The Vagrant. Peter Newman
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Under the arch lurks the commander. It is still, redrawing its boundaries, shaking off the sense of Patchwork and the echo of the Uncivil. New thoughts swirl within, taken from the blending of their essences. Patchwork is afraid of their coming, that they will find something, a secret. It did not expect them.
The group forms a circle, leaning together, visor to visor, essences touching, thoughts running as one.
‘Did you find the Malice?’
‘No. No. No. No. No. This feels wrong.’
‘Did you find its trail?’
‘No. No. No. No. No. There is a hole where the seventh should be.’
‘Patchwork will commune with the adversary.’
‘They will fight us?’
‘They will seek what is ours. We must hunt.’
‘Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. We are diminished. Will the Malice take us too?’
‘We hunt.’
They separate, forming behind the commander, one a step behind the others.
People part for them, pressing against the walls, staring. The commander senses something is wrong. It observes the humans recoiling but not running, their lack of fear disturbs.
A building looms, original walls hidden under repair plates hidden under yellowing skin. The Usurper’s banner hangs proud. Unlike the rest of Verdigris, it is forever loyal.
They push through unguarded doors, pass dozing half-breeds, moving deeper. They enter a hall, filled with living matter and walls that pulse, skin-cushioned, veined. A figure nestles within. It jerks up to meet them, features hidden within its robes. The commander remembers it was larger once.
It flinches from contact but the commander gives no choice, drawing out its fragmented essence.
‘Why … you … here?’
‘The master’s will.’
‘… Why?’
‘Where are the others?’
‘I …’
‘Where are our allies?’
‘They …’
‘What have they done to you?’
The memories are scattered, muddled, enough. The commander’s fists clench, powdering the empty shell beneath its fingers. This is the secret Patchwork hides. The Usurper’s agency in Verdigris is broken. It has been for some time, allowing the Uncivil’s hold on the city to grow strong. Her cults are swelling with new recruits, her Necrotech fills the markets. She already rules Wonderland and Slake, and Veridgris is hers in all but name. If the coup is successful, word will reach the other infernals and they will doubt the Usurper’s majesty, flocking instead to the Uncivil’s banner or contest the master themselves. The commander’s thoughts fill with concern, with questions. How has the Uncivil become so powerful? How was this not seen? How did the master not know?
The group shuffles along Verdigris’ main street. It is clearing, people instinctively seeking shelter before the Darktime ends. A desperate few conclude business, snatching bargains.
As the group passes, people take notice. They see a slave master and his three wretches, heavy with death’s stench. First, they see the boy drool and moan, one eye open, the other pus-sealed. Second, they see the tainted man, his tentacle seeping, dead. They know he will soon follow. The third is a pitiful creature twisted by mutation, horns and tails sprouting from all available spaces, a second form grows from its back, mercifully covered from view. It moves slowly, every step a labour.
Hurriedly, the onlookers turn away.
Machines power down, their lights no longer needed. Verdigris stills. It is not the Uncivil’s domain, not yet, but change can be felt, the air pregnant with Starktime.
The group moves on, now alone. None speaks save the boy, who wails as if under torture.
Old buildings lean together, making tired arches. In places they collapse, closing streets, forcing new ways to be forged. Homes become throughways, windows become doors. In turn the piles of rubble accommodate life. Handlings scuttle between the cracks, competing for space with rats, ubiquitous, tainted.
Here, the group stops. The boy shrieks again, a fat blob of mucus splatters on the ground.
‘What is with all the noise, boy?’
The pus-lined eye opens, winks. ‘You told me I am dying, father, so I make dying noises.’
‘Ey! Ezze say look sick, and why did Ezze say this?’
‘To trick everyone?’ The father’s hand clips his ear. ‘Ow!’
‘Yes! To make them not look. Noise makes them interested, makes them remember us. If they look hard they see you are not sick boy, not diseased, just thick in head!’ Ezze clips the boy’s ear a second time.
‘Ow! Why you hit me again? You always hit me. It’s not fair!’
‘Be grateful you have ears left to hit. Your aunt was stupid, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Ezze is wondering, where is aunt of little Ez now?’
‘She’s been taken away.’
‘Exactly! She is taken to breeding pits of Slake, and will not be seen again.’ Ezze turns to the Vagrant. ‘Actually this is something of a mercy, but,’ Ezze continues, attention back on the pouting boy, ‘she is stupid, she is worse than dead. So Ezze hit all the stupid out of you and you thank Ezze for it, yes?’
‘Yes. Thank you, father.’
‘Is better, now go wipe off your pus and make sure to get it back in the jar for next time.’
‘Yes, father.’
‘I’ll meet you at home.’
‘Yes, father.’ The boy leaves them.
‘Ah, he is good boy but stupid, so stupid. More like his aunt than his mother, but Ezze think you not interested in that story. Now we are here and deal is done.’
The Vagrant looks from left to right; his eyes rove empty streets and buildings.
‘You are wondering where they are, yes? Of course you are. Have faith, my friend, they will come. So, Ezze will be leaving you now.’
The Vagrant’s mouth opens, protesting.
‘All endings in Verdigris are fast, yes? But Ezze must go. Please, keep the tentacle. Perhaps it reminds you of our friendship!’ The shopkeeper starts walking quickly. ‘May all your lovers be sweet and may their paths never cross, ha!’
The Vagrant shares a look with the goat as the suns rise. Starktime has come. Distantly, sounds are heard. Doors close, signs reverse, doors open, the first steps of Verdigris’ daily dance.
Figures emerge from a ruined building, their clothes grey with hard living, uniform. Size marks them out. A man and a woman tower over the rest. Half-breed teenagers, covered in muscle and greening scars, the common Usurperkin markers tracing their lineage back to the Usurper. Patches of spiked hair decorate their skulls, black flags on a pitted map. Another man, normal sized, holds a gun, ugly and mismatched. It points at the Vagrant’s head. The last is a tiny woman, barely four feet in height, ratbred teeth too much for her mouth to contain.
A wave of the gun signals the Vagrant to follow. Reluctantly, he does. Giant hands take the leash from him and the group return to the darkness. For a moment the goat resists, then the leash snaps tight and she flies after them, a furry, hate-filled balloon.
Underground, a chain of hands is formed, leading the Vagrant down, deep, through lightless buildings, then steps, then tunnels, the ratbred finding their way in the dark. More than once, big heads brush rock; curses