The Vagrant (25 page)

‘Yes?’ they say, intrigued.

‘We’re looking for Genner, is he here?’

A curtain of light pulls aside to allow through a man, straw hair poking from the sides of his helm. ‘I’m Genner, who are you?’

Harm beckons him closer. ‘Deke sent us.’

Genner slings his rifle over his shoulder, checking his mask before approaching. ‘Uncle D! I haven’t seen him in ages. How is he?’

‘He’s in good voice. He said you might be able to help us leave Third Circle. We’re looking to cross the Southern Sea.’

‘He said that did he? Well if you want to cross I’ll need blood samples, skin swabs, a full body scan and we’ll have to get clearance from the Council. We can get the tests done here but don’t get your hopes up. There’s a waiting list.’

Harm’s voice becomes conspiratorial. ‘We’re hoping to avoid making a fuss. You see, we’re not ordinary travellers. My companion here,’ he looks left and right, making sure they are not overheard, drawing Genner in, ‘is a Seraph Knight.’

‘No way!’

‘On a mission direct from The Seven.’

‘No way!’

The Vagrant meets Genner’s disbelieving stare.

‘No. Bloody. Way.’ Genner’s mouth twists, trying to smile through the words that pour from his mouth. ‘Oh my suns you guys are serious, you’re the real deal! Okay, okay, we gotta keep real cool, not let anything on to the others. You were right to come to me, if Axler or Maddigan knew there’d be a full-on riot! You’re like walking history or a political nova-bomb or—’

‘Genner?’

‘—Yeah?’

‘Breathe.’

‘Oh.’ He smiles. ‘Oh right. I’ll do that.’

‘Can you get us through the gate, today?’

‘I’m your man, I’ll get you through no worries but it isn’t going to be easy, so some worries but—’ The Vagrant puts a hand on Genner’s shoulder. Genner stops, takes a breath. ‘Sorry. Give me a minute. I’ll be fine.’

The antechamber to the Council of Three is deceptive, reflective hexagonal walls give an illusion of space.

‘So,’ says Genner, continuing his monologue. ‘Can I see it? I know it’s a secret and I know it’s disrespectful but we’re inside now and you’ll have to show the Councillors anyway.’ He pauses, nervous. ‘Have I upset you? Was it wrong to ask? It’s just I’ve never seen one before, except in renders and that doesn’t count because they can’t do the sounds right.’

The Vagrant sighs.

‘Oh please, oh please, oh please! I got you through and you didn’t even have to roll up your sleeves for a sample! Do you have any idea how hard that was? Not that I wasn’t happy to do it. It’s an honour, really, the biggest in my life. But can I see it? Please, just for a second?’

The Vagrant looks at Harm, unimpressed.

‘Go on,’ Harm says, winking, ‘show him your sword.’

Another sigh escapes the Vagrant’s lips. He begins to unfasten his coat.

Doors in front of them open, sliding into the walls. They reveal a suited man, elderly, hairless save for a couple that sprout from his nose. ‘Thank you, Genner,’ he says. ‘That will be all.’

The young man is intent on the Vagrant’s coat. ‘I’m happy to stay, Councillor Yuren.’

‘I’m sure you are, Genner, but I’m not. If you’re keen to work beyond your shift then you can go and help Smokely. I understand he’s having trouble managing an animal at the outer entrance.’

Yuren gestures for the Vagrant and Harm to enter. They leave behind a forlorn Genner watching them through closing doors.

As they walk through the building, walls and doors swap places, sliding aside, reforming space. Distance is confused, their destination seeming to materialize, meeting them halfway. It is unclear if they have entered the room or if it has gathered them into its angular embrace.

Yuren stops at a table, high and triangular, each side aligned perfectly with the three-walled chamber. A pyramid slides up from the table’s centre, inky shapes moving across its surface, like thoughts trapped in glass.

‘Take a seat,’ says Yuren. The words hover between suggestion and request. ‘You can be honorary members for the day.’

They sit. Instead of speaking, Yuren leans forward, letting his head drop into his hands. Harm and the Vagrant watch him rubbing his forehead, fingers making tired circles in loose skin.

Vesper is placed in the Vagrant’s lap but she has other ideas, making for the table. She struggles to find purchase on the black glass and slips, hands paddling on the surface, skin squeaking. She flops back against the Vagrant, muted by wonder. Momentarily.

‘Oowwaaaaoooobwaaabwaaa!’

The experiment is repeated. Results are satisfactory and reported with enthusiasm. However, true scientists demand data, extensive data. Vesper sets to work and unusual sounds fill the chamber, pulling the old man from his thoughts.

The Vagrant raises a hand, apologetic.

‘No, it’s fine. Brings back memories of happier times. At least she’s doing something.’ He smiles, unable to make the gesture anything but bitter. ‘So, shall we get to business? I am Yuren, First Councillor of Six Circles and I understand you need my help.’

‘Yes,’ says Harm. ‘We need to cross the Southern Sea, it’s vitally important.’

‘You’d be surprised how often I hear people say that. What can you tell me?’

Green eyes regard the Councillor, pupils wide, drinking light, measuring. ‘We’re on a covert mission. For now you can call me Harm and him Scout.’ Wrinkles appear on Yuren’s forehead. ‘We’ve come from beyond the wall. The Usurper and the Uncivil hunt us.’

‘Dare I ask why?’

Harm doesn’t hesitate. ‘We have Gamma’s sword.’

The Vagrant fails to hide his surprise.

There is a long pause punctuated by squeaking fingers, then Yuren clears his throat. ‘Can you prove it?’

Harm turns to the Vagrant. ‘We have to trust him.’

The sword is presented, sheathed, sleeping.

Yuren shudders. ‘I believe you. Thank you for being straight with me. I’ll do what I can but the wheels turn slowly here.’

‘Make them turn faster.’

A dark thought twists the old man’s lips. ‘Things aren’t so easy anymore. Not like it used to be. Did you know that Six Circles was actually built in the north?’

‘No.’

‘Oh,’ agrees Vesper.

‘My grandmother was one of the architects. They fully constructed each platform, buildings and all and then towed the whole lot across the ocean with a fleet of sky-ships. Can you imagine? For a while we were the major settlement in the south. My father sat on this Council, so my blood’s in this place. I’ve been here all my life, it’s one of the reasons I couldn’t bear to leave with the others.’

Harm looks concerned. ‘What happened?’

‘The war happened! The Knight Commander flew through and took our best and brightest off to die. Since then, the ships that leave don’t tend to come back.’ Vesper yawns, tagging the Vagrant, forcing him to copy. ‘The ones that do are the worst kind; merchants hoping to profit from our desperation. And they do. They all but name their prices.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No. I’m sorry. I’m not angry at you, I’m just angry.’ Yuren notices the sleeping baby, yawns. ‘And tired. Excuse me. Not a good sign when you send yourself to sleep!’

‘True.’

‘When the next ship comes, I’ll make sure you leave on it, but I have no idea when that will be. You’re welcome to stay as long as it takes.’

‘Thank you,’ says Harm. ‘It would be good to rest.’

‘Seems like Scout and your baby agree with you.’

Harm looks over. Vesper lies on the Vagrant’s chest, a trickle of drool following the line of his coat. In return, the Vagrant’s chin rests on Vesper’s head. A pair of mutual pillows, sleeping.

Strange figures surround the commander’s shell, casting shadows shaped like madness. Enhancements and additions make them hard to categorize. Not human, not half-breed, not infernal, not alive, not dead. Other.

They work with detachment, eerie. A melted gauntlet is cut away, as is the shrivelled hand inside. Charred veins like overcooked spaghetti are stripped from the forearm and the limb is re-plumbed. When a match for the original hand is found, animate stitches assist surgical lasers to get the job done. Bones and skin and sinew connect. At the last moment they extract the essence spark from the new hand, leaving the whole shell empty, ready for repossession.

Pipes run from the ceiling to the commander’s visor. Life twitches through them, returning essence home.

For the third time, the commander is reborn. Many remakings have been endured but this is different, deeper, fundamental. Leaving the Uncivil is harder than expected, their alignment has become dangerously close. Normally an extended joining of essences ends in total absorption but she is too potent to be taken and the Usurper’s edict protects the commander, making any conclusion impossible. Instead they coexist, mindless of time passing outside, finding peace, unexpected.

To separate, the commander defines itself in negatives, highlighting thoughts that do not belong to the Uncivil. Even this is difficult. What remains that is not her-them-her?

It begins to panic. Feels itself becoming lost but, beneath the panic, something stirs, a majesty that is part the master, part her, part himself. Different. Himself-itself-herself? The commander is not sure. Even that name rings untrue now. Commander of what? The Knights of Jade and Ash are no more, their essence dust.

He is alone. He? Yes, that seems right: He. He is alone.

Whatever he is drips into the remade shell, filling it, stretching into fingers and toes, flexing them; a puppet master, invisible.

The commander sits up, extends his naked arm. Instantly, the Uncivil’s servants approach. From a smoking nozzle they squeeze a dark liquid, dotting his hand, delicate, as if decorating a cake. The liquid hardens to scales that bond with the dead flesh, aping every movement. The commander is motionless while they work. When his arm is covered they move to the rest of him. Lines of black mingle with green, covering holes, levelling dents. They do not stop until the armour is fully restored.

Without a word the commander stands and leaves, striding out of the chamber and into the city.

The streets of Wonderland are familiar to him now, but should they be? The commander pauses. This knowledge is hers, was hers, is his. Does it even matter? He has the means to find the Malice. That is the only prerogative. To meet it they have made an accord. His goal lies beyond the wall. He will lead her armies through it. She will take the north and he the Malice. After that, nothing is certain.

Robed figures join him as he travels. One becomes a pair, then several, a growing group that pulls stray people into orbit. The commander leaves Wonderland with an army at his back. Their lines are ragged, shoddy. It irritates him. He cannot articulate why.

A measured pace is kept through the night, until the wall looms proud, halving the sky. Atop its glowing ramparts, snipers stand, sending white fire upon the hordes below. But the commander has encountered the wall in a past life, was once privy to its secrets. The sight of the fortification shakes memories from the depths of his being, bringing wisdom. The wall is a machine, a great shield of energy. Its light cannot be broken so long as it’s fed and the batteries that power the structure are mundane, limited.

Until now a stalemate has persisted, neither side willing to bleed enough to break the deadlock. The commander does not understand how real war can be cold.

He gives the order and the first wave falls upon the wall. He sends in the second wave even as their predecessors are scorched by its energies. Sheer numbers will solve the problem. Either the wall’s engines will give out or he will pile the bodies, make a staircase of bones and walk over.

The third wave charges.

The fourth prepares.

The tower is the second highest in First Circle, made to house the city’s elite. Leaders, philosophers, administrators: all gone. Windows look in on empty rooms, bereft, a symbol of what is not. At the very top, Yuren dwells behind shaded glass. On the tower’s opposite side, sunslight passes freely, adding warmth to faces already glowing.

Vesper dangles, arms stretched straight up, hands vanished within the Vagrant’s fists. Together, they walk. Little legs curve outward, taking a gentle route to the ground.

Harm watches as they slowly circuit the room. He waves each time Vesper’s grin passes.

Transparent walls allow a view of the sea and the boats that decorate it. A table runs one side of the room, loaded with delicacies: spherical rolls injected with fruit, fish caught fresh from untainted seas and sugar dressed in many colours. Despite their best efforts, road-trained appetites barely dent the feast.

Harm pats his bulging tummy. ‘I haven’t eaten this well since … since ever! Do you think it’s time to try Vesper with something solid? I could mush up one of these yellow fruits.’ The Vagrant’s lips move, hinting at the fruit’s name. Harm doesn’t notice. ‘What do you think?’

The Vagrant nods and they set to work.

Grassy strips border First Circle’s streets and run across rooftops. Happily, the goat explores, availing herself of the lush pickings until a brazen honk smashes her idyll. Her jaw pauses mid chew and she looks up.

Something is watching her.

Flat feet, orange and webbed, support a plump, feathered body. It appears almost normal, the neck only slightly too long, the beak only a little too big for the head, eyes fractionally smaller than they should be.

It honks again.

The goat gives the remark the contempt it deserves, continues to eat. Only the twitch of a shortened tail conveys her annoyance.

A slapping sound heralds the tainted bird’s approach. It wobbles from side to side as it runs, spreading flightless wings wide, wrinkly skin showing through threadbare feathers. With a defiant cry the bird crashes into the goat, knocking her sideways, away from the grass and onto the road.

The goat regains her footing, bleating profanity. Eyes narrow as they track the bird patrolling its territory. The goat lowers her head. It is not a gesture of submission.

The battle for First Circle’s gardens begins.