by Peter Newman
It holds.
Vesper wades across, coat turning up, floating around her knees.
The kid bleats, making her turn. ‘Come on, it’s safe.’
The kid bleats again and backs away from the edge.
‘It’s cold but you’ll be fine. Come on.’
The kid sits down.
Duet works her way down to them. She too stops at the water’s edge.
‘Come on,’ Vesper calls. ‘We need to cross while it’s still light.’
‘There’s no other … way?’
‘I don’t know. Nowhere nearby anyway.’
Teeth are gritted, hidden behind the visor and Duet steps onto the submerged platform. Water splashes nearby grass and kid, making both wet and one bleat derisively.
‘Can you bring him in?’ asks Vesper.
Duet complies, reaching back to grab the kid by the neck. Before the kid can panic, Duet throws him out into the water.
Vesper’s eyes follow the flailing arc.
For such a small creature, the splash is impressive.
The kid vanishes beneath the surface. There are bubbles, then a tiny explosion as he reappears, spitting, glaring at the Harmonised.
‘I didn’t know … they could swim.’
‘All goats can,’ Vesper replies. ‘They hate it though.’ She retrieves the kid, scooping the sodden creature out of the water, wobbling, then getting her balance.
They press on, moving slowly, wading from roof to roof. Some buildings peek from the water, worn heads sparkling in the afternoon sunslight, others lurk deep, forcing them to half swim, tiptoeing at full stretch to make progress. Vesper chatters breathlessly, alternating between encouraging the others and pointing out interesting shapes in the water. Anything to keep Duet moving, anything rather than think about the burden on her back or the consequences of what she has done. Time passes, deceptive, evening arriving before it’s welcome. More than half the crossing remains.
Duet holds up a hand. ‘Do you always … talk this much?’
Vesper’s face creases in thought. ‘I always talk when there are animals around, they find it soothing.’
Duet mutters, ‘I find it … tiring.’
But the girl doesn’t hear her. ‘My uncle likes to talk. He says talking is a way of getting things out. Like airing a barn. But instead of a barn it’s like airing yourself. That wasn’t exactly what he said but I think that’s what he meant. My uncle’s good with words.’
She chatters on, determinedly good natured, as they slow-race the suns to the coastline.
There is no real contest. The suns reach the finish long before the people do, allowing darkness to spread. Stars peek between rushing clouds, offering little illumination.
Vesper has her hands full with the kid, so they rely on the light from Duet’s visor to guide them. As night deepens, their world shrinks down, defined by the width of the torch beam and jigsaw memories of what surrounds it.
They move carefully, splashing, mindful of cracks stretching underfoot. Then, fifty metres from the loom of the coast, the buildings stop.
Duet sweeps the beam methodically, searching, finding nothing of substance.
From further off, they hear a cackle, and a voice, rough. ‘You won’t find nothing down there, nope. Nothing.’
Duet looks up, adjusts her gaze until the light catches a small squatting shape across the water. He covers his face with spindly arms. ‘Get your buggerfinding bling out of me eyes, damn you!’
Duet dips her gaze fractionally, keeping the edge of her light by the stranger’s feet. ‘Better?’
Thin arms cross. ‘Better if you’d not come at all.’
Vesper speaks quickly, intercepting Duet’s reply. ‘Please, we’ve been travelling all day and we’re tired. Is there a way to get across?’
‘Might be. Might be I can show it to you. Might be I can help you after an’ all.’
‘We just need help across, thanks.’
‘That all is it? You sound like a stripling. You from the soft north?’
‘Yes,’ replies Vesper, a moment before Duet’s elbow finds her ribs. She looks at the Harmonised, reproachful but Duet’s attention is on the stranger.
‘Don’t say too … much. We don’t … know him.’
The stranger clears his throat. ‘How much you want to cross then?’
‘We want to cross very much, we need to.’
‘What? You been slapped in the head?’
‘A little bit.’
Vesper receives another cackle. ‘Yes, yes, you gonna be needing me alright. Yes, you is. I’m not giving a dry spit how you is feeling. I wants to know what you giving old Churner to be saving you.’
This time, Duet is the first to speak. ‘We don’t need … saving.’
‘Don’t you now? Way I sees it, you stuck out there in the darky cold. You tired and empty. You got big bling on your head that will draw all the flies here. And there’s lots of ’em prowling tonight.’
Vesper nudges Duet. ‘I think we’ll have to deal.’
Duet frowns behind her visor. ‘He’s trouble.’
‘Probably, but what choice do we have?’
The frown becomes fiercer. ‘We’ll regret this.’
Vesper turns back to the man across the water. ‘We’ve got medicine we could trade.’
‘What kind?’
‘Pain meds, stims, soothers and lots more.’
Churner’s toes wriggle with excitement. ‘Well, if you got the pills, I got the ills. I wants two handfuls, one for each of you.’
Duet shakes her head, making the beam sweep wide to the left and right. ‘You’ll get one.’
Churner stands up. ‘Two, or old Churner goes across the ways and finds some hungry flies and tells them all abouts you.’
‘Two!’ Vesper blurts. ‘You can have two.’
‘Two big handfuls? No tricks?’
‘No tricks.’
‘Right then, you sees that tall building over there?’
Duet turns her light, following where Churner points. The beam picks out a rusting arm, jutting ten metres into the air like a giant’s finger, crooked. ‘Yes.’
‘You get over there and I’ll be waiting. An’ I’ll be letting you into a little secret.’ They turn away, trying to find a route through the dark waters. ‘And go quicky smart. Won’t be long before the flies get your stink and then they be crawling all over here and all over you.’
CHAPTER NINE
Essence pulses unseen across the world, spiderwebbing light that grows thick over the southern continent, linking a hundred heads. There is a single moment of cohesion, the bittersweet taste of old majesty and then the First becomes fragmented again.
Unprotected essence is burned by the angry suns, diminished by the hate of the world as it retreats back into its many shells.
The First feels a terrible pain, lingering far longer than the instant of bliss that preceded. The First accepts the trade, considers it worthwhile. Gradually, the burning subsides, allowing the First to take action. From its many hiding places, it speaks and rumours spread like a sudden rain: the Malice is returning. The Malice is vulnerable. The one who ends the Malice can name their reward and the First will grant it.
Responses are varied and instant.
The hungry dispossessed at the north end of the landmass lick their lips and sharpen their sticks.
Across the flatlands, Usurperkin tribes compete with Mottled Walkers and Pug Packs, boasting and posturing.
In Verdigris, the news has to compete with the sudden onset of plague, but those in power share knowing looks and guards start double shifts at the gate.
Word even reaches New Horizon. In the high courts of the Demagogue, many sweat, suddenly insecure in their seats of power. Inevitably, news trickles through the rotten city, passed from slaves to spies and gossips, spreading like a virus. Soon, a hopeful takes the news to the Iron Mountain, looking to swap the information for something more tangible. He trades with Doctor Zero, who
pays him well. When the man has gone, Doctor Zero adds another scar to the white criss-crosses on his hands and whispers into the blood that beads there.
Flies come, drinking deep of Zero’s message before flying further south, where even the First does not care to go; where land blisters and air quakes, where Fallen Palaces lay and beyond that, where madness spits in the eye of sanity, and demons run, fearful.
*
A thin ridge of metal skirts the old tower. Because the structure leans, part of the ridge dips below the water level, part of it rises above, although regular waves cover all when they come.
Vesper and Duet balance on it, clinging to scaffolding that pokes from the structure like rusting bone.
Teeth chatter, as much from exhaustion as cold. ‘Do you think he’s coming?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘But why bother to bring us out here at all?’
‘It’s a better … place for an … ambush.’
With her ear pressed to the tower’s side, Vesper cannot help but hear it creak. The groaning speaks of age, of wear and of imminent collapse.
The wind tugs at them, chilling wet clothes, nipping at skin beneath. Vesper starts to go numb, imagines herself turning blue, save for the oasis of warm where the kid presses on her chest.
After what seems too long, Churner crawls into view.
‘Hurry up!’ snaps Duet.
‘Quiet,’ hisses Churner. ‘Keep your great gobs shut and lower your bling. I sees the prowlers are out and they is not far.’
Duet turns off the beam. With a satisfied grunt, Churner gets to work. Pulleys squeak and squeal like children, noisy, and the crooked tower tries to straighten. It does not get all the way but enough for slick cables to rise from the depths, making a quivering line from the tower to the coast.
They tie themselves on with halting, trembling fingers, fumbling their way in the dark. Brave feet lift from the tower, trusting to the ancient cable.
It sways but holds.
From the other side, Churner works the engineless winch by hand. As he sweats and strains, Duet is dragged across in uneven bursts, heels skimming the wave tops. Vesper and the kid follow. Their progress is faster, if not smoother.
On the other side, the kid is keen for a reunion with dry land. Vesper drops him and he quickly vanishes into the dark.
‘You is getting my pills now.’
Vesper holds out the bag while Churner releases the winch and lowers it back into the water. He turns back to the girl, raising his large hands. ‘Kept these beasties to myself till we’d made our deal. Old Churner’s no fool, nope, no fool. You is giving me a little bling to pick by. Just in the bag, mind, don’t want no prowlers sniffing us.’
Duet complies, the light catching on many different coloured tabs and treatments. Churner’s mouth opens with delight, a grim hole with few teeth. Any sense of haste fades away and the man runs his fingers over the contents of the bag, signalling his approval with a series of animal grunts.
When he is done, the bag is notably lighter.
‘Goodbye,’ says Duet, already walking away. Churner chuckles, making her stop. ‘Something funny?’
‘You is going the wrong way. Very exposed that way. You be easy pickings going that way. I know another path, a little sneaky twisty thing it is. Much better.’
‘How much?’ asks Vesper.
‘I fancy a munch on that little morsel you has.’
‘My what?’
‘It’s a trottsy one, all juiceful and tender …’
Realisation dawns. ‘No!’
‘Ssh!’
Vesper lowers her voice. ‘Sorry. You can’t have my goat.’
‘I don’t needs all of him, just some ribs or a couple of legs.’
‘No.’
Churner sniffs. ‘What about its tongue? You not wanting the stringy old tongue. You wasting that. Give it to me and I gets you on a safe road.’
Duet nods.
‘No. No deal. We’ll give you some of our rations.’
The agreement is made in a flurry of quick whispers and the group go on their way. Churner leads them across the coast to a crack in the cliffs, just wide enough for one. They slip through to find it opening up, becoming a rocky path winding inland. A stream draws a line down its centre.
It remains too risky to rest and tired limbs are marshalled for one last march. Through the night they go, until Duet’s light brushes over cords, tiny, casting shadows the path’s width. ‘What’s this?’
‘Stop!’ Churner says, forgetting his earlier caution. ‘Oh blood and spit, oh bugger and shitholes!’
‘What is it?’
‘Tingle traps. Touch one and they’ll be all over us.’
Duet’s voice is quiet, dangerous. ‘Where’s that goat?’
Three heads turn as one, finding the kid a little way ahead. He has already crossed the first trapline without incident, standing poised by another. Feeling the sudden attention, he turns back and bleats, innocent.
‘Stay there,’ says Vesper softly. ‘That’s it. Stay there.’
The kid bleats again, head drawn to the sound of the girl’s voice. He trots a few paces towards them.
‘No. Stop!’
The kid pauses, head tilted and quizzical.
Vesper holds her hands out in front of her, fingers spread. Slowly, she moves towards the kid, mindful to step over the cord. ‘I’m coming to you. Stay there. Stay there.’
Duet’s hand goes to her sword, ready. Churner shuffles from one foot to the other. Vesper reaches the kid, goes to scoop him up but the kid has other ideas, scampering back out of reach.
‘Oh, come on!’ Vesper mutters, then more sweetly: ‘Come on, I’ve got some milk for you.’
The kid stops, watching keenly as Vesper produces the special bottle. Without another word he scampers over.
Relieved, they start to cross the second trap.
From deeper in the darkness, a single pair of hands applaud, mocking. ‘Thanks for saving our supper, girl. But don’t sweat too much, we wouldn’t want you to get lean.’
Duet draws her sword and lights up the dark. Half a dozen figures lurk on the edge of the beam, eyes narrowed against the glare. They look desperate, dangerous. Their scavenged weapons are crude, scraps of metal or tools, re-purposed; in the right hands, deadly. These hands are stained by a lifetime of murder, animal and otherwise.
From behind them more hunters scrabble down the rock, blocking escape.
The kid sneezes.
Vesper pulls out the gun.
‘What’s this, Churner?’ says their leader. ‘You trying to keep the bounty all to yourself?’
The old man throws himself at the leader’s feet. ‘No, no, Licey. I is bringing them safe and soft this way so I could share them with you. Don’t want no others whetting their teeth on our meat, do we?’
The leader steps forward, revealing herself, an angry ripcord swathed in strips of cloth. ‘And what else have you brought us?’
‘Is this not plentiful?’
‘No.’ She kicks him and he whimpers, quickly producing a treasure of tablets in cupped hands. ‘Very nice, Churner. Very nice.’
While she talks, the other hunters stalk closer, a circle, tightening.
Duet can wait no longer. She spins to the ones nearest her, blade flicking out. Instinctively they lean away, flailing their own weapons in her general direction and only the tip of her sword finds them. It is enough. Throats open, singing red songs and while they gape like pale fish, she kills another.
But the hunters are hard and little surprises them for long. They close in, surrounding her, striking always when her back is turned, opportunistic.
She twirls and strikes, parries and thrusts, moving in a way these people have never seen. Vesper watches, the gun shaking in her hand. She points it towards the melee, not quite firing as the figures pass through her line of fire.
‘Stop!’ she calls out, raising the gun for emphasis.
She is ignored.
Perhaps they don’t believe her, perhaps they simply cannot see the weapon in the dark.
The fight begins to turn. The hunters pit numbers and experience against Duet’s speed and training. She is too fast for them but they are in no hurry to die, keeping her on the edge of their sticks, taking turns, forcing her always to turn towards the next threat. And sometimes, her training fails her. She fights as if she is not alone, making openings for a ghost that never strikes, realising too late that no partner has her back.
Fatigue and injury play their part, too. A stick stabs into her side, easily turned by her armour, then another, rattling wounds. She gasps in pain, pausing for the briefest time.
Sensing weakness, the hunters attack.
Duet cannot stop them all. She drops her sword, curling into an armoured ball. Blows rain down, furtive at first, testing, but growing bolder.
Vesper points the gun, squeezing eyes and trigger at the same time.
Angry light lances out, briefly illuminating faces, shocked.
Somehow, she misses them all.
They gasp and turn towards the new threat, pausing for the briefest time –
And Duet has a knife in her hand and is spinning again, slashing tendons as she rises, stabbing under ribs to slow-puncture lungs. Several break and run. She stabs them too.
As the last hunters flee, their leader, Licey, leaps towards Vesper, who fires, catching the woman mid-leap, burning a line across the outside of her thigh. Then her hands are on Vesper’s wrists, forcing them up, twisting, trying to steal the weapon.
Vesper struggles and the kid runs a few steps away then faints, falling sideway with straight legs.
The woman is not much taller than the girl but she is far stronger. And more brutal. In moments, Vesper lays curled on the floor and Licey has the gun. She turns it toward Duet who is doggedly trying to kill as many as she can before they can escape.
Without warmth, Licey smiles and pulls the trigger.