does the blade tell you?’ Cranwyl asked.

  The chandelier stopped, perhaps four feet above their heads. The rope swung from it; it had been knotted into a loop.

  Cranwyl hauled Simeon directly underneath the rope. Father grabbed it, and was about to put it around the struggling man’s throat, when Mother spoke.

  ‘No. Let Drayn do it.’

  She turned to her daughter, whose face had blanched.

  ‘It is in moments like this that the House of Thonn sustains itself over the millennia. If you are to lead it, one day …’ She did not finish the sentence.

  ‘Did you kill that man?’ It was the first time Alexander had spoken in a while, and it made the real Drayn jump. ‘Did you really do it? I bet the Voice would like it, if you did.’

  She did not answer. She turned back to the scene in the Hall, where the girl in the memory was climbing on a chair, taking the noose from her father, and placing it around her uncle’s throat. Simeon looked at her, but he did not move; Cranwyl held him tightly. Cranwyl would always protect Drayn. Cranwyl would always keep her safe.

  ‘You did it!’ Alexander cried, almost triumphantly.

  Drayn’s father returned to the back of the hall, as Simeon scrabbled at the rope. Teron called to the servants beyond the door, and the chandelier began to rise.

  **

  They came to another memory.

  It was the same day, but evening now. The Drayn of the memory was alone in her bedroom, staring out of the window. She would have stared forever, if it hadn’t been for Cranwyl.

  ‘Your mother sent me up.’

  He was standing in her doorway with a plate of food.

  Drayn nodded to a table by her bed, and Cranwyl laid the food there. He walked to Drayn’s side.

  ‘You know, that’s just the way of it among the great Houses. Your mum was right.’

  ‘Mother. Don’t call her mum.’

  ‘I apologise.’

  They stood in silence for a moment.

  ‘I know, by the way,’ Drayn said, in a quiet voice. ‘But I never chose this.’

  Cranwyl nodded. ‘It is too serious. You are a child.’ He seemed to think of something. ‘When something nasty happens, all you have to do is hide it away,’ he said.
‘Do you understand? Only really clever people can do it, and you are really clever.’

  The young girl furrowed her eyebrows. ‘I just … stop thinking about it?’

  ‘Yes. You hide it away so deep that even you can’t find it. Do you understand?’

  The girl bit her bottom lip, and nodded.

  ‘Good. Now, are there any decent places to play in this house?’

  Drayn gave him a suspicious look. She had never played with anyone before.

  ‘I’m sure we can find decent places to play,’ Cranwyl said.

  And then, as if it were nothing, he gave her a tap on the head.

  ‘You’re it.’

  The servant turned, and charged out of Drayn’s quarters. She remained still for a moment, before bustling after him, laughing wildly.

  **

  ‘You just … forgot?’ Alexander asked the real Drayn. ‘That’s impressive. Not everyone can just forget.’

  The girl nodded. ‘Yes. I thought I had, anyway. It got harder later, when I had to forget … other things.’

  The memory faded, and another bloomed to life.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The light returned, and Aranfal was somewhere else.

  It was night, and the moon gazed down. The wind howled around them, suggesting they were in some elevated place. Rocks and masonry were all around. The remains of some great building?

  Ah.

  It was the Circus, the great stadium on Primary Hill, built on the very spot where the Operator had first appeared to Arandel ten thousand years before, bringing with him the gift of the Machinery. If that ever even happened. Aranfal had not been here since the Selection, when Katrina became Mother and she and Shirkra had torn the building to pieces. Why would he come back? No one did, any more. This was a desolate place.

  They were high up in the ruins of the structure, where the Tacticians of the Overland had once sat, gazing over their subjects. All of them dead, now, except for Canning, the poor fool. And Brightling. She’s gone, but she lives. She’ll come back for us one day.