The Misrule series Box Set

by Andy Graham

  “You’re going to let him get away with this?” The words were a prayer’s breath away from being a scream.

  “No. I’m going to let a mother save her family. Isn’t that the way it should be?”

  Rose sprang to her feet, jarring the table. One of the mugs fell over, tea spreading in a dark puddle. “Why do you let the VP behave like this?”

  Beth paused, traces of the fragility she had shown earlier resurfacing. “He has been a great vice president. I could not have achieved much of what I have without him. I also admit to having something of a soft spot for him. He’s almost like a son to me in a way.” She placed her hands in her lap, worrying the fabric of her trousers. “He has the best of all his parents: great genes and an IQ that could melt steel. Unfortunately, it got twisted somewhere along the way. I’m not happy about the way he has taken control of the 13th. I admit I didn’t see that one coming but that can wait.”

  “I don’t care about the 13th,” Rose said, sweat soaking the gun under her arm pit. “What about Ray? You’ve known about the trap all evening and not told me?”

  “I felt this conversation was more important.”

  “Than my children?”

  “Your two remaining sons have survived pretty well up to now without your help. The one you were left to look after drowned in your care, so don’t judge me on my choices.”

  “How dare you!”

  “And on the subject of family care, please send Verena my regards if you see her before me. I understand she’s coming into the capital tonight.”

  Rose’s jaw dropped.

  “Does that expression mean how did I know?” Beth’s smile was almost a smirk. “Like I said, this country has more cameras than rats. Verena and I also share the same DNA and, thanks to De Lette’s swipe-card technology, that means she’s very easy for me to find, plus I made some changes to the archives that she’s not aware of.”

  A section of the bookshelves hinged open to reveal a grizzled sergeant almost as old as Beth. Behind him were two blocky men wearing identical suits and haircuts. They had an unmistakable bulge of a pistol strapped under their jackets. Behind them were six heavily armed legionnaires.

  “Perfect timing, Captain Lacky. Your escort is here, Rose.”

  One of the legionnaires stepped forwards, handcuffs dangling from his grip as a second patted her down.

  Rose spun round. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “I’m arresting you,” Beth replied calmly.

  “You’re what? After everything you’ve told me?”

  “You’re the leader of the Resistance. Did you think you could walk in here and walk out free? If any of my people allowed you to do this, I’d crucify them.”

  “But the promise to my father?”

  “Was to look after you. I’m arresting you, Rose. Not killing you.”

  The cuffs clicked around Rose’s wrists, biting into the skin.

  “She’s armed,” said Lacky in a voice like a sackful of stones. He held up Rose’s snub-nosed one-shot pistol.

  “How did that get past the scanner downstairs?”

  “Not sure ma’am. We had a temporary power outage, it may have been that.”

  Beth took the pistol, turning it over in her hands. “And she wasn’t searched? Have whoever is responsible reported to Field-Marshal Chester. I understand she’s showing signs of waking. This should bring her all the way round. If the most hunted woman in Ailan can walk into my office with a gun, we should all just give up now. This is not what I had in mind when I said I wanted an open government.”

  “I will deal with it myself, ma’am,” said the captain.

  Beth squinted down the barrel. “I’m no expert, but I’d say that sight is off. You’d need to be very close to use it on someone and hit.” She tossed the pistol back to Rose. “Here. You haven’t used it so far, I don’t think you’ll use it on me now. And where we’re going, you may need it.”

  “I thought you said we were beyond playing games when I arrived here tonight.”

  “I said ‘should be’, Rose. I, obviously, am not.” The president shrugged into her long black coat. “We’ll take the tunnels. It’ll get us there quicker. We don’t have much time.”

  Beth was now framed in the centre of a diamond formation. The dogs had already disappeared through the door, noses raised, tails twitching. As hands gripped each of her arms, Rose asked her final question. “What happened to the child? The one that shot president Hamilton?”

  “We attempted to rehabilitate him but that kind of emotional damage is hard to deal with. We wanted to restore some empathy, teach at least a rudimentary understanding of morals. I’m afraid, with that young man, we failed.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Captain James Brennan works for your son.”

  37

  The Hanging Urn Gardens

  A ragged staircase of bridges almost blotted out the night sky. Pots of all shapes and sizes hung from rusted chains like overfed bats. Some were broken. Birds nested in others. Chains hung naked in the air. The chittering noise that had followed them like fog intensified.

  “Sounds like the rats are sharpening their teeth,” one of the twins muttered.

  Kayle coughed, spitting out a mouthful of dust. “What is this place?”

  “The Hanging Urn Gardens of Tye,” Ray replied.

  “Your mum tell you this, too?”

  “Nope. It’s one of the few things I remember from the Access School that used to come to my town. This was the hidden wonder of the ancient world that lived within the larger wonder that was the Bridged Quarter. Like Rushyan Dolls, one within another. The teacher told us this story on more than one occasion, said it was on her bucket list to come visit this place. I don’t think she realised the negative association that term has amongst the Free Towns.”

  Kayle checked the cylinders in his revolvers. “I’ve met people like that. They get all dreamy-eyed and mystical when they talk about anything they think is arcane lore. Some of them know a crap-ton about it but know next to nothing about what’s in front of them. They—” He stopped, face impassive, and fixed his eyes on Ray’s. “Urns?”

  Ray nodded.

  Kayle pointed a pistol at the dangling objects. “Those things are urns? Full of dead people?”

  A vague grin spread across Ray’s face. “People who had been born on bridges, lived and died there didn’t want to be buried underground. They were cremated and hung off the bridges.”

  Kayle holstered his revolver and dusted the thin covering of grey ash off his coat with a grimace. “You people are weird.”

  “This is coming from a man from the Donian Mountains? You people inter each other in statues, sometimes alive, in a cave to wait for the End Times.”

  “That’s normal. Your culture’s the messed-up one.”

  “Funny, I was going to say exactly the same,” Ray replied.

  Kayle spat out another mouthful of dust and grinned. “For an ex-10th legionnaire, you’re not all bad, Franklin. When we’re out of this, I’ll take you back to the tribes. Show you what we’re really about.” He held out a hand.

  Ray clasped it high on the forearm, a smile wreathing his face. “Sounds good.”

  “Hopefully my brother will be back. We can take you drinking. Proper drinking, not this pretend drinking you legionnaires get up to.”

  “Pretend drinking?” Ray laughed. “Now that’s fighting talk.”

  “I want you to meet my brother Karil. I think you’d get on.”

  Ray felt cold to his boots. “Karil?”

  “Yeah. You’ve got tattoos, he’s got scars. Here.” Kayle dragged a thumb nail over his eyelids. “You can compare. He’s a great guy.”

  No. No. This can’t be.

  He made to break off the handshake. Kayle’s fingers tightened.

  “I need to tell you something, Kayle.”

  “Later. There’s another reason you should go back.” The Donian warrior moved in closer and whispered, �
�I was told not to tell you, but things like this are too important to keep from someone.”

  “That can wait.”

  Kayle clasped his arm with both hands. “You need to hear this, Ray. It’s about Brooke. She’s—”

  “Karil’s dead. I killed him.”

  Kayle’s grip went limp.

  “He’d been turned into some kind of monster and sent to chase me and Stella’s kids in the Weeping Woods. I had no choice.”

  The chittering stopped. Ray could hear the shuffle of the twins’ feet, Kayle’s measured breathing, his own heart.

  “You’re lying.”

  “About this?”

  Kayle’s dark face contorted. Deep creases appeared that could have been his brother’s scars. He spat at Ray’s feet. The rats erupted into shrieks.

  “I hate you!” Kayle hissed. “I hate all you 10th legionnaires. You so-called Rivermen.”

  “Kayle, please.”

  “You bring nothing but hate and sorrow wherever you go. I know what you call yourselves when you think no one’s listening — Reavermen. We tribes whisper it to each other at night. We tell each other the stories of what you have done to us. So we remember.”

  “Neither my friends nor I have hurt your people.”

  “You killed my brother!”

  “I had no choice.”

  The wind rose with their voices. Urns swayed above them, the chains grating and clanking.

  “I know the song you sing to each other.”

  “No, Kayle, don’t.”

  “We are the Rivermen, come to thieve your homes.

  We are the Rivermen, come to bury your bones.

  We are the Reavermen. We are the Reavermen.”

  Kayle chanted the words through spittle-flecked lips.

  “Enough, Kayle. You would have defended yourself against my brother.”

  “You are your brother, Rhys. You’re a misfit in this world. A curse.” Kayle stabbed Ray in the chest with his finger. “My brother had a wife, kids. You think about that? How did you kill him? Shoot him? Stab him?”

  Ray slapped the finger away. “He wanted me to do it.”

  Kayle’s laugh was low and bitter. “Now you do lie.”

  “No, he—”

  “Franklin!” A shout rang out through the air.

  The chittering noise went dead. The men spun. Adrenaline and awareness flashed through Ray’s veins. He sank to one knee. His rifle coming up to his shoulder. There was a distant twist of pain in his ankle. He could hear the fumble and clank as the rest of his team tried to organise themselves. Kayle, legs akimbo, chest puffed out, claimed the centre of the street. His eyes, gleaming in the moonlight, took in everything. With his hands hovering over the big irons low on his hips, he looked like a gunslinger ripped out of time. A man bent on vengeance and violence.

  “Ray.” The deep voice came again, a voice that Ray knew.

  “Nascimento?”

  A black-clad figure materialised from the gloom. The wind picked up, sending spirals of dust swirling around Nascimento’s boots. Over the clank of the urn chains above him, Ray heard two distinct clicks as Kayle cocked the hammers of his revolvers.

  “Is that you, Jamerson?” The muzzle of Ray’s rifle dipped to the ground.

  “Why did you come, Ray?” Nascimento stopped beyond arm’s reach. The mischievous twinkle in his eyes was gone.

  Ray glanced from side to side. The Bridged Quarter seemed to be holding its breath. The rifle Sebb was holding was shaking in his hands.

  “You know why.”

  “You have no idea what you’ve let yourself in for.” Nascimento lowered his voice. “I can’t help you this time.”

  “What’s going on, Jamerson? Where’s Orr?”

  One of the moons peered round from behind a cloud, spilling a soft white light into the garden of hanging urns. A glint of light from a window to his left snatched Ray’s head round.

  “Up there!” Kayle yelled, pointing to a bridge to Ray’s right.

  “Sorry, dude,” Nascimento said. Without raising his rifle he fired low.

  A burning red pain exploded in Ray’s thigh. He collapsed to the ground. The impact of the fall smashed his teeth together. “Take cover!” he shouted.

  Shots cracked through the air. Muzzle flashes flared all around them. A triangular pattern of red circles burst onto the chest of the Mennai twin with the rifle. Seren collapsed into a puddle on the floor, eyes staring sightlessly at the sky. Her brother screamed and fired the crossbow wildly. The quarrel smashed through an urn. Faded blue porcelain splinters exploded through the air. Ash fluttered down like snow flakes. Sebb was pumping shots into the buildings. His imitation-Kayle beret had slipped over one eye. His wild shots made his aim somewhere between dangerous and useless.

  A bulky shape slid out of the shadows, wrapped one hand round Sebb’s forehead. A jagged blade flashed green in the moonlight. Sawed across the kid’s throat in an ugly jerking rasp. Sebb collapsed into a puddle. He gasped, drumming his heels on the floor. Red streaks pumped out of his neck into the water around him.

  Kayle bellowed a war cry the legions of Ailan had come to fear in their bones. The cry of a people whose independence was as necessary to them as air. The thunder and crash of his revolvers battered Ray’s ears. Kayle advanced, eyes flashing under his beret. Legionnaires tumbled from windows and bridges. The lumbering shape that had cut the kid’s throat dived for cover. A jagged Mennai knife clattered to the floor. Kayle fired volley after volley at the muzzle flashes from the 13th. Screaming blue-faced defiance, the roar of his bullets silenced the Unsung rifles.

  A legionnaire, squat and powerful, stepped out of a doorway behind the Donian man.

  “Watch your six, Kayle!” Ray shouted, struggling under Nascimento’s boot.

  Kayle spun. Single shots rang out, crisp and surgical sounds that cut through the sprawling noise of Kayle’s revolvers. The Donian warrior staggered. Fell to one knee. Forced himself up. Raised a revolver. A bullet punched through his gut. Kayle doubled over. His tear-streaked face twisting in pain and anger. One revolver tumbled to the floor. The legionnaire advanced. Kayle fanned the hammer of his remaining revolver with his palm. Slick with blood, the gun misfired. A second shot skimmed the helmet of the legionnaire. The pistol clicked.

  “You’re out,” said the legionnaire in a slurred voice that could only be one person. “On your knees.”

  Kayle spat a trail of blood on the floor and stood stock-still in front of the legionnaire. “I know you,” he said, his breath rattling in his throat. “Baris Orr.”

  “On your knees.” Orr’s finger was white on the trigger.

  “Orr, no!” Ray called out. He tried to get to his feet. Nascimento pushed him back down.

  Kayle, his movements slow and clumsy, stooped to pick up his other revolver. He stumbled, landing face first in the dust. Arms shaking, Kayle pushed himself to his feet, leaving crimson palm prints on the floor.

  “Stay down,” Orr snapped.

  “Never.” Kayle raised the revolver he had just retrieved. He aimed it at Orr. The elaborate filigree pattern of roses on the sides was covered in dust and blood. “You lost your home. New Town. I know... My brother told me. Before he disappeared. Before that bastard Franklin killed Karil.” Kayle’s breath came in ragged gasps. With his free hand, he gestured limply around the three ex-colleagues. “The Donian offered you all more than a home. We would have given you a family. Now you’ll be homeless forever.”

  “Do it, Sub-Corporal,” a voice shouted from the shadows.

  “Stand down, Kayle”,” Orr said. “Or I shoot.”

  “Do it and damn yourself, Baris.”

  Orr’s rifle kicked.

  A black hole opened in Kayle’s forehead. His limbs folded in on his body. He fell backwards, thumping to the floor like a marionette. His beret rolled off his head and into a puddle. The black hole in his forehead filled with a swelling red mess.

  “You should have come alone, Franklin,” Orr sa
id, without taking his eyes off Kayle. “That way no one else would have had to die for you.”

  Ray fumbled for his revolver. His blood-slicked hands slid off the holster. The numbness he felt from the neck down was fighting an urge to hurt someone that blazed within him. “Hamid. Lenka. Aalok. James. Rhys. Dylan. Seren. Sebb. Karil. Kayle.” The names repeated in his head in layered echoes. “Who’s next? Your friends? Your family? Everyone?”

  Seth emerged from the shadows, picked up his knife and stamped over to Ray. He shoved Nascimento out of the way.

  “I told you Franklin was mine, Sub-Corporal.”

  “I had no choice, sir,” Nascimento said as he disarmed Ray. “He was about to fire at me.”

  Seth booted Ray in the thigh where the bullet wound was pumping blood. Ray howled in pain, blinking back the tears.

  “Brennan wants him alive, Seth,” Nascimento said.

  Seth kicked Ray. Ray screamed.

  “He sounds alive to me. Get him to the cells.”

  “How?”

  “You’re a bright kid, Nascimento, father a politician and all that. You figure it out. Carry him or drag him, I don’t care which.”

  “What about the bodies?” Orr prodded Kayle’s leg with his boot. It rocked and lay still. The legionnaire squatted down next to the fallen Donian warrior. His back was turned to Seth, his rifle cradled across his knees. Orr opened Kayle’s eyes, the Donian tradition for the dead.

  “Leave them for the rats. Get Franklin to the cells, put him with the other one.”

  Ray squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the memory of Kayle’s slow-motion fall. The image of Sebb, staring at the sky with sightless eyes, and the twins, lying in a pool of each other’s blood.

  That voice was back in his head, chittering like the rats. That damned faceless voice that had been haunting his dreams and his thoughts was watching, thinking, pointing.

  “Told you it was a trap.”

  Former captain of the 10th Legion, ex-Riverman, deserter, outlaw, rebel, and now prisoner Ray Franklin, threw his head back and howled at the moons.