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

time. They’re done with playing ball. I’d like to think we can drum up some level of support. I’ve already warmed up a crowd who’ve said they’ll do it. But enough to make a difference? That’s the part I’m not so sure about.”

“I agree. But I also think it’s worth a try. My hope is in momentum. It takes effort to counter the friction at first, to get the cart wheels in motion. But once they start to move, they keep on rolling, gaining pace. I’m banking on those wheels.”

“I don’t get what the play brings to the plan.”

“He’s done that for Ursel. Like a tribute to her. He knows it’s possible she might not… You know.” She blinked, staring ahead. “He means it to be her story, if you like. What he’s learnt from her. So that it doesn’t go to waste. He’s realised how important it is.”

“He read it to me. I get the moral of the tale, the whole ‘judge for yourself’ lesson, but that’s hardly going to change anything, is it? The Circus seats, what, a couple of hundred, maybe? There’s a few hundred thousand people crammed into this miserable city.”

“It’s enough for him that her story’s told. Even if one person stops to think, he’d feel it was worth it. Another candle lit for Ursel.”

A brief silence fell, accompanied by dark thoughts. Naylor forced them back, denying them airtime. “What did Tinashe say?” he said.

“She’s on board. She’s doing it for Weldon, in case… Well, anyway, she said the tramway company is full of operators and drivers who’ve had enough, like they’ve been wanting a nudge like this for years. She said it’s as if they could never contemplate making a stand on their own, while the potential for joint forces felt too much to hope for.”

“When are they going to start?”

“Tomorrow. A dozen or so have committed to walking out, or not turning up for their shift. Then she reckons plenty more will follow suit.”

Naylor shifted.

Wella watched him closely. “What about your end?” she said. “You support the plan. When are you going to act?”

He filled his chest with the deep breath of decision-making. Then he exhaled slowly, let his shoulders relax and nodded, almost smiling. “Tomorrow.”

He was about to elaborate when a young man entered the tavern, his eyes gleaming, his expression intense. He attempted to blend in, hanging back in the shadows, yet Wella felt his presence, glancing up as soon as he entered. Her body stiffened. She held her breath, immediately looking away at nothing.

“What?” asked Naylor. “Who is it?”

“Quiet. Don’t look around.” She stared at Naylor, anchoring her eyes on his. She lifted up her glass, then placed it back on the table without taking a sip.

The man weaved through the crowded room in a circuitous route. Naylor noticed two other people had a similar reaction to Wella’s: freezing, as if caught in the act, waiting for some inevitable repercussion. As the man passed one, then the other, their bodies slowly sagged and downcast eyes attempted to follow his path.

When the man passed their own table, Wella’s body did not sag. The man hesitated for a fraction of a second, barely long enough to tuck his left hand behind his back, two fingers pointing down. Wella caught the signal and immediately shifted her eyes back onto Naylor’s face, staring but not seeing, her mind carried far away.

The man weaved through a few more tables then shrugged, turned around and left the tavern, apparently failing to find whomever he was looking for.

“Hey, hey,” said Naylor, “remember to breathe. Do you know that guy?”

“Shush, not here.” She picked up her glass again, a slight tremble in her hands, and took large gulps of her Kitson. “Drink up. We need to leave. But not yet. Soon.”

“What? But we’ve only just got here.” He stared at her, waiting for a response. Nothing was forthcoming. Instead, he polished off the barley breads and reluctantly rushed his beer.

After a few minutes and a surreptitious glance around the room, Wella stood up and said in an overly bright tone, “Come on, let’s get going. I want to check out the stalls.”

Resigned to whatever was happening, or was about to happen, Naylor downed the dregs of his drink and followed her out of the tavern, back into the bustling market. “I thought we were done here?”

“We are. I’ve got to go somewhere.”

“Where? Who was he?”

“I can’t say. Just meet me back here in half an hour.”

Before he had chance to protest, Wella had disappeared.

Forty minutes later, she returned to join a sullen Naylor under the shade of a tea bar awning. Her face twitched as if it couldn’t decide on an expression.

“Follow me,” she said, turning to merge with the shuffling crowd. “Keep walking. I’ll explain everything.”

A carter came between them, leading his goats to a water trough. Naylor cursed, hurrying back to Wella’s side.

“He’s from underground,” she said. “His name’s Estrin. He came to find me, to give me a message.” She glanced at Naylor, wide-eyed. “Ursel. She’s alive. Someone got her out. The Troubadours are looking after her. And they’ve… They’ve summoned me. Estrin is going to take me to them.”

Naylor stared at Wella, bumping shoulders with passing citizens. He stumbled, struggling to process the news and still keep up.

“Listen,” she said. “I need you to tell Chase. Go back to the hide, straight away. But you must be careful. Make sure no one’s following you. Quince, the hide keeper, will recognise you, but you still need to give the code. Say to her, ‘The minstrels sing to me.’ Have you got that? Say it, now.”

“The minstrels sing to me.”

“Good. Don’t forget, else she won’t let you in. I mean it. Tell Chase I had no time to explain. Estrin is waiting for me. He said we have to leave within the hour. Tell Chase I’m sorry. He will want to know about Ursel, but I don’t know anything more. Only that she’s alive and safe.