The Vagrant (18 page)

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.’

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 cloak 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.’

The Vagrant looks up. For a while the two men stare at each other. He nods again, slower, more resolute.

‘Thank you.’

Swift footsteps on the stairs startle them. Sir Phia and Able reappear. Vesper kicks again. And again. ‘Ooo?’

Hastily, the Vagrant clears the knight’s seat and returns to one knee.

Sir Phia strides across the room and sits heavily. ‘The final preparations have been made. It’s time for you to leave. Any last questions?’

The Vagrant shakes his head. Harm clenches his jaw and follows suit.

‘Good. You will take the sword and go with Able to the facility. While a second team takes out key personnel, the two of you will recover our operative. Remember, it’s imperative that he be brought out alive and unharmed. I will take the wounded one and the infant to the edge of Slake and prepare our transport.’

Harm raises a hand. ‘We have another travelling companion, not far from here.’

‘The mutant? Out of the question. She’s too big a risk.’

‘She’s injured, she needs our help.’

‘Help? According to my reports that thing is a monster. More than capable of protecting herself and of ruining our mission. If she dies of her injuries it will save us all a job.’ Harm takes a breath to speak. ‘There is nothing more to say. Unless you’re volunteering to take care of her yourself?’

‘No. My place is here.’

‘Your place is where I say it is. We expect discipline from our Squires, and we get it. Enough talk. There’s work to be done.’

The men rise, gathering their things.

Grimly, she adds: ‘Winged Eye watch us, measure us, judge us.’

Sir Phia wastes no time in putting Harm to work. As soon as the Vagrant and Able are gone, the green-eyed man finds himself sat on the floor, sifting through a bucket of nutrispuds. Despite multiple treatments, the modified vegetables have become hosts for some unidentified parasites.

He checks each one by hand, sorting the fairly clean from the utterly rotten. When he finds the tell-tale holes, he digs in, scraping out hard-backed worms that sway angrily from his fingertips.

The worms are put into a jar for purposes unknown and the nutrispuds join their fellows in the bucket.

Next to him is the Mutigel cube, the top formed into a bowl for Vesper to recline in. Rather than sleep, the baby attempts to roll to freedom. Regular grunts mark each attempt, becoming steadily louder as her frustration grows.

Sir Phia enters the room, studying the bucket with a critical eye. ‘Make sure you do a thorough job. You wouldn’t want one of those things to end up in your gut.’