Roil

by Trent Jamieson

  Screams split the air and Medicine moved fast enough to wish he hadn’t: a Factory was devouring some ducks. The water bubbled and grew bloody and more Factories moved to that space, without seeming to move, their huge, hungry eyes staring up; optimistic in the way such creatures are because something always finds its way into their mouths.

  “Too big to be wholly carnivorous, but they’re not fussy,” Agatha said in an offhand way. “Anyone want to get a closer look?”

  People kept away from the edge of the road after that.

  The Margin closed around them, its mass of sky devouring trees arching over the highway, swallowing the light. The Council guards rode to the rear and front, a small army dwarfed by all that unthinking forest.

  The road in the Margin was unlike anything else the Council had ever built. It did not stretch on straight and true, but wound crookedly through the Margin, as though its engineers had lost their way. Medicine was not surprised by this; he could imagine all their machinery failing here, compasses making soft circuits of their cases; determination and madness driving them on.

  What it meant though, was that their scouts were rarely seen, the road and the Margin conspiring to hide them around the next curve.

  The forest stank, trees dripped and rotted. Dank miasmic fog drifted through the trees like the tattered ghosts of diseases long ago lost to memory. The Margin clung to everything like a nightmare-haunted fever, wet and close and hot.

  And always, scattered throughout the forest, were the decaying remnants of the Cuttlewar, a goodly portion of that battle had been fought here. Machines lay shattered and discarded, rusting leviathans, half overgrown. One section through which they passed was a graveyard. Here the trees had grown back through tombs. Medicine paused for a break and rested his feet upon a rock, only to discover it was a skull half swallowed by tree root. Eye sockets shadowy and dull stared up at him. He removed his feet and left the dead to its slumber.

  The air in the Margin thickened, deadening sound but for the distant clatter-shriek of birds – blood wings most like, predatory and cunning – and the howl of beasts, as they made their passage through the muddy lower ground. And yet, at times the reverse occurred, noises were amplified, transformed. The most innocent sounds suddenly took on baleful significance.

  Night was worse.

  The wet heat was just as bad, the air just as stifling and still, but the forest shuffled in even closer. Creatures called out in the darkness, their cries at once distant and thunderous, brute and knowing, and always cruel. A shriek or a howl might echo, so close, that Medicine would spin, heart pounding, expecting to see a beast on top of him.

  Inquisitive bats, their skin slippery and soft like a frog’s, flitted into the camp drawn by the lights.

  They were stupid creatures, flying into campfires in such numbers that the campsite was soon thick with the stinking smoke of their burning bodies. Better the blinding smoke, for when they did not fly into flame they flew into people, biting and screeching as they tangled in hair or clothes. Those bites festered over the days ahead, the wounds darkening, the rot spreading like a contagion from the forest to people’s skin.

  Many died, despite Medicine’s efforts. His medical training had ill prepared him for the Margin.

  While it was bad that first night it was something that lingered and worsened.

  The rain did not stop, just dripped down through the trees, descrying holes in tents and makeshift shelters and splashing on faces or skin; grey and greasy droplets, that stained or, if swallowed, caused nausea and stomach cramps.

  Medicine was starting to miss the Factories.

  “This place stinks,” someone complained to Medicine, as he treated a wound caused by one of the bats.

  “Everything stinks,” he said.

  The next day the mood was grim. And, though he was surly and tired, Medicine put on his brightest suit, his most cheerful expression and walked the length of the campsite. He spoke to as many people as he could. Showed them all that he was in good spirits, that he believed they were doing the right thing. And it seemed to work.

  They packed quickly and were on their way before ten.

  Halfway through the day, Medicine realised something was wrong. No one from the front had reported to him since early morning. He was worried enough to insist that he and Agatha ride up there.

  They passed the wagons at a gallop and continued riding for another ten minutes.

  There was no sign of them.

  “Where did they go?” Medicine asked.

  Agatha looked bewildered.

  “I have no idea. No shots were fired that’s for sure or we would have heard them and there’s no sign of them having left the highway.”

  “What on earth could take ten Council guards without so much as a peep?”

  Agatha turned her horse around. “I would rather not find out.”

  They rode back to the convoy and Medicine half expected them to be gone as well. Three thousand snatched away as easily as those ten. He was sure if he was relieved or disappointed to find them still there.

  After that he drove them on, walking into the night but, at last, with everyone too exhausted and no end of the Margin in sight, they had to stop and make camp.

  Another night of bats and other less savoury things that moved more silently than breath.

  The next morning found one of the tents empty, but for a Verger’s knife, the blade partially eaten away by what looked like acid. Another tent contained a more grisly find, every single person sat dead, at a table made of some dark and alien wood, their blood drained, their eyes taken, tiny glittering stones put in their place. But for the fact that they were corpses, it looked like a party mid swing. The dead still held glasses, their mouths remained curled in smile or silent talk.

  Indeed, the people in the tent nearest claimed to have heard laughter and song until the early morning.

  Medicine, always curious, had wanted to examine the bodies and the peculiar method of exsanguination; it appeared they had been drained through the veins in their feet. But Agatha over-ruled him, and had the bodies and table (which had not been carried here or ever seen before) and chairs burned at once.

  “I’ve heard dark tales about such things,” she’d said grimly. “Sometimes people come back.”

  Agatha called in the guards from the rear, eschewed scouts and had everyone travel close.

  It was a long and tense day’s travel, the forest closing in, the road almost lost twice, but at last, just as it looked like they would have to spend another night in the Margin, they reached the plains. Medicine had never felt so happy, still he held back until all had made it out, only then choosing to walk onto the open land.

  He stared back at the Margin. What was most disquieting was that he was unable to shake the feeling that it was looking right back at him.

  Once out they made a head count.

  One hundred and forty people had been lost to that forest and, with that knowledge, any sense of triumph.

  PART TWO – CONFLAGRATION

  Chapter 37

  To destroy a political career like that...

  What makes a man decide to turn against the tide? What makes a man decide to destroy not just his life, but those around him, those nearest and dearest?

  I know this only too well.

  Stade – Personal Papers

  MIRRLEES-ON-WEEP 260 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL

  Warwick Milde had never been a stranger to controversy. After all, he had crossed the floor, gone from Engineer with promise to Confluent, and he’d dragged his brother with him. Stade had never forgiven him for that. But this was far, far worse.

  “I told you it was true.” Medicine grinned.

  Warwick Milde shook his head. How could a man smile in such a place? “It wasn’t so much that I did not believe you but, well, that I didn’t believe you.”

  Sean wasn’t smiling, but looking back at the door. “We don’t have much time, and only one exit. They find us here we�
�re dead.” The pistol he held tightly in his hand shook a little. Sean didn’t like guns.

  Warwick looked over at his brother. Three of them, councillors, sneaking around the basement of the Ruele Building like children. Buchan and Whig were waiting, just beyond the tower, with enough men to keep the Vergers at bay if it came to that.

  “We’ve time enough, Sean. For a little wonderment.” It was cold down here, his breath plumed, but that was the least of his discomfort. There was an endless whispering coming from the eight metal doors set into the stony walls of the basement.

  “We’re dead, if we’re caught here beneath the Council Chambers.” Medicine didn’t look too worried. He’d lost his fingers to Stade and sometimes Warwick wondered if he hadn’t also lost his mind. The man was reckless. He had disarmed the alarms, he had bribed the guards and those who’d proven resistant would wake in the morning with sore heads and little memory of the past twenty-four hours. Medicine’s familiarity with pharmacology had proven extremely effective. But was it enough, and what did it make of him that was down here too, in a basement filled with Old Men? The Old Men. Every child in Shale had heard of them.

  Old Men hungry and Old Men wise,

  Old Men’s truth and Old Men’s lies.

  Old Men’s wisdom against the heat,

  Crack your bones for the marrow meat.

  But he’d thought them just that, a fairy tale, a series of myths; the fabled progenitors of Shale, Masters of the Engine of the World. Yet here they were.

  Be gone.

  Be gone.

  The eight voices chanted.

  Medicine had placed his head against one of the doors. “This one’s Cadell.”

  “The Engineer.”

  Medicine nodded. “They’re all Engineers, but he...”

  “He’s the right one.”

  Sean considered the locks. “I’ve the skill for this.”

  This was the sort of thing they had done as children, Sean grinned, he’d have made an excellent peterman.

  “I’m watching your back,” Warwick said. He had an old revolver in his hand. Damned if he knew it would even work. Medicine looked more comfortable with his own weapon: a long knife that looked even crueller than a Verger’s blade.

  “I know,” Sean said, cramming his powders into the lock. He lit a short fuse, turned from the door, and covered his ears. There was a soft detonation, Warwick had been expecting something louder, but it was enough. The door opened, Sean poked his head through doorway.

  “Mr Cadell–”

  “Shut it. Shut it,” came a soft voice.

  “I can’t,” Sean said.

  A hand snatched out and dragged him through the opening, lightning fast.

  Then the screaming started.

  In the few seconds it took for Warwick to reach the door, Sean was dead. Cadell, little more than skin wrapped around bone looked up, his mouth rimmed with blood.

  “Sorry,” he breathed. “Sorry.”

  But it didn’t stop him swallowing down chunks of Sean’s flesh.

  “Sorry.”

  Warwick raised the gun, aimed it at Cadell’s head.

  “No,” Medicine snarled, grabbing his arm, and pushing Warwick out of the room.

  “We need him,” Medicine said.

  “He just killed my brother.”

  “Get out there,” Medicine said, pointing to the hallway. “People will be coming. Keep our exit clear.”

  Warwick fled the room. The single door leading into the basement opened, a Verger stormed through and Warwick discovered that his revolver did indeed work.

  “We have to go,” he yelled

  There were too many of them. Warwick expected he would soon be dead, he thought of his wife, of his brave son.

  Forgive me. He fired at the next Verger, trying to keep them at the door. How they were ever going to make it out was beyond him. He’d use up his bullets and then he would just sit on the floor.

  Cadell was a blur racing past and the Vergers began to scream.

  “You don’t want to go in there,” Medicine said, as Warwick walked back towards the room. “Warwick!”

  But he didn’t stop, Sean deserved that much at least. In the centre of the room was a bloody pile of broken bones and a skull. That was all, nothing to signify that he had ever been his brother. The room itself was bare but for claw marks in the walls. We were so stupid. What had they unleashed upon the world?

  It took Warwick a while to notice the screaming had stopped. It never would inside his skull.

  “Hurry, Warwick,” Medicine yelled, his voice cracking. “We need to go. Now!”

  Warwick left the room.

  “Hurry.” Medicine slung a cloak over the much less emaciated Cadell, though he remained more bone than meat. The Old Man couldn’t meet Warwick’s gaze.

  “I’m sorry,” Cadell whispered.

  Warwick lifted his pistol, pointed it at Cadell’s withered face. His hand didn’t shake. He took a deep breath. What have we done? He lowered the gun.

  Bring him back, the other voices chorused. Bring him back. Warwick looked at the blasted door, that wasn’t going to happen, just as Sean wasn’t going to walk out that door.

  Warwick stepped over the ruined bodies of the Vergers. Turned his back on the Old Man, and the broken door.

  “I’m sorry.” And that was all Cadell said for two days, over and over again, he didn’t say it enough times. He could never say it enough times.

  Chapter 38

  All books now available in Powder form. Engage with a narrative in ways hitherto unknown. Fiction, Non-Fiction, Maps take your drug of choice.

  Pre-emptive Counselling provided free of charge.

  Matheson’s Books – Summer Catalogue.

  David found a bookstore, the Vellum Shore. The place made him ache for home and the days when a bookshop was enough. The shop was poorly stocked, but David reasoned that had more to do with the imminent evacuation of the city rather than poor ordering. He bought a small foldout map of Chapman and a sachet of map powder to go with it.

  Now he had a chance of finding Chadwick Street and the safe house.

  Of course, he had already found a supplier of Carnival. That had been the easiest thing of all and never knew for certain if he’d see Cadell again.

  David had enough money left over to buy a fried sausage at a street stall. The thing tasted lovely. The anticipatory buzz of the Carnival, the festival itself all helped to lift his mood. He ate the sausage as he sat under a statue of Councillor Elmont, founder of Chapman. He unfolded the map he’d bought over his legs. Chadwick Street was at the other end of Chapman. His shortest route followed the wall. He took a little powder and the wall came into focus. Grey old stone, fringed with dead mould. Wanted posters for Buchan and Whig fluttered in the wind.

  DEAD OR ALIVE. Less life met with Largition.

  The image ruined his mood. He finished his meal, strode two streets over and climbed the stony steps to the great circle wall.

  He was sweaty, breathless and dizzy by the time he reached the top of the wall, but the dry wind stripped away the sweat and his breath returned to him.

  From up here, you could see everything with almost as much clarity as Map Powder provided. Chapman was a city of circles within circles, split only by the fat River Weep. Well, a tributary of it; the Lesser Weep. the Greater Weep disgorged into the sea twenty miles north of the city. Where Mirrlees was undulate and coiled around the river, up and down and side to side, her streets like a nest of serpents, Chapman was an example of much more careful civic planning.

  Everything was constructed around a central landmark: the Field of Flight. David could just make it out, patches of green through the balloon and Aerokin heavy sky. To the west of it was Chapman’s Tower of Engineers a smaller version of Mirrlees’ Ruele tower. With night just a few hours off, its twin searchlights were already lit, at its base would be the famous motto of the Engineers: “In Knowledge Truth. In Truth Perfection”.

  Fro
m the Southern Wall where David stood, you could see the Deserted Suburbs. The gaudy wrap of the Festival of Float failed to conceal the poor condition of Chapman from even the most cursory of inspections.

  The streets were empty. Only around the pubs and the buildings near the Field of Flight could people be seen in any numbers. And those areas were overflowing with crowds, few from what David could tell, actually locals.

  David stood on the Southern Wall, staring into the city and then out beyond the wall to the Roil, alternating between two forms of dreadfulness, though one was by far the worst. Down south, past the lost suburbs there was little to look at… or too much.

  Every time he glanced that way, a thrill of terror rushed through him. It was a visceral dread. Indeed, the mere sight of it gripped and damned and made every doubt come bubbling up like a sickness.

  The Roil dwarfed his imagination; transformed Chapman to an insignificant scrap of human clutter. This close it, and its vast mute prophecy, was impossible to ignore. How were they ever going to stop that?

  David had seen Cadell work his power over cold, he had seen the sky rain ice and the frozen remains of poor creatures caught in that furious boiling chill. However, impressive as it had been, the Roil made it seem like nothing. But then he saw, in the distance far, far in the heart of the Roil, the coruscating finger of light that was the Breaching Spire. Mirrlees was just too far away to see it, but here at last was revealed the greatest work of the Old Men, the diamond tower that breached the atmosphere. Then the tower dimmed, or a cloud passed across the sun, and all he could see was the Roil again.

  A distant almost plaintive bell sounded out the hour.

  He turned his back to the Roil, but could not escape its presence. It was there as much as the beating of his heart or the heat in his blood. Try as he might it would never leave his thoughts. He had seen the Roil. He had seen the end of the world.