Fair Rebel

by Steph Swainston

‘Yes. Cat will make you think that.’ I looked around for Lyme – he’d left us and joined the crowd watching the brewery burn. So I cut off the remains of Tornado’s thick waistcoat and t-shirt, and from the shirt made what was probably the worst field dressing of all time, but it staunched the blood.

  ‘They got me,’ he said, with asperity. I passed him my waterbottle and he splashed water over his face then drained the bottle dry. A bit of burning sacking landed by his foot and he glanced at it. ‘Go away.’

  ‘Did you see the bombers?’

  ‘Ugh. No. I was searching for powder like San ordered. Thought I’d check my place first. Roses must have been watching for me … Lying in wait, like. I opened the door, saw all these kegs in the kitchen. So I ran.’

  He coughed and spat, disgusted. ‘I ran. Me! Never run from anything in my life! But what could I do? It blew me arse over tit, just the same as the coach bomb. And then the office … blew like a bombard. Fucking ingratitude! There’s no need to blow up my brewery. Like, that’s just vindictive. I’ve spent my life knee deep in Insects to rescue mortals and they try to kill me.’ His tone of innocent bewilderment gave way to bitter revulsion. ‘After the centuries I’ve fought for them!’

  ‘That’s what Rayne said.’

  ‘Rayne! Is Rayne all right?’

  ‘Physically, yes. Mentally, who knows?’

  He flexed his shoulder and blood seeped through and trickled down his back. ‘I’ve never run before, Jant. Never. Eszai die with their wounds in front. But this … not this. What good is my strength against gunpowder? What good is my axe?’

  He teetered upright like a bear standing on its hind legs, and cast around. The fire highlit scars on his face and chest. ‘What a fucking mess … At least everyone seems okay …’

  He gazed through the flames clinging to the door timbers, at the fragrant steam rising from the mash vats inside. ‘God doesn’t want Zascai to kill us. That’s not its plan … Why would gypsies put such hard work into something so wrong …?’

  ‘It’s not the gypsies. It’s Swallow. Saker’s old girlfriend.’

  ‘Who? Saker’s dead girlfriend?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve no time to explain now, but she’s alive. She wants us dead, and the gypsies are just her cat’s paw.’

  ‘Well, a cat’s paw has claws.’

  Swallow was trumping Tornado’s strength, Saker’s sagacity and my speed, as if she was Challenging us all – and winning, so far.

  He gestured at the forest. ‘My dray horses fucked off, but I can’t say I blame them … I … can walk to Shivel.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No. Swallow will be expecting you to. She might have booby-trapped the manor, maybe the stables, maybe the coach house, waiting for you to walk in.’

  ‘Like, really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Saker’s old girlfriend? The one who treated him like shit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She thinks that deviously?’

  ‘And then some. Because San wouldn’t make her immortal.’

  ‘Huh? So she blows up my home? Who does she think she is?’

  ‘Well. That’s a very good question.’

  He pressed his palm over his eyepatch to adjust it. The weedy flames illuminated half his face and body, wavered as if daunted by him, shrank to a sliver, flickered forth again. Light on the faces of the scattered bricks cast their shadows long, highlighted their grainy red texture, and the narrow grass blades of every tussock.

  ‘Evil,’ he said.

  ‘That’s the very word she would use to describe us, Tawny.’

  He sat down on the broken wall. Despondency flattened his deep voice. ‘It never used to be like this. Insects are the enemy. Why are Zasceys fighting us and not the bugs? In the old days we’d team up. You have to, to fight bugs, or Awia’s sunk, then the Plains, then Morenzia. So instead they blow my house all over the … fucking … forest. Can I drink the rest of this? My back’s killing me.’

  ‘It can’t have worn off already.’

  ‘Well, it has.’

  ‘Wow. Okay. Go ahead.’

  ‘Is this what I think it is?’

  ‘Centipede leaf fern.’

  He huffed a laugh. ‘Always wondered what it felt like, Jant. Thought it must be good or you wouldn’t be nodding out all the time.’

  ‘Stay here and I’ll fetch you a horse.’

  ‘Jant. Thank you.’

  He beckoned his brewery staff but they were too frightened to approach. I left him talking to them, quietly in the crackling light, and flew to Shivel manor house. I landed on the bank of its moat and hollered at the solar turret until Anelace Shivel himself brought from the stables a magnificent shire horse, which hated me on sight, but allowed me to lead him back to the burning brewery.

  Tornado looked up and his expression transformed from stoned despair to stoned delight. ‘You got me a dray!’

  ‘He’s called Gavilan. He’ll carry you to the Castle.’

  ‘Do you have any more of these little bottles?’

  ‘Uh, no … Well, all right. One, you can have one. Go to the hospital. Don’t tell Rayne. If she finds out, say “Jant was a pharmacist and he knows what he’s doing”.’

  Tawny shrugged and winced. ‘Did he ever screw her?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Saker. Swallow.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thought not. Less piano, more screwing. She wasn’t a soldier. He should have stuck to soldiers. Archers, specifically. He should have given her a good seeing to, like he did Linnet and Savory: had ’em starry-eyed with the earth moving. Had ’em eating out of his hand. Amongst other places … If he’d screwed Swallow, she’d never be a bomber.’

  ‘Mist calls them “terrorists”.’

  ‘Terrorist. Good word.’ He stepped onto the brick block, and onto the shire’s glossy bareback. It tossed its head, lifted its forehoof and replanted it, braced with his weight. The tips of the flames framed their massive bulk.

  I said, ‘ “Linnet?” The eleventh century Linnet?’

  ‘Yeah. He would have got killed. But I don’t blame him. She was hot.’

  ‘Did you beat him up badly?’

  ‘Just enough to save him.’

  Tornado spanned his crossbow by hand, clicked his tongue like a drover and headed off on the track leading to the Hamulus Road, chest bare but for bandages and smeared in blood and soot. The shire’s tack jingled, its feathered hooves rose and fell steadily, and the wood’s darkness closed behind them.

  All the envy and animosity I used to feel for him had vanished. I even forgave him for sleeping with Tern. We Eszai were beginning to cling together more tightly. We could no longer trust mortals, only each other, you see. There’s a first time for everything.

  By the time I reached the Castle dawn was creeping up the sky. Yellow at the horizon, then grading through a rare leaf-green to clear, pale turquoise at the zenith. A thin mist lay over the Castle and its meadow, veiling its towers into the illusion of pastel delicacy. The whole Castle looked like a model, on its manmade hill. Its towers and the spire pierced the mist, and regained their stark solidity thirty metres above the ground.

  I cut down through the damp mist and it spiralled off the tips of my wings. I flew over the Throne Room, between its pinnacles, and landed on the sill of my Northwest Tower, pushed open the shutters and pounced down into the room.

  Tern was asleep in bed. I carefully gathered her locks aside and kissed her cheek. On my desk she’d arranged telegraph slips and newspapers, with a bottle of wine and a chunk of cake (stale), and the Filigree Spider brooch laid out beside them. I sat on the bed beside Tern, and stroked her feathers, reading the slips.

  June 28

  From: Sirocco Tassy, Lowespass Fortress

  Jant, Hurricane got serious. Decided anyone with tattoos is security risk. Rounded up all gypsies in Lowespass, imprisoned them in Main Camp. He beat some to learn their plans. They don’t have any, but
I couldn’t stop him. Hurricane executed a dozen for resisting arrest. Some of them were popular with the Hacilith fyrd, lot of bad feeling here now.

  June 29

  From: Arlen Hurricane, Lowespass Fortress

  Sirocco’s dying – burns. I’m wounded – thigh. One of our soldiers – not a Rose – fired the fortress powder magazine. Didn’t think the traitors would have sympathisers. Heard word he was screwing one of the gypsies killed yesterday. Armoury obliterated, bugs moving in. Falling back to Oscen. Route more ammo there urgently.

  The Intelligencer, Hacilith Moren

  SLAUGHTER IN THE SQUARE

  Crown Forces Murder Morenzians

  This morning only smashed stone and bloodstained cobbles bear testament to the frightful massacre that took place in Royal Square, Tanager, yesterday. Eighteen demonstrators of the Litanee Rose clan were blasted apart by a volley of grapeshot – a weapon so terrible that it was only ever intended for use against Insects – and countless more are injured, many severely. The gunfire came from within the Palace grounds, where a provocatively large military detachment has been stationed since the beginning of the protest.

  As the Intelligencer has been reporting, over the last week gypsies of the Rose and Oak clans from throughout Awia have been converging on Tanager to remonstrate with the Queen. Since the unfortunate events in Wrought, caused by the actions of a tiny minority of fanatics, gypsies throughout Awia have been subject to insults, constant interrogations by the authorities, beatings by gangs of ruffians, and arbitrary dismissal from all employment. These impoverished people, rarely paid a living wage and routinely taken advantage of by Awian gangmasters, turned in desperation to protesting outside Tanager Palace, petitioning Eleonora Tanager to guarantee their security and restore their livelihoods. The Palace has remained mute since the demonstrations began. Despite the size of the crowd, estimated at six thousand, there has been a carnival-like atmosphere in the Square, with families of gypsies sharing food, song, and tales of injustice.

  Now the sudden outbreak of deadly violence has brought this peaceful vigil to a bloody end. There are conflicting reports about what caused the escalation but many saw cavalry pouring in from nearby streets in an attempt to disperse the protestors. Witness Leyla Rose, her clothes tattered and bloodied, told me, ‘We were being crushed up ’gainst the railings of the Palace. We called out to the guards but they didn’t lift a finger. Fearing for my life, I climbed over. Some of the boys started pushing the rails down. The guards all yelled and started running away. Then I saw them turning the cannon towards us. It was a twenty pounder, as if we were bugs! I dived to the ground but my brother, he was too slow …’

  This morning, royal servants are washing the cobbles. But now the questions start: who ordered the cannon to be used? What future do any gypsies now have in Awia? And will the stain of this atrocity be washed from the name of Tanager so soon?

  Wrought Standard

  HOORAY FOR THE GUARD!

  Rose Plot to Kill Queen Frustrated by Tanager’s Finest!

  Yesterday the Morenzian saboteurs responsible for the cold-blooded massacre and devastation in Wrought, and the murder of Cyan Peregrine, launched their most heinous plot yet!

  With their typical disregard for innocent life, these murderous traitors infiltrated the protests which Queen Eleonora – with her usual concern for popular feeling – had graciously permitted to continue in the Royal Square outside her palace for the past week. Within the crowds, these armed villains put aside their usual bombs in favour of distributing cheap alcohol and loose talk. Whipping up the roughest elements into a storm of bravado, over two hundred of them launched an attack on Tanager Palace, smashing the railings with pick-axes, hammers and crowbars.

  When the Royal Guard attempted to restore order, they were met with hails of cobblestones ripped up from the Square. The Guard – who wear only dress uniform, not armour – suffered numerous severe injuries and were forced to fall back. At this point a roar of triumph rose from the crowd. Your correspondent clearly heard them scream, ‘The Queen! Get the Queen!’ Surging through the breaches in the railing, they spilled into the Palace grounds. Windows were smashed, firebrands were thrown. The guards fired a warning volley over the heads of the mob to restore their sanity but they simply raged onwards, knowing they would be on the soldiers before they could reload.

  The Captain of the Guard – a decorated war hero – faced a terrible dilemma. As he told me later, he could either watch his men be overcome by the superior numbers of the mob, imperilling the Queen herself, or he could use the last tool available to him – the battery of Royal Artillery who fire the Queen’s salute. This brave man took the only possible decision. The roaring cannons stopped the onrush in its tracks. Necessarily there were many deaths. These are to be regretted but the blood is on the hands of the agitators who enraged the crowd, not our outnumbered soldiers who had to do their duty in the face of such aggression. The Square was afterwards cleared by mounted units and a number of ringleaders were arrested. The Floret Gate has been destroyed and fleeing gypsies caused widespread vandalism throughout the Palace Quarter, including looting the Palace Arcade boutiques.

  The Wrought Standard calls for an end to tolerance for these cowardly criminals in Awia. They aim to murder innocent Awian citizens and nobility – even the Queen! – all alike. Many more bombs are undoubtedly yet to be found. The Standard calls for all Roses to be removed from Awia as the only way to ensure our security.

  The Standard notes with approval that Lady Governor Tern Wrought has offered £50,000 for information leading to the capture of Connell Rose, ringleader of the bombers.

  Tern lay with her legs drawn up, wrapped in her wings crossed over her front. Their hands clasped her shoulders and her whole body was cocooned in feathers. She was naked but for panties, their thong rode over her hip. There’s delicious black hair and small black feathers behind their white cotton, in the triangle between her thighs.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll deal with all this. I lay beside her, fitting together, and exhaustion washed over me. It made the familiar room unreal. The dark blue velvet curtain across it was drawn back, and down the two steps you could see my desk, covered in the Trisian translations I’d been working on, only a few months ago, when everything was normal. There are bookshelves above my desk, the framed original diagram of the musket, then large monochrome poster pictures of Tern, a rack of pigeon holes stuffed with letters, and my beloved red racing bike, upside-down on its drop handles on some newspaper. Then there’s a map of the telegraph lines pinned to the wall, the door with my swordbelt hanging from its hook, and the fireplace, with her perfume bottles on its mantelpiece.

  The midnight-blue drapes of the bed obscured my suit of games armour by the window. You can just see Butterfly, my Insect exoskeleton, brown with two hundred year old varnish, which has dried in runs from the ball-joints of its legs. My runner’s number 001 from the last Hacilith Marathon was taped on its thorax, and it wore my Wheel flag around its spiky lack of shoulders.

  I rested my face on Tern’s feathers, smelling her musk and ylang ylang. My breaths began to match the rise and fall of her sweet breathing, and gratefully I let it take me, into sleep.

  CHAPTER 30

  Twelve years earlier, Connell:

  radicalisation is a slow process

  After the harvest, before midwinter, that’s the hardest time. We’d threshed and stowed the grain in the Demesne’s barns, and apples in the cotes. I left the Castle’s employ and couldn’t find work anywhere. I’d been moved on, from manor to manor across the Plains, and all I heard was: ‘where are you from?’

  My harvest money ran out. Freefall. Again. I worked long hours for a week, cutting hedges for a racecourse manager, and when I finished he laughed and didn’t pay me. What could I do? If I’d taken revenge he would’ve run me out of Eske. So I left. As it was, some old bag accused me of stealing a chicken, so they moved me on.

  I headed into Awia, desperately hungry
and cold. I was down to one meal a day – breakfast, because you need your energy in the morning. I only had porridge, and for the rest of the day I drank water or chicken broth. I had no candles in the evening, and the nights were closing in. I just needed work to tide me over till Midwinter, then I can barista coffees in the Spread Eagle in Rachiswater, they know me there.

  Starvation drove me to the Front, where Cloud would employ me to cook and wash pots. If not, I could wire palisades. And as a last resort I’d roll Wroughtwards and pick coal scraps from the spoil heaps to sell in town.

  There’s always a way, I told myself, trying to fend off hopelessness. Nobody cares about me. Nothing I do is valued. It’s true, I don’t matter to anyone, but I’ll look after myself and find food. Though why they make it so hard!

  Savouring the daydream of hot soup at the Front, and possibly enough coins to see me in bread and cheese till Midwinter, I hung the ‘looking for work’ banner on the wagon and headed up the Broad Road. When I roll to the battlefront I try to take something to sell. I can tinker lamps and knives in Morenzia, but the Awians throw better away. This time I’d no money to buy stock. Life has taught me: if you’re hungry, get a job in a restaurant, sandwich stall or market. You can eat the scraps. If your clothes are worn ragged, get a job in a laundry, or sewing jackets for the fyrd. You can nick the offcuts. But lengthy hardship had blackened my optimism. You can’t see the long term through it. There isn’t any long term, because there’s no means of planning. No stability on which to build. You can’t invest for improvement. There’s no money and no chance to develop – just more of the same repetitive trudge, the day-by-day search for food.

  I need something to make me feel good. Anything! You see how desperate existence is, when a mug of soup is a fine daydream? Some people even have fun, I’ve seen them at it. What’s the goddamn point of life when all I can do is focus like an Eszai on getting that cup of broth?

  I passed through Rachis into Oscen, steeling myself for the bullshit I’ll face at the checkpoint. This country is just people stuck in different echelons, different classes, unable to escape them no matter how hard they struggle, staring at each others’ lives in bewilderment and disbelief. When they spread their wings, all they can manage is to fly round and round in a cramped cage.