A Brother's Secret: The Misrule, #2

By Andy Graham

A young soldier. An unknown brother. A hidden truth.

Corporal Ray Franklin is respected by his colleagues but distant to his friends. He serves his country faithfully, without asking the questions that keep him awake. But when he discovers he has a brother he never knew, his loyalty is stretched to breaking point.

Ray's quest to find his family's hidden truth rips his world apart. He is injured and betrayed, hunted by his own government as he loses those nearest to him. And in a top secret research camp, Ray unearths a secret that punches a hole through the society he once fought to protect.

Will Ray Franklin risk his country's future for his own past?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andy Graham
• Release date: Dec 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781393918271

Book preview

1

RAY FRANKLIN'S MONSTER

‘There are no monsters but those we make of ourselves. Whatever you are told to believe or do, remember that and own your consequences.’ They were the last words Rose Franklin said to her son on the day he signed up. He’d been sixteen years old, chasing glory and brotherhood. Twelve years later, with the dreams long gone, Ray still couldn’t get his mother’s voice out of his head. That needled him. Next he’d be hearing her telling him to stop slouching. He did. But only to adjust the sight on his rifle.

Far above him, clouds billowed out of huge chimneys. An occasional gust of wind sent tendrils of smoke into the night sky. The identical structures were tightly packed in this area of the power plant. Each was topped by semi-circles of flashing red lights that lit up the underbellies of the clouds. All but this one. The lights blowing was a bonus. Ray’s team had ruled out doing it deliberately as too obvious a decoy but he’d take whatever edge he could.

Two figures emerged out of a smog that churned and pulsed crimson as if it were alive. One of the figures pulled a box across the rickety walkways that connected the tower tops. The other clutched a weapon that was probably older than Ray. He sandwiched himself between a pair of steel pipes that snaked through the compound, hoping he wouldn’t be seen.

‘Hope’s cheap, right? Until you end up indebted to it.’ That was another of his mother’s sayings. He wasn’t sure whether thinking about her when he was one bullet away from his own wooden-box-for-one was healthy or not. Would Rose even turn up to his funeral? She had missed so much of his life, why should his death be any different?

Stop. Focus, he muttered and crept along the wall, tracking the men above him. The sweat trickling down his back itched. Just like the growing sense of discomfort. Ray had a gnawing doubt his unit had missed something and were about to walk into another top secret cock-up. He could still hear Sub-Corporal Orr joking about it in his odd border accent. ‘What could possibly go wrong with no prep time and weapons we’ve never used before, when sabotaging shit in the heart of territory that belongs to people we’re technically friends with?’

The irritable bastard had a point, Ray conceded, though none of the squad had wanted to hear it. He shifted to get a better view of the men above him and knelt in a pile of mottled leaves. The damp, earthy smell of autumn wafted through the air. They’d be celebrating Hallowtide back in the Free Towns tonight. It’d been one of his favourite festivals when he was a child: the fire, the dressing up, the stories, sneaking drinks off the adults’ tables. Then every year Stann Taille drank too much and decided to man up his young grandson with his stories. There would come a tipping point in every celebration when the spiteful old soak would stop trying to make his put-downs clever and settle on making them obnoxious.

Focus, Ray hissed. The bitter old man wasn’t his problem tonight, and the bonfire the 10th Legion were planning here would be a good enough celebration of his own.

A clanking noise. A shout of annoyance. The itch running down Ray’s spine disappeared. The two figures, one repairing, one guarding, had reached the faulty lights. The faint sounds of their conversation filtered to the ground. Ray looked away, not wanting to get stung in the same way he hoped the patrol was about to be.

The rim lights flashed on. A burst of light scudded across the cloud. Ray uncoiled and sprinted across the floor in a half-crouch. Skidding as he rounded the next chimney, he crashed into a bulky figure.

Bastard. Who the— There was a mad scramble that was bitten off as quickly as it started. Franklin? The fuck, dude? The other legionnaire lowered his weapon.

It’s me, Nasc, Ray said.

Worked that out, thanks. Who d’you think I was? The Grim Reaper?

That camo paint makes you look more like the Dim Reaper.

Nascimento thumped the body armour on his chest. Too dumb to die.

Jamerson ‘Nasty’ Nascimento (and no one used that nickname to his face unless they really did fancy meeting both the Dim and Grim Reapers) claimed to have ‘the dubious distinction of being one of Ray’s closest friends’. The other, Ernest Hamid, was leading the second prong of this attack. The trio had first met in EBT, the Extended Basic Training, required to move up to the 10th Legion. On day one, class one, Nasc had set the tone by playing dumb. His aim? To get their curvaceous instructor

(Woman got so much goodness oozing out of her itty-bitty uniform I could drown happy in her.)

to lean over his desk for every question on his test paper. When she had finally realised what was going on, the class had earned forty-five minutes of up-downs in full-kit as payback, one for each minute she’d had to ‘look at Nascimento’s overly-muscled face’. The drill sergeant had then tagged another forty-five up-downs onto the punishment just because he could.

You do look like you have an overly-muscled face in this light, Ray said. The red gloom reflecting from the clouds was twisting the black and green streaks on Nasicmento’s skin into demonic lines.

Dude, it was ‘oddly-muscled’, not ‘overly’. He pointed at another chimney. A7. Let’s move. Nascimento took a step into the darkness, boots crunching in the dirt.

Ray checked the power pack on his new weapon.

You not coming? Nascimento asked.

I outrank you now, Sub-Corporal. Remember?

No idea how that happened. Nascimento clipped his helmet in a mock salute. Sub-Corporal Jamerson Nascimento, sir. Requesting permission to get a move on, sir. If you don’t mind awfully, please, sir. Hey! Wait⁠—

They sped in silent shuttles from one tower to the next, dodging patrol lights and ducking under pipes until they reached a low building on the edge of the main power plant. Ray pulled a card out of his belt pouch. You ever wondered why they have lights on these towers anyway?

You been doing thinking again? Nascimento was on one knee, scanning the area with his rifle sight.

This is a no-fly zone. Why have warning lights at the tops of tall chimneys if you’re not allowed to fly over them?

Maintenance? Aesthetics? Makework? Gonna get a move on or ponder some more?

A thin groove ran around the inside of the door frame. Ray had one glove off and was trailing the tip of his forefinger along it.

Come on, Franklin.

Got it. Ray reached up with the card. This was when they would find out how good their source was.

An explosion sent them spinning. Nascimento thudded to the floor. He rolled to his knees, cradling his head in his hands. Ray fought the dizziness as he struggled to his feet. You good? he yelled over the sirens.

Nascimento gave him the thumbs up.

Everything had been going too well. The outer doors had opened with no problem. The inside of the building had been deserted. The legionnaires had done what they were here to do — laid the charges. They’d been on their way out and the explosion they’d rigged had hit too soon. Now the corridors were washed in light from the alarms and swirling with dust. It made no sense. The gear was new. It had been checked but the explosion had almost killed them.

Ray staggered to the remains of the door. The chamber in front of them was huge, as deep as the chimneys it fed were tall. The web of walkways, ladders, stairs and slide poles that spread throughout it were lit red and amber. Churning flames licked at the base of the central column stretching from floor to roof. The technological totem pole was the heart of the Mennai power plant the legionnaires were here to destroy. The lower levels were dominated by a stygian rainbow carved into chunks by metal bands. The higher ones held rank upon rank of control panels, all interlinked by thousands of cables.

Ray whipped his head back as a secondary blast sent flames rolling across the ceiling. Wasp-like fragments of metal fizzed across the chamber. The main door had shielded the friends from the worst of the first explosion, but they were unlikely to survive another one.

That wasn’t ours, was it? yelled Nascimento, shielding his eyes as sparks rained down.

Ray shook his head. The ringing in his ears cranked up to a higher pitch. Through the shimmering air, he could just about make out the small grey cube plugged into the column. It’s not connected right. It should’ve popped by now.

Another explosion rattled the walkway under his feet. Ray sprinted towards the nearest set of steps, the gangway creaking underfoot. The metal swayed as he eased forwards. A bolt on the wall shifted. Ray froze. The steel held. Below them, a cauldron of fire raged. Jagged forks of multicoloured lightning darted upwards. Something clipped Ray’s hand and the bolt bounced off the walkway.

Watch out! Nascimento yelled.

The metal under Ray’s feet groaned as a second fastening burst free in a cloud of stone splinters. Shit. No. Ray back-pedalled, clawing at the walls. His hands slid off the stone as the metal disappeared from under his feet. He seemed to hang there for an age, weightless, then he was falling towards the flames, his own wordless cry of anger and fear shrill in his ears. His neck cracked backwards. His fall stopped. Ray stared at the red chaos below his feet, at the walls either side of him, at the soles of Nascimento’s boots on the twisted walkway above him.

Not. Going. Nowhere, the big man grunted. One hand was clamped around the rough material of Ray’s backpack, the other clung onto a metal slide pole that bent and warped in the heat. The veins on his neck strained as he drove his body upwards. Bit by bit, he dragged Ray back up onto the walkway. Both legionnaires collapsed, Nascimento working his fingers, Ray sucking in mouthfuls of the burned air. Around them the roar of the fire got louder. A double crack of blue-green lightning skewered the ceiling.

Nascimento nudged him. A black-garbed figure was picking its way across the remains of a steel walkway that circled the central column, inching towards the grey cube. What’s he doing? Nascimento yelled.

Our job. Leave nothing behind, remember?

The legionnaire, Hamid, had a cord looped around his arm. Another legionnaire held the opposite end, body braced between the walls of a corridor leading onto the walkway and freedom. Hamid’s gear was there, too. His pack was stacked straps up, facing away from the wall, rifle ready to run with. His meticulous attention to detail had earned him various nicknames amongst the Rivermen, the 10th Legion. Some of those names were almost complimentary.

Hamid stretched for the cube and the cables. Three went in smoothly but he couldn’t get the leverage to push in the last. He tightened the cord around his arm, leant out farther. The toes of his boots curled round the metal edges. The second legionnaire pulled back, feet slipping as the rope tautened. Somehow, Hamid tapped the last cable into the socket with the tips of his fingernails. Sparks shot out of the cube. Cables burnt out like gunpowder trails. The computer bank the cube was plugged into shuddered. Lights flickered on and off as smoke seeped out of sockets. Hamid wrenched the device out and thrust it into a belt pouch.

Always trust earnest Ernest! Ray clapped his friend on the shoulder and, for a moment, the turmoil raging around the legionnaires paused. The flames below sucked in on themselves, as if draining through a plug hole. Nascimento’s answering smile vanished as a hail of rivets clattered off his helmet. One of the huge joists above them screamed and twisted along its length. Bricks and dust rained down into the gathering inferno at the base of the chamber.

Ray’s stomach flipped. Hamid!

The metal beam came spinning down in a hail of stone, crashing through ladders and walkways. It missed the gangway Hamid was perched on. He scrambled to his feet and sprinted for the exit. The cord wrapped around his arm got entangled in the falling steel. It whipped the legionnaire up in a graceful arc, slamming him head first into wall. Hamid’s limp body was pulled into the red-hot whirlpool below. The end of the rope pirouetted after him.

Ray stared into the flames, struggling to make sense of the last few seconds. Hamid was going to appear on the end of the girder emerging from the red chaos. He always had a solution. Always. Ray looked at the column. No cube, no cables, no walkways. No Hamid, just a dark smear on the wall where his head had hit the bricks. Another explosion rocked the room. A second girder creaked. Ray snapped a command at Nascimento. They had to get out of here.

Through the heat of the fire he could feel the eyes of Hamid’s partner. Ray met the glare for a second and indicated to fall back. The other figure didn’t move, crimson flickers reflecting off the helmet visor. Ray signalled again and Corporal Brooke backed into the corridor. The legionnaire stooped to pick up Hamid’s pack and rifle before hurrying into the darkness.

2

HALLOWTIDE

Klaxons pierced the night. Voices. Warning. Shouting. Explosions rumbled underground, one sending Ray to his knees. The columns of fire behind him and Nascimento illuminated the entire facility so brightly there was almost no need for the spotlights scouring the ground. Twice the men ducked behind huge barrel piles to avoid the patrols swarming through the compound; once they got away with it, the other time they were quick but brutal.

The older chimneys on the edge of the compound were made of the red brick so typical of the country of Mennai, Ailan’s neighbour. Apart from the faded white letters on their sides, the chimneys were as different as the central ones were similar: a mixture of tall and short, wide and thin, with ladders, foot holes or steps. They looked as if they had been designed by a committee who had heard of chimneys but had never actually seen one. As the men approached, two legionnaires emerged from the shadows.

What happened to you? Orr asked, bushy eyebrows pulled down tight.

Before Ray could answer, they heard footsteps running towards them. The squad spun as one. A helmeted figure appeared out of the darkness, framed by the distant glow and carrying two rifles. The shape dropped to one knee and brought one rifle up to its shoulder.

It’s Brooke. Captain Aalok’s voice was a low buzz in the night. Where’s Hamid? he asked the approaching legionnaire.

Dead. Brooke pushed past Aalok. A hand flashed out of the darkness and gloved knuckles slammed into Ray’s jaw. His mouth filled with the warm tang of blood.

If you’d done your job, we’d all be here now. The face under the helmet contorted with anger.

It was me, Brooke, said Nascimento. I must’ve dislodged the last cable. Either that or the gear was off.

Daddy gonna buy your way out of this problem, too, Nasty?

Don’t call me that. Use my name.

Fuck your name. Brooke spat in the dust and rounded on Ray, blue eyes glittering. "You were team leader, Corporal Franklin. It was your responsibility."

Ray caught the hand as it whistled towards his face again. One free shot, Brooke. No more.

Brooke pushed him away and stalked off to the fallen packs. She pulled out a flask. ‘In and out in an hour. No one gets hurt, no one dies’. Hamid was the best of all of us and we let him down. She struggled to keep her voice under control as she jabbed the flask towards the rest of the squad. He did what he always did — cleared up everyone else’s mess. Only this time it cost him his life ’cos you two rooks got sloppy. I knew this promotion was beyond you, Franklin. We all did.

She spat a mouthful of water on the ground. It gleamed like mercury in the moonlight, sinking into the brick dust. Another klaxon joined in the braying.

Getting closer. Orr.

I should feed you each other’s balls for this, Brooke hissed.

Not now, Brooke, said Aalok. Let’s move.

Brooke stuffed her bottle away. Within seconds they were moving, Captain Aalok on point, Orr following with Hamid’s gear.

As Brooke stalked after them, Nascimento grabbed Ray’s sleeve. Don’t mention it.

What? Ray answered, frowning. That ringing in his ears was worse since Brooke had clocked him.

For catching you back there.

Thanks.

Like I said. Don’t mention it. Just remember, you owe me.

Ray took up his position at the end of the line as they crept between the chimneys. The routine of watch, wait and move calmed him. It had a simplicity of purpose he craved more and more. The squad made good time, but everywhere he looked he could see Hamid’s last fall. The image was projected down the walls of the chimneys, through the sky, along the giant pipes that arched over the roads to form gates. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen colleagues die but losing Hamid was like losing a part of himself. Was Brooke right, could it have played out differently?

An explosion lit up the sky, turning the clouds the colour of a bruise in the moonlight. Shadows cut those same clouds into faces from the Hallowtide stories of Ray’s youth. Staring down at him were ghouls, murderers, ghosts and thieves. There were men and women who had been trampled into the mud as they tried to protect an earlier version of Ray’s Town. Old Man Taille, the grandfather who made Ray feel like his brain had a splinter in it, loved the story of Greenfields, when the silver-haired Militia of Axeford had ridden again to save Tear. Stann always told it at Hallowtide with ‘an extra serving of red limbs and purple guts for the kids.’

Nascimento nudged him. You got your thinking face on again. Knock it off before Brooke does it for you.

Aalok signalled. The squad dropped. A jeep thudded past their hiding place. It disappeared into the dust, accompanied by the throaty rattle of its diesel engine. The squad moved on. Ray had never believed the Hallowtide myths, not even as a child. His mother had made sure of that. But the questions knocking at the edge of his mind about what he was required to do as a legionnaire were getting louder. Now he didn’t know what to believe.

Would he ever find out the real reason why they’d been sent here tonight, the real reason for Hamid’s death? Would he ever find out the reason for any of the missions they’d been on, like New Town, his first mission as a fully-fledged legionnaire, that was tattooed into his mind? Would he discover why so many of his friends and colleagues had lost lives or limbs? Had tonight’s gear been sabotaged? If so, why and by who?

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the memories out of his head. Tomorrow. Deal with it tomorrow. Hamid’s sacrifice would be worthwhile. It had to be. The squad picked up their pace again as they made their way through the largest Hallowtide bonfire Ray would ever see.

The legionnaires broke into a run. Not a bonfire, a pyre, he told himself. The most spectacular funeral pyre someone could have wished for. Hamid would have been flattered by such a send-off. He’d have made sure there were fire extinguishers nearby, though, just in case.

The chaos made it easy to get to their destination. They ducked under pipes and leopard crawled past the occasional sentry. Getting up to the walkways where they were to be extracted was a different matter. Not every chimney had steps and those that did were too well lit. Instead, they scrambled up the service rungs on one of the older structures.

Ray was the last up. As he climbed the winds buffeted him, swirling the clouds from the chimneys into twisting eddies. From the squad’s vantage point on the walkways, they could see the ongoing fight against the blaze. It was spreading rapidly without the fire trucks Orr and Aalok had disabled. Chimney after chimney had been turned into steel and brick volcanoes. Flames danced around the raging midnight sun at the centre of the power plant.

How long, Brooke? asked Aalok, his voice whipped away by the rising wind. She held up five fingers, then clenched them into a fist she pointed at Ray. He massaged his jaw. He was going to struggle to eat for days.

They’d been taught in EBT that technique would always beat strength. Balls to that, strength beats strength, Nascimento had replied. Soon after, they’d had to peel Brooke off him. She’d almost broken his arm in their first training session. I underestimated her, Nascimento had confessed later. It was like trying to wrestle my own shadow.

Brothers and bullies, had been Brooke’s simple explanation. Don’t like either.

Nascimento sat against the wall with his eyes closed, snatching as much rest as he could. Ray envied him and all the other legionnaires that could fall asleep at will. His own sleep had always been troubled by recurring nightmares he couldn’t make sense of: babbling voices, thirsty plastic tubes, chipped white-steel baths and ghosts with needles for fingers. It was almost a habit now. He’d wake sweating in the small hours. The images would dance in the dark before he could bury them again. Exhaustion was the only cure.

He scanned the hills for their chopper. Orr was taking a leak on the side of the chimney, straining to hit the flashing rim lights. A slurring accent and scuff of boots pulled Ray’s head round. You’re shitting me, Orr said and pissed on his boots.

A maintenance patrol emerged from the heavy smoke. Both groups had been hidden from each other until the last moment. Two tired, scared men found themselves facing a heavily armed squad of Ailan legionnaires. Orr swore then cursed when he caught himself in his zip. The men fled, clouds nipping at their heels. Ray scrabbled to his feet seconds before Aalok bellowed his orders.

He sped round the curved walkway. Skidded on the treacherous surface. The guard was already halfway down the ramp to a connecting platform between towers. The engineer misjudged the turn. The momentum of his caddy-cart slammed it into the side of the walkway. The man yanked it back. The cart tipped over and slid down the ramp, dragging the engineer with it. He tugged at the straps of his bag caught around a handle. The man was trapped. Screaming for help.

Something sizzled past Ray’s helmet. He sprawled on the floor. More shots rang out. Single ones. Ray had been right, the guard’s rifle was old. The crash of gunfire competed with the rapid thud of the chopper that had just arrived. The cart careered down the ramp, inching the engineer towards the edge. Aalok yelled. Ray slipped down the wet ramp towards the man as the guard fired once more.

The shot flew high and wide, swallowed up by the oily clouds. The cart spun to a standstill. It teetered on the edge of the platform. Unable to stop his slide, Ray careered into it. The cart tipped over the edge. It hit a support strut, ripping it free of the chimney. The engineer had just got both hands around the railings as the platform listed to one side. The jolt forced his fingers free. He plunged into the darkness, eyes wide in disbelief.

Move, Franklin! Aalok.

Ray dragged himself up and threw himself into a forward roll as the guard fired again. There was another thunder of gunfire as Ray came out of the movement. The bullet clipped Ray’s helmet. The glancing impact and the moving platform threw him backwards into the railings. Something cracked in his lower back. A bolt of pain skewered through his legs to his toes.

A second support strut wrenched itself loose. The guard’s rifle tumbled out of his hands. Both men, Mennai security guard and Ailan legionnaire, threw themselves flat on the platform and sank their fingers through the steel grid. The metal screamed as the platform twisted back and forth in the winds. The men slid farther down the grid, scrabbling to regain their grip, legs kicking at free air.

Over the thud of the chopper, the panicked noises from the guard and the red pain in his back, Ray heard someone calling his name. A rope hit the top of his helmet. He wrapped it round his arm and eased his weight upwards.

Please, called the guard, please. Tears streaked down his cheeks. Don’t leave me here! I’m begging you. I only took this job so I could feed my granddaughter. Abi’s got no one else. She’s everything to me. Another connection sprang free. The platform pivoted on the remaining corner. Don’t let me die. He held a hand out towards Ray.

Someone yelled down from the walkway. Ray grabbed the rope with numb fingers and, with a final arthritic creak, the last connection gave out. The platform spun gracefully as it fell, disappearing in a cloud of dust and noise.

Ray collapsed against the wall of the chimney, chest heaving. He wasn’t sure how he wanted to die, but plummeting to his death was not one of them. He’d had other things in mind when he’d signed up as an enthusiastic yet green sixteen-year-old, brought up on a diet of feast-day war films.

Aalok’s boot stamped down next to him. You’re an idiot, Franklin! Never hero-roll. It’s a stupid move you only see in movies. You’ve never done it before and I never want to see it again. He pulled away, scowling down at Ray’s side. Can you walk?

Ray struggled to his feet. A pain like breaking glass sent him to his knees. He forced himself up. Yes, sir.

Get him to the chopper, Sub-Corporal.

Orr grabbed Ray’s arm.

What are you going to do with him, sir? Ray asked.

They turned to the small, shivering figure hunched against the wall of the chimney. Wisps of hair around his bald patch fluttered in the wind.

Like I said, you’re an idiot, said Aalok, voice strained. This complicates things. It would’ve been better if you’d let him fall.

I don’t know you. I haven’t seen you. I won’t remember you. Just let me live, please. For my granddaughter, the old man said. His accent wasn’t as slurred or lilting as many of his countrymen, but the similarity to Orr’s was undeniable.

We can’t kill him now; we just saved him, Ray said. The searing pain in his back flashed down his legs, driving the air out of his lungs, forcing him double. Aalok hauled him to his feet.

"You just saved him. You should have thought of that when you were down there swinging on the rope. You’re a Riverman. The 10th Legion are paid to fight and think independently of the chain of command. Your problem is you don’t always do joined-up thinking." Aalok’s voice began to rise.

I couldn’t let him die just because he’s from Mennai, sir.

Did you bang your head when you were swinging on that rope, Franklin? Aalok stabbed his finger towards the shivering man. This man is not our kind. On missions like these, we protect our own and no-one else.

Sub-Corporal Orr is practically from Mennai, too, sir. Is he not our kind, too?

Aalok rubbed the greying stubble covering his jaw. He regained control with a visible effort. When you’re in the legions, any legion, not just the 10th, ‘our kind’ means the ones in the same uniform or the ones you are told are ‘our kind’. This man is not in our uniform and I’m telling you he is not ‘our kind’. Ditch that overactive moral compass of yours. The world of a legionnaire is made of absolutes, not maybes. What had started as a restrained whisper ended in a full-blown shout.

The squad had heard the rumours of Aalok’s chequered disciplinary record, of him near throttling a senior officer over a card game, but no one had proof or wanted to ask. Whatever the truth, Ray had rarely heard Aalok raise his voice in anger until now.

You and I have some ground rules to go over again, Franklin, Aalok said through gritted teeth. Or would you like me to throw you back into the clutches of the drill sergeants? I’ll make sure that forty-five minutes of up-downs are the nice bit of your punishment.

No, sir.

Good. And your thinking privileges have been revoked until further notice. Aalok jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Get him out of here, Orr, while I clear up this mess.

C’mon, Pretty Boy. Orr half-pulled, half-supported Ray towards the waiting chopper. As they stumbled away, Ray snatched a look over his shoulder. Aalok, lean and menacing, rifle in hand, towered over the wretched figure shivering on the floor. One of Stann Taille’s Hallowtide spirits had come to claim his due. The red mist gathered around them, getting thicker until it engulfed them both.

3

THE WARD

Crudely hewn stone threw torchlight across the chamber. It flickered red and gold through smoke that twisted under the vaulted brick ceiling. The smoke crept between pillars and curled around the huge blocks of obsidian hanging between brass sconces. Heavy wooden doors were pushed shut. Hooded faces turned to scrutinise the late arrivals. The newcomers disappeared into the crowd as the rustle of secretive chatter resumed.

The underground chamber was dominated by two clusters of columns separated by another block of obsidian. In the dark times after the Great Flood, the rock had been known as witchglass. Yet another myth that had refused to die in the Silk Revolution. The first four columns were arranged in a diamond shape. Fashioned from rough stone, they had been carved with roots sprouting across the floor, mirroring the branches that supported the ceiling. A triangle of three more columns stood on a raised dais on the far side of the chamber. These had been polished so hard it was rumoured you could see the reflection of your last lie.

Box-like, rotund, lean, lanky, whip-thin, bowed or proud, all manner of people jostled for the best space among the columns. Some stood stock still, ignoring their fidgeting neighbours, a few talked in furtive whispers. Others shuffled expectantly. All wore hooded cloaks. Originally the same cut and colour, they soon became as varied as the people they hid. There was no such thing as a hand-me-down, no second-generation material. You leave, it burns. Only the cloak of the slim acolyte standing behind the altar was different. It was the same sky blue as that of the woman who led this group: the Famulus.

The last person to arrive snatched a glance at her colleagues and rearranged her hood. Cold hands and wet feet were bad enough but clammy cloth clinging to the back of her neck? Unforgivable. It was bad enough to tempt her to use the communal robes kept for the uninitiated. Problem was, you never knew who had been wearing them. Not for the first time, Stella wished she could find time to dry hers without anyone noticing.

She frowned. She’d thought of the large block of stone between the columns as an altar. Apparently, that was ‘not encouraged’. But as far as she was concerned it was an altar. The obsidian block — Not witchglass. That’s a silly name. — dwarfed its cousins hanging on the wall. It also had a gentle slope leading down to a central groove. Stella had already noted that the altar was large enough for a grown man to lie on.

She shuddered and pulled the hood farther down over her face, aware of eyes crawling across her clothes like spiders. She was sure she wasn’t the only one trying to guess profession and status from what was partially hidden under the cloaks. They weren’t supposed to do it but it kept her mind busy in the more tedious sections of the ceremony. The Ward, this secret society she attended, claimed to welcome everyone, and all manner of people made their way here. Even the clumsy, she muttered as someone stepped on her toes.

She shuffled away from Big Foot and the-altar-that-wasn’t-an-altar. There was a clang from behind the door, a low curse. Stella coughed to hide a smile then jumped as the wooden doors boomed. The doors shuddered again and again, sending a shower of dust down from the ceiling. Every impact quieted the hubbub of whispers a little more until the seven echoes merged and faded.

The doors swung open silently. They missed a trick there. A little ominous creaking wouldn’t have gone amiss. A little B-Movie chic. Standing behind them was a slender figure dressed in a long saffron gown and a sky blue cloak. Clutched between two hands was a huge sword, its point resting on the stone floor. Sweat-stained leather wrapped the long hilt, the blade was plain.

Stella’s first thought when she’d seen it on her so-called ‘maiden visit’ was that there should have been runes on the blade. Surely something archaic, esoteric or even just unreadable would add to the mystique? Her next, more practical thoughts had been where do you find something like that, and how do you hide it in this day and age?

The figure swept into the room, cape swirling, smoke snatching at the hem of her gown. The doors closed and the sword was slammed through the wooden brackets.

With this sword we are sealed, the Famulus said in ringing tones.

With this sword we are one, the crowd intoned. Stella mumbled the words along with the others as the woman swept forwards and the ceremony began.

After what felt like an hour of listening to distilled gibberish, Stella leant against a wall in the undercroft, a full glass in one hand. Wooden trestle benches huddled together, splitting the rectangular room into squares and rectangles. An occasional gate-legged table punctuated the stone floor between them. The air was filled with the rustle of whispers as the devotees clambered up the stairs from the ceremonial chamber. Everyone was quiet because no one wanted to be the first person to speak too loudly, just like kids. Custom dictated that Stella mix and discuss the homily. Right now, she’d rather gargle sawdust.

The Ward was supposed to be enlightening, ‘a way forwards by going backwards to the way the world had been before humankind bastardised it’. But after two rough night shifts in the hospital, she’d found some parts of the evening even sillier than usual. She was sure there were people here seeking an answer beyond that which the state dictated, but most were there to be seen. For her, the Ward fulfilled another need.

Didn’t enjoy the ceremony? asked a man.

Stella jumped, pulling her hood over her face. No. I mean, yes. It was... enlightening.

Really? The man plucked at his cloak with manicured finger nails. I found it tedious. The Famulus has given better talks.

The little of his face not covered by his hood was blocked by the glass he was holding. Smart, scruffy or uniformed, the people here only let others see what they wanted them to see from under their cloaks. They were the easy ones to guess. This man was different.

Was this a test? She’d heard rumours of people being disfellowed but had no one to discuss it with. There had been uglier rumours, too, of women from the society disappearing. These whispers pulled at something deep within her that she would rather avoid.

I’d offer you a drink but I see you already have one, he said, eyes flashing under the pristine white cloth of his hood.

Had he really ironed it? Maybe later, she mumbled.

Around them, the room was filling up. The screech of wood being dragged across stone floors competed with the clink of glasses. As the voices relaxed, the volume crept up. The stranger inched closer. Stella caught the stale smell of mint. She felt the need to fill the pocket of silence around them, to say something meaningful, something appropriate to the moment, when she found herself frowning. ‘A face like a bag full of lines’, her dad