‘It wasn’t just that,’ Slvasta mumbled, annoyed with himself for being put on the defensive. ‘That was just the last straw.’
‘Ha.’ Gelasis poured him some wine. ‘Paperwork, eh? Now that I do understand. The number of times I’ve been tempted to tell the Treasury maggots to stick their triplicate forms up their arse . . .’
‘One reform. Just one. That’s all I wanted. And it wasn’t exactly a tough one.’
‘Well, if it gives you any satisfaction, it’s going to happen now. And sharpish. Doncastor station was a lesson too close to home for some. I mean, I knew Fallers have a better control of mods, but that . . .’ He shook his head and took some wine. ‘Bad business. And you did a superb job protecting those children. Commendable. You know, recruitment in the city has nearly doubled in the last week. That’s all down to you.’
‘I’m a private citizen.’ Though it hadn’t escaped his notice that all the gazettes kept calling him Captain Slvasta.
‘That was a regimental officer I saw out there. Saving Bienvenido’s citizens from the Faller menace, without fear, totally selfless. You made me proud, my boy.’
‘What menace? I haven’t heard a damn thing about the nest since. You and I both know he couldn’t have been alone.’
Gelasis grimaced. ‘That’s the bloody Captain’s police. There hasn’t been a nest in Varlan for five centuries. They’re shit scared one slipped through somehow. There’s a lot of backstabbing going on up at the sheriff’s office right now. And to their credit, there’s a lot of hard searching going on, too. Right now, you can’t get into any government building without having a needle jabbed into your thumb to see the colour of your blood. They’ll find the others, don’t you worry. Failure simply cannot be tolerated, not when it comes to nests.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Slvasta was well aware of the political pressure right now. Even the gazettes had been scathing about the authorities allowing a nest into Varlan.
Their soup was brought in by two waiters in starched white jackets – tomato and red petter with crusty bread still warm from the baking oven. Slvasta had to admit it did taste good; the Westergate Club wasn’t just about status.
‘Nice,’ he conceded.
‘My pleasure. Enjoy it while you can; the economy is going to take a real beating now. We’re all going to have to tighten our belts.’
‘Why?’
Gelasis paused with the silver soup spoon almost at his mouth and gave Slvasta a stern glance. ‘Please don’t pretend to be that naive. Besides, Democratic Unity supports the killing of mods. Your public policy is quite clear and explicit about that.’
‘We support severing our dependence on them, yes.’
‘You’re talking genocide.’
‘I’ve faced Faller-controlled mods twice in my life now. That’s two times too many. Both times I was lucky to escape alive. I don’t want it to happen a third time. The odds aren’t in my favour any more.’
‘That’s understandable. And now you may well have your wish. People were badly shaken by the stampede. Two of the smaller stables in town have already closed. It’s only a matter of time until the rest collapse.’
‘You expect me to show sympathy?’
‘No. But you have to admit, we’re off the map with this one. The Treasury doesn’t even know if the economy can remain intact without mod labour.’
‘As you said, everyone will have to tighten their belts.’ Slvasta raised his spoon to make the point. ‘Except the people who had nothing to start with and now find themselves overwhelmed with offers of jobs. The underclass finally has new opportunities opening up.’
‘And the votes for Democratic Unity will flood in, no doubt.’
‘Here’s hoping.’
Gelasis nodded sagely. ‘What do you want?’
‘You’re the one who invited me.’
‘I did, didn’t I? May I speak plainly and in confidence?’
‘Frankly, it would be a relief. If I’ve learned anything from council meetings, it’s that I’m not the world’s greatest politician.’
‘I’m surprised you’re not mayor of Nalani, now.’
‘Are you? Look what happened to the last mayor.’
‘Touché. All right.’ Gelasis pushed his soup bowl to one side and gave Slvasta an intent stare. ‘I have friends in the National Council who are keen to come to an accord with Democratic Unity.’
‘Members of Citizens’ Dawn want an agreement? I find that hard to believe.’
‘Very senior members, yes.’
‘Ha. Who don’t like losing backwater boroughs like Nalani.’
‘Slvasta, face facts, nobody gives a crud about Nalani. Uracus, your party might even do some good there! Giu knows, nobody else cares about it. But the mid-term elections are coming up in less than eight months. A third of Varlan’s boroughs, many of them poor ones. There are also seats on the National Council up for grabs, too.’
‘And your friends are getting concerned about that, right?’ Slvasta asked. Bethaneve and Coulan were already recruiting potential candidates to stand in the boroughs. They weren’t short of volunteers; everyone was fired up after Democratic Unity’s recent success. And, just possibly, they were impressed by the Hero of Eynsham Square, too.
‘Some of those boroughs could be yours,’ Gelasis said. ‘Maybe even a National Council seat. Langley, for example.’
‘What?’ Slvasta desperately wished it was Coulan or Bethaneve sitting here in his place. Politics and its labyrinthine deals and bluffs and weasel words was something he could never quite grasp. He was always worried he was being played for a fool when convoluted clever deals were suggested. And, as for making equally smart counter-offers . . .
‘Hear me out,’ Gelasis said smoothly. ‘I really did mean yours.’
‘Ours?’
‘No: you. Personally. You would be a superb addition to the National Council. Think about it. You’re not from a wealthy family, which brings so much resentment among a huge proportion of the population, but you served your regiment with distinction. The city witnessed you going head to head with Fallers. You have integrity. People trust you, rightly so. You’re a perfect candidate.’
Slvasta thought back to a similar conversation not so long ago, how his friends were just waiting to push him forward as the head of Democratic Unity. ‘I can’t believe Citizens’ Dawn is offering this.’
‘You’re the right type, Slvasta – a decent cove who wants the best for people. All the people. And having you on the National Council would make the recessive elements of Citizens’ Dawn sit up and take notice. They’ve been excluding and ignoring the poor for too long, don’t you think?’
‘Well, yes. That’s why we formed Democratic Unity.’
‘Tuksbury holds Langley, has done for the last thirty-six years. He’s a stupid, petty, vain little man, running a rotten district, serving his family and their companies before everything else. The worst type of Bienvenido politician. If you were to stand, I have been given assurances that Citizens’ Dawn support for Tuksbury would be non-existent. You’d win. It’s that simple.’
‘And Citizens’ Dawn are happy with that?’ he asked sceptically.
‘Listen, Slvasta, you’re a reasonable, rational man. You understand what should be done, and you’re not a raving hothead about it like all the other hate-the-rich dissenter rabble. People who run the world need to be sensible and cogent, to understand give and take.’ Gelasis gave him a friendly smile. ‘And think how many friends you’d have in the regiments. You could give us a direct voice in the heart of government, instead of trying to worm progress through the Treasury one request form at a time. That is the ultimate aim for all of us, isn’t it? To give the regiments the ability to defeat the Fallers once and for all? After all, if not, we’re all doomed.’
‘I think that would take more than one lone voice.’
‘You have more supporters than you think. Your party only existed for a few weeks before the Nalani election, and look how
many votes you got. And we both know you’re building support in new boroughs, ready for the next elections. You know full well that nothing will be accomplished if your candidates are just a collection of firebrands and ideologues. Building a reputable party capable of achieving your aims will be tough. If you don’t step up, it will be damn near impossible, eh?’
Slvasta let out a long breath. ‘You don’t have to tell me how tough it is.’
‘So you’ll consider it? Standing for Langley?’
‘I’d be foolish not to.’
‘Excellent. So, let’s get those steaks in here, shall we?’
*
Bethaneve waited in a small clothing store on Vesuvian Street opposite the six-storey tenement. The monolithic building was a couple of centuries old, and completely covered in the heavy blue-white leaves of a skirs vine. She didn’t know if the walls were brick or stone – even the windows were slowly shrinking behind the vigorous shoots. Hordes of children played lively games on the street outside, their exuberance a reaction to the tiny rooms they were forced to share inside.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go into the tenement herself; her reluctance came from a deeper place, the need to avoid exposure. The revolution might be undeclared so far. But that didn’t mean it had gone unnoticed. And the First Officer was often seen at Trevene’s headquarters at Fifty-Eight Grosvner Place. The risk—
Bethaneve put a fast stop to that line of thought and glanced at the tenement again. Coulan was coming out of an open archway, walking briskly across the road. His thoughts as urbane as ever. She left the shop, her ex-sight scanning for any mod-birds. This level of vigilance was routine now.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Kolan’s not been home for two days now,’ Coulan said, maintaining his neutral face and shell.
‘Crud!’ Yesterday she’d heard that Trevene’s weasel teams were asking about Kolan, the man who’d stood with Slvasta in Eynsham Square. Kolan, a fifth-level cell member whom she’d instructed to help defend the children. Not directly, the request came slipping and slithering through three other cells before it got to him. But still . . .
Her people told her the questions were closing in on Vesuvian Street, then they had the name. They were good, her people. Special. Quiet. Clever. Elites, a group chosen by her from various cells for specialist tasks. Not the kind of aggressor duties Coulan was training his militia for; her elites were used to tracking people across the city, to ask discreet questions, to follow rumour to the source and gain the truth. They were developing into a useful asset in the unseen quiet struggle with Trevene’s informers and spies and thugs. She hadn’t quite got round to mentioning them to Slvasta. The arrangement was that she handled details, leaving him free to lead the revolution.
‘Do you think they’ve got him?’ she asked as they walked away. Not in a hurry, not drawing attention. Further along the street, three elites were watching people and mods, alert for anything out of place.
‘Oh yes,’ Coulan said. ‘He has a wife and three kids. He’s not going to vanish without telling them.’
‘Has she reported it to the sheriffs?’
‘Yes. As you can imagine, they just leapt into action.’
‘Dammit. Nobody can hold out against what they’ll do to him. He’ll give them passwords, places, times. Everything. He probably already has.’
‘Yes, but what is everything? What does he actually know? He gets an occasional ’path from someone he’s never met, a suggestion that this or that might help stick it to the Captain every now and then. Harmless enough stuff.’
‘I ordered him to stand with Slvasta, Coulan. It’s a disaster. Trevene will know we’re organized way beyond a simple political party.’
‘If he’s half as smart as he’s supposed to be, he knew that a long time ago.’
‘But now he’s got names.’
‘A name. One.’
‘There were others with Slvasta. They need to leave Varlan. For good. And the other four in Kolan’s cell, too: he can identify them.’
‘So warn them. That’s why we have the cells set up the way they are. It’s a network Trevene can’t hope to crack as long as we take the right precautions.’
‘Yes,’ she nodded, his composure making her own fluttery thoughts calmer. ‘You’re right.’
He grinned. ‘I’m always right.’
Bethaneve started to private ’path specific warnings. With luck, the recipients would take them seriously. It took a lot to up and leave your home. She added a few details, emphasizing the danger. The First Officer’s face was often a subliminal addition to the messages.
Do what I ask. Please. Get out while there’s still time. You won’t live to regret it if you don’t.
*
‘Hotheads and ideologues, huh?’ Javier snorted in contempt.
Slvasta grinned at him over his tankard. ‘’Fraid so.’
They were all in the Bellaview pub’s high walled garden, huddled round a table to discuss Slvasta’s lunch.
‘And they’ll give you Langley?’ Coulan queried.
‘That’s what he said.’
‘I wonder who he really represents?’ Bethaneve asked.
‘Some faction of Citizens’ Dawn that’s backed by the regiments,’ Javier said. ‘There’s some heavy-duty fallout from the Doncastor station stampede. The politicians and the regiments are each blaming the other. It’s getting ugly in the government district.’
‘It’s getting ugly everywhere,’ Coulan said. ‘People have been reminded how dangerous mods are when they’re controlled by Fallers; their complacency has been shaken. We need to capitalize on that with the right candidates, who can stand up in public and make a smart argument for our policies.’
‘Why are we even talking about this?’ Bethaneve said. ‘It’s the cells that will overthrow the Captain, not spending twenty years working up through the corrupt council system.’
‘Really?’ Javier said. ‘There were hundreds of comrades at the stampede. We managed to get three to stand with Slvasta. We were helpless when the neuts charged. We turned and ran when the mod-apes joined in. It was the Meor that actually brought that Faller down. We did the groundwork, but they have the power, them and the sheriffs.’
‘Power,’ Slvasta said. ‘You mean weapons.’
‘I do.’
‘We’ll never achieve anything until we can physically take on the regiments and sheriffs,’ Coulan said.
‘You’re talking about killing people,’ Slvasta said wearily.
‘We have to arm ourselves,’ Javier said. ‘What happened to Bryan-Anthony made that very clear.’
‘Maybe,’ Slvasta said. He hated the whole idea, though he had to admit that unless they could fight the establishment out on the streets, the odds against them were overwhelming. ‘But Trevene will certainly know if we start buying guns. Even if we had that kind of money.’
‘Maybe not,’ Bethaneve said. She tried not to grin as they all turned to look at her. ‘I had an interesting message today; it came up through the cells. One of the comrades was trying to recruit someone from out of town. Turns out this person claims he can put us in touch with some kind of weapons merchant.’
‘Trap,’ Javier said immediately. ‘Trevene and the Captain are closing in. You’re popular now, Slvasta, they can’t just disappear you like they do everyone else. So they set you up, then come crashing through the door just when you’re holding the guns and handing over the money. A gift for the whole city to perceive.’
‘Nice idea, but we don’t have the money,’ Slvasta said. ‘And before anyone suggests it, I really don’t want to use the cells to start robbing banks – we’d be nothing more than gangsters then.’
‘It wouldn’t come to that,’ Bethaneve said. ‘The weapons merchant is sympathetic to our cause.’
‘There’s no such thing as a sympathetic merchant, let alone one who sells weapons,’ Javier said forcefully.
‘We can’t afford to ignore this,’ she repl
ied, meeting Javier’s stare levelly. ‘It could be the difference between success and the dungeons underneath Fifty-Eight Grosvner Place.’
‘Trap,’ Javier repeated stubbornly, shaking his head.
‘Possibly,’ she conceded. ‘In which case we need to send someone who’s smart enough to see it coming and walk away, someone they can’t arrest on suspicion alone. But at the same time, someone who can deal directly with this weapons merchant if it turns out legitimate.’
They all turned to look at Slvasta.
‘Oh, come on,’ he exclaimed, his tankard frozen halfway to his mouth. ‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah,’ Bethaneve said. ‘Seriously.’
9
The Southern City Line express was scheduled to take sixteen hours to complete the thousand-mile journey from Willesden, Varlan’s over-the-river station, to Dios, the capital city of a sprawling agricultural county. After that it would carry on to Port Chana on the southern coast, a further two thousand miles and thirty-five hours away.
Slvasta sat in a second-class carriage, a window seat giving him a view out across the farms and forests that cloaked the landscape. Long brick viaducts carried the train lines across broad valleys where tributaries of the river Nubain meandered their way through the land. Streamers of steam and smoke churned past the glass, temporarily obscuring the view. At first he’d paid a lot of attention to the panorama, then as the monotony grew, he turned to the books Bethaneve had supplied for the journey. Three biographies of first ministers of the National Council: ‘Pay attention to their campaign strategies,’ she instructed; and two weighty tomes on economic theory, ‘because we have to get a grip on the fundamentals’. He read the pages dutifully, wishing she could have slipped a decent modern novel into the stack; he enjoyed sheriff procedurals.
The carriage was mostly full of salesmen and junior government staff. Some families were travelling, their restless kids prowling the aisle. At the far end an infant cried in hour-long outbursts despite everything its fraught mother could do to quiet it, triggering weary, knowing expressions from the rest of the adults each time the wailing started.