Читать книгу The Vagrant - Peter Newman, Peter Newman - Страница 11

A few days pass in unlikely peace. The world outside is cruel, but within the bubble of Lil’s place an illusion of sanity holds sway.

Sunslight points through cracks in the doorframe, painting the dust red. Tiny fingers reach for sparkling dirt. They might as well reach for the stars themselves.

The Vagrant sweeps the floor methodically. His shoulders hang low, robbed of their usual tension.

Slowly, the goat chews, a mangled fabric finger hanging from her mouth. Her black eyes never leave the glove’s twin, sat helpless on the table.

This quiet industry is underscored by a woman’s voice. Lil is not normally one for talking but has been unable to stop since her new guests took up residence. She shares her observations about the workers at Kendall’s Folly, which ones to watch out for, which to avoid, and the few who will last. She talks about her role as surgeon, how the workers often get injured. Those that can pay for treatment do so with food or supplies, those that can’t are turned away. Lil is clear that she isn’t in the habit of charity.

She pauses but the Vagrant doesn’t take the bait, his broom’s rhythm is unbroken.

Eventually she talks about her own story, how her grandfather raised her, taught her to survive. How he gave her a trade to make a living, and a gun to protect it. She remembers why she never talks about him, tears thought long gone returning to her cheeks. She retreats quickly to the back of the tent, her grandfather’s voice alive in her thoughts: ‘Tears are no good to you, Lil, tears will get you killed.’

As the light fails, Ventris gathers his scars and limps to the door.

‘Thanks again, stranger,’ he says, smile more space than teeth. His eyes flicker briefly to the baby, asleep in the Vagrant’s arms. The smile grows a fraction.

After the old man has gone, the Vagrant stares at the door. Tension creeps back into his shoulders.

Faeces and sweet decay vie for dominance in the Overseer’s domain, each smell determined to maintain a separate identity. Once the dwelling would have borne the name of office but now the walls breathe, as half-bred as their new master.

Vestigial wings sprout from the Overseer’s back, small nubs mocking her bulbous body. Their only use is to indicate her mood to those that serve. Tonight they hum pleasantly.

‘I am told you have something for me. I am told it will please me.’

The man opposite nods obediently. He is nearing the end of his productivity. Soon she will take him from the fields and lay him down for her children.

‘Will it please me enough to compensate for what you stole?’

This time, the nod is fuelled by fear and accompanied by a meaningless apology.

‘You workers are all the same, thinking only of yourselves. You think that a single fruit will go unnoticed. What you do not understand is that I have quotas to fill. The Fallen Palace has needs, New Horizon has needs, Verdigris has needs, everybody does. Even the First’s nomads come to me on occasion. Every detail is accounted for, every action weighed by cost and value. I am going to reassign your value. I do hope it is greater than the loss you have incurred me. Now you may speak.’

The old man tells his story. As he finishes the hum of pleasure grows louder.

‘You will return there and watch my prize until I am ready to take it. Once it is in my hands, I will consider your debt repaid. I might even consider a change in your status.’

He bows deeply, biting back the pain of the movement.

‘Yes,’ she continues. ‘I think you have a place serving those dearest to me.’

He thanks her and hobbles out.

When his scent has faded she pricks one of her human fingers on a wiry leg hair. The flies pause in their feasting, drawn to the familiar ritual. The Overseer whispers into the liquid gem and waits.

More mundane means are used to summon the people in her employ and a common coin is enough to motivate. They are used to nothing, so the pittance she lays before them gains a dreamlike quality. As one, they leave, united in hunger and expectation.

As soon as they have gone, a fly settles on her finger, drinking deep the news that will make her fortune.

The Overseer sits back as the messenger speeds on its way. Her skirt of limbs twitches in anticipation; with the Usurper’s favour comes the promise of completion.

She does not hear the soft whisper from beyond her doorway nor does she see the fly fork downwards from the air, landing twice, the message flecking the floor.

Casually, the door yawns open, drawing her attention.

The Vagrant enters, sword first, humming softly.

Between them the winged insects buzz their distress, they throw themselves against furniture, against each other, unable to escape the blood that vibrates within them.

The sound builds, shaking the Overseer’s skull. She rises, stretching her body out to its full size, shadow sprawling behind, nightmarish.

In answer, the Vagrant raises his blade. At its hilt, silvered wings unfurl.

An eye opens.

Two storm-heads of sound build: infernal wings and dying insects vying with steel-bound song.

The Overseer sizes up her adversary, copied many times by her compound eyes. Each image is still and waiting. She falters under the glare of the sword; it hates her in ways she cannot fathom, stirring feelings of fear, of shame. Normally she would crush a man without thought but instinct tells her to be cautious.

Subtly the sound changes.

With no preamble or announcement, the Overseer moves first, reaching into a drawer.

In four steps the Vagrant has crossed the room, his blade stretching out for her across the desk. His mouth opens with the stroke, a mournful note blending with the sword’s voice, igniting the air lightning blue.

Squealing, the half-breed leaps back, avoiding humming metal, shrivelling wherever flames touch her monstrous body. In her human hand she now holds a gun, ugly and battered and ready to kill.

The Vagrant freezes. There is little cover in the cramped room and less time to think. He spins to the left, blade pointed downwards, silver wings reaching to protect his face.

Six times, the gun shouts angrily, spitting its hot metal phlegm. Four are lost to the air, one is foiled by the sword, ringing out in fury but the last finds its mark, slamming the Vagrant against a moist wall.

Frantically the gun clicks, its voice momentarily spent. The Overseer begins to reload, many of the bullets spill hastily on the floor, rolling among the dead flies.

By the time she has raised the smoking weapon again the Vagrant has stood and drawn breath. He rushes forward, she squeezes the trigger. The barrel flashes but this time does not shout, yielding to the Vagrant’s song. There is a wet smack as the Overseer’s hand strikes the floor, leaving a stump waving in the air, pink and crazy.

Pain lances all thought from the half-breed and she latches her many limbs to the desk, its metal legs screeching as they’re ripped from the ground. With a grunt she hurls it down on her enemy.

He answers with a long cry as he blocks, sadness counterpointing the wrathful resonance of the sword. The desk crashes to the floor, once, twice. Neither half touches the Vagrant.

There is a flurry of movement, a mix of arms and sword, of man and half-breed, of bestial grunts and sharp song. When it is over, the Overseer lies prostrate and limbless, a grotesque pear-shape.

He plunges the sword deep into her. Fire burns blue, devouring the corpse greedily, until only charred chunks remain.

An eye closes.

The Vagrant hurries along the path. It is dark and starless. From their shelters people hear him stumble. They do not yet understand what has happened but they sense that change is coming and they tremble.

Neon letters sputter into view. They hang above a doorway where stronger lights blaze, telling a story of violence within.

Outside a man lingers, uncertain. He turns towards the Vagrant, squinting.

‘Stranger, is that you? It’s me, Ventris. Looks like you got here just in time. A whole bunch of guys showed up just now and barged their way into Lil’s. I heard an explosion, suns knows what that was! Then gunfire and now, well, just the occasional groan. You better get in there, see what’s happened, though you’d best prepare for the worst.’

‘Liar!’ sings the sword without words as it cuts loose from its sheath, splitting the old man’s chin and nose. The Vagrant looks away as the body falls. He shakes his head, pressing onwards.

The door curls on the floor, battered into a cartoon smile. Flames dance on tables, smoking, and clouds of dust fill the air, blanketing the bodies of the dead and dying. Some have been burnt, others shot. He moves about them, his quiet sword giving mercy where needed.

The Vagrant proceeds into the tent, stepping over another corpse at the entrance.

The goat is over in the corner, Lil’s body by her side, a gun just beyond her motionless fingers. The gun no longer shines, but smokes from use. From beneath her arm a tiny foot kicks angrily. He turns the woman’s body over, revealing the blood-stained baby. His eyes widen in alarm.

The baby smiles.

It only wears the woman’s blood. It has not been hurt.

The Vagrant sways, his face pale. His legs begin to tremble.

With a groan, the woman spits something thick onto the floor. ‘Where the hell were you, you son of a bitch? I thought you’d run out on us.’

The Vagrant shakes his head, opens his mouth uselessly.

‘Listen,’ she says, pressing her hand against a spreading patch of red at her side, ‘I’ll be dead by the time you get your story out. So shut your mouth and save me. Everything you need is here. First thing you do is find my box of tricks. It’s metal and oval and it’ll be in the tent, you can’t miss it.’

But the Vagrant does not close his mouth, nor does he move.