The Vagrant (27 page)

An idea strikes, bubbling up from the depths. He plucks a fly from the air with his new hand. Wings buzz, angry, trapped between supple fingers. The commander raises the fly to his visor, drawing upon techniques stolen and dark.

Youths dressed as men make a loose circle. Some sit along the wall, feet dangling, some lean, affecting nonchalance. Several uniforms are still damp from seafront skirmishes; a few show blood splatters fresh on grey fabric. Tired, they pause to allow others a turn at battle. They gather round a noisy spectacle, two creatures fighting in the middle of the circle they make, stubborn, banging heads. Feathers twist in the air, sailing down to their fellows already on the ground. The bird’s cries become desperate.

If anything, the sound makes the goat even more vicious.

The guards laugh, apart from those who bet on the bird.

From outside the circle a weapon points skyward, snorting gouts of fire. Everyone stops, turning towards it, even the beasts. They look from the lance to the man holding it, silently deciding the man the more dangerous.

‘What in The Seven’s name is this?’

Blushing, a young woman steps forward. ‘We, we were on our way back, Captain, when we came across these animals fighting.’

The captain’s look is stormy. ‘Animals, Lieutenant Ro?’

‘Yes, Captain,’ she says warily, gesturing towards the combatants.

‘Interesting. I see only one animal here. Where are the others?’

Her voice tightens with stress. ‘Oh, I mean one animal and one bird, Captain.’

The captain bears down on her. There is little difference in their height but somehow the captain makes her smaller. ‘Bird, Lieutenant? What bird?’

Everyone is silent now. One guard stifles a nervous titter. The goat’s eyes are on the lance, fearful, her legs poised to run.

The lieutenant points, hand trembling. ‘That one?’

‘That,’ says the captain, levelling his lance, ‘is not a bird. It’s a tainted monster that carries infection onto our ship. We’re at sea, packed with passengers. This thing presents just as much threat as the half-breeds you fought off an hour ago.’

A stream of white fire pours from the lance, striking the bird in the chest. It screeches as the flames race over its body gobbling feathers and flesh alike, greedy. The goat scampers away to watch from a safer distance.

‘Put that out and throw it overboard, then report in. New recruits are here from the wall. There are going to be some changes.’ He looks at the young woman pointedly. ‘Private.’

Still blushing, she salutes and turns away.

‘As for the rest of you, if you continue to look like dead weight then you’ll be thrown over the side. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Captain!’

‘Good, now get to work!’

Guards scramble forward to deal with the crackling corpse. They stand in a muddle, none of them are sure of what to do. The captain walks to the goat, muttering, his lance threatening the sky again. ‘A bloody animal shows more initiative than my own officers.’ He pulls a square of firm jelly from his pocket. ‘Here, have this.’ The goat accepts the offering, halving it with a single gulp. ‘You’re efficient. I appreciate that. Come on, let’s try and clear the rest of those winged plague sacks off our ship.’ He drops the remaining jelly. It is gone before it touches the floor.

The captain strides away in search of trouble. Nose twitching, the goat follows.

The Vagrant grips the balcony rail, unable to look away while the port recedes from view. Atrocities play out, too distant to decode, confounding, laying foundations for sleepless nights. First Circle moves slowly in the water, letting views linger too long.

‘It’s not your fault,’ says Harm softly.

There is a silence, awkward. Yuren makes an empty statement and withdraws.

‘There’s nothing you could have done,’ Harm adds. ‘And even if there was, you would have put Vesper and your mission in danger to do it.’

The Vagrant’s broad back is a wall against kindness.

‘I know there’s nothing I can say but I will say this, for me if not for you: We made it. We escaped Verdigris, survived all of the people trying to kill us, got past the Uncivil, around the wall and now we’re bound for the Shining City. All you have to do is sit tight. Don’t you see? Finally, we can relax.’ Harm moves closer, resting a hand on the Vagrant’s arm. ‘It’s funny, I’ve spent my whole life on that piece of rock but now that I’m leaving it I realize that I’m not attached to it. Not one bit.’ Harm pauses, measuring words about to be said, testing them. ‘I used to say Wonderland was my home but it wasn’t really. I don’t even think home is a place. Home was my mother and my sisters and my uncle, when I was a child. Now it’s you and Vesper.’

The Vagrant’s breath catches in his throat.

Harm squeezes his arm gently. ‘Being on the sea scares me. Not knowing anything about what’s ahead scares me, but I don’t mind. I think I can face anything as long as I can do it with the two of you.’

The Vagrant points back to the coast. Out of the ashes, winged shapes rise, moving swiftly towards them. He reaches for the sword.

‘Hold on,’ says Harm, covering the Vagrant’s hand with his own. ‘This isn’t our fight. There’s a whole army here to look after us. Remember what Yuren said? If you reveal yourself as a knight, things could go badly.’

The Vagrant leans more heavily on the railing. His hand leaves the hilt, Harm’s following. They watch, merely spectators as the enemy comes faster.

An army of boats cluster around the edge of First Circle. A multicultural mix of vessels old and new, from battered fishing ships to engines slung on bright cables. Together they make a strange harmony, humming under the water.

Amid the cacophony a single fly goes unheard.

Grim-faced crews make adjustments, tighten ropes, align courses, attending to anything other than the bodies floating in the sea behind them, or the forces ravaging their old home. Dockmaster Roget has no such luxury; he watches the seas behind, expecting pursuit. After a moment he wipes sweat away, smearing dirt across his sleeve, making room for the next wave of perspiration. He sees something to justify the sweat. Being right is no consolation.

‘Trouble?’ asks a familiar voice.

Roget’s tongue peeks between pursed lips, unwilling to go further.

A sigh, impatient, also familiar. ‘Spit it out man, or hand me the scope.’

‘It’s Bonewings, Captain Axler.’

‘How many?’

Roget turns to find the shorter man irritatingly close. ‘More than I care to count, and as you know I excel at counting.’

Axler moves around, followed by the goat. He snatches the scope from Roget, activates the count function. The scope sweeps left and right, tallying. Axler’s lips shape a curse.

‘Should we call Yuren?’

‘I’m sure he already knows.’ Axler hands back the scope. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to call every man, woman and child with a uniform to protect the back quarter. I want you to keep your crews together. First Circle has to keep moving. Those flying monsters won’t take us alone but they could slow us down long enough for the enemy to send heavy units.’

‘We’re too slow. Too much weight. I told you and Yuren this a long time ago.’

‘Not now, Roget!’

Axler backs off, calling in reinforcements. The goat trots to the edge of the deck and leans out, shadows looming over those below. Her dark eyes detect movement, tiny, a winged bead of black sneaking over the ships. She says nothing.

On one of the boats a man tenses, slaps the side of his neck. Pupils expand, filling the eyes, like two dying stars that threaten to explode, then collapse in on themselves, taking life and colour with them. He starts detaching his boat from the others.

Neighbours notice. The word ‘Samael’ forms on a dozen lips.

Bored, the goat returns to Axler’s side.

First Circle lumbers on, leaving Samael’s boat to drift away.

Guards kneel along First Circle’s perimeter, armed, if not ready. Axler’s orders boom in every earpiece: ‘Destroy. Destroy all targets. Nothing gets on board.’

The Bonewings descend.

Guns pepper the sky.

By the time the attack is turned away, Samael and his ship are second string gossip, forgettable.

Days pass peacefully. First Circle chugs north, finding cleaner waters. People delight in the ocean-made-window and the colourful shapes moving inside. A few dare to fish. Sparse clouds zip across an open sky where the suns reign, lopsided eyes in an endless face.

Vesper toddles through manicured streets. Too small, her poncho rides high at the back, giving rise to a morning moon. An adult is tethered to each hand, made to match her faltering pace.

Other adults pass by, strangers. Most pause to grin or greet. Vesper has something to say to each of them, provoking responses from all but the loneliest souls.

‘I think it’s time we got Vesper some proper clothes,’ says Harm.

A little colour touches the Vagrant’s cheeks as he nods.

They round a corner and Vesper stops suddenly. She hangs between the grownups, feet forgotten in her amazement. In front of her are ten spheres, each one large enough to explore, with another ten mounted on top. Tubes connect them, demanding to be used as slides.

Two girls roll out of a corner sphere and flop onto the grass. They lie there laughing, children, not two years her senior. Still giggling, they jump onto their feet unaided and run to another sphere.

Vesper’s thoughts whirl with possibility. Suddenly the hands holding hers change; not supports but restraints. She struggles to free herself. Angry tears prevail where strength cannot.

The Vagrant exchanges a look with Harm and shrugs. They let go.

Little legs wobble then hold. She takes a step forward, falls into the second, momentum carrying her to a third and fourth, body lurching from left to right. Vesper’s chuckle carries an edge of insanity.

‘You can do it!’ calls Harm.

Vesper throws a wild grin over her shoulder, gets two back in response.

She tumbles over.

Before rage has a chance to bypass shock, strong hands lift her back onto her feet. Vesper blinks and looks around. Things seem to be as they should. She offers another grin to the world and tries again. The Vagrant stays close, arms hovering by Vesper’s shoulders.

Stumbling, near collisions and last minute catches fill the afternoon. And smiles. And laughter. When the suns set they eat, triumphant.

That night, all three sleep deeply.

Rain falls leisurely, deceptive, soaking by stealth. Water collects underfoot, tiny rivers running towards the sea. Small feet scatter them and splashing sounds are savoured, delicious. Rain or no rain, clothes must be bought. Vesper takes the lead, confidence carried on wobbly legs. Occasionally the Vagrant turns her in the right direction. They round a corner, entering the shopping area. And stop.

Lines of people wind across the square, making snakes, hissing from a hundred angry mouths. Each one moves slowly into a doorway, customers digested one by one. New arrivals lengthen the snakes faster than old ones can be processed. Supplies are limited, prices high and complaints fill the air, frustration the common currency.

Harm presses a hand against his temple, tilts his head away. The Vagrant takes his arm, guiding them to the back of a queue. Vesper has no time for queues but the Vagrant makes her find some. Soon, her voice joins the complaining. What it lacks in experience it makes up for in energy.

The Vagrant sighs.

Their line is one of the faster ones. For most, clothing is not urgent. As they shuffle forward, jealous people glare from parallel places, miserable. An argument sparks into life in one of the shops. Medicine is needed; it has run out. The shopkeeper is accused of lying, the customer of being greedy. People wait impatiently, ordering the man to move on.

Angry voices fade as the Vagrant steps inside a different shop. Vesper is keen to try everything, though mainly on her head. Harm laughs until throats clear by the door, like guns cocking, ready to fire. Mindful of those waiting, choices are made quickly and precious money is spent.

They hurry outside to hear loud voices, the argument, still going on, now builds to its natural conclusion.

The Vagrant edges nearer, sees fiery faces shooting words. The man has the shopkeeper by the throat. ‘I know you’ve kept some back, hand it over!’

The shopkeeper tries to reply, a sentence squeezed, garbled.

The Vagrant cuts across the lines, pushing past bystanders who already eye unguarded goods.

‘You’re keeping it for yourself, you greedy bastard! I only need a couple of tabs, I—’

His strong arms intervene, separating, keeping antagonists apart.

For those waiting, the opportunity is too much. They plunge inside, emptying shelves, filling pockets. Bottles are fought over, broken, some turned to weapons, others ground underfoot. Displaced rage transforms to action, old insults are revenged, new ones given. Before he can reach the Vagrant’s side, Harm is swept up in the madness.

Guards arrive, calling for order. When ignored their rifles spit lightning, leaving bodies passive, trembling. The crowds disperse soon after. Shops are closed for the day.

With relief, Harm and the Vagrant reunite. A new bruise is visible on Harm’s mouth, stretched over a puffy lip. His eyes remain wild.

‘Those people are insane! And so are you. Did you see when that woman tried to pull me over?’

The Vagrant ignores him, suddenly alarmed.

‘Where’s Vesper?’

Amber and green eyes meet briefly, then a frantic search begins.

They find Vesper a street away, a young boy kneeling in front of her. The two children clap hands together, reflections out of time. When the boy sees the Vagrant, he runs.

‘Come back,’ says Harm.

The boy keeps running.

Gently, they pursue, Vesper’s arms waving with excitement. Ahead of them, the crowds thin, making way for an unoccupied street.

Fast footsteps come from behind, making two turn on instinct, the third swinging round on the end of the Vagrant’s arm. A man approaches, uniformed, his young face flushed with excitement.