Farkas briefed his driver, Wightman, on the journey to come. Donald did not understand much of the jargon. However, he did catch mention of discharges to the drains and surplus flow of up to two thousand head per hour. After this, Farkas turned around in his seat and ordered the gunner to get the engine cranked up.
The engine was obviously of prodigious power. It shook the great vehicle as it fired up and settled into a languidly panting idle. The engine barely revved as it launched the ten-wheeler on its way at a pace that surprised Donald. They drove down a broad, gravel avenue for several miles through woodland. There were no further scenes of wretched agriculture and grandiose mansions.
“Tell me, Mr Aldingford, what is your occupation?” Farkas asked.
“I’m a barrister—make it Donald, by the way. I’m not precious about social decorum, in fact, I’m sick of it.”
Farkas nodded and turned to smile, obviously highly approving of Donald’s informality.
“And tell me, Donald, how is it you came to be riding with us to the Central Enclave today?”
“I was on a flying boat that drifted over the Lands of Dasti-Jones in fog and was shot down under Naclaski. I was interned under Frite. Not that you need to know—I’m trusting your discretion.”
“Thank you for sharing your information. From time to time we deal with people from your level of society. Most of them will not stoop to address mere glory troopers like us—you make a pleasant change.”
“My younger brother’s a glory officer with your crowd. Not that you need to know that either. His name is Cost-Centre Lieutenant Lawrence Aldingford.” A twinge of conscience halted Donald. He had betrayed Haighman’s trust, damn it. That kind of bloody foolishness could be dangerous in the wrong company. “Have you ever met him?”
“No,” Farkas said. Wightman piped up negative too. “There are over a hundred thousand of us in General Wardian, so it’s not very likely we’d know him. He must be quite… dedicated I suppose one would say, to reach such a rank.”
Being guilty about his clumsy breach of Haighman’s trust, Donald let the conversation rest for a few minutes before he changed the subject.
“Do these trees go on forever?” he asked.
“No. We’re about to go through the frontier of the Lands of Dasti-Jones, then we’ll be on the Old Kent Drain,” Farkas said.
“We’ll be driving on a public drain—just like the Fatted Masses!”
The two glory troopers smiled politely. Farkas said:
“The drains have changed since the days of the Fatted Masses.”
*
The avenue narrowed and meandered about as it passed through a stretch of intense bushland. Donald doubted a mouse could have got through the tangle of gorse, bramble, holly and wild roses. The armoured car arrived at a heavy iron gate guarded by a contingent of General Wardian troops, where it was waved through by a sour-faced grade lieutenant. Thirty yards around a bend, they again confronted an iron gate and again they were waved straight through. The road widened out to a broad channel like a river, mostly grown over with grass, nettles and dead foxgloves. To both sides, thick bushland sloped up what may have been man-made banks, as they appeared too regular to be natural. Wightman picked his own way, avoiding muddy pools and the worst of the churnings left by previous vehicles. The ten deeply-treaded tyres made easy work of the ground, although the speed was slower than on the gravel avenue.
“Welcome to the Old Kent Drain,” Farkas said. “That thick band of thorny bushes we passed through was the frontier of the Lands of Dasti-Jones.”
“I’m surprised at how peaceful it is out here.”
“You’ve never been on the public drains?” Farkas said.
“Nope.”
“Then we have an opportunity for a little social education.”
Wightman smiled and laughed softly as he hauled the steering wheel, accompanied by much wheezing from the hydraulic system.
For some miles they lumbered along without seeing any other vehicles or people. The first wildlife was a small deer that flashed in front of them pursued by a pack of dogs. The deer made a desperate leap over some gorse and disappeared, whereupon Farkas ordered a stop and they waited. After a few minutes, the dogs reappeared with bloody jaws fighting over two legs. They snarled and writhed to win the meat. One larger dog attacked another and drove it away. The dogs were similar to Alsatians, although longer of limb and smaller of head.
“You can imagine what they do to people,” Farkas said.
Not much farther on, the car drove into a potent stench of decaying flesh. Farkas ordered a halt and opened his top hatch to get a better view by standing on the frame of his seat.
“This may interest you, Donald.”
He pointed at a copse of birch trees on the edge of the public drain. Donald could see some enormous, hunched birds perched in the lower branches of the trees. The birds were so large the higher branches would not have supported them.
“I recognise them. Those are lammergeiers,” Donald said. “I’ve dealt with cases in which lammergeiers gather bones from one sovereign land and drop them on the roofs of mansions in a neighbouring sovereign land to break open the marrow. It really infuriates some people. There is now a precedent that it’s not a breach of Naclaski unless it can be shown the birds were coached by human intervention. I must say they are enormous beasts when you see them for real.”
“How interesting,” Farkas said. “Look more closely at the ground beneath them.”
In the long grass and ferns were some dark, lumpy shapes.
“Is that abattoir waste?”
“No. That’s dissipated surplus. The lammergeiers are waiting for the cadavers to rot as they are easier to rip open. I suspect the surplus finished itself in a group suicide, although it also gets slaughtered by gangsters and I’ve heard glory officers laughing at how they train machine gun teams
