by Peter Newman
The Vagrant shakes his head.
‘I don’t think I’m going to be welcome where we’re going. You saw what they did to those poor bastards on Third Circle. What do you think they’re going to do to me?’ The next words he forces out, one by one. ‘I’m tainted. Not badly like the Hammer was but enough. I picked it up in Wonderland, long before I met you.’
Green and amber eyes meet and Harm doesn’t bother to hide his shock. ‘You knew? How? How long have you known?’
The Vagrant reaches over the side and scoops seawater into his palm. Carefully, he rests the back of his right hand against the sword’s hilt and touches Harm with his left.
The water begins to move, magnifying the sword’s tremors, tiny ripples making patterns, swirling.
‘All this time I thought I was hiding it from you …’
The Vagrant shrugs, tips the water away.
‘Do you want me to go?’
He shakes his head.
Harm breaks away again, seeking solace in the ocean’s calm. ‘Before you make that decision, there’s something I have to tell you. If you still want me around after that, I’ll follow you wherever you go, no matter what. But if you don’t. If after this you hate me or … or want to kill me. I’ll understand.’
Eyebrows raise, unnoticed. For once, Harm’s focus is purely inward.
‘I said I picked up the taint in Wonderland. I mean that literally. It was about two years ago when I had the operation done. The Uncivil’s surgeons gave me these eyes. It was an expensive procedure, more than I could afford. Most of the money was provided by other groups in the city as advanced payment for my services. I knew it meant they’d own me for a while but I thought I could handle it. I thought …’ he pauses ‘… maybe I didn’t think much at all. I wanted to be special. Most of us do. The operation was supposed to let me read other people, to tell if they were lying, or if they intended trouble. It was supposed to make me rich.
‘What I didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, was how it would affect me. My eyes work by taking in something of the people I’m close to, the same way their scents drift into my nostrils, their personalities would drift into my eyes. That visual scent told me things about them, but it …’ Harm struggles to find the right word ‘… infected me somehow. I wasn’t keeping the best company at the time and my eyes exposed me to the worst parts of them. The hidden parts. The destructive, twisted parts.’ Harm hangs his head. ‘And in me, they found a way to be expressed. Ironically, the sickest of them came to like having me around. They felt comfortable around me and I wonder now if my being there encouraged them in some way. Sometimes I copied them, sometimes they copied me and sometimes …? Maybe some of it was just me, I don’t know. But I did things, terrible things that I can’t take back.
‘I fled from Wonderland, leaving a lot of unpaid debts. Tough Call took me in, and for a while I found refuge with the rebels in Verdigris. I’d managed to get away from Wonderland but in the end, that didn’t matter. There was plenty of darkness waiting in my new home and it wasn’t long before the same problems started again.
‘And then you and Vesper came. I saw my chance for something better and I took it. With you I could be somebody different and because you were good to me and you valued me I started to feel … I started to feel … like I could wipe some of the muck away and start being a person. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for that.
‘But I’ve always worried. Do I just tune into something in the two of you or do I take it away? Am I stealing the best parts of you to help myself? And what if I’m stunting the growth of Vesper’s personality? I couldn’t live with that.’ Tears spring from the corners of eyes, bitter. ‘Actually that isn’t true. I could find a way to live with anything. And I probably would have kept quiet if I thought I could get away with it. So you see, Deke’s wrong. Harm is a good name for me and I haven’t deserved to feel what I’ve felt since we started travelling together.’ He falls quiet while water laps against the boat, counting time. ‘Well, there it is,’ says Harm finally, unable to meet the Vagrant’s eye. ‘Do you still want me to stay?’
The Vagrant stares at his hands. It is unclear what he searches for. A sigh passes his lips, loaded with sadness, and other things, inexpressible. He turns to Harm, who waits, hunched and miserable, and a mix of emotions pass his face. Decision made, he puts a hand on Harm’s shoulder, rests it there.
Deke skilfully navigates the Spine Run and the three ships begin the last leg of their journey. Everyone is tired. The passengers, the engine, even the elements, which remain mercifully gentle. Conversations go through stages of excitement, irritation, then graduate to a rough familiarity. Safe topics soon run out and boredom encourages people to ask more searching questions. Eventually these too fall away. Only the engine keeps going, getting noisier in its struggles, filling the quiet.
Each day passes much like the last. Time drags out and compresses, a paradox that makes the hours long and the days short.
Their arrival on the northern continent is understated. Away from ports and seaways, cities and flight paths, the boats limp to the finish. Once on land, the travellers celebrate modestly.
‘This way!’ calls Deke, walking briskly towards a towering group of trees.
Harm looks wary. ‘You know where you’re going?’
‘Wouldn’t be much of a pilot if I didn’t.’ The old man winks and taps his temple. ‘That and I got the maps tucked in here behind my eyeballs.’ He leads them inland, into a forest.
The trees here are thick and tall, and lined up smartly, like spears for a god. Lower branches have been trimmed to keep the shaft smooth but the upper canopy runs wild, a hundred hundred crazy haircuts, weaving into one another. Deke slaps Genner on the shoulder. ‘You sure you ain’t descended from one of these?’
‘Very funny, Uncle D.’
Everything is still, as if the wind holds its breath. No wildlife is in evidence, just lines and lines of trees, a lonely army. Even so, the wood appears vibrant to southern eyes. Fingers brush smooth bark as they walk and more than one stoops to collect fallen leaves.
‘Down!’ says Vesper.
The Vagrant stands her on the ground. Vesper wobbles for a moment, gaining balance, and then she is moving. Leaves crunch and twigs snap, tyrannized by busy feet.
Deke holds up a hand and the group slows.
‘What’s wrong?’ asks Harm.
‘Why you always so cynical? Nothing’s wrong. We’re here is all.’
Green eyes look across the matching trees. ‘Here?’
‘Yep.’ The old man goes onto one knee and intones something soft and beautiful. Genner follows suit, joining him on the floor.
Uneasy glances pass among the rest of the group.
‘What did you just say?’ asks Harm, suddenly tired.
When Deke replies, the rough edges are gone from his words. ‘My other name.’
From nearby a song answers. The Vagrant starts, recognizing it.
Around the group air shimmers in sudden heat, taking on the shapes of men, and in the blink of an eye, squires become solid, pointing blades. At their head is a man, unremarkable save for the deference given him by others. The Vagrant knows him as Able. He has cast aside his disguise from Slake in favour of a simple uniform, black save for the eye holding the collar close to his neck. He walks forward, crouching in front of Deke. The two press the backs of their hands together and light flows where skin touches. A few seconds are all it takes for Deke’s report to download. Able stands smartly and walks out of the circle. Words are thrown over a shoulder. ‘Keep them here while I report in.’
The goat assesses the scene and finds herself ignored. She trots over to some lush green shoots, keen to sample the delights of northern cuisine.
Able soon returns, flanking Sir Phia. The knight is now dressed in her full armour, impressive, though travel has taken its shine. At her arrival the Vagrant kneels, pulling Vesper close. The rest of the group copy him, Harm a few beats after the
others.
‘So,’ she says. ‘You made it. I was beginning to wonder. She looks down at Deke and Genner, favouring each with a nod. ‘Well done both of you. Your actions will not be forgotten, nor will they go unrewarded.’ Neither man replies, though both straighten.
Harm grinds his teeth. ‘You abandoned us!’
A squire steps forward, gently tapping the back of Harm’s head with his pommel. The green-eyed man sprawls obediently, face down.
‘No!’ says Vesper, reaching out, held fast by the Vagrant’s arm.
Sir Phia waits while Harm recovers his senses. ‘We are not in the slums of Slake anymore, we are under The Seven’s gaze, mere miles from the Shining City. Remember that when you address me. And remember it is a crime to lie to a Seraph Knight.’ Harm’s eyes glaze with hate but his mouth stays closed. ‘Understand that I did not abandon you. When you diverted from the mission, I moved ahead to secure a way. Even then, I left orders to see you helped. My agents were waiting at key locations for your arrival. Wonderland, the Wall—’ she gestures to Deke and Genner. ‘Six Circles. You don’t honestly think you’d have got this far without my help, do you?’ It is unclear whom she addresses so everyone shakes their head, just to be safe. ‘Able, I want these people to be taken in and tested. Purge any you think will survive, yourself included.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
The Vagrant stands up and moves between Able and Harm. Vesper trails after him.
Sir Phia folds her arms. ‘They are going for testing and you are coming with me, conscious or otherwise. Now get out of his bloody way!’
The Vagrant reaches for the sword. Harm sees the motion, rushes forward, wincing as the squires close in behind. He grabs the Vagrant’s hand before it reaches the hilt. ‘Please! Do what they ask.’ Surprised, the Vagrant looks at him. ‘I’m not asking out of fear. I need to do this. Everything good I’ve done has been because of you or Vesper. I need to know if any of it was me.’
Hands squeeze each other tight, saying what words cannot.
Able moves close. ‘It’s time.’
Harm nods, allows himself to be led away with the others: Deke and Genner, Chalk and the children and adults from First Circle, the sisters and their companions from Slake. All go quietly. Half of the squires go with them. Before trees mask them completely, green eyes turn for the last time, filled with sadness and a hint of pride.
‘Bye, Umbull-arm!’
After a quick salute, Able sets off after the group, leaving Sir Phia, the Vagrant and four squires behind.
Sir Phia taps her foot. ‘Able, you’ve forgotten somebody.’
At her voice, he stops, reluctant. ‘Are you sure, Ma’am?’
‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Now hurry up and take the girl.’
He looks pointedly at the Vagrant. ‘I think there may be a problem.’
‘Look,’ she says to the Vagrant. ‘The girl’s probably tainted, better she’s checked here. Helped if possible, given mercy if not. The Seven will not be so kind. And nor will I if you don’t do as you’re ordered. Now, Able, I won’t ask you again.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
Before he or anyone else can act, the Vagrant draws the sword. Four squires surge forward but the Vagrant turns, and something in them falters. Sir Phia and Able are already on their knees.
Surprised, an eye opens.
Understanding dawns on young faces. Baby swords are dropped from shamed fingers and suddenly they cannot prostrate themselves fast enough.
By contrast the Vagrant brings the sword down slowly, until the blade is an inch from Vesper’s face. An eye looks at her sleepily.
Vesper puts a finger to her lips.
The sword is quiet.
An eye closes.
The Vagrant takes a step nearer Sir Phia, sword pointed towards her, offering judgement. She gets up quickly, backs away. ‘You’ve made your point. The girl can stay with you. Now please, put away the sword. The Seven are waiting.’ She backs off hastily and leads the way.
The sword is sheathed, only then does Able stand. He bows deeply in the Vagrant’s direction and sets off at pace after the others. Squires dare to look up from the floor. They glance nervously after Sir Phia then back to the Vagrant.
He gives them a sharp nod and they get up, retrieving their weapons.
Vesper holds out her hand. The Vagrant takes it and the two make their way after the Seraph Knight, squires following after them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Each day of his journey the commander reminds himself: I am not dead. It still feels as if he is falling, as if Samael did not pluck him from the rocks, as if the world is a watercolour he no longer believes in. Only the message is real.
He carries it back to the coast, all the way to Wonderland. There is a building with many floors, some underground, some over. The commander navigates the complex corridors from memory. He is not sure if the knowledge to do so belongs to him or the Uncivil but he does not waste time on it. Such things are irrelevant now.
Samael opens doors for him as they wind closer to the centre of Wonderland. The commander could make contact anywhere in the city but again a feeling of ‘not rightness’ steers him. He will go to the heart of things, physically, geographically, as well as through essence.
Robed figures step aside, deferent, allowing him to progress from Wonderland’s outskirts to the Uncivil’s innermost sanctum, not understanding what the commander has become.
Finally, they arrive. The chamber is thirty feet across, barely enough to hold the Uncivil’s inner shell. Her cloak is thick and woven from the dead. None of the original bodies remain, burnt away by the world’s hatred, but the Uncivil’s legion of followers always find plenty to replace them. Her outer shell is the city itself, threaded with her veins, studded with her ears. And she grows, her people laying down the infrastructure that will allow her to spread to the coast.
At all costs, she must be stopped.
As he stumbles towards her, the song begins to rise. The Uncivil senses it. He sees the necrotic ball sway from side to side in agitation, unable to move against him, unable to flee. He orders Samael to wait and walks the last alone.
The surface of the Uncivil’s shell is smooth, individual pieces broken down and fitted together like a horrific jigsaw. It is almost flawless. Almost. Even with the best joinery, there are cracks between the bodies, tiny, too small for a fingernail. It is easy for the commander to slip his essence inside. A moment later his armoured form clatters to the floor, empty.
Though the chamber appears quiet, a storm rages in the Uncivil’s shell, where essence swirls, like a great sea trying to flee a tiny island. The commander opens himself, allowing Gamma’s message to pass through him, a single note of merciless hate, a poisoned dagger between the ribs. Like a virus of fire it radiates outward, using the Uncivil’s own connectivity against her.
As the song of malice spreads through the Uncivil’s system, necrotic pipes are gutted, turned black from the inside. In surgeries throughout the city, procedures stop too early, sentencing patients to a gruesome end. And the song travels on expunging all traces of the Uncivil. In chambers beneath the city, smoke rises from inanimate fingers. Bonewings fall lifeless from their perches.
In the markets, things continue as normal. Necrotraders haggle, people eat and drink, ignorant of the city’s death.
Underground, the cloak of corpses slowly sags and green vapour leaks out. A remnant of essence seeking the commander’s maimed shell.
Samael blinks, orders surfacing in the blank pool of his mind. He jolts forward, taking the commander under the armpits, raising him up. Heavy boots slip on the cold floor, scrabble and find purchase.
Reoriented, the commander marches from the room, Samael following, like a shadow.
By the time Sir Phia realizes the goat is following them, the will to protest is gone. No one knows what motivates the goat to stay with the Vagrant. There is no hint of love or loyalty. Familiarity or masochism keep her
close in the leash’s absence.
Vesper strokes her side whenever she is foolish enough to come close. ‘Goat!’ When she roams further afield, other objects become top of mind.
‘Tr-ee!’
‘Lee-ff!’
Sometimes she points at Sir Phia. The Vagrant puts a finger to his lips before any names can be bestowed. Quietly, smiles are shared.
The woods draw back like a curtain to reveal undulating fields, topped in lush green. Every mound and hill is a dwelling, windows peeking like eyes through the grass. In places, towers of silver rise, sparkling, into the sky. They too are topped with gardens or a single, grand tree. Endless labour keeps the borders between metal and vegetation neat. Workers hang, strung like spiders on harnesses, little black specks dangling among the splendour.
For most it is hard to see where the land ends and the Shining City begins and yet there are walls. Invisible fields of energy, ready to repel the unworthy. The Vagrant feels them as he passes, the charge making Vesper’s hair rise about her head, a dark and fuzzy cloud.
They are met at the border by a group of knights. The title seems absurd for such fresh faces and though few chronological years separate them, they seem like children next to the Vagrant.
High above, sky-ships squat on massive pillars, vigilant. Many of the pillars are empty however, their landing pods bare. Between them, coffin-sized pellets float, moved by powerful magnets, the Shining City’s own army of secret magicians.
A gaggle of children stream out of hidden hatches in the ground, cheering and waving at the knights. Adults come running after, long suffering.
Vesper’s face goes blank for a moment, then she jumps up and down, pointing to her chest. ‘Esper! Esper!’