The Vagrant

‘And did you notice the way he moved? He’s trying to hide something. I don’t know if he’s deformed or armed but I know that man’s trouble.’

‘Not like you to care what’s under a man’s coat, Lil.’

‘I’ve seen under your coat enough times, Ventris. Nothing much to care about there!’

For a while there are only the quiet rustlings of needle against skin. Shadows pass the murky windows and flies buzz industrious at the door. Now an irregular snoring issues from inside the tent, and soon a woman and her gun follow.

‘Okay, stranger, what’s your angle?’

The Vagrant looks up, amber eyes tired.

‘Let’s be clear. Ventris hasn’t got anything to give you, besides stories and advice and they’re worth less than the air behind them. So if you’re waiting for a reward you might as well leave.’

The Vagrant waves the idea away.

‘So who are you and what do you want?’ Her gaze is relentless, the gun’s barrel unwavering. ‘Well, you don’t look dumb to me. You don’t look shy either, so how about you stop playing games and give me some answers?’

The Vagrant takes a breath. His jaw works, but the air from his lips is empty. He looks away, eyes pressed shut. There is silence. The woman closes the space between them, laying a hand on his shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t …’ she begins but is cut off as she finally gets a response, a soft cry coming from his armpit. ‘What the …?’

His shoulders drop a fraction as he lets his arm fall. She opens the coat and the baby gurgles happily, its feet now free to wriggle. With a jerk she throws the gun to the floor.

Chewing and snoring and gurgling blend in the stillness. The woman lifts the baby to her face, caught between grief and some thought now lost.

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_22ceed19-7fd0-55e4-88b3-1ecdaaa4c37d)

A few days pass in unlikely peace. The world outside is cruel, but within the bubble of Lil’s place an illusion of sanity holds sway.

Sunslight points through cracks in the doorframe, painting the dust red. Tiny fingers reach for sparkling dirt. They might as well reach for the stars themselves.

The Vagrant sweeps the floor methodically. His shoulders hang low, robbed of their usual tension.

Slowly, the goat chews, a mangled fabric finger hanging from her mouth. Her black eyes never leave the glove’s twin, sat helpless on the table.

This quiet industry is underscored by a woman’s voice. Lil is not normally one for talking but has been unable to stop since her new guests took up residence. She shares her observations about the workers at Kendall’s Folly, which ones to watch out for, which to avoid, and the few who will last. She talks about her role as surgeon, how the workers often get injured. Those that can pay for treatment do so with food or supplies, those that can’t are turned away. Lil is clear that she isn’t in the habit of charity.

She pauses but the Vagrant doesn’t take the bait, his broom’s rhythm is unbroken.

Eventually she talks about her own story, how her grandfather raised her, taught her to survive. How he gave her a trade to make a living, and a gun to protect it. She remembers why she never talks about him, tears thought long gone returning to her cheeks. She retreats quickly to the back of the tent, her grandfather’s voice alive in her thoughts: ‘Tears are no good to you, Lil, tears will get you killed.’

As the light fails, Ventris gathers his scars and limps to the door.

‘Thanks again, stranger,’ he says, smile more space than teeth. His eyes flicker briefly to the baby, asleep in the Vagrant’s arms. The smile grows a fraction.

After the old man has gone, the Vagrant stares at the door. Tension creeps back into his shoulders.

Faeces and sweet decay vie for dominance in the Overseer’s domain, each smell determined to maintain a separate identity. Once the dwelling would have borne the name of office but now the walls breathe, as half-bred as their new master.

Vestigial wings sprout from the Overseer’s back, small nubs mocking her bulbous body. Their only use is to indicate her mood to those that serve. Tonight they hum pleasantly.

‘I am told you have something for me. I am told it will please me.’

The man opposite nods obediently. He is nearing the end of his productivity. Soon she will take him from the fields and lay him down for her children.

‘Will it please me enough to compensate for what you stole?’

This time, the nod is fuelled by fear and accompanied by a meaningless apology.

‘You workers are all the same, thinking only of yourselves. You think that a single fruit will go unnoticed. What you do not understand is that I have quotas to fill. The Fallen Palace has needs, New Horizon has needs, Verdigris has needs, everybody does. Even the First’s nomads come to me on occasion. Every detail is accounted for, every action weighed by cost and value. I am going to reassign your value. I do hope it is greater than the loss you have incurred me. Now you may speak.’

The old man tells his story. As he finishes the hum of pleasure grows louder.

‘You will return there and watch my prize until I am ready to take it. Once it is in my hands, I will consider your debt repaid. I might even consider a change in your status.’

He bows deeply, biting back the pain of the movement.

‘Yes,’ she continues. ‘I think you have a place serving those dearest to me.’

He thanks her and hobbles out.

When his scent has faded she pricks one of her human fingers on a wiry leg hair. The flies pause in their feasting, drawn to the familiar ritual. The Overseer whispers into the liquid gem and waits.

More mundane means are used to summon the people in her employ and a common coin is enough to motivate. They are used to nothing, so the pittance she lays before them gains a dreamlike quality. As one, they leave, united in hunger and expectation.

As soon as they have gone, a fly settles on her finger, drinking deep the news that will make her fortune.

The Overseer sits back as the messenger speeds on its way. Her skirt of limbs twitches in anticipation; with the Usurper’s favour comes the promise of completion.

She does not hear the soft whisper from beyond her doorway nor does she see the fly fork downwards from the air, landing twice, the message flecking the floor.

Casually, the door yawns open, drawing her attention.

The Vagrant enters, sword first, humming softly.

Between them the winged insects buzz their distress, they throw themselves against furniture, against each other, unable to escape the blood that vibrates within them.

The sound builds, shaking the Overseer’s skull. She rises, stretching her body out to its full size, shadow sprawling behind, nightmarish.

In answer, the Vagrant raises his blade. At its hilt, silvered wings unfurl.

An eye opens.

Two storm-heads of sound build: infernal wings and dying insects vying with steel-bound song.

The Overseer sizes up her adversary, copied many times by her compound eyes. Each image is still and waiting. She falters under the glare of the sword; it hates her in ways she cannot fathom, stirring feelings of fear, of shame. Normally she would crush a man without thought but instinct tells her to be cautious.

Subtly the sound changes.