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

of a narrow opening and struck the limestone wall four times. Silence, then soft sounds approached: cautious steps on stone, breathing from beyond the aperture’s shadow.

“It’s Wella,” she whispered.

“Wella!” A face appeared, then a body, stepping out from the crack to embrace her. A young man, head shaved, wearing khaki shorts and sandals.

Wella returned the embrace, her anxiety abating. “Estrin. It’s good to see you.”

Like Wella, Estrin had forsaken life overground to work for the Scene. “It’s good to see you too,” he said. “I’ve been so worried for you. For everyone. We feared the worst. But look,” he said, holding her by the shoulders, overcome with emotion, “you’re here.”

“I’ve come to request an audience with Bend Sinister. I know that’s a tall order, out of the blue like this. Do you think he’ll see me? Only, I have news he must hear. It’s important, about Bluemantle.” She stared at Estrin, alarmed. “What? What is it?”

“They’ve left. All of them.”

“What? That can’t be true.”

“In the early hours of this morning. The Troubadours and players called us together for a meeting. They told us their decision, explained why they had no choice but to leave.”

“I can’t believe it—”

“I know. I couldn’t at first. They invited us all to go with them, the whole retinue.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“For this very reason. Someone had to stay behind, to explain to any followers who appeared. I doubted any would, not after the Contest. But I had to make sure they knew the truth. I hated to think of people assuming the Troubadours had run away, tail down.” His face brightened momentarily. “And then you appear. I did the right thing. Now that I’ve told you, you can spread the word. Make sure followers know. They had to go. The Scene couldn’t survive.”

“But this is what I’ve come to tell Bend Sinister.”

“What?”

“That it can survive. There’s someone who’ll take on Bluemantle. Ursel. A friend of mine.”

“Really? She could do that?”

“She was close to Cole. She knows the whole operation.”

Estrin shook his head slowly. “Incredible as that is, I don’t know if it would be enough. The Troubadours explained it all. They have to play. And now the A knows where they hide. It was either leave or be hunted down, gradually fading away while delaying the inevitable. They had to leave in order to live.”

“And how will their followers live? We need the Scene as much as they need us. How will we survive?”

“They’re sensitive to that. That’s part of the reason they’ve never left before. They know they can’t be followed.”

“So, what’s changed?”

“They lost the choice to stay.”

“I can’t believe they’ve gone. I don’t know what I’ll do…”

“But this is why I stayed. To let people like you know. When the Troubadours find somewhere to settle, they’ll send word. We can spread the message. You can join them. Others too. It needn’t be over.”

“You said yourself, most can’t follow. And I can’t leave. Not now.” She leant against the cold stone wall, eyes closed. “This can’t be happening.”

Estrin held out his hand and touched Wella’s cheek, tracing a finger over the tiny line of ink. Most wouldn’t know it was there. He touched his own badge of allegiance. “Bend Sinister lives. That’s the most important thing. As long as he does, we can too. Trust in hope. We’ll find a way.”

–

Wella sat at the small wooden table, her head in her hands. Had the hide boasted apertures, the diluted light of dawn would reveal shapes in a retreating darkness. As it was, the gas lamp glowed on – a timeless beacon in a never-ending night.

Chase sat opposite her, his face transformed.

She hadn’t noticed the change. Her body was exhausted from the long journey back to the hide, her mind and spirit weakened by her mission’s failure. “I didn’t expect they’d just give up,” she said.

“But they haven’t, have they? From what you said, it sounds like they’re doing the opposite.”

“They’re saving themselves, but they’re giving up on the Scene.”

“Did you honestly think they could do something about Ursel?”

“Yes.” She faltered. “At least… I don’t know.”

“The A would trade every single follower they’ve got banged up for a Music Maker.”

Wella glared at him.

“Sorry,” he said, “a Troubadour. You know that. The A’s obsessed. How could the Troubadours intervene? What could they even do? And now that the A have found their hiding place, they won’t stop. They’ll be on the scent, hunting day and night. I’m afraid I agree with your friend. What choice did the Troubadours have?”

“It’s alright for you. You wanted an end to the Scene. You said so. Now you’ve got your wish.” It was only then that she noticed a glint in his eyes, a relaxing of the muscles that had contorted his expression since his admission. “That’s it, isn’t it? It’s written all over your face. Your Music Makers have fucked off. Mission accomplished.”

“That’s not true.”

“Of course it is.”

“That’s what I thought before, yes. But while you were gone, it all fell into place. The things that Ursel said to me. How I felt after seeing Chief. The effect Bend Sinister had on me. I don’t know… I’ve been sat here for hours on end, going over and over everything. Then it dawned on me. I understand now. I get what Ursel was saying.” He countered Wella’s sceptical stare with an enlightened smile. “Ursel said that Bluemantle is a map, an invitation for citizens to seek and discover the truth for themselves. She likened it to the Telltale Circus, how it’s a means to an end. Revealing the way so that the audience can engage and learn on their own terms. I didn’t get it before—”

“I don’t get it now.”

“Don’t you see? She believes the answer is in enabling citizens to ask the question, challenge a broadcast, decide for themselves. She said that a question only becomes a problem if it’s not addressed. That’s what the Authority relies on to maintain dependency. All their broadcasts, their reassuring clichés. They tell