The Misrule series Box Set

by Andy Graham

  Rick pulled the silk hanky from his pocket. “Can you give this to Rose?” Even as he said it he knew he had already asked more of Stann than he should have. But what other choice did he have?

  “For fuck’s sake. Really?”

  “Tell her to hide it. Tell her I’ll be back when it’s safe to see them both.”

  Stann pocketed it without looking at it. “Anything else you want your little delivery boy to do?” The syllables were heavy in the sun-drenched air. “Any message for Thryn? I’d be happy to pass on a physical message, a kiss maybe.”

  Rick shook his head. “Don’t say that, that’s not you. You’re trying too hard.”

  “And you still think you know me. You know nothing about me, Rick Franklin.” He laughed, a harsh cackle that echoed back off the Arch Trees, and ended in a gurgling wheeze. The pig snorted and trotted into the Weeping Woods. “And that’s what Dads used to say to me, another excuse to justify his behaviour. The man that claimed not to judge anyone as he lorded it over them from his bar stool with his snide one-liners and clever quotes.”

  “Tallest man syndrome.”

  “What?”

  “Got to be the best at everything, make something up if you don’t know the answer, that kind of thing.”

  “Never heard of it but it sounds about right. Dads always had to have the last word, the final put down to end all put downs. He bristled the moment he felt someone might not have anything less than a perfect opinion of him. And I’m beginning to wheel out his old cliches, react like he would have, right down to the honest self-pity. Wonderful.”

  The bitterness twisting Stann’s face wrenched at Rick. They’d argued before, fought and drawn blood, but the cause had been forgotten long before any bruises had bloomed. He was using his old friend now and hated himself for it. Putting Stann in a position he didn’t want to be in. Forcing him to deal with something he wasn’t ready for. But then, who was he to decide when Stann was ready to do anything? Maybe he didn’t know him as well as he thought.

  Rick held out his right hand. “Thank you, Stann, it means a lot to me.”

  The other man looked at him quizzically, all the bitterness wiped from his face in an instant. “Haven’t you been listening? I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for your dad. And your wife, the first woman I really fell in love with.” He glanced down at Rick’s outstretched hand. “Feels awkward, doesn’t it? Waiting for someone to shake your hand, not knowing if they will or not. How long do you hold it out for, hoping that they’ll shake it back? How do you quit without losing face?”

  Rick lowered his hand to his side.

  “Life’s too short to forgive, remember that, Rick.” Stann’s face cracked into a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe I’ll start calling you Richard. That’s what Lieutenant Chel called you before you killed him. Richard Franklin. Has a nice ring to it, just like the ringing in my ears from the bomb that took my leg and hand. Just like the screams I hear every time I close my eyes and see the look on that kid’s face I shot. I was so blood-drunk, I didn’t even know that pretty little thing was a girl until they showed me the picture.” His voice was hoarse and quiet. “The army said the public would lynch me if they found out I’d skewered a dead girl’s eyeballs with my bayonet, that it was better for me to disappear. I bet they didn’t talk about that when they were honouring the hero of Castle Brecan.” Stann pulled out another roll-up. “I’ll pass on your messages and stash your evidence, but get out of here. Now.”

  “Stann.”

  “Now.” Matching streams of grey smoke poured out of Stann’s nostrils.

  Rick trudged to the jeep. The grass whipped at his ankles. Gripping the steering wheel, he prepared himself for the drive back to the capital, what he was going to say and what was waiting for him. As he sped off, he saw Stann’s crutch leaning against a tree, out of sight of the playground.

  22

  Rigour Mortis

  Ornaments crowded together on a marble mantelpiece as if seeking safety in numbers. Maps and pictures decorated the walls, hiding the flaking paint. Some frames were crooked, not quite parallel with the lines of the floor and ceiling. Rick wasn’t sure if the pictures had been hung badly or the lines of the old building weren’t straight. He was going cross-eyed trying to work it out.

  It had taken him most of the day to get to the president’s new offices. It hadn’t been easy, but it shouldn’t have been possible. Maybe the chaos of the Revolution was working in his favour, or maybe the security systems were just substandard. A mixture of his reputation, implied favours and veiled threats had got him this far. He’d dropped acronyms and names as fast as he could think of them, sending out a silent thanks to Private Marka for telling him about VIPER. He’d resorted to using Beth’s name and the guards had let him into Melesau Tower. Even now, the name of the Secretary Who Knew The Secrets held power.

  Rick had wound his way through the damp tunnels Beth had led him down all those weeks ago, following the letter A marked on the walls. Captain Lacky had then taken him up a twisting stone staircase and into this antechamber. Rick had waited. Drunk enough water to feel queasy. Almost fallen asleep. But, eventually, Hamilton had agreed to see him.

  “Sir?” the captain said. “This way please.”

  Lacky gestured through a set of double doors, armed soldiers standing to either side. Rick thanked him and got the hint of a smile in reply, one more line amongst the forest of wrinkles on the captain’s grizzled face. Rick stepped into the president’s office.

  The setting sun was already shimmering on the horizon, its heat still baking the city. Long spired shadows from the towers stretched across the capital like talons. They criss-crossed over the squat buildings that struggled for daylight amongst their taller brethren. The shadows reached over the River Tenns. Light glittered off the water, an infinite amount of flecks of crimson and amber and gold dancing and disappearing on the waves. On the far bank, still smouldering, stood the remains of the original city. Tye had been the capital of the country when Ailan had been known as Brettia. It had been sucking on its false teeth before its sister-city, Effrea, had been weaned.

  The clock tower that loomed over the home of the old parliament buildings was relatively unscathed. Rick remembered his dad bringing him to see the clock when he was a child. Stann had been with them that day, too. They had laughed until their stomachs hurt and eaten enough ice cream to put the kids off it for almost a whole day. The clock had been called the Submerged Clock then. The bottom half had been filled with a deep blue water that sloshed gently as the hands ticked through it. The water had been gone for a few years now. Some wit had since renamed it the Sunken Clock.

  The tower housing the massive timepiece stood with quiet dignity as a single drone buzzed around it. On his journey up here, Rick had heard the decision had been taken to pull the military out of Tye. It was off limits, a dead zone.

  Luke Hamilton hunched over his desk, scribbling on a piece of paper. The nib snapped. He threw the pencil in a bin and plucked a new one out of the cigar box next to his computer. That broke, too. Without a word, Hamilton pushed the paper aside. He wandered over to a drinks globe, leaving a trail of alcoholic vapours behind him. “Major Franklin,” said the new president over his shoulder.

  “Mr Hamilton.”

  “That’ll be President Hamilton, Major.” He pulled out a bottle. “But, please, stand at ease.” Hamilton placed the bottle back into the globe and strolled back to his desk. He moved with the grace of a man one step away from full-blown rigour mortis.

  Not even a well-tailored suit could hide Hamilton’s odd figure. His limbs seemed like they belonged on a much taller person. They stuck out of his round body like the figures Rose loved making out of conkers and matchsticks. His hair was lacquered back in immovable red-brown waves, and he had what Thryn had once described as a negative behind.

  Rick did as he was told. The arteries in his neck were beating against his collar. In Basic Training they’d b
een taught to keep their heads at the correct angle with pins sticking out of their collars, the sharpened steel pressing into their neck. There had been a penalty for anyone who got blood on their white shirt. It was no easy thing to avoid when you had spent the best part of a day standing at attention. Much to the annoyance of people like Lieutenant Chel, Colonel Chester had successfully campaigned to have the ‘parade-pin’ tradition banned. Now, feeling Hamilton’s leech-like gaze crawling across him, Rick could almost feel blood trickling down from two pinpricks either side of his windpipe.

  “I understand you wanted to see me? Something about the revolution that only I could see.” Hamilton sat in his chair, the same model as Rick had been using in his little office. He turned his back on Rick to face the river. One foot tapped the rug in front of him, gently rocking the chair back and forth.

  “I’d like to see the president, sir.”

  “I am the president.”

  “The real president.” Rick scratched at the burn scars on his wrists.

  “Well, when you find this real president of yours, please tell him to drop us a line. We have a lot of questions for him. Like where can we find real soldiers who really do what they are told?” Hamilton chuckled, the tapping of his foot grew a little stronger, the chair rocking that tiny bit more.

  “No, sir. I don’t think you understand,” Rick said to the back of the man’s head. “I know he’s alive and I know you know where he is. I have proof. I’ve seen the footage. The basement, the bodies: Dr Neumann the dentist, Josephus Pepika, Range Sergeant Jilji. Private Marka from the Donian mountains. A man with rainbow-coloured trousers. Others, too.”

  The chair stopped moving, the absence of the foot-tapping sound somehow louder than before.

  “Oh, come now, Major Franklin, Rick. I like a joke at someone else’s expense. It’s what makes a man a man. But this is just silly. Libellous. Treasonous, even.”

  “You got your finger stuck in the gurney, sir,” Rick said, eyes front. Those non-existent pins strafed at his neck.

  Silence settled across the room, cloaking them like mist. The chair turned in a tight circle. Hamilton scooted it over to the desk with a movement that was more of a jerk than a push. He tapped on the intercom set into the desk with a spindly finger.

  “Tell him he is needed, after all.” The intercom crackled off. Hamilton drained his glass and walked over to the globe to refill it. Next to it was a high-backed Mennai chair. Carved figures with outsized tongues and genitals crawled all over the wood.

  The sound of a bottle clinking on glass grated on Rick’s ears.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, Franklin.” Hamilton raised his glass in a silent toast.

  23

  Revolutions & Martyrs

  Edward De Lette, the former president who was ‘officially missing but unofficially dead’, dimmed the lights until they glowed the colour of the setting sun. The dusty bulbs were shaped like flames atop off-white plastic candles, complete with wax trains. It was a detail Rick found both unnecessary and irritating. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to clean them or pick the wax off.

  He had rehearsed his speech in the car after leaving Axeford. He had even included hand gestures to punctuate the important points. De Lette had listened while Rick spoke, using a pencil to push the wooden cigar box around his desk. The speech was over now. Rick couldn’t remember exactly what he had said, as if saying it had expunged it from his memory. He had explained what he had seen on the video and what his demands were, taking long pauses between sentences to let the meaning sink in. He hoped the effect had been dramatic, rather than that of a child experimenting with its first lie.

  “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell us where this evidence of yours is? Nor what your backup plan entails?” De Lette asked.

  “No, sir.”

  The real president — De Lette had always been the real president: Rick had never fully believed that Hamilton had managed to outwit a man who could cut a favourable deal with the Devil’s Own Lawyers — ran a hand over the patchy stubble sprouting out of his face. “The existence of that video is a problem that somebody is going to pay for. I should have trusted my instincts and gone nowhere near that basement room. No matter, done’s done.” He waved a fleshy hand at the VP. “Get me a drink, Hamilton. Just one ice cube this time.”

  Hamilton did as he was told. His odd body seemed to always be one step away from falling over. De Lette took the glass off Hamilton without a word, eyes fixed on Rick. “I have a problem with your demands, Major. I didn’t instigate the revolution. I merely supported the people who decided to stand up for their own, and gave modest financial support where needed to level the playing field. I won’t admit to what I didn’t do.” The president held his glass out to his junior. “I will have more ice, after all. Make sure the cube doesn’t crack when you drop it in. It ruins the flavour.”

  The other man squeezed his eyes shut, his hand trembling as he reached for the glass. “Yes, President.”

  “Before we get to the revolution,” De Lette said, “tell me, Major, do you know much about politics?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I didn’t think so. You soldiers just fire where you’re pointed.” He smiled, humourless and brutal. “Politics is the ultimate demonstration of humanity, of evolution; survival of the fittest at its finest. Revolution is no different. The seed is laid, germinates, sprouts, then bursts into vibrant, purposeful life. But by the time it withers and dies, it has been replaced by a new, stronger seed. The same happens in a revolution. By the time the people at the back of the line learn what is already old news at the front, the goals and aims have shifted again, and the leaders fresh in the driving seat are now a target for the next rank of mutineers. So, a new wave of heads roll, often literally, and more eager victims step up to do the ‘right thing’ and the cycle continues. It’s always been done like this.”

  “Your point, sir?”

  “I was never driving this revolution, at least visibly. And so I have quite neatly side-stepped this age-old problem. Heads may roll, but I will be watching, cheering from the side lines with the proletariat.” He gave himself a pat on the shoulder and nodded for the glass to be put on the table. “As to the timing of it?” De Lette’s gaze followed Hamilton as the VP slid back into the shadows. “Let’s just say that some individuals within my government started their own little club. A secret society where they claimed to be discussing the secrets of the universe, the untold truths that the Old Lady, Mother Nature, hides from us. I hear they discussed other topics, too: changes, portents and matters that directly concerned my interests. One man, a man with the moral fortitude of a carnivorous vegan, promised them great things if they would support his cause. I was fortunate enough to be in a position where I could offer them greater things.” De Lette peered into his glass. A look of exaggerated disappointment spread across his face. ”Oh. The ice cracked. I guess you’ll have to start again.”

  Without a word, Hamilton took the glass. He looked to be on the verge of crying.

  “You think you have something on me, Major?” said De Lette. “Trust me, it’s nothing compared with the information I have on some individuals. Certain members of my government have a few unsavoury predilections that parents of young children in particular may find distasteful. There is a hierarchy to moral outrage, one which is easily manipulable. But some things will always press the right buttons, no matter how little they need to be exaggerated.”

  Rick heard a whimper from behind him. The president scowled at Hamilton, who seemed to be scuttling while standing still.

  “Starving a man of his self-esteem is almost as good as starving a man of food. Remember that after today, and be warned that those of us higher up in the food chain feed on other people’s self-esteem like vampires on a battlefield.” De Lette’s grin disappeared as his hooded eyes following his successor around the room. “Life in the shadows suits me. Less time under the spotlight, away from the camera lens, is good. I’m tir
ed of being the example I’m supposed to be.” He patted his stomach. Pink, hairy flesh was just visible under the material straining between the buttons. “Someone else can be the figurehead, the visible face of Ailan. Public figures are supposed to be youthful today: slim, with good hair and teeth, able to dazzle with a scripted speech. They’re circus animals, stress-tested and trained to repeat the same answer, no matter what the question is. I’m tired of it, the high-profile pantomime. I want freedom. But life doing what someone else tells me to do,” he tutted, “never.”

  “If you don’t agree to my demands, I will release the video.” Rick forced the words from his hoarse throat.

  “No ‘sir’ this time? I heard your family had a touch of the disobedient about you, a taste for rebellion.”

  “I want you to come out of the shadows,” Rick said, “confess to your role in this sham revolution and the hangings.”

  “Would you go against the will of the people, Major? The ever-so-spontaneous, popular revolt that has got us where we are today?”

  “If it’s all a lie, then yes.”

  “Never fear, the new government will be seen to be paying attention to the people and their grievances. My friend here,” De Lette nodded to Hamilton, “is a fine actor. Show him your ‘we’re listening’ look, Luke.”

  Hamilton obliged.

  “And your ‘concerned’ look.”

  Luke Hamilton twitched, his expression moulding into something different.

  “No, no, no,” De Lette said. “‘Concerned’, not ‘playing with the kids.’”

  Hamilton jumped as if he had been electrocuted.

  De Lette sniggered, running his tongue across his slug-like lips. “Really, Major. Would you want a man like that running the country?”

  Rick struggled to keep the fear and revulsion off his face. Much as he hated to admit it, De Lette was the better choice. But it felt as if he were being asked if he would prefer to have one or two fingers chopped off.