Coldmarch

by Daniel A. Cohen

  ‘North,’ I said. ‘The March is always North.’

  Two days later I sat against a cool wall of rock, massaging my tired feet, the sky dark and the stars blazing. We couldn’t see the Crying at this distance from Paphos, but I looked back in the direction of my home city, over the countless dunes and endless stretches of barren land, imagining all that Cold falling from the sky. I wondered if the Crier was staring back, looking at my machine. If so, a part of me wanted to hold up the invention and scream until my throat burned. And if the Crier wasn’t listening, then maybe someone else up there was.

  This leg of the Coldmarch was far more intense than the first, and I looked over at Cam. He was in worse shape than me, but not by much. My body had become weak since working in the tinkershop. My skin used to be like tough leather, impervious to hot stone and sand, but life in the Manor had softened me, and even under the protection of heavy sandals, I was left with embarrassing cuts and blisters all the way up my ankles.

  I knew I should have just added the Coldmaker to the cart, but fear kept the bag slung on my shoulder. Although it added a considerable weight, the machine was one of the only things that kept me from sinking.

  We had stopped to rest in a small, hidden canyon. The walls of the natural nook were close and high, filtering starlight down into a clearing. The protection was better than most of the places we’d stopped, so I had a feeling that this time the Pedlar would actually let us relax. There had still been no sign of the Vicaress, but that hadn’t kept him from insisting that we didn’t talk unless necessary, and that we always kept hunched to lower our profiles. Shilah had ignored both rules most of the time, keeping her back straight, and constantly asking about Langria. Cam doubled her questions whenever Split skirted around them. Our Shepherd didn’t give us any more information than necessary; and he also didn’t ask much in return. I would have thought he’d want to know every little detail about the Coldmaker and how it had come to be, but he refused even to look inside the bag.

  Now that we had slowed for the time being, Split unhooked Picka from the harness and kissed the top of her snout. The camel slumped down and curled against herself in a heap of exhaustion, bleating softly. Shilah looked poised to toss Split up and over the canyon walls for letting the tiny camel suffer, but her fury seemed trapped beneath a blanket of exhaustion.

  Ambling up to the stone, the Pedlar brushed his fingers against a long streak of older red painted onto the rock. ‘I’ll be boiled dry. Still the same as it was.’

  Cam was huffing and panting as he snatched a waterskin off the cart. He looked to me with a thin-lipped smile, and I took out an Abb and removed a slice with Shilah’s blade. Cam gave me a thankful nod, tossing the golden sliver into his container and giving it a heavy swirl.

  ‘Here,’ he said, handing the cooled waterskin over to Shilah. ‘You first.’

  ‘I can get my own,’ she said, nose twitching, her posture remaining upright. ‘Spout can cut me a piece.’

  ‘Please.’ Cam shook the container again. His yellow hair had stiffened like straw from all the heat.

  Shilah paused and gently took the water, but kept it at her side.

  ‘It’s not because I think you’re the weakest or anything,’ Cam blurted out. ‘That’s not why I gave it to you.’

  Shilah raised an eyebrow, lowering the water further from her mouth.

  Cam gave a firm nod, as if he had come to a serious conclusion. ‘It’s because you deserve respect.’

  ‘Damn right I do,’ Shilah said, taking a swig.

  Cam distributed water all around, my High Noble friend waiting until everyone else had had their fill – including Picka – before taking furious swigs from his own waterskin, relief visibly washing over him. Split took swigs as well, but he was shaking in a different way, his eyes more than once glaring over at the Coldmaker bag. The scratching at his thigh had only become worse the longer we’d travelled, and I’d seen him run his thumbs over the corks on his pocketed glass vials more than once.

  The Pedlar wiped his mouth, staring at his hand. ‘It’s the Coldest thing I’ve ever felt.’

  ‘You said that last time we stopped to drink,’ Cam said, rolling his eyes. ‘And the time before. And before.’

  Split glared at his fingers. ‘I keep hoping it won’t be true.’

  Picka twitched her way upright and strutted over to me, slumping against the ground with a happy harrumph as she nuzzled her head into my lap. I stroked her mane as the beating of my heart slowed, the camel’s beige fur rough from hours under the Sun. The little beast grunted happily, rolling to her side so she could put a hoof up on my leg, her fuzzy lips drooping down so her yellowed teeth showed.

  ‘Damn it to the black and back,’ Split said through clenched teeth.

  ‘What?’ I asked, snatching my fingers from behind Picka’s ear. She immediately gave an irritable grunt, a cool breath escaping her snout.

  ‘It’s just … she doesn’t do that any more. She only ever used to—’ Split’s face became unreadable, his hand drifting to his pocket. ‘This area is notorious for runaways. Or it used to be, ones trying to meet up with the March. And that means we might have prying eyes. I’m going to check the perimeter.’

  He grabbed a handful of headscarves from the cart and left our little sanctuary, silence settling in his wake.

  Eventually Cam leaned towards me, his eyes glinting with dark humour. He cupped his hand around his mouth and kept his voice low. ‘So what are the odds he murders us in our sleep and steals the Coldmaker?’

  Shilah was struggling to twist her hair around the new blade, the weapon proving to be far too thick for concealment. ‘He could only murder those of us dumb enough to sleep.’

  I reached out my fingers to scratch behind Picka’s ears, the echoes of the Sobek bite arguing with my movements. I leaned in and whispered to the camel: ‘Who did you two lose?’

  Picka answered with a low grumble, nuzzling her head deeper into my stomach.

  ‘You think that’s what it is?’ Cam asked.

  The connection I felt was too apparent to overlook. My body felt a hundred times heavier, and not because there was a pack animal in my lap. ‘He doesn’t remind you of anyone?’

  Shilah’s jaw sharpened a bit at the edges. She stared at the Coldmaker bag, a strange gulping sound rising to her lips. Then she glared at Cam, as if daring him to say something. ‘It’s hiccups.’

  Cam gave her a soft look and then dropped his gaze. He started cracking his knuckles, the normally creamy skin on his fingers now red and burned.

  ‘It was hiccups, dammit,’ Shilah said again, and turned her face away, the braid whipping around.

  Everything went quiet once again, my stomach tensing up. As tired as I was, I thought we should keep moving, pushing towards Langria.

  ‘They can’t have killed him,’ Cam said, barely a whisper. ‘I know they won’t. Maybe they’ll lock him in the Pyramid, but Leroi is too brilliant a mind for the Khat to waste. And he’s High Noble.’

  My stomach had tightened so much I doubted I could even fit water around the knot, so I left the last few sips in my waterskin. ‘Can we talk about something else?’

  Shilah reached into her pocket and unfolded the old parchment map given to her by her mother. Her long fingers traced the sheet up and down, lips parting gently as if she might start humming, which is something I only ever heard her do in her sleep.

  ‘I wonder if she ever made it this far,’ Shilah said, gesturing to the small canyon around us.

  ‘Who?’ Cam asked.

  ‘My mother,’ Shilah said, her fingers lingering on the parchment. ‘She told me she tried to get on the Coldmarch every year, but they always turned her away. She tried to figure it out on her own once, but it’s impossible to do it without help.’

  Cam and I both exchanged a stunned look.

  Shilah went quiet, staring at the Coldmaker bag. ‘I guess paradise isn’t for everyone.’

  Cam made an indistinguishable n
oise, looking at his feet.

  After a moment, a rare smile perched on Shilah’s lips as she looked over at the supplies cart. ‘You know, I kind of like the puppet. Is that weird?’

  Cam snorted, eyes returning with a smile. ‘Spout should put an Abb inside its head and see if it comes to life.’

  I offered a small grunt.

  ‘Spout,’ Cam said, snapping his fingers.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘That was funny, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, forcing a smile.

  Cam swept aside his overcooked hair, the ends frayed like a broom. ‘I say a talking puppet might be a good way to distract any hounds. Like those Decoy Boxes you used to make. It can sing songs and—’ Cam stopped himself with a sigh, picking up a handful of pebbles and tossing them back to the ground one at a time. ‘What do you think he meant about other things hunting us down too?’

  Picka bristled at the question, which made me lift an eyebrow.

  ‘She can’t understand what we’re saying,’ Shilah said, reading my face. ‘She’s reacting to you reacting.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I asked.

  ‘Because Picka’s a woman of the world, so she’s bound to be good at picking up cues.’ Shilah gave me a quick wink and then walked two fingers through the air. ‘Besides being slow, you’re very readable.’

  ‘Then I’m glad to have you both on the team to round me out,’ I said, taking a few pebbles of my own and adding to Cam’s rubble pile.

  Cam got up, bending back and forth, stretching out his back. He looked skinnier than I was comfortable with. ‘Let’s celebrate.’

  Picka eyed Cam with suspicion, but I kept scratching her neck.

  ‘And what are we celebrating exactly?’ I asked.

  Cam peeled open the Coldmaker bag, but didn’t seem to spot the book-shaped bulge in the inside pocket. The bronze along the machine’s top shone in the starlight, stout and strong. Even though it was turned off, I could sense a glow from the Coldmaker’s centre, as if the machine was just waiting to be put to use. A wonderful chill flooded back into my chest as I looked at the invention.

  Cam clapped his hands and opened his arms. ‘We celebrate the fact that Shilah—’

  Split stumbled back into the clearing, a thin rivulet of blood dripping out of one nostril. His eyes were puffy and raw, but his smile was so wide it could have been used to measure the Great Divide.

  ‘We’re celebrating the fact that it’s all true!’ the Pedlar said, stumbling towards us, keeping his hands on the stone wall for support. ‘The Crier is watching once again! Meshua! What’s ten years in the grand scheme? We celebrate the fact that it’s here. Meshua!’ Each repetition of the word ‘Meshua’ was garnished with a little flip of his wrist. ‘We celebrate the fact that tomorrow we’ll reach Gilly’s Tavern and announce that the Coldmarch is open for business once again!’ He started laughing in a manic way, slumping to the ground, cross-legged. Pursing his lips, he blew a kiss at the machine and then slapped his hands on his knees. ‘Shepherds unite, there’s a miracle in the sands.’

  Shilah went rigid, her hand hovering over her blade, but I had a feeling the Pedlar wasn’t planning on being violent. I remembered what Droughtweed could do to someone, what it could dredge up, and the man didn’t have any bloodlust in his expression. It was more the look of someone walking barefoot over the shards of memory.

  Abb once told me: ‘Some losses aren’t there to get over, but rather to make you change direction.’

  I raised my waterskin, still partially full, and sloshed it in the Pedlar’s direction. ‘Then to the Crier.’

  Cam mimicked the gesture, and Shilah raised her drink as well, her lips pinched in silence.

  ‘To Meshua!’ Split said, another flippant toss of his wrist, the blood droplets from his nose finally reaching his top lip.

  ‘Split,’ I said, gesturing for him to clean himself. ‘You’ve got some …’

  The Pedlar cocked his head to the side and wiped his sleeve across his mouth before smiling again. ‘Just happens when you get older. Age leaks, I calls it. Don’t mind the stuff.’ He sniffed, and a little bit of grey dust fell from his right nostril. ‘Now what do you want to know, kiddos?’ He drummed his fingers on his knees happily, his movements frantic. ‘You’re talking to a genuine Shepherd here. A Pedlar Shepherd, even better! Forty-five successful trips on my stretch from shack to Gilly’s. And all those Jadan artefacts in my basement. All those ceramics, all those books, smuggled out of the wrong hands, folks that couldn’t even read them. I doubt anyone knows more about Jadans than me!’

  ‘What about the Jadans themselves?’ Shilah asked in a defiant manner.

  Split blinked a few times, his face blank. Then he broke out laughing again; big thunderous chuckles. He addressed me when he spoke again. ‘Don’t you know that’s what this is all about? We were all Jadans before the Great Drought. Problem is, some people ain’t satisfied sitting on the ground with the rest. Some people don’t like being common. And now here comes the end of it all.’ Split hawked up some spit and wet the ground.

  I paused. ‘What exactly is Meshua, Split?’

  The Pedlar’s lips pinched into a tight smirk. Then he burst out laughing again, wiping the bloody spot under his nose. ‘You could ask me about Ancient Jadan culture, and Ancient Jadan food – which was limitless back then, mind you – or art, tinkering, alchemy, horticulture, anything at all. But you start with Meshua. Hah! A sandstorm always swirls back on itself.’ Then he shook his head, deadly serious, his whole demeanour shifting in a heartbeat. ‘Meshua is nothing, just a story that got made up when the world started dying.’

  I went to say something, but Split flailed his arms, cutting me off. His words were getting slower now, the blood from his nose moving faster than his tongue. ‘Meshua is a shift in the rivers. And a sky made entirely of shade. Meshua is twenty feet tall with arms like wrought iron and fists that can smash pyramids to pebbles.’ He paused, words trickling out now, the tap slowly being shut. ‘The child of the Crier, who walks the earth, with tears that can turn anything to Ice.’

  My breath caught in my throat.

  Split cackled, blood from his nose spraying over his upper lip. ‘But I guess in reality, Meshua was put in the ground, found by a skinny little slave with a lizard bite!’

  Shilah reached over and took my hand in hers. She’d done this a dozen times before, usually a platonic gesture, but this one felt different, her fingers pressing more tenderly than usual. I went to squeeze back, but at the first sign of pressure she snatched her hand away.

  Split’s eyelids were closed now, the dribbling blood under his nose having ceased. Cam swirled a finger next to his head, eyes wide with implications.

  ‘Split?’ I whispered.

  The Pedlar snorted himself awake, blinking furiously. ‘Huh? Where’s Picka?’

  ‘Right here, Split,’ I said. ‘Why did you become a Shepherd? You’re High Noble, why do you care so much about Jadans? Why do you love our people?’

  Split gave me the saddest look I’d ever seen, a rather impressive feat. ‘You know what love is then, do you?’

  I nodded, straining to keeping my face forwards. ‘I think I do.’

  The Pedlar’s eyes were shut again, his fingernails scratching the burned bald spot on top of his head. ‘Love is licking honey off a sharp blade and only worrying about the taste.’

  ‘Davliss Erridian said that, right?’ Cam asked. ‘From Khat Vivus the Fourth’s Dynasty?’

  ‘Split the Pedlar said that, son,’ he chided, sniffing with only one side of his nose. ‘Brainless and blond, you must know less about the world than they do.’

  Cam’s shoulders slumped, his expression going dark.

  ‘Cam is the only reason I’m alive,’ I said. ‘I’d say he knows plenty.’

  Split didn’t reply, his eyelids tightly shut now. In only a moment his breathing was deep and nasal, snores trickling into the air.

  I slowly removed myself from under t
he camel and walked over to the Pedlar, reaching into his pocket. Four vials of Glassland Dream came out, just as I’d suspected. The powder was grey, expensive, deadly, and the closest substitute to pure bliss. A lot of High Nobles liked to use it between their bouts of Droughtweed highs. Huffing slag was unpredictable and could lead the mind to dark places, but Glassland Dream could always lift it back. The catch was that the powder had terrible side effects, bleeding from the nose being the least of the bunch. Even Leroi on his worst days would never touch Glassland Dream. The Tinkerer’s cabinet contained a small vial of the grey powder for research purposes only, and he had me memorize which doses were lethal and which would send a person to sleep.

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’ Cam asked.

  I nodded, stowing one glass container in my pocket in case Split showed any withdrawal signs. Then I tossed the other vials one by one over the nearest rock ledge, the silent night punctuated by the faint shattering of glass.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ Cam asked, swallowing hard. ‘If the Vicaress finds us, it would have been nice to numb ourselves up.’

  ‘We need our Shepherd functional,’ I said, ‘or the Vicaress might actually find us.’

  ‘Besides,’ Shilah said, ‘the Vicaress would wait to kill us until the stuff had worn off anyway. It would only be delaying the inevitable.’ She bit her bottom lip with delight, stretching the thirsty scabs. ‘Brainless and Blond. I’m remembering that.’

  Cam ignored her slight, turning to me instead. ‘Good thinking.’

  Split snorted, drool sliming his chin.

  I went over to the cart, having already mentally prepared the necessary components for my next idea. The little blue book with my name on it wasn’t the only thing I’d pocketed from Split’s chamber. It wasn’t stealing, after all, since Split said everything in the chamber was a Jadan artefact to begin with.