Gerrard Cowan - The Strategist

When the bloodlust had subsided she threw the spear to the ground, triumphant, and opened her eyes, expecting to see the lifeless body of the creature that had tormented her, or at least walked in front of her the other day. She was surprised, then, to find a large pile of sticks, broken and shattered in her frenzy.

‘It seems there was no beast, after all.’

Cranwyl was at her side, looking superior, the swine.

‘Not on this occasion, I grant you that,’ Drayn conceded. ‘But it was there.’

‘Of course it was. I have no reason to doubt you.’

‘Cranwyl, it was there.’

‘If you say it was there, I must accept that it was there.’

‘Cranwyl.’

‘What?’

‘I hate you.’

‘Thank you.’

**

It was two o’clock in the morning by the time Drayn and Cranwyl returned to the house. They entered through one of the gates at the back, in case Mother was keeping watch. But that was very unlikely; she was always asleep before midnight. To be certain, Drayn stole a glance at the windows upstairs. All was darkness.

The girl and her servant went into the kitchen, where they threw themselves into rough wooden chairs. Drayn kicked off her muddied boots; Cranwyl immediately picked them up and began to scrub.

‘Mother says there were two creatures on the boat,’ Drayn said, her voice barely above a whisper. She had wanted to talk to Cranwyl about this all night, but something held her tongue. She did not know what.

Cranwyl looked up. He looked so afraid, sometimes.

‘What kind of creatures?’

Drayn beckoned him closer. Cranwyl gently shifted his chair forward and leaned in.

‘Well, she says that one of them was a normal person. But the other one was like …’

She did not need to go further. Cranwyl sucked in a sharp breath.

‘Another Autocrat! Now that is something. I wonder: are they related?’

Drayn rolled her eyes. ‘Who cares? I’m wondering what it all means, that’s what I’m wondering.’

‘Oh. Yes, well, me too.’

Drayn leapt to her feet. She found a loaf of bread to the side, and ripped off a chunk. She offered some to Cranwyl, but he shook his head, so she tore into it with gusto.

‘I wonder when we’ll hear anything about it?’ she asked, spitting crumbs on the floor.

‘Soon, I imagine,’ Cranwyl replied. ‘The lord likes to keep everyone informed of things like this. He is a kind and merciful leader.’

Just then, as if in answer, a bell rang.

Drayn dropped her bread.

‘Run,’ said Cranwyl.

The girl was gone in a flash, shooting up the stairs as quickly and quietly as she could. She felt her way into her room, changed into her nightdress, and threw her dirty clothes under the bed.

The bell rang again, from nowhere and everywhere, all at the same time.

Mother came in, carrying a candle. She had been quicker than Drayn expected. She crossed the room and sat at her daughter’s side.

‘The bell has rung,’ she said. ‘It has rung out from Lord Squatstout’s Keep, and everyone can hear it now.’

Drayn pretended as if she had just woken up, yawning and rubbing her eyes.

‘Really? But there was a Choosing just the other day.’

‘Yes. The lord is preparing another. Perhaps he wants to show the newcomers how we do things here.’

Drayn gave a little cough. ‘I am afraid,’ she said. She meant it, though she hadn’t meant to say it.

‘Don’t be,’ said Mother, as warm as she had ever been. ‘The good lord would never allow you to fall, unless he knows you are the one to be Chosen. I am sure of it.’

Why does she speak such nonsense? I’m not stupid.

Mother stood to leave. ‘Get some rest. The assembly is at dawn.’

‘I will.’

‘And Drayn,’ said Mother, reaching under the bed and lifting a muddied slipper. ‘Don’t go out again at night.’

Damn.

‘Yes, Mother.’

Canning had never had ambitions.

No – that was not quite true. He had them, all right. But they were quiet, dreamy things: not the burning desires of so many of his fellow citizens. All he had ever wanted was to immerse himself in the mundane: to live a humble life, a quiet existence, far away from the Centre and the Fortress, from Brightling and her schemes.

But there was no escaping the Machinery.

And where had it taken him, this dream he never wanted? The Bowels of the See House. They had found him after the Selection, and taken him away. His memory of those events was broken. He had seen a creature dressed in purple rags, standing tall, that thing in the white mask by her side. The new Strategist was a girl he once knew: Katrina Paprissi, the last of her name.

But no longer. That girl was gone now.

It was a very different type of Selection. There were none of the usual trappings: no parchment from the Operator, no phalanx of Watchers spreading from the Circus in a black arc, scouring the land for the chosen ones. There had been a flame, but a person had emerged, if she could be called a person.

He had fallen over somewhere, he remembered. He was always falling over. Feet had trampled him into the dirt. When he managed to snatch glances at his surroundings, he saw people charging towards the new Strategist, holding their arms out. There was something about them; they were possessed, like in the stories about the old gods. Canning forced his way to his feet to get a better view, but it was too late; there were too many bodies in the way. He grabbed a man by the shoulder, without knowing why. Human contact, perhaps? The man turned and stared through the Tactician; his eyes were stagnant pools.

Whatever was driving these people to the Strategist had not affected him, he realised. Hope grew. He could sneak away: run to the West, perhaps, and hide himself in a vineyard or a tobacco farm or a mine. But then he felt a cold hand at his own shoulder, and turned to face a Watcher.

He had been here, in this room, this cell, for as long as he could remember. Was there ever a time before this cell? He had new memories, now, things he was certain had never occurred, or at least not to him. He had been to a city of dark spires, where people plucked out their eyes, just to avoid looking at her, the woman in the white mask. He had seen a temple, a place of wisdom, reduced to ashes by the power of her mind, its inhabitants throwing themselves into the flame to escape her gaze.

Her name was Shirkra.

She had brought all this before him when she visited. She had penetrated him, used him, tormented him with visions. No, not visions. Memories.

She was here again, now. How long has she been here?

‘You’re wondering why I am hurting you,’ she said, her voice free of emotion.

Canning nodded.

The Operator – for that was what she was, she had told him so herself – shrugged her narrow shoulders, and giggled. Her red hair bounced in curls. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

‘It’s not your fault, really, I suppose. You didn’t mean to be Selected. You are unlucky, so unlucky, to have been Selected when you were. Mother told me to kill you all, long ago. I didn’t get you all, though, did I? The white-haired woman is gone, and you’re still alive. But it doesn’t matter, does it? Perhaps it never mattered – perhaps she made me do those things, just to distract me! To keep me out of the way, me and my Chaos! But still, we have you, and she doesn’t want to kill you now. That means I can play with you forever. What fun!’

**

Sometimes, Aranfal was there, too. Canning did not resent the Watcher. It was not his fault everything had come to this. It was all her.