by T. C. Edge
I suppose, though, Mrs Carmichael is somewhat outside of the bubble here. She’s not part of the Nameless. She’s not an advisor or military commander. She’s not someone for Lady Orlando to order about. She’s just an old contemporary, someone from another world, another life, doing her own little part for good.
I like it. I like that she’s showing Brenda the respect she deserves. She’s earned that much, and far more, in my humble and somewhat biased estimation.
With their hands now parted, Lady Orlando returns to her desk, and invites Brenda forward to take a seat. She does so as the rebel leader begins rooting around in a drawer, before pulling out a bottle of whiskey.
“I hear you’re an avid fan,” she says.
Mrs Carmichael’s eyes light up like a cat spotting a mouse.
“I do like to dabble occasionally,” she says.
“Well, I call this an occasion,” says Lady Orlando.
She pulls out two glasses first, then lifts her eyes to me, before sweeping them over to Kira.
“You two care to partake?” she asks.
Kira and I glance at each other. Her eyes say ‘yes’. After the day we’ve had, we fully deserve it. And in some cases, need it too.
We step forward, moving either side of the desk so that we’re sitting and standing as a square. The glasses are poured out and then raised. Brenda, who I assume hasn’t had a tipple for a good couple of days, licks her lips at the sight of the smooth brown liquid.
“To Brenda Carmichael,” says Lady Orlando, “and all she’s done for the children of this city.”
Glasses clink, and my guardian adds: “And to Cornelia Orlando, for saving it.”
The two old women smile, Lady Orlando’s effort quite natural despite her disability, and we all take a sip. It feels good, oh so good, to feel that caustic burn in my throat again.
It feels good, too, to see my guardian sitting ahead of me. And to know that Tess and the kids are safely back in Compton’s Hall, well protected right at the core of this city.
But within all of that good feeling, some lingering bad claws back up into my head. She needs to know. Brenda needs to know.
I take a breath, and just blurt it out. Now may not be the best time, but it comes out anyway.
“Nate’s dead,” I say.
My words fall like a lead balloon. The growing light in Mrs Carmichael’s eyes fades out, dulling.
“How?” she whispers.
“The people who came to the academy,” I say. “The people who raided it. They did it.”
She nods, and I see the memory of that day flash in her eyes. Only a couple of days ago now, although seeming like a lifetime, when the men came pouring through the smashed door of Zander’s making, looting and pillaging the place and taking some of the young boys to turn into pickpockets and thieves, and goodness knows what else.
“You found them? How?” she asks, looking up at me with heartbreak in her eyes. There’s no tear there, though, not even any dampness. She’s prepared for this, seen too others die to react as a normal person might. It’s just another tragedy in a long line of loss.
“It was Kira,” I say. “She led us to this gang hideout. The Voiceless, that’s what they call themselves…”
“Called,” adds Kira, eyes burning. “Brie got revenge for Nate, Brenda,” she says. “She got her revenge.”
Lady Orlando’s eyes glint with approval, and so do Brenda’s.
“Good,” growls my guardian. “I hope you made them suffer.”
The memory of my slashing knife plays again. The memory of the fountain of blood and the terror across the men’s eyes. I grimace at the thought, an unpleasant one.
But I’d do it again.
Again, and again.
“The Voiceless are, or were, nothing but a blight,” says Lady Orlando. “They used our own name to give them some authority. Good riddance to them all.”
Now, the toast turns to Nathan, the little boy from the academy. A boy who was always so shy, forced to creep from his shell as the city began to change. He changed with it, along with so many others I could mention, growing strong, refusing to be intimidated by those who he would once have feared.
And that, in the end, led to his death. His defiance was what got him killed.
We raise our glasses again, this time with a sombre atmosphere infecting the room.
“No Nate,” I whisper.
“No Nate,” they repeat.
It feels cathartic getting it out, sharing it with someone else who knew Nate so well, cared for him, raised him from a frightened pup to a brave young wolf.
And I do it too for a selfish reason. To pass the baton to my guardian, to give her the responsibility of telling the others, a job she’s grown numb to as the years have passed, and others have been lost.
I wonder how many have passed through her doors, only to now be six feet under. Could you count them on one hand? Two? Would it take a dozen hands to yield a more accurate result?
All those discarded from the academy because they’d ‘aged out’. All those who become Disposables, battling the terrors of the northern quarter. All those who succumbed to some disease or injury or terrible tragedy, like Fred and Ziggy who died in the attack on the market.
Now, though personal losses, they merely join the thousands of others lost to this war, this once secret war that’s now become so real, engulfing the city and everyone within it into its tight and inescapable vise.
We gulp down the whiskey in silence, and all four of our glasses hit the cold metal desk with a clang. Some brightness is needed again. Surprisingly, Lady Orlando supplies it.
“Tonight,” she says, “I will have some food prepared for you. You and your kids will have a private space, and you can have as much whiskey as you can drink, Brenda. Call it a wake for the young boy. Celebrate him.”
Mrs Carmichael nods, the kindness unexpected at a time like this when there are so many bigger things to consider. Her composure threatens to melt, a tear so nearly gathering in one eye.
“That’s very generous, Cornelia. But we’re no different from anyone else. We don’t deserve it…”
“You do,” cuts in Lady Orlando. “You do deserve it. Now don’t argue with me, Brenda,” she adds with a rare smirk that she reserves for such circumstances. “Go back to the kids, and I’ll send someone for you soon.”
Mrs Carmichael stands up on her old legs, pushing back her chair. Lady Orlando notices her injured peg for the first time, but has her concern brushed away in typical fashion as soon as she mentions it.
Then, out of the room my guardian goes, with me alongside for support, leaving Kira back in the office as Timothy re-enters.
A brief respite; some smiles and whiskey, later joined by the dark clouds of grief.
I guess, from now on, that will be the standard state of play for us all.
19
By the time the kids are ready for dinner, night has fallen.
Stepping out of Compton’s Hall, the dark skyline of Inner Haven appears, shorn of its most spectacular silhouette, the place looking so very different without it.
The kids, though, after days of worry, appear to have relaxed. There’s even some excitement bubbling among them as we’re guided down the road to another state building, once used by the board of education.
Now, as with most of the offices and council headquarters along this stretch, it’s been repurposed for the simple use of housing our people. And, in this case, feeding them too.
It seems quite appropriate that such a place should be the site of our mini banquet, given our company. This particular education board, of course, would have been mostly concerned with managing the affairs of the Savants. They could never have expected to be invaded by a bunch of little Outer Haveners.
It’s to an office on the ground floor that we’re taken, the room prepared with a long table blanketed by a white cloth and stacked with a whole host of snack foods, non-alcoholic drinks, and cutlery. The kids rush in, lo
sing their manners, before Mrs Carmichael calls hastily for order to be maintained.
At her command, they retract their claws from the bowls of chips and other goodies and take their seats. Mrs Carmichael takes hers too at the head of the table, with Tess and me on either side. Abby, typically, makes sure she gets a spot right next to me, her eyes still struggling to leave me alone despite all the tasty treats on display.
As yet, I know that our guardian hasn’t informed the kids of Nate’s death. And I know that tonight won’t be the time for that either. For those of us who do know – and Tess, for one, has been told – we can silently think of him as we indulge ourselves, leaving the kids to enjoy this single evening of pleasure without having to suffer the burden of loss.
With us all in place, Mrs Carmichael finally gives the thumbs up, and the rush of hands dive in, fingers turning sticky and salty and quickly covered in crumbs. I look at Tess and Brenda, and we smile at the sight of them all, our own end of the table not quite so boisterous.
Lady Orlando’s promise, however, is kept. From the table, Mrs Carmichael takes hold of a fresh bottle of her favourite vintage, savouring the moment as she opens up the top and takes a long sniff.
“Bet you wish you were a Sniffer right now,” I smile, watching her draw in the scent.
She nods silently, then pours three glasses, and spends another few moments to herself savouring the smell, then taste, as she finally takes a sip.
“Magnificent,” she purrs, drawing a laugh from Tess and my lips.
The evening is a rare, joyous one. I revert, somewhat, to the girl I once was not so long ago, surrounded by my academy companions. We could just as well be back in the canteen, the realities of the world outside the door fading away for those few hours that we spend there.
I try to steer clear of my experiences, both in my mind and when asked about them too. As the kids fill their bellies, questions are thrown my way, the sort that I don’t really want to answer.
Mrs Carmichael, as always, is on hand to cool their tongues by firing up her own. I’m reminded of when Tess and I were embroiled in the attack on Culture Corner, and our subsequent trip to the streets just outside this building.
Back then, the kids were only too eager to quiz me on everything I’d seen. Back then, the city was a very different place to what it is now.
Now, we’ve all been through the ringer, some more than others. And so their interrogation doesn’t last long, the trauma of the past few days and weeks trying to claw its way back into their heads.
I do, however, update Tess and Mrs Carmichael of a few of my recent run-ins, speaking quietly at the end of the table as the room grows louder once more. My explanations are brief, but include the necessary information I think they might consider important.
Mostly, it’s Drum’s fate that I focus on, telling them about the trip through the outerlands, Rhoth and the Fangs, the Shadows and the Bear-Skins and Bjorn, their mighty leader.
I tell them too of West, and what I saw in his mind, of the arid lands so far from here where he saw his family die and his village burn.
We enter into a discussion about the lands beyond this place, not just ten miles or a hundred miles, but thousands of miles away. About the world beyond the seas and oceans, our isolated city growing disconnected from whatever else is out there.
They listen intently, amazed by it all. By what I’ve seen and done, by the tribesmen who inhabit the lands around our walls, and those that exist even further away.
“You think there are other cities out there?” asks Tess. “I mean, like you say, across the seas?”
I nod, thinking again of what Lady Orlando told me, what Rhoth told me.
“I don’t think it, I know it,” I say. “People come here from far and wide. They call it ‘the big city with all the lights’ in the outerlands. At least, that’s what Rhoth always calls it. A beacon that the wildmen all seem to know about for. But that’s all here, across these lands. I’ll bet there’s so much more across the water…”
The conversation leads to wild theories that have no basis in truth. Even Tess, who never even believed that the rumours of the Shadows, and the men in the mountains, were real, seems to be taken up by it all.
I suppose, now, the truth is irrefutable, and she appears only too happy to open her eyes and extend her imagination to what may lie beyond.
She seems eager about another thing that happens that evening too. It occurs towards the end, when the kids have eaten their full and our whiskey bottle is getting worryingly close to its conclusion.
Mrs Carmichael, more than us, is to blame for that, her constitution and tolerance far greater than ours. Her love of the brown stuff, too, means she has at least two shots for every one of ours.
Still, even a small amount is enough to rev Tess’s engine, the drink taking its toll as our party in interrupted by one final guest.
Zander.
He appears through the door and comes straight for me, and I leap straight up to my feet and suck him into a tight hug. Tess, sitting opposite me, looks at him in half a daze, gazing straight into his eyes.
He smiles a dazzling grin and looks over the table.
“Looks like you’re all having a good time.”
His eyes drop to Mrs Carmichael.
“Mrs C, so nice to see you again. I’m so happy you’re here.”
Quite out of character, Mrs Carmichael also climbs, a little drunkenly, to her feet and drags him into an awkward and rushed embrace.
“My boy, thank you, thank you,” she mutters.
“Um, you’re welcome…” says Zander, frowning and grinning over her shoulder at me.
“For what you did in her office,” I whisper to him.
I suppose that’s what she’s referring to.
Turns out, I’m right. When she lets him go, she smiles up into his bright hazel eyes and says: “Beautiful boy, just beautiful.”
She’s a little incoherent, the effects of the alcohol now starting to take their toll.
“OK, Brenda, that’ll do.” I step in and place her back in her seat, before pouring her a glass of water.
Then I notice Tess, still staring - well, gazing, actually - at my brother.
“I think you’ve got an admirer,” I say, rather loudly and in a bid to snap Tess out of it.
She comes to, and dips her eyes quickly in embarrassment. Zander wanders around the table.
“How’s the stomach,” he asks softly.
Her eyes lift slowly. It’s really not like her to be this coy.
“It’s perfect,” she says dreamily.
Zander laughs.
“Hmmmm, a perfect stab wound. Didn’t think there was such a thing.”
“No, no, I mean…it’s good. It’s healing.”
“I know what you meant,” grins my twin. “So, you all having a nice time being back together?”
It seems quite unfair to say ‘yes’ given those we’ve lost, and everyone else besides. I mean, literally outside the door there’s a giant pile of collapsed building, and heaven knows how many bodies still trapped inside.
Still, this is our moment to enjoy. We can’t always be burdened by all the awful things in this world. We have to snap up these opportunities when they come.
So, both Tess and I nod and smile, and Mrs Carmichael looks over her family with a glint in her eyes. It’s all we need to say.
Zander joins us for a little bit, first pulling up a chair and sitting next to Tess. I watch them talk and smile to each other, Zander doing most of the talking and Tess most of the smiling.
In the meantime, as Mrs C, as my brother called her, gulps down some water so that she feels better about having more whiskey, Abby appears from the other end of the table – where she’d retreated to as I spoke with Brenda and Tess – and tugs once more at my shirt to get my attention.
I look down through tired eyes and see hers, bright and blue, staring up at me. In her hands, I see that pink backpack again.
�
�What’s in the bag, Abs?” I ask.
It’s as though she was hoping for the question. Her face lurches into a smile and she places the bag on her lap, opens the zip, and starts fiddling around for something inside.
Then, she draws out a ring-binder, the front of it a pinky-purple and stamped with colourful letters and stars and the sort of crazy doodling you’d expect from a girl of her single-figure age.
It takes a moment for the letters to form into words, Abby holding the thing up to me with her nose and eyes hovering above.
I read it out loud.
“The Adventures of Queen-Brie and Abtastic…”
A huge smile swirls into position on both of our faces, and she stretches out her arms and hands me the binder.
“It’s my comic!” she says. “You wanna see?”
She shuffles closer to me as I say: “Do I! I can’t wait!”
Laying my arm over her narrows shoulders, I sit the comic on my lap and open the first page. I see a picture of two of us standing there, side by side, me with my dark hair and her with her blonde, and our hazel and blue eyes bright and colourful.
We’re both adopting heroic poses, arms on hips and with capes billowing in the wind, dressed in multi-coloured spandex and with our superhero logos emblazoned on our chests and a plethora of weapons hanging across our belts and fixed to our backs.
“Do you like it?” she asks.
“It’s sooo cool, Abs. I love it!”
She beams again.
We begin turning the pages, stopping on each as I read the story and look at the attached drawings. All the while she explains what I’m looking at, giving more backstory, explaining her method and what each of the weapons or enemies we’re facing are.
She’s taken inspiration from the comics she loves, but also from the real world we inhabit. I see soldiers dressed as the City Guard, some of them massive like Brutes, others with dazzling eyes like Hawks or big noses or ears to indicate they’re Sniffers and Bats.
I see others, too, mixtures of them all, just like hybrids, and characters completely drawn from the little girl’s wild imagination. Some, it seems are friends of our little superheroic duo. Others – in fact most others – are enemies, canon fodder for us to cut down.
