The Strategist

by Gerrard Cowan

  Brightling felt a pang of desperation. Where is it? What have you done with it?

  The Protector patted his chest. ‘Don’t worry. I have kept it close to me: beside my heart.’

  A dog barked in the gardens of the house to their side, and the Protector leapt to his feet.

  ‘That was a dog,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed it was.’

  ‘I know that house. There are no dogs there.’

  There was a creaking sound, and a gate opened to Brightling’s left. A small woman emerged. Brightling took her for a servant, at first glance. She had seen this type a thousand times before in the great houses of the Overland, and they were likely the same everywhere. The woman wore a heavy brown shawl, splattered with sauces and oils. She had a bonnet on her head, grey in the moonlight. Her figure was hidden beneath the folds of her clothing, but her face was ruddy, a face that had spent too many days and nights in steam-filled kitchens.

  She was as innocuous as they came. That was what put Brightling on edge: that, and the dog. It was a giant of an animal, almost reaching the woman’s shoulder. Its fur was grey and matted and two black eyes stared out above a long, sharp snout. Its teeth were exposed, and a growl rumbled from somewhere deep within.

  The Protector seemed to sense something about this woman, too. He tensed, and tilted his staff slightly to the side.

  ‘You do not live in that house,’ he said. ‘And neither does your hound.’

  The dog’s growling became louder. The beast looked at its mistress, who patted it lightly on the head.

  ‘There, there,’ the woman said to the animal.

  The voice was just as Brightling would have expected, homely and warm, redolent of cakes and cream.

  She turned her focus on the Protector. ‘What’s all this then? Is this how we treat newcomers to our home?’

  The Protector stiffened. ‘My lady, return to wherever you came from, for that is not your home. Go on up the road, away from here, or down if you prefer. But leave us be.’

  The Protector’s voice seemed as calm as usual, but Brightling could hear something there: the slightest of tremors. He was afraid of this woman, and her dog. The Watcher understood; she felt it too.

  ‘I will go,’ the woman said, with a cheerful smile. ‘But I am taking this foreigner with me.’ She gave the Protector a shrewd look. ‘You are Squatstout’s most loyal servant, hmm. You have been for such a long, long time. I have listened to you many times.’

  The Protector was quiet. No – it was more than that. He had been frozen where he stood.

  The woman walked to the Protector, and knocked the staff from his hand. She reached into the folds of his cloak, and removed something, throwing it to Brightling. It was her mask. Thank the Machinery.

  ‘Who are you?’ Brightling asked.

  ‘We’d better go,’ the woman said, ignoring the question. ‘My tricks won’t last long with this one. We’d better get to my place quickly.’

  The woman turned and started to walk back in the direction of the gate. The dog lolled along behind her, no longer growling.

  ‘I am still chained,’ Brightling said. But when she looked at her bonds, she saw they had been broken.

  She grasped her mask, got to her feet, and followed the woman and her dog. She wondered, not for the first time, what the old Tactician Brightling would have made of this scene, back when the world was normal.

  **

  They did not enter the house.

  There was a barn in the back of the garden. The woman went inside, before beckoning Brightling to follow.

  There was a trapdoor built into the floor.

  ‘That is a way to the Underland,’ Brightling said. She had seen such doors before. They stank of that other realm.

  The woman nodded. ‘Squatstout won’t find us, if we go through this door. It is the Old Place, but it is my corner of it. We can listen to him, but he cannot see us.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am the Listener.’ She put her ear to the door. ‘Come. The way is clear.’

  The woman pulled open the doorway, revealing a wooden ladder that descended into darkness.

  The two women took to the ladder, the Listener going first.

  ‘What about him?’ Brightling asked, nodding at the grey dog, which stared mournfully at them.

  ‘The hound will find his own way down.’

  **

  When they reached the rooms below, the dog was already there, panting at them. Brightling gave him a quizzical look, which the animal returned.

  ‘Welcome, welcome,’ the Listener said. ‘Are you hungry? Or thirsty?’

  Brightling shook her head, and examined her new surroundings. I am in the Underland. She was reminded of Jandell, the sense of warped power he exuded. Here, it was all around her, permeating her. She could feel her mask, gently burning.

  They were in the first of what appeared to be a series of interlinking wood-panelled rooms. The ceiling was so low that she had to crouch, though it posed little difficulty to the Listener. There was a very faint light in the room, emanating from some hidden source. Brightling could barely make out her hand before her.

  As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, however, she could see things that set the place apart. The room seemed only partly complete. The corners faded into a flickering light, like clouds sparkling with lightning.

  ‘I’ve lit the place up, especially for you,’ the Listener said. ‘Normally I keep it very, very dark. It makes it easier to hear, you know. Oh, I have heard such things here, in the dark.’

  Before them were a wooden table and two chairs. On the table was spread a mixture of food: fish and fowl and fruit.

  ‘Take a seat,’ the Listener said. She had procured a steaming kettle from somewhere, and was making two cups of scalding tea.

  ‘I heard you arrive,’ the Listener said, placing the tea before Brightling and perching herself on the other chair. She pulled open a deep drawer in the table, and removed a strange contraption: a silver, stick-like instrument, with a wide opening at the top. She placed the narrow end into her ear. ‘I listened to you most carefully. You, and your immortal companion.’

  The Listener closed her eyes, and gently shook her head. ‘You were so loud, the pair of you, clattering around the place like great big animals. You should be more like Rustigen the Third, who is large, but does not make much sound, unless he wishes to be heard.’

  Brightling felt a weight on her leg. Looking down, she saw the grey dog, its head resting heavily upon her, its eyes gazing up with an empty expression. Realisation dawned.

  ‘Hello, Rustigen the Third,’ she said to the dog. It licked its teeth in response.

  ‘Do you have a name, beyond the Listener?’ Brightling asked.

  The woman gnawed at a dark red apple. ‘I do not. There is no need. The Listener is my title, and also my name, and serves both purposes well. I have listened to so many names over the years. I have heard all of them, and I like mine the best.’

  ‘What did you mean, when you spoke to the Protector – you said he had been Squatstout’s servant for a long time. What did that mean?’

  The Listener tapped her nose. ‘I’m the Listener. I’m not the Talker. You wouldn’t like her much, I can tell you.’

  Brightling nodded. She had noticed some changes in the Listener from the servant woman she had first encountered. The voice was plummier, now, like a matriarch of one of those grand old families of the Centre: a Paprissi, even. Her face seemed narrower, its features sharper and more pronounced; she had removed her bonnet, and her hair was a wild mass of dark blonde curls. She had discarded the shawl, and wore a dress of black satin, finely wrought and patterned with images of … No. Brightling studied the dress carefully. It is.

  It was entirely covered with images of ears.

  ‘You are an Operator,’ said Brightling. ‘Or an Autocrat. Or whatever name you people prefer to use.’

  The Listener laughed in a surprisingly deep voice. ‘I was bor
n amid all the noise, in the early times. I think the Old Place wanted someone to listen, to pay attention to all the sounds, all the cacophony of new memories being born. Do you know this term, the Old Place? It is what you call the Underland, I think, or so I have heard.’

  Brightling nodded.

  ‘So that is what I do,’ the Listener said with a sigh. ‘I follow the noises, or they follow me. Either way, I am never able to escape them.’

  ‘Can you hear the Machinery?’

  The woman smiled.

  ‘It has broken, and Ruin is coming.’

  Brightling nodded. This woman is not a liar.

  ‘I keep an ear on Squatstout, more than anyone else,’ the Listener whispered. ‘You can learn a lot from what he gets up to. Squatstout hears a Voice, you know. It does not speak to many, this Voice.’

  Brightling nodded. ‘He told me of it.’

  The Listener reached into her table again, and removed another instrument. This one was entirely black.

  ‘I made this, so I could listen to it,’ she said. ‘But I cannot hear this Voice. Do you understand? It speaks to Squatstout, but not me.’

  She leaned forward and grasped Brightling’s hand. ‘I must hear it. Do you understand? I am the Listener; I must hear everything.’

  The woman withdrew, and slumped back in her chair.

  ‘Well, let me see it then,’ she said.

  There was no need to say more. Brightling nodded, and withdrew her mask. It had taken one of its most common forms: a man’s face, his brows knitted in consternation, his mouth open and fierce. In the strange half-light of the Listener’s rooms, the mask seemed to glow with a dark illumination of its own.

  ‘I have listened to you since you arrived, and I have heard such interesting things,’ the Listener said. ‘The Lord Squatstout does not care about you, for a start, and neither does his Protector. They want this.’ She rested a finger on the mask, but quickly pulled it away, as if it had caused her pain.

  ‘The Operator – Jandell – gave that to me,’ Brightling said.

  The Listener nodded. ‘Yes. It bears his mark. It is interesting that he gave it to you. He sensed you had the ability to use it, perhaps.’

  ‘It hurts when I wear it.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you can’t use it, Brightling.’ The Listener stroked the mask gently, and suddenly withdrew her hand again. ‘I would love … But no.’ Suddenly the Listener smiled. ‘I am not a thief.’ She lifted the mask, and handed it to the Watcher. ‘I will look after you.’

  The Listener leaned back in her chair, and grinned.

  Something had been bothering the former Tactician. ‘How did you know my name?’ she asked.

  A laugh. ‘Oh, come now, Brightling. I’ve heard it a million times before.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘You have not sailed before.’

  Canning remained where he was, leaning over the side of the vessel. He wiped the vomit from his mouth before turning to face Arlan.

  ‘You are very perceptive,’ he said.

  Arlan grinned. ‘You are being sarcastic! That’s good. It shows spirit.’

  Canning rubbed his forehead. He did not feel spirited as he looked at his surroundings. He had seen ships before, the small vessels Overlanders were permitted to sail on their rivers and close to the coast. This was different: a swift, narrow thing that bumped over the waves at high speed, its sails billowing ferociously. It was the kind of thing he once imagined Jaco Paprissi sailing in, all those long years ago.

  He was not built for it. I don’t know how anyone could be built for this.

  Two men charged past, hauling a length of rope. Who are they, by the Machinery? He had been introduced to the crew when he first clambered aboard, but he couldn’t remember their names for the life of him. It had always been the same way. He was as forgetful as he was stupid.

  Sanndro appeared at the far side of the deck, climbing up the narrow stairs. He seemed to know his way around the ship very well, or better than Arlan at any rate. He rubbed his stubble and barked an order at some unfortunate crewmember, who scuttled quickly away.

  Sanndro spotted Arlan and Canning and made his way to them, adopting his customary scowl.

  ‘So, Canning. What have you learned today?’

  The one-time Tactician of the Overland lowered his gaze. Sanndro was always asking him the same question. He had been nice, at the start. Now, after getting to know Canning, he had nothing but contempt for him. He saw him as a waste of space, and wanted to humiliate him. Brightling had been the same. Everyone is the same, in the end. They’re right to be.

  ‘Nothing,’ Canning said, in a quiet voice.

  ‘Nothing,’ Sanndro echoed. ‘Weeks at sea, and nothing learned.’ He pointed at the coast, and then at the sun. ‘What does that tell you?’

  This was a new one. Canning looked up at the burning mass of heat and light, searching for something different. ‘It tells me … it is going to be hot today.’

  There was silence for a moment.

  ‘It tells you – it should tell you – that we are going—’

  ‘South,’ said Arlan. He gave Sanndro a harsh look. ‘That’s enough now, Sanndro.’

  Sanndro frowned, and nodded. ‘Fair enough.’ He did not sound convinced, and turned back to Canning. ‘Raxx wants you.’

  Canning sucked in a breath. He had not seen the Manipulator since they set sail. He didn’t know what she wanted with him now, but surprises were rarely a good thing, in his long and sad experience.

  **

  There were several rooms on the underside of the ship (he had not learned the proper terms for them, despite Sanndro’s angriest efforts). There was some kind of kitchen, where he ate by himself, in silence; a wide space in which most of them slept; another place where things were stored; and finally, behind a closed door, the quarters of Manipulator Raxx.

  He stood at that door now.

  ‘Come in, Canning.’

  He entered, head bowed, eyes on the ground.

  ‘It would be useful if you looked at me, when I spoke to you.’

  Raxx was curled into a wicker chair, perhaps six feet from him. There was no sign of a bed. She seemed healthier than before. Her skin glowed with youthful vitality, and her eyes sparked with a new light. Her pale blonde hair hung loose, framing her face like a mane.

  Canning held the Manipulator’s gaze for a moment, then turned his attention back to the floor.

  ‘Why do you hate yourself so much?’ the Manipulator asked.

  He looked at her again. He considered lying, but there was no point. He couldn’t do that very well, either.

  ‘Because of what I am.’

  ‘And what is that? A man who was Selected by the machine, hmm?’

  Canning cursed himself. He had told them who he was on the journey. He had told them so many things. He wished now that he had not. He did not know anything about these people.

  ‘That means the machine saw something good in you, Canning. That is something to be proud of.’

  ‘It may have made a mistake.’

  The woman laughed. ‘We know some things about your people. I have never heard the machine’s decisions described as a mistake.’

  Canning squirmed. ‘I don’t mean to criticise the Machinery, my lady. What I mean is, it can’t have meant to Select me. Perhaps there was a different Canning it wanted. I’ve often thought my cousin may have been the one. Maybe the Watchers made a mistake, and got the wrong Canning.’

  ‘Hmm. It doesn’t sound likely, from what I’ve heard of your Machinery, and its Watchers. We picked up a lot, over the last few decades, about your home. Your Overland. But I never expected it to be so … advanced. And beautiful. Yes, it is an advanced and beautiful place.’

  They remained in silence for a moment. Canning heard some seabird croak outside the window, and the sound of the heavy waves. For half a heartbeat he wondered if he had fallen into a dream.

  ‘Who are you, Manipulator Raxx? Where
do you come from?’

  Raxx smiled. ‘Where to begin?’ She chuckled. ‘There was once a game. This game turned into a war. In your land, the war is over, for now; in ours, it never came to an end.’ She sighed. ‘We did not know much about your people, Canning, until very recently. We knew you were there, and some of your history – for it is our history, too – but Jandell kept the gates closed to us for millennia.’

  She rubbed her head, and a wave of pain seemed to engulf her; she grasped her stomach and grimaced.

  ‘You are still in pain from what you did back there,’ Canning said. ‘I did not thank you, for saving me.’

  Raxx waved a hand dismissively. ‘This is just what happens when we Manipulate them. It takes a great deal out of us. And the Duet are powerful. There are others down there, too, tormenting us, but those two are the worst. We try our best to fight them, though we are far weaker now than the Manipulators of the past. It’s amazing there are any Remnants left, though perhaps they prefer having us around.’ She sighed. ‘They would have killed me for sure, if we’d stuck around. I don’t know why we even tried.’ She locked eyes with him. ‘You could have done it yourself, I think, with the right training. I can see it in you.’

  Canning laughed. ‘Madam, thank you, but you are mistaken.’

  Even as he said this, a part of him remembered the Bowels of the See House, and the things he had done there.

  ‘Don’t doubt yourself,’ Raxx said. ‘And stop accusing everyone of making mistakes.’

  Her face twisted in pain again, and she bent over. ‘Get out now,’ she stammered. ‘Get some sleep. We will soon be in the Remnants.’

  **

  The air had changed.

  It had been a week since Canning’s encounter with Raxx, and he had spent most of it on the deck. It meant he could keep to himself, even in the night. He did not mind the cold, so long as he had a blanket to wrap himself up in.

  Now, as he stared up at the gleaming stars, he could feel that things were different. He could smell it. The air had changed.

  He stood up, and walked to the side of the ship, where he looked upon the dark shadows and mounds of the continent. Black birds flew before him, out above the white foam of the waves. What do they eat, these creatures? Are they just following us, and picking at our detritus?