“This better be the staircase to heaven.” I huff from the excessive number of steps to Topside.

Russ chuckles. “It's nice to have another outsider around. I waste so many great references on the natives. Shame we tend to wilt too quickly in Silva’s light.”

“I can see that happening, especially when the local experts' best advice is ‘quick feet kid’.”

He throws his hands out defensively “Who said I was an expert?” 

“You did when you agreed to help me find that fake Jesus bastard.”

“Infiltration is my world. Not gladiatorial arenas. I thought it was sound advice anyway, you survived didn’t you.”

“Barely,” I grumble, rolling my shoulder out.

Ghost aches are all that remain after Honey’s empowerment syrup. As I test the joint's limits, my foot catches on a step and almost sends me tumbling down.

“There’s no time for trauma here. You survived and it made you stronger. Focus on what’s ahead.”

I knew he was talking from experience, which I desperately needed if I ever wanted to save the tribe. Focus on the day, finding the actor is our mission.

The Yorton guard flips his half-shoulder cloak out of the way as he allows us through, grumbling under his breath. “That’ll have cost him.”

I run my finger along the smooth mist ring that gains our entry to Topside, the insignia and band disappearing as it vanishes.

The second guard drops his ebony as Cane’s huge body waddles past. I had hoped to maintain a low profile however I’m starting to realise that I need more backup in this city.

Russ gives my great companion a wide berth, eyeing the Daemonic cattle with unease.

He’d agreed to be my guide through Topside, having been a resident for years until Kork’s banishment dragged him into the gutters. Whether it’s because we’re native kin or it's my relationship with Harper, or another unknown agenda, I am unsure. But I will take any assistance offered. 

The heavily guarded staircases contain more devices to check for plague and illegal substances. In a world where dried satyr horn is a mainstream drug and magic can manipulate reality, I can’t imagine what they consider illegal.

As we reach the warmth of the sun, its holy rays blind me for a moment before the Yorton uniforms jostle us along. The glory of Topside is a mix between the golden era of Rome and Buckingham Palace. At least that is what the craftsmen are striving for, they move like ants over the buildings and streets. Filling cracks, painting wood and removing any scrap of rubbish or dirt. With the Will of Order behind them, they move efficiently without hindrance or fatigue.

“The Lonely-King’s theatre is at the end of Mainfair,” Russ states after a moment in the sun before going back to business.

“Has Topside not changed much since the last time you were here?” I ask.

“Oh, it has.”

“And you are not impressed?”

“All beautiful things wither away, this facade they’ve created will crumble when they start blaming their neighbours for their problems, now that they don’t have the poor to point at.” He shoulders through the silk robed and velvet suited locals.

Few walk the streets, instead opting to be carried upon gilded beasts or devices. Above the roofs, the ultra wealthy travel upon winged animals or from their own power. Most days I forget I’m in another world, having grown so used to Silva’s nature. This city of elites reminds me how supernatural it all truly is. Especially with the dramatic contrast from the dwellings beneath the paving stones.

Our destination also surprises me, instead of an over embellished work of architecture. I discover the theatre is large a box. As we get closer to its flat walls, I notice it’s painted like the backdrop of a stage. The artwork resembles a castle, that slowly shifts before me. Scenes of grand battles and romance stories play out in slow motion. I want to watch as a cavalry charge fails to take the walls on one side, the caricature archers suppressing them with a volley of arrows. But I’m dragged on by Russ before I see the slaughter. 

A man in heavy makeup greets us at the box office.

“Performances are five shillings and do not begin until this evening, fine gentlemen.” He dramatically over embellished each word as if he himself were on the stage, pointing to a large poster and the start times.

“We are big big fans of the ‘Purple Faced Poets’ and would be extremely indebted to you if we could meet the performers before the show.” I slide a handful of shillings across the counter.

The man’s waxed eyebrows shoot up as his face contorts through several, clearly practised, emotions including shock, disbelief and anger.

“This is no flea bitten back alley stage. We are a bastion of the arts, a home for true creators of original thought. Disturbing them would be akin to spitting in the face of Order in his temple upon the bosom of Silva. Go back to shadows below and-”

Russ swiftly steps forward, taking my hand and placing it on the counter. In one smooth motion, he activates the mist ring and hushes the man’s rambling.

“We are going in now.” He dangles the insignia of Yorkton. “A little discretion is all we require. Not permission.”

We witness the ticket seller's first true emotion as fear paints his eyes. At a loss for words, he nods us through the door before quickly snatching the offered payment.

Smirking with glee, I follow Russ into the Lonely-King’s theatre. The interior is all stained wood and velvet carpets, chandeliers hang overhead to illuminate our rapid passage into the back corridors.

“Hey man, I don’t think we should be flashing the ring to every person that says no.”

“Harper literally gave it to you to open doors.” Russ tuts over his shoulder as we round a bend. Cane barely fits in the corridor as furniture and empty racks line the walls.

“She wanted me to be her little secret, that isn’t going to last long.”

“Are you going to be her Gestapo?”

“Fuck no, I guess a crook or a spy.”

“Well, this mission is good practice for both those things plus you want to find this guy too. Everybody wins.”

I’m not sure the Yorktons would see it that way, but will they ever find out? They’re not omnipotent, the only reason they knew my name or who I am is because I shouted it in a Zoo full of people.

We reach backstage, peeking around the huge dangling curtains and find two ‘performers’ sitting upon tall umpire chairs. 

One of the men reaches out into the spotlight, its rays intensified by a haze of ebony smoke. “When the skies are sad, they cry. Which makes me cry, internally. Perspective shifts can alter the world through our emotions. Rain is water, water brings life. So why should life make us cry.” The two continuously rattle off observations they’ve made about the world to an empty crowd. 

“What absolute dribble.” I say to Russ who shares my feelings.

“Bloody nonsense ain’t it.” A small boy says from the floor where he varnishes the wood. His tiny stature made him almost impossible to see in the low light. “Craziest part is, people pay top coin to hear this and afterwards they call them geniuses.” He continues. “Anyone can do it. Listen here.” He stands to his full three feet of height and sardonically reaches out before himself. “Buildings are cold. My family lives in building and they make it warm. Therefore my family makes a building a home.”

“That was actually quite sweet,” I say.

“Pulled that tragedy right out me arse.”

Russ coughs in the silence. We share an awkward look, unsure of how to proceed without making a scene.

The lad nods towards Riptail on my hip. “Suzie had a nice story about a man holding an evil bone sword.”

I grumble under my breath. “It’s not rutting evil.”

“Suzie?” Russ asks.

The lad flashes a terrible tattoo of a Volt on his shoulder. A blind, one-armed child must have done it with a rusty needle. 

“You’re a bastard?” 

The lad nods with pride.

“Then I’m sure you wouldn’t mind helping us find a certain ‘actor’?”

Deep in the theatre, we say our goodbyes to the helpful bastard. He wanted to follow us all the way, but this next part would be easier without a child witnessing. 

I toss him a few coins before he slinks away. 

“Get that bloody ink checked out before you lose your arm,” Russ calls after him.

“Only need one to kill a smile.” He cackles as he disappears into the shadows.

“There’s a serial killer in the making,” I say.

Russ nods towards the door. “Shall we?”

I stall him with a hand. “Never waste a first impression.”

Cane shatters the door as he rampages into the green room. A maelstrom ensues as he tosses costumes and props around him as someone squeals within. His bulbous body blocks our view as we follow.

I pat him on the butt. “What did you catch for us buddy?”

He turns his large head with a long-haired man caught between his tusks.

“Oh, is that a fake Jesus?” I push back his long hair. Expecting to see fear in his eyes, I'm surprised to find the man merely irritated.

Russ’s serious business face falters at the reveal. “Have you been handing out rotten fish and spoiled wine?”

His mouth opens wide at the false accusations. “I have done nothing of the sort.” 

I lean down close to him. “What about tricking people into slavery?” 

“Never. I would never be involved with the enslavement of intelligent beings. Creative minds must never be trapped.”

“So the Satyrs don’t count?”

He loudly tuts. “They aren’t people. More like cattle.” 

I have to restrain myself from shanking the guy.

“My boy Cane here is considered cattle in his neck of the woods. Do you think he’s stupid?”

Jesus dares not comment in his current state.

“Let’s do a simple test. Every time you lie, Cane will close his jaws a little.” I give him a warm smile as if we’re playing a children’s game. “Let’s begin. What’s your name?”

“Thadius Van Stroppen.”

Cane doesn’t move. 

Bugger me, I have no idea. I look over at Russ who nods with understanding. 

“Yeh, I’ve heard of him. He’s basically their Dicaprio.”

“Are you the greatest actor of your age?” I ask.

“Of history.”

Using cattle senses I feel the man’s pulse through Cane’s mouth, I’m also able to send him simple commands. Such as to squeeze.

“Aaaahhhhh!” He cries and squirms like a trapped fish.

“Now, let’s not allow our arrogance to ruin a good game.” I give Cane’s ear a scratch for being a good boy.

Russ blows ebony smoke into the man’s face. “Did you pretend to be a prophet for a tribe of Satyrs in order to lead them out of safety?”

Jesus sneers with contempt. “Pretend? I was their prophet. Their shepherd. Now I’m a legend.”

Squeeze.

“Aaaaahhhhhh!”

The giant tusks start to tear his silk gown as the jaws close. A small trickle of blood rolls down and onto the hippos tongue. 

The salty liquid surprises my senses, almost a savoury treat packed with nutrition. I light an ebony to distract myself from my sudden hunger, and the constant itch of my curse. 

Russ sees me scratching my arm as I start to pace. “Where are the Satyrs now?!”

“In cells, in brothels, in chains. As is their nature.” He gives me a wicked smile.

I misjudged this feeble man, assuming he would buckle at the first sign of pain. But he either doesn’t fear death or us. He called himself a legend, Russ has also heard of him. So he’s a famous actor, probably a narcissist and extremely vain.

Pinching his nose, I start to crush it. The blood sprays out as the cartilage collapses.

“What part of this do you not understand? Your bones will splinter, your organs will collapse and my big friend here will turn you into muk.”

He spits blood in my face. “All will hear my story. Through sonnets, novels and plays. The greatest display of acting in the history of Silva. The man who led an entire village willingly into enslavement. Ruining my body will do nothing for I have ascended into immortality.”

“And what of the Voice? Was the Satyr not key to the whole scheme, the true hero of your story?”

Thaddius scoffs. “Dwen. A lost prince of the Blackroots, merely scrambling to reclaim his position in the family. Just as they hid his disgusting departure from their ranks, they’ll do the same upon his return. No, I am the hero of this tale.”

“So what happens when I tell all of Yorkton the truth, how you showed up towards the end? Hardly involved and stealing the glory.”

He squints with sudden bemusement. “Who are you? How could you know that?”

I know his weakness, so I step back and nod to Russ. “Leave the room.”

He swiftly obliges as I don my Guardian poncho and grasp Riptail. With a slice across my palm, I plant a bloody handprint on my face.

Mark of fear

“You.” Yelps Thaddius with realisation.

I lean close as the chaotic Will takes effect. “I am the true shepherd. I am Mother’s prophet sent to lead the tribe. I will have my people returned to safety, whether it means burning down this shithole of a town or killing a legend.”