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

We depend on our followers. We cannot survive without them. If we were to leave Wydeye, we face the real, catastrophic risk of failing to connect elsewhere. That is a scenario informed by experience, not speculation. I know I don’t need to remind you of what we endured, how close we came to expiring, before we found Wydeye. We must continue to have faith that one day the regime will change. It has done so once before. The Wydeye of old was a peaceful, halcyon era. I reject the argument that such harmony can never be achieved again.”

“It was different then,” said the bassist. “We can’t get it back.”

“My hope lies not in the past, but in the future. In the potential for change.” He sat upright, pushing his shoulders back. “I say this with conviction. I absolutely believe leaving Wydeye poses the greater threat. And abstaining from the Contest is not an option, despite the danger it puts us in. Absit omen. We can only hope the event will pass without incident and we can all move beyond the question of leader.”

“But we still need to play to survive. The danger won’t end with the Contest.”

“That is why we must each manage our fears. When they claim constancy in our lives, we must live beside them, yet not be controlled by them. I look to our followers and think of the danger they, too, are in when they come to see us play. They risk everything. Yet they still come back.”

At this Bend Sinister rose, opening wide his arms. “So come, let us be led by their example. There is much to do. We have a Contest to prepare for.”

–

Overground, Ursel weaved through Drayloc Market, bound for The Raven. She had only walked a few hundred yards from the tramway terminus, but already the bandana tied over her mouth bore a dark, damp circle. The dust cloud was thickening.

Drayloc Market looked unearthly in the dense desert smog. Citizens were reduced to hunched shapes and shadows. Determined barkers hollered their wares through scarves, their spiel muffled and remote. Smoke from food-stall braziers formed a smudge of grey upon orange. Goats hung their heads, eyes closed, sneezing.

An Allear Unit marched past, the majority accustomed to the lack of visibility.

The rare weather conditions exacerbated the discomfort already felt from the sultry heat. Skin, damp from perspiration, was perpetually gritted with fine sand. Many citizens had resorted to shaving their heads, unable to endure itching scalps from dust-clogged hair.

It was late afternoon. Ursel had just finished her shift at the iron refinery in Coxen Lyme. With a brief window of freedom before her evening performance, she had decided to stop for a drink at The Raven, recently reopened after extensive post-raid repairs. As she approached the bar, she noticed a familiar face to her left, seated in a dark recess. “A Kitson and a lemon seltzer, please,” she said to the barman. Once served, she carried the drinks over to the man in the shadows. “Mind if I join you?” she asked, with a kind, familiar smile.

Cole looked up, surprised. “Ursel. Good to see you,” he said. “Please do.” He pulled out a stool opposite him. Ursel placed the Kitson beside his near-empty glass. “That’s kind. Thank you.”

“I figure you’ve earnt it,” she said in a half-whisper. “On your own?”

“Yes. Need to muster some courage. I’ve just received news that Evan’s not going to like.”

Ursel raised an eyebrow.

Cole switched tracks. “It’s dead in here. I think people are still staying away.”

They both looked around the room, which was short of a few tables and chairs lost to unreplaced breakages. The place was quiet; a dozen or so people perched in corners or shadowed alcoves.

Maintaining his idle observation of their surroundings, Cole dropped his voice and said, “I’m glad you made it back okay. I know a lot who didn’t.”

“Any word on them?” she asked, mimicking his feigned nonchalance, a counterpoint to the strain in their voices.

“Only rumours. Interrogation, torture, no trial. The usual.”

A silence pooled between them, thoughts having turned to all-too-familiar impressions of horror. Followers knew the score, knew the risks and the high price they commanded. The fact they believed the risks were worth taking did not make the consequences bearable. They just mutually acknowledged there was nothing meaningful to be said in such moments. Cole and Ursel sipped their drinks in silent outrage.

Eventually, Cole spoke. “It won’t end there.”

“What do you mean?” said Ursel, unable now to resist looking straight at him.

“I guess I’m as safe to tell you in here as outside.” He rested his chin on his hand so that his fingers almost covered his mouth. “I’ve just been underground. I was summoned.” Ursel stared, struggling to freeze her face to mask her reaction. “There’s going to be a Contest. To elect a new leader. I’m to start work on Bluemantle straight away.” He looked into her eyes. “We need to put the word out. People aren’t going to expect an event so soon; they might not think to look out for a drop. But the news has to reach every single follower of the Scene. This is the most important event the Troubadours have ever held. We can’t have followers too afraid to attend.”

Ursel swallowed hard and nodded. The original Contest was the subject of legend – a dramatic climax immortalised in The Travelling Minstrels. No follower ever imagined such an event would ever happen again. Then came Saltire’s death. Ursel realised that it hadn’t occurred to her Saltire’s position would need to be filled.

The implications flooded her mind in a riptide of realisation. This is huge, she thought. And, in the wake of the raid, the risks were higher than they had ever been. The Authority’s anger and frustration were not a matter of speculation; the radio broadcasts and ubiquitous murals reinforced the fact.

“I take it you can’t tell me when and where?”

“SOP, you know that. I’ll distribute on Saturday. Then you’ll find out.”

“What can I