The Vagrant

by Peter Newman

  The villages blend, one seeming much like another, personalities deleted by demands from the hungry cities. Their inhabitants work hard tending the last of the great harvester wheels or working the crops by hand, till life blurs surreal. Those with spirit to fight have already fled or died or, in the case of a few, been converted by the Uncivil to keep the peace.

  In fits and starts the Vagrant travels, pulling the goat behind him. Irregular flight patterns make the Bonewings hard to predict and several times Harm holds his breath as they pass over. Only the Hammer is unaffected by the tension.

  They have circled a quarter of Slake’s outskirts, moving anti-clockwise, away from Wonderland. So far nothing has come for them, neither have they been challenged. The locals are too tired, too altered to care about the strange group travelling through.

  The apparent lack of threat is unsettling. Without actual trouble, the mind has space to invent. Imaginary evils are conjured, behind doors, under rocks, hiding in wait just out of sight.

  A thick tower stands before them, heart of the next settlement. Bubbles of blown plastic stick to its side in artificially arranged growths, each one housing a family unit. Around the tower are rings of arable land, sharing sprinklers that once worked automatically. People dot the area, seeing out their shifts, docile.

  ‘Hold on,’ says Harm. ‘Something’s not right.’ All turn their attention to the green-eyed man, except the goat, who is keen to get closer to the rows and rows of edible stalks. ‘This seems familiar. Have we been here before? Maybe we’ve gone wrong, got turned round somehow?’

  ‘No!’ says the Hammer.

  ‘Ooh!’ agrees Vesper.

  The Vagrant shakes his head and Harm bows to the majority.

  Doors at the base of the tower stand open, welcoming. Nobody questions them as they go inside. The Vagrant finds an empty bubble for the Hammer and another for everyone else. Sleep comes quickly.

  In the morning Vesper wakes first but ensures the Vagrant is only moments behind.

  ‘It’s good you put the Hammer next door,’ Harm says quietly. ‘I wanted to talk to you about her. I’ve been thinking about how best to handle her and I’ve got a few ideas.’

  Shifting the baby to a comfortable feeding position, the Vagrant turns his head to listen. After a few minutes his eyebrows raise.

  When the Hammer opens her eyes, she finds two men standing over her. Naturally, her fists clench, violent.

  ‘Hello,’ says Harm. He crosses the curved floor with the Vagrant’s help and sits next to the Usurperkin, one leg bent, the other forced straight out in front. ‘We wanted to know how you’re feeling.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you in pain?’

  The Hammer frowns with childlike energy. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve been looking at your armour. You never take it off. At first we thought that was because you didn’t want to let your guard down but it’s more than that, you can’t take it off.’

  The Hammer’s fists do not relax.

  Harm looks at the cast on his leg, then at the unarmoured place on the Hammer’s arm. Her forearm is studded with metal bolts. Once they fixed a bracer in place, now they are redundant. Some stand proud and ugly, others hide just under the skin, all cause discomfort.

  ‘The stories say the Usurper gave you the armour in person.’

  An already broad chest swells further. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But it hurts all the time.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her head tilts forward, then up again, angry. ‘No!’

  Harm flinches away, toppling backward onto the Vagrant’s open palm. ‘I’m sorry. We know how strong you are. We know you can take the pain but what we’re trying to say is that if you don’t want to, you don’t have to.’

  Her too-small lips part but no words come.

  ‘It’s up to you. Things can be different.’

  Giant fists raise, open and plaster themselves over her face. Her body shakes with sadness, each sob ringing the armour like a dolorous bell. Harm edges closer, reaching out to rest two fingers on her exposed skin. He is careful to pick a place where the green is unbroken. In time, quieter tears spill.

  Shyly, the Hammer reveals her face. ‘Will you …?’

  ‘Yes,’ answers Harm. ‘We’ll help you.’

  Neither of the men are surgeons but Harm does what he can. The Hammer keeps still as the green-eyed man works. Only her face moves, twisting with pain and something else, well hidden. As the first metal plug clunks onto the cloth, staining it with ooze, the Vagrant gets up. He is eager to take Vesper and the goat for a walk.

  They stay outside for hours. Vesper enjoying the sputtering sprinklers, the Vagrant wary and watching the sky. Meanwhile the goat orbits on the end of her chain, terrorizing the shoots.

  A man is moving around the outer band of crops. He is bent low by his labours, fighting the stubborn weeds. Eventually he kneels opposite the Vagrant, separated by a few feet of foliage. Head down, he speaks.

  ‘That’s good, keep looking up, pretend I’m just like the others.’ The Vagrant does as he’s asked. ‘I’m a friend and a servant of the Winged Eye, just like you.’ The man intones his identification, soft, intricate. ‘There’s somebody who’s come a long way to meet you. She’s waiting in Slake. I’m to take you to her. Are you ready to leave?’

  The man glances at him. The Vagrant shakes his head.

  ‘Why not?’

  The Vagrant gestures to his throat, shakes his head.

  ‘I see. Well, I’ll be waiting here when you are. Be quick though, if I can find you it won’t be long before they will.’

  The man says no more, going back to his weeding, drifting away from them.

  Returning to the bubble room, the Vagrant finds the Hammer asleep. Wadded bandages poke from holes on her body like flags of surrender. Harm slumps pale against the wall next to a stack of gory armour and rivets.

  ‘Worse than I thought,’ he replies to the Vagrant’s questioning eyes. ‘It was awful. Some had been grown over, some were … underneath her—’

  The Vagrant holds up a hand.

  ‘I’ll spare you the details.’ Harm shakes his head. ‘You know, maybe it’s pain as well as the taint that drives Usurperkins.’

  They both regard the sleeping figure. Stripped of her armour, the Hammer looks only slightly giant, her face almost human. One hand rests across her chest, surfing with each breath. Otherwise she is still, effigy-like.

  An hour later she wakes but does not move. Invisible chains of fatigue and blood loss hold her in place. The Vagrant tears new bandages and Harm changes the dressings. The Hammer accepts treatment, and afterwards, food.

  Harm’s voice is soothing. ‘That’s good. Try and get some more rest if you can. We have to go and meet somebody.’

  She tries to sit up, fails. ‘No! Don’t!’

  ‘This isn’t goodbye. We’re coming back. I’ll leave plenty of food and water for you. We’re leaving the goat too. You’re not strong enough to travel yet.’

  ‘NO!’

  The Vagrant steps forward, helps the Hammer to sit up. He turns her hand, curls the fingers as if she were holding a cup and balances a coin on her index finger. He mimes tossing it again. She takes a deep breath and tries.

  Without gauntlets, her fingers fumble their way to the task. The coin jumps, somersaults, sings. Not as resonant as usual; a shorter, weaker sound. It does not matter, the Hammer’s eyes light with joy.

  The Vagrant and Harm smile and the Usurper’s Daughter smiles back. She doesn’t try and stop them when they leave, Harm’s leg forcing them to an unpromising hobble.

  They find a man waiting for them outside. ‘Is this it?’

  The Vagrant nods.

  ‘Come on then. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The man stays tight-lipped on the journey, giving an untrue name and little else. On this assignment he is called Able but there have been other jobs and other identities. Able is a veteran of the
Winged Eye’s inquisition, sometimes called the Lenses.

  On the outskirts of Slake there is an alternative way of travelling: the hooks. Large curves of sharp metal, lifted five feet from the floor, lined up one after the other, tight, gliding along their predetermined route. Oblivious to time or circumstance, the hooks keep their pace. At the top of each hook is a light. Some still work, illuminating their cargo for would-be thieves and hinting at degenerates hidden just out of sight.

  Though perpetually gloomy, Slake is full of noise, conveyor-belts groan, gears grind, distant rendering pits roar.

  Harm is attached to a hook. Slender limbs dangle down, weary. The Vagrant and Able walk alongside. Most of the people here are armed. The Uncivil has few laws and those she does enforce protect the city and the infrastructure rather than its citizens. Technology is expensive and hard to replace, tainted humans commonplace.

  They pass another lane of the hooks and some of the cargo shrieks as it passes them. It is a common misconception that the Necrotraders deal only in corpses. The best parts are bought and treated fresh.

  The Vagrant keeps his head down and Vesper burrows deeper within his coat.

  Able takes them to a broken factory, where floorboards rot and maggots thrive. The Vagrant watches the clouds of flies warily. On the top floor, hidden behind refuse and cracked engines is a haven of cleanliness. Two clear blocks of Mutigel serve as furniture. The first has been molded into a chair, the second a cuboid work surface. On the second sits a smaller cube, each face alive with data, and on the first sits a woman who stands as they enter.

  Her face is proud, getting stronger as she ages; authority oozes from her. She opens her long coat to reveal darkened armour and a neck chain, marked with feathers and power.

  The Vagrant takes a breath and then drops to one knee, the sudden movement earning him a kick to the ribs. Less certainly, Harm bows.

  She is unmoved by their deference. ‘These are the ones, Able?’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘There are supposed to be three. Where’s Sir Attica?’

  Harm glances at the Vagrant, who shakes his head sadly.

  Able clears his throat. ‘This one’s a mute.’

  ‘Bloody inconvenient! And the other one, can he talk?’

  ‘It has been known,’ says Harm quietly.

  ‘Good. Where is your master?’

  ‘I … wasn’t there when it happened … But it was a terrible loss for all of us.’

  ‘It’s only terrible if he failed. Did he? Did you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  The woman looks at Able, shakes her head. ‘It looks like you found them just in time. I honestly don’t know how they’ve managed to survive this long. Squires and Southerners! What a combination. They probably don’t even know which holes to shit through!’

  Harm grinds his teeth. The Vagrant keeps his head down.

  ‘They have the sword I take it?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  Her hard eyes return to the Vagrant. ‘Show me.’

  The Vagrant stands, reveals Vesper and the sword.

  ‘Able, check the baby for taint. You, bring the sword closer and draw it. Slowly. I don’t want to attract unwanted attention.’

  Vesper is unsure of the new pair of hands moving her but enjoys the swift rotations.

  As the sword slides free the woman’s hand goes to her mouth. It is her turn to kneel. ‘So it’s true.’ She reaches out to touch the sword, hesitates, lowers her hand, the gesture incomplete. ‘Thank you,’ she whispers. ‘That’s enough.’

  The sword is put away. The woman stands, takes the room again. ‘Forgive my earlier comments. It’s this city, it makes me cranky. My name is Sir Phia and if Attica’s dead then I’m the last knight in the southern continent.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Harm asks, ‘but where are the rest of the knights?’

  ‘Where they’re needed most, guarding The Seven.’

  ‘Where they’re needed most …’ Harm murmurs, incredulous.

  ‘There are less than a hundred of the old guard left, and squires learn slowly. We can’t afford to waste any resources.’ She frowns suddenly, refocuses. ‘We were told you were coming and I was dispatched to find you and bring you home. We’ve had agents spread across this wasteland in deep cover for years, waiting for a sign you’d survived. I expected you a long time ago, what happened?’

  Harm does not meet her eyes. ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. And there’ll be time for all of it when we’re away from here. We’d just about given up hope when we started to hear rumours of a knight still alive in the south. We assumed it was Attica but evidently it was you. Where are you keeping Attica’s sword?’

  The Vagrant shakes his head again, his lips a grim line.

  ‘You lost it? Damn! But wait, that means you’ve been using the Gamma’s sacred blade. You? Ridiculous!’

  ‘The baby is clean, Ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you, Able. We’ll take her back with us as well. So the sword allows you to use it?’

  The Vagrant nods.

  ‘I hope you understand what an honour that is.’ Phia returns to her Mutigel chair. It has not forgotten her contours. ‘Everything is in place for our evacuation. We have a prearranged path through the blockade and once through, an escort will take us to the coast where a ship is waiting. However, there is a secondary objective that your arrival has made possible.’

  Harm pulls a face but says nothing.

  ‘One of our spies has been captured and taken to a rendering facility. Ironically they have no idea of the knowledge he’s carrying, they’re only interested in his parts. We don’t have long before he’s processed so we’ll need to move quickly. Unfortunately they’ve already attached him to an essence lock and I daren’t break it without risking his mind. We need a singing sword to manage it safely. I’m sure you see where you come in.’

  ‘Why don’t you use your sword?’ Harm asks.

  ‘A good, if impertinent question. My sword isn’t here. I didn’t want to risk discovery.’

  ‘But you want to risk Gamma’s sword for this spy?’

  Phia stands up and strides over to Harm. ‘What I want is to return the sword and the information to The Seven and to strike a blow against the sick practises of this city! What I do not want is another unprompted question from the likes of you, are we clear?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘We’ve identified the key figures in the operation and will take them out as a tertiary objective. At best it will slow the Uncivil’s business by a few weeks but it will remind the people that we have not forgotten them and give a much needed boost to our other agents in the area. You can rest here while Able and I make the final preparations.’

  ‘I’m not going to be much use on a mission, I can hardly walk.’

  ‘We can look at your leg, see if it’s salvageable. Either way, you’re right. But don’t worry, I can think of another use for you.’

  The Bonewings appear to hang in the air as the world turns beneath them. Wonderland approaches, brightly lit, vibrant. Towers race each other to the stars, rendering a chaotic skyline. Necrotic pipes line the high ceilings. As the Bonewings approach a number of them lift up, like antennae, sphincters opening, gaping and splitting into four petal fingers, ready to accommodate the silent gliders. Bonewings and pipes meet, one sheathing itself in the other. Rejoined.

  Wisps of essence detach themselves from the Bonewings, rushing through the pipes. Before a bird can blink they shoot through the ridged tunnels, across the roof, slipping within walls, and down again, beyond the cracked paving stones, into the bowels of the city, streaking to its centre, its beating heart, their mother, the Uncivil.

  Since her arrival six years ago, the Uncivil has worked ceaselessly. Developing herself. Her secret stands in plain sight, too much for people to accept. Wonderland is more than her city. Wonderland is her, another of her many titles. Inch by inch she has added to her shell, the c
loak of corpses, joining it to the metal and brick of the city.

  Unlike the Usurper she does not dominate the humans that live within her walls, she enhances them. Her cults are strong, lured to her side by the hope of immortality, and later, of ascension. In return they maintain the city, replacing her shell with fresh parts, fighting the daily decay the world pushes onto her.

  The Uncivil digests the returned essence, considers what it tells her. Her agents in the south have been silenced, the half city taken from her and now the Knights of Jade and Ash march upon her home. There is only one possibility: the Usurper is pushing north, seeking to curtail her hard-won freedom. She will not allow this.

  Within the streets of Wonderland, veins pulse with intent. Whispers find their way to Half-alive ears, forewarning.

  The city stirs.

  Vesper lies on the Mutigel cube, a sailor on a jellied ocean. She kicks her legs, impatient. The Vagrant presses the panel set into the base and the Mutigel softens, letting Vesper descend. He pushes again and it remembers its old shape, bouncing Vesper into the air.

  ‘OoooOOOOOOOOoooowww!’

  Harm’s smile lacks conviction. ‘Something about this feels wrong.’

  The Vagrant ignores him, presses the panel again.

  ‘If that sword really belongs to one of The Seven, why risk it on a mission in Slake? No information is that important.’ He walks gingerly across the room, testing the flexible silver on his injured leg. It takes his weight. ‘And if I was a knight I’d go with you myself, not hide on the outskirts of the city.’

  ‘OoooOOOOOOOOoooowww!’

  ‘Are you even listening to me? I don’t trust her and you shouldn’t either.’

  The Vagrant gives Harm a hard stare, raising a finger in warning.

  ‘I’m not allowed to voice my thoughts now, is that it?’

  The Vagrant’s finger curls back into his fist. He sighs and returns his attention to the Mutigel.

  ‘Look, it’s wonderful that we’ve got help. Really, it is. But she’s holding something back, I’m sure of it. Just promise me you’ll keep your guard up.’ Despite the Vagrant’s hurried nod, Harm isn’t satisfied. A shy hand ventures out, rests on the Vagrant’s arm. ‘Please, be careful. For Vesper if nobody else.’