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

think it was. Euphoric. Need another dose now that the buzz has worn off?”

“No!” He felt the frustration rise, fought to keep it in check. “Look, I’ve been thinking about the last time we met. You were right to be angry. I don’t blame you. I wasn’t talking sense. My mind was all over the place. Probably the adrenalin and dehydration. I was a mess. Ursel has tried to explain it to me since and none of it makes sense. The Scene’s trouble; I’m with you on that. So, it’s not because I want to see another show. Honest to crow. It’s not that at all.”

“Then what is it? Because it doesn’t stack up. Not when there are options. There’s got to be more to it.”

Chase dropped his eyes and toyed with the edge of the table. He took his time to choose the right words – weighing them out, then arranging them in order, constructing sense. “It’s because of Brann. Because of what I couldn’t do for him. I felt helpless then. Powerless. I swore I’d never let myself be in that position again – standing by, unable to intervene. You’re right. This time I have options. Whether or not it’s the right thing to do, I have the opportunity to act, to have some control over things. I can go there, speak to Wella, try to bring her back. If I don’t at least try and the A takes her, I’ll never forgive myself.” He stood up as if to leave. “I came here to explain my decision. I have to do this, Naylor. I hope you understand.”

Slowly, Naylor rose. He said nothing. He just put his arms around his friend and held him close.

–

As night drew in, the dust cloud turned a darkening grey. The streets in the curfew zones were deserted. The arms of Five Wents and the expanse of the Pentagon, ordinarily packed late on a Saturday night, were equally desolate. Silence cloaked the city, broken only by wails from fighting feral cats and the bleating of sleepless goats.

Gas lamps burnt on the Pentagon’s periphery. They flickered behind shuttered apertures of cowering quarters and glowed through the glazed windows throughout the Authority Complex.

Sleep overcame the work-weary. Between dreams came moments of peace.

By dawn of the new day, eight children had disappeared from their beds.

Chapter Fourteen

“It has been a week,” said Bend Sinister. He stood before Chief and Pale Dexter, forming a wide triangle in the centre of one of the mountain’s deepest caves. The air was cold – a sympathetic companion to the chilled relations between the Troubadours. Behind each of them stood their players. “We have each had time to reflect on alternative options for determining Saltire’s successor. Have either of you a proposal you would like to share?”

Pale Dexter spoke first. “Despite what you might assume, I have given the matter much thought. Whilst I acknowledge the severity of risk involved, I still maintain that a Contest is the only appropriate and meaningful method of determining a new leader.”

Behind him, his players nodded their assent.

Chief cocked an eyebrow. “When we last discussed the issue, you made reference to the option of departure. Does leaving no longer appeal? Are you not tired of living like bats?”

Pale Dexter winced. “As I have said, I have given due consideration to all alternatives, leaving Wydeye among them. I have ruled this out.”

“On what grounds?”

“You know full well.”

“But times change, do they not?” said Chief, suppressing a sardonic smile.

“Enough,” said Bend Sinister. “I think we can all agree that leaving, however desirable, is not an option we have the luxury of pursuing.” He raised his eyebrows. “Chief. Do you have any viable alternatives to the option of Contest?”

Chief looked from Pale Dexter to Bend Sinister. “I believe we came close to capture when I last played. The safety of our players and our followers is the greatest responsibility we bear. Yet, truly, I can conceive of no other way. We must all have trust in the process in order for the outcome to be meaningful. If I am to respect and obey a leader, then a Contest is the only way that individual can be determined.” Their faces grave, Chief’s players nodded their support. “And what of your thoughts, Bend Sinister? You were the one opposed to the motion.”

Bend Sinister looked behind him at his bassist, guitarist and keyboard player. He met their eyes in turn and found what he sought. He turned back around and addressed his counterparts. “I am without a solution. I maintain that we would do well to refrain from establishing a successor. I have faith we have the intelligence and mutual respect to cooperate in harmony without the need for hierarchy. However, I touch on old ground here; you have both made your position clear. Therefore, it is with reluctance and trepidation that I concede to the proposal. Election by Contest would seem the only method with the required integrity.” He dropped his head and stepped backwards, his players by his side.

“It’s decided then,” said Pale Dexter, unable to hide a triumphant smile. “While our players are here, we should agree on a date. I see no value in delaying. The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I agree we should set a date,” said Chief, “if only to give Bluemantle sufficient time to disseminate the message. We need word to reach as many followers as possible, including those loyal to Saltire who are yet to form a new allegiance.”

“And I see no benefit in rushing when the cost of haste could be the end of us all,” said Bend Sinister. “There is more work to be done on our defences, deeper caves to be explored.”

“We’ve spent the last week doing exactly that,” said Pale Dexter. “We’ve blocked old entrances, excavated new. We’ve retreated deeper than ever before. We’ve established new performance caves with multiple escape routes. That’s if they even detect the sound. We are so deep, the rock so