"Randall is not in Howgill," said the voice.

Emily started in alarm, then relaxed when he realised that it was a priest talking to her by means of her head phone. Machines didn't believe in introductions or in making polite small talk as a preliminary to a conversation, it seemed. "He isn't?" she replied. "Are you sure?"

"We have examined the images of the suspect sent back by the pigeon and the local priest has identified him. His name is Nathan Cooper. He is a barrel maker and has lived in Howgill all his life. The priest sampled his DNA just in case Randall had killed him and assumed his identity and it is definitely him. You were mistaken."

"Oh. Sorry to waste your time."

"There is no need to apologise. We repeat out words of gratitude for the effort you are making. You made a genuine mistake. You only got a partial glimpse of the man and you made the correct decision in bringing him to our attention."

An image of Nathan Cooper appeared in Emily's visual field. A man in his mid fifties with greying hair and a heavily wrinkled face. Emily chuckled to herself. "From the front, he looks nothing like him," she said. "The resemblance from behind is uncanny, though."

The image was replaced by an image of the man taken from behind. From this angle, all that could be seen of his head was his shoulder length hair. "His height and build," Emily continued. "I genuinely thougnt it was him. Are you sure this is the man I saw?"

"The priest questioned him and confirmed that he was at the time and place where you saw the suspect. The priest also has an intimate knowledge of the people of Howgill and told us that there are no other residents bearing more than a superficial resemblance to him. Nor have there been any visitors to the town for several weeks. We can have almost a hundred percent confidence that this was the man you saw, therefore."

Emily nodded. "So what happens now?" she asked.

"The orc army will return to Elmton to resume its attack. The human population of the British Isles has reached its maximum permissible level. The cull must continue. The orc army will arrive at around the same time as the human army. There should be quite a battle."

"Something to stave off the boredom, I would imagine," said Emily. "I would imagine that even machines enjoy a nice spectacle on occasion."

"We do not share your human fascination with scenes of violence," stated the priest flatly.

Bullshit, thought Emily in the privacy of her own head. If all they really wanted was to keep the human population down, there were other ways they could have done it. Contraceptives in the water supply perhaps. Of course, without a common enemy to unite them, it wouldn't have been long before human nations were at war with each other. Empires would rise, subject populations would be turned into slaves. Was it possible that creating the orcs was actually the best possible way to reduce human misery?

Who cares? she decided. So long as the natural world was preserved, she wouldn't care if every human in the world suffered a long, painful death. "Okay," she said. "Thanks for the information. I'll keep looking. If he's anywhere where a pigeon can see him, I'll find him sooner or later. The others as well."

"You have our gratitude," replied the priest, and the connection ended.

☆☆☆

The gates in Harper's Wall had been opened when the orcs left, but when the guards saw the huge crowd walking purposefully along the road towards them they shouted orders and the doors began to close again. By the time Randall was standing before them, he was facing a wall of iron strapped oak from the top of which helmeted heads looked nervously down at him.

"Please let me through," he said in a loud, clear voice, intended to be heard as much by the crowd behind him as the men on the wall. There were no professional soldiers here. Only militia. Ordinary city folk who normally had mundane jobs as labourers or tradesmen and who only put on armour and took up weapons during times of crisis. They were people Randall's head phone had gathered information about, therefore. Information he could use as leverage.

The face recognition app identified the leaders of the gate guards and offered up the files it had gathered on them. Names, family members, juicy tit bits of gossip. Randall selected the man he thought he'd have the best chance of swaying.

"Matthew Denks," he said, and he saw the man's eyes widen in surprise. "It's you isn't it, Matthew?"

"Do I know you?" the man called back.

"We've never met in person, but I've heard of you, and I think you've heard of me as well. My name is Watt Fletcher and we have come to present our grievances to the aristocrats. That's all we want, to talk to them. I am willing to come in alone. Everyone else will remain out here, under your watchful eye. I know that you want the aristocrats to do their fair share to defend the city. You're a brave man. You were on the outer wall when the orcs were attacking. You were risking your life to defend me and the rest of us. You were risking your life to protect your wife Jenny and your two beautiful daughters Annie and Betty. I can only imagine the agonies they were going through, huddled together with Jenny's mother and father on Sullivan Street. Not knowing whether you would ever be coming home to them."

Randall hoped he wasn't being too obvious, telling the man that he knew where his family lived. The slight widening of his eyes told Randall that the message had hit home, though. Let us in or this crowd of ten thousand people will be angry with you, and they know where to find the people you love.

Randall turned to the man standing beside him. "And you, David Cowell. Everyone knows of your courage as well. You may not be aware of how admired you are by those of us too crippled by injury to stand where you stand. How people talk about you, to say how much they respect you and how much sympathy they have for you and your young son since your wife was killed in that terrible accident. You have a lot of friends out here, David, and if anything should happen to you, young Francis will be well looked after, you can be sure of it. Your house on Miller's Lane will be frequently visited by well wishers making sure that he wants for nothing."

Alarm showed on David Cowell's face, but there was doubt as well. Had his son been threatened? Randall had been careful to say nothing that was an outright threat. Every word could be taken as complimentary and sympathetic, but David Cowell could read between the lines as well as anyone.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

"Monty Cartwright," Randall continued, turning his gaze to yet another of the gate guards. "Henry Bark. Samuel Natwell. Every one of you is known to us. We know that you are good men and want only what is good for the city. None of you can be happy with what the Aristocrats are doing. You can understand the anger we are feeling." He put the very slightest stress on the word anger and saw several men flinching, including several he hadn't yet mentioned. Good. His message was getting across.

They couldn't be seen to be responding to threats, though. Their pride wouldn't let them. Also, they might be afraid that the crowd would see them as enemies, people who had only agreed to help them to protect their families. They would be much more likely to open the gate if they could make the crowd believe that they were on their side, while at the same time being able to tell themselves and their colleagues on the wall that they hadn't abandoned their duty. Randall had to walk a very narrow tightrope between carrot and stick, therefore. He'd used the stick enough. It was time for some carrot.

"All I ask is for you to let me in," he said therefore. "Just me alone. You don't have to open the gate. Lower a ladder and let me climb up. I will speak to the aristocrats, tell them what we all want, you just as much as the rest of us. You will have the gratitude of the whole city and you will be able to sleep tonight secure in the knowledge that you've done the right thing."

There was a pause. Silence hung over the city broken only by the gentle sighing of the wind over the rooftops and the cooing of pigeons. Randall waited and the crowd behind him waited. Not a single man spoke as they waited to hear what the Sergeant of the Gate would do.

"Just you alone," said Matthew Denks at last.

Randall breathed a great sigh of relief. "Just me," he replied.

"Very well. I'll have someone fetch a ladder."

☆☆☆

Randall was so pleased and relieved at how well his plan was going that he almost forgot to pretend to have a weak leg as he climbed the ladder. He remembered just in time, though, and made himself take twice as long as ascend as it could have taken him, being careful not to bend his left leg too much and giving a wince of pain every time he put his weight on it.

At the top he pretended that his leg was aching and stood there for a few moments to rest it. "You're a good man, Matthew Denks," he said, speaking loudly enough for the crowd down below to hear him, a detail that made the man relax in relief. "I apologise for putting you in this position but you've made the right decision."

"As you say, Sir, we all feel the same way about the aristocrats," the man replied. Again, he made sure to speak loudly enough for the crowd to hear, but he was glancing behind as well, down into the inner city, as if afraid that the aristocrats might be down there, waiting to charge him with treason. A delegation of high ranking servants in smart uniforms was indeed approaching, but they were still too far away to overhear.

Randall climbed down the steps to ground level, arriving just as the delegation drew close. "You are Watt Fletcher?" the first one asked.

"I am. I wish to speak to your masters."

"They are waiting for you. They are aware of what you have been doing. They have spies and agents in the outer city. They have attended several of your meetings."

"Well, let's not keep them waiting, then."

The servant nodded and led the way along the elegant, tree lined avenue.

The delegation took him to the Latimer mansion and, to Randall's amusement, around to the servants' entrance. Inside, they passed through rooms and corridors to what looked like the servants' dining room where three noblemen were waiting for him, one of whom he assumed was Latimer himself. They were dressed in silks and crushed velvet and wore white wigs on their heads. They looked at him as if a cat had dragged in a dead mouse.

"Watt Fletcher?" one of them said. Randall nodded. "I am Duke Latimer. This is Baron Maddock and this is Baron Tenby." The other two men simply glared harder as their names were spoken.

"Thank you for agreeing to see me," replied Randall.

Duke Latimer ignored the sentiment. "So, what do you want?" he demanded.

"The people of this city have grievances which they...."

The Duke waved his hand impatiently. "Don't treat us like idiots," he said. "What do you really want?"

Randall nodded. These were businessmen, like him, and they recognised a hustle when they saw it. The story he'd given the common people would cut no ice with them. "Very well," he said therefore. "As you probably know, the Old Ones valued gold just as much as we do and they stored it in large underground vaults. Some time ago I discovered the location of one of these vaults. I intend to dig down and recover the gold. Enough to make me as rich as King David himself."

"So what's stopping you?" asked Duke Latimer.

"The vault also contains machines of the Old Ones. I have no interest in these machines, but the priests probably wouldn't believe me. They would prevent me from going there. Maybe even kill me. That's why I need your help. I need an innocent reason to have a crew of men digging in that area. Something like the construction of a camouflaged barracks."

"A what?" demanded the Duke. He shared a puzzled glance with the two barons.

"A place outside the city where a large number of soldiers can lie hidden when we know the city is about to come under seige. They wait there while the city is surrounded, then emerge to ambush the orcs from behind."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of!" exclaimed Baron Tenby. "The soldiers would be committing suicide!"

"It doesn't have to make sense. It's not something we would ever actually do. It would just give us an excuse to be digging holes in the countryside, something the priests would believe."

"And why would we help you? What's in it for us?"

"A share of the gold. Fifty percent for me, the rest to be divided amongst yourselves as you see fit."

"And how do we know this gold even exists?" asked Duke Latimer.

"Would I be going to all this trouble if it didn't?"

"Maybe you just think it's there and it isn't."

"I'm ready to take that chance. Gentlemen, I hate to be boorish but you really have no choice. I have ten thousand men out there ready to come charging in here and hang you from the nearest tree. The only thing that'll stop them is if I tell them that we've come to an arrangement."

"An agreement that would see us fighting on the walls alongside..." Duke Latimer's face screwed up in distaste. "Dirty, sweaty labourers."

"That's what my men think we're really talking about. We have to keep up the pretense. I'm sure you can find some creative way to avoid the company of the common people. Maybe have a section of the wall manned solely by aristocrats. The stretch of wall that geography makes less likely to come under attack."

The three aristocrats glanced at each other again. "Maybe we could come up with something...?" said Baron Maddock hesitantly.

"Our information is that the orcs are returning," said Duke Latimer. "If they breach the wall again the whole matter could become academic."

"The army is almost here," Baron Maddock replied. "Even if they are not victorious, they should reduce the size of the orc army to the extent that it is no longer a threat to the city."

"We shall have to consider your proposition," Duke Latimer said to Randall. "Tell your... your men that we agree to your terms. We shall join them on the walls. As for your real proposition, we shall convene the Council of Barons to discuss it. You will have your answer in a few days."

Randall nodded. "I must reiterate that the priests must on no account be allowed to find out about this," he said. "The merest suggestion that we are excavating where machines of the Old Ones are located would ensure that the wrath of VIX falls upon the place, and possibly upon us as well. If we play our cards right, though, we can all come out of this enormously wealthy."

"The priests will want to know where the wealth came from," said Latimer cautiously.

"The priests won't care," pointed out Maddock. "They'll probably assume we came by the gold by some kind of criminal enterprise and they don't care whether we obey the laws of men. They only care that we obey the laws of VIX."

"Let's leave the discussion until all the Barons are present," said Tenby. "Then we only have to cover the salient points once." He turned to Randall. "Please go now and take your rabble with you."

Randall nodded, and the servant showed him the way out.