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

“No one. She said it was a secret. Should’ve told me. The fucking bitch.”

“No one knows? Only you?”

“Only me. And I’m gonna kill him.”

Chapter Forty-One

This time it was the drummer’s idea that he return to the city. The man who had been Dent Lore was once again clad in Forces-issue fatigues, courtesy of the insensible Chief of Command. He sat astride Wulfwin’s field bike, pushing the engine to its limit, racing towards Wydeye. As he swerved left and right, between boulder and brush, he fought to resurrect that other consciousness. For the last time, he swore to himself. Then Dent is dead.

Bend Sinister hadn’t wanted him to go, had insisted the risks outweighed the reward. Even when his drummer had pushed the plan, arguing that it was necessary to help Ursel’s scheme succeed, Bend Sinister had resisted.

“They don’t know the truth about me,” the drummer had said. “Worst-case scenario is they just don’t listen. But while they don’t know who I am, it’s got to be worth a try. And anyway, I’m confident they will listen.”

He had stood before the three Troubadours on the edge of the camp. A short distance away, several of Chief’s players maintained the continuous lullaby before a recumbent Wulfwin, locking him in blissful catatonia. They had moved away from the camp to avoid over exposure of the Troubadours’ retinue who, they feared, could be equally mesmerised by the uninterrupted performance. The players had also taken the precaution of binding Wulfwin’s arms and legs, although it was proving unnecessary. He lay on the ground, his head propped up against a tree, stupefied.

“What makes you so sure?” Pale Dexter had said.

“Because without Blix and Wulfwin telling them what to do, they’re incapable of making a decision. The Authority may appear to exert great power and control, but it rests entirely in the hands of those two individuals, now absent. The remaining chain of command is an empty gesture. Left to their own devices, the Council will be floundering, unable to act without instruction.”

“That still doesn’t account for why they’ll listen to you,” said Chief. “Whilst I applaud your courage, I fail to see how your return can make a difference.”

“If Ursel’s plan is working and the walkout is gaining traction, then the Council will be forced to act. If productivity is compromised, they’ll recognise they have no choice. It’s the benchmark for stability. Maintained output powers the machine; a dip could stall it completely. Yet despite this, no one will have the courage to make a decision, not while there are ten other people in the room who could do the honours. They’ve forgotten how. Cue Allear Commander Dent Lore.”

The argument had swayed Pale Dexter and Chief. When it was put to a vote, Bend Sinister’s objections were overruled. His drummer offered solemn assurances of caution before withdrawing to pack supplies and prepare for the trip.

For his plan to work, the drummer had to dress as an Authority trooper once more – a prospect that left him sick with abhorrence. A couple of followers had stripped the oblivious Wulfwin of his fatigues, replacing them with a loose grey tunic. It was then that they discovered the map stuffed inside a pocket – the incompatible chart of lands unknown.

Before leaving, the drummer had sat beside Ursel. He wrote on the notepad, “If I don’t return, I beg that the truth perish with me. I would rather die a thousand times than have a follower discover who I had become. I cannot bring shame to the name of Bend Sinister. I have no right to ask anything of you, yet I ask you this. Please, let this part of the story remain untold.”

She read the words, shaking her head. “You carry these burdens of guilt and shame unnecessarily. You are not the same person. You are not to blame.”

“I wish that were true,” he wrote. “But in going back, I hope to make some small amends. So please, can you do this for me?”

“I give you my word.”

Finally, he had taken leave of Bend Sinister, saying, “I am sorry that I do this against your wishes. But please know, it is for you that I go. For all of us here. And for all those still persecuted in Wydeye for choosing to follow. I have faith I will succeed. Please, forgive me. And trust I shall return.”

Bend Sinister held him firmly by the shoulders and squared his own. “You go with my blessing. Be safe. And mind you do come back.”

As he sped through the wilds, the map in his pack, he forced himself to think only of the Authority and the detestable dogma of Governor Blix. He dredged the depths of his consciousness and found the remains of their creation.

Skin crawling under skin, he became Dent Lore once more.

–

Amid the cover of the crowd, Chase grew in confidence. WatcherCams buzzed overhead; troopers stared from the periphery. He ignored them, keeping his head down, blending with the movement around him, his eyes straining through the prescription glasses. He listened intently, catching snippets of hushed conversation.

“…says the tramways are fucked. No drivers…”

“…first time since Rideout. Never thought I’d see the day…”

“…like something’s gonna happen. You can feel it…”

“…that’s why they’re not doing anything. It’s like they know…”

The gathering citizens had grown in confidence too, buoyed by the scale, the comradery and the heady buzz of defiance.

As he left Glade Park and headed north-west, through the Pentagon, the atmosphere changed. Citizens still on the fence, or crouching behind it, loitered around Five Wents like nervous dogs. They flinched at passing troopers, anticipating the start of the end through a lens of terror. Those who had witnessed Rideout felt their scars tear open – old wounds turned fresh and bleeding.

It was already noon. The sun was at its peak, reducing shade to washed-out slithers of relief. Chase walked up First Went, which would normally be busy by that hour, its stalls and cafés drawing