that they would become something else, two more dreaming cities.
Those caught in their path were subsumed as a matter of course. Enemies changed to allies with a soft beat of wings, a transformation of neurons, and a new awareness of different imperatives.
To be one with the Roil. To be one with the glorious ending of the world.
CHAPTER 36
The Engines of War moved quickly, racing to finish what had been begun those many years ago. Great battles were fought, many lives lost. And out in the north, a small group travelled upon whom everything hinged — as though they were some door to disaster or salvation.
You would be surprised how often it has happened before.
THE NORTHERN WILDERNESS 1519 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL
The Collard Green carried them away from the pyre and to the Roslyn Dawn. The Aerokin raised a flagellum sluggishly in greeting. Margaret could tell it was an effort.
“Still healing,” Kara said. “She’ll be all right in a day or so, it takes a lot of energy to recover from such a wound, even one that isn’t fatal.”
Since no one was going anywhere fast, they'd made camp.
They’d lit fires, enough for the Collard Green and her crew. Someone had gotten out musical instruments, and songs of the Confluents and victory had been sung, some to tunes that Margaret had recognised, if not the lyrics. Political activism had taken on a less combative form in Tate. But the singing and the drinking wasn't just that, they mourned their dead, and mocked the flight ahead of them.
They ate. And ate — Buchan almost matching David in the food he put away. And drank — Whig almost matching Kara.
Margaret worked slowly through her meal, still sore, and now, with some urgency fled, found her mind wandering again to darker things.
To the north, beyond the river, the plain extended, treeless, vast. And it would carry on and on, until Tearwin Meet itself, and the weird tall mountains that she had read about in Deighton's histories. There weren't too many more meals to be had.
When she had finished her plate and passed it to a man to be washed, Buchan came over to her.
“Together again,” Buchan said.
“So you finally got out of Hardacre,” Margaret said.
Buchan laughed. “It was far harder than we ever expected. I’m sorry that we were so slow.”
“And I’m sorry that we left you,” Margaret said.
“You did what you thought was right,” Buchan said. “I’ve had plenty of time to consider it.”
“So how did you find us?”
“We’ve been chasing the Old Men since they left Hardacre; they’ve always kept just ahead of us.” He stared into the fire. “Margaret, we saw some terrible things, helped when we could, which wasn't often. We knew — well, hoped really- that if we didn’t lose them, we would find you.”
“And so you did,” Margaret said.
Buchan looked over at David; he was talking to Kara and Whig, the boy's face gleaming with the same healing gel that Margaret had had slathered under her ribcage. Kara’s leering application of that had been one of Margaret’s more unpleasant moments — but now Margaret was feeling better, more clear-headed. She’d thought she’d not live out the night, and yet here she was.
“Can we trust him?” Buchan said.
“You saw what he did to the Old Man, or what was left of that act. He did that to save me, he could have run, but he didn't. He scares you?”
“He’s scared me since the day you brought him to Hardacre, Margaret,” Buchan said. “He was little more than a boy when I met him just a couple of months ago, and now he's something altogether different. His flesh barely contains him. I don't know what he is. Man or Old Man, I don't think he knows either. If the flesh is uncertain, what of the mind?”
“What? You’re frightened he won’t see this through?”
“Frightened that he won’t. Frightened that he will.” Buchan looked down at his massive hands. “These are terrifying times. The world is drowning. And we’re what are left, of those who might be able to stop it. Do you think that what we’re doing is right?”
“Of course. The Roil must be stopped at all costs.”
Buchan smiled. “To be so young, to possess such perfect clarity.”
“The Roil took everything I was, subverted it and threw it back at me,” Margaret said. “It didn’t just destroy my world, it transformed it, utterly and horribly.”
“Stade snatched my city from me,” Buchan said. “Turned Whig and I into exiles, and made it so Chapman never stood a chance. I hate the man. I despise him. But I do not want him dead. I honestly believe he thought he was saving us all.”
“Stade is just one man. He is nothing in the context of the Roil, all of us are nothing,” Margaret said, gesturing at David. “Except him. He can destroy it. He can drive it out, he can engage the Engine of the World, and I will make sure that he does. We survived tonight, I doubt anything is capable of stopping us now.”
Buchan smiled grimly. “There, you see; once again, it's the confidence of the young. When all I would be doing is licking my wounds, you’re ready to go out and tear the world down.”
“When the world deserves such a fate, why shouldn't it be torn down?” Margaret said.
Buchan didn't answer her.
The celebrations, such as they were, had ended hours ago. Kara was out somewhere vomiting into the dark and David sat facing a fire that did nothing to comfort him. In fact, his mere presence seemed to bend the flames away from him. He wondered if anything was capable of comforting him now. Food helped, but barely, he was running a race with his hunger, always chasing some level of satiation that he could never quite reach. Some days, the whole world would have not been enough. He’d seen Cadell, and the Old Men, and found some of that deeper hunger reflected within him. He feared what he was capable of.
Around him people snored. He couldn't sleep. He feared what he would find waiting for him. There was still blood under his nails, despite his furious scrubbing.
He didn’t want Cadell there in that dream space, least of all tonight, didn’t want to be reminded of what he had done, didn’t want it explained to him just how he had managed to tear Milton apart. Just another memory he didn't want.
Oddly enough, he missed Mother Graine. Her absence at that moment felt more painful than any other loss he had experienced. And she had kicked him in the head.
Sometimes he found it hard to believe that his father was actually dead. His mother, well, he had had years to grow used to that, but not his father. The great grey grumbling presence of him, and the smell of his tobacco. His tendency to launch into long-winded lectures on the correct behaviour of a son of a Councillor, the disappointed tone of his voice; all this coming from a man who had marched away from his friend and joined the opposition, and not only that, but broken into the belly of the Ruele Tower and freed an Old Man.
Maybe he didn’t miss him because there really hadn’t been all that much to miss. But, no, his father had cared for him. Had loved him in his way. And they’d shared a love of the Night Council novels.
Travis the Grave wouldn’t have sat here now, moping, the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’d have been out there, probably at Tearwin Meet itself. The Roil already dealt with, and a nice ale waiting to be drunk. But Travis had a mechanical hand, and the advantage of being fictional.
So he sat despondent and missed the woman who had tried to kill him — for being the thing she loved.
Margaret cleared her throat behind him.
