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

and sighed. “I’m glad you think it’s such a big ask. Gives me confidence. I’ll give you a few hours to think about it. Let me know when you’ve made your decision.” She turned her head and looked at Chase, broken, on the chair. “And just so you know, if you refuse to tell Brann, we’re through. You can stay here for a few days, let the dust settle. But I will leave. And, this time, I won’t come back.”

–

When Wella led Brann out of the hide, Chase was left alone to endure the sting of self-loathing. He sat at the table, head in hands. It had been the most painful ten minutes of his life.

Wella returned and sat on the lower bunk in silence.

“He hates me,” said Chase, gut-sick.

“Yes, for now. But he’ll get over it.”

“I doubt it.”

“Quit feeling sorry for yourself. He’s disappointed in you. Feels betrayed. But now’s your chance to make amends. So, drag yourself out of that hole of self-pity and pull yourself together.”

“I did it for him—”

“Enough, Chase. That might have been your reason to begin with. That doesn’t account for the subsequent fifteen years.” She stood up, arms folded. “You fucked up. Admit it. And now put it behind you. Atonement can be found in what you do from here on in.”

“That’s why you’ve got to let me go with you. I did what you asked. You said.”

“I know. But Chase, they’ve got Watchers on you. Eyes on the ground. Whilst you may not betray the Troubadours yourself, leading the A directly to them is just as bad.”

“I’ll shave my head. Or wear a wig. I’ll go in disguise. We could go through the woods again, back the way we came. Skirt the city altogether.”

“It’ll take us all day to get there.”

“Please. How can I help if I’m trapped in here?”

Wella rubbed her forehead, her eyes glazed in the process of option-weighing. “You can help, in time. Just not with this.”

“But you said—”

“Trust doesn’t come overnight. And my loyalty is to the Troubadours. There are rules in place to protect them. I’m not about to break those rules just because you decide to stamp your feet and insist on proving a point. Stop for a second and think about what it is you’re asking. To them, Cole was Bluemantle. And Bluemantle is crucial to their survival. So no, Chase. Not this time.” He was about to interrupt, but she held up her hand. “I acknowledge what you’ve just done in telling Brann, how hard it was. And I know why you did it. So, I’m telling you, I’m on board. We work together. We’ll find a way to help Ursel. You’ll have to play a part in that. But going underground? No. This is where it works both ways, big brother. I’m asking you to trust me.”

–

Dusk was yielding to darkness by the time Wella reached the Nanso Heights. The temperature had dropped slightly, but the air remained sultry and dust-clogged.

Her journey through the city had been a trial. It was forty-eight hours since the Contest and the Authority’s intimidating presence on Wydeye’s streets remained pervasive. Taking a circuitous route, Wella had managed to avoid attention until she met a Deaf Squad roadblock on the approach to Westgate Arch. A chance encounter and offer of a ride with a carter she knew saved her. He was bald and burly, with a small tattoo, peeping through stubble, on his left cheek. When they were ordered to halt, the carter did the talking, presenting bona-fide papers for his cargo of scrap metal. Wella, donning the low-brimmed hat the carter had lent her, stared ahead, feigning nonchalance.

When they had safely passed through and were out of sight, the carter pulled up. Wella jumped to the ground, reaching up to shake his hand. “Thank you.”

“Be safe,” he said, smiling. With a brief nod of his head and brush of his cheek, he called to his goats to trot on.

Once outside the city’s limits, Wella had hiked the remaining distance off-road and unseen. Constantly glancing over her shoulder, she had scaled the lower Heights, grateful for the failing light. Eventually, she reached a barely perceptible fissure in the flank of Lyun Mountain. She slipped through the crack and disappeared.

Underground had become her home long before her permanent move there nearly a month ago. She passed through the limestone arteries with warm familiarity, heart-bound haemoglobin. She relished the soundtrack of dripping water and the percussive echo of her footfall.

The sounds distracted her from thoughts of Chase, which had laid claim to her mind since his admission. His confession to Brann had served its purpose, bringing partial relief. Yet, she still felt disgust at his betrayal. Trust would be a long time in coming – forgiveness possibly never.

The descent into the depths of the mountain was long; yet, as she neared the sanctuary of Bend Sinister’s camp, her spirits revived. Her loyalty had always been to Bend Sinister since her first visit to the Scene. When she’d moved underground, she had become one of only a handful of followers who had made the commitment to work for them as part of their retinue. She knew she would never be able to enjoy the same protection as the players themselves. However, the high risk was her lowest consideration. Her allegiance had become a calling; her life in the Scene far more fulfilling than the one she had endured overground.

The confidence that had propelled her through the city waivered once she reached her destination. This was not the way of things. You didn’t just knock and ask to speak to a Troubadour. There were protocols. Conventions to observe. Will he agree to see me? she now thought. Without prior request and appointment? As she faltered before his bunker, the deepest, most fortified of his camps, she began to doubt herself. Then she remembered why she was there and forged confidence out of necessity.

She picked up a rock that lay at the foot