‘Shirkra,’ Mother said, looking away from the Watcher. ‘When was the last time we played a game? The game?’
Shirkra’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know when, Mother. Long ago. Before the Machinery.’
Mother nodded. ‘It is time for another.’
There was a long silence. Shirkra remained utterly still for a long while, before leaping to her feet.
‘Another game?’ she hissed. ‘We swore we would never play again. And we are busy!’
Mother nodded. She lifted her instrument to her lips again, and played a low, solemn tune. When it was finished, she raised her hand in the air. A ball of dark flame appeared there; Aranfal saw things in the darkness, memories that were not his own.
‘The Dust Queen demands it,’ Mother whispered.
She threw the flame to the ground, and it burst into the forms of three identical women.
They were hard to look upon, unnatural creatures, formed of a substance somewhere between sand and dust, fine and flowing and alive. They were tall and thin, their limbs weird and long, their eyes dark, the skin of their faces in constant flux, grey like the sand from which they had formed. They wore crowns upon their heads, made of glass, though even these seemed to change, flickering with a strange light. Their dresses shimmered in a thousand colours, dancing around them like cat’s tails.
Dust, dust, dust.
As Aranfal looked upon these women, a realisation dawned. These were not three women at all, but one, a singular creature. The Watcher had seen many strange things since the fall of Northern Blown, but here was something new. Here was something beyond even Mother. He was utterly insignificant as he stood before this thing of three parts. He felt compelled by her, madly attracted; he wanted to throw himself into her and become a particle, a speck of dust, flowing with her, within her, and she within him.
Mother coughed, and the women disappeared.
‘She has spoken to me in the night,’ Mother said. ‘She wants to play a game. A last game, before Ruin comes.’
Shirkra made a strange sound. A growl. ‘We cannot trust her. She betrayed us before. She helped Jandell build the Machinery. It is a trick.’
Mother sighed. ‘Her motivations cannot be understood. But we will play.’
Shirkra stomped a foot. ‘Mother! Why must we always dance to her tune? Say no! Tell her we don’t have time for games!’ She bent down, and touched the Strategist’s shoulder. ‘You could resist her, you know. Your powers are growing again.’
Mother smiled. ‘There is no resisting her. Not until Ruin comes. And Ruin will not come, until we find the Machinery. Do you understand?’
Shirkra shook her head. For a moment, she was nothing more than a child, her eyes wide and innocent. ‘What are the prizes?’ she whispered.
‘If we play with her, she says she will take us to the Machinery after the game: no matter who wins.’
‘It is a trick, Mother! She sees some advantage in this. It cannot be otherwise.’
Mother shrugged. ‘Either way, we will play the game. If we refuse, she could simply compel us. And how long would it take us to find the Machinery without her guidance? I do not want to wait on Ruin for a moment longer than is necessary. If we accept, she will take us to whatever remains of the Machinery, and I will bring Ruin. We will accept.’
‘Do you think she is telling the truth?’
Mother nodded. ‘I have known her for longer than almost any of us. We will play the game, and she will show us the Machinery. Why? That, I do not know. Perhaps she wants Ruin to come. She saw it, before any of us. They were her words, were they not? Ruin will come with the One.’
Aranfal gasped.
‘Ruin will destroy her,’ Shirkra said.
Mother narrowed her eyes in thought. ‘Yes. But I believe she knows that. I think she wants to die. I think she wishes to play a last game, before death comes.’
Shirkra threw herself down, and placed her head in her mother’s lap. ‘Very well,’ she said.
Mother stroked her daughter’s head. ‘I know this is a struggle for you,’ she said. ‘All of this – all that we have done, just to survive.’ She smiled. ‘You know where you have to go, now. You know whom you must seek.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘Take him with you,’ the Strategist said, pointing at Aranfal. ‘We should keep him safe. I think he will be useful to us in the game.’ She nodded to herself. ‘Yes. So useful. So safe.’
Shirkra grinned at Aranfal, and the Watcher sighed.
‘I am dead,’ Brightling said.
She was sitting on the deck of Jandell’s ship, legs crossed, smoking her pipe, and staring out at the bleak grey waters of the world beyond the Plateau. From time to time she picked at a bowl of dates, or sipped at a glass bottle of some red spirit the Operator had procured. He stood beside her, his head bowed.
‘That is a strange thing to say,’ Jandell said. ‘I can see you, sitting there, breathing in smoke, eating and drinking, and talking to me, telling me that you are dead.’
Brightling flicked a date into her dead mouth. ‘Whatever I thought I was is now gone forever.’ She nodded. ‘We all believe we know who we are. We look in the mirror, and think the truth stares back at us. It is a lie, though; it can be changed. I saw it happen in the past. I made it happen. A new creature, in the original shell. Aran Fal becomes Aranfal.’
She sucked on her pipe, and exhaled a dancing circle.
‘But the Machinery saw the real truth. It looked beyond the mirror. It knew who we really were.’
Jandell grunted. ‘Aran Fal and Aranfal. Those names sound almost the same.’
‘The two men are very different.’
The Operator nodded. ‘And what about you? Who is the real Brightling?’
She looked up at him. He had grown younger on their journey, at least in appearance: black hair now fell from his skull; the lines in his face had faded away, and there was a new light in his eyes. But he still wore that terrible cloak, and the faces within glared at her, smiled at her, licked their lips and laughed at her.
‘I was made for the Machinery, and now it is gone.’
‘You were the greatest person on the Plateau.’
Brightling shrugged. The greatest person on the Plateau. She thought of all the things she had done in her efforts to impress the Machinery and wreck the hopes of others. She thought of Canning, of the humiliations she had poured on him. It had all seemed so clear, once: so fair. The Operator loved her; he had told her so himself. She could do anything with his backing. She could ruin her enemies, in their own minds, and in the eye of the Machinery. She could expose them. She could stage plays to display their weaknesses to Overland and Underland alike. That world she believed in was at an end. The Strategist was broken, the Tacticians were broken, and the Machinery was broken. All of it, all of it, all of it, was always going to break.
She shrugged. ‘It didn’t matter. I was supposed to be a Watcher, but I was blind. I blinded myself. I didn’t see what was happening to the Machinery.’
Jandell