‘Great Manipulator.’
Canning started again, flicking his attention back to Darrlan. It felt strange being called that. So many titles to remember: Darrlan was the Arch Manipulator, a grandiose mouthful for a child, and the head of the Remnants until Canning’s arrival. But now he, Canning, the one-time Tactician of the Overland, was the Great Manipulator and the King of the Remnants, successor to Arandel, who led a war against the Old Ones ten thousand years before. Titles, titles, titles, rolling through the endless years …
There came a sound from the far side of the room, in the corridor beyond.
‘Ah!’ Darrlan cried, clapping his hands. ‘The Protector of the Secondmost City has arrived!’
The footsteps grew closer: great, thudding steps that echoed through the metal room.
‘Who is this, Darrlan?’ Canning asked. ‘I didn’t know there would be visitors.’
‘Just one, my lord, just one!’ Darrlan shot him a worried look. ‘I am sorry to surprise you. But you must meet your people!’
The door to the throne room was a great gash, sliced into the side of the wall as if by some gigantic blade. Even it struggled to accommodate the figure that entered, a creature of greater proportions than anyone Canning had seen before.
‘May I present to you, my lord,’ Darrlan cried in the loudest voice the boy could muster, ‘Arna, Protector of the Secondmost City, Mistress of the Night Shore, Scourge of the Old Ones, Wielder—’
‘Enough, enough,’ the woman said. Her voice was surprisingly soft: not the great boom that Canning expected. ‘Arna will suffice.’
The woman strode towards the throne, her dark eyes never leaving Canning. She was the tallest person the new king had ever seen. Her skin was a light brown, and her hair was entirely black, tied up into a functional bun. She wore a billowing cape that was as dark as her hair, folds of the material falling away from her powerful frame. She was not fat, though it was difficult to tell under her layers of clothing; rather, she had a solid look that made Canning think of the trunk of a tree. She held a walking stick, which she thumped rhythmically on the ground as she traversed the throne room. Canning very much doubted that she needed it for support. Perhaps it is a weapon.
He was briefly reminded of Tactician Brightling. You are inferior. This is her world, her game, her rules. She will toy with you, and she will break you. But he shook these thoughts away. This was not Amyllia Brightling, and he was not the same man that had cowered in the Fortress of Expansion. You are the Great Manipulator. You are the—
‘King of the Remnants,’ Arna said. She fell to her knees before the throne, and bowed her head, staring at the metal floor.
They remained like that for a while, Canning staring at the kneeling woman and wondering what he was supposed to do. He eventually glanced at Darrlan, who made a gesture with his head. Canning knew what it meant. At least, he thought he did.
‘You may rise, my lady,’ he said, in what he hoped was a suitably king-like tone of voice.
Arna remained where she was for a moment, before slowly unfolding herself into a standing position.
‘It is a delight – a delight – to have the honour of meeting you, your majesty,’ Arna said. ‘Many of our people thought this day would never come. There were even times when I began to despair myself. But you are here, now – finally, we have a weapon that even the Old Ones fear!’
She glanced to Canning’s side, her gaze falling on the Duet. Strange: this was the first time she had looked at them since entering the throne room. Even now, she fears them. My little pets.
‘What have you done with them, your majesty?’ she whispered. ‘Your abilities are incredible. Once, you know, I held them for half a heartbeat – I was so proud of myself!’ She laughed. ‘I shudder with mortification, as I look upon what you have achieved. They are your prisoners completely.’ Her eyes flickered towards Canning. ‘What glories have you seen within their minds? They hold such memories, that pair: memories from long, long ago, from ages of savagery and glory. I saw such things in the moment I defeated them. What have you taken from them, my king?’
Canning glanced at the Duet. He had taken nothing. He had thought about trying, of course, but something held him back. He was unsure how to do it, in truth.
There was another reason too, though: something deeper. He was afraid of breaking the spell he had somehow cast, and which seemed now to operate entirely independently from any effort on his part. What if he tried something and accidentally freed the Duet? What would they do to him? Despite his newfound confidence, he knew the way of the world, and what would happen if he unleashed these beings. If I freed these enraged gods …
‘I—’ he stammered, before Darrlan interrupted.
‘The king will discuss his activities when he sees fit,’ the boy said. ‘Until then, we should not ask.’
‘No,’ said Arna with a bow. ‘Forgive me, your majesty.’
Canning studied the people before him, the wise little boy and the statuesque woman. His time in the Remnants played before his eyes, rolling forward in a river of memory: the weak man, proclaimed a king. What is the point in your power? What have you done with it, except sit on a throne, gathering dust?
Were these thoughts the workings of his mind, or was one of his guests doing this to him? He could not tell.
‘Why have you come to me?’ Canning asked. His voice was heavy, almost slurred. He felt out of balance. He turned his head sluggishly to the Duet, fearing for a moment that they would use his fragility to free themselves. But they remained just as they had before. He could still feel his hold over them, an invisible cord that ran from his mind to theirs, binding their vast and unknowable greatness.
Arna came closer to the throne. ‘Your majesty – we need your help.’
It was the first time Canning had been outdoors since he had arrived in the Remnants. He had felt no desire for fresh air, no impulse to feel the wind on his face. Little wonder: there was no fresh air here, and the wind stank of death.
They were in a large courtyard, its surface paved with cracked and weed-infested stones. The main building loomed behind them, a great mongrel of a structure, stone and steel and wood. Scattered around was a mismatch of other structures, twisted and hulking shapes. Occasionally a pale sun would shine through the sky above, and the courtyard glowed with a dull light.
The space was filled with people, all wearing the white robes of Manipulators. Canning associated that uniform with power, with vitality, but there was none of that to be found here.
The Manipulators were lying on the ground, very still indeed. The Great Manipulator did a quick headcount of his prostrate subjects: eleven of them, crumpled up on the floor. He would have taken them for dead, though their eyes were open and burning white.
‘They are Manipulating,’ Canning said.
‘Yes, sir. That’s what caused the trouble,’ came a voice from the edge of the courtyard.
A man appeared before them. Canning recognised him, he thought. A face from another time: before I became a king. The man seemed to be about as old as Canning, and just as bald, with dark skin and wide, lively eyes. He was no Manipulator, this man. He wore a brown cloak, and his gaze held no hint of the power of the Remnants.
‘I know you,’ Canning said, screwing his eyes up.
‘Arlan,’ the man said. ‘I met you, your majesty, before you … back before you came down here with us. When you were being held by the Duet – before you held them.’
Canning nodded.
‘Controller,’ he said. He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘I remember you,