Coldmarch

by Daniel A. Cohen

  ‘It’s not the machine that matters,’ Dunes said, putting a hand on top of mine. ‘It’s the hope inside it. It’s you. I believe you are the Crier’s son because you represent the agony of the return. I see your scars, too, Meshua. And not just on your neck and back. To take something truly broken and make it whole is the hardest thing in the world. Nearly impossible. But the Crier is ready to fight, and has shown his resolve through you. That is what I mean when I say you will have to suffer. That is what I mean when I say you will need to feel pain. Because you will be battling side by side with the Inventor of the whole world.’

  He grabbed my injured hand in a vice grip and I howled like never before.

  ‘This is nothing,’ Dunes fired back, his voice as dark and deep as the cave itself. ‘This is the beginning. The bones of the world have to be set, Meshua. Destruction has been put in motion and won’t sit idle. It is a great force itself, more powerful than creation in its own right, and the wounds of the past will be ripped and torn as the world tries to heal, you along with it.’ Spit flew from his lips as he spoke. ‘And you will bleed, Crierson. You will bleed like never before, because that is exactly what happens to saviours. That is exactly what it means to choose life over letting go. And, Meshua, that is not a guess.’

  I was breathing hard as Dunes let go of my hand, and even though the pain was excruciating, I could feel my heart answering him. Maybe there was something more to all of this, something bigger than just me or Shilah or Cam. Bigger than ten years of an abandoned Coldmarch, or a single machine that creates golden beads that can freeze things to Ice and burn off skin. Because with something as simple as words, Dunes had returned something I hadn’t expected.

  Dunes had given me back meaning.

  I stood up and went over to the smooth platform next to the swirling water. Up close now, I could see that the odd Crying Dance garment speared over the stone was a sort of vest, made from hundreds of Wisps knitted together with rope so it might be worn across the shoulders and dangle down past the waist. There were pieces of ribbon woven in, of every colour imaginable, and little beads hanging off, some of them even gold.

  I slung the vest over my head and around my shoulders, letting the Wisps sit against my body. A handful of the garment brushed my injured hand, and I drank in the pain, letting myself be quenched. The knotted Wisps gently clacked as I moved across the stone, and I let my calloused feet feel the cool temperature of the earth beneath me.

  And then I danced.

  It wasn’t coordinated in any way, and I didn’t pretend to know any traditional steps, but rather I just let myself move to the rhythm of the silence. I let myself be free. I let myself be chained. I stepped right for every Jadan I’d hurt in the past and left for every Jadan I’d made smile. I hopped forwards for every invention I’d brought to life, all the frivolous, all the important, and moved backwards for all of the creations yet to come. Maybe I was connected to the Crier in some way like Dunes said, or maybe I wasn’t, but for the moment it didn’t matter. For the moment I was life. The Wisps clacked together as I jumped from heel to heel, enough to grate just slightly against each other. A profound wave of Cold washed against my body. Inside my body. It reminded me what Cold was, that it wasn’t an enemy, like I was thinking. It reminded me that a blessing works best in the face of damnation. Cold was the path, and sky, and the tears, and the weapon yet to come.

  I kept dancing, the Cold from the Wisps digging deeper into my skin. They caressed, they did not burn. Relief entwined my pain and reminded me of the connection above. Of the love my father had for me, of the time we spent together.

  I finally let myself grieve.

  When I was done dancing I opened the machine and refilled nearly the entire vial of tears. Dunes topped it off with his own, Jadan and pure.

  And once again the Coldmaker was ready.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The candles burned out, and even though we’d spotted an entire box of replacements next to one of the shrines, Dunes and I decided not to light any more. Instead we let our eyes adjust to the subtle glow of the Adaam Grass, finding peace inside the darkness of the cavern.

  I couldn’t see his scars, and he couldn’t see the sweat beading on my forehead.

  The others in the flock had been gone for hours, so we ate some of the orangefruit that Split had taken from the caravan, and I told Dunes of my past, of Abb, of my tinkering, and I explained how exactly the machine worked. From the Cold Charge to the Frost to the tears and blood offerings that had to come from a Jadan. Dunes wept for the truth and poetry in it all, and kept prying for more. He wanted to know about everyone I’d grown up with in my barracks, and I talked about it all, introducing Slab Hagan and Old Man Gum and Mother Bev. He wanted to know about Matty’s game and the ceramic bird piece, and about Moussa’s singing. I’d have thought revisiting such sharp memories would bring pain and sorrow, but I only found my heart swelling with reminders that my life was fluid once, not something ugly, disjointed by loss.

  As I told my stories I let the Coldmaker work its magic, creating a small stockpile of Abbs I knew would be used in the quest to come. I’d have to spread the news and proof of new Cold as far and wide as I could, making sure the secret wasn’t lost with me. Getting my hands on another Frost was going to be nearly impossible, but I wasn’t going to get just one. I was determined to flush out every Frost outside the Khat’s Pyramid. If Lord Tavor had a secret stash of the holy Cold, then other High Nobles would as well, and whether I had to barter, borrow, or steal, I would put them to use for my people. I had two High Nobles, a brilliant Jadan, and a reformed Hookman at my side.

  If that wasn’t a sign from above, I didn’t know what was.

  Dunes had asked if he might hold one of the golden beads, just for a moment, and instead I just gave him one of his own.

  He wept for that too.

  They were some of the finest hours I’d spent in quite some time.

  I felt alive and whole.

  I was just finishing up my second pile of Abbs when Split, Cam, and Picka came bursting back into the cave, the dwarf camel braying furiously. Their arms and backs were empty and their faces were flushed with terror. I knew what had happened without them having to say anything.

  Shilah was gone.

  ‘Spout,’ Cam shouted, his hand tugging at his frayed hair, black with shadow. ‘We were in the main market and—’

  ‘Where is she?’ I asked, slowly turning the machine off, letting the final Abb come into being. It was smaller than the rest, but it would still work. Dunes gave me a resolute nod from my side, drawing a finger across the scar on his cheek.

  Picka started clomping her feet and lay down on the stone, smacking her head against the hard ground.

  ‘Quit it, girl!’ Split whined.

  But the dwarf camel kept on hurting itself. Split had to grab the reins hard to keep the beast from dealing itself more damage. ‘We did everything we could, I tried all my Sun-damned best peddling tricks and tones – QUIT IT – but he had so many guards with him. He insisted to the point of deafness that Shilah had to come with him, some City of David’s Fall tradition – I SWEAR I WILL TIE YOU UP AND LEAVE YOU HERE, YOU DAMN BEAST – and we barely got away ourselves, even—’

  ‘Who had guards?’ I asked, trying not to let myself get overwhelmed to the point of breaking. This is exactly what Dunes was talking about. There were going to be devastating obstacles. I was going to have to struggle through them, or give up.

  I was not going to give up on Shilah.

  ‘Not the Khat,’ I said.

  Cam shook his head. ‘He was this real charming bastard, all pomp and manners, and he annoyed the crap out of me. Called himself “Kind” or something, but he said it so quickly and with this stupid little side smirk. I wanted to hit him in his smug face—’

  ‘Ka’in,’ I said, my mind dredging up freckles. The girls must have been running away from this man for a reason, so I expected wherever Shilah was headed was not goin
g to be pleasant. ‘They took her somewhere called the Sanctuary.’

  ‘Did you get a vision, Meshua?’ Dunes asked in earnest. ‘Do you see?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I overheard the girls in the caravan cart talking about someone named Ka’in who they were rather scared of. And to be honest the girls were all very beautiful …’

  ‘Spout,’ Cam said, his hands shaking. ‘We need to get her back.’

  I gathered the golden beads into the bag with the machine, hurling it across my shoulder. My left hand was still throbbing and useless, and it was a good thing I had a spare.

  ‘Then let’s go get her back,’ I said, marching towards the shadowy tunnel from which Cam and Split had stumbled.

  ‘You can’t bring the Coldmaker,’ Split said, wrestling with Picka’s reins some more. The camel was now rolling on her back, squashing the ropes out of his grip. ‘What if they catch us?’

  ‘The Coldmaker is a part of me,’ I said. ‘It’s coming.’

  ‘We need a plan,’ Split said. ‘I’m telling you, kid, he had more guards than the damned Vicaress.’

  ‘I have a plan,’ I said, not turning around or stopping. ‘Dunes.’

  ‘Yes, Crierson!’ Dunes shouted, even though he was pretty much only one pace behind me, silently stepping right in my wake.

  ‘Let’s go bleed.’

  For the first time in my life I stole everything.

  I’d had plenty of experience plundering materials from the trash piles in the Paphos alleyways – otherwise I never would have had anything with which to tinker – but I’d done my best never to flat out become a thief. Even under the penalty of starvation, I would have let my stomach collapse before my morals. I had taken only what I thought could better my people, most of it already rubbish.

  Today I took it all.

  My fingers were as sticky as honey.

  The markets of the City of David’s Fall weren’t as vibrant and varied as the one in Paphos, but still there were things there that must have been imported from every corner of the Khatdom. I treated stalls, bins, even Noble pockets as if they were my own. Dunes thought it would be safe to do only one or two passes through, but I kept at it, wreaking havoc on the Nobles’ wares. While Cam and Split distracted the vendors with their outrageous bargaining, I took food, trinkets, salves, even a few Closed Eye amulets on silver chains. Even with only one good hand and the Coldmaker weighing me down, I was masterful, a true tinkerer’s fingers at work, nimble and precise.

  I hid everything carefully in an alleyway, brushing tons of boilweed over my plunder. Then Dunes and I hurried over to the Smith Quarters, while Cam and Split surveyed the market shops, trying to find out information about Ka’in and the Sanctuary. Logic demanded that I should have just let Cam hold the Coldmaker, but until we had Shilah back, trying to take the machine off me was like trying to remove the colour from my skin.

  ‘You ready, Meshua?’ Dunes asked, peeking in through the window of the smallest smithy, his face serious.

  I took out the handful of Khatberries. Shilah had rescued me from the Vicaress while employing a similar method of disguise, back before my tinkershop days, and my stomach clenched knowing we’d parted with such unsettled tension. I was going to get her out of this Sanctuary and show her my passion without any ulterior motives. Despite whatever ancient prophecies my name implied, Meshua couldn’t just be one Jadan.

  No one changed the world alone.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, crushing the Khatberries in my hand and smearing the red juice all over my face.

  Dunes held out his hooked blade, and I smeared some of the Khatberry juice along the metal. We had to be quick, as the street was deserted for now, but it wouldn’t remain that way for long. A few Jadans skirted in the shadows of the alleyways, scattering at the sight of the bloodthirsty Hookman and his prey.

  ‘Cunning plan to do this,’ Dunes said.

  ‘I’m not even half as cunning as Shilah. She grew an entire garden once in a cave. You should have seen it, Dunes.’

  ‘Yes. I should have.’ Dunes’s face stiffened, and he cleared his throat. ‘She really is quite special to you, yes, Meshua?’

  ‘You think I’d risk Langria for anyone else?’ I asked.

  Dunes pondered for a moment. ‘Yes. I believe you would.’

  I shrugged. ‘I would for Cam. He’s quite special to me as well.’

  Dunes’s jaw tightened. ‘You called me family right away, despite who Hamman was. I believe you would risk your future for any Jadan. It’s the most beautiful weakness I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘It’s not a weakness,’ I said, heat rushing to my cheeks.

  Dunes gave a quick nod. ‘Of course not, Meshua. Apologies.’

  I peered through the window, appraising at least half a dozen Noble workers inside, and double that number of Jadans doing the dangerous work. I prayed none of them had yet seen my Wanted Scroll, as a Khatberry mask could only do so much. ‘Besides, Langria wouldn’t exist for me without Shilah.’

  ‘It exists,’ Dunes said, drawing the red across the entire length of the blade. ‘Most of Hamman’s victims were always headed North.’

  I sighed, checking out my reflection in the glass and deciding that indeed the berry juice could pass as dried blood.

  ‘You haven’t been there?’ I asked. ‘To Langria?’

  ‘Not past the barriers, no Hookman knows the way in, but I’ve seen … I’ve witnessed things.’

  ‘What’s it like?’ I asked, my heart pounding.

  ‘You know when I told you I can recognize the sound of broken hearts?’ Dunes asked.

  I nodded.

  Dunes sighed. ‘Langria is deafening.’

  ‘How so?’

  The hammering inside the smithy grew louder, startling me and making me jump back from the door. There were shouts inside, and I hoped we could take the group by surprise. At least enough to get what I wanted.

  ‘We need to proceed,’ Dunes said, glancing at the group of fancy Noblewomen wandering down near the end of the alleyway. Most of them had impressive bellies hanging out of the sides of their dresses. Their chubby cheeks spoke of years of overindulgence, probably eating as many Khatberries and cream as they liked.

  ‘When you got it, spend it. I always say that, ladies!’ one of the Noblewomen said to the others, playing with a shiny necklace plump with painted Drafts, her parasol studded with matching Wisps. ‘No point in having Cold unless it can make you pretty!’

  One of the other Noblewomen aimed a kick at a passing Domestic Jadan headed for the alleyway. The Noblewoman’s veiny leg barely lifted above her knee, but it was enough to throw the Domestic off balance, causing her to stumble and drop her token. The Noblewoman hocked something wet and foul on the fallen piece of metal. ‘Ain’t no amount of Cold in David’s Fall could make you pretty, slave,’ she cackled. ‘Black skin is ugly as sin.’

  ‘Poetry,’ the necklaced woman chimed. ‘How divine!’

  ‘Yes, mistress,’ the Domestic said, wiping off the coin on her dress – which was already stained red in many places – and stumbling away.

  ‘Get your meanest face on,’ I whispered, grinding my teeth.

  ‘I will wear Hamman’s face for now,’ Dunes said with a resolute nod. ‘For you, Meshua.’

  ‘How about for Shilah?’ I said. ‘She’s a Meshua too.’

  Dunes bent over and looked me right in the eyes, his expression unreadable. But there was something soft lurking behind his blankness. It was not infuriating pity, however, but rather a swirl of understanding.

  ‘What?’ I asked, uncomfortable at my sudden nakedness of thought.

  Dunes’s eyes narrowed, and his entire demeanour changed. He grabbed me by the back of my uniform and hurled me through the smithy doors. From the mix of fire and Cold on my face I could tell the workshop had at least a dozen Bellows in action, all cranking the place liveable. The Noble workers stopped at once, their faces instantly as mean as Dunes’s. The Jadans stopped hammering and smelti
ng, stepping away from the hungry kilns.

  ‘Errands or not, Hookman or not, dissa closed shop, boys!’ one of the Nobles said, stepping up. He had two perfectly groomed sickles of facial hair that carved up his chin, and was dressed in a flowery blouse. He did not in the least look ready to do any smithing. ‘Specially closed to your kind.’

  ‘Crossbows!’ Dunes bellowed, his voice splashing around the place like hot iron. ‘I am in need of crossbows for the Khat!’

  ‘Jadans donn get to demand nothing from meh,’ he said, rubbing a bracelet of beads between his hands. ‘Less you demandin death naw.’

  I couldn’t place the man’s accent. It was close to the sound of the twin sisters in the cart, but looser around the vowels. I made a mental note to ask Dunes about it later, and then wet myself.

  The more shocking the display the better.

  My current trousers were soiled beyond repair, and I’d already stolen a replacement pair from a deserving vendor who’d been testing needle sharpness on whatever Jadans wandered closest to his booth.

  ‘Ah naw!’ the Noble with the crescent facial hair cried. ‘Muh floor! Yuh filthy!’

  Some of the Nobles fastened thick gloves around their fingers, pushing their frightened Jadans aside. They grabbed lengths of hot iron from various fires, and waved them through the air. I raised my head enough to take stock of what this shop had as far as wares, spotting racks of decorative swords, shiny breastplates, and helmets with curly horns.

  Also an entire wall of the exact things we had come for.

  ‘Crossbows!’ Dunes called, lifting my feet off the ground. I went as limp as a lizard with its neck pinched, and kept my expression shamefaced. I doubled the small puddle I was leaking on the floor. Dunes thrust his blade into the air, the red juice from the berries flicking off the metal as he waved it about menacingly. This massive Jadan seemed to fill up the whole shop with his fury, and he smashed the flat of his blade on the nearest marble pillar after each petrifying sentence. ‘I am Hamman the Hookman!’ – CLANG – ‘Bringer of destruction to the unholy!’ – CRASH – ‘I demand crossbows in the service of the Khat’ – SLAM – ‘or our most gracious Lord will know who delayed the capture of the New Jadan Brotherhood of Menace and Terror!’