BLUEMANTLE, Karen Langston [best classic romance novels TXT] 📗

target is to drop the bundles before dawn, then get a message to Naylor and Tinashe. They’re going to explain to the followers their role in the plan.”

They set to work in silence, typing up the blocks of text, cutting and gluing them onto the concertinaed master.

“It doesn’t fill it up,” said Chase, once they’d finished. “There are two sides left on the last fold. What do we do? Just leave it blank?”

Wella thought for a moment, then smiled. “This is a big city,” she said. “Not everyone goes to the Circus.”

Chase frowned, then the furrows cleared. “Really?”

“Why not? The story’s message is consistent.”

“Did you tell her about it?”

“I thought you could do that yourself. Or take her to see it when she comes home.”

They both fell silent at the prospect. There was too far to go before it could feel achievable; too much could go wrong. For their own reasons, they pushed the thought away and focused on finalising the master. The print job would take several hours. Time was tight. That pressure alone made it possible to ignore all that couldn’t yet be faced.

–

A hundred miles away, the three Troubadours sat in silence. They perched on the rise above the camp, keeping watch while their minds dwelt on the freedoms enjoyed in centuries past. Below them, their people slept.

Two in the camp who could not sleep were Ursel and the drummer who had been Dent Lore.

Ursel lay on her bunk, eyes closed. In her mind she cherished the memory of sound – of voices and of music. She played and replayed them in her head, her aural treasures, fearful of forgetting what she would never hear again.

The drummer lay on a blanket among his fellow players. He kept his eyes open, too afraid to close them lest he fall asleep and wake up in that other world where he was the hunter, not the hunted. He had returned to a dream from a nightmare. Neither one felt real.

Over the city of Wydeye, the celestial constellations disappeared in the fading night. Chase slipped through the deserted streets of Darlem Fields, his final drop delivered. His body ached with exhaustion, yet it paled beside a far greater suffering. This, he had made into a bundle all of its own, wrapped in a guilty conscience, which he carried in his chest. He bore it like a burden deserved and headed east across the city, back to the hide in Rader.

Wella was still in the Hundred of Wickerwood. She had made her final drop an hour before and now lay huddled in the shelter of a friend’s backyard. Her eyes were closed, her body resting, but sleep would not come. Her mind knew to wait, alert, for the hour the curfew would lift. Then she could move through the city without the need for stealth, journey north, to Spire Wells and the steps of the Exchange. There she could discharge the last of her duties. Her part in the plan would be played.

At this early hour, the Wall of the Missing stood alone. The faces in the photos looked out towards the empty precinct, their ‘remember me’ expressions boring holes into the concrete. Soon, the citizens on the walkout would return, adopting their mask of passive presence and hoping that more would join.

In contrast to the awakening city, the Authority Complex never slept. The yellow windows of the Comms Control Centre never blinked. The parade ground never stood silent, jackboot free. And in Deaf Squad HQ, in the private quarters of the Chief of Command, the bedsheets were never wrapped around naked skin.

Wulfwin stood in his trench coat, staring at his desk. Behind him, pinned to the wall, were charts and tables: rotas, resources, contingencies, logistics. On the desk before him lay a map, the only one of its kind. All other maps detailed Wydeye: its Hundreds and districts, its roads and tramways, the ribbon of The Spire, starting from a needle point at the spring in Spire Wells. All other maps ended at the city’s outer limits. Beyond that, the margin was narrow, the cartographic representation abstract.

This map was different. It revealed Wydeye as a patch of grey in the centre of a far wider, colourful context. It showed the mountain range to the north-west, the forest to the south, the plains to the east. Then it charted what lay beyond even those: the terrain and its contours, settlements and cities, roads and railways. It was not a map of Wydeye, but of what lay beyond.

It was also a battlefield.

And Wulfwin was preparing an army to go on the attack.

They’re out there, he thought. And I’m going to find them.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“Overspill,” said Tinashe. She was stood on the steps of the Exchange with Wella, who had struggled to find her in the crowd. “Naylor’s leading the way. We’re establishing a second gathering in Glade Park.” She smiled. “Fitting, don’t you think?”

“Nice work. And plenty of space. Once Bluemantle gets out, we’re going to need it.” She stood on her toes, scanning the crowd. “Where’s Nial?”

“Over there.” Tinashe pointed out a mohawk near a line of parked carters. Two had become six, distributing free food and uncontaminated water to the grateful gathered. Wella weaved through the crowd and joined him.

“Wella,” said Nial. “It’s good to see you again. All done?”

“Done. Are they ready?”

“More than.”

He turned and signalled to a follower a few yards away who, in turn, signalled to others. Within a matter of seconds, a large gap appeared in the crowd where over a hundred followers had stood moments before. They disappeared, heading off in pairs to their allocated drop. From there, they would distribute the bundles, targeting places of work, cafés and taverns, public spaces and people’s homes. The plan was tight. Nial had divided the Hundreds and districts into subdistricts; no part of the city would be duplicated or missed.

“They know to act fast,” he said. “And not just because of the water. When the A, or anyone