The Factory Trilogy 01 - Gleam (10 page)

Raspy was bellowing at his subservients, but they weren’t listening. Two archers shot at the girl but their arrows sank into the flesh of her target instead. Then she was on one of the archers, sitting on its shoulders. She ripped its helmet off, revealing a woman’s face, and stuck her thumbs deep into the woman’s eyes. She roared and staggered backwards, slipped on something and fell. The attacker placed her hands on the top of her victim’s head as she went over, rose into a handstand and cartwheeled forwards.

Alan shook himself and grabbed his knife. Eyes and Spider had already rejoined the fray and those Arbitrators left standing were looking decidedly shaky. Alan clambered on top of a table to see where Raspy had got to; he was at the side of the room, holding the megaphone to his face as if he were about to speak but saying nothing. The boy was gone. Alan jumped onto the next table and booted an empty pint pot in Raspy’s direction. It was an unexpectedly accurate shot, but Raspy ducked and the glass shattered harmlessly against the wall behind his head. But Alan came up fast behind it and pounced on Raspy as he stood back up. He grunted through the mask as they both went down. He had his sword in his right hand but his right arm was pinned beneath him. Behind them Alan could hear more movement, and shouts, crunches, gurgling, screams, and then more screams. Alan straddled Raspy, hilted him in the wrist and took the sword away as Raspy’s fingers spasmed open. He slid it under Raspy’s breastplate, increased the pressure, felt something give and heard Raspy groan. But he couldn’t do it. Not now, not like this. This wasn’t self-defence.

‘You’re a worm,’ Alan breathed into Raspy’s ear. ‘You’re a Green-damned maggot.’ He withdrew the sword and placed it against the prone man’s neck. The sounds of combat had stopped, but Alan could hear dripping. Lots of dripping. He took Raspy’s mask off. Beneath the mask was a middle-aged man, pale, sweaty. He was looking at something behind Alan. His eyes
were wide and his lips were wobbling, as if he was about to cry.

‘What just happened?’ he whispered. ‘What the fuck just happened?’

Alan made sure not to turn around. He leaned in and forced a big, merciless grin. ‘This is the Discard, son,’ he said.

It was as if all of the alcohol that had been in the blood that ended up flooding the Cavern Tavern had somehow got into
him
, Alan thought. He was staggering and reeling; he did not know where he was. He hadn’t wanted anybody to die – but then, nobody did, did they? Nobody really wanted that, did they? All of the death had intoxicated him in a thoroughly unpleasant fashion. It was like the
end
of drunkenness: the fuzziness of sounds, the swirling rooms, the desperate trying and failing to make sense of things.

He was sick, and sick again. Vomit splattered down a stairwell and sprayed against a wall. He was
not
drunk; this was the bodily aftermath of being exposed to so much sudden and gory death. He was trying to get away from it. Not to escape justice – just the scene of a kind of violence he’d never dreamed of before. Though that wasn’t strictly true. He
had
dreamed of it, of course. His dreams were full of such horrors. And the real horror of his dreams was
that he was the
cause
of it. And here he was, in reality now, the cause. His body was moving but his mind was not controlling it because his mind was paralysed with remorse. It was like a toad, frozen prior to being cooked.

He was talking. ‘We can’t do it,’ he was saying. ‘We can’t go on. We’re not doing it. No death. No killing. No death. I am not a killer! We’re just … It’s over. It’s over.’

Cool hands rested on his face. Large green eyes were burning out from a blaze of pink, staring into his own. ‘You did not do this,’ said a voice. ‘The Pyramid did this. This is what the Pyramid does. It did it to your parents when you were a child, and it will do it to your child now you are a parent. This will keep happening, Wild Alan, until somebody stops them.’

Alan could not remember what he said in return, though he was sure that he said something.

The other voice continued, ‘Your family, then. Your family only. Not the Pyramid. Your family. Do not run. You cannot just keep running. You must do what you promised to do. And if there is any more death, it will not be your doing.’

He spoke again. Words that were straight away lost to him.

‘If you do not do this, there will be death. That is the alternative. And not just any death, but your son’s. That is the balance you must weigh.’

Alan shook his head. ‘A drink,’ he said. ‘Get me a drink.’

‘Is that what you need?’ the voice asked. ‘To cope with the consequences?’

Alan nodded.

‘Then that’s what we’ll get you.’ The cool hands stroked his hair. ‘When you feel as if the remorse will slow you down, you need to stamp on that remorse. Use your willpower. Use the whisky. However you do it, you must do it. Come, now. We all have our own ways of coping. There is no shame in trying to dull the pain sometimes.’

Somebody put a bottle in his hand.

‘Especially if the pain is slowing us down.’

He took a drink.

‘There is no shame in it at all.’

Maggie had no grand chamber, no throne-room, nothing like that. Instead she invited Alan, Eyes, Spider, Churr and the newcomer to attend her on the Old Roof: that is, the stone roof of the original building, which these days had several stilted storeys, wooden platforms and scrappy dwellings teetering above it.

They exited the elevator tower and crossed the rooftop garden to the boundary wall, where Maggie stood with her bodyguard. Though the air was cool and fresh compared to the sweltering heat of the Cavern Tavern, it had not been a cold night and already insects were buzzing and chirruping in anticipation of the day. The mossy grass carpeting the roof was soft and springy beneath their feet and dewdrops glistened in it, diamonds in the receding dark. Here and there metal pipes ran beneath the moss or emerged from the towers or protruded up into the air from rusted brackets screwed into the boundary wall. Steam rose from some of them, dispersing in
the night. Some of them shook periodically. Some were cold to the touch and full of holes. Tall flowers clustered thickly beneath the small, wiry trees at the far end and in the shadows beneath the walls. Though their colours were unclear by the light of Satis and Corval, Alan knew them to be shades of yellow and purple. Large bushes with glossy dark green leaves and pale blue flowers also grew alongside the walls, and it was from these that most of the chirruping emanated. Great square wooden stilts supported further additions to the House above, but the Old Roof had no walls to obscure the view over Gleam, and the various higher levels had a smaller surface area than the roof on which they stood, meaning the skies were visible, too. In the middle of the large space, fireflies danced above a long, oval pond that had nearly dried up. Usually couples sat at the edge of the pond, holding hands and talking quietly, and people stood at the wall or lay down in the wet grass.

There was nobody else here now, though. Nobody but Maggie and Birdface.

When he reached the wall, Alan rested his elbows on the top of it and looked out over Gleam. It was nearly dawn, and the sky over the eastern horizon was growing pale, gradually swallowing up the stars. Beneath him, a broken gutter hung away from the wall, attached only by a shaky-looking drainpipe. It gently swayed above the dizzying drop to the next level down, which was currently shrouded in darkness.

The House of a Thousand Hollows was the tallest structure in this vicinity, but not by much. Alan looked across the wide empty space that surrounded it at the ridge of a long, low, tiled rooftop, which ran for two or three hundred yards before switching sharply to the right and then curving away until it eventually disappeared behind the cracked, dirty-white Dome of the Toad. The tiles were red, but looked almost black by the light of stars and moons, and many of them were missing; the roof was full of holes. The ridge was thick with round white chimney pots of varying heights protruding from beneath the tiles like mushrooms. The moons were bright enough for Alan to see more rooftops between the chimney pots, and more rooftops, and more chimney pots, and more white domes, and white archways, white towers, and then, further away, clusters of great chimneys reaching up into the sky. And every building, every structure, was connected. Often, the connections were later additions – bridges thrown up between windows, or buildings joined when other, smaller buildings were constructed in the space between them. It was a labyrinthine chaos of tile and stone. And when the moons sank and the sun rose, the stained white of the architecture would burn as red as the tiles, he knew. Gleam was black and white by night and red by day. Apart from the Pyramid, of course. The Pyramid was always black.

Maggie turned to him, and he to her.

Maggie was the power behind the House. Her face was
small and lined – wizened, almost – and her eyes were bright. A mass of curly red hair tumbled from her head, vivid and vibrant despite her advancing years. She wore a red cotton dress, cinched at the waist with a yellow cord. She wore silver bracelets on both wrists. She held a glass of red wine in one hand. A bottle was balanced on the wall.

Alan had never seen her unsmiling before.

Birdface, on the other hand, he’d never seen smiling
or
unsmiling. In fact he’d never seen Birdface’s face at all. Nobody had. Birdface wore a thick, floor-length cloak – always, despite the frequently intense Gleam heat – of large black feathers. Nobody knew Birdface’s gender, due to Birdface’s face being a child’s beaked mask that appeared to be grafted onto Birdface’s actual skin. It was an elaborate child’s mask of hard textured leather, decorated with glass beads embedded in the surface around the eyes. The largest beads marked the apex of each eyebrow; to either side of them, the size decreased. The beads shone different colours in different lights. The eye-holes were blacked out with some kind of mesh, through which Birdface could see, presumably, but which meant that nobody could see their eyes. The leather of the mask was pale cream. The beak was large and long and black; Alan thought it was a real bird’s beak, but from what species, he had no idea. The lower half was missing, leaving a small hole though which Birdface’s own dry lips could be glimpsed. The mask was surrounded by wild
black hair shot through with streaks of grey. There was a small ribbon of pale skin visible between the mask and the hair, and the skin was puckered and shiny. The cloak came up to the bottom of the mask, hiding Birdface’s chin and neck.

Birdface smelled musty and bad, and left feathers behind wherever it went.

People said that once, one of Maggie’s gang leaders had threatened to withdraw protection from the House unless she doubled his wage. She’d refused, so he’d drawn a saw and threatened to withdraw protection
and
cut off her wine-drinking hand unless she doubled his wage. He hadn’t known Birdface was there; Birdface had swooped out of the shadows and enfolded the man inside the cloak. Moments later Birdface opened up the cloak and the man fell out in pieces. Well … most of him. His eyeballs, testicles and right hand were never found, they said.

‘Alan,’ Maggie said. ‘Spider. I have to think about the House.’

‘Maggie. Don’t do this.’

‘I like you, Alan. You know I do. And I like what you bring to the place. Or, rather, I did.’ She let a frown briefly cross her face. ‘What you brought to the House this past night, I like not so much. Not at all.’

‘The Cavern Tavern … that carnage … that was not my doing, Maggie.’

‘Have some humility, Alan, for fuck’s sake. Take responsibility for your actions and their consequences.’

‘They didn’t make an accusation against me. I don’t know what they want me for – truly I don’t know what action prompted those particular consequences.’

‘Am I really to believe that?’

‘Yes!’ Alan was surprised. ‘You mean you don’t?’

‘No, I don’t. This is not the first time you’ve stirred up the ants’ nest. You like to prod and needle. The songs, the visits, the – whatever you did that got you kicked out in the first place. A response was always going to be inevitable.’

‘Everybody likes the songs.’

‘That doesn’t mean they want to follow you to certain death at the hands of the Arbitrators.’

Eyes cleared his throat. ‘Ma’am,’ he said. He cleared his throat again. ‘Excuse me, ma’am. But—’

Maggie held up her hand. ‘Do not think, please, that I am not sympathetic to your perspectives. I know what they did to you, Eyes, or at least I know some of it. I know, Alan, that they are manipulative and violent and that you are scared for your loved ones. But I cannot and will not have you here within the House of a Thousand Hollows if your actions – or even your intentions – jeopardise the safety of other House residents. It’s not that I think you are wrong. Do you understand?’

‘Ma’am,’ Eyes said.

‘Does this go for Spider too?’ Alan asked.

‘I’m afraid it does. My judgement is this: that Alan and Spider be exiled from the House forthwith, and that
Eyes, and that you two’ – she gestured to Churr and the girl in the tattered grey cloak – ‘be barred fully from all House venues and environs as of your immediate exit. This condition to be relieved after six Corval cycles, which should be sufficient time for all your various issues with the Pyramid and the Arbitrators to be resolved one way or another. Birdface, do you have their faces?’

Birdface gave a single brief nod.

‘Six months?’ Alan said. ‘That’s a long time to last out there when the Arbitrators are after you.’

‘Those Arbitrators lying in pieces on the floor of my establishment suggest that perhaps you have no need to be afraid. You stay on the right side of your new friends here and I think you’ll be just fine.’ Maggie then turned to Churr and the girl. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘what are your names? The names by which you are most frequently known.’

‘Juke Churr,’ said Churr.

‘Bloody Nora,’ said the girl.

Maggie frowned. ‘I’m not in the mood for jokes, girl.’

‘It is not a joke.’ Her voice was soft and quiet, slightly melodic.

Alan glanced at her, at Bloody Nora, if that
could
be her real name. Her face betrayed no attempt at humour and no disrespect. There were no smiles or smirks. Her small mouth was turned ever so slightly down and the look in her eyes was deadly serious. And given the blood that had been crusting all over her arms and face before she’d washed herself, the name was entirely fitting.

‘Birdface,’ Maggie said, ‘do you have their names?’

Birdface nodded once again.

‘Bloody Nora is a Mapmaker,’ Churr said. ‘Mapmakers can go wherever they want.’

Maggie glared at Churr. ‘Quiet yourself right now,’ she said. ‘The reports I received make it patently obvious that Nora is a Mapmaker. Do not think that I have not taken this into consideration. Do not patronise me so.’

‘But—’

Birdface swept towards Churr, coming to a halt in between Churr and Maggie. Churr’s voice dried up.

‘To answer the unvoiced question,’ Maggie said, ‘I have an arrangement with the Mapmakers. If Nora is caught within the House ever again, then it will be her own Council she has to answer to, not me – a much more intimidating prospect, I think you’ll agree.’

Alan was starting to feel as if every prospect was more intimidating than every other prospect.

‘Now,’ Maggie said, ‘if you’ll excuse me. I have a very large clean-up effort to co-ordinate. Diaz the Rowdy will see you to the Favoured Bridge.’

‘Wait,’ Alan said. The word had escaped of its own accord. Everything was happening too quickly. ‘Wait,’ he repeated, ‘no. Maggie – please, no.’ This couldn’t be happening again. First Marion, now Maggie.

‘I’m sorry, Alan,’ Maggie said. ‘I am.’ She walked over to him and put her hands on his shoulders. ‘A word of advice. Forget about the Pyramid. Stop playing with fire.
Let your family live their lives, let them make their own choices, and you embrace your life here, in the Discard. The House of a Thousand Hollows is not the only Safe House.’

‘No. But it is the best.’

Maggie smiled. ‘Yes. It is the best.’ She kissed Alan on the forehead and moved past him, ignoring the others. Birdface followed.

When Alan turned, he found himself face-to-bulging-stomach with Diaz the Rowdy. He looked identical to his late twin brother, Quiet Diaz, except his eyes were red-raw from crying, and burning with pure hatred. Behind Diaz was a hand-picked company of heavies and thugs.

‘I’m sorry,’ Alan said.

Diaz the Rowdy said nothing; he just turned and walked towards the door in the corner turret.

‘I could take them all,’ Nora whispered, next to Alan. He hadn’t realised she was there. ‘But I won’t.’

‘No,’ Alan said. ‘No.’

The Favoured Bridge was a wide thoroughfare that connected the House to the rest of the Discard, one of many such thoroughfares, but as the name suggested, the Favoured Bridge was the busiest. It was the highest, for a start, so it was furthest from the swamp, and it was the widest, and it had railings on either side, so it was the safest. It was the sturdiest too – many of the bridges were hair-raisingly narrow, the ancient-looking stone
crumbling away in places. Others were gerrymandered, ramshackle things that people had built from their windows. And they all had a wide gap to cross.

The House end of the Favoured Bridge was connected to the Sleepless Pavilion, the men and women of which were famous throughout the Discard for their beauty, their skills and their stamina. Alan estimated that the Sleepless Pavilion provided most of Maggie’s income and enabled her to afford so much in the way of protection. The other end of the Favoured Bridge opened onto Market Top, which was as close as the transients got to their own town. The conglomeration of tents and stalls and caravans was where House residents went for their supplies too, including, for example, mushrooms.

So Alan knew the Favoured Bridge and Market Top well – but it felt different this time. This could be the last time he would cross the bridge.
The last time
. He looked over the railings while he was being shepherded along by Diaz the Rowdy, balking at the green dark of the depths. It was
so
dark, even now, after sunrise. He’d always considered himself quite comfortable outside of the House – some residents never left – but as he crossed the Favoured Bridge for potentially the last time he realised that he’d only felt that way since he’d had the House to return to. Before Kate of the Corner’s demise, life in the Discard had been frighteningly precarious.

There would be no quick scurry back to the House if he got into trouble now.

*

Once Diaz had escorted Alan, Eyes, Spider, Churr and Nora beyond the other end of the Favoured Bridge the giant man turned around and went back the way he’d come. He had not spoken a single word. Alan watched Diaz’s back as he went. He’d never got on with the brothers, not since the day after the twins’ twenty-first birthdays, when they’d failed to open up the Cavern Tavern because they were sleeping off monstrous birthday hangovers. So Alan had done it for them – a favour, really. And maybe he hadn’t been very diligent in collecting payment from the patrons – well, okay, maybe he hadn’t made any effort at all – but he’d done a damn good job of getting people in through the door. And maybe he hadn’t done enough to prevent or discourage the impromptu boxing tournament, but it had been a lot of fun, and he’d made a lot of bugs out of it. And maybe he hadn’t stuck around to clean up all the vomit and blood and piss but … well, it wasn’t his job, was it?