The Vagrant. Peter Newman

the gloom, a great bulk stirs. The movement is accompanied by several excretions, as violent as they are small. The Man-shape eyes the bindings on its master’s shell, even the newest ones are starting to fray. It mentally notes that they will need to hasten the next order.

      Fully awake now, the Usurper moves, animating the body that once belonged to Gamma, distorting her features, beckoning for the Man-shape to come closer. The gesture is laboured, hardly fitting for the greatest of infernals and the Man-shape is glad that neither the Uncivil nor the First is here to witness it.

      The Man-shape obeys, crossing the distance between them eagerly, pressing its forehead against its master’s, soft features appearing ethereal next to the ridged, splitting monstrosity.

      Heads close, like lovers, the two touch tongues, and thoughts rush between them in a torrent.

      ‘I have a finger in the skull of a Zero, who tells of singing coins and a silent man who hides his treasures.’

      ‘He who culled the pack?’

      ‘It must be, master.’

      ‘He who tore our Kin?’

      ‘It must be, master.’

      ‘He who bears the Malice?’

      ‘It can be no other, master.’

      ‘I want him.’

      ‘But your skin seeps, master, you must rest.’

      ‘Rest will come again when the Malice is ours.’

      ‘When will you leave, master?’

      ‘At once. The Malice taunts me from the shadows and I thirst for action.’

      ‘And what of the next display?’

      ‘What of the next display?’

      ‘It approaches, master.’

      ‘So soon?’

      ‘Yes, master. It comes and your majesty must be seen, the chains must be redrawn.’

      ‘So be it. But the Malice will be retaken, send out the word.’

      ‘Who is chosen to go in your stead, master?’

      ‘The Knights of Jade and Ash.’

      ‘I will send them.’

      ‘The Hammer that Walks.’

      ‘I will send her.’

      They pull apart and the Man-shape retreats, plagued by thoughts that are not its own; echoes of the master’s desires dominate as it moves down the tower steps. They have won many victories in this new world, claimed much of the land, but it fights them at every step, picking at their essence, peeling at their protections. Even just a few miles from the Breach, the sky presses down on them, hostile. The Man-shape feels the master’s frustration and something else, an unwanted gift, a murmuring of fear.

      For once it is glad of its separateness; for once its own simplicity is soothing. Still, the knowledge remains, now stuck fast: the Usurper is weakening. The Man-shape does not know how long this can be hidden from the Uncivil’s agents or the First’s nomads.

      It glances at its own body. The skin remains smooth and unbroken, a testament to its control. The Man-shape’s usual calm creeps over it once more. It turns back to the business of finding the Malice and the man who hides it from them, stepping out into the slick street.

      It opens its mouth, tasting the air as the flies scrabble from its gullet, each sucking a droplet of the master’s wishes before swarming into the darkening sky.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      Clanking and dilapidated, the caravan arrives at its first scheduled stop: the fields of Kendall’s Folly. Though faded, the squares of green stand out vividly from the barren dust surrounding them.

      In places, machines function, pumping greying water through metal pipes that arch twenty feet above the vegetation. Where they don’t, slaves wander the fields with fat plastic pouches strapped to their backs, like pregnant women trapped in reverse.

      Pairs of guards walk the perimeter, punctuating the barbed fence encircling the fields with hard looks and loaded guns. An Unborn hangs from a chain over the centre of the fields, quivering unseen within its coiled shell. On the outside it appears lumpy, off-white, a thing stolen from the depths of the sea. Suspending the chalky mass is a challenge but fertile land this far south is precious and the Unborn’s infernal presence keeps away the hungry bugs and beasts of the Blasted Lands.

      A mixed group comes out to greet the caravan, traders, travellers and pimps keen to get the best goods and latest gossip. Feral smiles are swapped first, a last approximation of enthusiasm. The Vagrant chooses this moment to leave, slipping from the back of the waggon and taking his goat with him.

      For once, the eyes of the caravan do not follow him, too wrapped up in their present greed to remember the enigmatic man and his precious cargo.

      Without a backwards glance he moves away from the noisy gathering, disappearing behind an assortment of battered metal fins that serve as windbreaks for those too poor or too weak to have fully enclosed shelters. A small heel kicks against his stomach. The Vagrant grunts and walks on.

      Others have also retreated from sight of the crowd. A man is hunched down, nursing something soft in his gnarled fingers. Two more men have followed the first and approach from behind, secretly, hungrily. The man has sneaked away some precious fruit. They reach him just as he tears it open, a waft of sweetness gracing the air, kick him and pull him backwards, grabbing for their share of the food. He struggles and six hands dance, pulping the watery flesh of the fruit, ruining it.

      The Vagrant watches, motionless. Again, beneath his coat, he is kicked by a tiny foot. Before him the fight continues. Hands have separated now and, feet take their turn, smashing into the ribs of the first man like eager lovers, keen to kiss and kiss, one after the other.

      The man stops struggling.

      The victors share the pathetic remnants of sticky flesh, most of it licked from fingers, before slinking, dissatisfied towards the collection of rundown buildings forming the Folly’s main dwelling space.

      The Vagrant walks on, his gaze on the hard-packed dust at his feet. A third kick makes him suck a breath through his teeth. He glances about – only the goat watches him. Ignoring its malevolent stare, the Vagrant opens his coat to peer inside. The baby is awake. Their eyes meet and a few seconds pass. The Vagrant closes his coat and walks on.

      Behind him the beaten man moans piteously.

      The next kick is more vigorous. Pulling back his coat once again, the Vagrant frowns down at the baby. It stops kicking and looks up at him. He raises his eyebrows at it and the baby smiles. The cycle repeats several times, the baby smiling a little more with each repetition.

      The Vagrant stops walking and sighs. He touches a finger to the baby’s lips and closes his coat firmly. Then he turns round and walks back to the injured man on the floor. The goat objects to the change in direction as it takes them further from the fields.

      She pulls against the Vagrant.

      The Vagrant pulls back.

      The goat knows she cannot win but tries again anyway. The miniature rebellion is rewarded with an even sharper tug on her leash. The goat concedes, this time.

      Please, no more!’ begs the man, covering his face with his arms. ‘You took it all already.’ Freshly broken teeth make him lisp.

      The Vagrant waits, ignoring the enthusiastic beat being played across his chest and stomach.

      Timidly, the bruised limbs retreat to reveal a matching collage of red and purple on his face. ‘Are you a new eye for the Overseer? I’m sorry.’ With the lisp he sounds childish despite his age. He struggles for breath before continuing,