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‘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.
Underground, a chain of hands is formed, leading the Vagrant down, deep, through lightless buildings, then steps, then tunnels, the ratbred finding their way in the dark. More than once, big heads brush rock; curses fall till they are hissed quiet.
The Vagrant is taken down further, where cold becomes chilling. Objects are hefted, then replaced, a trail of obstacles left for any would-be followers. A torch shines yellow, recycled sunslight perched on the top of a gun. It pokes at the Vagrant’s eyes, making him squint.
‘What you make of him?’ murmurs the male Userperkin, unimpressed.
The other half-breed shrugs. ‘Good for spare parts, maybe.’
‘Spare parts?’ says a third voice, the one that belongs to the gun. ‘This here’s the real deal, at least he’d better be. We certainly paid enough to get him.’ The light and the voice come closer still. ‘I see what you mean, but we’ll get our money’s worth, one way or another.’
The Vagrant’s squint becomes a scowl. Beneath the robe, his fists clench.
‘Check him,’ commands the voice behind the gun.
One of the giant half-breeds restrains him while the ratbred sniffs him over, bony hands probing beneath the robe. He pushes her away, hard, and she stumbles back against the rock. From beneath the robe comes a soft complaint. The Vagrant turns, placing his body between the gun and the baby.
‘Try that again, pal, and I’ll put a bullet in you. If you’re lucky it won’t hit the little one.’
The Vagrant’s eyes widen, despite the glare.
‘Yeah, you heard me. We know about the baby you’re carrying. What, you think you can hide one of those squealers in a man’s house and him not notice?’ The gunman snorts. ‘So hand it over, as well as any other weapons, and then we can all make like friends.’
He shakes his head. Again his eyes seek the sword but it remains bound with the goat, useless.
‘In case you’re simple or something, that’s not a request.’
They rip the robe from him, using it to wrap the tentacle. The ratbred moves to take the baby but he pushes her away again.
‘Oh for the love of … Maxi, make our friend cooperate.’
A thick arm circles the Vagrant’s neck and squeezes. He pulls at it, kicking and twisting till air is thin and strength runs out. Afterwards, the baby is slipped from flaccid arms. It begins to scream. The Vagrant’s eyes twitch but he doesn’t move. They search him, this time there is no resistance.
The half-breed slings him over her shoulder as they make the last few turns. ‘Thought you were gonna shoot him.’
‘Shut up, Maxi!’
As soon as they enter the room the way behind them is sealed, stone grinding on stone, moved by pulleys and many hands. Intricate carvings line the walls, their lights broken, their gems stolen, an echo of an echo of what was. In their place are essence lamps, an innovation of the Uncivil, turning souls into fuel. Their flames burn green, held by cups, inverted; bright but cold, the unnatural sheen falls on many faces, all expectant.
The Vagrant is dropped, wheezing, on the ground.
A woman moves forward, her face inked in angry swirls, an arm missing. The others part for her. ‘Hello there,’ she says, speaking quietly under the baby’s screaming. ‘I hope they weren’t too rough with you.’ She tilts her head, examining him carefully. ‘I’m sorry if they were. These times make monsters of us all. I’m told that you can’t speak but that you hear well enough.’
The Vagrant’s eyes open fully. He stares at her for a moment, then looks to the baby.
She waves a man forward who takes the baby from the ratbred. The Vagrant examines him. He is dressed pale like the others, his eyes as green as the flames in the room. The man hesitates, looks down, whispers. The baby’s cries settle to an insistent complaint.
‘Now, it is time for us to have a talk, you and I. But first let me make some introductions. The people here call me Tough Call, or Tough for short. If we get on I might even tell you my real name one day but given the look on your face I won’t get my hopes up. Around here, names are important; they’re about all any of us have left. I’ll tell you how I got mine, so you know the kind of person you’re dealing with.
‘My parents used to run with the top dogs in Verdigris. And believe me they were strong. They always told me stay true to yourself no matter what the cost, anything less and you were already dead.’ Tough Call sighs. ‘So when Verdigris got taken over by the Usurper and the Uncivil, and my good folks were turned into suits for demons that took up residence in our home, I found their advice mighty hard to follow. But follow it I did. Along the way found me some good people who felt the same.
‘We did a lot of fighting in those days, lot of dying too. Lost me an arm. Well, that’s not quite true. I know exactly where it is, I keep it in a cabinet out the back. It’s still moving, even now. Cut the damn thing off myself. It was that or give my body over to the taint and, no offence to the rest of you here, but I’d already given enough.’
The goat yawns.
‘So that’s me.’ Tough Call points to the gunman. ‘That there’s Honest Joe. His name isn’t really Joe and he’s not really honest but the name’s kind of stuck. He’s a survivor though and proof that intelligence can make a man attractive.’
‘Hey!’ shouts Joe over the laughter.
‘Tina’s the little lady that helped you find your way in the dark and the twins are Max and Maxi, full grown, first generation, half-breed loyalists. They’re usually pretty calm, so long as you’re respectful and never get them mixed up.’ Tough Call gestures to the others. ‘There’s a lot of folk here you haven’t met yet but I want to make it clear: these here are people, determined people, they all got their own names and stories. They’re all decent; turns out the taint don’t always turn the mind, just makes it work a little harder.
‘I’m hoping you’ll help us because you really are some good-hearted knight right out of the past but if knowing us and our struggle’s not enough then let’s be clear on this too: you help us and we’ll help you out of Verdigris like you want. You don’t, and we take everything you’ve got and claim that fresh reward that’s been placed on your head. Clear?’
The Vagrant nods.
‘Good.’ Tough Call smiles and puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘So that’s us. Now let’s talk about where you come in. Word on the street is that the balance of power in Verdigris is changing, things are swinging against the Usurper and we don’t want that to happen.’
The Vagrant glances over to the giant Usurperkin twins and back to her.
‘No, Max and Maxi’s inheritance has nothing to do with it. This is about survival. It’d be just as bad if the Uncivil’s hold was broken. As things stand we can’t hope to win a war but we can survive theirs, underground, in the cracks. We’ve been doing it for years. It’s not glamorous but it’s better than being dead. Fact is we need them focused on each other so they’re not focused on us.’
The Vagrant’s face is impassive.
‘In the ruins at the centre of town is a cache of weapons, top of the line kit that got here just before the occupation. It was supposed to be sent south to support the war effort but by the time it arrived here the war was already over. We could use that firepower to strengthen our position and strike against the Uncivil’s agents. Only problem is we can’t get to them without drawing the wrong sort of attention.’ She lets her hand slip from his shoulder. ‘We need you to cause a distraction so we can move in and take the weapons. It just so happens that Patchwork’s recruiter is holding a rally in town today. He’s a nasty piece of work, literally.’ A few of the crowd murmur in agreement. ‘You’re going to kill him and as many of his traitorous recruits as you can. Better they be dead than fight in the Uncivil’s new army. We’ll bring you up right by the place so nobody’ll know you’re there till it’s too late. You go in, hit them hard and fast and then get the hell out of Verdigris. We’ll arrange for the north gate to be open for you and help you get through. After that, you’re on your own.’
With a frown, the Vagrant points at the baby burbling in the arms of the green-eyed man.
‘I’ll have Harm bring the baby and your things to the north gate. Succeed, and they’ll be waiting for you.’
The green-eyed man keeps his attention on the baby, whispering sadness, guilt, shame.
‘Do we have a deal?’ Tough Call asks.
The Vagrant closes his eyes, nods.
‘Good. Joe, give our man back his sword.’
A bundle of rods is taken from the goat’s back, untethered and allowed to spill on the floor. Among them lies the sword, restless. Joe does not pick it up. The Vagrant steps past, collects it, leaves it sheathed.
‘Looks like we have a busy day ahead,’ says Tough Call. ‘Good luck, all being well we won’t see each other again.’ She nods, ending the meeting, and turns back to her people.
The Vagrant watches the baby until they guide him from the room, reluctant.
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ulink_c4d6b871-3072-5b37-9b80-9a4e51b106a0)
The square is full of people and flies baking together. It is Starktime and the suns are high overhead, giving each spectator two shadows, overlapping, imperfect, forever trying to align.
On a block of rusted iron stands what was a man. Like many of the Uncivil’s creatures he is robed, the horror of his re-creation hidden. He has brought many over, pleasing Patchwork, his Duke and master. In return he is augmented, part infernal, part man. His arm is still recognizably human; it protrudes from the robes, unremarkable down to the wrist, handless, crowned instead with an old woman’s head. Though the face’s skin is black and shrunken, the people know the features well. Once, the head belonged to their leader.
The crowd are no longer disturbed by this sight, just relieved he does not display his other arm.
Tendons flex and old jaws move like an obscene glove puppet.
People listen, some held by fear, others by twisted hope. Only one moves, sliding between the motionless figures, drawing closer to the speaker. His hand grasps his sword’s hilt, eager to respond.
The sixth Knight of Jade and Ash returns, joining the others in darkness. Its head touches theirs and the commander’s and essences weave in a metal circle.
‘Report.’
‘Nothing. Nothing. Patchwork has returned to the city with fresh purpose. Nothing. The Malice has resurfaced. Are we weakening?’
‘Where?’
‘Do we fight? Do we fight? Do we fight? Can we fight? In Verdigris’ centre, it stalks Patchwork’s mouthpiece. Will we go the way of the seventh?’
‘No, let the Malice fall among our enemies, let the pawns of the adversary blunt its edge. Then we will fight, and win. For now we watch.’
The commander goes to break the circle but stops, troubled.
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. We bleed from the hole made of the seventh. The Malice will end us. The Malice will end us.’
‘Enough. We watch.’
Ending contact, the commander leaves. The knights form up behind.
Robes sit smoking on a rusty block. Inside them, meat sizzles.
The Vagrant sheathes the sword, striking out north across the square.
His spectators have no protocol for what they have witnessed and instincts take over. Bodies rush to and fro, bashing together, grunting, crying out. None of the crowd go near the Vagrant, peeling away from him, parting.
Tina peeks from a nearby doorway, pink eyes wide. She beckons to him, leading the way through rooms, numerous, empty of people. Beds and belongings vie for space, their little stories mingle in the mess, rendered meaningless, trampled under trespassing feet. They reach a boiler, stretching from ceiling to floor. Tina dives behind it and into tunnels below. The Vagrant follows, lines of rust painting his coat as he squeezes past.
