“Ah, that name again,” Callian said. “When will I get to meet the mysterious Roo?”
“I can take you to meet her,” Kuma said with a shy smile. “Later today, if you want.”
“Make sure she’s in the right kind of mood first,” Raffa added. “If she’s not, I wouldn’t go anywhere near her—she can be pretty ferocious.”
“Shakes, you’re making her sound like—like a bear or something,” Callian said.
Raffa and Kuma exchanged puzzled glances.
“You didn’t tell him?” Raffa asked.
Kuma frowned a little. “I guess it never came up,” she said.
“What never came up?” Callian was clearly confused.
“She is a bear,” Kuma said.
Callian shrugged. “Some folks are just grumpier than others, I guess.”
Raffa snorted. “No, she’s a bear. A really big one.” He stretched his arm overhead to indicate Roo’s height.
Callian looked at Raffa. “A bear.”
Raffa nodded.
Callian turned to Kuma. “A bear?”
“A bear,” she said.
“Um, are you—is she—”
“A bear,” they said together.
A pause.
“Okay,” Callian said at last. “A bear.”
Kuma thought it would be easier to work with the raccoons later in the day, when they were more alert. So they went on to the next thing on Raffa’s list: carving willow whistles.
The three of them walked to the stream to find willow trees. They located a small grove right away, and cut several twigs to the correct size. Raffa showed Callian how to slash the mouthpiece at an angle, and how to carve the bark in a circle so it could be loosened and removed.
Sitting on a stream bank, carving willow whistles on a spring afternoon . . . It should have been the most idyllic of tasks. But thinking of what lay ahead of them, Raffa was grim and unsmiling. He was also whittling poorly. Whittling, he realized, was one of those skills best accomplished with your hands full and your mind pleasantly empty.
Still, it was a space of time in which to think, which it seemed like he hadn’t had since leaving the Garrison. And a chance to talk to Callian.
“Will you tell me about my mam?” Raffa asked. “About what she’s trying to do, with your da—I mean, the Advocate?”
Callian put down his knife and the whistle he was working on. “My da has tendants with him day and night,” he said. “He never used to. But the Chancellor says he needs them now, because he’s not himself. He hasn’t left his quarters for ages. And for the last few weeks no one’s been able to see him privately. Including me.”
His face was tight with worry. “Somehow, your mam will have to get in to see him and treat him with whatever will fix him. Without anyone else knowing about it. And then she’ll have to get him away from his tendants to bring him here.”
Raffa swallowed. It sounded dangerous for both his mam and Callian’s da. “She has people helping her, right?”
Callian nodded. “I already told you about Penyard, the ferry rower. And your friend Trixin. And there’s an old tendant who’s been with my da for years, Bakama. He’s retired now, but he’d do anything for my da. I introduced him to your mam before I left Gilden.”
“Trixin,” Kuma said. “Whatever I was doing, I’d want her on my side.” She gave Raffa an encouraging smile.
And there’s Da, Raffa thought. I escaped from the Garrison, so maybe he can, too. Mam and Da—together, they could do it. I know they could.
Callian picked up his whittling again, and they were all quiet for a while. Then another question popped out of Raffa’s mouth, almost before his mind had formed the thought.
“Why?” he asked. “Why does the Chancellor want to get rid of all the Afters?” He didn’t even know who he was asking.
He tried to answer his own question. “She said . . . in that speech she gave, she said she wants to get rid of—of blight and ugliness. She seemed to be talking about the slums, but I think what she really meant was the people. The Afters.”
“My da has talked to me about this,” Callian said. “Not this exactly—he doesn’t know what she’s doing now—but anyway . . . He says it’s natural for people to want to stick with their own. Animals do the same thing. But we’re supposed to be better than animals—you know, smarter and nobler and all that.”
A pause. Raffa was listening intently.
“It’s not hard to care about people who are like you,” Callian continued. “Your own family, and people like them. But my da says we have to always make the extra effort with people who aren’t like us. To care about them and listen to them, especially if they’re different from us. Because that’s one of the things that makes us human. It’s something we can do that other animals can’t.”
Callian’s words were making a lot of sense to Raffa. “But it’s easier not to,” he said slowly. “She’s counting on that, on there being lots of people who—who don’t want to try.”
“Or maybe don’t know that they should,” Kuma added quietly.
Raffa thought of those who had chanted with such venom during the Chancellor’s speech, and his stomach felt as cold as snowmelt. Even if we win . . . if all the Afters stay, there will still be a lot of work to do.
“Lunch!” Jimble announced, holding up a huge basket.
The group had reconvened at the pother tent for sunpeak meal. “I thought it would save time if I brought it here. I wasn’t sure what to get, so I just told the food people that it was for the pothers, and you should see what they gave us!”
Raffa and Garith almost knocked heads looking into the basket. An entire pan of skillet bread. Boiled eggs. Cheese. Dried plums and dried apples. Bramble jam and honeycomb. A waterskin of sweet cider.
“Is that butter?” Raffa picked up a small jar covered with muslin. “Where in the world did they get butter? And eggs?”
“People from the farmsteads keep coming by and bringing stuff,” Jimble said. “Some are going to fight alongside us. Even though they’re not Afters.”
“Did you tell them it was for five people?” Raffa said. “This looks like an awful lot of food.”
“I said it was for the pothers, and Missum Tevin—I know her from the slums—she said, ‘Fill it up. They’ll need strength to do their magic.’ And then people were saluting me and patting me on the back and all, like I was famous or something!”
Raffa’s stomach juddered. It wasn’t me, Da—honest! I swear I never said a word about magic!
His thoughts had gone straight to his father, who had always detested any hint that apothecary involved magic, or that pothers were magicians. Here in camp, the slum dwellers, like most other city folk, knew little or nothing of plants and botanicals; to them, the art of apothecary was a mystery wrapped in a riddle. Raffa realized that he should have been prepared for the question of magic to arise.
Mohan’s greatest vitriol was reserved for those who sought apothecary solutions for impossible wishes, which were known among pothers as yearnings. People who came to Mohan seeking a botanical combination for, say, effortless wealth or instant beauty were chased from the house with such fury that they never dared return.
But Raffa also knew that both his parents hoped one day to be able to devote time to another kind of yearning: the heartrending desire for cures for incurable illnesses. In that moment, he understood something he had never quite grasped before.
People with the deepest kinds of yearnings want to believe in magic because they’re afraid. Of sickness or dying . . . or losing their loved ones. The folks here are afraid that the Chancellor will win, and drive them out of Obsidia for good. And they think only magic can save them.
Raffa shook his head. Hard work, inspiration, cooperation—those things so often produced incredible results. Unexpected, amazing, and yes, magical results.
Why did so many people think that magic was better than magical?
Chapter Twenty
RAFFA
stood at the center of the semicircle of stumps. On the ground at his side was his rucksack, which contained, among other things, several knitted sacks filled with the antidote powder.
Before him sat the five members of the council. Standing behind the council were almost a hundred people, both Afters and settlers, who had been chosen to serve as squad leaders for the upcoming battle. Raffa had never spoken to so many people at the same time. He swallowed hard, wishing he had asked one of his friends to come with him. But Kuma and Callian were busy training the raccoons, while Jimble and Garith continued their work at the pother tent, filling more of the little sacks.
The squad leaders had checked in earlier, with a roll call.
“Kettle Squad.”
“Drainpipe Squad, ready.”
“Bucket Squad here.”
The squad leaders had decided amongst themselves that their squads would be named after ordinary household items. The idea was that the ninety-eight squad names put together would list everything needed for a family’s home. “Because,” one of them had explained to the council, “that’s what we’re fighting for.”
There was Window Squad and Door Squad; Wall Squad and Roof Squad; Hearth Squad and Stove Squad. The Attic and Basement Squad leaders were sister and brother. Every item of kitchenware you could think of was represented, as were tools, household linens, clothing. Raffa’s particular favorites were the Pincushion Squad, the Soap Squad, and the Woolen-Sock Squad.
The squad leaders knew how rare smiles were around the camp. As they had intended, it was hard to think of the squad names without an occasional smile.
Elson had told Raffa that everyone present knew the essential background about the animals: They were being dosed with a botanical combination that made them easy to train, and they had been trained to attack people. Raffa stood up as straight as he could.
“First, I want to tell you about the antidote,” he said. His voice wobbled in the middle of the sentence, but he forced himself to continue. “We’ve made it into a powder. We know it works when it’s fed to animals, but that takes too long to go through their systems.”
He already felt less nervous. I know this stuff, he thought.
“The fastest way for a botanical combination to take effect is if it’s inhaled,” he continued. “It’s pretty much instant—it gets into the bloodstream immediately.”
He bent down to reach into his rucksack. “The sacks that everyone has been knitting,” he said as he held up a pair in front of him, “have been filled with antidote powder. The idea is to get the animals to bite into a sack. It will sort of explode right in their faces, and they’ll inhale the powder. As soon as they do, they’ll return to their natural, undosed state, which means that they’ll be afraid of humans. All humans. They won’t listen to the guards anymore—they’ll just run off.”
He pointed to one of the sack’s “sausages.”
“We’ve tied them off in sections. That way, when one part gets bitten, the powder doesn’t all spill out. And there are two more sections, for two more animals.”
A man standing behind Quellin raised his hand. “I’m Brick Squad. This sounds clever and all. But how do we get the beasts to bite the sacks?”
Raffa took a breath to steady himself. This was the hard part. The council had already approved the idea, but only after a long and labored discussion. Raffa knew he had to do more than just present the plan to the squad leaders: He had to gain their support and enthusiasm.
“The animals they’re using are mostly foxes and stoats,” he said. “Some badgers, but not as many. The badgers stay low to the ground. They attack by trying to bite people’s ankles, tripping them up. The foxes and stoats have been trained to—to jump into the air and go for people’s throats.”
The squad leaders immediately began talking.
“That’s right—that’s what happened at the river crossing.”
“Jonno got bit on the shoulder. The beast was going for his throat, sure upon certain.”
“The stoats at the settlement—they jumped for the chickens on their roosts.”
Haddie twisted in her seat to face the audience behind her, her hand raised. She didn’t say a word, but everyone quieted. Then she turned back and nodded at Raffa.
Raffa took the two knitted sacks he was holding, looped them around his neck, and tied them.
“We wear them like this,” he said. “Like a collar. When the animals attack, we stand as still as we can, and expose our necks fully, so they’ll jump and bite right through the wool.”
He knew it was a lot to ask. But it was also their best chance at getting the animals to inhale the antidote.
The buzz began again, only this time it was more like a roar.
“You mean, I’m to let them jump and—and tear at me?”
“You can’t be serious!”
“Are you quake-brained? That’s impossible!”
Elson stood and shouted over the noise. “Ears!” he said, his voice not so much loud as deep and sonorous. When the talk subsided, he asked, “Raffa, can’t we just figure out a way to release the powder into the air, like—like snow?”
Raffa shook his head. “That’s not direct enough. Some of the animals might not inhale very much, and others might not get any at all.”
“How about hitting them on the noses with those sacks?” Quellin suggested.
“That would be better,” Raffa said, “but what if the sack doesn’t burst? This”—he pointed to his own neck—“is the surest way we could think of to make certain they get a good solid whiff of the antidote. It’s using their own strength against them.”
“Let them snap at our throats?” A woman clutched her neck. “I can’t go back to my squad and ask them to do that!”
Raffa spoke quickly. “Everyone should wear two,” he said, “one on top of the other. It would be hard for the animals to bite through both and get to—to someone’s skin. And we’ve got shorter ones to tie around our ankles and wrists.”
But hardly anyone heard him; they had all begun talking at once. Raffa could hear their alarm; his cheeks burned from the heat of their protests. Standing there in front of the group, he felt his heart beating faster and his breath becoming ragged.
If they won’t do this—if I can’t convince them—then the animals and the guards will drive us all the way to the Suddens. The Chancellor will win. And it will be my fault.
As the crowd’s unrest continued, his hopelessness grew. I don’t blame them. Hardly any of them know me. Why should they trust me? I’m just a kid talking about apothecary, which they don’t even understand—
A desperate idea took shape in his mind, and he spoke before he could think even a second longer.
“Hoy!” he called out. “Listen, I haven’t told you everything yet!”
Elson called again for quiet. Everyone complied, but Raffa could still sense their fear simmering below the silence.
“So, um, the powder?” he said. “It has special powers. Like I said, it will cure the animals, but it also—it does—I mean, it can—”
“Speak up!” shouted a man at the back. “Can’t hear you!”
Raffa’s desperate impulse seemed to have taken on a life of its own: He couldn’t stop now; he had to plunge on. He cleared his throat, almost choking on what he was about to say. “These collars,” he said, and pointed to them again, “they—they can protect whoever’s wearing them.”
“The collars?” The same voice, incredulous.
“No, no, sorry,” Raffa said hastily. “Not the collars—the powder. The powder inside them, it’s really—um, special. It’s made from a rare plant, one that no one’s ever seen before.” That part, at least, was true, and his voice gained strength. “It has powers that—that no one else knows about.” Also true, he told himself fiercely.
“Magic!” someone cried out.
The word rippled through the crowd.
Magic.
A magic plant.
It will protect us.
“You hear that?” the man at the back called out. “We’ll be protected—the beasts can’t hurt us!”
“What about weapons?” Another voice. “Does it protect against weapons, too?”
“Knives, I’ll wager—they’re like a beast’s teeth.”
Excitement spread throughout the group, and Raffa saw hope gleaming in people’s eyes.
Someone shouted, “Cheers to the young pother, then!”
“Raffa. His name’s Raffa!”
“Raffa—Raffa—Raffa—”
Now they were all chanting his name. Raffa stood in wide-eyed surprise, which the group seemed to take as modesty. They cheered even louder.
“RAFFA! RAFFA! RAFFA!”
He bowed over his clasped hands in a gesture of appreciation. Inside, he was still stunned—and jittery with excitement as well.
This was exactly what we needed.
The display of hope and enthusiasm he saw before him could carry them all the way to victory!
Chapter Twenty-One
RAFFA left the meeting with his cheeks flushed, feeling almost giddy. The gloom over the whole camp had lifted. For the first time, people seemed excited rather than afraid.
“Going down to the stream, Raffa?”
“Blowpipe practice—come watch us.”
They were strangers, squad leaders he didn’t know, but now they all felt like they knew him.
“I can’t stay long,” he said, “but I’d love to take a quick look.”
Down by the stream, squad leaders shouted instructions.
“Floorboards! Look lively now!”
“Keep it up, Trowel Squad!”
“Faster, Pillows, faster!”
Every squad had twelve members. Five squads at a time lined up streamside, in ranks of four. Each rank blew thorns—ordinary ones, from hawberry trees—into the stream repeatedly, until their pipes were empty. Then they split into pairs, peeling off right and left to allow the next quartet to step forward. While awaiting their turns, they reloaded their pipes.
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