The Fall of Tartarus (6 page)

‘Now
go and free the Messenger,’ Blackman instructed. ‘Take her to our quarters and
see that she is rested.’

He
seized Buzatti under his arms, hefting the slumped con-man until satisfied that
his grip was secure. Buzatti put up a feeble struggle and mouthed slurred
protests.

‘Where
are you taking him?’ I asked.

‘Don’t
worry - a long way from here.’

‘But
if he gets word to his accomplices that it was we who saved the Messenger—’

‘Sinclair,
stop your gibbering. He will get word to no one. Trust me.’

And
so saying, he rose into the air, his midnight wings a blur behind him, Buzatti
hanging from his grasp with a look of terror on his face. Blackman hovered away
from the dining carriage, out over the darkened jungle. I rushed to the rail
and leaned over. Against the orange light of the sky, my friend and the
dependent con-man made a bizarre silhouette indeed. I watched them head out
over the jungle and recede into the distance until they were no more than a
tiny speck that might have been a bird.

I
recalled that I had my own duties to perform. I picked up Blackman’s bag,
thankfully much lightened now, and quickly returned it to our cabin. Then I
made my way to Buzatti’s stateroom and fumbled in the semi-darkness of the
stairwell until I located the keyhole. My heart pounding, I turned the key and
pushed open the door. The lounge was illuminated by the orange light streaming
in through the low window; there was no sign of the Messenger in this room. I
crossed to the bed-chamber and flung open the door. The room was in darkness. I
opened the shutters on the window and turned, expecting to behold the
diminutive Messenger revealed in the sudden wash of light. This room, too, was
empty. I returned to the lounge in a quandary.

Then
I saw the trunk.

‘No!’
I gasped. Surely he had not kept the girl incarcerated all this time? I dropped
to my knees before the trunk and knocked upon its polished timber lid. ‘Hello?
Are you still . . .’ Realising the foolishness of the question, I looked about
for the key - as if Buzatti would keep it in view! I found no key, but I did
see the long iron spar used to lodge open the window. I grabbed it and set to
work prising open the thick metal hasps. At last the final lock sprang open
and, tentatively, I eased back the lid and peered inside, a little apprehensive
as to the state of the Messenger. All I could make out was a grey mass of
crumpled wings, and then, through this diaphanous membrane, the curled shape of
the girl beneath.

Hardly
knowing how to proceed, lest I inadvertently damage her wings still further, I
eased my hands down the side of the trunk, coaxing out the dry, gossamer-light
material. Soon they overflowed the trunk, limp and pathetic, and at last I
revealed their owner. To my relief she was breathing, though unconscious, her
tiny ribcage rising and falling. I slipped my arms beneath her neck and knees
and lifted.

She
came free of the chest as light as a bundle of clothes.

She
gave a small, mewling cry, and began to struggle feebly. She hit out at me,
beating my chest with tiny fists. I was forced to lower her to the floor, in
case she damaged her wings. She stood weakly, dressed in leggings and a trim
yellow jacket.

Tears
streaked her pale, elfin face. ‘Leave me alone! What do you want!’

‘I’ve
come to save you - take you away from the man who kidnapped you in Baudelaire.
I’m taking you to the cabin I share with a member of the Guild of Blackmen.’

She
was terribly weakened; even as I spoke, her knees gave way. I caught her again,
lifted her into my arms.

‘A
Blackman?’ she whispered up at me. ‘You travel with a Blackman?’

‘Quiet
now,’ I said.

Her
eyes fluttered shut. Mindful of her trailing, crumpled wings, I carried her
through the door and up the steps. I negotiated the walkway, thankful that the
Messenger was as light as she was, and descended to the stateroom. Once inside
I kicked open the door to the bed-chamber, crossed to my bed and laid the
Messenger down on her stomach.

I
fetched a cup of water from the lounge. Awkwardly, she lifted her head and I
held the cup to her lips. She drank thirstily, paused to gasp for breath, then
drained the cup. Her head collapsed onto the pillow and her eyes closed. I set
about arranging her wings on either side of the bed, attempting gingerly to
straighten out their kinks and folds. To my surprise they were not torn; the
damage sustained was to the veins that threaded the membranes like the lead of
a stained glass window, several sections bent and bruised. The wings rustled
dryly at my touch like fine silk, and once or twice, when I was not as gentle
as I should have been, my clumsiness communicated pain and caused her to twitch
in her sleep.

There
was little else for me to do, then, but sit beside her and wait until she
regained consciousness. In the light slanting through the window, she seemed
like something from a fairytale, a slight and beauteous creature that did not
belong in this coarse world. In the sky above the rooftops of Baudelaire, I had
not truly appreciated her diminutive stature. She was little more than a metre
tall, with a correspondingly tiny frame, short fair hair and a thin, pointed
face. Her beauty had that strange alluring quality on the borderline of ugliness,
a refinement of feature that was at first glance alien, and then, only on
closer inspection, human.

Twice
during the next hour she stirred from sleep. The first time, disoriented, she
thrashed her wings and tried to push herself onto all fours. I held her
shoulders and eased her back to the bed. ‘Be calm,’ I soothed. ‘All is well.
You’re safe now. Try to sleep.’

She
calmed down, lay her head on the pillow and slept fitfully. Later she jerked
awake again, as if frightened in a dream. Her eyes seemed to focus on me with
difficulty. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

I
knelt beside her and took her hand. ‘Don’t be afraid. You’re safe now. You’re
free.’

She
nodded, and then managed, ‘Thirsty.’

She
raised her head as I tipped the cup to her lips. She was asleep within seconds.

I
was on the verge of sleep myself when I heard footsteps on the stairs. By the
time I’d struggled into a sitting position, Blackman was ducking into the room.
He held his wing-spars in his hand.

I
rubbed my eyes. ‘Buzatti?’ I asked.

‘He
won’t be bothering us for quite some time,’ Blackman said. ‘I deposited him in
the wilds, two days from the nearest township and sail-rail station.’ He leaned
over the girl, his hands lodged on his knees. The contrast between the giant
Blackman, whose dark figure seemed to fill the room, and the wraith-like
Messenger on the bed, struck me as almost comic.

‘How
is she?’

‘As
well as can be expected,’ I said. ‘She was still in the trunk.’

He
inspected her wings. ‘There seems to be no lasting damage, no thanks to Buzatti.
I’ll let you get back to sleep. I’ll be in the lounge if you need me.’

He
stepped from the room and closed the door behind him. I turned my attention to
the girl on the bed, until I could stay awake no longer and joined her in
sleep.

When
I awoke the following morning - or rather at midday, as ever - it was some
seconds before my brain reacquainted itself with the events of the night
before. I turned over and beheld the Messenger with the shock of renewed
appreciation.

She
was watching me with an expression of timid gratitude.

I
sat up. ‘Sleep well?’

She
blew out her cheeks. ‘I suppose so - at least, better than the previous night.
I ache in every bone of my body, and my wings . . .’

She
moved herself onto all fours and tenderly tested her great dragonfly membranes:
the left vane was upright and alert; the right one hung forlorn. She was
frowning. ‘I should be thankful they weren’t ripped to shreds. He kept me in
the box for hours.’ She looked suddenly afraid. ‘But where is my captor?’

‘Kilometres
away, and no danger to us any more,’ I reassured her. ‘My name is Sinclair.’

‘I’m
Loi, and thank you for saving my life.’ She winced in pain as, from all fours,
she manoeuvred herself into a cross-legged sitting position, facing me with her
wings arranged along the bed. Fully extended, her wing-span filled the length
of the bed-chamber.

‘I
didn’t do it alone,’ I admitted.

She
paused in the process of massaging an arm, glanced up at me. ‘Was I dreaming
last night, or did you say that you were in league with a Blackman?’

‘You
weren’t dreaming. I am travelling with a Blackman. He took care of your
abductor while I brought you here.’

I
stopped at the sight of her expression. She was staring at me with wide eyes.
‘You are honoured indeed. The Guild of Blackmen are even more insular than my
own Guild. It is very rare that they mix.’

I
shrugged and told her how it was that we had come to meet in the back alley in
Baudelaire. ‘I wanted to do something there and then to rescue you, but
Blackman counselled patience. It is because of you that we met.’

‘Well,
Sinclair,’ Loi pronounced with prim fastidiousness, ‘pleased as I am that you
and Blackman became travelling companions, all in all I would rather have
remained at liberty.’

Our
dialogue was interrupted by a knock on the door. Blackman stepped through,
carrying a tray of food. ‘Breakfast,’ he announced.

His
appearance had a sudden and startling effect on Loi. She fell forward on her
face, arms outstretched as if in supplication. ‘Blackman!’ she intoned.

‘Okay,
little one - no need for such drama. Get up.’

As
if fearing his wrath, Loi resumed her cross-legged position.

He
laid the tray on the bed before her. ‘Fruit, bread and cheese enough for you
both. And a canteen of iced tea. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take a stroll.’

He
ducked awkwardly from the room, the startled Messenger watching him all the
way. As the door closed behind him, she turned to me with wide eyes. ‘But he’s
all in black,’ she whispered.

‘I
had noticed.’

‘But
you have no idea what that means?’

‘To
be truthful, I know very little about him. He says nothing of his past, and
very little of his plans for the future.’

‘So
you know nothing of him individually, or of his Guild in general?’

‘I
arrived on Tartarus from Earth four days ago,’ I said. ‘I confess that I find
your planet full of mystery.’

She
was shaking her head. ‘Then where to begin?’

‘First,’
I suggested, ‘how about breakfast?’

I
fell to eating the bread and cheese, and Loi joined me. As she ate, she told me
about the Guild of Blackmen.

‘Unlike
most of the Guilds, which are independent,’ she said, ‘the Guild of Blackmen
work for the Church, even though for centuries the Church has proscribed the
use of technology. They have one set of standards for themselves, and another
for the rest of us.’

I
recalled something I had wondered earlier. ‘Are the Blackmen a race, such as
yourself, or are they ... I can think of no other word . . .
manufactured?’

‘They
are not a race - they date back a hundred years, no more. We Messengers are
almost as old as the colonisation of the planet, which dates back thousands of
years.’

‘So
they are manufactured?’

She
frowned. ‘Well, they are normal human beings to begin with, but then they are
changed, augmented. They undergo neurological operations, numerous implants -
they are wired to give them strength, and much more.’

‘Who
are they? Who can become Blackmen?’

‘Oh,
all kinds of people. I don’t know how they are selected, but I’ve heard that
poets and scholars have been initiated, philosophers and great teachers, as
well as criminals, murderers and madmen - but all this is conjecture. You see,
they are programmed not to reveal their pasts. They find it
impossible
to talk of what they were in their previous lives. When they are initiated,
what they were before ceases to have any relevance - only what they are
now
matters. The Blackmen are often sent to arbitrate disputes in the outlying and
inaccessible areas on Tartarus, broker peace deals, settle enmities and the
like. Perhaps the Church in its wisdom thinks that people with no pasts will be
seen as being without prejudice and preference.’

‘What
kind of jobs do they do, other than enforce the law?’

‘Many
are surveyors. They can fly, and can reach altitudes where Messengers would
burn up. Tartarus does not have satellites; it has Blackmen instead.’

‘Does
this account for their appearance? They fly too close to the sun?’

Loi
laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. ‘Oh, no! Of course not! They are
made
that way to protect them from the sun. Many are surveyors who must
cross the vast deserts of the northern continent. They must withstand the
withering heat of the day, and the intense cold of the night. Others are
troubleshooters, explorers, experts in a thousand fields. They are a hundred
per cent efficient at all times, and fail in their duties only when problematic
factors weigh against them. Because of their excellence, therefore, their
lifespans are short. It is as if they must pay for their supreme ability with
the penance of burn-out.’