The Vagrant. Peter Newman
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green-eyed man keeps his attention on the baby, whispering sadness, guilt, shame.
‘Do we have a deal?’ Tough Call asks.
The Vagrant closes his eyes, nods.
‘Good. Joe, give our man back his sword.’
A bundle of rods is taken from the goat’s back, untethered and allowed to spill on the floor. Among them lies the sword, restless. Joe does not pick it up. The Vagrant steps past, collects it, leaves it sheathed.
‘Looks like we have a busy day ahead,’ says Tough Call. ‘Good luck, all being well we won’t see each other again.’ She nods, ending the meeting, and turns back to her people.
The Vagrant watches the baby until they guide him from the room, reluctant.
The square is full of people and flies baking together. It is Starktime and the suns are high overhead, giving each spectator two shadows, overlapping, imperfect, forever trying to align.
On a block of rusted iron stands what was a man. Like many of the Uncivil’s creatures he is robed, the horror of his re-creation hidden. He has brought many over, pleasing Patchwork, his Duke and master. In return he is augmented, part infernal, part man. His arm is still recognizably human; it protrudes from the robes, unremarkable down to the wrist, handless, crowned instead with an old woman’s head. Though the face’s skin is black and shrunken, the people know the features well. Once, the head belonged to their leader.
The crowd are no longer disturbed by this sight, just relieved he does not display his other arm.
Tendons flex and old jaws move like an obscene glove puppet.
People listen, some held by fear, others by twisted hope. Only one moves, sliding between the motionless figures, drawing closer to the speaker. His hand grasps his sword’s hilt, eager to respond.
The sixth Knight of Jade and Ash returns, joining the others in darkness. Its head touches theirs and the commander’s and essences weave in a metal circle.
‘Report.’
‘Nothing. Nothing. Patchwork has returned to the city with fresh purpose. Nothing. The Malice has resurfaced. Are we weakening?’
‘Where?’
‘Do we fight? Do we fight? Do we fight? Can we fight? In Verdigris’ centre, it stalks Patchwork’s mouthpiece. Will we go the way of the seventh?’
‘No, let the Malice fall among our enemies, let the pawns of the adversary blunt its edge. Then we will fight, and win. For now we watch.’
The commander goes to break the circle but stops, troubled.
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. We bleed from the hole made of the seventh. The Malice will end us. The Malice will end us.’
‘Enough. We watch.’
Ending contact, the commander leaves. The knights form up behind.
Robes sit smoking on a rusty block. Inside them, meat sizzles.
The Vagrant sheathes the sword, striking out north across the square.
His spectators have no protocol for what they have witnessed and instincts take over. Bodies rush to and fro, bashing together, grunting, crying out. None of the crowd go near the Vagrant, peeling away from him, parting.
Tina peeks from a nearby doorway, pink eyes wide. She beckons to him, leading the way through rooms, numerous, empty of people. Beds and belongings vie for space, their little stories mingle in the mess, rendered meaningless, trampled under trespassing feet. They reach a boiler, stretching from ceiling to floor. Tina dives behind it and into tunnels below. The Vagrant follows, lines of rust painting his coat as he squeezes past.
Hand in hand they weave through the darkness, the Vagrant stumbling enough for both of them.
They emerge at the north end of Verdigris by a quiet street. Tina refuses to leave the tunnel’s refuge. ‘No further,’ she says, lisping the words around curved teeth. ‘You go on alone.’
He shakes his head but she is already retreating, trying to slip bony fingers free.
The Vagrant grips her hand tight and steps out, forcing her to follow. She protests, shielding her face with her free hand.
A passer-by at the end of the street turns, sees the pair, hides their concern and looks away with polished nonchalance.
Tina makes a decision and takes the lead again, showing him the nearby gate that waits as promised, open, unguarded.
Vagrant and ratbred step through the gate, entering the Uncivil’s territory. Mountains loom to the left and right, battered and strong, like weary combatants. Ahead, the way is clear.
Tina’s nose twitches in surprise.
The Vagrant’s eyes narrow. He looks along the wall both ways. Between mounds of junk strewn the length of Verdigris’ boundary, small things dart, otherwise it is quiet. No goats mutter. No babies cry.
‘Shit,’ says Tina, twisting free.
The Vagrant turns to find her running, head down, aiming back the way they came. His lips move, a silent curse, and then he re-enters the city, giving chase.
They fly across the street, Tina intent on the nearby tunnel entrance, the Vagrant drawing closer. He catches up as she dives for the window, her small body sailing easily through broken plasti-glass.
He grabs her mid-flight, fingers and thumb overlapping round her ankle, pulling her down, onto the jagged frame. He lets go and momentum drags synthetic teeth from her thigh to her toes. She hits the ground awkwardly, squealing childlike but not stopping, vanishing into the dark innards of the building.
Leaning on the wall, the Vagrant pauses, catching his breath. Ten breaths pass, becoming slower. He draws the sword, humming softly as it tastes air, then touches its tip to the newly stained window. Tainted blood flashes, burns away with a hiss.
He climbs inside, entering the tunnel, leaving daylight behind. The sword tugs at his hand, guiding him down and right; another flash, another hiss and he moves forward, drawn through the darkness, drop by drop.
Spread out across the northern quarter, the Knights of Jade and Ash wait, swords held high, softly moaning.
Only the commander moves, turning slowly, alert for trouble. Somehow the bearer of the Malice has eluded them and they are left directionless and exposed. If their enemies find them here in Starktime, war will follow.
Suns lower, starting their downward arc.
Then their swords flinch from a distant sound. The Malice has resurfaced. Brazen, the commander marches through the streets, intent on the trail, gathering knights as it goes.
From a side street, a strange voice calls out: ‘Hold!’
The commander pauses as robed figures move between them and their trail. Something about them is wrong. Broken essence hangs from the humans, woven to them in bags of dead flesh. What madness has the Uncivil wrought? What are these non-things?
‘You are in violation of the treaty,’ says a Half-alive man. ‘This is the Uncivil’s domain. Return to your lair until Darktime immediately! Do it now and all we will demand is compensation. Disobey and Patchwork will have you ended!’
The knights await their commander. The master’s orders are clear but surely war must be avoided? This twisted non-thing speaks truth, they are in the wrong, they should go back. But the commander does not retreat.
‘I give you one last warning.’
The commander knows they should pull back, wishes it even, but the Malice is too close. The first wound burns and memories surface,