Gerrard Cowan - The Strategist

‘That was not here before,’ he said. ‘What is this place?’

‘A memory. Many memories. Woven together, made more beautiful than before, oh yes.’

They came to a garden. Aranfal saw a wide, dark pond up ahead, its surface a perfect reflection of that unnatural moon, its waters utterly still. Black plants surrounded the pond, tall things with dark, glossy leaves and pale, pink flowers. Animal sounds could be heard in the dark, but there was no sign of bird or beast.

Sitting on a rock and staring into the pond was the Strategist. Katrina Paprissi. The One. Mother. Always Mother, always call her Mother. She was dressed in her purple rags, her pale skin exposed to the moonlight, her black hair tied tightly back with an ivory pin. She held in her hands a long, thin, wooden instrument: the source of the strange music. It was a lament. It told a story of a time long gone, though no one sang along to it.

At her side was a mask: the face of a white rat.

Mother cast a glance in their direction, and removed the pipe from her lips. The music died slowly, echoing through the garden. The Strategist tilted her head very slightly, and placed the tip of her tongue on her upper lip, as if tasting something there.

Aranfal bowed to her.

‘The Machinery is broken,’ the Strategist said. Her words had hints of Katrina, but there was something more besides, as if several speakers were talking at once in voices from the past.

Aranfal hesitated. ‘Yes, Strategist.’

Mother did not seem to register his words. ‘The Machinery is broken. It must be. It Selected me, and gave me such powers. But Ruin has still not come. There is more work ahead of me.’ She sighed. ‘I must find what remains of the Machinery. I must shatter it into a million pieces. Only then will Ruin come.’ She placed the instrument to her lips once more, and music filled the garden. After a while she removed the pipe. ‘Ruin is waiting for me.’ She looked directly at Aranfal. Her gaze penetrated him. ‘Do you know who I am?’

‘Mother,’ Aranfal whispered.

The Strategist nodded. ‘I am Mother.’ She looked at Shirkra. ‘You sought to disobey your mother.’

Shirkra shook her head. ‘No. No. I would not have killed him. I think I would not have.’

‘You think, but you do not know. You are not the Mother of Chaos. That is the wrong name for you. You are a child of Chaos, and nothing more.’

Shirkra sighed. ‘I am a child. I am a child. I cannot tell what I will do.’

Mother called her daughter to her side, and made her sit on the rock. ‘You stayed with me during many long years. You are more than Chaos. You are … light.’

Shirkra grinned.

‘Torturer.’

Aranfal snapped to attention. Their eyes met again, and all the world was purple.

‘I am glad you have come.’ Something flickered in her eyes; for a moment, the Watcher saw himself standing before the gates of the See House, long ago. Before Aran Fal became Aranfal.

‘Shirkra,’ Mother said, looking away from the Watcher. ‘When was the last time we played a game? The game?’

Shirkra’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know when, Mother. Long ago. Before the Machinery.’

Mother nodded. ‘It is time for another.’

There was a long silence. Shirkra remained utterly still for a long while, before leaping to her feet.

‘Another game?’ she hissed. ‘We swore we would never play again. And we are busy !’

Mother nodded. She lifted her instrument to her lips again, and played a low, solemn tune. When it was finished, she raised her hand in the air. A ball of dark flame appeared there; Aranfal saw things in the darkness, memories that were not his own.

‘The Dust Queen demands it,’ Mother whispered.

She threw the flame to the ground, and it burst into the forms of three identical women.

They were hard to look upon, unnatural creatures, formed of a substance somewhere between sand and dust, fine and flowing and alive. They were tall and thin, their limbs weird and long, their eyes dark, the skin of their faces in constant flux, grey like the sand from which they had formed. They wore crowns upon their heads, made of glass, though even these seemed to change, flickering with a strange light. Their dresses shimmered in a thousand colours, dancing around them like cat’s tails.

Dust, dust, dust.

As Aranfal looked upon these women, a realisation dawned. These were not three women at all, but one , a singular creature. The Watcher had seen many strange things since the fall of Northern Blown, but here was something new. Here was something beyond even Mother. He was utterly insignificant as he stood before this thing of three parts. He felt compelled by her, madly attracted; he wanted to throw himself into her and become a particle, a speck of dust, flowing with her, within her, and she within him.

Mother coughed, and the women disappeared.

‘She has spoken to me in the night,’ Mother said. ‘She wants to play a game. A last game, before Ruin comes.’

Shirkra made a strange sound. A growl . ‘We cannot trust her. She betrayed us before. She helped Jandell build the Machinery. It is a trick.’

Mother sighed. ‘Her motivations cannot be understood. But we will play.’

Shirkra stomped a foot. ‘Mother! Why must we always dance to her tune? Say no! Tell her we don’t have time for games!’ She bent down, and touched the Strategist’s shoulder. ‘You could resist her, you know. Your powers are growing again.’

Mother smiled. ‘There is no resisting her. Not until Ruin comes. And Ruin will not come, until we find the Machinery. Do you understand?’

Shirkra shook her head. For a moment, she was nothing more than a child, her eyes wide and innocent. ‘What are the prizes?’ she whispered.

‘If we play with her, she says she will take us to the Machinery after the game: no matter who wins.’

‘It is a trick, Mother! She sees some advantage in this. It cannot be otherwise.’

Mother shrugged. ‘Either way, we will play the game. If we refuse, she could simply compel us. And how long would it take us to find the Machinery without her guidance? I do not want to wait on Ruin for a moment longer than is necessary. If we accept, she will take us to whatever remains of the Machinery, and I will bring Ruin. We will accept.’

‘Do you think she is telling the truth?’

Mother nodded. ‘I have known her for longer than almost any of us. We will play the game, and she will show us the Machinery. Why? That, I do not know. Perhaps she wants Ruin to come. She saw it, before any of us. They were her words, were they not? Ruin will come with the One .’

Aranfal gasped.

‘Ruin will destroy her,’ Shirkra said.

Mother narrowed her eyes in thought. ‘Yes. But I believe she knows that. I think she wants to die. I think she wishes to play a last game, before death comes.’

Shirkra threw herself down, and placed her head in her mother’s lap. ‘Very well,’ she said.

Mother stroked her daughter’s head. ‘I know this is a struggle for you,’ she said. ‘All of this – all that we have done, just to survive.’ She smiled. ‘You know where you have to go, now. You know whom you must seek.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘Take him with you,’ the Strategist said, pointing at Aranfal. ‘We should keep him safe. I think he will be useful to us in the game.’ She nodded to herself. ‘Yes. So useful. So safe.’

Shirkra grinned at Aranfal, and the Watcher sighed.

‘I am dead,’ Brightling said.

She was sitting on the deck of Jandell’s ship, legs crossed, smoking her pipe, and staring out at the bleak grey waters of the world beyond the Plateau. From time to time she picked at a bowl of dates, or sipped at a glass bottle of some red spirit the Operator had procured. He stood beside her, his head bowed.