BLUEMANTLE by Karen Langston (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📕

“When you last saw her, did she say anything to you? Did she sound like she was in trouble? Someone after her?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Well, did she seem worried about anything? Was she upset?”

Ursel hesitated, her fingers pulling at a thread from the frayed hem of her tunic. She sighed and looked up at Chase. “I may be betraying a confidence here…”

“Go on,” urged Chase.

“She’s struggling to cope. She has been for some while. I’d told her to go to the medical centre, but she doesn’t want anything on her record. She’s worried they’ll downgrade her job or confiscate her quarters.”

“I knew she needed money – that’s why we’d arranged to meet.”

“It’s more than just money. She’s low, spirit-sick. The furnaces is a hard job; it’s wearing her down.” She studied Chase, as if trying to reach a decision based on what she read in his face. Eventually she said, “She’s found a way to manage, though. In the last year or so, she’s kept on top of things.”

Chase sat up, his face flushed. “Meezel? You’re telling me she’s on drugs? Is that what the money was for? To get high?”

“No, it isn’t Meezel.”

“Then what?”

Ursel pulled something out from the folds of her tunic and let it fall to the floor between them. It was the pamphlet Chase had handed her. “Do you know what this is?”

Chase and Naylor looked at each other, then back at Ursel, expectant.

“It’s Bluemantle,” she said. “The fanzine for the Music Scene. I can’t tell you anything more than that. And I’ve only told you that much as you have a copy.”

“What in crow’s fall is Wella doing with it?”

“She’s a follower of the Scene.”

“She’s what?” Chase stood up, his eyes glaring. “No, she’s not. She wouldn’t do that. Not after what happened.”

Naylor read confusion on Ursel’s face. He leant towards her and dropped his voice. “Brann, their younger brother, was arrested by the A. Possession of an instrument. Imprisoned for five years without trial.”

“I know about Brann,” she said. “Wella told me.”

“Then you know she wouldn’t be so fucking irresponsible as to have anything to do with the Scene,” said Chase. “She wouldn’t run the risk. After what our family went through? How Brann suffered just for carrying a guitar case, for fuck’s sake? No one would be that stupid. Not if you saw him now. They broke him. He was just a kid and they fucking broke him.”

Ursel’s eyes were wide. She stood up and faced Chase. “I’m sorry about what happened to your brother. But Wella is not stupid. She’s an intelligent woman. She knows what she’s doing. She joined the Scene two years ago. That’s where we met. I’m part of it too.”

“This is insane. You realise they torture people over this? You don’t even have to be caught at an event. If they so much as suspect you were there, you’re treated the same. If they think you know someone who knows someone who went, you’re arrested and beaten half to death. How the fuck did Wella get mixed up in that shit?”

Ursel sighed. “That’s the wrong question.”

“What?”

“Ask yourself why. Don’t jump to the first prejudicial conclusion your narrow perspective can reach.” She turned sideways and raised her left shoulder. “Always ask yourself why.”

Chase stared at Ursel, his pulse racing. Ursel stood her ground, staring back, battling inside her mind. Naylor, who was still sat on the floor, slowly rose, struggling to think of a way to break the stalemate. In the final moment, he no longer needed to. Ursel blinked first.

“I believe Wella is okay. And I believe I can find her. You don’t have to agree with me, but you will need to trust me. Can you do that?”

–

“I still don’t believe you’re right about this,” muttered Chase, rattled and reluctant.

It was the following day. Chase was sat with Naylor and Ursel in The Raven, a traditional tavern on the fringe of Drayloc Market. The space inside was sparse and gloomy. Timber panelling and a flagstone floor absorbed the limited light that seeped through the shuttered apertures. Wooden tables and chairs were scattered with no sense of order. The bar was makeshift and utilitarian.

The previous evening, Ursel had had to prepare for her performance in the big top. She had said she would be in The Raven at noon if Chase wanted to talk some more.

They were sat huddled around half-empty pints of Kitson, surrounded by other close groups talking in hushed tones. Most taverns, bars and cafés tended not to play music in the background in an effort to avoid attracting the wrong sort of attention. As a consequence, everyone spoke in whispers, creating an atmosphere of secrecy and paranoia, even if there was no cause.

“This is why you need to trust me,” said Ursel.

Chase shifted on his stool, appraising Ursel and those around them with suspicion.

“And try not to look so uptight,” she said. “I know a lot of these people. We’re safe to talk in here.”

Chase glanced at Naylor, who shrugged. He turned back to Ursel. “So, what do you suggest?”

“Wella was struggling to cope. For the followers who attend, the Scene is a release from the shit they have to deal with in the real world. It’s an escape. And an effective one.” She leant forward. “I’m not saying she’s definitely there. But, if you want to find your sister, that’s the first place I’d look.”

“I still don’t believe she’d get involved. She hates the Authority, sure. But she’s no rebel. She wouldn’t risk torture and prison just to fuck with the system.”

Ursel sat back, shaking her head. “Well, the A have worked their magic on you alright.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“That’s not what it’s about. The Scene. The events. It’s not some dissident vehicle constructed for the sake of rebellion, much as the A would like you to believe. It’s not posturing for the sake of insurgency.”

“Then why?” asked Naylor. “Why take the risk when you know what the A will