First Blood
Cady Meade was squatting on a tin bucket, trying her best to squeeze out a shit. She grunted, held her breath, clenched, relaxed, clenched again, gasped, banged her fist against a bulkhead and cried out in pain and despair. All she managed was a thin squirt of greenish brown gloop, Lud knows what it was: didn’t even smell bad, which was disappointing, because Cady was the kind of person who liked to revel in her own functions. She plopped back down onto the bucket and contemplated the bowel movements of the dragon Haakenur, imagining the great piles of excrement that must have littered the plains of Kethra in the Age of the Giant Lizards. But even such thoughts failed to get her moving. She was bunged up, good and proper. One by one her fingers searched out the seven buds that sprouted on her flesh, hard kernels of tightly folded petals – on her forearms, her thigh, her stomach, her shoulder. One of them, on the back of her left hand, was dead, the petals turned to dust. This saddened her greatly, for she thought of the buds as her babies in waiting.
She stood up and wiped her bottom with the front page of the Ludwich Telegram, two years old: ARMY IN FINAL PUSH AT YONA HEIGHTS. Pulling up her bell-bottoms she felt a sudden fainting fit come upon her, and she swayed as the boat swayed, as the river moved on the tide, and her stomach gurgled. Oh Lud! Not again. She threw up, managing to get half of it in the bucket. The rest she wiped up with the sports section. Bollocking arseholes! How long was this going to go on for?
The hold was dark and dank and foggy with various aromas and gases. Shuffling aftwards she reached the large glass aquarium that housed the rare and strange creature known as Mr Carmichael. Some said he was older than Cady herself, which was very, very old indeed. One legend had him swimming around in the pools of ancient time. Certainly, he looked like a living fossil, with his scaly skin and his long thin body encrusted from head to tail with many fragments of crystal, which gave his species its commonly known name: the crystalback. Fully uncoiled he would reach at least six feet in length, an overgrown electric eel, perhaps, crossed with an axolotl and a boa constrictor, oh yes, and a television receiver. A single tap on the glass was enough; Mr Carmichael switched himself on in a burst of noise and colour. Cady was hoping for another message from Lord Pettifer, but instead the tank’s water quivered with images drawn from local news broadcasts and the live entertainment circuits: footage of the preparations for the Hesting Festival, quips from the wireless comedy show Much Wittering in the Murk, snippets from private telephone calls – Ooh, Ethel, you should have heard him! – all mixed in with the Prime Minister’s address to the nation, and even glimpses of the stage shows of Tolley Hoo – wherever a crystal sent out a message in the city, Mr Carmichael picked it up and amplified it, and swam about within it, his own crystals sparkling and crackling as they received the incoming signals.
Cady sat down on a three-legged stool and watched the display idly. The sound of the boat’s propeller lulled her as it always did, especially at this slow steady speed, until her whole body was in rhythm with the vessel. And she started to drift away. Only the six remaining buds remained as areas of irritation, and once noticed, they started to itch
like glory. Lud damn you! Unfurl your colours, why don’t you, blossom forth and maybe attract a nice butterfly or two. I have to get myself pollinated, and soon! But such thoughts only made her more frustrated. She stood up and balanced herself on the stool somewhat precariously and threw a handful of dried shrimp into the tank. Mr Carmichael snapped them up. Seen from above, the surface of the water appeared as a ruffled screen of different colours, shapes, images. The sounds of a ruby-voiced newscaster rose from the water: The festival is all set to start, in little more than an hour… Electric flashes arced across from one side of the tank to the other. Cady was fascinated. Her buds seemed to be moving under their hard calyxes, perhaps stirred by the proximity of the electrical charge. Before she even knew what she was doing, her hands, both of them, had entered the water, down to the elbows. Yes, that was good! Maybe what she needed was a shock to the system to get herself flowering, like a spark plug firing up a motor vehicle’s engine. Mr Carmichael’s body writhed around her forearms, his sleek flesh giving way to the sharp crystals on his back, each sensation alternating, rough and smooth. The tank’s imagery played around her fingers. She was dipping her hands into the very fabric of the city, grabbing the mystical telephone wires and the radio signals and the television waves and feeding off them. The itchiness had vanished in the haze of the messages. No more pain, no more queasiness, no more effing bloody palpitations of the never-you-minds!
Arcadia Watchwoman Meade was far too old to be brooding for offspring. So it was a lovely feeling, to be free of all needs, comforted by the flow of sounds and pictures that Mr Carmichael shared with her. But her mood changed as the water turned black, jet black, and all the projected pictures vanished, and the voices fell silent. Cady was standing on tippy-toes on the rickety stool. She reached down further into the filthy water, seeking comfort. The water turned thick and treacly and it clutched at her arms, perhaps to pull her under. Always one to follow an impulse, Cady bent over at the waist and lowered her head into the liquid, keeping her eyes open, even as the weeds and bits of shrimp got into them. She’d been given the crystalback as a present, what was it now, seven, eight years ago, yes, before the war, certainly. But this was the first time she’d looked into the
water, really looked, face submerged. Mr Carmichael lay at the bottom of the tank. His crystallised skin shone a darker blue than was normal, and the signals he gave off slowly formed themselves into the head and face of Haakenur, the great dragon of legend. The beast’s maw opened and the curved fangs glittered darkly. A breath of fire shot forward, boiling the water.
In her panic Cady slipped backwards, losing her footing on the stool. She fell on the curved decking of the hold with a bump, wetting the arse of her tartan trousers in the bilge water. She yelped and cursed to high heaven, and wiped her face with a sleeve. But the glass tank had returned to normal, the water coloured only by the scenes of Ludwich, and the various programmes on offer. The crystalback swam about placidly, as though nothing untoward had happened. But how on earth had such a vision been teletransported, and from where? Perhaps a crystal-show history drama, or a children’s programme? Mr Carmichael must have chosen it for her, on purpose. But why? Cady squeezed water out of her sailor’s pigtail, which reached halfway down her back. She blew sludgy black snot from her nostrils, each in turn, and banged on her ears to dislodge any water beetles. Satisfied that all was well, she made her way up top, climbing through the hatch and stepping out onto the foredeck of the Juniper.
Thrawl Lek was standing at the helm. Despite his various dents, scratches and breakages, he was still operational, expertly steering the boat along the River Nysis, negotiating other vessels as they emerged from the rolling banks of ghost fog. Like all of his make and model, Lek was a quick and sure pupil; once learned, nothing was lost. Despite this, Cady wondered how much life he had left in him.
The air was thick and murky, the colour of a day-old wound, cloying to the lungs. There was a stench about it of rotting fish and vinegar and sodden fruit. The going was slow; weeds grabbed at the propeller blades. Blood vapours coloured the clouds of fog. But already the mechanical pumps could be heard from up ahead. The atmosphere was changing. Cady was excited to see the city in its new guise. It seemed that already she could breathe a little easier. Speckles of bright glittering liquid were hitting the mist banks from left and right, each droplet exploding into colour on contact – red, yellow, sapphire blue.
The Juniper’s prow parted the ghost’s body, creating a rippling effect that shook along the boat’s wake. The final curtain of mist pulled back and the great vistas of the river and the city were clearly seen.
Cady’s green heart sang with the joy of it. She was back! Returned to the city of her first seeding, her growth in the earth, her plucking, and – who knows? – her final blossoming. Ludwich, my Ludwich! Her body responded with a sudden urge to leap over the side and partake of the waters. Of course, she refused herself. This was no Alkhym spa, no fountain spring; the water was scummy, scabbed with litter and patches of oil, inhabited by mutated rats, blunt-headed fish, a dead dog or two. Signs of Faynr’s sickness still lay upon the surface, most obviously in the coagulated crusts of brown sludge-muck that bubbled and popped with noxious gases. But the air above was cleaner, at least. The reason for this healing was soon apparent, in the form of two heavy-duty firefighting boats, one to port, the other towards the starboard bank. Cady had seen such vessels hard at work many times during the war, doing their best to tackle the fires that raged along the docklands, and around the financial district, after an Enakor bombing raid. But the boats had now been repurposed, no longer used to fight the flames, but to push back the effects of Faynr’s sickness, or at least to dilute the effect; Cady had no idea how it worked. The hosepipes fixed to the decks swung back and forth under the control of the purification workers, each sweep leaving the ghost a little brighter looking, and clearer. Of course they were fighting the symptoms, not the cause of the sickness. But Cady was glad of the work done. Her leaving of Ludwich eighteen months ago was in large part caused by the smothering choking darkness of the Faynr Fog, so it was lovely indeed to view the churches, warehouses, streets and bridges in their former glory. She breathed in deeply, sticking out her tongue to taste the spindrift. Oh, it was glorious! She danced a hornpipe, her boot heels click-clacking on the deck.
Other purifiers were seen on the riversides, single operatives with canisters strapped to their backs, faces hidden behind protective masks. They walked the banks, down where the water met the pebbles and
sand, often wading into the river to better go about their task. There were Nebulim among them, and Ephreme, and Azeels, and Wodwo, young and old. It was a dirty but necessary job; a joint effort from all the various tribes and religions.
“Oi, yah, eh, yaaar!”
The shouts came from the cabin’s roof. Brin Halsegger was up there, in her favourite position behind the boat’s spotlight. The kid was dancing in celebration, just like Cady but more briskly, swinging her arms high and low like some demented bat. Her legs skipped and kicked, and she spun around on one foot to face the same way as when she set off, and each spin ended in a shout of joy: “Ya, yahoo!” It was a big day for the girl. The last Friday in May was a bank holiday, the start of the Hesting, a rite of passage that all Alkhym children had to undergo in their tenth year.
Cady’s eyes narrowed against the sunlight. The girl’s figure blurred, disappeared, and then leapt into view again as she jumped down from the roof, landing nimbly on the deck. Cady’s heart skipped a beat. “I do wish you wouldn’t do that.” She’d only known Brin, and her guardian Lek, for three and a bit days now, but yesterday’s journey upriver from the estuary had bonded them into a crew. And then Lord Pettifer’s warning came back to her, and she shivered. Her hands were jittery, sweat dripped down her neck. She watched as Brin hurried to the prow, where she stood next to the figurehead of the boat, looking ahead at the unfolding river, the rotunda of Saint Lupus, and the crumbling mass of the Fortress. Other boats were joining the Nysis from side canals, wharfs, and tributaries, forming a procession. Whistles blew, carrying greetings and warnings from one vessel to another. Skirls wheeled and hovered above the river’s surface, hoping to catch any morsels thrown their way. Purification vessels were moored at various places along the banks. The air sparkled.
A brightly coloured beetle landed on Cady’s hand. She brushed it away and felt in the pocket of her smock for her penknife. The vision of Haakenur came back to her, as conjured up by Mr Carmichael. Was it a message? And if so, what might it mean? Cady Meade was the type to be plagued by messages, portents, riddles, and various indecipherable signs. In this case, perhaps the crystalback was
telling her not to give up the fight, the ongoing fight to protect the dragon’s spirit? If so, she needed to make sure of one thing, and that was little Brin’s true purpose in life.
She walked forward and listened; the girl was chattering away happily to Pok Pok, the crystal spirit who lived inside the figurehead, talking of her excitement at the upcoming festival, and how at the very same time she was a little scared of what might happen. Brin wore a smart polka-dotted top and a pair of blue trousers cut high on the ankles, and plimsolls. A pretty picture! She must have kept this outfit clean and folded in her suitcase, just for this special day. Cady saw that she was holding something in her hand, a shiny object. It was a gold coin, the Ludluda coin, as Brin called it, with the head of King Lud on one side, and that of Queen Luda on the other. It had become Brin’s special talisman, ever since they had found it on yesterday’s travels. But its sparkle irritated Cady. Carefully hiding her actions from Thrawl Lek, she opened the blade of her knife. Without a word of warning she pressed the tip against the nape of the girl’s neck just above the right shoulder, and pressed forward until a droplet of blood appeared.
“Ow! What did you do?”
Brin turned in a hurry, a surprised look on her face. She reached round to rub at her shoulder, smearing the blood. And again she asked, “What did you do? Was that you, Mrs Meade?” She could not believe what had happened.
Speaking calmly, indeed coldly, Cady said, “Ah, it’s just a little scratch, Brin.”
“A scratch?”
“I wanted to see what colour your blood was.”
“It’s red. Red! See! What else did you expect? You think Alkhyms have blue blood? How ridiculous you are!”
“I wasn’t sure. After all, my blood is green.”
“Because you’re a plant lady. But me… me, I’m just a…” She looked confused.
“Don’t you know what you are?”
The girl’s mouth opened and closed. She looked to Lek, but obviously decided against calling for his help. Too much pride! The boat’s figurehead was making little mewling sounds, as though in speechless sympathy.
“Actually,” Cady said, “I think it’s time for your first tattoo.” She displayed the penknife with its reddened tip. “After all, I was younger than you when I got my first ink. Eight years old, barely out of the soil. They carved a rune in my arm, here, see? It’s the Hiza rune, meaning root in the first tongue. That from which I sprang, and which will always bind me, no matter how far I travel.” Her face hardened. “And I have travelled, believe me. I have travelled so many fuckin’ miles, to get to this place, at this time, standing here next to you.”
The girl said in a mocking tone, “Must you swear, Mrs Meade?”
Cady merely smiled at this remark. “So then, what shall we decorate you with, eh?” She came to the crux of the matter. “Shall we depict Faynr, the dragon’s purest spirit? Or rather, shall we scratch deep a portrait of Gogmagog, the evil twin, the Night Serpent?”
Brin seemed bolder now. “Neither of them. Leave me alone.”
“Oh, but you must choose, little girl. Good, or bad?”
The two of them stared at each other a while longer. Defiance came back to Brin’s eyes.
The experiment was over.
Cady licked the blood off the blade, hoping for a deeper reading. Nothing, no clue; the girl’s true substance remained unknown. She walked to the port beam, where she stood in contemplation. Colourful bunting fluttered from the rails of a large river cruiser. The decks were crowded with sightseers, as were the bankside pathways. Sunlight flashed across the water. How would this day end? A first cut had been made, that was all. First blood. But what had she been expecting, truly? For smoke to pour out of the girl’s wound? Stupid! She looked at the little knife in her hand. It was a pitiful weapon. Would the blade be long enough, sharp enough? Hardly. Maybe her long thorny fingers would do the deed, pricking and closing around the young girl’s throat until the final breaths were squeezed out. Or perhaps best to throw her overboard and follow
her down to the river’s bed, and hold her there? Yes, let the sacred waters do the work, that would be appropriate. But no matter the method, Cady would do the job, if necessary, if the warnings were correct, and young Brin Halsegger needed to die.
The duties of a watchwoman were often painful. ...
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