Elsewhere, the mind of Tank the tortoise eased itself around unfamiliar words and concepts. Geometry, for instance.
Wearily, the long wrinkled neck stretched over the lip where the hard sandstone stopped. Two rheumy eyes gazed downwards, and their gaze oozed with glacial patience along the jagged slope and past the towering stacks to the hazy suggestion of a river below.
Angles and lengths were slowly being enveloped by the syrup-thick thinking process of Tank’s shrivelled old brain.
Up until now, slopes hadn’t been a problem. The winding roads and the occasional cobbled streets had given him lumps and cleavages and bumpy bits, true, but all that had been solved by the ancient tradition of ‘proceed with the left foot, then proceed with the right foot’. Even when someone picked him up and put him somewhere else, all he had to do was keep walking until he was back where he started.
Although he was vaguely aware of vast distances being travelled, it had all blurred in his mind. Suggestions of green verges and hedgerows became the impressions of rocky wastes and endless heather. Dotted like punctuation across the voluminous tome of his travels, the gulps of puddle water and munches of leaves were almost completely forgotten. Only when his throat began to rasp and his stomach squeeze in protest would the memories come to taunt him.
He blinked, squeaking slightly when his eyelids unglued themselves from each other. A howl of wind came from the gape of the canyon.
One foot rose from the dirt. The joints of his leg creaked and the scaly skin crackled with the squash and the stretch. With infinite patience, the tortoise hoisted the tiny limb over the lip and pressed it as hard as he could into the face.
It slipped. The bottom of his shell tapped the sandstone. Slow as a thorn bush shrinking away from a fire’s heat, Tank hauled the leg back onto his level. Both eyes groaned like old wood in order to keep pace with the grit tumbling out of sight. They fell onto the sliver of black that was the river.
Of course, all things had been easier with the Big One around. There had been straw, and there had been fresh lettuce leaves, and there had been a box. There had been a world inside that box. Each helping of lettuce had been all the food that had ever existed, at least until he forgot about it and the next helping came along. The water bowl was magic, never vanishing no matter how many times he drank from it.
Such wizardry!
There had been shadows on the wall, and he had stood with reptilian comfort and watched the shadows dancing on the wall, and he had known that this was the entire world, and he had learned much about the nature of the box, filled as it was with shadows and magic and the face of the Big One.
And then one day, the Big One had seized him around the shell for a moment in what his mind believed was called a hug. Then she was gone.
He could remember that day clearly. Although he could not remember how far back it had been. Time meant so little to him now.
There had been another Big One after that day, and the wrong lettuce, and the wrong shadows, and even – though he couldn’t quite pin down why – the wrong water.
The world was suddenly wrong.
The Big One was gone.
Gone. But where?
Over time, as the breakfasts and lunches and suppers had flashed by, and as he had pondered over the existence and non-existence of the Big One, and as the sheer wrongness of the new Big One – the false Big One – had started to awaken an ancient evil in his chest he called ‘irritation’, it had finally occurred to him that maybe there was more world outside his box.
Tank craned his neck to the left.
The canyon stretched far to the horizon, zigzagging its way with the lazy grace of a river.
He craned his neck to the right.
It looked exactly the same. Overhead, a hawk screeched dramatically, presumably rehearsing for a more worthy scene.
A slight horror was beginning to seep into his mind. So far, regular-enough scavenged leaves and drinks had kept it at bay, but it was dawning on him that walking and walking and walking even more were, whatever their advantages, somewhat limited tactics.
His nostrils, encrusted with slime that he hadn’t been able to wipe off, flexed and eased back into place. Among the strange fireworks of scent and smell, he caught the whiff of an odour that brought his mind back to the box. He remembered that smell. It was the smell of the Big One. The true Big One.
He concentrated on his geometry.
Angles and lengths gave way to something more complex. He paused only to munch hopefully on a few tufts of grass, which were sitting on the lip as though contemplating suicide. Above him, he was aware of a general lightening of the sky, but it couldn’t offer him any suggestions, so he took no further notice.
What a world it was that battered his poor old senses! Tank tried to force the gurgles and gales and shrieks of the last few days into a coherent whole, but then there’d be strange voices, or an alien thing with wheels would come over the horizon, and he would be thrown again. It had taken him days and days to block out the strangeness and focus on the familiar. His mind was still echoing with the shock of getting out of his box. Not one world after all! He could hear his old thoughts booming at him from a more childish time of his life. Lots of worlds! Big worlds! Worlds within worlds! Worlds so packed and noisy and smelly that they ceased to be worlds and simply mashed together into a messy void with neither meaning nor sense.
Millstone teeth pressed against each other in his tightening jaws. The cheeks made a leathery sound as he braced himself.
The last numbers clicked into place inside his head. He saw the new words before him. Something called “trigonometry” came to the fore.
It had been thought by a younger Tank, several days ago, that the nature of reality was empty, and one could only proceed by a leap of faith, or in his case a careful step of faith. His older self of several steps ago had dismissed this line of mental enquiry as a form of madness, but as he leaned over the lip, the Tank of the present moment was seeing a new light shine on the concept of madness, and he thought, Why not?
Before he plunged forwards, Tank eased his body to the side and then ducked into his shell.
The tortoise rolled down the slope, the rim of the shell cutting across the bedrock and bouncing off the crags and jagged edges.
A few minutes later, the shell tumbled beside a gurgling riverbank. It turned and spiralled inwards, blurring into a ball for a moment, and then settled down.
After a few seconds, Tank peered out into another new world, and waited until it stopped spinning.
In the alley, Lady Carcarass slipped out of the doorway and guided it shut behind her. Business tonight. That meant no prying eyes if she could help it. Certainly not when she had more than one job to juggle. No, it was best kept on the sly.
Both talons clicked on the cobbles until she carefully gloved them. Even her wings were sheathed in soft velvet so as to leave no whoosh in the air. She slunk away, shifting from shadow to shadow with many backward glances and much flexing of her feet and digits.
The alleyway opened to nothing more than a gap between two gardens. One silvery tree reached from one to the other, creating a natural corridor laced with spider webs and dotted with hovering crane flies. She licked her beak and paused to force the balaclava over her face. Both of the towering blocks were silent; there were no lights on in the windows or doors.
Once she emerged into the street, she peered around and pulled the hood of her robe over her head.
There were no stragglers on the paths, though each street lamp stood watch over a waiting carriage. Above her, there were no flying citizens.
Lady Carcarass smirked to herself under her own hood.
She had no interest in sharing the spoils, after all. Lord Tirek was a clever one, however much he tried to hide it behind civil words and meek gestures. A bit of investment, he’d said, in the right place, and given to the right people. It would pay beautifully in a few weeks’ time, and they would no longer have to peer over their shoulders so often, worrying over the guards or the squadrons.
Not that she didn't believe him. Tirek could tell the truth when he wanted. But long years spent ducking and dodging the streets, and even longer years spent ducking and dodging plots and arguments, had lent her a certain mindset for just such an occasion. And right now, it was screaming that someone, somewhere, was going to end up in jail. Or worse.
She had no intention of being left behind. After facing the republican members of the Council, she felt that the Lords and Ladies were child's play. They were too comfortable. Too jittery. Too unimaginative.
No, she wasn't going to be caught out by the likes of them. Some other schmuck could be sacrificed. Clever of Tirek to gloss over that particular detail in his speech, but it would be necessary to the plan, and in any case loyalty was not a survival trait among the Lords and Ladies. As soon as they realized the wolves were on their trail, they'd throw someone off the sleigh.
Not if she got there first.
Anyway…
She made a decision and headed across the street.
As she stepped forwards, she passed rows and rows of pathways, some wide enough to allow a good-sized griffon or pegasus to stride down, some so thin that only a hoof could fit in them. The road itself was divided up similarly, but the chalk and the paint had long since been scuffed and riddled with potholes.
The second alley was dingier than the first. There were no gardens, no overhanging trees, nothing more than sheer wall on each side. As she strode down it, her eyes flitted to the boxes and crates left lying outside a back door. She gasped as a puddle splashed under one of her gloves, and then she tutted and tried to shake it dry before continuing. From up ahead came faint lyre music, tinkling on the ear and tapping gently on the mind as though stepping through something delicate and precious.
Lady Carcarass frowned. Minstrels? At this hour?
At once, she pressed her back against the wall. The unseen musician plucked on, presumably lost in a world of timid notes and bold symphonies.
It could just be an odd citizen. Goodness knew there were enough of them in this city. Still…
One gloved hand reached down and clamped around a black-painted hilt. The dagger slid out with no gleam; she’d made a point of coating it with a dull sheen hours beforehand. All of her jewellery had been placed in a pouch on her belt. Dark and ghostly, she drifted along the wall. Each paw on each hind leg pressed itself on the compacted soil.
At the corner, the lyre music came more hesitantly, as though the musician was becoming suspicious. Lady Carcarass held her breath and her poise, gave a second to prepare her muscles, and leaped out. The dagger rose.
In the faint light of a street lamp, the lyre rested against a bench made of cream-coloured planks. The dagger was lowered slightly. Lady Carcarass cocked her head.
Three of the strings plucked themselves.
Instinct screamed at her, seized her head, and yanked it round, back up the alleyway. A figure stepped out from behind the crates.
At first, it looked pegasus-shaped, but what she’d taken to be wings was a cape fluttering in the slight wind. The entire figure was dressed in clothing as dark and complete as possible. Most of its face was concealed behind the brim of a wide hat. Beyond that, she couldn’t make out much.
Silently, the two regarded each other. Only the cape moved; the figure stood with its head cocked, appraising her with a puppy-like curiosity. Lady Carcarass stood in the act of stabbing the sky.
Behind the griffon, the lyre plucked a few more notes and then fell silent.
“Lady Carcarass…”
The voice echoed around her. No matter where her gaze leapt, however, she could spot no other figure, above or below. Briefly, she broke the trance and glanced behind her.
It was only a blink of time. Yet she turned back, and the alley was empty. There hadn’t even been a whip of the cape.
She ran.
Up the street, the dagger sheathed and jangling on her belt, Lady Carcarass weaved between the carriages and ducked into yet another alleyway. She didn’t pant. She’d run hundreds of times before.
“Lady Carcarass…” echoed the voice. “You have committed many terrible crimes…”
Down the alley, across another empty street, past the corner… she spread her wings and vaulted over the hedgerow, trampling a flowerbed on her way to the shed, which she hopped onto and used to spring onto the neighbouring thatched rooftop.
“You have ruined so many lives… drained so many souls…”
Despite herself, part of her mind fussed over the echoes. Ruined? Drained? What lives? What souls? Was this some sentimental claptrap?
“It is the day of judgement, Lady Carcarass. You will be brought to account. You must pay for your crimes.”
From chimney to chimney, she moved so fast that no one would have seen anything but a blur over the rooftops. No matter how hard she ran, the echoes never sounded any fainter. One gloved hand clamped over her ear, rubbing against the balaclava as she went. With a final spring, she landed on an iron gate and threw herself onto the grass.
Only then did she stop to pant, leaning on an iron park bench and lit by the glow of a park lamp overhead. A little further ahead, she could see the pale beginnings of a path through the grassy area, but beyond that was shadow.
Something fluttered in it.
The figure stepped calmly onto the path. Each step was easy and smooth. There was no sign it was even slightly put out.
“Judge, jury, and executioner, Lady Carcarass,” said the echo.
With a shriek of alarm, the griffon reared up. The throwing knife shot through the air. There was a thump of metal hitting something soft.
As Lady Carcarass stared and lowered herself, the figure seemed to stiffen where it stood. Tilting its vast brim, it peered down at the hilt sticking out of its chest. A sigh echoed around them.
“What in the name of…” The griffon began to back away.
One foreleg reached up and yanked the knife out of its chest. The blade was completely clean. There was barely a hint of a rip in the fabric.
As the knife bounced off the path and disappeared into the grass, Lady Carcarass whipped off a glove. She lunged forwards, wide-eyed, with a panicking screech. The figure didn’t move until she almost seized its neck in her talons. Then the cape enveloped her.
Beyond the iron gate, the streets were empty and dimly lit. The breeze nudged at the padlock, making the loose hinges creak. The path was empty. The grass seemed undisturbed. Lying just outside the patch of light, the abandoned knife was the only testament of the last few seconds.
A dark foreleg reached out and dragged it out of sight. Silence ruled once more.