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

“Still, it’s a risk. We should find Wella and leave.”

“Look, I told you when and where. We came alone. You’re here for Wella. I’m here for the Contest. For Chief. I’m not leaving until the show’s over. Besides, the risk is an unavoidable consequence of a choice already made. It’s a price I’m willing to pay.”

“But the A—”

“Least of all because of the A. I will not let them deny me my freedom.”

“They will destroy it if they catch you.”

“Let them try.” She stared hard into his eyes, daring him to push her further.

Flustered and frustrated, Chase stared back. He saw his options narrow, his so-called ‘plan’ unmasked for what it was: a self-centred illusion of how to get his own way. Why am I even here? he thought, watching the gaps in his narrative render his whole conceit unstable. I used Ursel to get me here and I still expected her to leave with me? He had felt a connection, had dared to consider it might be mutual. Then he thought of Wella, their relationship coolly benign at best. There’s no way I’ll persuade either of them… What was I thinking?

Seeing, but misreading, his hesitation, Ursel softened. “Look. Tonight is special. And not just because of the Contest. Cole sacrificed everything to invite us here.” She faltered and looked down. Then, taking a deep breath, she raised her head, determination lighting her eyes. “You’ve made it this far. That’s half the danger gone, right there. The other half is getting home. It makes no odds if you face it once you’ve spoken to Wella or at the end of the show. You may as well make the most of the time in between and discover something important. Maybe even learn something, too.” She took his hand and led him back to the line. “Come on, or we’ll end up at the back.”

–

Deep in the bowels of Lyun Mountain, the towering peak of Nanso Heights, the stages were set. A central cavern offered the choice of three passageways, each one leading to a vast cave, dimly lit by gas lamps and their reflection off sweat-drenched bodies. The air was warm and damp, hazy above the heads of the gathering crowd. At one end of each cave was a performance platform, on which the players’ gear was set up. Eager eyes scanned the darkness behind the platforms, searching for signs of movement that could signal the Troubadours’ arrival.

The atmosphere was charged with anticipation. Everyone knew this was an extraordinary event. Despite not knowing the intricacies of the Troubadours’ peculiar politics, they grasped enough to appreciate the gravity of the occasion. The scale of the stakes. The prize at the end.

Before them, cloaked in shadow, waited the Troubadours and their players, instruments in hand, clad in their characteristic attire. Chief and her players wore patches of grey, leather-strapped and sleek, with androgynous faces and silvered hair. Pale Dexter and his players wore leather trousers and vest shirts, their bare arms a canvas for complex tattoos. Bend Sinister and his players wore black.

Bend Sinister bowed his head and closed his eyes, focusing his mind on the buzz beyond the shadow’s cover. All day he had been preoccupied with thoughts of Saltire, Bluemantle and the coming Contest. He had long since moved beyond fear and the threat of capture. The risks were a given; no amount of dwelling on the fact could influence their scale. Stoic resignation had released him from that concern. What remained was still in the balance. The future.

He knew his opportunity to shape what that future may hold hinged entirely on his performance during the next few hours. He harnessed the thought, channelling energy from its roots in fear and anticipation. Then he relished the hunger, craved the feast that he would soon make manifest. Fired up and alive from the inside out, he held up his head and opened his eyes. He was ready to play.

Chase and Ursel entered Chief’s cave and stood amid the crowd, arrested by the palpable atmosphere commanding the space. “I will be in here,” said Ursel. “We’ll find Wella now. After that, do as you like. But this is where I’ll be staying.” She led them back up the artery through which they had arrived. “The Troubadours are about to come on. Which means Wella will be out in the crowd, down there,” she said, pointing at the third passageway. They hurried down it, entering the cave just as Bend Sinister took to the stage.

The gas lamps went out, the amplifiers crackled and the crowd roared. Bend Sinister grasped the microphone and said in a calm, deep voice, “We play to live and to remember what it means to live. Come, join us. Together we can raise hope above the limits of a dream.”

From the first strike of the guitar and the thunderous rumble of bass, the crowd were captivated. People surged towards the stage, arms raised, faces beaming. The energy radiating from the stage penetrated their flesh and ignited their souls, rousing a passion and fervour that rivalled the players’. The music was powerful and charged with intent – a potent mirroring of the exchange taking place.

Chase stared at the stage, utterly entranced.

Ursel glimpsed him and smiled, unsurprised. She watched his face, which had become animated and bewitched; she saw the muscles relax and reform into an expression of joy. She withdrew from his side, leaving him oblivious as to her departure, and hurried off in search of Wella. She knew time would fly; she had to find Wella so that she could return to Chief and her own escape through rapture.

–

Overground, in pockets of reluctant association, the diametric mood hung heavy. Family members lit candles for the Deep, pleading for the safe return of loved ones. Friends of suspected followers peered through shuttered apertures, dreading signs of action that might spell detection.

Naylor stood on guard, seventy-eight floors up, scanning the sprawling