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

“Because it’s not about breaking the law. It’s not about defiance.” She paused, rubbing her right shoulder, above her absent arm. “It’s about the music.”

“For fuck’s sake,” hissed Chase, banging the table with his fist. “You don’t flirt with torture because you like a few songs.”

“You don’t understand. You’re so full of the A’s spoon-fed prejudice. You can’t judge if you’ve never been to an event. This is the trust part, okay? I know what I’m talking about.”

Naylor turned to Chase. “Hear her out. She’s our only lead.”

Chase downed the remainder of his Kitson, then sat back, jaws clenched.

Ursel watched him, noticed the flush in his face, the anger in his eyes. Finally she said, “Wella is my friend. With or without you, I’ll find her, make sure she’s alright. I’ll attend the next event. If I’m right and she’s there, I can’t promise I can persuade her to come back. But at least you’ll know she’s alive and she’s where she wants to be.”

“Why do we have to wait? Why can’t we go now? Where the crow is it anyway?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Everyone involved is committed to its preservation. Secrecy is a necessity. Besides, it’s transient to avoid detection. I honestly have no idea where it is right now.”

“Ha! This is ridiculous. How are you going to find her then?”

“As I said, I’ll attend the next event.”

“Even though you don’t know when or where it is?”

“No, I don’t. But I know how to find out.”

–

As Ursel rode the railmotor, she sensed a tension in the trailer – the contagious influence of intimidation. Passengers didn’t look out at the vast concrete structures in uniform grey. Instead, they looked down at the streets below, catching glimpses of Allears. Then they searched for attendant Deaf Squad – the signal that a sound had been detected.

Before, that sound had meant a potential event, which, in turn, signalled a raid. The terror of past raids remained like a wound that would not heal. The brutality, whether suffered or witnessed, caused citizens to flinch and cower at the sight of a Deaf Squad trooper.

Now? The broadcasts had been clear on the reason for their presence. Terror levels intensified. Passengers pictured the hole in Glos. Their pallor blended with the buildings before them.

Immune to the contagion, Ursel stared ahead at the concrete office blocks of the Messam, imagining fresh air and the sweet scent of bava blossom in place of stale body odour and burning coke. She tried to close her ears to the in-trailer speakers, broadcasting Authority messages in a Mobius monologue: “…confidence in your safety. Citizens of Wydeye, help us help you. You have ears too. For the sake of us all, share what you hear. Rent reductions, target adjustment, pharmaceutical relief; the Exchange has the price that’s right for you. Good citizens, fear not…”

Eventually the railmotor approached Standings Cross, skirting the green and orange spectacle of the big top. Ursel always found the sudden splash of colour striking, even though she had spent her whole life at the Telltale Circus. It wasn’t just the notion of home, she thought. It was the absence of permanence, the relief of choice. The Circus hadn’t ceased to be a travelling theatre just because the troupe had failed to move on for so long. Their sense of freedom lay in having the option.

Instead of alighting at her usual stop, she rode the tramway to the end of the line, Old Wydeye Town. Climbing out of the trailer, she descended the iron stairwell and sought shade in the narrow, cobbled streets.

Old Wydeye Town was in stark contrast to the rest of the city. The site of the original settlement, the buildings were made from hand-carved limestone, all single or two-storey with flat roofs. Much of the life of the Old Town occurred at roof level, on which were private residential terraces and goat pens, alongside public roofs filled with Ribatchi game tables, cushioned story corners and makeshift stalls selling food and drink, home crafts, books and fabrics. Precarious wooden platforms and rope ladders connected the buildings, making it possible to cross from one end of the Old Town to the other without touching the ground.

At street level, the narrow lanes were dark, cramped and oppressively humid. Ursel zigzagged through the lanes, occasionally glancing over her shoulder. Convinced that she had not been followed, she switched back and stopped before a squat building she had passed some time before. She knocked hard, three times, a pause, then twice more. The door creaked open and she stepped inside.

An elderly man, bent over a crooked cane, stood before her. “How may I help you?” he said.

“The crow flies low over Glade Park.” She had spoken these words to the man so many times before; she knew he recognised her. Yet this was the form, and such caution was warranted. The person she had come to see risked his life for the cause. Security and secrecy were survival’s armour.

“He’s in the basement,” said the old man, gesturing the way.

Ursel stepped forward towards a wooden cupboard built into a recess in the stone wall. She opened a door at its base and pulled out a hat box stuffed with balls of wool. Beneath where it had stood was a trap door, barely noticeable amid the ancient floorboards. Ursel ran her hand along one end, feeling for a slight lip, under which she wedged her fingers. Struggling slightly with her one hand, she pulled up the trap door, crawled into the cupboard and slipped through the opening. Her feet found the wooden ladder that led her down to the basement.

The space below was cramped and dark, dimly lit by a couple of gas lamps fixed to the damp stone walls. A man was sat at a desk, pecking a typewriter with his two index fingers. He looked up as Ursel climbed down the ladder, then promptly returned to his task.

Ursel stepped up to him, wary