Текст книги "The Abyss Beyond Dreams"

Автор книги: Peter F. Hamilton

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Текущая страница: 36 (всего у книги 44 страниц)

The change caught Slvasta by surprise. ‘We said we would wait until after the election before setting a date.’

‘Indeed. Then consider this: there is a whole city of opportunity opening up to you now. You should enjoy yourself for a while before making a smart choice.’ The colonel leaned forwards slightly, studying Slvasta closely. ‘You need a girl who will enhance your new status. After all, you do know what your little radical sweetheart did before she met you, don’t you?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘It’s different for her class, of course; we all know that, not like Lanicia. People can judge harshly.’

‘I don’t understand. Bethaneve is a Tax Office clerk.’

‘Of course she is. Well, I’d offer you lunch, but I have a rather pressing engagement. Dull but necessary; I’m sure you remember what responsibility is like. If not, you’re going to get a swift hard reminder when you take your seat. Oh, and I forgot to say: congratulations.’

*

‘We’ve underestimated them,’ Slvasta said. ‘Uracus, did we ever.’ After leaving the Westergate Club he’d collected Bethaneve from the hall of records on Wahren Street, and the two of them went directly to the house in Tarleton Gardens, where Javier and Coulan were still living.

‘Who?’ Javier asked.

‘The Captain, the First Officer. The establishment. Especially Trevene. Uracus!’ He started to pace up and down the empty lounge. ‘They know everything!’

‘What do they know?’ Coulan asked.

‘He told me: Gelasis. He sat there smirking while he told me. It’s a warning. They’ve just been laughing at us. They know it all.’

‘What?’ Bethaneve asked. ‘Focus, please.’

Slvasta gave her a broken look. ‘They know about you. I’m so sorry.’

‘What do they know about me?’

‘That you used to do narnik. How do they find these things?’

‘The same way we know Trevene’s nephew has gambling debts. That the Captain’s second daughter has just had a baby and she’s not sixteen yet. That Gelasis and Trevene are both members of the Travington Society. That the First Officer is a psycho nutcase. We hear whispers on the street and ask questions.’

‘They know Andricea is helping us, and Tovakar, too; so they’ll know about Yannrith.’

‘They know the name of every party member and union member. They’ll know which of them are activists. Their list of names and all the details will fill a whole floor of Trevene’s offices with filing cabinets. You know the one: Fifty-Eight Grosvner Place, his secret headquarters, which extends six levels below ground, and occupies the buildings on both sides.’ She went over to him and held his arm to stop him walking. ‘We know them, and they think they know us. They think we are idealists trying to bring justice to the poor through the ballot box and a bit of petty agitation. They know nothing else. They don’t know how extensive our cells really are. They don’t know about our weapons. They certainly do not know our plans. They do not know they’re about to die and we are going to sweep their whole rotten regime away.’

Slvasta looked at her, then at the other two. Seeing their calm, concerned faces, he took a long breath and nodded. ‘Okay. Sorry. He was just so crudding confident.’

‘He doesn’t know anything else,’ Coulan said. ‘People always fold for him. Nobody’s ever mounted a serious challenge to the palace since the Jasmine Avenue rebellion, and that was hardly threatening, not really. All they’re used to are small groups of radicals and thugs up from the Shanties who don’t have a clue what they’re doing. The whole concept of our organization is beyond his understanding.’

‘The explosion is a problem, though,’ Javier said. ‘Our people are getting very impatient. I’m not sure we can keep a lid on things for much longer. They want action.’

‘We agreed to a month,’ Coulan said.

‘That we did. That would suit us. But what about all our comrades? They don’t know the plan. They don’t know how big this thing goes. All they see is an election where Democratic Unity finally gained some seats, and nothing is happening. The Captain’s even put off inaugurating the National Council, which demonstrates what he thinks about democracy. We’ve primed thousands of people, promising them drastic change, and they’re still waiting. The idiots in that level twenty-eight cell who bombed the yalseed oil company depot are going to be the least of it if we don’t give the membership decisive action soon. And if that happens, if they move without us, without a coordinated plan, then it’s all over. The cell network will fragment. The Captain’s police and the sheriffs will swoop. We’ll probably have to go into exile. The whole movement will be in ruins. We lose. The end.’

Everything Javier had said made perfect sense. But . . . still Slvasta hesitated. If they started this, there would never be any going back – win or lose. ‘Bethaneve? Can we bring it forward?’

‘There’s no practical reason why not. We were waiting a month to position ourselves politically, to give you some respectability in the National Council. But seeing as how we haven’t got a National Council actually sitting yet, that has to be a secondary consideration now.’

‘The Captain is opening the Council in three days, if nobody else sets fire to anything. Can we get phase one up and ready for that night?’

‘Yes.’

‘We need to leave at least a week between phases one and two,’ Coulan warned. ‘People have to feel the hurt from having their water supply screwed with. They need to become political. Then, once they’re angry enough, we frighten them with phase two.’

‘And put our people on the streets,’ Javier said. He walked over to Bethaneve and Slvasta, putting his thick arms around them. Coulan joined the embrace.

‘Together we are strong,’ Bethaneve said.

‘Together we stand,’ Coulan said.

‘Together we will succeed,’ Javier said.

‘I will never turn away from you, my true friends,’ Slvasta said. He squeezed them all hard. ‘Together we have the courage we need. Now, let us liberate this world.’

3

The Hevlin’s orangery stretched along one side of the hotel’s neat little central courtyard, where fountains played and fig trees formed a tall canopy to ward off the midday sun. The table where Kysandra sat was right next to the glass, with a gentle breeze drifting down from the open windows above. A snow-white tablecloth was laid out with shining silver cutlery, and the cut-crystal goblets sparkled in the dappled sunlight. It was Madeline who served the fish starter – smoked macod wrapped in kall leaves, and drizzled with a lime sauce.

‘Enjoy,’ Madeline said in a very knowing tone.

‘Thank you,’ Kysandra replied levelly.

‘Would you like more wine?’

‘Not for me.’ She looked over the table at her companion.

Deavid smiled happily. ‘No, thanks.’

‘Madam.’ Madeline gave a small bow and left.

Kysandra hoped Deavid hadn’t noticed how smug Madeline had been. Every time that happened, Kysandra couldn’t help wondering if Nigel’s domination technique was slipping. After all, I have finished up spending a lot of time on my back in the Hevlin’s bedrooms recently – just not quite the way she and Ma intended. The thought made her grin across the table at Deavid’s handsome face. His answering smile was worshipful. They’d met five months ago. He was twenty-two, the youngest son in a family who owned a respectably sized carpentry business in Jaxtowe, fifty kilometres to the south. With Adeone’s prosperity rising dramatically over the last two years, he was one of many salesmen arriving in town to seek fresh markets. He played football for the Jaxtowe team, which kept him in very good shape, and when she ran her fingers all over him his ebony skin was gorgeously smooth to the touch. Best of all, he made her laugh. His cheery, mildly disrespectful attitude was a rarity among the young men she got to meet, who were all so desperately serious would-be businessmen or entrepreneurs. All on their way up – or believing they were.

Deavid had convinced his father they needed to open an office in town, with himself as manager. And Kysandra suddenly found herself with a lot of reasons to be in Adeone, supervising the flow of goods which the industry inside the farm’s compound consumed, as well as overseeing activities among the radical groups Nigel and the ANAdroids had established.

That was during the morning. Afternoons were spent with Deavid in the Hevlin’s garden suite, exploring new ways the huge four-poster bed could be used to accommodate their wanton gymnastics.

‘This is delicious,’ he said.

‘They catch macod in the freshwater lake upstream. It’s quite the local speciality.’

He held up a fork with a perfectly cooked pink sliver impaled on the tip. ‘Can you stay tonight?’ His tongue came out slowly and licked the piece of fish off the fork.

‘I could be persuaded. I have some meetings tomorrow afternoon which I can reschedule for the morning.’

‘Do you really need an excuse?’

‘No. I’m just being practical.’

‘Of course, you wouldn’t need to be practical or have excuses if I moved out to the farm. We could spend every night together then.’

She looked at his eager expression and felt her own buoyant mood start to deflate. ‘Deavid . . .’

‘I know: your guardian doesn’t approve. Strange, considering he doesn’t seem to mind you spending as much time as you want with me in town.’

‘It’s not that.’

‘I’d really like to visit. All the wagon drivers who go out there talk about how it’s practically a town in itself.’

‘We have a few extra barns for engineering, that’s all. Nigel’s hobby is making things he hopes to sell one day, and we maintain the farm’s traction engines ourselves.’

‘Really? They say you have hundreds of mods working on the farm. And there’s like a train of goods carts that carry stuff out there every day. Weird loads, too, crates of minerals from all over. Barrels full of Giu knows what.’

Kysandra put her knife and fork down. ‘Foodstuff for the neuts, and metals for smelting. That kind of thing.’

‘Look, I’m not complaining. I think it’s wonderful what Nigel has done, all the trade and industry he’s brought to this town. The whole region benefits. But it’s as if there’s a whole part of you that I’m shut out from.’

She almost groaned in dismay. No matter how many times she said at the beginning: this is just fun, I don’t want anything serious right now, and no matter that they always instantly agreed to those terms, it always wound up with them getting more demanding and possessive. ‘Isn’t what we have good enough?’

‘Oh, Giu, yes. I’m sorry, Kysandra. I just—’

Don’t say it. Don’t!

Even with her shell rock hard and revealing no hint of emotion, he must have sensed what a mess he was making of this.

‘I just want to see more of you,’ he finished lamely.

‘I don’t think there’s much you haven’t seen.’

He smiled, but she could see it was forced. And now the mood had gone completely. Neither of them seemed to know what to say. She considered talking about the lingerie that had arrived from Varlan, which she’d been planning on wearing for him that afternoon. That always made men happy. But why should I always have to rescue the moment, why not him? That was the trouble with being infected with the attitudes and outlook possessed by Commonwealth citizens; it was hard to find anyone on Bienvenido who could meet those expectations. Perhaps we could talk about the election, how Democratic Unity won a seat on the National Council. Another glance at Deavid revealed how pointless that would be. Locals neither knew nor cared about politics in the capital. Why should they? It didn’t affect them. So they believed.

Just how is he going to react to salvation? How are any of them going to cope? I can barely comprehend what it will mean, and I’ve been thinking about it for years.

They were finishing the fish course in mildly awkward silence when Russell ’pathed her privately. ‘Gorlar’s riding the message cart into town. Riding hard.’

Kysandra stopped eating straight away. The message cart wasn’t due in until tomorrow. Something important must have happened for a message to be sent outside the schedule. Great Giu, Coulan’s people can’t have been blown, can they? Slvasta won his seat, dammit. Everything was going perfectly. ‘I have to go,’ she told Deavid.

‘No! Please, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked to be with you at the farm, it was stupid.’

She stood up. ‘This is nothing to do with that. My mother’s been a pain, and I have to go and sort it out. Again.’

‘Oh.’ He reddened. ‘Of course.’

‘I’ll see you tonight,’ she promised.

His smile was almost nervous. There was clearly a lot he wanted to say, but held his tongue. ‘Tonight, then.’

Kysandra was proud of the way she kept her shell solid. Even if the message was nothing and they spent the night together, everything was about to change. Within a month, they would have the fearsome weapons from the palace. Nigel would launch Skylady and attack the Void’s structure. She still considered the whole mission crazy dangerous, despite his ability to reset the Void. But – oh, oh – if he was right, if he really did know everything, the Void would be no more, and Bienvenido would be free. But it all depended on events in Varlan playing out smoothly, or at least in their favour for a few days.

She waited with Russell outside the livery on the edge of town. It had a good position at the end of the newly upgraded river road which was lined with tall featherpalms. Deavid’s company had been given the contract for the frame of the livery’s latest stable – which wasn’t the quality she’d been led to expect, but she never challenged it. It’s only for a couple more months.

The message cart came into view round the final bend in the river road. Russell’s ge-eagle had seen it five miles out, and he was right; Gorlar was riding it hard. The horse was flecked with foam, wild-eyed and galloping along as if they were being chased by wild haxhounds.

Gorlar steered it off the road’s newly compacted stone surface and slowed down as the horse reached the livery’s wide gates. The neat cart was Nigel’s design, its narrow bodywork made out of a drosilk-reinforced resin to combine strength and lightness, forming little more than a frame with a seating sling above the axle. People had been amazed by how fast the thing could travel between Adeone and Erond, especially now the road had been relaid. They’d concluded two years back that river travel, which was the usual way of getting between the two towns, was too slow for anything urgent, so Nigel through his expanding commercial concerns had lobbied and used some mild domination on local councillors.

Now the road was level and sound, with fresh or repaired bridges offering a clean route. They’d positioned new stables in towns at reasonable intervals, so the message carts could change horses.

‘The buggy express’, Nigel called it.

‘Ma’am,’ Gorlar said as he jumped down. He was out of breath, with an exuberant look on his face at the frantic charge from Erond. Hands rummaged round in the leather satchel and produced the pale-blue envelope. ‘It left Varlan yesterday,’ he said proudly.

‘Thank you.’ Kysandra took the letter from him. The big wax seal on the back was intact. Not that it was remotely important.

‘Imagine that,’ Gorlar said to Russell. ‘A letter from the capital here in less than two days.’

‘Yeah. Imagine,’ Russell said with a complete lack of interest.

‘Crud!’ Kysandra exclaimed, frozen in the act of opening the envelope. The letter and whatever Coulan had written was irrelevant. The paper contained a small biochip memory which her u-shadow had accessed. Coulan’s message was very clear. The political situation was destabilizing; they’d been forced to bring the date forward.

‘What—’ Russell began.

Kysandra held her hand up, closing her eyes to think. They were going to initiate phase one when the Captain inaugurated the new National Council, and the letter had taken nearly two days to reach her. That barely left a day until the cells hit Varlan’s water supplies. A day! And only at lunch she’d been thinking they still had several weeks left. There were few options now, but she had to choose. Time was slipping away fast, and Nigel was back at the farm, hours away.

Coulan needs confirmation that we’re in position and ready to retrieve the weapons from beneath the palace. So . . .

‘Right,’ she snapped. ‘Gorlar, get yourself a fresh horse: you’re riding to Blair Farm with a letter for Nigel. Russell, same for you. I need you to be on the eight-thirty express to Varlan.’

Russell pulled a face. ‘That’s tight.’

‘I know, so let’s move it.’

‘You haven’t even opened the letter,’ Gorlar protested. He was just one of their normal employees. Devoted to Nigel but not dominated, which left him free to question.

‘I know the handwriting,’ she said immediately. ‘It’s from an old friend, so it can only be one thing, I’m afraid. Important news. So I need you to ride as fast as you can for me. Nigel must get my letter this afternoon.’

‘Right-o, ma’am. You can rely on me.’ He almost saluted.

•

Kysandra had plenty of time to get changed out of the dress and into some practical jeans with a white blouse under a suede jacket, and some sturdy boots, all worn beneath a decent ankle-length coat of thin leather. Her small backpack had a few additional clothes, along with her basic kit of Commonwealth gadgets. She felt quite the adventurous traveller again.

Four hours after she’d dispatched Gorlar to the farm, she heard it clattering along the road. Now this should be interesting, she thought as she walked out of the livery.

Madeline was in the livery’s yard with her, also in travelling clothes, a happy grin spreading over her face. ‘He’s riding it.’

‘I know. Nothing else on this world makes that racket.’

They faced the road to the farm, which thanks to the ancient cedars on both sides was practically a green tunnel. The mechanical clanking and brief roars of high-pressure steam echoed off the trunks and branches. Kysandra’s ex-sight found him just before he came into view. Her grin rose to match the one on Madeline’s face.

Nigel was driving the steam car at about eighty kilometres an hour, with Fergus sitting in the front passenger seat. Smoke from the fire tube boiler was shooting out of the back like a grey flame before swirling away in its wake. The wheels with their fat low-pressure tyres were a blur, giving the suspension a hefty workout. Two horses trotting sedately down the road were immediately spooked, and bolted through the line of cedars. Carts and wagons swerved out of the way. Kysandra could feel a great deal of ex-sight swelling out from the town to scan the extraordinary vehicle.

It was beautiful to behold. She’d spent hours in the workshop over the last five months, helping him with the early models. The work was nothing a mod-dwarf couldn’t do, screwing parts together, hammering, even painting the bodywork, but she so wanted to be a part of it. The steam car was probably the most advanced piece of machinery to have been built on Bienvenido for a thousand years. They’d constructed two prototypes, testing the whole boiler system, then made three working models.

‘Dead-end technology,’ Nigel had called them. ‘Just like airships and paddle steamers. But romantics never give up on them. You can always find enthusiasts building them somewhere in the Commonwealth. They’re really quite evocative, like something from an alternative history.’

She was almost offended by him calling the splendid car a dead end. Driving it round the farm compound had been exhilarating. It had two seats in the front and three in the back, all of which could be covered by a retractable canvas hood if it started to rain.

The car rolled into the livery yard, startling the horses in their stables. Its weight dug deep ruts in the damp ground as it came to a halt. Nigel hurried out, long brown coat swirling round his legs, pushing his goggles up onto his forehead to reveal clean circles of skin round his eyes; the rest of his face was caked in soot and hot oily grime spat out by the engine. ‘Right, what’s happened?’

‘Message from Coulan,’ she told him. ‘The radicals are getting restless. They’ve had to bring the date forwards.’

‘When?’

‘Phase one is planned to start tomorrow.’

‘Hell. That doesn’t give us any time.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve sent Russell on the express.’

‘Which express?’

‘The eight-thirty to Varlan. It’ll get into the city early tomorrow morning.’

Nigel looked at her for a long moment. ‘Okay. And what is Russell going to do when he arrives?’

‘He’s carrying a letter for Coulan—’

‘Yes! Saying what?’

She frowned at him. ‘Confirming we’ll be there, and to activate the external groups to assist phase two. Russell will also tell Akstan to get everything ready for us in Dios, and then he’ll contact our station chief in Willesden to make sure the Southern City Line is protected.’

Nigel’s shell attenuated slightly, allowing her to sense the lofty amusement colouring his thoughts – along with a steely thread of pride. ‘You said yes, then?’

‘What?’

He put his hands on her shoulder, giving her a steady look. ‘You said yes? You told Coulan to go ahead with the revolution?’

‘Well, obviously. Russell absolutely had to make the eight-thirty express. I didn’t have any time to consult with you. Why?’

‘You realize there’s no turning back now? You’ve fired the starting pistol – a shot that will be heard all over Bienvenido. Actually, all over the galaxy.’

‘Oh. Yes, I suppose so.’

He kissed her on the forehead. ‘That’s my girl. No doubts. No hesitation.’

‘Nigel, it wasn’t a decision. This is what we’ve been preparing for since we visited the Desert of Bone.’

‘Quite right,’ he said briskly. ‘Madeline, the car needs coal and water; get the livery people to bring it out – quickly. Fergus will show them what to do. Then you’ll be coming with us.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘We’ll stay in Dios overnight, and load our equipment onto tomorrow morning’s express.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Kysandra said. ‘Akstan will deliver everything from the warehouses to Dios station.’ She glanced out of the livery yard. People were drifting along the street outside, anxious to get a real glimpse of the amazing steam car. A lot of them were kids. ‘There’s really no going back now, is there?’

‘No.’

*

It began a few minutes after midnight. The steam engine in the Holderness Avenue pump house suddenly lost pressure in one of its pistons, stalling the massive flywheel it turned. The cut-off valves worked perfectly, allowing steam to escape from the boiler, averting any kind of dangerous pressure build-up. The pump slowly rattled to a halt. Water pressure fell to zero across the whole district.

In the Hither Green Road pump house it was the pump itself which broke, its bearings seizing and disintegrating from the grit that contaminated the lubrication oil. Chunks of glowing metal exploded across the big hall, embedding themselves in the stone walls and punching clean through the roof. Pressure surges burst several feed pipes, sending water jetting out. A few minutes later, it poured into the idling engine’s firebox, extinguishing it in a blast of steam that shattered all the windows. Water continued to gush out, cascading down the road outside.

Chertsy Road pump house saw the engine regulator fail, allowing the pistons to increase speed, turning the pump faster and faster. The pressure in the pipes outside increased dramatically. Junctions sprang leaks, sending water fountaining up through the cobbles, breaking the valves on domestic tanks.

It was a domino effect that had been meticulously plotted. No one incident was enough to wreck Varlan’s water utility network, but the surges and dips had a cumulative result, affecting subsequent stations, forcing them to either shut down or suffer severe damage.

As pump house demand across the city fell drastically, the Watling, Highbrook and Ruslip reservoirs all had their sluice gates opened to maintain the correct levels. They were supposed to open only a few inches, but instead they kept going until they were fully open. Huge jets of water thundered out. As the small nightshift crews tried to shut them again, the mechanisms broke, jamming the gates in that position. Surge waves ploughed along the emergency culverts down towards the Colbal. But the culverts merged, and they’d never been designed to cope with three simultaneous releases. Water foamed up over the lips of the culverts, turning streets into streams, flooding into terraces and offices and factories.

By six o’clock in the morning, two thirds of Varlan was without fresh running water, and the reservoir sluice discharges had inundated the lower boroughs next to the river. Raw effluent, flushed out of the sewer pipes, bobbed along on the overflow, drifting into buildings on the eddies and swirls.

*

‘It is the radicals!’ the councillor for the Durnsford constituency declared, glaring at Slvasta from his position beside the First Speaker’s podium. ‘I say the sheriffs should round them up and send the lot of them to the mines.’

He was given a rousing cheer from across the tremendous marble chamber. Bienvenido’s National Council building was centred on the vast amphitheatre where councillors sat in tiers behind huge wooden desks to debate and scrutinize legislation. The walls were supported by thick fluted columns and hung with huge ancient oil paintings that depicted times from the world’s first millennium. Statues of past Captains and First Speakers gazed down from their high alcoves on the six hundred councillors. Five hundred and ninety-nine of them were members of Citizens’ Dawn. But, as Slvasta had discovered during the Captain’s opening ceremony, that didn’t actually mean uniformity. The chamber was alive with ever-shifting alliances clamouring for their ‘fair share’ of the national budget. Town against countryside, finance and industry, regions, the Varlan caucus, trains against boats, farming, the regiments. They all had their interests which had to be protected, urgent projects that needed funding, for which they required support. It was actually a lot more democratic (or at least balanced) than Slvasta had realized. That first day, he’d been approached by five separate factions, all eager to have him vote in favour of their bill in return for support on anything he wished to introduce to the Council.

But right now, differences had been put aside so they could all condemn him. He dropped the fist-sized red ball into the cup at the front of his desk, indicating that he wished to address the chamber.

The First Speaker, on the floor of the amphitheatre, rose from his ornate onyx throne. ‘Representative for Langley has the floor; pray silence and respect.’

Slvasta got neither as he walked down the aisle to stand beside the First Speaker’s podium.

‘Silence!’ the First Speaker’s voice and ’path declared across the chamber.

‘Mr Speaker.’ Slvasta bowed to the podium, as was tradition. He stared round at the ranks of desks, most of which had the yellow ball of challenge in their cups. The contempt and scorn radiating down on him was a psychic storm. ‘My honourable colleague from Durnsford has levelled a serious charge. I really don’t care that he slanders me with association; however, he does immense wrong to the people who simply speak up for a better life. He claims radicals are responsible for the calamity in this great capital city of ours. Could he perhaps name which pump house the sheriffs have confirmed was sabotaged? Of course he cannot, because we all know there has been no such declaration. We are also aware of the perilous state the city’s water utilities have been in for a great many years. Have the companies who own this precious utility which is vital to all of us, rich and poor alike, improved their pipes and pumps in the last ten years? Have they heeded the pleas of their engineers for funds and more repairs? Have their vast profits been invested wisely in new facilities that would alleviate any problem such as we now face? Has there been a debate or inquiry by this esteemed chamber in the matter by the very members who now claim to know so much about pipes and engines and reservoirs? Of course not. For complacency has become Bienvenido’s watchword – an example sadly set by this chamber. And for which this chamber must take responsibility.’

The torrent of vocal and ’pathed abuse was overwhelming. The First Speaker had to hold up the gavel of silence for over a minute before the honourable representatives quietened down.

‘I repeat my question,’ Slvasta said when the noise subsided. ‘Can you name an act of sabotage? No. This was a catastrophe waiting to happen. I say to you, my honourable colleagues, don’t try to cast blame outside; instead look where it truly lies. Any impartial inquiry will find where the fault for this disaster actually falls. If arrests are to be made, it should be among those who own the water utilities, whose uncaring greed is responsible.’ He bowed again to the First Speaker and made his way back up the aisle. This time there was no jeering, only sullen glances. Several of the yellow challenge balls were removed.

‘Brilliant,’ Bethaneve’s ’path reached him as he sat behind his desk. ‘You smacked it right back at them. Everybody who’s receiving the gifting from the Council clerk will know you’re the people’s champion now.’

Next to the First Speaker’s podium, the councillor for Wurzen was demanding that the regions should not be taxed to pay for setting the city to rights. Slvasta watched him with growing respect – someone who was trying to protect his constituents. ‘I think it takes more than one speech to establish that.’

‘It was the perfect start we wanted.’

‘Besides, who bothers with the gifting from in here? Watching mod-spiders excrete their drosilk is less boring.’

‘Stop being so negative. The pamphlets will be all over this. Uracus, Slvasta, you need to focus.’

‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘I know.’

*

Varlan was the hub of all four of the continent’s major train lines; the Great North-Western Line, the Southern City Line, the Eastern Trans-Continental Line and the Grand South-Western Line; each ran out of the city in rough alignment with the relevant compass point. For all their prominence, passenger trains only formed fifteen per cent of the traffic; the rest of it was freight trains, unnoticed by the majority of the residents. The trade they generated was phenomenal, bringing in raw material for the factories, then exporting finished goods out to the furthest province. They were the city’s economic arteries, as well as supplying most of the food to markets and homes. Just how essential they were to Varlan’s survival had become obvious to Slvasta when the Josi bridge was damaged. The rail lines were a terrible weakness; anyone who could control the flow of goods in and out of the city could dictate their own terms. Of course, the government knew that as well, which was why any such attempt would be met with a swift and extreme response. What was needed, then, was a blockage which took time to repair – a repair which could be prolonged even further with small strategic strikes.