The Malice. Peter Newman

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      Lastly, comes Gutterface. Sometimes called the Unspeakable, even its peers do not care to look at it for long. Swarms of the lesser infernals infest its many pockets and crevices. An army of dysfunctional young, suckling at a hundred teats.

      When all have arrived at the pit’s edge, the Man-shape reaches down, finding one of Slate’s many appendages and lifting it high. One by one, the others copy the gesture, until Slate is lifted slightly off the ground, murmuring and clicking to itself.

      Whenever infernals converse there is danger. Even if both parties are peaceful, essences can mix, desires swapping or implanting themselves. No one challenger dares outright confrontation and yet, to end the stalemate, each needs to display its power to the others. A good enough display could convince the others to submit, giving the winner the infernal throne without conflict.

      Slate’s essence is weak, allowing other infernals to make contact without risk. They use it as a conduit, a patchy curtain that divides like gauze, keeping them apart but allowing communication.

      With careful timing the infernals bring the limb they hold deeper into their shells, until it connects with the essence inside them. Now, when any of them forms a thought, it travels into Slate, into the pit and the others can read the echoes.

      Inevitably, there is posturing. Each trying to appear bigger than the other, probing for changes, hoping that time will have made new weaknesses. The Man-shape allows this to happen, keeps itself small, unreadable. It suspects that Lord Felrunner is ready to make its bid for power and that Gutterface has a secret it struggles to contain. The other two give little away.

      All share a moment of pleasure that the other challengers have not dared come. Then the Man-shape presses itself onto Slate’s essence.

      ‘I was made to serve …’ the Man-shape begins.

      ‘Lesser.’

      ‘Taste.’

      ‘Evres.’

      ‘Us.’ Swirl the responses.

      ‘… And for much time, I served the master.’ It notes the ripple of unease the reminder of the Usurper still brings. ‘Where the Green Sun blazed, there is only void. Which of you will fill it?’

      Four answers come, declarations of suitability.

      ‘So you say. But the master did not trifle with words, the master took and others trembled. Now a new master comes, one that will take, and change, and wipe us away.’

      Questions come thick and fast and Slate’s essence stretches dangerously thin. The Man-shape casts a shadow between them, the image of their new enemy.

      ‘It is called the Yearning and it gathers itself upon the Breach. I pledge myself and the master’s throne to whoever can end it.’

      There is a pause, quicker than the beat of a hummingbird’s wing, an eternity between essences. Then there is noise. Lord Felrunner accepts first, the others immediately after.

      Slate is discarded roughly, falling back into the pit while infernals scuttle, stride and shuffle away. Already, plots are forming, plans of attack, dreams of victory and what follows.

      On the inside, the Man-shape permits itself a smile and wonders if any will return.

      *

      Vesper stares at the two bodies, her gun shakily pointing at them. Neither stir. ‘What are we going to do?’ she asks repeatedly. The question is directed as much to herself as to Duet, who has not spoken for too long.

      Eventually, the gun lowers and Vesper’s breathing calms. She goes to the bag of supplies, searching for inspiration, nudging the kid’s head out of the way as he rummages for food. Most of the objects are identifiable, if not familiar. She touches the block of Skyn, the flexicast and nine different tab containers, presumably medicines of some kind. She finds a mutigel pillow, some water, some powdered food and a set of tools. One reminds her of the Navpack her father used to let her play with. She still remembers his face when she broke it.

      She picks up the new Navpack and asks it to activate.

      The Navpack does not recognise her voice.

      ‘Activate!’ she repeats, desperation making the end of the word rise.

      On her back, the sword begins to hum.

      Vesper spins round, reaching for her gun, but the First remains where it fell, eyes still staring, glassy.

      The sword’s hum rises sharply, pointedly, then stops.

      With a happy ping, the Navpack activates.

      A map shines onto the floor, showing Sonorous from above. The outer wall a thick dark line, curving like an inverted pair of horns, and, within it, a grid of roads, packed either side with little squares, countless. Vesper sees her location represented by a white dot that flashes excitedly. She taps it with a finger and the map zooms in, showing the house they stand in, the neighbouring ones and the criss-cross of alleys nearby.

      Beneath them, purple, is another network. Passageways made for secret journeys, known only to the agents of the Winged Eye, entrances scattered about the island.

      Vesper’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘This is it. Duet. Duet! I think I’ve found a way out.’

      ‘It doesn’t …’ she begins, but there is no-one to finish her sentence. She chokes back a sob.

      Using the Navpack as a guide, Vesper moves across the room. The view zooms, scaling itself exactly to the space. A purple square of light overlays an incongruous corner. The girl runs to it, followed by the kid, who shares the excitement if not the understanding.

      Fingers search for a gap or a handle, find none. Fumbling becomes frantic, a droplet of sweat falls from her hair, dampening dirt. Then, for no discernible reason, a square of plastic pops up, raising two inches proud of the floor. Vesper grabs it, heaves.

      Cheeks turn from red to purple, muscles burn and the panel begins to lift.

      With an excited bleat, the kid gets his head into the gap and pushes.

      Girl and panel flip over, landing on their backs.

      The kid tips forward, hooves scrabbling over empty air. For a moment he wobbles, precarious, then falls into the newly revealed hole.

      There is the sound of an abrupt landing and disgruntlement.

      Vesper scrambles to her feet. ‘Duet, look!’

      She does, but nothing changes in her eyes. ‘It doesn’t …’ She twitches. ‘… Matter.’

      Vesper’s hand finds Duet’s, squeezes. ‘Please come. I need you.’

      Duet doesn’t squeeze back. Her head gives the smallest of shakes. But Vesper doesn’t let go and when Duet feels the pull, gentle, insistent, she is surprised to find herself moving.

      Together, they descend.

      From scattered places across Sonorous, black-visored figures stop, heads turning СКАЧАТЬ