The Machinery. Gerrard Cowan
it in. She was enjoying this, Brandione knew: the adulation of the crowd. Perhaps she had hated being an ordinary Watcher, skulking in the shadows while others took the glory. Now she was the focus of attention. It was not even her role, by rights: Expansion was the remit of Tactician Canning. But he would not mind. He had not been one of the Machinery’s most successful Selections; he always gave the impression of wanting to be somewhere, anywhere, other than the Fortress of Expansion.
Brightling lowered her eyes and looked back down at the crowd, whose applause was dying. She opened her mouth to continuing speaking, but was unexpectedly interrupted.
A commotion had begun on the edge of the troops. A small, thin man in the coarse goatskin of a peasant was rushing up and down the lines in an agitated state. With his spindly limbs and bulging eyes, he had the look of a panicking insect.
‘It is a messenger,’ Farringer said, screwing his eyes up tightly. ‘He doesn’t bring good news, by the look of him.’
Well spotted. Brandione hailed a nearby soldier. ‘Bring him here.’
The trooper ran off and cuffed the anxious man around the neck, dragging him to the trebuchet.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Brandione demanded. ‘You’re disturbing the Tactician’s speech.’
The messenger burst out of the sentry’s arms. A cluster of troops immediately made for him, but Brandione stopped them with a raised finger.
‘Let him speak.’
The wretch fell to his knees. ‘Are you General Brandione, the Strategist’s adviser?’ he asked.
‘Yes. What of it?’
‘I bring terrible news, lord; the worst in sixty-two years!’
Farringer stepped forward.
‘What do you mean to say? What is wrong?’
But Brandione already knew. It is sixty-two years since Kane was Selected.
The man doubled over, his body shaking. After a fit of coughing and shivering, he stood, dragging himself up by grabbing onto Farringer’s arm and rising to his full, unimposing height.
‘Strategist Kane is dead!’
Sometimes Katrina felt older than the world itself.
She had first experienced the sensation as a child, before the Operator took her brother, before her mother died and her father sailed away. It was as if part of her was broken, the part that should have governed childhood and put a fire into youth.
No. It wasn’t broken. It was there, all right. But it was not alone. By its side was something else entirely, a tired creature that gazed on the world with weary comprehension, unsurprised by anything.
The feeling had grown stronger over the years. When her brother was taken, the old part of her had begun to dominate. Don’t tell anyone what you saw. What would they do, if they knew? How would they treat you, if they thought you were telling lies about the Operator? And so she had told no one, not even her father or Brightling. Sometimes, though, she wondered if the Tactician knew anyway. Nothing could stay hidden from her for very long.
She had hated it, at first. It conflicted with some of her most cherished beliefs about herself. She saw herself as courageous, perhaps even reckless; the older part restrained her. She saw beauty in the world, in the trees and in the mountains; the older part snorted at such sentimentality. She recoiled at some elements of the Watcher’s life, the cruelty and the treachery; the older part reminded her of the practicalities of the world, and of the hard decisions one must make to thrive.
She became aware, as time went by – she never knew how – that other people were not like this. Other people, people like Brightling, were complete. They were whole. She was two jagged halves.
But she had grown to appreciate it. She found herself able to tap into it, when she needed to. It was as if she had a deep and cool reservoir, hidden within her, which she could use to extinguish even the most searing of flames.
It was another mask.
‘Where is your mask?’
She jolted.
‘I do not have one yet.’
Aranfal frowned. ‘Why not?’
‘I am still an Apprentice.’
‘You are how old?’
Which part? ‘I am 21.’
‘Hmm. That is old, to still be an Apprentice. And even an Apprentice may wear a mask.’
‘Brightling—’
‘Tactician Brightling.’
‘Tactician Brightling says I can visit the Hall of Masks when we are back from the North.’
Aranfal nodded. ‘Well, good for you. I’m sure you’ll get the prettiest mask in all the fucking Hall.’
Katrina bit her tongue, though it took all her willpower. Or rather, it took all the power of her older half to beat down the tempestuous girl.
‘Are you celebrating the end of Expansion then, petal?’ Aranfal asked.
‘No. There are no celebrations.’
‘Why not? I thought you young people would have drunk half of Northern Blown by now.’
‘No. The Overland is mourning for the Strategist, Watcher.’ And I am not permitted to fraternise with young people, or with anyone who isn’t Brightling.
Aranfal nodded. ‘I know that, girl. Don’t take me for a fool.’
The older part once again suppressed her natural instincts, which this time pointed towards violence. ‘I am sorry, Watcher Aranfal.’
He nodded. ‘Good.’
They remained in silence for a moment.
‘Why am I here, Watcher?’ She looked around the hall. It was just as she would have expected from a place like this, all stone and straw and fireplaces and wood. Aranfal was sitting at a long, oak table, papers scattered before him. Dozens of candles burned around the hall.
‘Why are you here? How should I know?’
‘Brightling told me to come. She said you had something to show me.’
‘She said that?’ He squinted his eyes. ‘Was she any more specific?’
‘No.’
Aranfal sighed, and pointed at the papers. ‘Well, in that case, she must want you to bathe alongside me in the glamour of my life. At the moment I’m cataloguing the sheep and cattle in the surrounding fields. Yes indeed, being a Watcher is truly glorious at all times, as you will find out one day.’ He broke into a smile. ‘Although perhaps not, now that I think about it. You’ll get the plum jobs, I have no doubt.’
Katrina bowed her head, and did not speak. Aranfal had always been this way with her, though she did not know why. No Watcher outranked him, save Brightling herself; he was arguably the most powerful man in the world, now that Kane was dead, or if he was not, only Charls Brandione had more of a claim. But when he looked upon her, he did so with envy. The youthful part of her could not see this; it was her older self that recognised this emotion, and laughed at Aranfal for being so weak.
‘I firstly have to be made a Watcher,’ said Katrina, ‘which is easier said than done.’
There was a knock at the door, and a young Watcher entered, in a bull mask. He approached Aranfal, handed him a piece of parchment, and scuttled away, bowing as he went.
Aranfal scanned