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

Employment. Tell them to find out who’s skipped class and threaten termination of contract. See how the loafers like that.”

“Anything else, sir?”

“Yes. Stop wasting my time. I’ve got more important shit to deal with. I’ve given over enough resources for you to contain the situation. Just make the fuckers flinch. You’ve already got orders to go in heavy-handed the moment they do. So, go do your job and stop with the jittering. You sound like bloody Blix.”

The man saluted and left.

His own mention of Blix riled him even more. He turned to take it out on the trooper on the floor, but the man had crawled away, betrayed by a trail of blood from his broken nose. Cursing under his breath, Wulfwin surveyed the room. Heads were ducked behind radio sets. The officers at the raised desks had their eyes down, studying pieces of paper. Those whose job it was to run the messages back and forth had appeared to disappear. Wulfwin snorted, kicked over a chair and left the room.

He marched over to the parade ground and glanced up at the tower that contained Blix’s private quarters. He imagined her prostrate on the lounger, eyes rolling in doped oblivion. He had ensured she had constant access to Meezel, only not the discrete pill form she favoured. He had ordered a batch of wraps from the Exchange’s supply. A trusted colleague in Pharmaceuticals had laced them with a compound developed for psychoactive torture. It combined a sedative with a powerful hallucinogen, rendering the subject powerless to wake from their visions – or, more often, their nightmares.

Wulfwin stared at the tower, hoping Blix was engulfed in an endless, terrifying trip, full of swarming masses, rising up to deliver her dreaded rebellion.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

It was an emotional reunion in the Troubadour’s temporary camp. Wella had been warned about Ursel’s injuries, but nothing could prepare her for what she saw.

Ursel was laying propped up on a makeshift bunk near the centre of the camp. Bandages and dressings evidenced the quantity of wounds to her body. Her face was uncovered, however. Bruised swellings created their own expression. She still couldn’t open her left eye. The dried blood had been cleaned from inside her punctured ears.

Beside the bunk stood the three Troubadours, their players a step behind. Among them, Bend Sinister’s drummer, who had shaved off his beard, adopted the black attire of his fellow players and shed the moniker ascribed by the Authority. Behind the players stood their retinue: the followers that Wella had joined when she made the Scene her home just four weeks ago. Among them, Estrin, weary from the long journey through the night to locate the camp.

When Wella first saw Ursel, she fell to her knees and wept.

“Save your sympathy,” said Ursel, her tone flat. “I am free. There are many who are suffering great cruelty as we speak. We must focus on them.”

Wella began to say something, forgetting. Ursel raised a weak arm, gesturing to a pad and pencil at the foot of the bunk.

Her hands trembling, Wella picked them up. She held the pencil poised over the paper but failed to find the words.

“It’s okay,” said Ursel. “There’s nothing you can say.”

“Wella,” said Bend Sinister. “We thank you for coming. We appreciate it was at no small risk to your safety.”

Wella stood up, her pulse quickening. She had followed Bend Sinister for two years – had given up her life overground to work in their retinue. This was the first time he had spoken to her directly. “I had no hesitation,” she said. “Ursel is a good friend. And I would do anything to help the Scene.”

“We are grateful for your loyalty. I must warn you, however, your loyalty is about to be put to the test.” He paused, watching Wella’s expression. “Ursel has a plan to salvage the Scene and free those who might choose to follow it. It also seeks to liberate those still suffering at the hands of the Authority. This plan hinges upon your involvement to a significant extent. It also puts you at great personal risk. For this reason, know that while we value your loyalty, we do not expect you to accept without careful consideration of the consequences.”

Wella stared at him, wide-eyed.

Pale Dexter addressed her. “We have been forced into a bleak dilemma. The proposed intervention carves the only desirable resolution. Whilst we acknowledge the danger it will place you in, we believe it may be our only chance.”

“Hush, say no more,” said Chief, glaring at Pale Dexter. “Look at her. She’s as likely to decline before she’s even heard the idea.” She smiled kindly at Wella. “Do not be alarmed. I give you my assurance that you have the choice. A choice free of pressure and expectation. Come, sit on the bunk beside Ursel and let her explain. It is painful for her to speak and her voice cannot carry. I suggest you save your questions until the end. You can write them down, then Ursel or one of us will address them for you.” She gestured towards the bunk. “Please.”

Wella drew her eyes from the Troubadours to Ursel, who had been watching the exchange. Wella sat down beside her, held her hand and nodded for her to begin.

“The Authority have controlled the narrative for too long,” said Ursel, her expression resolute. “It’s time for change. But to achieve that, the citizens of Wydeye must hear the real story. They need to know that the Tale of the Travelling Minstrels has a new ending. In it, the minstrels leave the city because they are free to do so. Just as the Telltale Circus will become a touring theatre once more. The Wydeye that the minstrels and the theatre settled in and made their home has changed beyond recognition. Even the folklore of Wydeye Deep speaks of a city long since lost, destroyed by those sworn in to deliver protection and prosperity.

“Those in power have become consumed by their desires, controlled by