‘We cannot decide these things with a game. We must have peace.’
‘Jandell! Bleak Jandell! You are too serious, my brother,’ said Squatstout.
‘The Empire has been our greatest success,’ Jandell said. ‘It should not end at all – and certainly not because she has thrown a fit.’ He gestured at Shirkra.
‘They all end the same way, Jandell,’ said Shirkra. There was a note of sorrow in her voice. ‘Mortal empires are like mortals themselves. Death is always hanging overhead, waiting for its moment. We should put the mortals under our boots, and use them as we wish.’
The girl called Girl laughed, and stood on her chair. ‘We do not need a game. Shirkra is right. Let’s put them back where they belong.’
‘You and Boy can do that,’ Squatstout said, ‘if you win the game.’
The courtyard darkened, as if a great bird had flown across the sun. Something familiar was happening in the air above them. It was sand, twisting and turning in the breeze, cascading down beside the table, and forming her, that awesome creature of three faces and three glass crowns.
The Queen was dressed all in black, her long bodies casting dark shadows on the floor. She was taller than usual, stretched and fearsome.
She turned to face Girl, who giggled. Giggled.
‘Your highness,’ she said.
The other Operators turned their gazes away. They feared the Queen. They are right to do so.
‘You are playing a game.’
‘Yes, your Majesty,’ said Squatstout. ‘Do you want to play?’
The Dust Queen turned her heads to him. ‘No.’
‘Then you shouldn’t be here,’ said Shirkra. ‘You should leave.’
‘She’s making sure we play by the rules,’ Jandell said. ‘And she likes to watch.’
The Dust Queen smiled at him, before gesturing at the table. ‘The Gamesman has been here already, and the board is prepared. Each player will get one pawn, with Boy and Girl playing together, as usual. You have already chosen your pieces.’
At the table, Shirkra clapped her hands, and grinned manically beneath her mask.
The Dust Queen sighed. ‘Each of you should have chosen his or her piece. Tell us their names. I hope you have selected well.’
Shirkra leapt to her feet and removed a wooden figurine from somewhere in her dress. It was a man, middle-aged, his moustachioed face twisted into a sneer.
‘This is Kyrrinn, a great and clever warlord, who would have been Emperor, had the cards not been stacked against him. He is bitter and full of envy, and he will make a most wonderful pawn, most wonderful. He will find his way through the Old Place, and go further than anyone has before!’
She placed the figurine on the board, and grinned at them all again.
The Dust Queen turned to the Duet. The children smiled and lifted their hands to show a figurine clasped between them. It was formed of ivory, and depicted a thin young woman with an impoverished air.
‘We were playing, the other day, and she told us off,’ said Boy.
‘She had such a commanding air!’ said Girl. ‘She reminded me of Mother, in days of old.’
The Dust Queen nodded. ‘What is her name?’
The Duet laughed. ‘We do not know.’
The Dust Queen sighed. ‘Place it on the table.’
The Duet did as they were told.
Next she turned her gaze on Squatstout. The little man already had his figurine in his hand. It was formed of a gleaming black stone, and showed a small girl, no older than nine or ten.
‘This is Senndra. I have observed her now for a year. She has the makings of a clever mortal, oh yes.’
He placed her on the table.
The Dust Queen nodded. ‘Good pawns, all of them.’ She turned to Jandell. ‘And you, Jandell the Bleak. Who will represent you in the game?’
A strange look passed across the Operator’s face: he seemed excited and apprehensive all at once. He reached into his cloak, and took from it a green stone that sparkled like Shirkra’s dress. The stone was shaped into a young man, slender and grim-faced.
‘This is Arandel, a man of the South.’
At the side of the courtyard, Brandione sucked in a breath.
‘Yes, my Last Doubter,’ said the real Dust Queen. ‘The first Strategist of the Overland. Of course, none of us knew that, then. Not even me.’
‘I see great things in this man,’ said the Operator.
**
They had returned to the black sands, and the table.
‘Arandel was a pawn in the game,’ Brandione said. ‘The prophet of the Machinery.’
The Dust Queen smiled at him. ‘Yes. A great human. The greatest, in fact. He learned something important in the Old Place. He learned how to fight us.’
‘No. No human could do that.’
The Queen laughed. ‘And why not? Memories come from you, do they not? Who better to wield their power?’ She nodded. ‘Aranfal learned the great art, and everything changed. The world was turned upside down. A real war began. Not like all the other wars, when the mortals were simply crushed. We were all dragged into it. We could not allow ourselves to be subjugated.’
‘Subjugated?’ Brandione’s eyes widened.
The Queen smiled. ‘Arandel and his disciples fought with such vigour, and such power. The gift of the Absence was their weapon, now, too. And in many ways, they were stronger than us.
‘A stalemate developed: the humans, with their new powers, on one side, and we immortals on the other. But we knew it would not last. We were on the back foot. Seeing no other option, Jandell struck a secret bargain with Arandel; he would create the Machinery, to protect and glorify humanity, if only Arandel would agree to make peace. I joined Jandell; it was our only hope.’ A pained expression crossed her eyes. ‘We had to betray our brothers and sisters. They would not have supported us, had they known. We took them by surprise, with the mortals at our side. We destroyed them.’
She fell silent for a moment. ‘Jandell and I built the Machinery together. But as we laboured, I saw it, in the depths of our creation. I saw the Promise, and I spoke the words. Jandell would not believe me.’
‘Ruin will come with the One.’
The three heads nodded. ‘But there was more. I saw something else. Another game, before the end. A game for me to win!’ The Queen grinned. ‘You will be like Arandel, my Last Doubter, don’t you see? In the depths of the Old Place, you will learn the power of the Operators – and what is more, you will grasp the First Memory, and seize a power beyond any of us! You will become the greatest creature in all of history – greater even than me!’
She was before him, then. The central figure grasped him by the shoulders.
‘You will be the hero of the world. Ruin will come with the One – but you will stop Ruin!’
Brandione sighed, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the beach was fading away.
Chapter Fifteen
Brightling woke upon the waves.
She did not know how long she fell, or how long she spent in the water. She was far from the shore, but the Habitation still loomed overhead. It was night, and the moon hung low behind the great rock, gigantic and sickly yellow.
She moved her limbs, flexed her muscles; she could find no injuries. Her clothes were soaked through. How had she not drowned? She had never been a great swimmer, even in the western rivers of her childhood. Perhaps I did it subconsciously. Perhaps the waters here are different. Perhaps I was just lucky.
Perhaps it doesn’t matter. I’m alive.
She stared up at the stars. The water was surprisingly warm, and its tides were gentle. She felt she could have stayed like that, floating into nothing, until she washed back up on the Overland, a new addition to the Bony Shore.
She turned in the water, and looked once more at the island. It gleamed with the lights of a hundred thousand torches, but something dark also sparkled in that place. The Operator was still there, weak and at the cold mercy of Squat
stout. She would not abandon him, though she did not know what she could do to help. Still, she had no choice, if she wanted to live. And she very badly wanted to live.
My mask. She felt it under her sodden clothes, and relief washed over her. How did it get there? She loved the mask, but she feared it more. Still, it was her only weapon, now, against beings like Squatstout. She remembered how it had fascinated him; she remembered how it had hurt him.
She touched it again, made sure it was safe, and swam back to the Habitation.
**
She spent the night in a small cave, nestled in the side of the rock. She stripped off her clothes and hung them over the rocks at the entrance, allowing them to dry in the stiff breeze that blew in from the waters.
She curled in the corner of the cave, the former Tactician of the Overland, mistress of the See House. She curled her naked body into a ball, and she fell asleep beside her mask.
**
It was past dawn when she awoke. She stretched her protesting muscles and climbed to her feet, carrying the mask with her. She inspected her cloak, trousers and shirt, finding them damp but wearable. Her boots had seen better days, but no matter. Her spectacles were gone: irritating, but she didn’t really need them anyway. But she wished she had her pipe.
Enough of that. I’m lucky to be alive.
She did not know what side of the Habitation she was on, or how far she was from Squatstout and his Protector, but she believed she was safe. There were no signs of life nearby, not even a fishing boat on the waters. She clambered down to the shore, taking her knife with her, and found some shelled creatures, tightly fastened to the rocks. She cut them out of their homes and swallowed them whole, fighting back an urge to retch.
She looked up and saw nothing but rock. She would have to climb if she was to have any hope of freeing the Operator. But it was no easy task. The Guards would be scouring the island for her. She would have to become invisible.
A part of her began to despair. She had found an empty patch of land, yet the island itself was teeming with life – there was no way to climb it without being seen. If she did not at least try, Jandell was surely dead. But if she did, she would likely be apprehended, and thrown down into the Choosing, whatever that was. By the Machinery, I should allow myself to die.
But a person did not become the greatest Watcher of the Overland by succumbing to dark thoughts – no, a Watcher thrived upon adversity. There had to be a way back to the top of the Habitation. There was always a way to achieve one’s goals. She only had to work it out.
She returned to her cave, took her cloak and turned it inside out. She tore the remainder of her clothes into rags; she did not know if the mourning customs were the same in this place, but it didn’t matter. She did not want to look like a mourner. She wanted to look like a beggar.
She wrapped the cloak around herself and bunched her hair up under the hood. She hid her mask away and hunched her back, staring at the ground with head bowed. She was sure that no one would even look at her, and those who did would never remember.
She searched the entrance to the cave, and found some protruding rocks. She sighed. It had been a long while since she had scaled something like this. She wasn’t sure if she had ever scaled something like this.
She looked up the side of the Habitation, sighed again, and began to climb.
**
It was high, this hateful rock. She wondered, not for the first time, how she had survived the fall.
She had been climbing for hours when she saw the edge of a worn path, trodden into the side of the rock over the millennia. She peered at it for a long while, clinging to the stone with her red-raw hands. A path means people. A path means danger. But a path also means not fucking climbing any more.
She decided to take her chances. The path wound upwards on a gentle incline, so it would take her a long while to reach the top, if it even went all the way. She felt increasingly confident, however, that she would be able to immerse herself in the population of the island as she went.
After a while, she began to hear noises: the thrum of conversations. The path snaked around the rock a while longer, before vanishing. Ahead were squalid houses, barely deserving the title of shacks. This is a good place for a beggar. She slipped among the buildings.
She had entered a village square. There were pigs rooting in filth, and straw scattered on the ground. She hacked and coughed and hobbled her way across the square, under the noses of an elderly man and woman who barely glanced in her direction. They weren’t the most difficult pair to trick, in fairness; they seemed barely sentient. She passed them undisturbed, and found herself on a wider, smoother path. Shops and inns pressed in from either side; it was the early afternoon, and the place was thronged. She took herself to the side of the road, and sat down, crossing her legs and leaning against the side of a rickety inn. There were small knots of people clustered around her, drinking ale and talking nonsense.
She pulled the hood down firmly, turned her gaze to the ground, and vanished against the building. She stayed that way for hours, and learned many things.
The island was broken into different territories called Thirds, though there were five of them - a messiness that rankled with her. This was the Second Third. Squatstout’s tower was on the Higher Third, the most elevated part of the island. The remaining levels comprised the Lower Third, the Middle Third, and the Fourth Third. She would have to make her way through these before she could enter the Higher Third again. She did not relish the thought, but there was no choice: Jandell must still be there, in Squatstout’s Keep.
There was much talk of the Choosing, too. She could not make out any real details, but she gathered she was lucky to have avoided it. There was mention of the Unchosen, and being thrown from the top of a cliff. It sounded like a twisted version of Selection.
But the most important information she gleaned concerned the nature and dispersal of power on this awful rock. That was what mattered in the world, Overland or Habitation or anywhere else. In this place, power belonged to Squatstout; he was the people’s guide and their saviour. He enforced his authority through his Guards, those beaked creatures. It was unclear how many there were in total, but it had to be a sizeable force.
The people spoke of the Voice, too: they feared it, and loved it, all at once. That was why they stayed here, Squatstout had said, despite all the things they suffered: they worshipped the Voice. The Voice is the key. If it really is the same thing that spoke to Alexander Paprissi, then all of this began with it.
When night came, and the inn became more boisterous, Brightling shifted to her feet and hobbled along the street, slowly winding her way along the main path upwards. She walked for a long while through the Second Third, suppressing her instinct to dash into the night. This was a fairly poor place, it seemed, a home of struggling artisans and fallen families. The people did not seem to have much in the way of wealth or possessions, yet there was a spark in the atmosphere, a suggestion of repressed energy. She wondered what the Lower Third was like.
As she went, she found her mind drifting to the future. She ran a finger along her mask and felt its dark power. The world she knew had been shattered; the Machinery was no more. But she could salvage something, could she not? Her mask could hurt these beings, it seemed. She could hurt them when she wore it. Perhaps she could even free Katrina from the creature that held her. She could destroy the thing that spoke to Alexander and caused so much suffering. She could stop them, and their Ruin, whatever that may be. They could rebuild the world. She could find some redemption for all the things she had done. It can’t be too late, can it?
It had all been easy, so far. Perhaps that lulled her into lowering her defences. Perhaps she had grown rusty, over her long years at the top of the See House. Perhaps that was how the Guard surprised her.
‘Everyone is looking for you.’
She turned quickly, but not quickly enough. Two gloved hands pinned her arms against her sides, and the silver bea
k was an inch from her face. A black hat encircled the Guard’s head, like a strange halo, and a metal club hung at his side. Brightling could not see the eyes in the sunken sockets of the mask, but she knew they were studying her very closely indeed.
‘We all thought you were dead.’
It was odd to hear a voice coming from beneath that mask. This one had a soft, thrumming sound: the purring of a cat.
She quickly scanned her surroundings. The road was clear to either side, with no signs of civilisation. Why wasn’t I paying attention? Oh, the old me would not be pleased.
She considered sticking with the innocent old beggar woman routine, but there seemed little point. It wouldn’t get her very far with these creatures, if they were anything like the Watchers of the Overland.
‘I’m not dead yet,’ she said, breaking into a wide grin.
‘No. I see that. I am glad. There may still be time for you to take part in the Choosing.’
‘That means death.’
‘Only for the Unchosen. We can’t have them hanging around, stinking the place out and confusing things.’
‘Is anyone ever Chosen?’
‘Not so far,’ said the Guard.
‘Not so far in ten thousand years,’ said Brightling.
‘Indeed.’
Keep him talking. ‘How does the island survive, when you keep chucking people off a cliff?’
The beak leaned in closer. ‘There are more people here than you might expect, my lady. A few dozen deaths every now and again is not so much to absorb. The Lord Squatstout told us about the land you are from. People dying left, right and centre, poisons and stabbings and so on, oh dear me.’
He tutted.
‘I imagine that Squatstout can always just nip out and get more people anyway, if he likes. Take away their memories.’ All those memories you could have taken.
The man shrugged. ‘We do not speculate on the Autocrat’s activities.’
They stood like that for a moment longer. Brightling wondered if there was a smile beneath the mask.
The Strategist Page 12
