Читать книгу The Malice - Peter Newman, Peter Newman - Страница 6

In the south, the Breach stirs.

For over a thousand years it has grown. Slowly at first, a hidden cancer under the skin of the earth, a hairline crack exhaling alien wisps, disturbing yet harmless. But beneath the surface, pressure grows until the crack becomes an opening, and the opening splits wide, a gaping womb, a wound in the world, erupting.

Infernals pour forth, shapeless nightmares that slaughter their way into reality, inhabiting the bodies of the fallen and mutating them, taking the natural order and tainting it, corrupting plants, animals, even the air itself.

As the infernals take on physical form, they find identities and names: greatest of them is the monstrous Usurper, who raises itself to power by force of will, who strikes down Gamma of The Seven and breaks her armies. It is the Usurper who heralds the end of hope and the retreat of humanity’s influence.

But Gamma’s living sword is not destroyed and its continued presence nags at the marks left on the Usurper’s essence, festering, weakening. The Usurper sends its horde in search of the sword, named Malice by the infernals, but their efforts fail. A man takes the sword from them, and in time its power topples the Usurper and a kind of peace returns. Not true peace, too much is broken for the world to simply recover. This is merely a pause, a holding of breath. It is but a temporary thing. For in the south, the Breach stirs.

*

On the other side of the world a man stands by a window, his amber eyes intent on a small figure outside. Her name is Vesper. She is doing nothing of note and yet the man smiles as he watches her, her very existence comforting, warming like the suns.

For a long time he was alone and lost, a vagrant. Now he has a home, a family and more goats than he knows what to do with. It is a good life.

And yet lately a shadow seems to loom around the corner, a hint of coming disquiet. His home is built outside the Shining City, a step removed from people and politics and the expectations of others. News has to battle to get to his door. This is no accident.

Behind him, the sword begins to tremble, rocking back and forth, folded wings tip-tapping on the wall, but the eye remains closed. For years it has slept, deeply, peacefully, a quiet companion.

He turns to it, a smile sliding from his face. Absently, he scratches at old scars, on his thigh, his face, the side of his head. It has taken years to heal. Years of gentle work to make a new life, a safe space for those he loves.

His attention goes back to Vesper, who chats idly with the goats. Slowly, he returns to work but the tapping of the sword continues, like a thorn in his boot, needling, never quite out of mind. Lips form a line. At his sides, fists clench.

The sword is taken to his room, the door shut.

It is not enough.

He wraps the sword, making a thick bed of fabric for it, muffling the sounds it makes.

It is not enough.

Though it no longer bumps against the wall, the sword’s unease comes out in half-made notes, little things that catch on the edges of his soul.

He finds himself standing at the door, staring, one hand starting to open it, to reach out to the sleeping sword. It would be a small matter to lift it, to wake it once more, to …

‘What are you doing?’

He starts, turns to find Vesper standing there, face bright. With her, every day is a marvel. How tall she has become! How reminiscent of her mother.

Her head tilts to one side, trying to see past him. ‘What are you doing?’

He musters a half-smile, shrugs.

‘Are you okay?’

He nods.

‘What’s in there? I thought I heard a noise. Can I have a look? Is it an animal? It sounded unhappy. Can I see?’

He waves the questions away and puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, moving away from the room and taking her with him.

Later, when other distractions have led the girl away, he returns to the room with tougher materials and a box.

But it is not enough.

*

Twenty years have passed since the first wave of infernals came into being but the Breach has not ceased. A steady trickle of twisted creatures has dribbled from it, sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs, occasionally in gluts, but always, always, it grows; by inches, getting a little bigger, convulsing, then stretching again.

For eleven of these years, Samael has watched.

He stands on a rusting hill. Once a snake of mechanised metal, now a monument to things forgotten. Beneath his feet native moss does battle with tainted strains. Spongy carpets, yellow and brown, spreading with intent. Samael does not notice, his attention is on the Breach. He first came here on impulse. Drawn by voices he couldn’t quite hear, buried deep within his essence. He likes his impulses, just as he likes his habits. They give him direction.

It is twelve years since his second birth, since he was taken from his life on the sea, and only his hair remains unchanged. Beneath his armour, Samael’s skin is bone white, fossilised into a mockery of cracked marble. Unlike the rest of him, his hair is full of life. He wears it tied up, a horses tail that flows from a slit in the top of his helmet. A vanity he knows his creator would disapprove of. The thought brings a shudder and a smile.

Of course, his creator, the commander, was destroyed by the Malice, along with the other Knights of Jade and Ash but that doesn’t stop Samael thinking about him. Or seeking approval. He wishes it were different.

The armour he wears is a collection of mismatched plates, dug up from the battlefield and roughly beaten into shape. The result is ugly and ill-fitting. It feels right. A second skin he has made for himself. Wearing it has become habitual. Of this at least, his creator would surely approve. He hopes so but cannot be sure. Since the commander’s sudden end, he has been left with freedom and too many questions.

A fresh wave of essence bubbles from the Breach. Once, the chasm could not be seen from this hill and a village stood between his vantage point and the great crack. The village is gone now, swallowed by the earth, sucked down to other unknowable realms, deep, beyond the Breach.

Samael does not know how he knows this, but he does. He remembers buildings, faces, their hope fading as he passes them, leaving them to die. This flash of memory that is both his and not his goes as quickly as it arrives, leaving behind a cauldron of unprocessed feelings.

Grudgingly, his mind returns to present.

This is where the demons find their way in. He cannot change what has been done to him, cannot stop the infernals further north from plaguing the world, but here, he can make a difference. Here, he can at least stem the tide.

Clouds of unborn essence begin to form on the Breach’s edge, along with a host of skittering, hungry scabs, the lowest of the infernals. The scabs spread out, hunting for food amidst the dirt. The unborn spirits search for a way into the world, needing host bodies if they are to remain.

Samael smiles, knowing they will fail.

The few remaining corpses he cleared years ago, those not already claimed as hosts, condemning any new infernal to haunt the Breach’s boundary, dissipating slowly, horrific concepts never finding expression.

He has watched this sight countless times but it never fails to please.

Something is different this time, however. A second wave of unborn clouds confirms it. His half-breed eyes read the patterns in their essences. They are desperate, yes, this is common, but the flavour of fear in their smoky swirls is new. It is not the hostile world they have arrived in that scares them most. It is something else. Something behind them.

They are running away.

A rumble passes through the earth, radiating outward until it shakes the metal hill. Samael throws his arms out, balancing, riding the shockwave until it has passed. Another rumble comes quickly, and the sound darkens the sky, essence spewing from the Breach, thick and black and purple.

Samael is thrown from the hill, landing heavily in the dirt. The half-breed pulls himself up quickly, untroubled by physical pains. The ground still shakes, constant now, as the Breach heaves, trying to dislodge its burden. Earth trembles, gives, and reality retreats a little further north.

The thing that emerges is too big, stretching through dimensions even Samael cannot see. It is both great and small, contained and limitless. But more than that, it has purpose. Without a host, without a birth, it exists.

The Yearning has come.

Samael does not need a second look, the first has already found a permanent place in his consciousness. He falls back on another old habit, and runs.

*

Far to the north, across the sea, in lands of waning green, lies the Shining City. An invisible field defines its boundary, tuned to the infernal taint, ready to burn. Within this field windows peek from grassy hillsides, hinting at the tunnels, pods and infrastructure hidden within. Pillars of silver punch towards the sky, landscaped gardens attached to their sides and tops. Within the circles of hills and spires is a grand open space. At its centre stands a set of steps, polished, dazzling. They climb fifty feet straight up, ending in nothing. A further twenty feet above the top step, a giant cube of metal floats, turning slowly, colossal, held by invisible strings.

The cube is packed full of secrets, with its own hierarchies and troubles, both above and beyond the world below.

At its heart is the sanctum of The Seven.

Even here, in this haven, miles from any infernal, they feel the quake. Even here, behind walls of denial and power, platinum and energy, the shift in earth and essence stirs them.

Alpha of The Seven is the first to wake. His eyes open, matchless orbs, sparkling with the wisdom of his maker and a thousand years’ experience. They sweep across five other alcoves, each a home, a tomb for the immortal within.

Heads turn slowly, moving to meet his gaze. Stone flakes fall from faces as they emerge once more, tentative.

No words are spoken, no songs are sung, not yet. Their power is there, waiting to be called but there lacks the will to call it.

Alpha feels the question in the eyes of his brothers and sisters. A new trouble has presented itself. They want to see his response. He flexes fingers, freeing them from their stony prison, and looks towards his sword. It is buried, a barely discernible lump, shrouded in grey rock. His siblings’ swords are no better, covered in tears of stone, wept in the years of grief.

It is time to take them up again.

Alpha lifts his hand and the others inhale together. Five hands tense, ready to take action.

An invisible force draws Alpha’s eyes to the third alcove, the empty one. Once their sister, Gamma, resided there. Now there is nothing.

She is lost to them.

Lost.

That which they thought immutable was brought low, broken by the Usurper’s power. If they go to war, will this new threat claim another? Even the idea is too much to bear.

Alpha stills his hand, lowers his head.

Five other hands relax and six minds retreat, returning to darkness and sweet oblivion.

A few miles away, hidden in darkness, wrapped in cloth, wrapped in wood, wrapped in dust, an eye opens.

*

A bird drifts in the sky, lazy. A worm dangles from its beak, frantic, hopeless. With a flap of wings, it ascends, riding the currents, spiralling around a great pillar. At the top sits a gleaming sky-ship and cradled within its turrets are a number of nests.

The nests should not be there. The workers should have scrubbed them away but there have been no inspections, not this year, nor the four before that. Nobody can see the top of the sky-ship from below, so the workers don’t clean them. An indulgence that goes unnoticed. There are others. Tiny flaws in the slowly rotting Empire of the Winged Eye.

Shrill voices penetrate the air, begging for food. The bird ignores them, moving towards its own offspring, letting the worm fall towards a trio of gaping beaks before diving away, carried by currents to new adventures.

Far below and several miles distant, a girl watches the bird through an old, battered scope. Her name is Vesper and her feet itch to travel to the pillar, her hands to climb it. But the pillar, along with everything else around the Shining City, is forbidden. They are but images, only dimly understood, no more real to her than Uncle Harm’s stories.

She tucks the scope into a pocket and looks around, seeking inspiration. None comes and her eyes go back to find the bird, staring enviously until the curved line becomes a black dot. Soon even this is gone. Without it, the sky appears blank, uninteresting.

Because she is young, because she is sheltered, because she is different, Vesper plays. She spreads her arms and runs, flapping them like a bird. Enthusiasm cannot defeat physics however and she remains earth bound, an amusement for the goats that crowd the fields.

She arrives at the border of her world, panting. No energy field prevents further travel, just a simple fence and the endless warnings of her family.

Vesper takes a step towards it. She does not need to fly to cross this obstacle. A glance over her shoulder stops the plan before it can form. Her father stands outside the house, amber eyes searching her out. Feigning innocence, Vesper raises her hand, waves. Her father’s hand calls her back towards home.

She loves her father and her Uncle more than words but sometimes she wishes they weren’t there. Not forever. Just for an hour, or an afternoon. As she trudges back up the hill, she imagines the glories such an afternoon might bring.

Before she gets back, however, an angry bleating demands her attention.

‘Here we go,’ mutters Vesper and starts to run.

The male goats follow her a few paces, then stop, knowing their place well.

At the top of the hill, next to her house is another, smaller one. Inside, offerings litter the floor, some barely recognizable remnants, others only half chewed. A mutigel cube has been spread thin across the floor, like a translucent pancake. A blanket partly covers it. The goat stands on top, unsteady, her belly swollen with young. Dark eyes regard Vesper bleakly as she arrives. The goat is old now, too old for such nonsense, yet it keeps happening. The goat is not sure who needs to be punished for the latest in a long line of pregnancies and so tends to bite at anybody stupid enough to get close.

Vesper has learnt this the hard way. She stops at the doorway, absently rubbing the old scar on her hand. ‘Don’t look at me. It’s not my fault.’

The birth is quick and blunt, a few moments of sweat and struggle. A newborn slides into being, deadly still, wearing its membrane suit like a shroud.

The goat eyes the bundle disapprovingly, and waits. During the early pregnancies, she tended her young but she too has learnt.

‘Go on!’ Vesper urges.

The goat ignores her.

‘Quickly!’

The goat ignores her.

With a curse, Vesper pulls a rag from her pocket and starts to wipe the mucus from the newborn’s head. Practiced hands find their way into the kid’s mouth and nostrils, unplugging goo. Vesper curses again, borrowing words overheard, exotic, adult. Slowly, the gunk is removed, some of it finding its way to the floor, much of it adhering to Vesper’s trousers.

The goat’s eyes glint, victorious, and she begins to pick at some stray tufts of grass by the door.

Still, the kid does not move, a damp lump, not quite dead but not fully alive either. Vesper strokes the little animal’s side.

‘Come on, you can do it. Breathe for me.’

Vesper keeps stroking, keeps talking. She doesn’t know if the kid can hear her, or if it helps but she does it anyway.

The goat flicks the stump of her tail in irritation and trots over. She gives her child a quick inspection, flicks her tail again, then kicks out.

The kid judders into life, gulps down air, whimpers a little.

Vesper scowls at the goat. ‘Was that really necessary?’

The goat ignores her.

Injury forgotten in sudden hunger, the kid looks between the two figures, mouth open and eager.

‘I take it you’re not going to feed him?’ Vesper rolls up her sleeves. ‘Didn’t think so.’ Alert for retaliation, she snatches up a nearby bucket and starts to milk the goat.

Too tired to fight, the goat decides to be merciful.

When she finishes, Vesper stands up, hefting the bucket. ‘I need to get a bottle, don’t go anywhere, okay?’

The kid watches the girl leave. He turns to his other mother but she has already gone. Tongue lolling, he swings his head back and forth, unsure. He takes his first steps, stumbling into the goat’s domain.

There is a thud and a squeal.

A moment later he scurries out, running for safety. He doesn’t dare look back.

Tin bowls sound like anemic bells as they are moved, and a soft voice chatters in the kitchen. Vesper attends to the words and pauses, holding her breath. She does not go through or say hello, preferring to wait. If they do not know she is there, they will be their other selves, the ones that worry more, that hint at secrets.

As usual, her Uncle Harm does the talking while her father potters, bringing order to a space bent on chaos. ‘You know, a messenger from the Lenses came again today. They wanted to know if everything was alright here. I told him things were nice and quiet. All the usual questions but something felt different this time. He was agitated, kept scratching at something. I almost asked him in for a drink. Poor man seemed exhausted with stress. I suppose they all are up there. Of course, he wouldn’t tell me anything.’

A soft whirring begins. Her father must be Bondcleaning the surfaces.

‘I’m sure,’ Harm continues, ‘if you went and spoke with them yourself, I’m sure we could find out more. They’re only here for you, after all.’

The cleaning device is clicked to a higher setting and the whirring gets louder, irritating. Vesper takes another deep breath and edges closer, daring a peek into the kitchen.

Her Uncle Harm sits in the good chair, steam curling from the mug in his lap. He raises his voice, managing to keep the tone gentle. ‘I know you’ve made up your mind about this but it wouldn’t hurt to know what’s going on. Please, go and talk to them? It would put my mind at rest. And can you come over here? I hate talking to you when you’re far away.’

The whirring of the machine slows, becomes irregular, stops. Broad shoulders sag. Vesper retreats a step as her father turns and limps across the kitchen. His hair grows long now. Vesper has spent many evenings watching Uncle Harm brush the long brown-grey strands. Even so, it does not hide the scars running through the hairline. Apparently, these could be fixed, just like the missing teeth and the scarred leg, but her father always refuses any offers of surgery. Harm says he’s as stubborn as the goat, which makes her father smile. But he never changes his mind.

Vesper likes the scars. They’re proof of a different life. When her father was the heroic knight that her Uncle talks about, not this tired man who frowns too much.

Her father stops by the chair, leans on it, stoops forward. Harm’s hands fumble their way upwards, searching for his face.

‘There you are.’ Fingers brush features: a chin that needs shaving, crow’s feet deepening around the eyes. They find lines furrowing the forehead and smooth them away. ‘They know you’re not going to fight again. Nobody’s expecting you to. But I think we should at least know what’s going on, just in case.’

Soothing hands are taken in callused ones. The two stand peaceably, enjoying the moment.

As usual, Harm is the first to speak into it. ‘I hear things. From the people who bring us offerings. There aren’t so many as there used to be but some still come. Apparently, Sonorous has declared independence and the First has recognised them. There’s been no official response from the Empire yet but either way it won’t be good. And have you heard about what’s going on in the south? There’s a rumour that—’

Hands break apart. Amber eyes fix on the doorway. Vesper is caught in their glare. She smiles quickly, and goes in, clearing her throat. ‘What rumour is that, Uncle?’

‘Ah, Vesper,’ comes the bright-voiced reply, ‘it’s just gossip, nothing important. How’s the goat?’

‘She’s getting worse. Didn’t even bother with this one. It would’ve died for sure if I hadn’t been there.’

‘That’s the third you’ve saved now, isn’t it?’

‘The fifth, actually. But each time, she’s doing less.’

‘If I was her age, I doubt I’d be much better.’

‘How old is she, Uncle?’

Spontaneously, both men smile. ‘We’ve got no idea. But old. If she were human, she would be long past having babies, that’s for certain.’

‘Well, she’s having them but she’s not feeding them. I need to get a bottle.’

‘Go ahead.’

Hands ruffle her hair as she goes past. She feels her father watching her, and moves quickly. In her haste she fumbles the teat, dropping it. ‘Any news from the City?

‘Why do you ask?’

She crouches down to collect the teat. ‘I … thought I saw someone come to the house.’

‘It’s true, we did have a visitor. And they did come from the City.’

‘What did they say?’

‘Not much.’

‘But they must have said something.’

‘You know what it’s like, there’s always something going on –’ Harm hears her excited intake of breath ‘– but nothing for us to worry about,’ he adds quickly.

‘Oh.’

Getting nowhere, as always, she collects the teat from the floor and leaves.

Fed and full, the kid goes to sleep in Vesper’s arms.

She sits on the front step, enjoying the warm weight of him until her own belly demands attention. The kid grumbles as she puts him down but doesn’t wake. Vesper lets out a relieved breath and creeps into the house, her mind already busy conjuring images, succulent and mouth-watering.

Out of habit she listens at the kitchen door, hearing nothing but the sound of soft snoring. A peek reveals Uncle Harm slumped in a chair, enjoying his afternoon nap.

The snores continue, undisturbed by clinking cutlery and enthusiastic consumption.

As she leaves the kitchen, she hears a noise coming from the storeroom and freezes. The door is open a crack but not enough to see what’s inside. Curiosity and fear briefly battle within her. She hears another noise, a soft scuffing sound that she cannot identify. Whoever is inside is moving carefully, stealthily.

It must be her father. She wonders what he is up to and reaches out to push at the door, praying that it won’t creak. Experience has taught her that if she wants the truth, it is better to look for it herself than to ask questions. The gap widens slowly, half-inch by half-inch.

When she sees inside, her eyes widen considerably faster.

He stands with his back to her, fists trembling at his sides. A low humming sounds near his feet, like a hornet, angry.

Slowly, his head shakes from side to side and the humming gets louder.

She can taste the tension in the air, can see the effect of invisible hands pulling at her father, sees him resisting, leaning back, as if fighting stormy winds.

His head shakes again, faster this time, less confident. His jaw moves but if he says any words, they are too low to make out.

Something seems to break and her father leans down quickly, the movement desperate. There is the sound of a box lid slamming shut.

The humming diminishes but does not vanish.

Her father leans heavily on the box for a moment then stands up.

Vesper pulls back from the door but it is too late, he has seen her. He always sees her.

She adopts what she hopes is a neutral expression. ‘Are you alright?’

He marches up to the door and nods curtly. His amber eyes are bloodshot, puffy, and she wonders if he has been crying.

They look at each other for a moment and she feels the need to say something, to reach out to him. She has no idea where to begin and offers him a weak smile instead.

His lips move, threatening a sentence and she dares to hope that, for once, he is going to open up, but he cuts it off in its infancy with another sharp nod.

The door closes between them.

With an angry mutter, Vesper plonks herself down on the hillside. The kid comes and sits next to her.

‘It isn’t fair!’ she exclaims, making the kid look up in alarm. ‘He never tells me what’s going on. And he never lets me go anywhere or do anything. I am so bored of goats and grass.’ To take the sting out of her words she strokes the kid’s soft head. ‘But you are very cute.’

The afternoon is spent watching the horizon, scope in hand. Scanning the distant edges of the Shining City, hoping for glimpses of a place featured in her Uncle’s stories but never visited. Today she is rewarded. A group of young people gather in a circle. She maximises the zoom on the scope to drink in the details. Their clothes are all alike, unadorned, white; there is no fashion for the young in the Shining City, and their hair is of uniform cut. There is something formal about the way they stand and she wonders what it is that they do.

The formation is familiar, sparking the chip in her head to take action. It analyses the group, noting formation and age, and categorises them, popping the noun into Vesper’s brain: a choir. In the Shining City all young people are grouped into choirs from an early age. This keeps them from becoming too strongly attached to parents or siblings. Every six months the membership of a particular choir changes to prevent social bonds growing too deep. This way, loyalty to the Empire is assured.

Vesper does not see social engineering or the sparks being slowly stifled. She sees mystery and is hungry for more.

For a time, she watches, noting every movement and gesture. She has no idea what they discuss but is certain every word is fascinating.

She does not notice the man until he is nearly upon her. He appears as a giant in the scope, a portion of pale scalp suddenly filling her vision. With a shriek she falls backwards, sending the kid scurrying back up the hill and out of sight.

Embarrassed, she sits up, looks a second time. Without the scope the man is much less scary. His clothes are black, robust, and a badge of the winged eye stands proud on his collar. His hair is red and wiry and struggles to escape, springing wide on the other side of his hairband. One of the Lenses, like the visitor her uncle spoke of.

‘Hello,’ she says, giving a hesitant wave.

The man looks up the hill at her. ‘Good afternoon, Vesper.’

‘You know my name?’

‘Yes, we’ve met. A long time ago. I helped your father once, got him into Six Circles and across the sea. My name is Genner, did he ever mention me?’

‘Nope.’

Genner stiffens. ‘As I said, it was a long time ago.’

‘Are you here to see him?’

‘I’m here to help him. At least I would be if he’d let me.’

She nods, knowing exactly what he means. ‘You think he needs help, too?’

‘I have a feeling he will soon. Do you think you could persuade him to come out and talk?’

‘I don’t know. He’s …’

‘He’s what? It’s very important you tell me, Vesper.’

Words come and go, none fit. She shrugs. ‘Difficult. Something’s going on but he won’t tell me what it is.’

He comes and sits beside her and they both look out towards the city as he talks. ‘I’m one of the Lenses. We watch for trouble and when it comes we guide the Seraph Knights and the armies of the Winged Eye to where they’re needed in order to protect us.’

‘You know Seraph Knights?’

‘Oh, yes. I even give them orders from time to time.’ He takes a moment, enjoying the awe on her face, then sighs. ‘Something is very wrong in the south, Vesper. The Seven feel it in their sanctum, and we’re sure Gamma’s sword feels it too. We need your father to take up the sword again, and when he does, I intend to make sure he isn’t alone.’

Vesper is quiet while clouds flit by, fluffy, incongruous. ‘Is it dangerous?’

‘Yes.’

‘What if he doesn’t want to do it?’

‘It doesn’t matter if he wants to or not. There is nobody else.’ He takes his gaze from the sky and turns it on her. ‘What I really want to do is burst in there and order him to help us. But your father is chosen of The Seven, it puts him beyond my authority. I need him to come of his own free will. I need you to talk to him.’

She gets up. ‘My father is a hero. When he realises how bad things are, he’ll help, I know he will.’

‘So you’ll talk to him?’

‘Yes.’

He waves to her as she runs back up the hill. ‘Winged Eye watch over you.’

At dinner, the scrape of knife on plate sounds sharp in the ear, the noises of eating too loud. Harm’s banter is subdued and her father’s attention fixed on food barely touched. Vesper glances at the two of them, uncertain of her chances. She tries anyway.

‘I was thinking, now I’m older, it might be time to see more of the world.’

A frown appears on her father’s face.

Harm reaches for her hand, finds it and gives it a squeeze. ‘Your father and I were talking just the other day, about how fast you’re growing, every time we turn our backs it seems!’ Her father’s frown deepens. ‘But to be safe out there–’ he nods towards the Shining City ‘– we feel there are still things you need to learn. To be safe—’

‘What if you came with me? Both of you. We could go to the Shining City. It isn’t far. That way I could see things and you’d know I was safe.’

Her father gets up, collecting the used plates, and Harm replies, ‘Now isn’t a good time.’

Vesper’s face darkens. ‘It’s never a good time.’

‘I know it feels that way.’

‘I’m not a child any more.’ Her father looks round at that, an eyebrow raised. ‘I’m not! I know something is going on! And I want to help.’

She feels the weight of their attention, hesitates. ‘A man from the Lenses spoke to me today. He said things are getting bad. He said they need you to be a hero again, like you used to be, and this time I want to come with you.’ Her father shakes his head and she falters. When she finds her voice again it is small. ‘You’re going to leave me behind.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Harm soothes. ‘We’re not leaving you behind. We’re not going anywhere. Everything’s fine.’

‘That’s not what the man said.’

Harm nods sadly. ‘Things out there are never fine. Even before the Breach there were wars and plagues and floods, and goodness knows what else. We can’t look after the world.’ He glances at her father. ‘We’ve learnt that the hard way. But we can look after each other.’

‘He said father had to do it. He said there isn’t anyone else that can bear Gamma’s sword.’

‘That sword can speak for itself. If it wanted to be used again, we’d know about it by now.’

‘But it does!’

‘I doubt that.’

‘I’ve heard it and so has he.’

‘That’s enough,’ warns Harm.

She looks at her father for confirmation but sees only his back as he does the dishes. A frown of her own appears, a tiny mirror of her father’s. Tears of frustration build, and the discussion ends, abrupt, unsatisfactory, with no mention of Genner or the threat to the Shining City.

The frown stays with her for the rest of the day, a constant companion.

Vesper snaps awake, heart pounding. She sits up, peering into the comfortable dark of her room. She is alone. This surprises her. She was sure of the opposite. Bare feet slip onto cold floor and she pads to the window. Outside, the only lights are distant, unable to penetrate the moat of darkness at the base of the hill.

The house seems quiet. Vesper waits for her pulse to settle and listens. She begins to detect the soft murmur of Uncle Harm’s voice and beneath it … something else. She frowns, unable to place the sound. It is a kind of humming, more felt than heard. It stirs the blood. She remembers the sound from earlier in the day, and her father’s fear.

When it comes to sneaking through the house, Vesper knows all of the tricks. Squeaky boards are avoided, obstacles skillfully stepped around or over. Her door is opened just enough, so slow as to be silent. Soon she creeps past her parents’ room.

‘Ssh,’ says her uncle.

Vesper freezes, panic gripped until she realises that the voice is not directed at her.

‘It was just a dream. I’m right here. Vesper’s asleep next door. We’re all okay … Ssh … Go back to sleep.’

Against all reason, Vesper risks a glance inside. Uncle Harm lies beside her father, propped up on an elbow, stroking his brow. Her father’s eyes are closed and Vesper relaxes a little.

As her father drifts back into sleep, tension falls away, making him appear suddenly younger. Not young, Vesper decides, but not as old as he looks in the day.

She doesn’t stop to wonder if her uncle is lying or simply unaware, and moves quickly downstairs, determined to do something to help.

Since her previous visit to the storeroom, boxes have been stacked in front of the door, blocking it. Young arms struggle with the weight and she is forced to place them heavily. She winces as each one clunks against the floor, waiting for the tell-tale sounds of her father or uncle being disturbed.

But upstairs, all is quiet.

Sweating, she removes the last obstacle and goes inside. The room is small, more a glorified cupboard than living space. Junk is stacked messily on top of boxes. Vesper begins to pull things down. She is often distracted. An old rubber lung catches her eye. She squeezes it and it sighs for her. The sound is comforting. She sniffs it, enjoying the faint tang. There are other things, half-finished carvings that her father has abandoned. One is of a smiling knight with bulging muscles. Most are of a woman, vague shapes never fully realised.

When she lifts the first box clear the humming gets fractionally louder.

Excitement and youth make quick work of the pile. Boxes are dumped behind her, scattering across the kitchen floor, haphazard. Without them, the storeroom looks spacious.

Vesper frowns, listens again. She searches the corners, now accessible, finding only dust-heavy webs, long vacated.

Nothing. The storeroom is empty.

As quickly as it came, excitement vanishes. Vesper hangs her head. But humming persists, not imagined, invisible. She feels it through her feet. With a vengeance, excitement returns. Vesper presses her cheek flat on the floor and sees a board not quite aligned with the others. Fingers work the edge, teasing it up until purchase can be found. She lifts the board and sees space underneath. She lifts two more, revealing a shallow hole lined in trembling plastic. She dares to touch it, feels the humming through her fingers.

More carefully now, reverent, she pulls it back to reveal a long dusty box and a pair of old boots. The boots release a heady musk, mixing damp, old sweat, and other less savoury things. Vesper pulls them on anyway. She tries walking in them, imagining herself as a mysterious traveller. But boots soon fall from little feet, one thump, then another. They remain upright, stiff from experience.

The box is heavy and Vesper struggles to lift it out. Twice it slips out of her fingers, sliding back into the hole at an angle. She does not try a third time, instead leaning into the hole and flipping the catch. The lid creaks as it opens, protesting. A cloud of dust puffs out, demanding its tribute of coughs. Vesper obliges, once, twice, thrice.

An old coat has been used to pack the box. Vesper takes it out. The fabric is worn but tough, reassuring. The coat has been stitched together in places. Lower down, scorch marks and bite marks decorate, left by tainted dogs and unearthly fires. She puts the coat on. It is too big for her, almost a robe. The reality of how she looks in it makes no impact on Vesper’s imagination and she keeps it on, grinning.

Only then does she look down.

The humming has quietened, softening into contentment. At the bottom of the box lies a sword. Sheathed. Silvered wings wrapping the hilt unfurl, reach up to her. Open, they reveal an eye set in the crosspiece, staring, waiting.