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

son, Headman Glade V, and by his daughter in turn, the Minstrels were always made to feel part of the community. The Troubadours’ itinerant past had been a necessity of circumstance. With no reason to leave, Wydeye became their home. Thus, the harmony remained for 152 years.

Then came the unexpected death of Headman Glade VI. With no natural heir to assume her position, the Glade dynasty, which had led the Court of Wydeye by the principles of fairness and equality for over a quarter millennium, came to an abrupt end.

When Councillor Morgan Wallace orchestrated a contentious election and declared himself State Governor, life in Wydeye changed beyond compare.

One of the more significant changes was the impact of his migrant workforce scheme, which led to a steady growth in population. This, coupled with his Three Child Initiative, ensured the headcount would continue to grow.

For the Troubadours and their players, a delicate balance had been disturbed, the harmony challenged. After the fair share over the last 150 years, there was now more than enough to go around.

Rejecting the ideal of balance based on equal measure, Saltire and Pale Dexter recognised an opportunity to seize control. They stepped up their efforts, enhancing their shows to attract the attention of newcomers to the city. This concerned Bend Sinister and Chief, who strived to restore harmony. Recognising their efforts were failing, Chief abandoned the attempt and began to compete. In time, and in the interests of his players, Bend Sinister felt compelled to do likewise.

Tension between the Troubadours grew, aggravated further by Governor Wallace and his new Authority’s cuts to arts and culture. Popular music venues were destroyed to make way for concrete high-rises, built to house the burgeoning population. Theatres were razed to the ground, clearing the way for vast furnaces and processing plants in what became the sprawling industrial Hundred of Coxen Lyme.

Scrabbling for places to perform and faced with citizens increasingly jaded by a creeping oppression, the dynamic of the Scene shifted. The Troubadours began warring among themselves. Meanwhile, they each knew they could not risk leaving Wydeye. It had taken them untold years to find an audience with whom they could connect; they doubted they would find such a home again.

With their harmonious balance destroyed, the Troubadours recognised they needed a leader among them to control the Scene. They agreed to compete against each other to determine who this should be. It was decided that the Troubadour who attracted the largest audience and, therefore, possessed the greatest influence, should become leader. A formidable Contest was held.

Victory fell to Saltire.

Over the decades that followed, resentment would rumble and the tension return. Periodically, Pale Dexter attempted to take advantage of the still-growing population and increase his influence. Each time, his efforts failed and Saltire retained her rule. She upheld the principle of fairness, long since lost from the Glade dynasty and the Wydeye of old.

Then came the Rideout Rebellion, the outlawing of live music and the Authority’s proclaimed hunt for the Music Makers.

The Troubadours knew they could not leave and risk losing the connection that was essential to their subsistence. Instead, the Scene was forced to retreat into the shadows and then, in time, to a life underground.

Mindful of the great risk to player and follower alike, Saltire declared that they each take it in turn to perform and that frequency should be determined according to the absolute minimum required to survive.

Then, one night, a vast swallow hole opened its maw, sucking Saltire and her players into the depths of the earth, lost forever.

Chapter Thirteen

The City was suffocating. The sultry air had become pea soup-thick. Fine sand hung heavy, creating a dense desert smog. Visibility was a measure of arm’s reach.

A dust cloud was forming. The citizens recognised the signs and dreaded the inevitable. Such a phenomenon was rare, but experience of the extreme left scar tissue. The exceptional felt wearily familiar.

Yet it wasn’t the dust cloud that compelled the citizens of Wydeye to draw closed their shutters and seek shelter in dark quarters. It wasn’t the clogged air that caused them to keep their heads down, eyes trained on the ground. They shuffled in silence, seeking anonymity through stealth like paranoid prey.

They knew the cross hairs could be trained on any one of them.

As the days following the raid passed, a lingering echo haunted the city. Deaf Squad troopers maintained an unequivocal presence, patrolling the underpass and loitering on street corners. Active Allears were up in number, raising questions as to whether they genuinely were listening as a precaution to avoid another Glos hole tragedy. Occasionally, Special Forces troopers would storm a café or kick down the door of a terrified family. Individuals were either arrested or beaten before petrified loved ones. They were the unlucky examples, randomly selected to demonstrate a point. The Authority was in control.

Relentless mandatory broadcasts reinforced the message in their motive: “Citizens of Wydeye, rules are for a reason. Those who break them must face the consequence. If you’re not with us, you’re against us. Think about it. Sharing is caring; visit the Exchange today if you know something we don’t. There’s something in it for you. Trust us. It’s the right thing to do. Workers of Wydeye…”

Murals were painted on the sides of buildings: huge concrete canvases, eye level with the Elevated, transformed into persuasive visual aids that proved impossible to ignore. A limited colour palette was maintained: red, white and black. Pointing fingers, accusing stares. Guilty secrets portrayed as rats. The script was consistent.

Outside the Exchange, the Wall of the Missing was extended by a new montage of photos. Citizens pinned ID card thumbnails of those detained by the Authority, along with statements declaring the innocence of the man, woman or child depicted. It had started with a handful of daring posts, demanding the release of whomever had been arrested. These demands were promptly removed by Exchange officials, although they left the accumulating pictures – an unintended source of pride. Over the subsequent days,