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

hid in a dilapidated goat shed on the verge of Darlem Fields. The air was rancid, a noxious blend of stale straw, rotting vegetable matter and goats’ piss. His two bleating companions stared at him through button-hole eyes. Exhausted, Chase lay curled up on straw. His intention had been to sleep for an hour or so, but the stench and the heat denied him the rest he craved.

He had been on the move since he left the Telltale Circus the previous evening. With a surveillance order on him, the tramway was out of the question. He knew that if he was going to make the Contest without being followed, he would have to get there on foot and by the most discreet route possible. After several lengthy detours, including a loop through the agricultural district of Wickerwild, his confidence that he was off radar had begun to grow.

There was still a great distance to travel. In order to reach the Nanso Heights, he had to head west, beyond the city’s limits. He could not travel north, in the straight line that would lead him directly to his destination. Between him and the Contest was Cinder Hill – residential district of the A elite. Before that, Glos – temporary home to every Allear and Deaf Squad trooper in Wydeye.

Hiding behind closed eyes, Chase rehearsed his impossible plan for the hundredth time. He had no idea if it would work. In the absence of a viable alternative, he had decided to reject doubt and risk all in the attempt. This was because everything had changed. It was no longer about his trade with the A for a price paid years ago. It was no longer about his mission to unravel the Scene. It wasn’t even about Wella anymore. By striving for all of that, he had placed Ursel in danger. Ursel, who had stirred something in him, something nebulous he had yet to name. An unconscious reaction that left an aftertaste of self-realisation – the acid burn of guilt and shame.

He touched the scar above his left shoulder and suffered the pain of discovery.

His plan was desperate. It would not make amends. If he was lucky, it might limit the damage caused by what he had already done.

–

As Ursel rode the railmotor on her circuitous route to the Contest, she gave no thought to consequence. Instead, she relished the prospect of what was to come. She hungered for the communion, the relief of being surrounded by people who thought and felt the same. It was the only time and place where she could be true to herself.

For followers of the Scene, life was a lie. Overground was a deception, both in terms of the Authority’s narrative and the fact that followers had to appear to align themselves with it. Denial became a detested means of survival. Yet their commitment would not waiver, no matter the risk. They knew the truth; no amount of danger could undermine that knowledge. They also knew the reward. Despite the cost, what they gained by attending an event transcended everything.

Underground, followers relished the freedom.

Underground was honesty.

Only there could Ursel be herself: Hydrie Eursella Lindel, Chief follower and music lover.

–

The sand-clogged gloaming lent the Heights an eerie shroud.

Chase crouched behind a jutting rock, his chest heaving. Ahead, shadows shuffled in silent line. Which are they? he thought. Deciding in favour of followers over the A, he crept forward and merged with the line. The people around him turned in alarm. Chase nodded briefly and crafted a smile, wondering too late if there was some secret sign. The man closest to him returned the smile and placed his hand on Chase’s shoulder. The pilgrims looked ahead, climbing the final stretch of overground.

As dusk gave way to a murky darkness, the vertiginous horizon loomed black above them. Ahead, followers gradually disappeared – a point of extinction edging ever closer until it reached Chase. He, too, slipped between folds of stone, into the mountain and then down, underground.

The stream of followers splayed and contracted according to the width of passageways. Chase pressed forward, weaving past men and women, young and old, repeatedly whispering his one-word question. “Ursel?” He was met with silent replies: a head shake, or shoulder shrug, or a mouthed ‘sorry’. Eventually, a young woman nodded and pointed ahead. Chase felt his stomach tumble and his heart quicken. He hurried forward, offering silent apologies to those he passed.

“Ursel,” he said in barely a whisper. He reached out and touched her shoulder.

Ursel turned her head. Recognising Chase, she smiled openly, eyes bright in the darkness. “You made it,” she whispered as he fell in step beside her. “Clean tail?”

“I would’ve turned back if I had any doubt. I promise.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, matching the caution of everyone around them. As they dropped deeper into karstic subterrain, periodic gas lamps illuminated their way. The undulating passage delicately danced with the lights’ faint flicker, shadows bobbing as the followers descended. At intervals, caves opened up before them: fishbowls of space in which some followers lingered, waiting for friends back down the line.

It was in one of these that Chase pulled Ursel to one side. He noticed her make-up, kohl heavy yet subtle; her tunic, short and black with the Chief emblem he recognised from before; her buckled boots, dusty from the long hike. “We need a plan,” he whispered, his tone urgent. “Once we’re in there, we might get split up. Or the music might, you know, distract.” He tried to curb the adrenalin and remain focused. “I need you to take me to Wella. Not go off and find her first. Take me with you.”

“Okay. Then what?”

“Then I think we should leave.”

“What?”

“Escape. Before the A strike.”

“They’re not going to find us, Chase.”

“You must’ve seen them today.”

“Parading for effect. Besides, it’s no different to last time. Only, this time we’ll be deeper. With half a mile of solid rock above us, there’s no way they’ll hear the