The Vagrant (8 page)

The Vagrant catches the descending hand before it can point. He shakes his head, slowly this time, holding Ezze’s gaze.

‘Of course, of course, you are a serious man with a very firm grip and you like it that way! I see it all now. But give Ezze something! What do you want? I work miracles for you, but first you say what markets you love.’

He releases Ezze, takes out the navpack, shining its flickering light between their feet.

‘Is sad, yes? Looking at picture of what’s gone.’

The Vagrant points to the image of the mountains, flicks his finger northwards.

‘Ah, you wish to travel, to Wonderland? My friend it is an amazing place but trust Ezze when he says, it is not for you. Better that you stay here, make a life. Or travel south, so much easier to go back. The Usurper welcomes all to his cities but the north gate is watched, closed to the likes of you.’ Ezze’s frame shakes with a theatrical sigh. ‘But Ezze sees your heart is set. It will take a miracle and lots of wealth but it can happen. You stay here out of sight and Ezze will go, see what can be done for you, my travel-hungry friend.’

With practised ease, Ezze slips out into the shop. ‘Bruise, watch for customers. Remember, they cannot leave until they buy. And you, beast—’ he picks up a heavy piece of striped plastic sheeting ‘—your hairiness must be hidden!’ He throws the plastic over the goat’s head. ‘And if you shit on my floor, Ezze eats goat’s eyes tonight, ha!’

Bruise watches his master leave, smile settling to a sneer.

In the shopkeeper’s absence, other noises take their turn. Erratically, tech ticks and legs scuttle just behind the walls. Though dimmed the street continues to bustle outside.

Small hands press on the inside of the Vagrant’s coat. He puts the baby on the bed, begins to search the room, lifting covers and lids. Mismatched earrings sit with nipple rings and nose studs, too clean to be innocent. Toes peek beneath a cloth in a corner, motionless. Frowning, the Vagrant pulls it away revealing a woman of foam, headless, her hips squished flat. He drops the cover back, searching no further.

A fresh smell fills the room, pungent, violent.

The baby giggles.

The Vagrant sighs, folds the soiled cloth and hides it, a secret memento. Bare legs wave excitedly, dancing to a beat unheard.

Hours pass. The baby drinks, wriggles, sleeps.

Footsteps herald the shopkeeper’s return. The Vagrant’s coat sweeps down, swallowing the baby once more.

‘Now it is all clear! Ezze has heard rumours, strange things.’ A hand waves towards the Vagrant. ‘Ezze has many friends and they tell him that the Usurper’s knights came here when they should not, entering the city before Darktime. Can you imagine such a thing? They are searching for a man. Some say he has killed one of them. Impossible, yes, but they are here. Ezze hears a challenge has been made between these knights and the Uncivil’s Duke. The one who gets this man first, wins. Both sides, they are hungry for victory, they will give a great reward to whoever helps them win. You understand, yes?’

The Vagrant’s hand drifts slowly towards the sword’s hilt.

‘All of Verdigris is looking for this man. If he wishes to escape he will need to be clever, to have powerful friends and great wealth. Ezze can be that friend, he has found people that can help but they are scared. Ezze is scared. But everything has a price; freedom, courage, it can all be bought if you have the right goods.’

Getting up, the Vagrant uncovers the goat, detaches a sack.

‘Ah yes, Ezze is interested. What else do you have?’

The Vagrant’s eyes narrow.

‘Before, a sack of pasha would be enough. But now? Now everything is changed. Now they are looking for you, all of them. Terrible things would happen if we are caught and then what would happen to the thirteen children, the three sisters, the sick brother who coughs blood, the hungry wives, and the lovers who keep Ezze going?’

Sacks are lined up between them, leaving the goat skinny, unburdened.

‘For this, Ezze can disguise you, get you to the gates a safe way, even bribe the guards. But you will need a distraction. It will cost. You understand, miracles are never cheap, eh?’

The Vagrant holds out a coin. It sits in his palm, too bright for the dingy room.

Ezze peers at the shining disk. ‘But what is this, another mystery? Ezze is speechless! There is a good price for these on the market now, so rare.’ Happy sweat lines the shopkeeper’s lip. ‘This is good, very good. Ezze accepts your offer.’ The coin is taken, kissed and tucked away, soft luminescence hidden within folded sleeves. ‘You still stare at Ezze, why? Ah you want change. Of course Ezze would normally give something back to balance such a valuable gift but it is not so simple. The coin is valuable, yes? Yes, this is not to be argued with but most have been seized, and to sell this one on will make questions. Ezze does not enjoy questions of this kind. When your distraction is bought and discretion for sale is bought, not much left for poor Ezze. So with much sadness I can give you no change.’

The Vagrant sighs.

‘Do not be that way, deal is done.’ Ezze’s hands smack together. ‘Now we must get to work, friend, if you are to escape Verdigris with all your fingers!’

The shopkeeper rummages, commentary unceasing. A pile of objects begins to grow at their feet.

‘Ezze sees problem. You are too strange, easy to spot. But fear not, friend, here are the answers!’ A pair of horns is held up, painted plastic given the appearance of bone. ‘For your beast,’ Ezze explains. ‘Make her look like a tainted male, yes? Ezze give her hump too, and fake double tail, even you will not know her! There used to be demand for costume, some customers like the taint, sexy, you know what I mean? Of course you do! But now market is full of real thing, so hard to shift costume.’ The shopkeeper examines the Vagrant, shaking his head, pursing his lips. ‘You are more tricky, for you Ezze needs to make purchase.’ A bundle of grimy cloth is offered. ‘Put this on while Ezze is out, and hide your things in a separate bag, we hide it in the hump, yes? They are looking for man with weapons so we give them something else to look at.’

Ezze leaves. Quiet follows.

The Vagrant begins to dress the goat, pulling it into the back room. Horns, tail and hump are attached, the latter’s hollow space stuffed with the Vagrant’s coat. The sword is too big for the hump. The Vagrant lashes it to a bundle of poles, crooked and rusty, wraps them in old sacking, hangs them by flaccid bags already slung across the goat’s back. The goat does not care, her nose dives into a sack, comes away with stolen fruit.

He turns to his own outfit. Stale plastic drops over his head, a giant’s poncho. He ties it loosely at the waist, slips the baby inside. It coughs delicately but does not wake. He waits.

Puffing is heard at the doors. ‘Good news, friend! Ezze finds perfect thing at Necrotraders.’ The shopkeeper emerges, unfurling something long, suckered and dead. ‘Impressive, no? Come closer, smell it.’

The Vagrant covers his nose, steps back.

‘Yes! You see, friend? We disguise you not just as tainted, but as sick. We fix tentacle to you, pad your clothes more, add a little juice, make them think you have leak. Nobody goes near you, no searching, no troubles.’

The Knights of Jade and Ash return to the gate, hands empty.

Under the arch lurks the commander. It is still, redrawing its boundaries, shaking off the sense of Patchwork and the echo of the Uncivil. New thoughts swirl within, taken from the blending of their essences. Patchwork is afraid of their coming, that they will find something, a secret. It did not expect them.

The group forms a circle, leaning together, visor to visor, essences touching, thoughts running as one.

‘Did you find the Malice?’

‘No. No. No. No. No. This feels wrong.’

‘Did you find its trail?’

‘No. No. No. No. No. There is a hole where the seventh should be.’

‘Patchwork will commune with the adversary.’

‘They will fight us?’

‘They will seek what is ours. We must hunt.’

‘Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. We are diminished. Will the Malice take us too?’

‘We hunt.’

They separate, forming behind the commander, one a step behind the others.

People part for them, pressing against the walls, staring. The commander senses something is wrong. It observes the humans recoiling but not running, their lack of fear disturbs.

A building looms, original walls hidden under repair plates hidden under yellowing skin. The Usurper’s banner hangs proud. Unlike the rest of Verdigris, it is forever loyal.

They push through unguarded doors, pass dozing half-breeds, moving deeper. They enter a hall, filled with living matter and walls that pulse, skin-cushioned, veined. A figure nestles within. It jerks up to meet them, features hidden within its robes. The commander remembers it was larger once.

It flinches from contact but the commander gives no choice, drawing out its fragmented essence.

‘Why … you … here?’

‘The master’s will.’

‘… Why?’

‘Where are the others?’

‘I …’

‘Where are our allies?’

‘They …’

‘What have they done to you?’

The memories are scattered, muddled, enough. The commander’s fists clench, powdering the empty shell beneath its fingers. This is the secret Patchwork hides. The Usurper’s agency in Verdigris is broken. It has been for some time, allowing the Uncivil’s hold on the city to grow strong. Her cults are swelling with new recruits, her Necrotech fills the markets. She already rules Wonderland and Slake, and Veridgris is hers in all but name. If the coup is successful, word will reach the other infernals and they will doubt the Usurper’s majesty, flocking instead to the Uncivil’s banner or contest the master themselves. The commander’s thoughts fill with concern, with questions. How has the Uncivil become so powerful? How was this not seen? How did the master not know?

The group shuffles along Verdigris’ main street. It is clearing, people instinctively seeking shelter before the Darktime ends. A desperate few conclude business, snatching bargains.

As the group passes, people take notice. They see a slave master and his three wretches, heavy with death’s stench. First, they see the boy drool and moan, one eye open, the other pus-sealed. Second, they see the tainted man, his tentacle seeping, dead. They know he will soon follow. The third is a pitiful creature twisted by mutation, horns and tails sprouting from all available spaces, a second form grows from its back, mercifully covered from view. It moves slowly, every step a labour.

Hurriedly, the onlookers turn away.

Machines power down, their lights no longer needed. Verdigris stills. It is not the Uncivil’s domain, not yet, but change can be felt, the air pregnant with Starktime.

The group moves on, now alone. None speaks save the boy, who wails as if under torture.

Old buildings lean together, making tired arches. In places they collapse, closing streets, forcing new ways to be forged. Homes become throughways, windows become doors. In turn the piles of rubble accommodate life. Handlings scuttle between the cracks, competing for space with rats, ubiquitous, tainted.

Here, the group stops. The boy shrieks again, a fat blob of mucus splatters on the ground.

‘What is with all the noise, boy?’

The pus-lined eye opens, winks. ‘You told me I am dying, father, so I make dying noises.’

‘Ey! Ezze say look sick, and why did Ezze say this?’

‘To trick everyone?’ The father’s hand clips his ear. ‘Ow!’

‘Yes! To make them not look. Noise makes them interested, makes them remember us. If they look hard they see you are not sick boy, not diseased, just thick in head!’ Ezze clips the boy’s ear a second time.

‘Ow! Why you hit me again? You always hit me. It’s not fair!’

‘Be grateful you have ears left to hit. Your aunt was stupid, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Ezze is wondering, where is aunt of little Ez now?’

‘She’s been taken away.’

‘Exactly! She is taken to breeding pits of Slake, and will not be seen again.’ Ezze turns to the Vagrant. ‘Actually this is something of a mercy, but,’ Ezze continues, attention back on the pouting boy, ‘she is stupid, she is worse than dead. So Ezze hit all the stupid out of you and you thank Ezze for it, yes?’

‘Yes. Thank you, father.’

‘Is better, now go wipe off your pus and make sure to get it back in the jar for next time.’

‘Yes, father.’

‘I’ll meet you at home.’

‘Yes, father.’ The boy leaves them.

‘Ah, he is good boy but stupid, so stupid. More like his aunt than his mother, but Ezze think you not interested in that story. Now we are here and deal is done.’

The Vagrant looks from left to right; his eyes rove empty streets and buildings.

‘You are wondering where they are, yes? Of course you are. Have faith, my friend, they will come. So, Ezze will be leaving you now.’

The Vagrant’s mouth opens, protesting.

‘All endings in Verdigris are fast, yes? But Ezze must go. Please, keep the tentacle. Perhaps it reminds you of our friendship!’ The shopkeeper starts walking quickly. ‘May all your lovers be sweet and may their paths never cross, ha!’

The Vagrant shares a look with the goat as the suns rise. Starktime has come. Distantly, sounds are heard. Doors close, signs reverse, doors open, the first steps of Verdigris’ daily dance.

Figures emerge from a ruined building, their clothes grey with hard living, uniform. Size marks them out. A man and a woman tower over the rest. Half-breed teenagers, covered in muscle and greening scars, the common Usurperkin markers tracing their lineage back to the Usurper. Patches of spiked hair decorate their skulls, black flags on a pitted map. Another man, normal sized, holds a gun, ugly and mismatched. It points at the Vagrant’s head. The last is a tiny woman, barely four feet in height, ratbred teeth too much for her mouth to contain.

A wave of the gun signals the Vagrant to follow. Reluctantly, he does. Giant hands take the leash from him and the group return to the darkness. For a moment the goat resists, then the leash snaps tight and she flies after them, a furry, hate-filled balloon.