The Vagrant (3 page)

The Vagrant’s eyes narrow a fraction.

‘Course if you don’t like it, I could speak to some friends of mine an’ we could take the little nipper off your hands, free of charge. Your choice.’

With deliberation the Vagrant puts the cup of milk on the ground, the baby next to it.

‘Oh, that’s a beauty all right. I really hope it’s a girl, yes I do.’

The Vagrant stands up and takes a step forward. He is taller than the man by several inches.

‘So, what do you say?’

At his side, beneath his coat, the silvered wings that curl about the sword’s hilt twitch and the blade hums ever so softly. The man’s blood is more than tainted; it is thick with the infernal.

‘Well?’

The Vagrant’s right hand flexes, a pained frown crosses his face. He reaches down, into his coat, pulling a coin from his pocket and offering it to the man. He puts a finger to his lips.

‘Is that what I think it is?’ The coin has already vanished. ‘Not what I was hopin’ for, but alright, you got yourself a deal. I ain’t seen a thing.’

Back in the waggon, the Vagrant feeds the baby through a piece of rubber tubing. He listens to the sounds of the wheels turning outside and the voices of the people, whispering, gossiping.

Many miles south of New Horizon, the Fallen Palace languishes. After the battle of the Red Wave, it limped through the sky, fleeing the Breach and the monsters birthing endlessly from its rocky womb.

The Palace did not escape, pecked from the sky by the pursuing swarm until it kissed the earth one last time, cutting a new valley into the landscape and diverting one of the great southern rivers. Now the Fallen Palace is forever surrounded by fetid marshland.

Turrets and walls lean several degrees to the right, appearing drunk in the daylight, a sickly slant. Weaving towards them, unnoticed by poor souls wandering the sloping streets, flits a messenger, wings buzzing like tiny motors.

No glass remains in the Fallen Palace. Windows were shattered in the crash, covering the floors in a layer of cheap crystal. Now every shard has gone, from the longest sliver to the tiniest piece, all taken.

Many openings gape, from holes in the cracked pavements, from doorways, from windows, but they do not distract the messenger. It moves directly to a tower, where brassy walls fight a doomed battle against encroaching green lichen.

At the top of the tower is an arched window and in that window is a Man-shape. At the fly’s approach, the Man-shape’s face splits like a clam, yawning open: the fly lands on an overlong tongue, its work concluded, its frantic wings still.

The Man-shape closes its mouth, tasting the words hidden in the blood, hidden in the fly. It digests both and walks swiftly into the tower’s darkness, untroubled by the tilt of the floor. Emerging into its master’s chamber, it pauses, waiting to be acknowledged.

In the gloom, a great bulk stirs. The movement is accompanied by several excretions, as violent as they are small. The Man-shape eyes the bindings on its master’s shell, even the newest ones are starting to fray. It mentally notes that they will need to hasten the next order.

Fully awake now, the Usurper moves, animating the body that once belonged to Gamma, distorting her features, beckoning for the Man-shape to come closer. The gesture is laboured, hardly fitting for the greatest of infernals and the Man-shape is glad that neither the Uncivil nor the First is here to witness it.

The Man-shape obeys, crossing the distance between them eagerly, pressing its forehead against its master’s, soft features appearing ethereal next to the ridged, splitting monstrosity.

Heads close, like lovers, the two touch tongues, and thoughts rush between them in a torrent.

‘I have a finger in the skull of a Zero, who tells of singing coins and a silent man who hides his treasures.’

‘He who culled the pack?’

‘It must be, master.’

‘He who tore our Kin?’

‘It must be, master.’

‘He who bears the Malice?’

‘It can be no other, master.’

‘I want him.’

‘But your skin seeps, master, you must rest.’

‘Rest will come again when the Malice is ours.’

‘When will you leave, master?’

‘At once. The Malice taunts me from the shadows and I thirst for action.’

‘And what of the next display?’

‘What of the next display?’

‘It approaches, master.’

‘So soon?’

‘Yes, master. It comes and your majesty must be seen, the chains must be redrawn.’

‘So be it. But the Malice will be retaken, send out the word.’

‘Who is chosen to go in your stead, master?’

‘The Knights of Jade and Ash.’

‘I will send them.’

‘The Hammer that Walks.’

‘I will send her.’

They pull apart and the Man-shape retreats, plagued by thoughts that are not its own; echoes of the master’s desires dominate as it moves down the tower steps. They have won many victories in this new world, claimed much of the land, but it fights them at every step, picking at their essence, peeling at their protections. Even just a few miles from the Breach, the sky presses down on them, hostile. The Man-shape feels the master’s frustration and something else, an unwanted gift, a murmuring of fear.

For once it is glad of its separateness; for once its own simplicity is soothing. Still, the knowledge remains, now stuck fast: the Usurper is weakening. The Man-shape does not know how long this can be hidden from the Uncivil’s agents or the First’s nomads.

It glances at its own body. The skin remains smooth and unbroken, a testament to its control. The Man-shape’s usual calm creeps over it once more. It turns back to the business of finding the Malice and the man who hides it from them, stepping out into the slick street.

It opens its mouth, tasting the air as the flies scrabble from its gullet, each sucking a droplet of the master’s wishes before swarming into the darkening sky.

Clanking and dilapidated, the caravan arrives at its first scheduled stop: the fields of Kendall’s Folly. Though faded, the squares of green stand out vividly from the barren dust surrounding them.

In places, machines function, pumping greying water through metal pipes that arch twenty feet above the vegetation. Where they don’t, slaves wander the fields with fat plastic pouches strapped to their backs, like pregnant women trapped in reverse.

Pairs of guards walk the perimeter, punctuating the barbed fence encircling the fields with hard looks and loaded guns. An Unborn hangs from a chain over the centre of the fields, quivering unseen within its coiled shell. On the outside it appears lumpy, off-white, a thing stolen from the depths of the sea. Suspending the chalky mass is a challenge but fertile land this far south is precious and the Unborn’s infernal presence keeps away the hungry bugs and beasts of the Blasted Lands.

A mixed group comes out to greet the caravan, traders, travellers and pimps keen to get the best goods and latest gossip. Feral smiles are swapped first, a last approximation of enthusiasm. The Vagrant chooses this moment to leave, slipping from the back of the waggon and taking his goat with him.

For once, the eyes of the caravan do not follow him, too wrapped up in their present greed to remember the enigmatic man and his precious cargo.

Without a backwards glance he moves away from the noisy gathering, disappearing behind an assortment of battered metal fins that serve as windbreaks for those too poor or too weak to have fully enclosed shelters. A small heel kicks against his stomach. The Vagrant grunts and walks on.

Others have also retreated from sight of the crowd. A man is hunched down, nursing something soft in his gnarled fingers. Two more men have followed the first and approach from behind, secretly, hungrily. The man has sneaked away some precious fruit. They reach him just as he tears it open, a waft of sweetness gracing the air, kick him and pull him backwards, grabbing for their share of the food. He struggles and six hands dance, pulping the watery flesh of the fruit, ruining it.

The Vagrant watches, motionless. Again, beneath his coat, he is kicked by a tiny foot. Before him the fight continues. Hands have separated now and, feet take their turn, smashing into the ribs of the first man like eager lovers, keen to kiss and kiss, one after the other.

The man stops struggling.

The victors share the pathetic remnants of sticky flesh, most of it licked from fingers, before slinking, dissatisfied towards the collection of rundown buildings forming the Folly’s main dwelling space.

The Vagrant walks on, his gaze on the hard-packed dust at his feet. A third kick makes him suck a breath through his teeth. He glances about – only the goat watches him. Ignoring its malevolent stare, the Vagrant opens his coat to peer inside. The baby is awake. Their eyes meet and a few seconds pass. The Vagrant closes his coat and walks on.

Behind him the beaten man moans piteously.

The next kick is more vigorous. Pulling back his coat once again, the Vagrant frowns down at the baby. It stops kicking and looks up at him. He raises his eyebrows at it and the baby smiles. The cycle repeats several times, the baby smiling a little more with each repetition.

The Vagrant stops walking and sighs. He touches a finger to the baby’s lips and closes his coat firmly. Then he turns round and walks back to the injured man on the floor. The goat objects to the change in direction as it takes them further from the fields.

She pulls against the Vagrant.

The Vagrant pulls back.

The goat knows she cannot win but tries again anyway. The miniature rebellion is rewarded with an even sharper tug on her leash. The goat concedes, this time.

Please, no more!’ begs the man, covering his face with his arms. ‘You took it all already.’ Freshly broken teeth make him lisp.

The Vagrant waits, ignoring the enthusiastic beat being played across his chest and stomach.

Timidly, the bruised limbs retreat to reveal a matching collage of red and purple on his face. ‘Are you a new eye for the Overseer? I’m sorry.’ With the lisp he sounds childish despite his age. He struggles for breath before continuing, ‘I just took a moment, please don’t say anything. It was just a moment. I’ll go back now … I’ll go …’ lifting himself several inches before crumpling back in pain.

The Vagrant loops the tether twice around his wrist and offers the man his hand.

The man eyes it as one might a bomb or a snake. There is hesitation, then he grasps it, fingers trembling in the Vagrant’s grip. Between the man’s injuries and the Vagrant’s burdens it is an awkward manoeuvre but eventually the man is upright and leaning heavily on the goat, who is pragmatic about her newest indignity.

‘Thank you, stranger … I need … patching up before I’m much use to … anyone. Would you help me over to Lil’s? It’s just … over there.’ He points to a crumbling building, blasted out from a single stone monolith. Incomplete lights display their half-memory of the structure’s original name.

The Vagrant nods and begins their journey towards it.

After only a few steps the man gasps, ‘Have to stop … a moment, catch … my breath.’

They wait, silence playing with their nerves.

Catching his breath eventually, the man speaks. ‘I think I’d be a goner if you hadn’t showed when you did. Look, I haven’t had … much cause to talk … for a while. I know I don’t look like much but … there was a time, before things … well, before, when I was known to be something of a talker, if you know what I mean.’ He coughs, wiping blood and spittle on the back of his hand. ‘Anyway, back when names meant a damn, people called me Ventris. What’s your name, stranger?’

The Vagrant hauls open the badly fitting door, buckled metal scraping against stone to briefly obscure the inside of the building by a curtain of dust. One by one the group enters, a bizarre procession of Vagrant, injured and goat.

Within the room is a plastic tent, age turning the once-white fabric a mottled cream, a small island of clean. There is evidence that many battles against the encroaching filth have taken place. Beyond the small scrubbed circle are tables and benches lining the periphery of the room, separated by pillars of chipped stone. Between the tent and the entrance stands a woman and in her hands sits a gun. It too is remarkably clean …

‘That’s far enough.’ The woman’s voice still clings to a little youth. It left her face long ago.

The Vagrant steps aside, allowing the wounded man to struggle into view. Even the short journey has paled him, his cheeks ghostly under the bruises.

‘Go easy, Lil,’ the man wheezes. ‘He’s just … helping an old man.’

‘Ventris, is that you under there? Suns, you’re a mess!’ Shooting the men an imperious look she does not wait for an answer. ‘Well don’t just stand there bleeding in my doorway. Get yourselves over here, and shut the door. I don’t want anyone else thinking it’s okay to wander in any time of day!’

Her orders are met without protest and a minute later Ventris is laid inside the tent and the Vagrant sits by the wall. They have been warned to touch nothing.

The tent only gives the illusion of privacy and voices drift through, secrets carried on the backs of whispers.

‘So what happened this time?’

‘I got careless.’

‘You’ve always been careless, it’s a wonder you survived this long. Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘Two of the workers attacked me, caught me by surprise. Bastards left me out for the worms.’

‘Hold still. I think they’ve cracked a rib. Which ones? No, let me guess, one of the bunch that came from the north, Kell or one of his … I thought so. Now what aren’t you telling me? Come on, Ventris, don’t make me do something you’d regret.’

‘I stashed a little pasha, sneaked it out. Guess I didn’t sneak it well enough.’

There is the sound of an ear being flicked and a grunt of discomfort.

‘You bloody fool! You’re lucky it was Kell that saw you and not one of the Overseer’s crew or I’d need more than a few threads to put you back together.’

‘I wasn’t that careless, none of them saw.’ Another flick is heard. ‘Ow, easy, Lil!’

‘And if they notice something was taken, what then? I’ve a good mind to unstitch this and roll you outside for the scavs.’