Sovereigns of the Collapse Book 1

by Malcolm J Wardlaw

  “I work in here. They’ve got me on marking out and cutting, which is nerve-wracking because if you make a mistake and waste a hide, it comes off your wages. They don’t pay much in the first place.”

  “What do you get?”

  “Sixty-three white ones for a fifty-five hour week.”

  “What’s that in gold?”

  “About one and a half ounces.”

  “You’re right, Skay, that’s not much.” It annoyed him all the more giving that clerk an angel to run an errand; the chancing bastard. “But you get free meals. Come on, we have important things to discuss.”

  *

  Looking over the concrete parapet of the top deck, they could see across miles of petty domains to the north. Sarah-Kelly pointed out the M1 Big Drain curving amongst strip fields and redwood groves. Donald could make out a few clots of surplus flow on the drain, creeping like centipedes. This landscape seemed to be the territories of two gangster castles, which featured rambling walls and clumsy towers from which long banners streamed in the breeze. He turned and leaned one elbow on the thick parapet, smiling at Sarah-Kelly, admiring her smooth white neck, fine chin and strong eyes. Damn was she not a good-looking, smart young woman. In a few weeks, Lawrence would take her back and there would no longer be any reason to see her. Donald suffered a pang at that thought.

  The works canteen, that is, the canteen for the humble ranks of shop staff, was a brick hall built on the old Public Era top deck. It had a wooden roof, much reliant on a forest of internal props. Still, it was cosy inside, with clean tables and a chair for each place, not benches. Donald availed himself of a mug of tea and a plate of mashed potatoes and fried onions sprinkled with minced ham.

  “Let me bring you up to date. I travelled to Oban—”

  Sarah-Kelly was so startled she gawped all fish-faced. It was obvious she had been expecting a waffle of lawyerly fluffle.

  “How? It’s about five hundred miles away—as the crow flies. Except you can’t fly like a crow or you get shot down.”

  “I did fly. Look, it’s not important. What is important is that TK accepts everything you said. Lawrence was wrongly charged by corrupt local merchants and glory officers. They’ve been dealt with in the most forceful way. No, don’t ask me details, I’m not going to tell you. I will say that justice has been done—definitely done.”

  Sarah-Kelly stood up, leaned across the table and held Donald’s head in both hands. She kissed him on the forehead.

  “Absolutely brilliant,” she said. “I knew TK would sort things out. I knew he was a right one.”

  Donald took a moment to resettle himself. His face and neck were flushed. He took a deep breath.

  “However, Lawrence is still in the Night and Fog. It will take time to get him out. We’ll have to be patient.”

  Sarah-Kelly was still shaking her head, grinning.

  “You’re a star, Donald. I must admit, that first meeting we had, I thought you were exactly as Lawrence said, a total uptight prick. Now I see how wrong I was. I just can’t get over how simple it was. I’ve been banging away for months trying to get the National Party to take up his case… I suppose I shouldn’t gripe, they’re buried under cases. Pestering the ultras is a waste of time. They don’t give a shit.”

  For a few minutes, they ate in a contented silence, like a long-time couple. Donald savoured this feeling of ease in her company. Suddenly she asked:

  “Do you have a family?”

  If Sarah-Kelly noticed the hesitation before he answered, she did not comment on it. Donald found himself speaking in tones that sounded strained to him. Again, Sarah-Kelly did not seem to notice.

  “My wife Lavinia and I have two daughters, Marcia and Cynthia.” He paused, thinking about that simple statement, how much it said, yet how little. “I don’t see much of them, unfortunately. Marcia and Cynthia I mean. In the week they’re away at school and at weekends they’re off at house parties.”

  “What does Lavinia do?”

  For several seconds, Donald was so floored by the question that Sarah-Kelly started laughing.

  “I didn’t mean to pry. I was just asking. I don’t know much about you really, considering how much I owe you.”

  “My wife was born to a manor in the Lands of Krossington.”

  Sarah-Kelly tipped her head back and stared at him down her nose.

  “Oh really? She’s quite well-heeled then. Why do you work if you’re so rich?”

  Again, Donald found himself pinioned by what was actually a totally fair question. It was just not the sort of question that any of his acquaintances would normally ask. Sarah-Kelly reached over the table and gave him a prod.

  “I can see it’s awkward for you. Your family is brainy but you aren’t landowners, you’re not her social equal. They snub you. Being in the National Party, I’ve learned a lot about the social hierarchy of the sovereign lands. It’s like the old caste system of India—do you know about that?”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Well. Put it this way. I sympathise. I can imagine how it is,” she said. She disposed of a forkful of pancake—she could certainly eat. “Your mother died long ago, didn’t she?”

  “She died from complications of diabetes.”

  “Lawrence told me about it. He said his stepmother was awful.”

  She clamped a hand over her mouth and ducked her head in embarrassment.

  “Oh my God, that was so stupid of me.”

  Donald wanted to be fair about his stepmother.

  “She was very formal. Even I had a difficult relationship with her. We were never close. After Father died, she went to live with her sister in Cambridge and I’ve not seen her since.”

  “And do you have any other family?”

  “No one close. Father’s elder brother committed suicide at Oxford—drank with sovereign gentry when he needed a First. We lost touch with Mother’s family long ago.”

  “What about cousins?”

  “Our family got scattered in the Glorious Resolution. My grandfather Sir Bartleigh was Wilson Krossington’s business partner—” He stopped and scanned about to check no one could overhear.

  “I know all about how the sovereign clans got through the Glorious Resolution. Bunch of chancing bastards. Banner is certain they planned the whole thing.”

  “Sir Bartleigh got asylum on Wilson K’s lands. For some reason his brother Michael gained asylum on a land up near Manchester. We’ve never heard anything more from that side of the family. My grandmother’s family simply disappeared. They were from Newcastle. Maybe they tried to get south and never made it; we’ll never know now.”

  “So apart from your own family, all you’ve got is one estranged brother? I can’t imagine how that would be. I’ve got four older brothers and two younger sisters. Then there’s cousins—we’re like our own glory trust.”

  This was an opportune time to swing the conversation around. Donald did not miss it.

  “Then why have you turned your back on them?”

  Sarah-Kelly pulled a cold smile and attended to her pancakes and fried egg. She jabbed at the egg with her fork.

  “So, you know,” she said. “We had a row. I couldn’t stay there, not for another second.”

  She would not say anything more, so Donald prodded her.

  “I can interrogate you, if you like.”

  “Tie me down and whip me?” She pulled a mischievous face. “I’ve got a big problem in my life, Donald. That problem comes in the form of Prentice Wyston Nightminster.” She paused. “Or else, my own brother Bartram, although he’s got the whole business on his back, I shouldn’t be too hard on him. The problem is, to him women are just grub, bed and babies.”

  “Why is Nightminster a problem?”

  “Well... When I was young and foolish and he was old enough to know better, we went out together.”

  “How young?”

  “Sixteen.”

 
“And how old was he?”

  “The far side of forty.”

  “What did your old man have to say about it?”

  “He practically pushed me into the sack with him—that’s how it is where I come from, Donald—girls hook new business partners and then produce boys. After about a year of what felt like high society to young me I woke up to where it was leading and cut loose to shelter with my old school friend Theresa here in Brent Cross. My family were furious. Fortunately they didn’t find me for more than two years and they’d cooled off by then. We had, as the saying goes, a rapprochement, except Nightminster never accepted what had happened. Either he’d changed or I was better at seeing people for what they are. Christ, does he have the smile of a serpent. Have you ever looked into his eyes? They’re so pitiless.” She shuddered, uttering an Ugh! “You know what? The main reason I went to Krossington’s Talent Court was to get away from him. When that Krossington passport arrived and took me to Oban, I was so pleased—I’d escaped! Four months later and I’m back here, no job, nothing. That was when Bartram started pushing me to marry Nightminster again to seal the alliance of the businesses. I tried another escape to Bloomsbury College. The problem is, it takes years of study to get a degree, and even then I’ll still just be some common little bint without pwopah diction.

  “Anyway, what finally did it was when Nightminster proposed to me. I turned him down flat. He was so angry I thought he was going to murder me and Bartram was shouting at me, so I just walked into the night, I’d had enough. I earn shit here and live on a Theresa’s sofa... It’s my life at least. I’m in the National Party here in Brent Cross.”

  “What do you do for them?”

  “It’s this new thing called the Atrocity Commission. It’s looking into supposed crimes by glory officers. Personally, I think it’s just bollocks. Lawrence told me there were always stories about people losing it and massacring surplus. It was only a tiny minority. The glory trusts have strict rules about conduct—I should know! Whatever, it means a bit of extra cash and I’m getting to know more people in the Party. With a bit of luck, they’ll give me a job after I graduate.” She pulled a sad smile. “We’re destined to be on opposite sides, you and I.”

  “Do you really believe in Banner’s vision that everyone live in stables and offer up their talents to a god-state?”

  Sarah-Kelly became methodical in her slicing and forking-up of lunch, obviously pulling together thoughts she was not in the habit of expressing.

  “On the surface, everyone goes along with it, seeing as if you want change, the National Party is the only wagon rolling. If it gained power, there’d have to be hard talk about what we’ve taken over and how we’re going to change it. You can’t just wipe the existing world away and pull up a new picture. I see his vision as a kind of ideal of equality to be steered towards but never reached, sort of a political rainbow.”

  “I think he takes it literally.”

  “Then he won’t stay in power.”

  Donald could not conceive of any circumstances that would put the National Party in power, therefore the point was moot. Mainly, he was pleased Sarah-Kelly was strong-minded enough not to be merely a dupe.

  The works siren wailed. The lunch hour was over.

  “Will you be at Bloomsbury College this weekend?” Donald asked.

  “I’ll be there a week on Saturday.”

  “We do have delis and tea rooms in Bloomsbury, quite nice ones. Can I buy you lunch?”

  She smiled up at him. It was a smile he thought about a great deal during the days to come.

  *

  The next morning, Donald experienced a rare occurrence, one not welcome to him—he ate breakfast with his wife Her Decency Lavinia.

  “What are you actually doing these days, Donald?”

  He suppressed the temptation to bat the question back at her. With her sovereign privileges, she was proud of doing damn-all.

  “You needn’t worry. I’ve taken a slew of new cases since getting back from internment.” I’ve got Tanya all sweet again, dear girl, and things are back to normal. No, he did not really say that. “That’s on top of the steady gold TK’s put my way. He’s really been very supportive, all in all.”

  “You’ve taken to sneaking out dressed like a footman. Why?”

  He wondered who had told her that. Probably a chambermaid. It did not really matter. He could not hope to keep secrets from his own servants.

  “TK’s got me doing some… unconventional work. I can’t say much about it.”

  “Suppose you’re seen in the street—”

  “People see what they expect to see.”

  That was a truth he had learned from Wingfield.

  “It could affect our reputation, Donald.”

  “Nothing I do for TK can affect our reputation.”

  “Well I don’t know about that, Donald. I’m picking up some mighty strange stories.”

  “From whom?”

  She gave him the back of her head asking the maid for a fresh pot of tea.

  “You’ve been seen on a turnpike walking towards Brent Cross industrial asylum,” she resumed.

  Donald affected a patient frown.

  “No. I have not been seen on any turnpike, be it towards Brent Cross or anywhere else.”

  Privately, he wondered how on earth that rumour had started. Perhaps a servant on some acquaintance’s household staff had spotted him? It was always a risk. Potentially there must be several hundred servants who might recognise him outside the Central Enclave. Fortunately, Lavinia did not appear to take it seriously, as she changed the subject.

  “It’s TK’s Advent Dinner a week on Sunday. I hope you’ve remembered to get a suit.”

  He bit back a curse, for he had in fact forgotten about it. His eldest daughter, Marcia, would be playing a piano duet with Suzannah Krossington, one of TK’s granddaughters. His mood quickened just thinking about it. Even at the weekends, when his daughters were back from school, he saw little of them. They were always off with Lavinia at this or that house party. During school holidays, they were mostly out of reach at Laxbury Manor estate in the Lands of Krossington.

  “Have you?” he retorted, buying time. Lavinia was always indulgent concerning what she was going to wear and how much it had cost. He did not bother to listen closely, he merely waited for the price tag. Slightly shy of a hundred ounces of gold. She had spent day after day at Clarissa’s, trying it on bit by bit as they made it.

  Donald may have allowed a glare of contempt to escape onto his face. He saw the blasted bodies at Brent Cross. He saw the courage of the honey men, digging out a septic tank. He saw the hauling teams, doomed to stoop for a living, in return for enough gruel to stay alive. It would take Sarah-Kelly eighteen months to earn a hundred ounces—and she would probably struggle to save a tenth of it. Not for an instant would Lavinia pause to reflect upon the workshops of ill-paid seamstresses creating her plumage stitch by stitch. How could a society elevate such revolting frivolity, whilst relegating proper work to serfdom?

  In that moment, he made up his mind; it’s not just this spoiled bitch I’m going to get rid of.

  Chapter 15

  Tom Krossington chaired the Household Cabinet meeting every Tuesday morning. It met in what had been the dining room of a village pub back in the Public Era. The room was on the first floor under the rafters of the thatched roof, with diamond-paned windows looking onto Castle Krossington’s main street of half-timbered shops and terraced houses. The five men and two women never paid much attention to the view. Under TK’s brisk and it must be said occasionally brusque direction, they worked through the business of the lands of Krossington in two sessions of two hours, with a half-hour break. TK was strict about time limits. That focused attention and discouraged pontification. In attendance this day were: TK, Wingfield, who headed up internal security, the head of foreign affairs, the (newly appointed) chief demographer, the first officer of the treasury, the
commander of the Krossington marines and finally the Land Council representative.

  The agenda followed a well-established routine, starting with matters most geographically distant and working closer, finishing up with Land Council matters. Today’s meeting was dominated by two items: discharges to the drains, and the alarming spread of the National Party. Wingfield and the chief demographer clashed again and again. The latter wanted more discharges. All available information pointed to a mild, damp winter and a poor harvest. Wingfield presented charts of how the National Party was gaining members in the glory garrisons of the Lands of Krossington. The charts showed an obvious lagging correlation between heavy discharges to the drains and rising National Party membership by glory officers.

  It took quite some time for TK to manoeuvre the discussion towards a compromise that would at least get them through the next few weeks. It was therefore quite late on in the meeting when an item came up that startled the Cabinet, as it came from a quarter that had never been cause for concern in the past. It was a business that yielded rent of twelve thousand ounces of gold per month from what would otherwise have been barren wasteland. That flow of gold had sprung and flourished over the decades without the slightest input from the Household Cabinet.

  “I’ve received news from within the Value System of Nightminster,” Wingfield said. “There’s been an escape. Two so-called value—two slaves—fled on Saturday night, they have not been recovered.”

  The Cabinet waited, not clear as to what manner of risk this was.

  “One head of value was a very large brown spay, totally bald, with large breasts.”

  The Cabinet absorbed this, in sober silence.

  “Are you certain it’s Pezzini?” TK found it hard to picture his punctilious, forty-seven-year-old former chief demographer wading out of the wilderness.