Early Riser

by Jasper Fforde

  ‘First Winter?’ he asked.

  ‘Do I wear it that badly?’

  ‘Yup,’ he said, ‘I can see the fatigue on you already.’

  I could feel it too, a dull ache that gnawed in my joints, and the deep-seated sense of nausea that belongs only with consciously delaying hibernation.

  The coffees arrived. The proprietress scowled at me, stared daggers at the dead woman, then departed again.

  ‘I had this call last week,’ said Foulnap, stirring his coffee, ‘from a woman who was going to go deep in the family’s traditional sleep-spot, up in the hills beyond Abergavenny. Family farm or something, near Cwmyoy. Anyway, she’d packed the car, but the duvet was sticking out and jammed the boot lid. You know what she did?’

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘She set fire to the duvet.’

  ‘Did that work?’

  ‘Worked really well. By the time I arrived, the car was completely burned out. All her food, her bedding, Morphenox – all gone. I had to resource everything.’

  ‘How did you resource her Morphenox?’

  ‘Let’s just say I know a girl who knows a guy who knows a person who knows a girl.’

  I took a sip of the coffee. It tasted like last season’s acorns seared with a paraffin blowtorch.

  ‘This coffee’s terrible,’ I said.

  ‘Welcome to the Winter.’

  We chatted some more. He told me an amusing story about how hibernating mammoths near Treherbert had been false-dawned* by the encroaching underground fires, and how they had been herded out through the snow and up and over the mountain to Hirwauna in a Hannibalesque adventure that had been the subject of a best-selling book and was soon to be a musical, using the puppeteers from Warphant.

  ‘Actually, the mammoths sort of did it on their own,’ said Foulnap, ‘nose to tail, like some great big shaggy-haired pachydermical charm bracelet.’

  We chatted politics as the clock wound round to our departure time. I asked Foulnap where the restrooms were and after he’d told me, suggested I left Mrs Tiffen with him.

  I thanked him, left the tearooms and walked down the platform to the toilets. Once I’d had a pee, I washed my hands and then soaked my face in cold water and stared in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot and seemed sunken into my head, my pallor grey. My ears had started ringing, my fingers and hands felt oddly large and I’d had several hot sweats. I’d been told to expect any or all of these symptoms as indications of Sleep Deprivation Narcosis, but as with altitude sickness, there was no good indication of who would get it, who would not, and to what degree of severity. But the thing I feared most was hallucinations. Had them once during a bad fever, and imagined myself playing pass-the-parcel – but no matter how much paper I tore off, the parcel never got any smaller.

  Glad to have a few moments free of the relentless plucking of the bouzouki, I wandered absently onto the station concourse. It was a large, airy chamber with a glass ceiling now covered in snow, the light soft and directionless, the interior dim. The ticket office was still open but unmanned, and Welsh Tourist Office posters covered the walls.

  I heard a shout from somewhere outside and I frowned. It sounded a lot like ‘Lobster’, but there was only one person who might be saying things like that, and they shouldn’t be anywhere but safely in Mrs Nesbit’s.

  Mrs Tiffen.

  With a sudden sense of foreboding I ran as fast as I could to the front entrance and pushed the heavy door open, the sharp air outside hitting me like a wall of ice. The light was failing and the wind was blowing the snow into rotating eddies among the buildings. There was no one to be seen, but I noted fresh tracks in the snow running out from the cab rank.

  ‘The taxi before you,’ I said to the driver of the remaining cab, an old man with a face so full of soft pendulous folds I don’t think he’d seen the Summer, ever, ‘who was in it?’

  He stared at the Consul’s badge I was showing him.

  ‘I didn’t see the man but the woman looked kind of . . . ’

  ‘ . . . dead?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  After asking him to find out where the cab had gone and then to stand by to take me there, I ran back towards Mrs Nesbit’s, almost slipping and falling as I trod the snow onto the marble floor. The bouzouki was still lying on the table with our half-finished plates.

  I felt a nasty, hollow, sinking feeling. I’d liked Foulnap and, foolishly, trusted him. Footmen move with the prevailing cashflow, and nightwalkers can be monetarised in a number of ways. Given the dead woman’s relative youth, parting her out on the underground transplant market could be a possibility, but add her potential fertility and there was another cash possibility: he was going to farm her. I looked up as the proprietress approached.

  ‘Lose your date?’ she asked in a mocking tone.

  ‘Where will he have taken her?’

  She furrowed her brow and stared at me, unsure quite what I was suggesting.

  ‘Wait – you’re going to try and get her back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How, exactly?’

  It was a very good question. Taking on a seasoned Footman would be at best extremely foolhardy, and at worst suicidal – and in the current time frame and with my level of expertise, well on the other side of impossible.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  She stared at me for a moment, her anger mellowing to an attitude, I think, of motherly concern. She suddenly reminded me of Sister Zygotia.

  ‘What made you become a Consul?’ she asked in a quiet voice.

  ‘I needed a job that would grant me Morphenox.’

  ‘Makes no sense,’ she said. ‘To avoid the risks of a no-drug Winter you take on every risk the Winter can throw at you?’

  ‘Now you mention it,’ I said, ‘it does seem kind of dumb. But at least I’m away from St Granata’s.’

  Luckily, Chief Logan chose that moment to walk in the door.

  ‘Hello, Fran,’ he said, moving forward to greet her with the traditional Winter embrace, then making some reference to ‘sprightly times’ they’d spent together during some Winter I-don’t-know-when in Sector something-or-other. Fran, it appeared, had been part of the established Winter crew on Logan’s first placement. Consuling was a small, close-knit family, tighter than the military, they say. They chatted for a while – reminded each other of the time they were charged by a frost-deranged glyptodon – but it was only a matter of time before he noticed me.

  ‘Remember my bacon sandwich, Worthing?’ he asked, then, annoyingly and predictably: ‘Where’s Mrs Tiffen?’

  ‘I . . . remembered the bacon sandwich,’ I said a bit stupidly, ‘and the tea.’

  ‘Good of you. And Mrs Tiffen?’

  ‘She was . . . stolen. I think she’s going to be farmed.’

  Logan gave me a pained expression.

  ‘You bloody idiot, Worthing. Who took her?’

  I explained as quickly as I could what had happened.

  ‘Terrific,’ said the Chief once I’d finished. ‘You should cross off “babysitting nightwalkers” from the short list of things you can do. Pull your finger out, Worthing, or you’ll be mucking out breedstock for the Winter. Fancy that?’

  ‘No, sir,’ I said. Looking after the Winter breedstock was a job usually reserved only for convicts and people who were, well, hated.

  ‘But,’ I added, ‘we have to get her back, right?’

  ‘No, we do not. Hold fast and think for a moment. We lose a nightwalker and HiberTech are mildly pissed off they lost a Tricksy walker, but really, who’s hurting here?’

  ‘Mrs Tiffen?’

  ‘Mrs Tiffen died five years ago. What you lost was something she used to walk around in. She’s gone, it’s done, you screwed up, move on. Let’s get on the train.’

  I backed away.

  ‘No
.’

  I said it in the manner of a petulant child, and regretted it instantly. Logan stared at me with a quiet, unblinking gaze.

  ‘What do you reckon, Fran?’ he said. ‘Gross insubordination or the idealism of youth?’

  ‘Idealism of youth,’ she said. ‘In the Summer it’s perfectly harmless albeit mildly tedious – but in the Winter it’s a killer on a par with hypothermia and the measles.’

  Logan moved closer and lowered his voice.

  ‘Listen up, Novice. Drop the high ethical stance or get out before you do something you can’t live with. And let me tell you, it’s inevitable, once the cold and the fear and the hunger get a grip. Something will go wrong, you’ll try and make the best of two bad calls, and bing: the Winter has you in its pocket, and you’re tundra. High ideals, my friend, are a luxury ill afforded.’

  I stared at him and he took a deep breath.

  ‘Yes, okay, we try and break up farming cells, and no, we don’t like it. But the end product is a whole series of happy parents and up to a dozen children. And when it’s all over, she’ll be parted out at the end of their life. Agreed, bootleg parts – but someone benefits. We’re Consuls, Worthing. We strive to ensure the most favourable outcome is enjoyed by the majority.’

  ‘But the law—’

  ‘During the Winter, we are the law. I’ll say it again because you must have missed it: however unpleasant and barring injured pride, this is a favourable outcome. Now, we’re going to Sector Twelve, I’ll speak to Toccata and see what she has to say about this viral dream bullshit, then we come out on the last train and I try so very hard to forget this, and you try ever so hard not to screw up again. Is there any part of that you don’t understand?’

  I stared at the bouzouki, a crushed, empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. Failure has a taste all of its own – a sort of hot, sticky doughiness. We could tell HiberTech she died on the journey. They’d not even question it. Nightwalkers die all the time. I was right to make the point, but I wasn’t going to flush my career down the pan for her.

  But then a voice rang out, clear and bright, and everything changed.

  Meet Aurora

  ‘ . . . The trading of Favours and Debts is essential currency as cash can mean little to nothing in the lawless world of the deep Winter. To add complexity, Debts and Favours can be traded, subdivided, sold on or even used as collateral on a loan. It is a risky investment – all Debts are nullified when the debtee dies. And if they are Consuls, they die often . . . ’

  – A Guide to Winternomics – Consul Pamphlet 9a

  ‘That was the shittiest piece of mentoring I’ve ever heard,’ said a voice from across the room. It was a woman sitting with some workers in HiberTech uniforms, also waiting for the train. She had silver-streaked black hair tied up in a loose ponytail and a pale complexion that was almost creamy. Her battered combat fatigues displayed the shoulder stripe of the 4th Arid Legion, her twin Bambis were rigged for a cross-draw and around her neck was the dark burgundy pashmina worn by those who had served in the Ottoman campaign. Most notable about her, however, was her left eye, which looked blankly off and up – but her right eye stared at us all with a curiously unnerving intensity. She was knitting what appeared to be a bobble hat.

  Logan stared back at her, momentarily shocked.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he said at last, ‘if you’re here, Aurora, then who’s guarding the gates of hell right now?’

  ‘That’s hardly original,’ said Knitting Woman, getting up and walking closer. ‘How’s non-married life suiting you?’

  Logan’s face fell. I was assuming this was the Aurora who was the head of HiberTech Security – the one who didn’t get along with Toccata, or seemingly with Logan either.

  ‘You had no right to do what you did, Aurora.’

  ‘Cry me a river, Logan. You and Toccata? It would never have worked out and we all knew it. I was doing you both a favour.’

  ‘Jealous, were you? Jealous that someone might have preferred Toccata over you?’

  Fran and everyone else had muttered excuses about ‘laundry’ or an ‘important call’ and rapidly vacated the tearooms.

  ‘Jealous?’ she said. ‘Of what you have to offer? A second-rate Consul and a third-rate vaudeville act peddling fourth-rate advice to a fifth-rate Novice?’

  The Chief stared at her for a moment. There was something odd about the exchange, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Logan was holding back, thinking, pulling his punches. Until now, I didn’t know that Logan and Toccata were to be married. This added a new dimension to everything.

  ‘What do you actually want, Aurora?’ asked Logan. ‘Must be something pretty big to have you crawling out from under your rock.’

  ‘I wanted to know what you’re doing heading into Sector Twelve. Considering past events, it’s something of a rash move.’

  ‘I was delivering a nightwalker,’ he said, ‘I thought my fax made that clear.’

  ‘You could have sent anyone to do that. There’s nothing going on in Sector Twelve, Logan, just a deluded Chief Consul trying to rekindle some long-dead embers from a doomed love affair.’

  ‘Why are you so concerned about Toccata all of a sudden?’

  Aurora thought about this for a moment.

  ‘Because despite everything, she’s like a sister to me, and sisters hold together, even with our disagreements.’

  They stared at each other for a moment.

  ‘In any event,’ she said, ‘HiberTech need Tricksy nightwalkers for Project Lazarus. Particularly like the one your thicko Novice has lost – you need to go and get her back.’

  ‘You want her, you get her back.’

  ‘Because you can’t?’

  ‘She’s dead, I don’t like you, you didn’t say please, I can’t be arsed, it’s cold outside – take your pick. You have no jurisdiction over me during the Winter.’

  He was right over jurisdiction, but it didn’t much matter. Mrs Tiffen was his responsibility, and since Aurora could make serious trouble for him, he would have to go and look for her. Logan glared at me, then at Aurora, then had another thought and gave a soft smile that I felt uneasy about.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘this is a terrific opportunity for a Graduation Assignment. Worthing here is tasked to find your precious dead woman. Once that’s been achieved – or not – and if Charlie is still living, we will both travel to Sector Twelve. Whilst there, I will meet up with Toccata – without your meddling.’

  ‘This is bollocks,’ said Aurora, taking a step closer, ‘and to relegate important work to the level of training exercise is grossly irresponsible.’

  ‘It’s not Slumberdown for another thirty-two hours,’ I ventured, ‘and I’ve not spent a single minute in the Winter. I’m not sure I’m ready—’

  ‘You’re ready when I say you are,’ snapped Logan, ‘besides, you lost her, you can get her back. This is now your operation. Win and you get to be a Deputy Winter Consul, fail and you’re minding breedstock. So, what’s your first move, Bright-eyes?’

  It was like being back at St Granata’s, being given some impossible task to perform – such as getting on the Great Hall’s roof without a ladder, or making a soufflé with cauliflower instead of eggs, or trying to stop the Ford girls from squabbling.

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘I . . . need to follow a lead I’ve established.’

  He pressed a finger hard into my sternum.

  ‘Wrong.’

  ‘It is—?’

  I was interrupted by two muted blasts from the train whistle. It was five minutes before the last train to Sector Twelve.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Logan. ‘You need to delay the train.’

  ‘How do I do that?’

  ‘Your head on the rails?’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘I don’t know. But put it this way: i
f you don’t delay the train, I will punch you five times hard in the head.’

  ‘Once would probably be enough as a punishment.’

  ‘You don’t need to be punished, you need motivating. And not getting punched five times is a terrific motivator. Take my word for it.’

  ‘I’ll be making an official complaint about this,’ said Aurora.

  ‘Yes, why don’t you?’ said Logan, and picking up his jacket, he made for the door. ‘Don’t fail me, Worthing.’

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ I said, wondering how I could do anything but fail – and surely, this was actually his intention. Aurora stared at me with her one eye for a moment, then sat down at the counter next to me.

  ‘Don’t fail any of us,’ she said in a kindly tone, while placing her warm hand on mine. ‘HiberTech and I will be grateful if you succeed, and the gratitude of either would be in itself a valuable commodity. Oh, and listen, I didn’t mean it when I called you “thicko” and “fifth rate”. It was only theatre. Kind of in the moment – and it pissed off that ballbag Logan. Good luck.’

  ‘Oh – right,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

  I grabbed my bag and the bouzouki and ran to Platform Three, where clouds of vapour were billowing from the locomotive as the driver vented excess steam into the chill air. I found the freightmaster in the second carriage, fast asleep.

  Moody’s eyes flickered inside his closed lids while he murmured: ‘Mrs Nesbit, please, leave me alone.’ It was a little unnerving: asleep in public was okay, asleep and dreaming in public was not really socially acceptable. I like to think of myself as fairly broad-minded, but even I felt a little uncomfortable.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, shaking his shoulder. His eyes opened wide and he suddenly looked terrified.

  ‘You don’t want to leave the rocks!’ he yelled, grasping me by the arm so hard I almost yelped with pain.