The Strategist

by Gerrard Cowan

He pushed the thought away. It was perhaps best not to think treacherous thoughts when surrounded by creatures like Shirkra, beings so powerful they could twist your memories into a torture chamber.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ he asked.

  Shirkra and the Gamesman were standing together. She was wearing her mask, and had thrown an arm across his shoulder. The Gamesman did not seem entirely comfortable.

  ‘We are here to see what the Gamesman has wrought, of course!’ Shirkra cried. She turned to Aranfal. ‘He’s been so busy!’ The eyes sparkled beneath the mask. ‘Do you know why the Centre was empty of people, Aranfal? Hmm? Have you guessed the reason?’

  ‘No.’ But I fear for them.

  ‘Don’t look so worried!’ Shirkra laughed. ‘They’re quite safe. The Gamesman is a gentle soul, you see. He told us the truth, earlier, when he pretended to be Illarus. He really did shoo them all out of the Centre. Oh yes, he really did. They’ve fled all over the place, now, to wherever they think is safe. Who cares though, hmm? Once Ruin comes, it doesn’t matter where they’re hiding. Ruin will find them.’

  ‘Why did he get rid of them all?’

  The Gamesman gave a nervous smile, and gently freed himself of Shirkra’s arm.

  ‘I hope it is to your satisfaction, my lady,’ he said.

  He raised an arm into the sky, and tapped his fingernails together. Nothing happened at first. But after a while, Aranfal became aware of a great, grinding noise; the rubble of the Circus began to tremble, and the ground under the Watcher’s feet started to shake. Something flashed across the sky, a purple light, and then she was there, just for a second, Mother herself, imposed upon the moon.

  The broken marble beneath them began to shift, and Aranfal found himself pitching this way and that, barely able to stay on his feet. Great dusty heaps came together, merging into new forms, terrible shapes in the darkness. The walls of the building, much of which had been shattered in the Selection of Katrina Paprissi, grew once more, curving upwards, so that the great Circus of the Overland was once again complete.

  But this was not the building that Jandell had created ten thousand years before. This was something else entirely. Torches burned along the sides, and Aranfal saw that the marble of the walls and the seats was now a purple hue: the colour of the Strategist. Once, four great statues of the Operator – Jandell – had stood at points along the walls. Now, statues of Mother took their place. These were giant, larger even than those of Jandell, monstrous things, painted in vivid colours, so that the purple of the rags was a startling contrast with the paleness of her skin and the black of her hair. As with the old statues of Jandell, each representation of the Strategist was different to the next. In one, she stood tall and erect, her arms in the air and her face pointing to the sky. In another, she was hunched over, facing directly into the bowl of the great stadium; she wore her mask, the white rat, and her purple eyes flickered beneath. In the third statue, she seemed melancholic; her shoulders were slumped, and she held her mask lankly at her side. And finally, she was the victorious Strategist that had long been prophesied, the One who would bring Ruin; she wore her mask with pride, staring down at the Circus with anger flashing in her eyes. She held a short blade in one hand, and raised the other into a fist.

  Aranfal turned his attention to the Circus itself. This was where the people of the Overland had come, in older days, to witness the Selections. The Portal to the Machinery sat in the centre of the floor; a terrible flame would erupt from it, bringing with it the names of those lucky enough to be elevated to the greatest of all glories. In the new Circus, the Portal remained, but at its side was a giant table, its stout legs driven firmly into the ground. It looked to Aranfal like a massive Progress board. When the Watcher looked down at it, its surface seemed to shift; the squares became circles and hexagons, and the colours switched from black to white and back again.

  Eight chairs had been set up around the board, formed of a dark wood, almost growing from the ground of the Circus, twisted and sprouting black leaves.

  ‘Eight chairs,’ said Shirkra. ‘One for Mother. One for me. Three for the Queen.’ She turned to the Gamesman and scrutinised him. ‘Who are the other players?’

  The Gamesman shrugged. ‘I cannot tell, as you well know, Madam Shirkra.’ He swept an arm across the Circus. ‘But do you like it? Are you pleased with me?’

  Shirkra turned on the Gamesman with a dark smile. ‘I could not be happier, my love, I could not be happier. Placing the board by that Portal of Jandell’s – a triumph! What a way to humiliate him!’

  ‘What is this place?’

  The Gamesman and Shirkra twisted their necks to stare at Aranfal. The Watcher had not meant to speak; the words had just tumbled out. By the Machinery, you must get a grip on Aran Fal, and become Aranfal again.

  ‘This is the Circus, of course,’ Shirkra said, pacing towards him. ‘But a new version. Our version.’ Her green eyes flashed. ‘It is greater than it ever was, don’t you think?’

  The Watcher turned back to the board. ‘What is the game?’

  Shirkra laughed. She gripped Aranfal by the shoulder, and suddenly they were standing at the table, staring at the board. The Watcher was only able to look at it for moments at a time; the shapes and patterns that moved across its surface were too strange for him to comprehend, a tapestry of weirdness.

  ‘What is the game?’ he asked again.

  ‘This is not the game. This is just the board, on which we watch the game.’

  ‘But what is it?’ Aranfal looked up to the heights of the Circus, where he could just make out the Gamesman, standing alone, a vision of sadness. ‘What has the Gamesman made?’

  Shirkra put her arm around the Watcher, and forced him to stare at the board. Acting on some inner impulse, Aranfal took his raven mask from his cloak and placed it on his face. He looked once more at the maelstrom and, for just a moment, he thought he saw his own face, reflected there in the chaos.

  ‘This is a map of the Old Place,’ Shirkra whispered. ‘Like the Old Place, it moves in strange ways. Like the Old Place, only we can begin to understand it – and even we know only some of its mysteries, oh yes.’

  Shirkra walked to one of the chairs, on the far side of the table. She pulled it out and sat down, sighing with pleasure.

  ‘This is where I will sit, hmm? I will sit here, when we play.’

  Aranfal went to her side. ‘How is the game played?’

  Shirkra chuckled. ‘We are creatures of memory, Aranfal the torturer; we love memories beyond all things. And the Old Place is formed of them – in its very bones! We send our pieces there, in the game, to go through the memories it holds, searching for the very first one – the oldest one of all! Oh, we would give anything, we Operators, to know the First Memory of the Old Place – can you imagine what that might be? Can you imagine the power such an ancient memory must hold?’

  Aranfal shook his head.

  ‘No. Of course not. How could you? And yet, neither can we. The Old Place did not like it when we looked, so now we send mortals to search for us. The Old Place tolerates them; it loves them. But it is a dangerous journey, you must realise. The Old Place is memory, and memory is capricious. It often turns against our pawns, and … well, it does not treat them kindly, oh no, not kindly at all.’

  Aranfal felt a growing sense of danger.

  ‘How does the game actually work?’

  Shirkra looked up at him, and a wicked grin was visible beneath the mask.

  ‘Each of the players chooses a pawn to work on our behalf – to enter the Old Place, and search for us, with their beady little eyes, look look look for the First Memory! We watch their progress here, on the table.’

  The unwelcome sensation bloomed in Aranfal’s belly.

  ‘How is the game won?’ he asked.

  ‘Why, isn’t it obvious? Whoever’s pawn finds the First Memory of the Old Place is immediately declared the winner!’

  ‘But you haven’t found it yet, have you
?’

  ‘Hmm, well, no, that is true, Watcher, that is true, ha ha. Whoever owns the longest-living pawn is the winner. Before the Old Place can stand them no longer, and takes them away to only it knows where. Or worse. Ha!’

  The Watcher looked around, and saw that the seats in the Circus were filling up. Thousands of spectators were entering the great stadium, ghostly figures, men and women, boys and girls.

  ‘How have they … they are so quiet …’

  ‘They are like us,’ the Gamesman said, now at Shirkra’s side. ‘No – they are like me. Younger immortals, following the older ones like animals. Some are weak, and some are strong, but most of them are cruel.’

  ‘That’s why he made the people leave the Centre!’ Shirkra cried. ‘He always does that, he always does! He is so soft, so soft, yes! He wanted them to run away before the audience arrived. He worries about the humans – he does not trust the immortals, his own brethren!’

  ‘I understand,’ Aranfal said.

  ‘Yes, of course you understand, Aranfal, of course you do!’ Shirkra was leering at him. ‘You are so very, very clever! That is why you will do well, I feel.’

  Oh no.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Shirkra reached into her gown, and withdrew a small figurine. Aranfal crouched down and studied it for a moment. It was a perfect likeness of himself, carved in glass.

  ‘This is one of the pieces,’ the female Operator said.

  Aranfal sighed, and he meant it. ‘Then I am your pawn. That’s why I’m important to you all. I’m just a pawn in this game.’

  ‘Oh no, oh no!’ Shirkra reached into her gown again, and withdrew another figurine. This one showed a young woman, plump, with unkempt hair. It was Aleah, the Watcher who had nipped at his heels all these years.

  Good. At least she might die, too.

  ‘This is my pawn. She is wonderful.’

  ‘Then who—’

  And she was among them: Mother. She smiled at Aranfal, the smile of Katrina Paprissi: the smile of the face he had known and despised for so, so long.

  She lifted him with one arm, and held him above her head.

  ‘You are my pawn, torturer.’

  With a flick of her arm, she tossed Aranfal into the Portal.

  The crowd cheered.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Listener liked having a guest.

  There were many rooms in her house, and she took Brightling on a frantic tour, carrying her strange black instrument with her as she went. Some of the rooms were oddly familiar to the former Tactician: receptions like she had known in the See House; small closets and bedrooms, similar in many ways to the sparse chambers she had slept in all her life. Others, though, were different, and somehow jarring, filled with objects unlike anything she had seen before.

  Eventually they came to a large and airy space, the ceiling a dark blue and sprinkled with silver specks, like the sky at night. The Listener threw herself down and stared upwards. Brightling looked too, and for a moment it seemed she really was looking at a night sky: the moon glowered down at her amid the stars, and a comet streaked past her vision. But the image disappeared, and she found herself gazing once again at an ordinary ceiling.

  ‘Are we still inside, Listener? For a moment …’

  The Listener leapt up and fixed Brightling with a quizzical look.

  ‘For a moment what? What did you see?’

  Brightling paused. ‘It seemed that we were outside, my lady.’

  The Listener cocked her head to the side.

  ‘That is what I see, when I am here. This is a strange place. Funny, that you can see with the eyes of an immortal.’

  ‘Not all the time. Only now, and only for a moment.’

  The Listener threw her head back and laughed.

  ‘Only for a moment! Oh, if you knew our age, you mortal thing, you would know what a moment is to us! Still, seeing the true glory of the Old Place for a moment is better than never seeing it at all. Perhaps your time with Jandell and the pretty little mask he gave you has had an effect on you. Let us look upon this place together, as it truly should be seen.’

  The Listener waved a hand, and the black ceiling became the night sky once more. But now the whole scene had been transformed. They were standing on a hill, its surface gleaming with wet grass. In the centre was a narrow platform, a kind of needle, thrusting high above them. A staircase wound its way around the sides, up into the sky.

  ‘Come,’ the Listener said.

  They climbed the staircase together. Brightling was reminded of the See House, and for a moment she felt absurdly gloomy, longing to return to her tower. She cast the notion aside. My See House is gone forever.

  The top of the tower was a smooth, circular expanse, formed of a kind of grey slate. In the centre was a black wooden box. The Listener walked to it, beckoning Brightling to join her. She leaned over and snapped open the lid before reaching inside and removing another of her instruments. It was thin and black, like the one she held herself.

  ‘This is a strange part of the Old Place, where I can hear many things,’ the Listener said. ‘But even in this place, I cannot hear the Voice.’

  The Listener pressed her own instrument to her ear, and handed the other to Brightling. The former Tactician stared at it for a moment, running a finger along its surface, from the narrow point at one end to the wider opening that bloomed from the other side. She did not want to put this thing to her ear. She did not want to hear the things the Listener heard. She was certain she could not bear the weight. Perhaps the Listener knew this; perhaps she wanted to torment her mortal captive.

  But Brightling put it to her ear all the same. The Listener stared into her eyes, holding her own instrument at a jaunty angle.

  ‘Can you hear anything?’

  Brightling listened carefully, but nothing came from the other end.

  ‘No.’

  The Listener sighed and nodded. ‘I thought that perhaps that mask of yours would give you an ear. It is a powerful thing, that mask; I wondered if some of it had … But no. I am a dreamer. Come – we will return to my chambers.’

  She clicked her fingers, and they were once more in the Listener’s quarters. A table had been spread with food, and a glass of wine had been placed next to a chair.

  ‘This is for you, Brightling,’ the Listener said.

  Brightling took a seat, and began to eat. She realised, now, that she did not trust the Listener. There was something cruel about the woman, and her addiction to spying on all creation. Still, the Watcher did not want to starve, and her belly told her that was possible, even in the Underland.

  When Brightling had finished, the Listener took her to another room, a short walk down a low-ceilinged hallway. A four-poster bed stood in the centre, covered with a black veil. A white nightgown hung at the side, along with a brown shirt and trousers and a pair of dark boots.

  ‘Goodnight, Brightling,’ the Listener said. ‘I will return to my post, and listen again.’

  The woman bowed, and left Brightling alone. The Watcher ignored the nightgown and changed into the clothes, pulling on the boots. She wrapped herself in her cloak, crawled into the bed, and against her better judgement, fell asleep.

  **

  She awoke to a crash.

  Decades of experience sparked in the Watcher’s muscles. She leapt from the bed, preparing to defend herself. But she knew, even in the second it took her to find her feet, that she was entirely alone.

  It was gloomy in the room. A row of candles had been lit along the wall, and flickered strangely, as if in a breeze. But no window is open. There are no windows.

  She studied the scene. No one had entered; the door was firmly shut. At the side, however, she saw the instrument. She could not remember bringing it with her when she came here. Had the Listener brought it? Or had it come of its own accord? Anything was possible in this place. No. I must have taken it, and leaned it against the wall. It fell over. That explains the sound I
heard.

  She lifted the instrument and examined it in the candlelight. It was strangely cool to the touch, and utterly black: in a way, it reminded her of her mask. The thought of the mask made her long for it. She removed it from its hiding place and studied it with that familiar blend of affection and fear. It was a woman, tonight, her features soft and delicate, the mouth firmly closed.

  She held it next to the instrument, one of the items in each hand. At first, she thought she was seeing things. But no: the more she looked, the clearer it became. The instrument was trembling.

  She did not know what compelled her to do it. Perhaps she just wanted to see what would happen. It didn’t matter, in the end.

  She lifted the instrument to her ear, and she listened.

  Where did you get that mask?

  Brightling threw the instrument down. She knew in a heartbeat what this was. This was the Voice the Listener had searched for all these years: the Voice that had spoken to Squatstout and to Alexander Paprissi. She was certain of it. It was old and tired, and its words were laced with pain; it wanted others to share in its suffering.

  The instrument trembled again. Against her better judgement, she put it to her ear once more.

  I know you! You are Brightling: the great fool.

  ‘What do you mean?’ She began to tremble.

  You took Katrina Paprissi. You kept the One safe. What a service you performed!

  This was the creature that was trapped within the Machinery, demanding Squatstout find it a host. How many millions had died – thrown off the edge of a cliff – in that endless search?

  ‘You are nothing but a voice,’ Brightling whispered. ‘And I have something that you fear. I know what my mask is. I can hurt your kind when I wear it. I hurt Jandell and Squatstout, without even meaning to. Imagine what I will do to you. I will destroy you, and then I will find the thing that holds Katrina, and I will set her free.’

  The door opened, and the Listener entered.

  Keep away from me, the Voice said. Keep away from me, keep away from the One, and you may live.

  The words were defiant, but Brightling sensed something else there. Fear. Fear of me, and fear of my mask.