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

fanned out, scanning the ground, until someone found where the tracks resumed. These interruptions slowed them down, as did the challenging terrain. They stumbled up steep hills and down sheer escarpments, through swathes of dense porcupine scrub, over rock-fall barricades, all in sweltering heat.

Wulfwin became impatient at the pace. He halted his army and barked orders, changing the strategy to one of advance party and rear guard. He commandeered the fifteen field bikes and called forth his best Deaf Squad troopers. The rest, he ordered to continue as before, following the trail of horse hooves as far and as long as their provisions lasted.

“We’ll go on ahead,” he said, jumping onto one of the bikes. “We won’t be able to see the tracks, but we’ll leave our own. We’ll spread out. They must have made camps along the way. Left crap behind. We’ll find signs, then come back to redirect you. With the bikes, we have the best chance of catching them up.”

Not one among his men dared to challenge.

The selected troopers mounted the bikes and, with vague orders as to direction, Wulfwin revved his engine and sped away. The other bikes followed, fanning out, creating a new dust cloud that choked those left behind.

–

The three Troubadours stood before Ursel’s bunk. Ursel was sat on the edge of the bunk, recovered from the infection caused by her untreated wounds but still too weak to stand for any length of time. Beside her sat a young woman, pencil and paper in hand – Ursel’s ears. The drummer who had been Dent Lore stood to one side, proud to be called to attend the meeting but self-conscious before the Troubadours. Eyes down, he waited to be addressed.

“Ursel. Drummer,” said Bend Sinister. “We seek your counsel. We have debated through the night, yet we remain without consensus. In strictest confidence and with sincere respect, we invite your thoughts on the matter at hand.”

Ursel’s scribe wrote fast. Ursel looked from the words on the page to the drummer, who shared her expression of cautious anticipation.

“The question,” said Pale Dexter, “is whether we should break camp and resume our escape and our search for a new place to settle, or remain here, in a location known to two of our troupe back in Wydeye – our only link to the followers we leave behind. We find ourselves favouring different options, yet the time has come to decide. Your informed perspectives will, we hope, enhance the context of reason.”

“Ursel,” said Chief, “you possess an understanding of the citizens of Wydeye, both followers and not. Drummer, in the guise of your other self, you possess a valuable knowledge of the Authority and its intent. These unique insights can inform our deliberations and help us reach a decision. If you would be so kind?”

Ursel scanned the page, then looked up. “Of course.”

“An honour,” said the drummer, nodding for Ursel’s benefit.

Chief turned first to Ursel. “Our question to you relates to your plan. You were born into a travelling theatre that has remained resident for nigh on eighty years. You are loyal to the Scene, which existed as a subterranean secret, trapped by a city it both relied on and was hunted by. You live among people who never leave, despite the oppression, fear and suffering that has become the fabric of Wydeye. Yet, your plan is based on the premise that citizens will awaken somehow and suddenly feel free to move on. Why?”

Ursel read the words and blinked. She thought of the tattoo that had once been a badge of conviction upon her arm. Slowly rising from the bunk, she stood to deliver her reply. “When a dark cloud lifts and you see things clearly for what they are, the revelation is a catalyst to an irreversible process. The discovery of something you can’t unlearn. The realisation of truth that you can’t unknow.

“The citizens of Wydeye have been sleeping. The A have kept them asleep with their laced lullabies. I believe that, if we wake some, they will wake others who will, in turn, wake more still. By waking, they will perceive things differently, including their own freedom. By that, I mean freedom to think for themselves. Freedom to ask questions. Freedom to no longer accept. That’s in everyone’s grasp and it has been all along. They’ve just forgotten they have the option.” Her point delivered, Ursel sat back down, her legs unsteady.

The three Troubadours looked to each other in silent conference.

Then Bend Sinister turned to his drummer. “You are yourself once more. Think back to the person they made you, what you knew from that perspective. We were once welcomed by Wydeye, made legends in their tales, championed for our music. Then everything changed. For decades, they have hunted us, fuelled by a motive that evades us. We mean no harm, yet they demonise us. They persecute those who follow us. They appear relentless in their drive to destroy us. Why?”

The drummer took a deep breath, forcing himself back into the mind and memories of Dent Lore. He felt nauseous in that dark, distant place. “The Authority is ruled and the city controlled by the will of two people: Governor Blix and Wulfwin, her Chief of Command. Their motives appear aligned, but they are not. Wulfwin is intent on destroying you, the ‘Music Makers’, whom he despises without due cause or justification, other than the fact you have evaded capture thus far. It is a battle of win or lose, and he will not tolerate losing. Governor Blix is intent on destroying you because you threaten her grasp of absolute control – a delusion she obsessively strives to maintain. Neither will cease in the attempt. Blix, because while you exist, you remain, in her eyes, a potentially destabilising influence on the vulnerable masses. And Wulfwin, because he is evil incarnate; he is determined to win and will stop at nothing to do so.”

Once again, the Troubadours stood in silence, absorbing the assessment, formulating their own.

It was Pale