Trent Jamieson - Roil

One hundred and forty people had been lost to that forest and, with that knowledge, any sense of triumph.

MIRRLEES-ON-WEEP 260 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL

Warwick Milde had never been a stranger to controversy. After all, he had crossed the floor, gone from Engineer with promise to Confluent, and he’d dragged his brother with him. Stade had never forgiven him for that. But this was far, far worse.

“I told you it was true.” Medicine grinned.

Warwick Milde shook his head. How could a man smile in such a place? “It wasn’t so much that I did not believe you but, well, that I didn’t believe you.”

Sean wasn’t smiling, but looking back at the door. “We don’t have much time, and only one exit. They find us here we’re dead.” The pistol he held tightly in his hand shook a little. Sean didn’t like guns.

Warwick looked over at his brother. Three of them, councillors, sneaking around the basement of the Ruele Building like children. Buchan and Whig were waiting, just beyond the tower, with enough men to keep the Vergers at bay if it came to that.

“We’ve time enough, Sean. For a little wonderment.” It was cold down here, his breath plumed, but that was the least of his discomfort. There was an endless whispering coming from the eight metal doors set into the stony walls of the basement.

“We’re dead, if we’re caught here beneath the Council Chambers.” Medicine didn’t look too worried. He’d lost his fingers to Stade and sometimes Warwick wondered if he hadn’t also lost his mind. The man was reckless. He had disarmed the alarms, he had bribed the guards and those who’d proven resistant would wake in the morning with sore heads and little memory of the past twenty-four hours. Medicine’s familiarity with pharmacology had proven extremely effective. But was it enough, and what did it make of him that was down here too, in a basement filled with Old Men? The Old Men. Every child in Shale had heard of them.

Old Men hungry and Old Men wise,

Old Men’s truth and Old Men’s lies.

Old Men’s wisdom against the heat,

Crack your bones for the marrow meat.

But he’d thought them just that, a fairy tale, a series of myths; the fabled progenitors of Shale, Masters of the Engine of the World. Yet here they were.

Be gone.

Be gone.

The eight voices chanted.

Medicine had placed his head against one of the doors. “This one’s Cadell.”

“The Engineer.”

Medicine nodded. “They’re all Engineers, but he…”

“He’s the right one.”

Sean considered the locks. “I’ve the skill for this.”

This was the sort of thing they had done as children, Sean grinned, he’d have made an excellent peterman.

“I’m watching your back,” Warwick said. He had an old revolver in his hand. Damned if he knew it would even work. Medicine looked more comfortable with his own weapon: a long knife that looked even crueller than a Verger’s blade.

“I know,” Sean said, cramming his powders into the lock. He lit a short fuse, turned from the door, and covered his ears. There was a soft detonation, Warwick had been expecting something louder, but it was enough. The door opened, Sean poked his head through doorway.

“Mr Cadell-”

“Shut it. Shut it,” came a soft voice.

“I can’t,” Sean said.

A hand snatched out and dragged him through the opening, lightning fast.

Then the screaming started.

In the few seconds it took for Warwick to reach the door, Sean was dead. Cadell, little more than skin wrapped around bone looked up, his mouth rimmed with blood.

“Sorry,” he breathed. “Sorry.”

But it didn’t stop him swallowing down chunks of Sean’s flesh.

“Sorry.”

Warwick raised the gun, aimed it at Cadell’s head.

“No,” Medicine snarled, grabbing his arm, and pushing Warwick out of the room.

“We need him,” Medicine said.

“He just killed my brother.”

“Get out there,” Medicine said, pointing to the hallway. “People will be coming. Keep our exit clear.”

Warwick fled the room. The single door leading into the basement opened, a Verger stormed through and Warwick discovered that his revolver did indeed work.

“We have to go,” he yelled

There were too many of them. Warwick expected he would soon be dead, he thought of his wife, of his brave son.

Forgive me. He fired at the next Verger, trying to keep them at the door. How they were ever going to make it out was beyond him. He’d use up his bullets and then he would just sit on the floor.

Cadell was a blur racing past and the Vergers began to scream.

“You don’t want to go in there,” Medicine said, as Warwick walked back towards the room. “Warwick!”

But he didn’t stop, Sean deserved that much at least. In the centre of the room was a bloody pile of broken bones and a skull. That was all, nothing to signify that he had ever been his brother. The room itself was bare but for claw marks in the walls. We were so stupid. What had they unleashed upon the world?

It took Warwick a while to notice the screaming had stopped. It never would inside his skull.

“Hurry, Warwick,” Medicine yelled, his voice cracking. “We need to go. Now!”

Warwick left the room.

“Hurry.” Medicine slung a cloak over the much less emaciated Cadell, though he remained more bone than meat. The Old Man couldn’t meet Warwick’s gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Cadell whispered.

Warwick lifted his pistol, pointed it at Cadell’s withered face. His hand didn’t shake. He took a deep breath. What have we done? He lowered the gun.

Bring him back, the other voices chorused. Bring him back. Warwick looked at the blasted door, that wasn’t going to happen, just as Sean wasn’t going to walk out that door.

Warwick stepped over the ruined bodies of the Vergers. Turned his back on the Old Man, and the broken door.

“I’m sorry.” And that was all Cadell said for two days, over and over again, he didn’t say it enough times. He could never say it enough times.

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David found a bookstore, the Vellum Shore. The place made him ache for home and the days when a bookshop was enough. The shop was poorly stocked, but David reasoned that had more to do with the imminent evacuation of the city rather than poor ordering. He bought a small foldout map of Chapman and a sachet of map powder to go with it.

Now he had a chance of finding Chadwick Street and the safe house.

Of course, he had already found a supplier of Carnival. That had been the easiest thing of all and never knew for certain if he’d see Cadell again.

David had enough money left over to buy a fried sausage at a street stall. The thing tasted lovely. The anticipatory buzz of the Carnival, the festival itself all helped to lift his mood. He ate the sausage as he sat under a statue of Councillor Elmont, founder of Chapman. He unfolded the map he’d bought over his legs. Chadwick Street was at the other end of Chapman. His shortest route followed the wall. He took a little powder and the wall came into focus. Grey old stone, fringed with dead mould. Wanted posters for Buchan and Whig fluttered in the wind.