Cadell brightened, slapping David jovially on the back.
“Well, as we have no food, nor are we likely to come across any. I suggest we forgo breakfast and get straight to the walking part.”
“Walking is certainly better than running.”
“That it is, David. That it is.”
Regardless, David’s body protested as though it were not. As they made their way through the verdant to the point of rotting countryside, he struggled with one endlessly unnerving thought.
What on Shale could be worse than the Roil?
It took them several hours to find the railway. Time enough for David to question seriously Cadell’s sense of direction. The land around the Lode was thick with mushy scrub and streams, and they moved at what felt like a crawl.
When they finally found the line, Cadell released a long breath. “We should be safe along these tracks,” he said. “I doubt anyone will be using them again for a long time.”
They walked all day, stopping to rest, only when the walking became too much for David, which was often. Cadell, on the other hand was unfazed by the rigours of the journey. He walked swiftly, sometimes getting dangerously ahead. But he would always turn at the last moment, sensing, perhaps, that he was almost out of sight, and wait until David caught him up.
David was relieved when, at last, the sun setting low and wet behind them, they reached a deserted workers’ cottage, built close to the line.
It had been recently occupied. There were still cans of food in the cupboards, mushrooms and sausages and even a bag of onions hanging above the kitchen sink. The building was simple, a single onion-smelling room with two beds, both with yellowing pillows, but it was shelter from the rain and the only other tenants were fleas, which were heaven compared to Quarg Hounds.
David was asleep almost before his head hit the lumpy pillow.
He woke to morning light and the smell of breakfast cooking on the fire. Onions and sausages crackled. David’s stomach rumbled, but it was the syringe by the bed that drew his gaze first.
David couldn’t remember just who it was that had first introduced him to Carnival (some sordid adventure after his mother’s death, too much drink, a place that felt safe, then became something else). However, the moment of its absorption was still vivid: the flood of calm, the release of all that guilt and fear replaced with joy.
And if the guilt and fear always came back, like a tide, a rushing wave all too quick to return, it could be pushed away again.
He’d lived in that cloud for almost two years, or the cloud had become him. Sometimes David couldn’t separate himself from his hungers, the act of scoring and the ejection of doubt and dread with the injection of Carnival.
He attended to his hunger swiftly, and without embarrassment.
“I found some tomatoes growing in the garden out the back,” said Cadell, looking up from where he was hunched over a frying pan. “Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?”
The simple domesticity of the scene struck David harder than perhaps anything he had experienced in the last few days. His voice failed him.
Cadell frowned. “Well?”
“Just try and stop me,” David said.
Chapter 23
Medicine Paul should never have risen as high as he did. Such a dandy, such upper class heritage. Far more suitable a candidate for the Council of Engineers, but his enmity with Stade brought him much support. His wounds so obvious that they could not be denied. He had paid much for his political beliefs but likewise he gained much from it, too.
Stade lifted the glass jar into the light. Two shrivelled fingers floated in the solution contained within. He gave them a little shake.
“I like to keep them with me,” Stade said. “A reminder.”
Medicine spat blood. He’d kept his teeth, and his eyes, which made him think that Stade really wanted to negotiate.
“I’ve got nothing to offer you,” Medicine said. “You’ve taken it from me. The Confluents have no power.”
Stade lowered the jar. “You’re wrong. Your name holds much glamour to it, even if it is a glamour that I have in part created. And it’s that glamour I need.”
“It can’t be as terrible as that. You’ve destroyed your enemies.”
“You consider me far too myopic, Medicine.” Stade put the jar down on his desk. “There is only one enemy, now. I’m evacuating the city, and I do not have time to become a popular leader, and what I need cannot be done by force. The Roil is coming. And we have every reason to believe that it is beginning to advance even more rapidly.”
“There is time enough, surely. Chapman is two hundred miles south.” Medicine spat more blood upon the floor.
Stade laughed. “If only it were that easy. The Roil has been slow to approach Chapman. Winter held it in check for a while, and other forces, ancient machineries of which we have limited – to say the least – understanding and even more limited control. Though Cadell could have enlightened us on the matter, if he hadn’t been so intent on killing my Vergers. However, we have evidence to suggest its growth is about to increase dramatically. When Chapman goes, Mirrlees will not be far behind. A few months, maybe six.”
Medicine crossed his arms. His cravat crusted with his own blood, some of it stuck to his neck, pulled painfully at his skin. “And you’re telling me this because?”
“We need your help.” There was an edge to Stade’s voice that Medicine had never heard before. Medicine’s ears pricked up. “You’re a popular man, Mr Paul. A leader, and we need to start moving the populace north.”
“So you’ve given up on subterfuge, then? And murder?”
Councillor Stade cleared his throat. “We have given up on nothing. I am far too practical to discard any useful tool. Medicine, these are desperate times and I can brook no dissent. You I can deal with. Our opponent, the one true enemy of our time will not parley, and believe me, I have tried. I will do what is necessary to save this world, to give humanity a future.”
“One built on lies, built on coercive government and all its sweetened cruelties. What kind of future is that?” Medicine demanded.
“Damn you,” Stade shouted, closing in on Medicine, a finger stabbing at the air directly in front of Medicine’s face. “There is no room for ideologies any more. This is about survival.” He dropped his hand, taking Medicine’s fingers from his sight, as though suddenly realising the childishness of his display. “Does it matter what the future holds as long as there is one? You have a choice, Mr Paul. And it is simple. You can die, here and in this room. Or you can live, and help this city live too.”
Medicine took a deep breath. Pivotal transitions come swiftly, and truths tumble and crash, and make themselves anew. How cruel it was that desperate times seemed not to expand character, but diminish it. Narrowing choices: death or dishonour. Why was that so? He realised that this time at least it was not. Other choices might open up before him, if he was ready for them. He need only be patient. He was a politician after all.
Stade leered down at Medicine, and that alone nearly drove him to reject his offer then and there.
Gloat all you want, Medicine thought. Your time will come.
“Shall we get those handcuffs off then?” The councillor said.
Perhaps Stade was right. There was no room for ideologies any more, the Roil had changed everything, and it would change this too, if Medicine let it. What am I to do? He wondered and realised there was no clear answer, for all that his choices were simple and few. He could find no pleasure in either of them. Pragmatism can be a virtue and a curse.