The Strategist

by Gerrard Cowan

  Brightling shook her head.

  ‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘In that case, you’d better come up and have a drink.’

  Brightling walked to the staircase. ‘Something about this is wrong,’ she said, stopping on the third stair.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said the short man. ‘Something’s always wrong somewhere. That’s the beauty of the world.’

  ‘No. I’m not supposed to go with you. I’m here …’

  ‘You’re here for the Machinery.’

  It was the woman who spoke. Brightling turned to her, and nodded. ‘How did you know?’

  The woman did not respond.

  ‘Ah,’ said the tall man. ‘Then you are indeed going the wrong way. You do not want to go with us.’ He nodded down at the veiled woman. ‘The lady can tell you where to go.’

  The two men bowed to Brightling, then turned their backs and vanished into the room beyond.

  Brightling descended the stairs and stood before the desk. She realised she was holding her mask.

  ‘You carry part of the Absence,’ the woman said. ‘You wear it as a mask.’

  She stood from the desk, and walked to Brightling with a shuffling gait. ‘Can I see it?’

  Brightling hesitated. She turned the mask over in her hand. It had formed itself into the face of an old man, his eyes wide with fear, his mouth a jagged hole.

  The woman gazed at the mask, and winced. ‘It is painful to look upon the Absence, even in this state. It is dead – I know it is dead. Yet this seems to live, somehow. I can feel it pawing at me. It’s like a little kitten that thinks it’s a tiger.’ Her hand shot up to her mouth, stifling a laugh. ‘I wonder, did the Voice sense it?’

  Brightling nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am not surprised. Once, the Voice fought the Absence with a terrible fury. But this thing can do it no—’

  Brightling did not know why she did it. Perhaps it was frustration. Perhaps she wanted to feel her old power again: to feel like she was in control.

  She put the mask on, and stared at the veiled woman. She saw lights before her, twinkling in a haze. She felt things, the sensation of memory: she grasped at it, dragging it towards her. She tore a corner away from a memory, and she began to pick at it.

  She relented when the screams came, and removed the mask.

  The veiled woman had pushed herself against the wall. ‘A vicious thing to do,’ she whispered. ‘I thought you were going to eat me all up.’

  Brightling was trembling. ‘The mask has a power. I am only beginning to understand it. No memory can stand before it.’

  ‘You wish to destroy the Voice, hmm?’ The woman shuffled forward. ‘Oh, how delicious.’

  She pointed to a door behind her desk. ‘The Voice is down there, trapped within the Machinery. But that path is treacherous indeed. Once, I tried to go myself.’ She pulled her veil up slightly, revealing a burned and ruined neck. ‘I was punished.’

  The door blew open, and there came a flash of flame beyond. It illuminated the veiled woman, and for an instant Brightling had an image of her: her hair long and black, her eyes bright and blue, her neck and face red and raw. But the door slammed shut, the image vanished with the flames, and the veiled woman stood before her once again.

  ‘When I tried to go to the Machinery, it greeted me with fire,’ the woman said. Her voice was like ashes. ‘But before it threw me back, I saw such things there, in the darkness.’ She turned to the doorway. ‘Perhaps the Absence will protect you, if you go. Perhaps the fire will not come for you.’

  Brightling approached the burned woman. ‘I will go. I will destroy the Voice, and then the thing that holds Katrina, and any of the rest of them that try to stop me.’

  The woman nodded. ‘You will descend steps for a long time. It will be a strange journey for you.’ She sighed. ‘But you will find the thing you call the Machinery, if that is what you want. You will find it, and the Voice.’

  Brightling nodded, opened the door, and stepped into the darkness.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Canning and Raxx took to a staircase, a metallic monstrosity that clanged with their footsteps. The former Tactician thought back to the steps of Memory Hall and all the other great buildings of the Overland, and of how they had exhausted him. He thought of how that world had exhausted him.

  ‘This way,’ said Raxx.

  The Manipulator took Canning by the arm and led him off the staircase, into a dark place. Canning could see nothing, but he had learned to trust Raxx; she seemed to like him, strangely enough. There was a loud screeching sound, which he took for a metal door being pushed open, and Raxx grunted with effort.

  ‘Come,’ she said, ‘the Arch Manipulator will be expecting us.’

  They walked into another room, as dark as the one they had left behind. But the gloom lifted as they went. Their surroundings had utterly changed; the metal had disappeared, replaced with wooden beams and white stone. It was not unlike the dreamland he had woken up in before, though this was not that place.

  They came to a golden doorway, with a guard standing at either side. For a moment it reminded Canning of the Cabinet Room of the Tacticians of the Overland, though he quickly dismissed the notion. The guards here were Manipulators, like Raxx. They had the same air about them. They nodded as she approached, and pulled open the golden doors.

  Before them was a kind of gigantic observatory. The walls and the domed ceiling were entirely transparent, a gateway to the roiling sky. There was no sign now of the sun. The only natural illumination – if it was natural – came from the lightning that blazed its way through the darkness.

  At the centre of the room was a narrow structure, formed of dark wood. It took Canning some time to recognise it as a staircase, winding upwards in a corkscrew.

  ‘He is here!’

  Canning looked up. The staircase, he saw, bloomed out into a wide platform. Standing at the edge was the boy he had seen in the painting, grinning down at the former Tactician. The child seemed even younger in person: curly-haired, with light brown skin and hopeful eyes, almost swamped by his white robes.

  ‘The Arch Manipulator,’ Raxx said.

  The boy clapped his hands. ‘Raxx, leave. Send him up to me. Off you go!’

  Raxx pointed Canning in the direction of the staircase. She bowed to the boy and left the room.

  Canning went to the staircase and began to climb. There was no rail, so he leaned in against the wall, willing himself not to look down. He felt some of his old fear return, and he hated himself for it. He reached the top and stepped out onto the wooden platform, exhaling a gasp of relief. The Arch Manipulator burst into laughter.

  ‘You are afraid, hmm? Imagine, a creature like you being afraid of a little climb!’

  Canning bowed. ‘I’m just that sort of creature, your highness.’

  The Arch Manipulator frowned. ‘But you shouldn’t be, my friend, you shouldn’t be. I know what you did to Kalana and Fyr, the young immortals we tested you with. That is true talent. Not just anyone can Manipulate like that. Oh, no.’

  ‘Arch Manipulator,’ the former Tactician said, falling to his knees. He did not know what else to do.

  The boy laughed. ‘Yes, I am the head of our order. You may call me Darrlan, though – not Arch Manipulator.’ He pulled a face.

  Canning stood. ‘You are young to have achieved so much.’

  ‘Am I? Hmm. Who says I achieved anything? I was born with the ability to Manipulate beyond anyone else in the Remnants. I took my position as my right. Is that an achievement?’ He began to walk around the platform, gesticulating with his small hands as he went. ‘In your country, the great ones are chosen by the Machinery, is that not so? It is much the same, I think. What did those people do to deserve their luck? What have they achieved, except for being themselves?’

  Canning nodded. What have they achieved, indeed?

  ‘And what have you really managed to do, in your Overland?’ the boy went on. ‘You’ve been much t
he same for ten thousand years, though you think yourselves advanced. You are only advanced in comparison with those other countries Jandell suffered to develop in the North. You are the tallest mushroom in a dark, damp forest. It is only in the last generation or so that your people have taken great leaps.’ The Arch Manipulator laughed. ‘You ask how I know so much about your Overland.’

  Canning raised his eyebrows. He had asked nothing.

  ‘It’s quite simple,’ the boy went on. ‘Communication. We knew things before, of course, and we learned bits and pieces over the millennia – but recent times, oh, they have been a goldmine! A man came here and sold us so much information, for paltry things like weapons and smokestuff. Jaco Paprissi, he was called. Funny name.’

  Canning gasped. So this is where he went. This is where we obtained our modern wonders.

  ‘Do you know what became of Jaco Paprissi, your highness? He vanished from the Overland long ago.’

  Darrlan giggled. ‘No, no. I never even met him, of course, what with not being alive and all. He came in my predecessor’s time. But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the information he sold us. So interesting! Because, of course, in those days, we could not go into the North. Jandell had built his defences. We were left here, in our torn lands, locked in endless war.

  ‘But something changed, recently. A new creature rules the North – Mother. She is not protective of her borders. There are no borders, in her mind.’

  Canning felt he had learned more in the past five minutes than in all the preceding years of his life.

  ‘How could Jaco Paprissi come here, if Jandell prevented it?’

  The boy laughed. ‘Jandell allowed Jaco to leave. He must have thought it would be good for your people. And he was right, in a way: it broadened your horizons. You were on a path to advancement, on your own terms. But I imagine he regretted it, in the end. There are bad things, as well as good, in the outside world.’

  ‘The Operators are the source of your superiority,’ Canning said, wondering at his own presumptuousness. ‘You mock the Overland for its backwardness, but you steal your own advances from the minds of Operators.’

  The boy smiled, and spread his palms. ‘You are, of course, correct, my Canning. We are all of us nothing but rats, scrabbling at the feet of giants. We steal what we can from them, and you bathe in Jandell’s glory.’ The Arch Manipulator sighed, and looked to the ceiling, to the nightmare outside his palace.

  ‘Look at what we are left with, Canning, down here in the Remnants. A world of constant warfare. A world in which the Old Place and reality are in endless strife. This is a place of madness, where we cling to our lives in cities of steel.’

  ‘I don’t understand the things I can do,’ Canning said. The words tumbled out of him. ‘I first felt it back in the Overland, when one of them held me prisoner. She tormented me in a memory. I suffered for a long time. But after a while …’

  ‘You felt detached from the memory. It no longer held any power over you. You could see its edges. You could sense its power, and you felt capable of using it for yourself.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  The Arch Manipulator nodded. ‘It is obvious you have a natural talent, as Arandel did. Tell me – which Operator held you in a memory?’

  Canning sighed. He did not like thinking back to that time. Half-mad Annya, on the edge.

  ‘It was a woman.’

  ‘Which woman? What did she look like?’

  ‘She is hateful, and she goes by the name of Shirkra.’

  The Arch Manipulator sucked in a breath. ‘You escaped the Mother of Chaos?’

  Canning waved a hand dismissively. ‘I didn’t hold her in a memory or anything like it. All I did was step outside her powers, and take a bit of … something from the memory. I felt powerful, for a while. But it soon disappeared.’

  ‘Canning, this is … I have never heard of such a thing in a beginner.’

  There came a sound of footsteps, heavy and quick, in the hall. Canning and the boy ran to the edge of the platform. Raxx was below, rushing towards them.

  ‘Arch Manipulator – the Duet …’

  Darrlan ran to the stairs, barking instructions as he went. ‘Summon the Inner and Middle Cores. Send Manipulators to the Gates. We have been foolish! We are not prepared—’

  But he was interrupted.

  The sound was like a cannon, echoing through the observatory with a deafening crack, forcing all within to cover their ears. Canning twisted around, looking for the source of the sound.

  ‘Up there!’ Raxx cried, pointing to the glass ceiling.

  Canning turned, and saw them: Boy and Girl. The Duet. They were at the highest point of the great domed roof, on the outside, their eyes burning red. Each of them held a ball of flame in their right hands. As he looked at the fire, Canning saw things within it, images of times long past, a smiling man, a crying child, a bird in the sky …

  A terrible crack grew in the glass before them, snaking its way across the dome. The Duet began to laugh, and Canning could hear the sound, in his head, though that was not possible, surely it was impossible …

  The ceiling shattered, and glass rained down in the observatory. The Arch Manipulator cried out and collapsed onto the platform. Canning spun around and saw Raxx below, lying in a bloody pile, her body rent apart.

  ‘Unimportant!’ cried Girl. ‘You went away from us!’

  ‘Yes, sister! He went away from us!’

  Canning turned around. Boy and Girl were standing before him on the platform, grinning and toying with their strange flames.

  ‘We thought you were in the Overland,’ he said. ‘And my name is Canning.’

  Girl laughed. ‘Of course we came back! They always get us wrong, down here.’

  ‘They don’t understand us,’ said Boy, shaking his head vigorously. ‘We are strange creatures, Unimportant. I mean, Canning.’

  ‘What did you find in the North?’ He was determined to keep the Duet talking, because behind them, on the platform floor, the Arch Manipulator was stirring.

  ‘Everything, Canning, everything!’ cried Boy. ‘All is wonderful, all is good. Our relations are preparing for the first game for ten millennia! They are gathering their pawns!’

  The Arch Manipulator had got to his feet. His eyes were blazing white, and he raised his hands towards the Duet.

  Girl stepped forward towards Canning. ‘We must win, Canning. You understand? If we win, Mother will be so proud!’

  She was almost on top of him. She reached out with the hand that held the flame. He felt it touch him, licking at him. ‘But we need a pawn, you see, Canning. We need a really good pawn.’

  ‘That pawn is you, Canning, in case you were wondering,’ said Boy, grinning at Canning through a gap-toothed mouth. ‘You are a brilliant creation!’

  In the background, the Arch Manipulator was muttering something. He seemed to be building towards a climax.

  But it was too late. The Duet had already taken Canning away.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  As Drayn walked through the tunnel, she thought about death and memories.

  Death had been with her forever. That was always the way in the House of Thonn. Death pruned the tree. Death cut out the rot. Death kept the House alive, vigorous and healthy.

  It was even true of the times they had suffered in the Choosings. It was especially true of the Choosings. If you weren’t good enough to be Chosen, how could you hope to be of use to the House? That’s what they said, anyway. It never made much sense to her.

  Memories had saved Drayn. No, that wasn’t it. Her ability to hide them away had saved her, for a while, at least. It was Cranwyl who had shown her the way, but it was Mother who saw the need. Perhaps that was why she had hired Cranwyl in the first place: not to betray Simeon, but to help a child hide from the truth.

  Drayn did not dwell on Simeon’s death, because she did not think of it: not until the Voice forced her to look again. As for … she could no
t look upon that again. Not even the Voice could make her see what had happened back then. She was strangely proud of this. The Voice was the most powerful thing in creation, and it was sending her to her death. Yet she had tricked it.

  She had beaten it.

  A dull light came from up ahead. She was suddenly conscious of walking over some kind of threshold, entering a different kind of reality. She had crossed from the Old Place to the Habitation. She heard the sound of dripping water, and she knew she was almost at the cave from which the Unchosen would emerge. I am one of them. And hopefully Cranwyl is, too.

  She did not want her friend to be Chosen. Something told her, now, that being Chosen by the Voice was no kind of victory at all. Besides, it was not a bad death, the islanders always said. You were gone before you went over the cliff, they said. The Guards stab you with their pikes, cut you through clean, and you only feel it for a second.

  But she knew that wasn’t true. She had heard the screams, as the Unchosen fell to the Endless Ocean.

  The tunnel came to a meandering end. She stood at the gateway to the cave, and for a moment felt a sense of giddy excitement.

  Death is better than some memories.

  She was afraid. She did not want to be. She tried to fight the fear; she pushed it down, deep within her. But it came, and she felt like it would smother her. I don’t want to die.

  ‘We’ll get through this.’

  She spun around, and there he was: Cranwyl, just the same as always. She buried herself into him.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  Hand in hand, they stepped through the gateway.

  **

  It reminded Drayn of the cave in the Old Place, where she had seen the great curtain of hands, and where she had first met Alexander. But this was unmistakeably the real world. She could see it in the great rocks that hung from the ceiling and sprouted from the floor. She could feel it in the water that dripped from the stone and gathered in cold, stagnant pools. She knew it in her heart. This is where the Unchosen go.

  ‘It’s bigger than I would have thought,’ she said.