The Strategist

Chapter Four

The house was large, and echoed all around.

Drayn crept along a corridor. Engravings leered at her from the walls, images of ancestors long dead, spurring her on. Candles burned down to the very stumps. A spider made the mistake of crossing her path, and went away forever.

‘I know you are here, wherever you are,’ she whispered, leaping at the shadows. ‘I will find you, and Unchoose you, and that will be the end of you!’

But there was no sign of Cranwyl. Where could the wretch be, by Lord Squatstout’s foot?

On she went, the courageous girl, unafraid of the noises in the dark, or not too afraid at any rate. She heard a creaking noise behind. She swung round, ready to lay waste to her challenger. No one was there. Yet still the noise came. Drayn concentrated.

There was silence for a moment, and then a cough.

It was from the library!

She was about to charge forward when she got a hold of herself. Cranwyl was no fool; it would do no good to reveal herself too quickly. Perhaps that was even what he wanted. She gathered her thoughts, calmed her heart, and padded along the corridor.

Never have I caught you, Cranwyl, wretch of all wretches. Tonight the tables will turn. Tonight you will find yourself Unchosen, by me!

She reached the door. To her left, in the corner of her eye, she could just make out old Fyndir, founder of the House of Thonn, engraved upon one of the many walls he built, all those years ago, when the Autocrat had just come to the Habitation. Wish me well, Fyndir!

The girl reached out, and grasped the door handle. She pushed down, very gently, knowing that Cranwyl’s hearing was second to none. She was almost there, down it went, down it went, and then – clunk.

The door was locked.

She pushed again, just to make sure it was not simply stiff, but no, there was no way in. Could Cranwyl have heard me coming, and locked the door? That had to be it; all was not lost. She simply had to find a way in—

There came a tap at Drayn’s shoulder, and the blood stopped coursing through her miserable veins. She turned, defeated again. There he was, in the mask, the beak almost reaching to Drayn’s own nose.

‘Cranwyl,’ she sighed, ‘you are cheating. That is the only way!’

The masked monster laughed. The temerity of it!

‘I don’t cheat, not ever, lady,’ Cranwyl said.

Drayn could sense the smirk beneath the beak. The effrontery! ‘I just do my best. But it’s not very hard. You’re easy to throw off the scent, you know, very easy.’

Drayn exhaled and dropped to the ground, bum thumping on the floor.

‘But I heard you in the library.’

‘No, you didn’t. You thought you heard something, but it wasn’t me. I might have had a hand in it, though.’

‘How?’

‘Well, I know all the creaks and cracks of this house, you see. I can make it speak for me, just by tickling it in the right place.’

He removed his mask. After all these years, it still surprised Drayn how young he was, with his smooth skin and bushy brown hair and sneaky, bright little eyes. He could not have been more than, what, thirty? He had been working since before she was born; he had started working when he was her age, he said. Fancy that!

‘You are too good,’ she said. ‘You’re as good as the real beaks. You’re not a beak, are you?’ She laughed, secretly hoping that he was. That would be great fun.

Cranwyl returned the laugh. ‘If I was one of them, I’d be in Lord Squatstout’s Keep right now, not sat here, that’s for bloody sure.’

He looked up to a shelf on the wall, where an old clock ticked.

‘Come,’ he said, the laughter gone from his voice. ‘Your mother will be expecting you.’

**

Drayn had dressed in her finery, as she always did when dining with her mother. It did nothing for her mood, or for Mother’s.

‘Did you know, girl, that there are rats in the yard?’

Mother shot a hard glance in her daughter’s direction, as if Drayn had herself introduced the vermin.

I suppose I did bring that baby thingermewhatsit into the outer barn, but that isn’t necessarily connected, is it?

‘No, my lady, I did not know.’ Sometimes she used a different voice when she spoke to Mother. More proper. She hated herself for it. ‘But I will work to rid the property of them, with the assistance of Cranwyl, if it so pleases you.’

Mother shook her head. ‘You are not a rat catcher. I will speak with Cranwyl in the morning.’

I could absolutely be a rat catcher, if I wanted. Anyway, I could help Cranwyl catch rats, that’s for sure. He definitely wouldn’t mind.

‘Eat your food.’

Mother was wearing her black dress tonight. It looked good on her, with her grey hair. Drayn thought so, anyway. She’d never say it, though.

Drayn turned to her plate. Some kind of seabird looked back at her, its stewed eyes swimming in its head.

‘I’m not hungry,’ she said, hoping Mother would let her leave and knowing that would never happen.

‘Eat.’

Drayn turned the bird over, so she could at least avoid making eye contact. She hacked off a piece of pale meat and looked to the walls. More old people, looking down at her. No doubt they had to eat this muck in their day as well.

When she was about halfway through the bird she put down her knife and fork, hoping the remains would be swept away before Mother could notice. Sure enough, a shadowy figure came out of the darkness and lifted the plate, muttering something as he went. This was a house of mutters and shadows, all right.

Drayn had a question on her mind, and was in no mood to mutter. She looked at Mother, carefully weighing her options. Was she in a good mood? Was she ever in a good mood? Who knew?

‘Mother.’ Never Mum – always Mother.

The lady in the black dress looked up from her bird, whose beak she was about to inhale.

‘Yes?’

‘I heard that something happened after the Choosing.’

‘Really? I wasn’t there.’

Mother was lying – she had been there, after Drayn had gone home, and she knew what had happened. The head of the House of Thonn always knew what was happening on the Habitation.

‘They say there was something that came from the sea.’

‘Who say?’

‘They.’

‘They say a lot.’

‘Is it true?’

Mother sighed. ‘You would find out, anyway, I have no doubt. Yes, something came. It was very strange. A black ship, far bigger than a fishing boat. It came from across the Endless Ocean.’

‘That cannot be.’

‘That is what we all thought, too. But it was there. And yes, I was there, and yes, I did see it.’

‘What was it?’ Drayn’s eyes were wide.

Mother shook her head, and shrugged, as if the question didn’t matter. Drayn hated when she did that.

‘No one knows,’ Mother said. ‘It all happened very quickly. The Choosing had actually just finished when the thing appeared.’

‘What was on it?’ Drayn’s voice was now a whisper.

Mother gave her a curious look.

‘You will not tell your friends?’

Drayn shook her head. She only had one friend, anyway.

‘I did not see them myself, but they say there were two creatures.’

Drayn swallowed. ‘What kind of creatures?’

‘A woman. And another … being.’

Drayn nodded. This can only mean one thing. ‘Another Autocrat!’

‘Yes.’

‘What do they want?’

Mother tutted. ‘How am I supposed to know? I am sure it’s nothing to worry about.’

‘Thank you, Mother.’

But Drayn thought there was something to worry about. Creatures did not just appear from the sea, not ever in all of history, apart from Lord Squatstout himself, may he live forever. She could tell that Mother felt the same way.

**

‘You’re always getting me in trouble with your mother,’ Cranwyl said. ‘When’s it going to stop?’

‘When we catch the black cat. Not before then.’

Drayn brushed a branch from her face. She lifted the torch higher, careful to avoid the trees. The last thing they needed was to set fire to the woods. That would definitely get Mother going.

She pointed the light towards an outcrop of brown boulders.

‘That’s where I last saw her,’ she said.

‘Or him.’

‘That’s where I last saw him, her, it, whatever. She was looking at me with her red eyes, and she seemed hungry.’

‘So we are here to catch a hungry cat beast?’

Drayn nodded. ‘We can easily take her, you and I.’ She put a reassuring hand on Cranwyl’s shoulder. ‘It’s just a cat. No match for us, definitely not.’

‘I thought you said it was a very big cat.’

‘Well, yeah, but still. No match for us.’

There was a creaking behind the boulders.

‘You know what that sounded like to me?’ asked Cranwyl.

‘A large cat.’

‘No. A baby thingermewhatsit.’

Drayn tutted at Cranwyl. Seizing the initiative, she crept behind the nearest tree and slinked her way towards the boulders. She put her hand in her bag and removed the net, planning to throw it over the beast once she had run it through with her stick. She had sharpened it specially for the occasion.

Cranwyl stayed where he was, the coward.

Round she went, until she was mere feet from the lair of the monster. She raised the stick aloft – actually, it was more of a spear, she had decided – and, with a murderous roar, leapt into the fray, thrusting her weapon before her.

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.’

Chapter Five

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.

Aranfal gave him cups of water.

**

‘When will this end?’ he asked her one night. He was unsure if he had spoken, or simply thought the question; it did not seem to matter with her.

‘It does not have to end, so it may never end,’ she said. ‘It might be good to make you into a story. Yes, everyone would know what you suffered, oh yes, down here, at my hand, and then they would never seek to place themselves against Mother.’

‘I did not place myself against her.’

‘Hmm, perhaps, perhaps. But the Machinery Selected you, and that is the same thing.’

She raised her arms, and took him back to the day he was Selected.

**

The Watchers had come early in the morning. Strange, but he had already known what they wanted. He had known when he woke. His room was a hovel, tucked into the back of a shop, stinking of fish, like everything else, with one dirty window facing out onto the lane. It had been grey, and cold, as it always was. He was thinner then, before all the lonely gluttony of the Centre, and as he stood from the bed he wrapped his smock tightly around his bones. He looked out the window; a girl with a stick in her hand was staring back. She pointed it at him, and ran away. He never did find out who she was.