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

cost.” Pale Dexter turned to Chief. “Spare a thought for the captured. You have their suffering on your conscience. Can you feel the weight of their pain? Or are you still high?”

Chief stepped forward, fury in her stride.

Bend Sinister held out an arm to bar her way. He turned to Pale Dexter and said, “Enough. She had to play. You will too, in due course. This is who we are.”

“Survival demands we lack the luxury of choice. You know that,” said Chief to Pale Dexter, her tone trip-wire tight. “To witness the fear in their eyes when we heard the troops approach. To know what they risk in order to attend. This is not something I choose.”

“I said we should delay.”

“And I maintain I could not.”

The walls of the cramped cave appeared to close in as tension pulled at the space between them. Pale Dexter took a step backwards as if to counter the pull. “This is why we must resolve the question of succession. How can we proceed without a leader? Our stalemate sounds petulant; it is beneath us.”

“I agree,” said Chief. “We cooperate best under leadership. The sooner we agree a strategy, the better.”

“I still maintain we would do well to trial a more collegial model,” said Bend Sinister. “Although, I acknowledge the unfortunate irony in that. Two against one. I am out-voted. Pale Dexter, you’ve clearly given this much thought. How do you propose we address the issue? We’ve found ourselves in this situation only once before. That particular method of election is problematic in the light of recent events.”

“Regardless of that, I would be in favour of a Contest, as before.”

“What?” Chief glared at Pale Dexter. “Not a moment ago you had the mind to accuse me of putting my needs before the safety of others. You suggested the risks of performing outweighed my requirements to survive. Now you want to escalate that risk tenfold with an event that will undoubtedly lead to our capture? An interesting contradiction, wouldn’t you say?”

“Chief is right,” said Bend Sinister. “A Contest is far too dangerous. There is no way we would be able to contain the sound. It was different before. We were free to play where and when we chose. Such an event is out of the question.”

“Out of the question? Where’s your democracy now?” said Pale Dexter.

The two Troubadours squared up to each other, eyes locked in defiance.

Bend Sinister broke away and sat on a rock, his right hand touching the small tattoo on his cheek. “We should at least explore alternatives. There must be other methods for selection.”

“What might they be, exactly? A dubious campaign pledging the predictable? Fair rule. Equal opportunity to play. Protection from the powers that be. Then what? The three of us vote on it?” Pale Dexter sneered. “I’ve a good memory, you know. You two share a history of joining forces.”

Chief looked to the ceiling and spoke as if thinking aloud. “We are without an objective judge. Our players and followers bear allegiance to one of us. Those not already bound by loyalty are, by definition, not part of the Scene.” She sighed and shook her head, dreads swaying like charmed snakes. “The magnitude of risk should preclude it, but I can think of no other way.” She looked at Bend Sinister, shoulders raised.

Bend Sinister remained silent, his fingers tracing lines along the limestone rock on which he sat. His mind searched for a solution. Possibilities appeared like oases in an arid desert, only to reveal themselves as illusory mirages once examined from all sides. His efforts proved fruitless, yet he would not surrender.

Eventually, he stood up and addressed his counterparts. “I admit, I am unable to propose an alternative. However, I maintain that a Contest is too great a risk. While we still have the luxury of choice, let us take a while and reflect further. If, after a week, we are unable to suggest a viable alternative, then we open dialogue on the Contest. Are you both agreed?”

“Yes,” said Chief.

Pale Dexter snorted and held up his hands.

“I’ll take that as unanimous assent. Meanwhile, the fact remains we have to be able to perform, regardless of the outcome of our deliberations. In a few months’ time, it will be your turn, Pale Dexter. I say we concentrate on working together, find ways to make conditions safer. Unfortunately, this is one area in which we have no choice.”

Pale Dexter’s face twitched. He turned to Bend Sinister, arms wide. “Make the conditions safer? How exactly? We have already sacrificed daylight for a life underground. As the years have passed, we’ve retreated deeper into these caves. We live like bats, afraid to emerge into the light. Buried fugitives. What life is this?”

“What are you saying?”

“That we’ve hidden ourselves away for long enough. There will come a point when we can retreat no further. So why not leave? Start again somewhere new? And, in light of our leadership debate, perhaps depart and go our separate ways.”

Chief stared at Pale Dexter, eyes wide.

“You know we can’t do that,” said Bend Sinister.

“We haven’t tried for two centuries. Times change. For all we know, our chances could be different now.”

– Two hundred years ago

On a sun-scorched day, two hundred years ago, four groups of strangers entered the humble settlement of Wydeye. The townsfolk regarded them with caution, wary of their bizarre attire and foreign features. The strangers had appeared from different directions: one group from the north, one from the south, one from the east and one from the west. Although they entered the town on the same day, at the very same moment, they were not known to each other. Each of the groups looked to one among them: a Troubadour, who stepped forward and spoke on their behalf. Their names were Bend Sinister, Pale Dexter, Saltire and Chief.

Recognising that the visitors posed no threat to the peace of the town, the Chief of Wydeye, Headman Glade IV, welcomed the strangers and bid them tell their tales