Читать книгу The Strategist - Gerrard Cowan - Страница 7

‘Canning.’

The last Tactician in the Overland sat on a wooden stool, wearing only a ragged smock. He was thin, these days. He lifted his head and glanced at Aranfal, before turning once more to the dirt.

‘Tactician Canning,’ the Watcher said. He wasn’t supposed to use that title. Not any more. But he couldn’t help himself.

Free Canning, if you can. That’s what Jandell had said. The one we called the Operator, before we knew there was more than one.

The prisoner forced his head up and looked at Aranfal again, his eyes dull in the candlelight. He was attempting to control himself. The greatness of the spirit. How many times had Aranfal seen that, here, in the Bowels of the See House?

But never like this. Canning is braver than he looks.

‘Water. Please.’

Aranfal walked out into the corridor, scanning it quickly. Operator Shirkra would not like it if she knew he was helping Canning. She wouldn’t like it at all.

He crouched down, and pulled a stone up from the floor. Inside the hole was a wooden cup of water, hidden on another visit. The liquid looked rancid, but Canning wouldn’t mind. It might keep him alive. And he still wants to live, though only the Machinery knows why.

The Watcher returned to the cell, and lifted the cup to Canning’s lips. The former Tactician drank greedily, dirty water slopping across his cheeks. He gave Aranfal a hopeful look when he had finished. The Watcher had seen that look many times, too, down here. For a moment, memories crowded his vision: the broken rubble of his past.

‘There is no more,’ Aranfal said. ‘It wouldn’t do you any good, anyway. You shouldn’t have too much, in your state.’

Canning nodded. His head fell forward, and it seemed for a moment that he might have fallen asleep. Before long, however, he hacked out a cough, and looked up again at the Watcher.

‘You’re helping me. Why?’

Because Jandell asked me to, in the ruins of the Circus. But it wasn’t Aranfal who bowed to the Operator, back then. Aranfal would have nodded, before running as far as he could. No: Aranfal was fading away, and Aran Fal was returning. That was the boy who went to the See House all those years ago: the boy whose names were forced together by Brightling herself. Not perfect, not by a long shot. But a man who helps another man in the Bowels of the See House.

He studied Canning again. There was something different about the former Tactician, something that had changed fundamentally. The Watcher struggled for the word. Toughness, perhaps? Was he changing, too? Did the end of the Machinery do something to them all – free them to become themselves?

‘Because you’re not allowed to die,’ he said.

‘Ah.’ Canning nodded. ‘Shirkra. She likes having me here. She likes to hurt me.’

Aranfal shrugged. ‘That’s part of it, I suppose. But nothing happens without the Strategist’s say so. Not any more. That’s why you’re alive.’

Canning snorted. ‘Why would she want to keep me alive?’

Why indeed?

‘I cannot begin to fathom …’ He thought, for a moment, of the new power in the Overland. He had not seen her since the Selection; no one had. Still, her presence was everywhere, a purple smoke that clogged the lungs and stung the eyes. ‘Perhaps she thinks you will help her.’

‘How could I help her?’

Aranfal squinted at Canning. They had had this conversation many times, here in the darkness of the Bowels, but Canning never seemed to remember. What has happened to him? Has Shirkra rummaged about in his mind a little too much? Aranfal had seen what the female Operator could do. She played with a person’s memories, and she twisted them until they bled. But no. More than that. She took power from them. It reminded him of a story he had read, long ago, as a child in the North: a story about ancient magic, of gods that toyed with men and women, stole from them and abused them, but who always were defeated, in the end, tricked by the same ploys they used against their victims. Were those just stories, or were they history? He smiled at his own hopefulness: Aranfal laughing at Aran Fal.

‘The Strategist only cares about one thing,’ Aranfal said. He looked into the corners, as if she might be hiding there, the thing that had once been Katrina Paprissi. She would not like me talking about her. Or perhaps she would. How would I know? He sighed. What did it matter, anyway? He never knew how things worked in this new world.

‘The Strategist only cares about the Machinery. That’s all. She’s not been here; she’s been searching for it. Perhaps she thinks you can help her find it.’

Canning coughed a laugh. ‘Me? I thought she was the One, whatever that means? She thinks I could help her? Not even Brightling knew where the Machinery was. No one knows, apart from the Operator, and sometimes not even him, if the stories are to be believed. Doesn’t she think I would have said something by now, to get myself away from her … her …’

‘Shirkra,’ Aranfal said, glancing again at the shadows of the cell.

‘Yes. Her Shirkra.’ Canning trembled, and his head lolled forward again. He lifted it with great effort, making a grunting noise.

‘I don’t know what the Strategist thinks,’ Aranfal said with a shrug. ‘I’m just guessing. Maybe she likes the way you smell. How would I know? We never see her.’

Canning’s face broke into a dark smile. ‘Then who rules the Overland? Shirkra?’

Aranfal shrugged again. He was being too free with his words. What does it matter? Shirkra will kill him soon anyway. Whether the Strategist wills it or not, Shirkra will kill this man …

‘No one rules the Overland. The Watchers do what Shirkra wants, but I’m not sure you could call it ruling. I don’t know what the people are doing. I don’t know how they run their lives.’ By running away, if they have any sense.

‘They look after themselves now,’ Canning said. ‘As it should be. We would have been better off all along, without these gods and their machines.’

For a moment, the Watcher was surprised. Is that how we all think of them now? As gods? But his attention was soon diverted by a noise in the corridor outside: a gate being opened, far away.

‘She’s coming again.’ There was a tremor in Canning’s voice. ‘The woman in the white mask.’

Footsteps came to them, delicate feet padding across cold stone.

‘Have you seen what she does to me, Aranfal? Have you been here, when she … I can’t remember. I can’t remember seeing you here.’

The Watcher did not respond. It was too late, now. Shirkra was among them.

She was the same as always, a thin woman in a green dress, curls of red hair flowing behind her mask, that weird thing that approximated her own face and seemed to shift between expressions. It was strange; the Watcher had seen her many times since the events of the Circus, but he could never quite hold a steady image of her in his mind’s eye. To leave her side was to wake from a nightmare; there was always a sense of something vast, terrible, and untouchable, fading into nothingness.

In Mother’s absence, she had emerged as the dominant force in the See House, and in the Centre at large. Her reign was strange and volatile: she would lock herself away for days, and then appear, ordering the Watchers to burn every second house on an unfortunate street, or poison the wells of an almshouse, or swap the stones in a cemetery. It was chaos. But then, so was she.

Still, it was clear she worked within certain boundaries that Mother had laid down. This was agony for her; she took out her anger on Canning, and the other unfortunates she held in the Bowels.

Aranfal, though, had become something of a favourite of the woman in the white mask. It was not a comfortable place to be; sometimes he would have traded places with Canning.

‘Watcher Aranfal!’ she cried, clapping her hands. ‘What a delight! You have been avoiding me, hmm? You have. I know you have.’

She went to him and reached out a hand, brushing a tendril of blond hair from his cheek.

‘Why don’t you love me, Aranfal? I love you.’

‘Thank you, my lady.’

‘Am I wrong, my Aranfal? Do you love me? Tell me. Please. Tell me if you love me, or if you don’t. I can withstand the blow, Aranfal! I am so old, you must realise. I have seen so many come and go, and very few of them loved me, no, very few indeed.’ She sighed. ‘Tell me. Do you love me, or not?’

The Watcher stretched out a smile. ‘I love you, of course, Operator. I love you more than the stars.’

‘More than the stars!’ Shirkra clapped her hands together and spun on her heel, her green dress billowing through the cell. ‘That is good, that is good!’ She halted, and the eyes behind the mask suddenly narrowed. ‘You will not look at another, will you, Aranfal? I should take your eyes, perhaps, and hide them in my little cupboard, and then you will never look at anyone else, for it will be beyond you, hmm?’

Aranfal bowed. ‘As you wish, madam.’

The Operator’s shriek of laughter echoed off the stone walls. ‘As I wish, indeed! Someone who cares for my wishes, hmm? Mother won’t let me do anything, you know. All she worries about is the Machinery! “No fun until we find its remains! Work before play!” Who would have thought that victory would be so boring?’

The Operator walked towards the one-time Tactician, who moaned as she approached. His eyes flickered, and he looked once more to the floor.

She raised a finger, and began to play with a memory.

They were in some kind of a harbour. Before them was a wall, and below that the grey sea. The cobblestones reeked of fish, rotting before them, dead eyes staring up into nothing. Canning was there, a more youthful version, with a woman at his side. She was younger than him, much younger, barely older than eighteen. The girl reached out to Canning and struck him, before climbing the wall, and falling, down to the sea below.

They were back in the cell. There was a dull glow of reddish light, fading into nothing.

The former Tactician wheezed, and blood fell from his lips. How does she make them bleed? ‘It did not happen like that … I know it did not … you have twisted it.’

Shirkra laughed. ‘No one is ever right about memories, not even the people who own them. What does it matter, anyway? They are so much more than … mere records.’

She leaned forward, and kissed Canning on the forehead. He flinched, but was too weak to move away.

Shirkra laughed. ‘Memories are strange things, you know. They are not just images in the mind.’ She reached out and touched a black wall. ‘This See House of yours – there are memories in the stones.’

‘When will you kill him?’

Canning caught Aranfal’s gaze for the briefest of moments, and the Watcher saw a spark there: the light of life. But it quickly expired, and the former Tactician’s head slumped forward once more.

Shirkra hesitated. ‘Kill him?’ The shadows in the cell grew longer. ‘That would be a kindness. I am not cruel, you know. I like my games, but I am not cruel. Still – I cannot kill him – no, I cannot.’

‘Why not?’ Aranfal stepped towards her. ‘You are the Mother of Chaos. Who can stop you from doing anything?’

Shirkra snatched her mask from her face. She giggled like a young girl, her hand held before her little mouth. ‘You seek to trick me into bringing his death, Aranfal! You think it would be a kindness, hmm? I see through your tricks. If I kill him, you know, I will be in such trouble, because Mother loves him, hmm? She thinks she sees something in this creature, though what it is, I cannot tell.’

She turned upon Canning.

‘But then again – trouble. Hmm. What would happen if I got in trouble? Real trouble? Would it not be a bit … fun to get in trouble with Mother? I haven’t been in trouble with Mother for ages, you know. I’ve been so good all this time. It’s nice when you get in trouble with Mother. It shows she cares, ha ha ha ha ha!’

Aranfal laughed, though he did not know why. The longer you serve her, the more you become her. Everything is a cloud of nothing, and only laughter breaks it.

‘We should do it together, Aranfal!’ Shirkra was beside him, wearing her mask once again.

Chaos is making a plan, making it forever, abiding by it, building the rules, and then twisting in a new direction, a different way, hmm, without knowing where it will take—

She held his hand in hers. ‘Imagine, both of us getting into trouble with Mother! And Jandell would be so angry, too, wherever he may be – you told him you would look after Canning, hmm? I don’t need any powers to know that, ha ha. I know what he’s like. “Oh, promise me, Aranfal, promise me, hmm, won’t you look after my little child, who withers in the den of the vipers, hmm?”’

Aranfal looked to Canning. It’s true, it’s true, she knows you so well.

Children.

Another voice, from nowhere and everywhere.

The Strategist.

Come to me.

**

Aranfal was in the Underhall.

This was the largest room in the See House, as far as anyone knew, a vast cavern of damp stone, broken portraits, and rotten wooden furniture. It was said to be the dining hall of ancient Tacticians, before they grew tired of feasting in the Bowels. But no one came here, now.

Shirkra was at the back of the hall, her ear pressed against a wooden door that festered with mould. She was no longer wearing her mask. She called Aranfal to her, and beckoned him to do the same.

A thin, reedy sound came from beyond.

‘Music,’ he said. He looked at Shirkra, who nodded once, and giggled.

‘Why are we here?’ the Watcher asked. ‘How did we get here?’

Shirkra grinned at him. ‘Mother has summoned us. Didn’t you hear her?’

Aranfal nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘One must come promptly when summoned by Mother.’ She tapped the side of her head. ‘It’s stupid to do anything else. Mother is very patient, you know, very patient, but it’s not good to test her, oh no, not good at all.’

The Watcher was afraid. He was Aran Fal.

‘Have you met Mother before, Aranfal, hmm?’

‘No. At least, not in her new guise.’

‘Ah. You knew her host.’ Shirkra giggled. ‘It will be so lovely to see you together! I love both of you so much!’

They walked through the door, and found themselves in a corridor. There were torches along the walls, burning in that strange flame of Strategist purple. As they went, a light grew before them, a tempest in the same colour.

The environment began to change. The corridor faded away, and the air became wet and cool. New sounds intermingled with the strange music: the movement of leaves in the breeze, a dappling of water on rocks, weird chirps and chirrups of animals.

‘Where are we?’ Aranfal asked. ‘It feels like we’ve gone outside. How can that be?’

Shirkra tutted. ‘Your questions are born of the Overland. We are not in the Overland, my Aranfal.’

Aranfal looked up and saw a bright moon, a perfectly smooth and circular body that radiated a cold intensity.

‘That was not here before,’ he said. ‘What is this place?’

‘A memory. Many memories. Woven together, made more beautiful than before, oh yes.’

They came to a garden. Aranfal saw a wide, dark pond up ahead, its surface a perfect reflection of that unnatural moon, its waters utterly still. Black plants surrounded the pond, tall things with dark, glossy leaves and pale, pink flowers. Animal sounds could be heard in the dark, but there was no sign of bird or beast.

Sitting on a rock and staring into the pond was the Strategist. Katrina Paprissi. The One. Mother. Always Mother, always call her Mother. She was dressed in her purple rags, her pale skin exposed to the moonlight, her black hair tied tightly back with an ivory pin. She held in her hands a long, thin, wooden instrument: the source of the strange music. It was a lament. It told a story of a time long gone, though no one sang along to it.

At her side was a mask: the face of a white rat.

Mother cast a glance in their direction, and removed the pipe from her lips. The music died slowly, echoing through the garden. The Strategist tilted her head very slightly, and placed the tip of her tongue on her upper lip, as if tasting something there.

Aranfal bowed to her.

‘The Machinery is broken,’ the Strategist said. Her words had hints of Katrina, but there was something more besides, as if several speakers were talking at once in voices from the past.

Aranfal hesitated. ‘Yes, Strategist.’

Mother did not seem to register his words. ‘The Machinery is broken. It must be. It Selected me, and gave me such powers. But Ruin has still not come. There is more work ahead of me.’ She sighed. ‘I must find what remains of the Machinery. I must shatter it into a million pieces. Only then will Ruin come.’ She placed the instrument to her lips once more, and music filled the garden. After a while she removed the pipe. ‘Ruin is waiting for me.’ She looked directly at Aranfal. Her gaze penetrated him. ‘Do you know who I am?’

‘Mother,’ Aranfal whispered.

The Strategist nodded. ‘I am Mother.’ She looked at Shirkra. ‘You sought to disobey your mother.’

Shirkra shook her head. ‘No. No. I would not have killed him. I think I would not have.’

‘You think, but you do not know. You are not the Mother of Chaos. That is the wrong name for you. You are a child of Chaos, and nothing more.’

Shirkra sighed. ‘I am a child. I am a child. I cannot tell what I will do.’

Mother called her daughter to her side, and made her sit on the rock. ‘You stayed with me during many long years. You are more than Chaos. You are … light.’

Shirkra grinned.

‘Torturer.’

Aranfal snapped to attention. Their eyes met again, and all the world was purple.

‘I am glad you have come.’ Something flickered in her eyes; for a moment, the Watcher saw himself standing before the gates of the See House, long ago. Before Aran Fal became Aranfal.

‘Shirkra,’ Mother said, looking away from the Watcher. ‘When was the last time we played a game? The game?’

Shirkra’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know when, Mother. Long ago. Before the Machinery.’

Mother nodded. ‘It is time for another.’

There was a long silence. Shirkra remained utterly still for a long while, before leaping to her feet.

‘Another game?’ she hissed. ‘We swore we would never play again. And we are busy!’

Mother nodded. She lifted her instrument to her lips again, and played a low, solemn tune. When it was finished, she raised her hand in the air. A ball of dark flame appeared there; Aranfal saw things in the darkness, memories that were not his own.

‘The Dust Queen demands it,’ Mother whispered.

She threw the flame to the ground, and it burst into the forms of three identical women.

They were hard to look upon, unnatural creatures, formed of a substance somewhere between sand and dust, fine and flowing and alive. They were tall and thin, their limbs weird and long, their eyes dark, the skin of their faces in constant flux, grey like the sand from which they had formed. They wore crowns upon their heads, made of glass, though even these seemed to change, flickering with a strange light. Their dresses shimmered in a thousand colours, dancing around them like cat’s tails.

Dust, dust, dust.

As Aranfal looked upon these women, a realisation dawned. These were not three women at all, but one, a singular creature. The Watcher had seen many strange things since the fall of Northern Blown, but here was something new. Here was something beyond even Mother. He was utterly insignificant as he stood before this thing of three parts. He felt compelled by her, madly attracted; he wanted to throw himself into her and become a particle, a speck of dust, flowing with her, within her, and she within him.

Mother coughed, and the women disappeared.

‘She has spoken to me in the night,’ Mother said. ‘She wants to play a game. A last game, before Ruin comes.’

Shirkra made a strange sound. A growl. ‘We cannot trust her. She betrayed us before. She helped Jandell build the Machinery. It is a trick.’

Mother sighed. ‘Her motivations cannot be understood. But we will play.’

Shirkra stomped a foot. ‘Mother! Why must we always dance to her tune? Say no! Tell her we don’t have time for games!’ She bent down, and touched the Strategist’s shoulder. ‘You could resist her, you know. Your powers are growing again.’

Mother smiled. ‘There is no resisting her. Not until Ruin comes. And Ruin will not come, until we find the Machinery. Do you understand?’

Shirkra shook her head. For a moment, she was nothing more than a child, her eyes wide and innocent. ‘What are the prizes?’ she whispered.

‘If we play with her, she says she will take us to the Machinery after the game: no matter who wins.’

‘It is a trick, Mother! She sees some advantage in this. It cannot be otherwise.’

Mother shrugged. ‘Either way, we will play the game. If we refuse, she could simply compel us. And how long would it take us to find the Machinery without her guidance? I do not want to wait on Ruin for a moment longer than is necessary. If we accept, she will take us to whatever remains of the Machinery, and I will bring Ruin. We will accept.’

‘Do you think she is telling the truth?’

Mother nodded. ‘I have known her for longer than almost any of us. We will play the game, and she will show us the Machinery. Why? That, I do not know. Perhaps she wants Ruin to come. She saw it, before any of us. They were her words, were they not? Ruin will come with the One.’

Aranfal gasped.

‘Ruin will destroy her,’ Shirkra said.

Mother narrowed her eyes in thought. ‘Yes. But I believe she knows that. I think she wants to die. I think she wishes to play a last game, before death comes.’

Shirkra threw herself down, and placed her head in her mother’s lap. ‘Very well,’ she said.

Mother stroked her daughter’s head. ‘I know this is a struggle for you,’ she said. ‘All of this – all that we have done, just to survive.’ She smiled. ‘You know where you have to go, now. You know whom you must seek.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘Take him with you,’ the Strategist said, pointing at Aranfal. ‘We should keep him safe. I think he will be useful to us in the game.’ She nodded to herself. ‘Yes. So useful. So safe.’

Shirkra grinned at Aranfal, and the Watcher sighed.