Archibald Lox and the Vote of Alignment

by Darren Shan

  “You can’t tell us where to go,” Dermot huffs.

  The man with the moon face smiles thinly. “That’s the other thing about actors — you want to make your own rules. Well, you might have noticed that it’s bedlam here, so we’ve introduced strict camping laws.”

  “But I don’t want –” Dermot starts to argue.

  The moon-faced man blows a whistle and a giant steps out from where he was lurking behind a tree. And I mean a real giant, not just a big man like Cal. He must be five metres tall, with fists like wrecking balls.

  “Is there a problem?” the giant growls, and it’s the sound of thunder rolling across the heavens.

  “I don’t know,” Moon Face says with fake sweetness. “Do we have a problem?”

  Dermot mutters something beneath his breath.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” Dermot sighs. “We’ll camp in lot 173T.”

  “Wonderful,” the man beams. “Would you like the directions again?”

  “I can remember,” Dermot says, and pushes past in a huff.

  I gawp at the giant and the moon-faced man as I’m passing. The giant is like something out of a fairy tale, and so is the man, whose face is the shape and colour of a perfect crescent moon, even with little craters. He has a tiny nose, and his eyes and lips are a pale white colour.

  I glance at the red-haired Inez. “Has he been remoulded like you?”

  “Yes,” she says, “but I suspect his is permanent. A remoulder usually tweaks your bones and flesh into a shape that will fade after a few weeks or months, but some can twist your body into a form that will last as long as you live.”

  “Is the giant a normal person who’s been remoulded too?” I ask.

  “Yes, and that change is definitely permanent,” Inez says. “It takes weeks or months to remould someone to that extent — you have to take it one small step at a time, and I’ve heard it’s very painful. You’ll spot other people with moon faces – it’s a bit of a craze here – but not many giants. They tend to stick to zones which have been devised for them, with oversized houses, doors, chairs and so on.”

  “Are they savage, like the giants in stories?” I ask.

  “No,” Inez snorts. “They’re the same as the rest of us, just bigger.”

  “Couldn’t we hire a giant to sort out Queen Pitina and King Farkas?” I joke.

  Inez sighs. “If only life was that simple.”

  We press on, following the grumbling Dermot as he leads us towards our camping site.

  3

  LOT 173T IS A LARGE, cleared field. A stage has been created from the roots of a nearby tree, and a few vines cut through the air above it, which will allow us to hang a curtain and lighting. There’s plenty of space for the caravans, and also lots of room for an audience, assuming we can attract one.

  “Not bad,” Dermot admits grudgingly. “Not bad at all.”

  Having sought permission from Dermot, Inez takes off not long after we arrive, telling me she has to go meet some people. She offers no more information than that, and by this stage I know better than to ask.

  The rest of us spend the next few hours setting up while the actors rehearse. We unload the caravans, storing costumes, props and sets behind the stage and arranging everything so that we can access it swiftly when needed.

  I pick up a typewriter – it doesn’t work, but the keys clack when you press them, which sounds good in the show – meaning to move it closer to the stage.

  “What’s that?” someone asks.

  I look around but can’t spot anyone. “Hello?” I call.

  “What is that thing?” the voice comes again, from somewhere overhead.

  I look up and spot a small, dirty boy hanging from the vine above me. He can’t be more than nine or ten years old and is dressed in rags. He has strange-looking hooks attached to his hands and feet, and has jabbed them into the vine.

  “Well?” the boy snaps when I stare at him wordlessly.

  “Sorry?”

  “That thing,” he says impatiently. “What is it?”

  “A typewriter.”

  “What does it do?”

  “It –” I start to answer.

  “It’s a bomb,” Kamran growls, appearing beside me to scowl at the boy.

  “You can’t fool me,” the boy sneers.

  “No fooling,” Kamran says. “You see those buttons? If you press one, it blows up in your face. The noise would burst your eardrums.”

  The boy sticks out his tongue at Kamran, then looks at me again. “I’m Pol. What’s your name?”

  “Don’t tell him,” Kamran says.

  “Why not?”

  “He’s a rat. You can’t trust that lot with anything.”

  “You’d better watch what you say,” the boy snarls. “This is my turf. If you get on my wrong side, my friends and I will pelt your thesps with mud every time they perform.”

  “You don’t frighten me,” Kamran says stiffly, but slips away sharpish.

  “So?” Pol says, glaring at me. “Do you have a name or not?”

  “Archie,” I tell him, chancing a smile.

  “Is it really a bomb?”

  “No. They wrote with typewriters in the Born before they had computers.”

  “How does it work?”

  “You’d feed in a sheet of paper and press the keys.”

  “Then what?”

  “Letters would be stamped on the paper.”

  “Sounds boring,” he says. “Is it valuable?”

  “It would be if it was real.”

  “It isn’t real?” he shouts.

  “It’s just a prop for the show.”

  “Then why am I wasting my time talking with you?” Pol huffs, and scampers off, tearing along the vine at a surprising speed, ripping out his hooks then sinking them in, one after another.

  “Who was that?” I ask Kamran when he comes back.

  “A vine rat,” he says. “They’re feral children who live inside the vines.”

  “Feral?” I echo uncertainly.

  “Wild,” he explains. “Most children in the Merge get taken under the wing of an adult, but the rats won’t allow grown-ups into their world, and live by their own rules. You can’t trust them, so be wary of that kid if he comes snooping round again. They’re skilled thieves who’d steal your eyelashes while you were blinking.”

  I make a note to be sterner with the vine rat if he comes back, then move the typewriter and carry on helping the others set up.

  An hour later, when I’m grabbing a rest, I hear Oleg roaring for the typewriter. I hurry to fetch it, only to find a bare patch of grass where I’d left it. I stare at the grass blankly, then turn my gaze up to the vine.

  “Oh no,” I groan, then head for the stage to break the bad news to the actor.

  4

  INEZ RETURNS A FEW hours later. I can tell with one look at her ashen face that something’s wrong, so I follow her behind a caravan and find her sitting in the shade, knees drawn up to her chest, staring off into space.

  “Inez,” I whisper, sitting beside her.

  “Mary,” she automatically corrects me.

  “Are you OK... Mary?” I ask, phrasing it with a little chuckle.

  “Gone,” she croaks. “They’re all gone.”

  I say nothing, not wanting to ask annoying questions, figuring she’ll share if she wants to share.

  After a couple of minutes, she groans and looks at me. “There were people who had promised to help me. Four brave, loyal allies. I went to discuss things with them today, only to find...” She falls silent again, then sighs. “Three are definitely dead. The fourth is missing, but he’s either dead, being held captive, or has fled. Either way, he’s of no use to me now. I’m alone.”

  “Not completely alone,” I say softly. “There’s Baba Jen. And me.”

  “And the pair of you are more important than ever,” she says. “But without the rest of the team...”

  “Is it hopeless?” I
ask. “Do you want to give up?”

  “I can’t,” she says. “And no, it’s not entirely hopeless, but it’s going to be harder than ever.”

  “So what do we do?” I ask.

  Inez thinks about that before answering. “For the moment... nothing. I’ve had a rough plan B in place all along, and I’ll work on refining that, or even hatching a plan C. I’ll use the time between now and the vote to plot and scheme a bit more. If we’re lucky, I might be able to find someone else who can assist us.”

  “Will we carry on working with the thesps?” I ask.

  She nods and forces a smile. “It’s important that we maintain the pretence that we’re part of the show, so let’s go do our jobs before Dermot sacks us and we find ourselves in an even more precarious situation.”

  Inez joins me in sorting through the props and laying them out neatly, but we’re not at it long before Dermot calls us aside, along with Kamran and Shu-Feng.

  “We need you to take a break from this and go promote the show,” he says. “Walk the streets, tell people what we’re up to, encourage them to come check us out.”

  The other three must have known this was coming, as they accept the assignment without asking any questions. I’m not sure what to do at first, but after a while I see that there’s no great trick to it. We ignore people who are busy, by themselves, or on the move, and focus on small groups who are taking it easy, hovering at street corners or on benches, or sitting around tables in restaurants and bars.

  When we introduce ourselves, one of us asks if they might be interested in seeing a show. If they say no, we cut the pitch short. If, on the other hand, they’re receptive, we tell them about the sketches and the quality of the thesps.

  We provide directions to lot 173T at the end of every spiel, although we’re vague about timings, because there are no set performance times. The actors will kick into life once a crowd has formed. That’s how things happen in the Merge.

  “Well done, Archie,” Inez says after I’ve improvised and told a trio of initially sceptical women that the show is a cross between Matilda and Evita. “You sold that to them nicely. But what are those shows you mentioned?”

  “Musicals,” I tell her.

  “I saw Evita,” Shu-Feng says. “It was great.”

  I pull a face. “It didn’t do much for me.”

  “It’s a classic,” Shu-Feng coos, and starts to sing one of the songs. I laugh and join in. I even do some dance moves with her, to the amusement of Inez and Kamran.

  As we’re finishing, someone claps slowly. We stop and turn. Three teenagers are standing behind us, two boys and a girl. One of the boys is tall, with light brown hair, a small scar on his right cheek – it looks like the number 9 – and fierce green eyes. He’s dressed in wine-coloured trousers and a crisp, white shirt, with black, pointed shoes.

  “That was beautiful,” the tall boy sneers.

  “Can we make a request?” the girl asks.

  All three laugh.

  I share a startled glance with Shu-Feng – she’s blushing – then look to Inez and Kamran for support. Kamran is glowering, but Inez is staring at the boy with an odd expression.

  “I’d like to see you do better,” Kamran says gruffly.

  “You won’t,” the tall boy says, “because we’re not in the habit of making fools of ourselves in public.”

  “She sung like a ventriloquist’s dummy,” the girl says.

  “And he was even worse,” the other boy adds, pointing at me.

  “We didn’t know we had an audience,” I growl, stung by their remarks.

  “Would it have made a difference?” the tall boy smirks.

  “Yes,” I say, squaring up to him. “We’d have sung more slowly.”

  “Why?” he frowns.

  “Because the three of you look a bit slow,” I say, loving the way his face darkens.

  “You can’t speak to me like that,” the tall boy snaps.

  “No?” Kamran says sweetly. “What’s so special about you?”

  “He’s a duke elect,” the girl says proudly.

  “Of where?” Shu-Feng asks. “A swamp?”

  Kamran laughs and I laugh with him, but Inez says nothing. She’s still looking at the tall boy, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

  “Gasterby,” the boy with the scar says icily and the smiles disappear from Kamran and Shu-Feng’s faces.

  “That’s in Ruby,” Shu-Feng gasps.

  “Ten out of ten,” the other boy says.

  “Ruby?” I say weakly. “That means you’re...”

  “SubMerged,” the duke elect says, then steps forward to eyeball me menacingly. “So how slowly do you want to sing for me now?”

  I look around at the others uncertainly, not sure how to react, but Shu-Feng looks sick and Kamran is chewing his lip uncertainly.

  “Are you going to apologise?” the girl says.

  “For what?” I ask.

  “Offending me with your presence,” the duke elect snarls.

  Inez clears her throat. “Your status means nothing here. Cornan’s full of nobles at the moment, dukes, earls, barons and more.”

  The tall boy’s nostrils flare. “That doesn’t mean people can go around insulting me,” he says coldly.

  “You insulted us first,” Inez says. “We’re entitled to reply in kind. People are free to say what they want in Sapphire.”

  “No they’re not,” the other boy snaps.

  “Yes they are,” the tall boy corrects him, and smiles at Inez. “I’m Kurtis.” He nods at the boy and girl. “Dai and Poppy.”

  “Mary,” Inez lies. “Archie, Kamran and Shu-Feng.”

  Kurtis makes the greet and we return the gesture grudgingly.

  “Are you a thesp?” Kurtis asks Inez.

  “A seamstress,” she says. (That’s her cover story.)

  “Then feast your eyes on my fine clothes,” Kurtis says, giving her a twirl.

  Inez sniffs. “It’s a nice outfit, but it’s not from Ruby.”

  “You’re right,” Kurtis says. “I got it here. How did you know?”

  “I’ve studied the fashions of Ruby,” Inez says. “We feature lots of villains in our plays and we like to dress them accurately.”

  Dai and Poppy scowl, but Kurtis laughs again. “What do you guys do?” he asks the rest of us.

  “We mind our own business and don’t go around being nasty to people,” I say.

  Kurtis studies me as if I was a curious insect. “You’ve a short temper, Archie. It complements your short stature.”

  “Leave it,” Inez says before I can retort.

  “But –” I begin.

  “Why get into a fight?” she stops me. “He insults you, you insult him, he insults you... How long do you want to carry on?”

  “You’re right,” Kurtis says. “We’re behaving like infants. Sorry, Archie and Shu-Feng, we were wrong to mock your singing. Please forgive us.”

  Shu-Feng nods but I hesitate.

  “You’ll look bad if you don’t accept his apology,” Kamran whispers.

  “Should I care?” I huff, but nod curtly.

  “So,” Kurtis says, smiling at Inez again, “where are you guys performing and is the show worth seeing?”

  “It’s great,” Kamran says. “All about the dangers of voting for the SubMerged.”

  I expect Kurtis to growl, but he only sighs. “Not another one. I’ve seen a dozen anti-realignment plays over the last few days. I’m bored of them. Bored of Cornan as well. Too many trees.”

  “You’re wrong about that,” Inez says. “This is a charming, exciting city.”

  Kurtis cocks his head. “You’re seeing more than me then. Perhaps you could show me what I’m missing?”

  “Perhaps,” Inez says as I gawp at her.

  “I’d ask you to take me on a tour,” Kurtis purrs, “but I’ve things to do. Maybe I could meet you at your campsite later?”

  “I’ll see if I can make some time for you,” Inez says airily and
turns to leave.

  “Wait,” Kurtis stops her. “You haven’t told us where you’re camped.”

  Inez winks at him. “If you can find us, I’ll be your guide. If you can’t...”

  “I relish a challenge,” Kurtis grins, then heads off with Dai and Poppy, who look about as impressed by the bit of interplay as I am.

  “What was that about?” I snap at Inez, who’s staring after the departing trio with an almost dreamy expression.

  “Excuse me?” she says.

  “I thought the SubMerged are our enemies.”

  “They are.”

  “So why were you flirting with him?”

  Inez blushes but shrugs. “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of flirting, even with a SubMerged.” She whirls, sets her sights on a group of men drinking outside a pub, and hurries over to try to tempt them into coming to our show.

  “Can you believe that?” I ask Kamran and Shu-Feng.

  “No,” Kamran says.

  Shu-Feng smiles. “He’s tall, good-looking, dresses stylishly, and he’s going to be a duke one day.”

  “But he’s SubMerged,” I thunder.

  Shu-Feng sighs. “Our hearts are drawn wherever they’re drawn.”

  She goes over to join Inez. I share a bemused look with Kamran, then we follow the girls across.

  5

  WE SPREAD THE WORD about the show for another hour, then Kamran and Shu-Feng head back to camp to help prepare the stage. I was going to go with them, but I saw a locksmith’s earlier and it set me thinking, so I asked Inez if she’d show me some more of the city.

  Inez leads me through the busy streets, talking animatedly, pointing out buildings and trees that are of interest. I get the feeling she’s spent a lot of time here, which would make sense if she’s the missing princess.

  Eventually we come to a locksmith’s shop and I ask Inez if we can go in. She shoots me a look. “This is why you wanted to stay out, isn’t it?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I admit. “I haven’t practised since I parted ways with Winston. I should have been testing myself, preparing for whatever it is that I have to do.”

  Inez nods approvingly and waves me off.