The Vagrant and the City Page 2

  Genner guides the man to an entrance concealed in the side of a hill. The two of them enter, following metal corridors lit by sunslight bouncing from mirrored tubes. Muffled sounds reach them, the singing of children, deferent, and the soft steps of purposeful feet. The very air hums with work being done. Everyone in the Shining City has designated duties, their time measured carefully and portioned out to maximize efficiency.

  ‘How’s your leg doing?’ Genner asks. ‘I noticed it giving you trouble earlier.’

  The man doesn’t reply but makes more of an effort to walk normally.

  ‘What I’m saying is: we can help.’ He comes to a stop in front of a circular door, emblazoned with a winged eye, and raises one arm. A square of light glows underneath the skin on the back of his hand as he sings his identification.

  There is the briefest pause and then the door sighs open.

  Inside is an empty room, white walls overlaid with a grid of green plasglass.

  A woman awaits them, also in white, save for her gloves and the lens fitted over her right eye, which are black. Genner salutes and she returns the gesture.

  The man gives her a curt nod.

  ‘This,’ says Genner, ‘is Val, our most experienced Purifier. She works with those that have been exposed to the taint, those that survive the purging anyway. Actually, you’ve seen some of her work. She oversaw the reconstruction of Harm’s eye sockets.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ says Val. ‘I remember that case. In the end we could only provide cosmetic assistance. Too much nerve damage. A shame.’

  ‘Without doubt, Val is our best, and she’s been authorized to assist you.’

  The man frowns.

  ‘Don’t worry. You’re in good hands.’ He backs out through the door. ‘I’ll be outside when you’re done.’

  The man’s body leans in the same direction as if to follow, but he stays where he is.

  A moment later, the door closes, sealing the room.

  ‘Stand here,’ says Val, pointing to the middle of the grid. ‘Let us look at you.’

  The man complies and the plasglass lines that run along the floor, ceiling and walls burst to life, covering the man in a net of green light.

  Val adjusts the lens over her right eye, closes her left. For a full minute she studies him, making a slow circle. Throughout, her concentration is intense, as if she is staring through, not at him.

  ‘Interesting,’ she says at last.

  The man looks at her, patient.

  ‘As in: this will be an interesting challenge. Structurally, you’re in reasonable shape. Your leg needs repair, and I have concerns about one of your lungs in the longer term. But these things are easily hidden, provided you don’t need to fight.

  ‘It’s the rest of you.’ She tuts, and the man folds his arms. ‘The hair will have to go back to an appropriate length and you need to put on some weight. Our champion should project strength, not pity.’ She walks round him a second time, considering. ‘The scars can stay but they need to be reigned in a little. Something that says “battle hardened” rather than “victim”.

  ‘Now, I’m told that you are required urgently but I want to push for surgery and at least one round of skin remastering before your first public appearance.’

  The man steps backwards, hands raised, defensive, and the lights in the room fade.

  ‘Didn’t they tell you? While the Bearer is away, you are going to be our symbol of inspiration. You will be paraded in front of the people on a daily basis in order –wait, where are you going?’

  The man has turned away from her, and started to bang on the door. It opens to a surprised looking Genner on the other side.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ he asks, but the man ignores him, pushing past and away into the corridor. Genner looks at Val for help but she just shrugs.

  ‘Nothing to do with me. Are you sure you’ve got the right one?’

  *

  While surgery is optional, a change of outfit is not. Genner takes the man into a small room, lined in hard plastic. One wall is mirrored, and a stud of mutigel has been locked into shape to form a crude seat. A neat square of clothes sits on top, eye-searingly white. Next to it, on a stand, is a suit of armour, similar in style to that worn by the Seraph Knights but grander, heavier.

  The man examines it, thoughtful, double-taking at the oversized shoulder plates. A gauntlet is lifted, held against his own hand for comparison. It is nearly twice as large.

  Amber eyes stare pointedly at it, then at Genner.

  ‘The armour was constructed on the orders of Obeisance herself. She felt that an outfit was needed to match the legends of your deeds. I’ll send a squire to help you get into it. When you’re ready, they’ll bring you to the briefing room.’

  Genner leaves and shoulders slump. With a sigh, the man takes off his battered old coat and his muddy boots. Trousers and top are removed, folded badly, and put in the corner.

  He picks up the new clothes and puts them on. They fit perfectly, following every curve of muscle, pressing snug against wrists and ankles. The man struggles to get a finger inside the collar and work it free of his neck.

  He finds it is no easy task.

  Partway through the battle, a squire arrives. She is a typical denizen of the Shining City, her hair cropped to the skull, her skin smooth, unblemished, her appearance impeccable.

  Without preamble, she bows and begins helping him into the armour. Greaves slot into place against his shins, and are strapped snug. Heavy boots are worked onto his feet, the boosted soles adding several inches to his height. Chest and back plates are snapped together, their design giving the impression that the man has a much bigger frame, with bracers, gauntlets and shoulder plates adding to the illusion.

  Smart-webbing links each piece together, staying flexible, breathable, but designed to harden when under threat.

  When she is finished, the squire steps back, giving him space and, with a dramatic clank, the Champion stands up.

  The squire passes him up his helmet. The visor is featureless, save for a single slit at the front that is filled with toughened plasglass, red-tinted.

  The Champion puts it on, wincing as it clicks into place.

  Satisfied, the squire turns and leaves the room.

  The Champion goes to follow, but his artificially lengthened stride confounds, sending him staggering to the left, then the right, then clutching at the armour stand for support.

  He pulls himself upright again, takes a few deep breaths.

  The squire’s head appears at the door. ‘Please, Champion,’ she says, anxious, ‘will you come with me? They’re waiting for you.’

  The Champion nods, waving her away. As soon as she is gone, he risks a step, more carefully this time, finding that if he keeps his stride short, he can totter forward in relative safety.

  As soon as he emerges, the squire hurries off.

  The Champion grits his teeth and follows her.

  With painstaking effort, he manages to keep balanced, though nothing can be done to stop the boots exaggerating his limp, turning it comical.

  They pass through one of the training halls, where young squires are put through their paces. Some prepare on the sidelines, warming voices and muscles, while others spar, doing their best to remember stance and strike. Practice swords clunk together, dull, and the squires sing alone, their voices strangely flat without blades to amplify them.

  Nobody says the word ‘champion’ aloud, but news of his passing goes quickly from one to the other, transmitted by thought, via chips housed in each of their brains.

  Several try to glance at him out of the corner of their eyes, hoping that perhaps the champion will notice them and approve. Meanwhile, the more dedicated take advantage, scoring easy hits on their distracted fellows.

  He stops for a while, half watching, half remembering, a wistful smile tucked beneath the visor. Two knights march up and down the hall, dispensing criticism. They too glance his way, and when he does not notice, they turn
back to their duty, taking out irritation on those under their care.

  The Champion sighs, nods to the squire who has been waiting for him, patient, and the two continue.

  The next hall has fewer people. They are working on a light drive, taken from a downed sky-ship. They have been tinkering for years, trying to patch the gaps in their knowledge with luck and logic. Heads are scratched, shaken, the sense of inertia palpable. But as soon as the thud of the man’s boots resounds in the chamber, everyone is busy, inspecting random pieces of plastic, turning dials connected to inactive machinery, doing all they can to appear important.

  The Champion sighs again.

  A third hall is passed, this one silent. Pieces of wreckage have been placed here and carefully labelled. Each one is a relic from history, recovered armour, weapons, ornaments, technology, all broken. Too precious to throw away, too damaged to use, they are stored indefinitely, a problem for another generation to address.

  Finally, they arrive in a circular chamber with a bench running around three quarters of the perimeter. Genner waits for them here, along with three others, a knight and two squires.

  All stand and salute as the man enters, remaining on their feet while he manoeuvres his way to the bench, not sitting until he sits.

  The squire who brought him here is dismissed without a word.

  ‘Welcome, Champion,’ says Genner. ‘Sorry to have to bring you all the way down here, but given that you don’t have a functioning chip, I thought it would be easier to show you the situation as I explain it.

  ‘Before we get to that though, some introductions are in order. This is the team that will be accompanying you on the mission.’ He indicates the knight, pale eyed, who’s lack of height makes her look like a child in costume. ‘Sir Heras will be going with you for reasons that will soon become clear. Her squires, Borz and Nama, will be there to assist you and to learn.’

  With matching uniforms, haircuts and humble postures, it would be hard to tell the two squires apart, save that Borz is a foot taller, and Nama’s hair a shade lighter.

  Genner waves his hand and an image appears between them: The Empire of the Winged Eye viewed from above. The Shining City is marked out, along with each major settlement. Genner waves his hand again and the map spins, leaving the northern continent behind. A digital sea fills their view briefly, and then it zooms in on an island, dominated by a single mountain, squat, drawn in beads of light. Ledges have been cut into various points of the mountainside, allowing structures to be built, creating a town that sits mostly on the peak, but also spills down onto half a dozen smaller shelves.

  ‘This is Fortitude’s Peak, one of our south western colonies. Officially, at least. Since the Battle of the Red Wave, there have been questions over its loyalty. We know they’ve been trading in secret with other parties, and rumour has it they have their own stockpile of weapons. I’d love to be able to tell you more but the last decent report we’ve had from the region is nearly a year out of date.

  ‘What hasn’t changed is the colony’s value. There’s a mine within the mountain that taps into the purest silver, silver that we sorely need for the great recovery. The colony’s current administration is far too aware of this fact and they’ve been using it against us, holding out on delivery and refusing to talk to us unless we meet a set of excessive demands. We suspect this is the first step in their attempt to claim independent status.

  ‘If things were different, we’d simply march in and change the administration, but as it stands, we’re years away from a return to that level of manpower. That’s why we need you to negotiate.’

  The Champion snorts, then, when nobody admits to the joke, his eyes widen.

  ‘Previous attempts to communicate with them have been ignored, but now, suddenly, they’ve asked to speak to us. More than that, they want to deal. We don’t know what’s prompted the change of heart, but we do know that our relations with the region have changed for the worse recently.’

  The Champion gestures for Genner to continue.

  For once, he looks reluctant. ‘About two years ago, our Lens there vanished. He’d been in deep cover, and his reports gave no hint of any trouble. We sent another Lens. She lasted less than one month, and could discover nothing about her predecessor’s disappearance. We know her first attempts to infiltrate the upper ranks of the Fortitude’s Peak administration also met with failure, and she turned her attention to investigating one of the nearby colonies, Sea Garden, that had sent out a distress call and then gone mysteriously dark.’

  Genner tilts his hand and the map matches the movement, bringing a cluster of tiny islands into view, all joined by bridges.

  ‘Turns out the First had heard the call too and got there before she did. But for once, things hadn’t gone the infernal’s way. Our agent found one of its ships drifting not far from Sea Garden.’ A small dot winks at them from the map, indicating the ship’s location.

  ‘Abandoned, stripped bare, but completely intact, not a scratch on it. Only thing our agent did find was some armour and one of those black helmets the First often wears, and that was in three separate pieces, each riveted to the mast.

  ‘The agent then communicated that she was going on to Sea Garden itself. That was last we heard from her.

  ‘When she didn’t return, we dispatched a third Lens to Fortitude’s Peak, and she didn’t even make it through two weeks. Her last report also featured Sea Garden and its environs: rumours of raiders on the seas growing bolder, and ships going missing, here –’ an area of the map darkens between Sea Garden and Fortitude’s Peak.

  ‘So, as you can see, the situation is escalating and needs immediate action.’

  The man holds up a hand, taps his fingers to his chest, and shrugs.

  ‘Why you?’

  The Champion nods.

  ‘To be honest, we’re running out of options. Our intelligence has failed us and our military is already stretched too thin. If we don’t act soon, we’ll lose Fortitude’s Peak, either to the First or to these mysterious raiders, or they’ll just break away.

  ‘We need to send someone to negotiate with them, someone important enough to show we’re taking Fortitude’s Peak seriously, someone who has a reputation for solving problems and dealing with infernals. Someone they will trust, a hero.’ Genner pauses, then adds quietly, ‘And with Vesper out of the picture, you’re all we’ve got.’

  *

  Above ground, at the base of one of the platinum pillars, the Champion is led to a waiting capsule. Without stopping, he takes a deep breath, and climbs inside.

  He hears Genner’s voice at his back, ‘This is where I’ll be leaving you. I have other duties that can’t wait, Bearer’s orders.’

  The Champion tries to turn, to protest, but the door to the capsule is already closing, the padding expanding, holding him in place. He catches a glimpse of Sir Heras and her squires being squeezed in place in other capsules.

  ‘Winged Eye watch over you, protect you, deliver you.’

  A swift flight follows, claustrophobic and dark, like that of a baby animal carried in the pouch of a rough, uncaring mother. Then passengers stumble from capsule to sky-ship, to meet a pilot who does not introduce himself, and a set of waiting seats. Much to their disappointment, the squires find themselves directed to the opposite end of the hold, leaving the Seraph Knight and the Champion alone.

  ‘I thought this would be best,’ says Sir Heras. ‘Give us a chance to talk in private.’ She gives a disapproving look in the squires’ direction. ‘They tell me Borz and Nama’s scores are excellent but you wouldn’t know it to talk to them. I doubt either of them would have qualified back in my year but these are tough times.’ She shakes her head. ‘How we’ll make iron out of polystyrene I don’t know, but we have to try.’

  She looks at the Champion for a reaction but he says nothing.

  ‘I’ve never been in a sky-ship before but I expect you have.’

  The Champion nods.

  ‘More
than once?’

  The Champion nods.

  ‘I guessed as much. You probably go in them all the time.’

  The Champion glances up in thought, then holds up three fingers but Sir Heras doesn’t notice.

  ‘Yes, all the time. The Seraph Knights used to have their own wing of sky-ships, did you know that?’

  The Champion shakes his head.

  ‘Most went down in the Battle of the Red Wave, and those that we kept were requisitioned by the Lenses. It’s a rare thing to see a knight in a sky-ship these days.’

  When the Champion does not respond, Sir Heras falls quiet.

  There is little distraction in the hold of a sky-ship, the engines are quiet, and complex mechanisms ensure that the ride is smooth. But for the sure knowledge they are travelling south, and at speed, they would not know they were flying at all.

  Time moves slowly. In the hold, the squires whisper to each other, taking turns to be excited or nervous, while the Champion merely waits, all too aware of Sir Heras trying to catch his eye.

  When subtlety fails and patience runs out, Sir Heras opts for a full social assault.

  ‘You’re probably wondering why I, of all the available knights, was assigned to this mission.’

  When it becomes clear that Sir Heras is waiting for a response before continuing, the Champion musters a weak smile and a nod, reluctant.

  ‘There were, of course, several other knights that qualified. Who, like me, passed their squire’s training with distinction, and who had, like me, completed several difficult missions in subsequent years. What sets me apart is my history.’

  She pauses and leans towards the Champion. When she continues, her voice is pitched lower, just for his ear. ‘You see, I was born in Fortitude’s Peak. Two of us in my batch qualified for ruling class. Though I was the more promising, the old governor at the time decided that my brother, Leeram, should be prepared as successor, while I was sent to the Shining City to become a squire.