Chris Wooding: The Fade

I've always had a bit of an affinity for Craggens. There's something alluring in their way of thinking, their lazy, gentle myths and simple yearnings. They don't hurry anywhere, and they seem unaffected by ambition or the traumatic complications of life.

As I watch them, I wonder what really goes on in the minds of these massive humanoids, with their small, tusked snouts and tiny black eyes. They're built to be unstoppable warriors: shambling mountains of red hide armour with a shaggy mane of quills running down their backs. But instead they're content to live their own slow lives, deep in the earth, where the pressure and heat is too great for us to follow.

It's a good system we've got, us and them. The males work in Veya to raise the money to build luxurious dens to attract females, who have to come nearer the surface to give birth. The young are more fragile than the adults. Eskaran craftsmen make the dens, which are far more elegant than Craggens can construct with their massive hands. The more elaborate the den, the more likely the male is to score a female.

When Craggens and Eskarans first came into contact, there wasn't a war. We just made a deal. Would that every meeting of cultures was so easy.

The address on Juth's envelope takes me down a dingy stairway, below street level, to an iron door with a viewing-slot. I hammer on it. Footsteps approach, and the shield on the slot slides back.

'What?' demands the girl on the other side. She's probably eighteen, twenty at most. Garish make-up, colourfully dyed hair. High cheekbones and bluish skin, giving away her Yurla bloodline.

'I've got a letter for you,' I say. 'From Juth.'

Surprise in her reaction. Then suspicion. 'So where is it?'

I hold it up.

'Put it through.'

I shove it through the slot, and she pulls the shield closed. I wait for a few moments, nonplussed, and then decide I can't be bothered with this and go back up the stairs. Promise fulfilled. I don't even really care what was in the letter.

I'm some way down the street when the girl comes running after me, followed by a dreadlocked scruff in his late twenties. 'Hoy! Hold up!' he shouts.

I stop and stare at them expectantly as they come to a halt in front of me. The man has the letter in his hand, now open.

'You knew Juth?' he asks, panting. It was only a short run. He might be wiry, but he's unfit and he smokes too much.

''Not well,' I say. 'He asked me to deliver that for him.'

'You were in a Gurta prison?'

'Farakza. Juth is still there.' I feel like doing something pointlessly vicious so I say: 'He's probably dead by now.'

It doesn't appear to bother them at all. The girl notes the Cadre sigil on my exposed shoulder for the first time, and she nudges the man with a pitiful lack of subtlety.

'You're Cadre?' he asks. He's nervous.

'That's right,' I say. 'And you two work for the Undercity Press, distributing subversive and illegal literature throughout Veya. You also have offices in Vect and Bry Athka and Lera, who handle distribution in those cities.' I look at the man steadily, whose jaw has dropped. 'I don't know who she is, but I'm guessing that you're Cherita Fal Barlan, the editor?'

He freezes up, guilt all over him. The girl looks like she's ready to run.

'Recognised the address,' I say, motioning at the envelope.

'You knew where we were?' Barlan gapes. 'How long?'

'Couple of years. Just never had cause to visit you.'

Still stunned. Doesn't know where to go next. I put him out of his misery.

'Listen, it's my business to know this stuff. You're not as secret as you'd like to believe. I'm sure you're wondering why Clan Caracassa haven't raided your premises and had you all arrested long ago, right?'

'Uh… it had crossed my mind,' he says. 'We publish some… pretty unfavourable books about the Plutarchs.'

'You want the truth?' I say, pinching the bridge of my nose, where my headache is sharpest. 'Nobody cares. The Plutarchs have bigger things to worry about. So do I.'

'Nobody cares?' the girl repeats, aghast.

'You're not half the thorn in the establishment's side that you think you are,' I tell her. I'm not in the mood to coddle anyone right now.

'Shit, that's a comedown,' says Barlan, deflating. 'Think I'd rather be arrested than ignored.'

'I can break your legs if you like. Would that make you feel better?'

It takes him a moment before he realises I'm not serious. He smiles uncertainly, then looks from me to the letter in his hand. 'You wanna come see?' he offers.

'Barlan!' the girl cries.

'She already knows, Pela,' he says. 'Besides, Juth trusted her.' He looks back at me. 'So? I'd like to talk to you.'

I have time to kill, and the old information-gathering instincts are still sharp. I motion to him to lead on.

Barlan hands me the letter from Juth and tells me I might as well read it, after all I went through to get it here. We head back to the stairs and through the iron door, into a short mould-speckled corridor that opens into a dim room cluttered with bales of broadsheets and boxes of books. Against one wall is a hand-cranked printing press. Two other men sit at makeshift desks, one reading mail, one scribbling furiously. Like Pela and Barlan, they're dressed scruffily, trying a little too hard to be malcontents. They react to my presence first with interest, then with alarm.

While Barlan is arguing with them I read the letter. It's short and to the point. If this letter reaches you by some other hand, it is because I could not bring it myself and am likely dead. The bearer of this letter has escaped from Farakza, a Gurta prison where I am being held. Fortune took one masterpiece from my hands, but it may yet provide another. Stop at nothing to get the story from this person. We will show the people what their sons can expect if they are unlucky enough to face capture in our 'glorious' war. Consider it my final commission. Juth.

'Yeah, sorry about him,' says Barlan, as I fold up the letter and give it back to him. 'Juth was enthusiastic; you had to say that. But his judgement was all over the place. Always coming up with some shattering work of literature or another, always deeply average.'

'He was carrying this around in the hope of finding someone to give it to,' I say. 'I could have been anyone. He just caught me on my way out.'

'Don't suppose you fancy telling your story? Anonymous, of course. Can't really pay you, but y'know…'

He trails off. He knows by the expression on my face that it's not going to happen.

'Sorry,' I tell him. I'm not getting involved in their little revolutionary games. I respect their strength of belief and all that, but the simple fact is that if they ever became powerful enough to harm the Plutarchs or the Merchant Council, they'd be crushed flat. They exist only because they're beneath the notice of the powers that be.

'There's talk of a military push,' Barlan says, with affected nonchalance. 'Know anything about that?'

'I know they're not keeping it very secret.'

'They don't want to,' Pela interjects. 'They want to rally the troops and worry the Gurta. There've been enough false alarms though. Is this one real?'

'Your guess is as good as mine. I'm just a soldier.'

'You're Cadre,' she insists. 'You're inner circle with Caracassa. They trust you.'

'The aristocracy don't trust anyone, not even themselves,' I reply.

'There's a quote, right there!' Barlan cries. 'Can I use it?'

'No.'

'Anonymously?'

I sigh. 'My name turns up in print in any of your publications, I'll come find you.'

'Great!' he grins, and scribbles it down on a scrap of paper.

I look around the office. The other two are still watching me with undisguised suspicion and loathing. Difficult to decide if they're just playing revolutionary or if they have any muscle at all behind their politics.