“Sir!” they roared, proud heads raised, battle-ready, skin sockets unblinking.
“Then let us descend upon the city, take up our stations and put our ears to the ground.”
The Allears mobilised, leaving the Authority Complex in Leven Hyder and dispersing throughout the Hundreds of the city. They were transported to their posts by a fleet of Logistics Division Ops trucks, weaving in convoy beneath the arches of the Elevated. Some were stationed in pairs beside towering, cast concrete whisper dishes. Ten metres in diameter, the parabolic acoustic mirrors were sited throughout the city to capture and amplify even the faintest trace of live music. Huge hemispheres in bold relief, poised and listening – stethoscopes held firm against the city’s chest.
Other Allears moved silently through the streets, navigating by mental maps, memorised as part of their training. They paused on street corners, listening for trace of contraband sound. Usually their presence on the streets made the citizens feel apprehensive. The Allears signified a potential Deaf Squad raid. Too many citizens had witnessed the consequences of positive detection. Those who hadn’t, had heard enough stories to imagine the brutality of ‘reasonable force’.
However, on this occasion the radio had explained everything: “Citizens of Wydeye, our brave Forces are working tirelessly to protect you. They will prevent another Glos hole. Their presence is for security reasons. See for yourself. You are safe to focus on your targets. Repay our Forces’ diligence with productivity.”
The Authority was there to serve and protect. Fears were allayed; nervous minds were reassured. Everyone could sleep soundly at night. The situation was under control.
Meanwhile, Dent Lore and his Allears listened. They pulled apart the layers of sound, delving ever deeper, searching for a whispered breath amid a howling storm – trace of the Music Makers.
Chapter Three
“I cannot believe that Saltire is gone.” Bend Sinister sat on a rock with his head in his hands, his long black hair falling across his face.
Chief paced the cave, her generous stride making short work of the distance. “She was definitely in her camp. I had left her not an hour before.”
“And her players?”
“All with her. All gone.”
Bend Sinister shook his head and looked up to the stone dome above them. “To think we moved down here to be safe.” He had a small tattoo on his left cheek, a diagonal line, which he touched absentmindedly. “This loss is beyond words.”
Chief stood beside him, observing how grief could reduce such a tall, broad frame to this huddle of pain. She flicked back her silver dreadlocks and folded her arms. “I cared for Saltire too. We all did. She was a true artist. And a fair leader.”
Bend Sinister looked up into Chief’s cobalt eyes, searching for something he anticipated but couldn’t find. “Yes,” he said. “A fair leader. And a strong woman. She held my respect and trust.”
Chief nodded, adding to the weight of sentiment through her silence. Then she cleared her throat and said, “Where’s Pale Dexter?”
“He’s on his way.”
Kicking the dirt beneath her boots, she said, “You know, this shouldn’t affect the schedule. I’m due to play. I can’t afford to postpone.”
“Now is not the time.”
“I’m not suggesting immediately. But soon. I can’t delay for long.”
“We must wait until Pale Dexter’s here before we discuss anything.”
Silence filled the cave, then ebbed away as a man entered. He was well built, with dark features beneath a closely shaved head. Along his arms ran strange tattoos – cryptic formulae that hinted at secrets. “Chief. Bend Sinister,” said Pale Dexter. “My apologies for keeping you waiting.”
Bend Sinister rose and the three Troubadours stood on ceremony, their heads bowed with eyes to the ground. A different type of silence now filled the cave, dense with latent energy. Gas lamps flickered on the limestone walls around them; stalactites and stalagmites cast dancing shadows in the yellow ochre glow. The sound of dripping water, amplified by the cave’s acoustics, set a slow, steady rhythm.
There was no form, no precedent to prescribe what was to be done. They each applied a different measure to the gesture of respect.
It was Pale Dexter who moved the moment on. He raised his head and said, “It is with great sadness and reverence that we gather to mourn the passing of Saltire and her players. The loss to our community cannot be weighed in words. Her legacy is the spirit by which we survive. Our debt to her will outlive the end of days.” He looked to Chief and nodded.
“Spirit of Saltire,” said Chief, “take flight and, in peace, be free.”
Both Chief and Pale Dexter looked to Bend Sinister, who felt the weight of expectation upon him. He cleared his throat and looked around, recalling the cave that had become the grave of his friend. “Two centuries,” he said. “We’ve never known a lifetime until now. Your end has come too soon, dear friend.” He could speak no more.
The three Troubadours stood in silence once again, before drifting away to occupy separate parts of the cave. Bend Sinister sought shadow, sitting on a rock between pools of amber light. Chief leant against the cave’s curved wall, twisting her silver dreads while glancing at her counterparts. Pale Dexter remained close to the centre, tattooed arms folded across his chest. “This leaves us with a problem,” he said.
Cobalt eyes flittered.
Bend Sinister sighed. “Not today,” he said.
“Yes, today. We can’t leave the position unfilled. Saltire would agree.”
“Pale Dexter is right,” said Chief. “We need a plan.”
“She’s barely cold and already you speak of succession?” said Bend Sinister, palms raised in appeal. “Can’t we trust each other enough to cooperate in peace without a leader whilst we show due respect?”
“It is through due respect that I argue the contrary,” said Pale Dexter, his deep voice hardening. “Saltire became lead Troubadour because we could no longer live in harmony without
