“Always have to go over the top, don’t you?” Grizmare murmured.
The driver stayed silent at her side. In truth, she’d been grateful for his assistance – the doors to the building, even the smaller side ones as opposed to the giant set at the main entrance, took muscle to haul open. Also, the floor was tiled in cold blue shiny tiles, each with a sharp orange star at its centre; every time she took a step, her cane threatened to slide out and send her sprawling. The driver’s presence was reassuring in that, if she were to slip, the man would catch her, and that, at least, would help her retain a modicum of dignity.
A group of school children milled around the foyer, no doubt waiting on a tour guide. The children paid her no attention as she hobbled between them. Even the tip-tap of her infamous cane had no effect.
“This country’s future generations are entirely ignorant to the great mother in their midst!” she said aloud, munching her gums and rather pleased by the fact.
“Their parents should educate them better.” By her elbow, the driver opened his mouth, preparing to speak up.
Grizmare poked him hard in the stomach with her cane, visibly winding him. “Shut up, you stupid man! I am not my son. I do not require an audience.”
She did not stay incognito for long. The five receptionists behind the desk were beautifully trained, but could not hide their slight stiffening at finding the mother of High Judge Titian standing before them. One, presumably the head of staff, took charge and offered her a small bow of reverence. At the same time, a group of Youth Guard entered the foyer, that bit too loud and full of self-importance. They were better at spotting a dignitary in their midst and insisted on crying, “Madam Titian!” at the top of their prepubescent voices and standing to attention.
Grizmare thought the best way to deal with the irritation was to ignore the Youth Guard completely. Instead, she pointed a gnarly finger over the desk at the head receptionist.
“I am here on official business. I presume I simply make my way up.” She flicked her gaze towards the distant ceiling.
The head receptionist held up a hand as if attempting to calm a wild beast and used her other to tap away at a gel screen. “Please forgive me, Madam Titian, but all visitors are required to have official clearance. In this time of uncertainty…” After a few moments, the man called one of his colleagues over and both took turns to scroll through information while frowning.
“Uncertainty? I haven’t the faintest idea what you are referring to! I do hope you are not intonating that High Judge Titian is in any way uncertain in his rule. Or that the people of Bleekland are in any way uncertain of the divine path he has laid for them. Or that we are uncertain of victory over the United Dominions and their rabid attempts to corrupt our great nation and liberate the Vary to breed like roo rats and infest this country once more. Demonia’s hell fires! What is the matter with you? I cannot abide incompetence!” Grizmare scrunched up her eyes and gave the floor a couple of fresh raps with her cane.
“My apologies, Madam Titian, but I am struggling to find you on our clearance system. You are extremely welcome to sit and wait until we sort this ou…”
“Don’t be a dumb-fuck! Why would my name be on any of your lists? Wouldn’t that put me in danger of assassination? I warrant there are a good few special security personnel who pass through this building and are not on that list.”
“I am sorry to say it, Madam Titian, but even if their name is absent, they do have the necessary clearance codes.” The head receptionist gave the knot of his tie a little adjustment. “I don’t suppose you have a code?”
Grizmare leaned over the desk further than was commonly polite. “Tell me. Do you see another name on that list, that of my son, High Judge Titian?”
The receptionists looked newly flustered. For an instant, all five took it in turns to exchange glances.
“There is no need for us to check High Judge Titian’s details.” The head receptionist raised his eyebrows. “High Judge Titian is Capital Hall.”
“And I am his conscience. I am also Mother Elect of the Bleekland Nation and the single most important person in my son’s life. If you think there are secrets within these hallowed walls to which I am not privy, then you are in danger of suggesting my word is not law in my son’s absence!” Channelling her son – or, equally, her tiger dog – Grizmare pulled back her lips, exposing gums instead of teeth. Her words visualised through spit. Even the school children fell silent. “Now, stop screwing around and give me access, or I will have every one of you insipid jobs-worth’s dragged out by those Youth Guard and immediately transported to Bleekland’s labour camps to end your days breaking rocks with the Vary!”
A minute later, her hand was data stamped – a painless procedure with a reserved suck syringe and despite Grizmare having complained bitterly against being “branded like razingstock.”
“This stamp will give you access to all areas, including the military offices above.” The head receptionist blinked. Grizmare wondered if a damp stain grew down his trousers’ front.
She thinned her lips and turned to her driver. “Wait in the vehicle. I haven’t the slightest idea how long I will be and I don’t want you hovering at my shoulder like a bad smell.”
Making her way carefully across the shining floor tiles to a gilded elevator, she waited as one of the Youth Guard rushed to thumb the gel patch on her behalf and call the lift. At her back, the school children resumed their insistent babble. Grizmare shuddered; the noise was not dissimilar to the clashing thoughts inside her head.
“What do you want me to do?” she had asked Eva one month earlier, and the girl had talked about trust and lies and how Grizmare could make all the difference, if she had the nerve to. Within a matter of days, she had begrudgingly agreed to wear a blindfold as Eva drove to what Grizmare took to be the outskirts of Nilreb, judging by the length of time they were travelling. When they came to a stop, the nun guided the handle of the cane into Grizmare’s hand and hooked her arms through the old woman’s, leading her over warm ground and then a harder, cooler surface. A sixth sense told Grizmare that high vaults of stone loomed above.
“You might as well remove this blindfold, Eva. And the rest of you pussies! Scared of a little old lady? Paah! I’d bet my gizzard we’re in one of the old cave homes out west.” She kicked a leg low across the ground and felt her foot connect with something hard and rigged. “This floor’s even got the ripple welts caused by the fault’s movements.”
Grizmare’s blindfold was torn off and she stood blinking like a new-born as her eyes adjusted.
She was right, of course. Around the stone walls, fire lamps spattered out greasy light. Cave homes had always made good use of their nooks and crannies and those stubborn outcrops of rock the tunnellers decided to leave intact. In the case of this particular dwelling, a large stone shelf served as a table. It was piled high with gel batteries, data screens arranged in a stack, what looked like a physical map or maybe even blueprints, and a brace of rock shot rifles. There were chairs too, hard-backed and empty. Instead, the men and women who worked to bring down Grizmare’s son stood around her in a circle, Bleek and Vary, shoulder to shoulder and silhouetted against the flickering light.
By her side, Eva still wore her nun’s habit. Directly in front, and holding the blindfold, was a woman. Hair loosely tied over one shoulder like a fur collar, she looked about twenty years old and had on a National Guard uniform, momentarily taking Grizmare back to a time when Kali would call in on her as a recruit. Kali had been all grins, unlike the woman opposite who kept her face neutral, almost masklike.
“Madam Titian.” The woman’s accent had the soft lilt of the far north.
Grizmare elbowed Eva. “Who’s your friend?”
“I am 94. Your friend the nun here is 116. The rest of these volunteers are also known by numbers.”
“The old number system, huh? So the Secret Guard can cut off a limb but they can’t kill the trunk. My name is Grizmare Titian and
there is very little point us pretending otherwise. My face is emblazoned on the national coin for fuck’s sake!”
94 held up a hand. “You are right. It is stupid to pretend we do not recognise you. What we do not know is whether you are truly committed to uprooting the status quo or are in fact data gathering for your son’s spies?” 94’s lips softened. “You may, of course, just be a little old lady playing games with your maid as a way to amuse yourself.”
“You are right. I am all those things – well, not a spy for the Secret Guard, but that’s only because I hate those bloodsuckers just as much as you lot! But a spy in my own right...? Well now.” Grizmare plucked at her chin hairs. “Maybe, maybe. What should I report back? That Eva and I played blindfold in a crumbling cave out in the desert?” She did her trick of leaning in too close to the person she was talking to. 94 folded her arms to put a barrier between them.
“Do you think anyone’s going to give a rat’s ass what this old fart dreams up between popping pills to keep her ticking over and spending her days talking to the animals? There’s not a soul cares, believe me.” Grizmare raised her scrawny eyebrows. “But I would be missed if you chose to put a shot in me here and now.”
“I do not doubt it,” said 94 – even as Grizmare felt a throb of sorrow. In truth, she doubted she would be missed at all. Maybe the countess would regret the passing of one of her luncheon ladies? Grizmare wasn’t convinced.
All the same, her name carried weight, Choosing to ignore her state of loneliness, she jabbed her cane towards the stone table. “These are your plans, I take it.” She went over to the table and gave the physical papers a prob with her cane. “You intend to overturn High Judge Titian. My son.”
“116 said you were an ally…”
“Oh, she is,” said Eva at her back. “But Grizmare needs to have her fun first.”
“That I do…” Grizmare peered closer at the paperwork and immediately recognised the design of the building on one set of blueprints. She lent her cane against the table and struggled to manhandle the sheet on top of the rest. “This –” she stabbed a finger at the paper – “I recognise. This is one place you may as well leave alone. The clearance levels are tighter than Gothendore’s asshole. I know it. My son told me.”
94 came over to the table. “And did he tell you anything else of interest? In the last week in particular?”
Grizmare snorted. “So, you think I may serve you best as a spy on my own son?”
“Isn’t that why you are here? To stand against a regime you finally want no part of?”
“She is here because she wants to be.” Eva moved to stand besides Grizmare, who noticed that even now, here amongst these Bleek rebels, Eva’s nun’s habit stirred feelings of fear and reverence in those around her.
“I want to ask something of you and your clan of reprobates. A favour. And I’m going to need a flash lamp and a measure string.” Grizmare rapped the tip of her cane against the rock floor. The sound echoed off the stone walls. “I need two volunteers. One Bleek, one Vary. Don’t tell me who is which.”
Two men volunteered and endured Grizmare’s poking and prodding as she lifted one arm then the other, inspected gums and teeth like she did her razingstock and maw cats, and made both stick out their tongues and even lower their trousers. Through it all, the volunteers remained courteous, if bemused.
Eventually, Grizmare threw aside the measure string and shone the flash lamp up under her own chin. “They both have brown eyes,” she said, grimacing like a gargoyle. “Their skin tones are similar. One is missing a back molar. The other has longer limbs. This one has a wider girth, this one the longer cock. Both have a ripe set of balls.” She tossed the lamp back to one of the men and pattered about on the spot, agitated. “I can’t decide between them. Each is different to the other.”
“And does that affect your conclusion?” 94’s chin was down. She stared up at Grizmare from below hooded lids.
“Let’s not labour the point. Clearly, I can’t tell which is Bleek and which is Vary. Then again, I’ve had a feeling that might be the case for a long time now.” She blinked rapidly – it wouldn’t do to shed tears and show weakness, especially not with these rebels. She rather suspected, if anything, they would despise her more, calling out her display as too little too late. Instead, she remembered Mister Thatchett – Tomlin – her friend for fifteen years. She pictured him being dragged bloody-faced from his home. And she remembered Kali watching with solemn fascination – a child raised wrong. Or just inherently cruel?
“Show me the blueprints for Capital Hall,” Grizmare said to 94, and turning to Eva, “I am old, young lady. Help me make this count.”
Seldom had there been an occasion when Grizmare Titian wished to blend into the background. It wasn’t that she liked to be admired. Quite the contrary. Grizmare couldn’t care a jot what people thought of her. Only, that they did think of her, and did not treat her as less. In the early days of her son’s political success, she had been treated with courteous compassion. Today, stalking the corridors of Capital Hall’s Military Wing and forcing the guard employed in office work to back away, Grizmare was grateful to be recognised for the acid-tongued matriarch she really was. She strode forward, head high, face stern, accompanied by the battle march of her cane across the floor tiles.
In all her encounters, only one person questioned her presence. She was passing the window of one of the larger offices when a door opened and Chief of Staff, Secretary De Agnes, stepped out into the corridor. De Agnes had very small, colourless eyes, cheeks that sagged, and a jowly neck that reminded her of a shriek hawk’s. He carried a low-slung paunch, like a forward-facing hump, and patted and stroked his stomach now as he blocked her way.
“Madam Titian. How wonderful to see you. High Judge Titian is away, overseeing manoeuvres. But you know that, of course.”
Grizmare felt her hackles go up. The stupid man stood directly in her path, blinking his tiny eyes.
“Secretary De Agnes. I know perfectly well where my son is.”
“Of course, of course. It really is exceptional news, is it not? About the advances on the western front, I mean.” De Agnes stroked his paunch. Tiny as they were, his eyes had a way of boring into her.
“You mean the south-east strip.” Matching De Agnes with her own glare of suspicion, Grizmare called on the intel she had gleaned from the Resistance. “The western front has lost hundreds of thousands of troops on land, and fifteen gunners and three fleets of smaller munitions craft in the skies. It is a travesty of poorly devised troop formation and feeble-minded leadership, Chief of Staff.” She used his title as a weapon.
De Agnes’s mouth wormed. Clearly, he found her hostility an affront to his inflated sense of self-importance. “You are right, of course. And now, where are you headed? You mustn’t go beyond the billing offices without the necessary permissions.” He swept a hand back in the direction she had just come. “You would like to return to the main lobby, yes? I am passing that way as it happens. Let us go together and I will arrange for a cab to come and collect you.”
“I am afraid, Secretary De Agnes, as joyous an encounter as this has been, it is not the true purpose of my visit here. I have further business on this floor.”
“That business being?” The small, weak eyes burrowed hard.
“A petition on behalf of my granddaughter, Kali Titian.” Grizmare patted the side pocket of her duster coat, as if indicate some hidden document. She kept her gaze steely.
De Agnes bent down to her level, hands on knees, slightly leaning in. “It is admirable that you can love your granddaughter despite her transgressions. Personally, I could never forgive. In fact, I think High Judge Titian was too lenient. I know Kali is his daughter but I think she should have been publicly executed for her crimes. Something to send a message to those bastard swine in the Resistance. I would have liked to see Kali Titian stripped and flogged bloody, and then hanged – not a sudden neck-snapping drop through a trapdoor. No, I’m r
eferring to a slow death where the perpetrator is forced to lean, toes just kissing the ground as the rope progressively tightens, crushing the windpipe. As I understand it, that method of hanging is by far the most painful.”
The Chief of Staff maintained his weak-eyed stare. Grizmare thought about smashing her cane through his teeth before yanking out his tongue like pulling up hog weed in her garden. Instead she reached out and gave his nose a sudden, hard flick.
“Fly,” she said sharply, and caught the birth of a snarl at the man’s lips as she turned away and stomped down the corridor.
Twenty-Five
“What do you want from me?” Joltu slid his fingers inside the waistband of her pyjamas, but Kali broke free of him. She couldn’t afford to let him touch her when the dalma plates were strapped to her bare stomach beneath her shirt. Instead, she pressed a hand against his chest and forced his back against the wall of the office. Keeping pressure over his heart, she undid the zip tie of his trousers and felt for the warm swell beneath her hand. He went to grab at her, but she tightened her grip.
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