The Mill

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Supposed to be?” Denda looked up.

  “Well, I don’t know, do I?” Frink grumbled. “I wasn’t there watching.”

  “I should hope not,” Denda said, scowling at him. “No woman would want a man watching her while she gives birth. What a nauseating idea. But Laximan is ours now, my dear. And you’re the daddy. Milldy still works in the nursery.”

  “Humph,” said the king, and returned to hugging the baby, singing to him under his breath, and kissing his small fat cheeks.

  “He knows,” Denda told her own nurse later when she returned to her bedchamber. “But the stupid man suspects Thribb. No – you never met him, I brought him back with me from the hospital just as a favour. He went off with Kallivan. He was old and ugly with just one eye and the most horrible scars. As if I’d ever go to bed with such a man. But clearly the damned king knows that Laxman’s mine, and not Milldy’s. I can only hope he doesn’t grow up looking my image.”

  “So who is the father?”

  “Ah, now that really is a secret,” smiled the queen. “Even from you, my dear.”

  Pod wore black, as he preferred. But this was cool black, with a coat of silk and leather britches, perfect for mounting a camel. Showing him as her camel ambled the sands, Freya wore deep blue silk trimmed in cream lace. She sat comfortably as the camel’s gait swung easily, and she barely needed to touch the reins. “We look like lords in all this silk and expensive fashion,” she said. “Yet we’re riding camels like the desert folk, or the tribal peasants.”

  “Or slave traders.”

  “Oh, don’t,” Freya said. “Certainly none of them were dressed like us. Actually, they all looked as if they were wearing rags. Maybe it’s the sun.”

  Pod shrugged. “We must be nearing the quarry, my love. Keep a look out.”

  They followed the river north, the advice given, since many folk in this busiest bustling town in the south knew where the quarry was. Some worked there, others had worked there before retiring. Those who knew nothing of the place still knew of its existence. But everyone denied the slave trade.

  “Rubbish,” one man said. “Madam, you are deluded. I once worked at the quarry, admittedly not digging, simply in the offices where men received their wages. None were slaves. The company is entirely respectable. And since I’ve heard nothing of it during my fifty years living in the south, I cannot believe it thrives nearby. Impossible, madam. Illegal. Criminal. Disgusting. We in the south are decent law-abiding folk.”

  “And how to get there?”

  “Follow the Corn, mistress. As far as the market village. Just a cosy little place it is, and they call it Baish. You get there, turn right, and cross a day or two of desert. It’s a huge quarry. You can’t miss it.”

  “So, were we wrong about the slaves?”

  Pod was scrubbing down his camel, dust and scraps of furry skin in his eyes. “They tried to kill me. They wanted to sell you. That’s a slave trader.”

  “From Shamm perhaps?”

  “Could be.” Pod dropped the brush back into the bucket of river water. “We have to stop thinking about it, my love. When we get to the city, then we’ll talk to the Law-Maker or someone.”

  She was sitting on the sand, golden sprinkles on her silk and caught in her lace. “Alright. I won’t mention slaves again until we get to the city – unless someone else does first. So we aim for the quarry. If we stay tomorrow night in Baish, then cross the sands like we were told, it’ll be our last days in the south.”

  “Are you sorry?” Pod looked down, smiling at her.

  “Yes and no. I’ve been lonely and I want my friends. I’ve been hungry some days and burning hot all the time. The poppy – well, getting over that was horrible. But I won’t think about it and I’m so proud that it’s done.”

  “So that’s the ‘no’.”

  “It’s been wonderful just being with you. The ocean was amazing. I fell in love with you, and I fell in love with the great huge sky and all that incredible heaving, rushing water.”

  He liked her answer, smiled, and kissed her fingers. “Time to get off to Baize and find the best tavern in the village.”

  Days hung in the air like sunbeams, each the same, each as scalding hot, each as golden, each as repetitious as the drifting sands. There had been neither storm nor blistering winds, only the little breezes that floated just above the dunes’ surface, scattering the grains, as though tiny feet scurried, reminding Freya of the ocean’s ripples when the tide was out.

  The villagers of Baize knew nothing of slavery.

  “Maybe like me Mum,” one man said. “She sure don’t pay me, but she tells me wot to do every bloody morning, and sees that tis done an’all.”

  “Say hello to your mother for me.” Pod laughed.

  But they knew where the quarry lay. “Enormous,” one woman told them. “Big as our village, I reckon. The top workers have their huts and the diggers, they all sleep together. Calls it a dormitory, does my Milt. Well paid for nasty work I ‘spose. My Milt gets a hut. And we gets coal to sell fer the winter. But tis like life’s dirty tricks, ain’t it – fer tis as hot here in winter as summer and we don’t need no coal ‘cept fer cooking. I gives half o’ mine to me friends.”

  “See where the sun sets? Go that way. And don’t stop till you falls into a bloody big hole.”

  The sun set many times before they meandered the dunes, for the camels travelled as slowly as a man on foot, and across the desert there were no straight lines, no roads, and no other wanderers. They followed the dip of the sun and the rise of the smaller moon but neither Freya nor Pod wanted speed, nor had great need for it. Living for many months in the blinding evermore had been its own effect. Nothing had changed – except the threat of a storm. Nothing had spoiled the tidal waves, the white ripples, the crash of a breaching whale out on the horizon, or the arching sun, too brilliant to gaze into, so glorious to bask in, fresh and hot and golden. And then the cool of night had arrived, slipping in to breathe between each simmering day.

  They had adored moons, stars, the whistle of a scorching wind, the sand eddies of the murmuring breezes, and the high shadows of the birds flying over. Where there had once been boredom, now there was the contentment of sweet acceptance. Neither rush nor urgency interrupted the rhythms. Neither fear nor doubt spoiled the sleepy drift of a leisurely life. Serenity brought its own serenity. Pod played the lute, still teaching Freya, who could now accompany him. Or he played the guitar and sang, his voice spinning out into the echoing almighty spaces.

  And then it changed. Like the threat of the storms, like the greater threat of the slave traders, so the quarry opened its gape and reminded them of the real world beyond the sands.

  Camping on the verge of the huge chasm where for over a hundred years the land had been shovelled out and down, they sat without fire, eating bread, old pies and cheese while watching the miners trail back to their sleeping huts, streaming out just a little pissed from the feeding shed, ready for sleep before the same again tomorrow. There seemed to be no women, but the men varied in age from young and small to aged and bent. They were plodding, scuffling, and staggering a little.

  Pod and Freya woke at dawn and looked out on the straight silver line of the horizon. Like the edge of a knife blade it cut the blackness both above and below. The cut widened, and suddenly the light shimmered and then dazzled. At the base of the quarry there was the first movement, and along the lip of the quarry’s edge, a hundred blue vultures squatted, waiting for the warm wind’s currents to invite them into the open azure and the first hunt of the new day.

  Within moments all the birds rose and spread their great blue feathers, wings wide, necks long, blueish fuzz and eyes fixed below as they swept out on the thermals, riding the morning’s warmth.

  For some time Freya watched, wishing she could fly. She imagined stretching her wings and wheeling on air strong enough to carry her from warmth to heat. She turned to Pod, about to speak of it, when she saw his frown. He was starin
g across the quarry’s bustle and scatter down in the early shadows, looking at the one side where tunnels and doorways had been opening within the sandy walls, and at the larger hut above, where just a few men had begun to climb down, yawning, and meeting to discuss.

  Pod said, “That’s a different business. Or perhaps the managers. Those going in, and those going out too – they look more like managers, I suppose. Dressed like lords or something.”

  But turning, Freya had noticed something entirely different, and understanding more than she might have expected, she whispered, “It’s too far away so I can’t be sure. But I think – I really think – that tall man is Kallivan.”

  “At the quarry?” Pod demanded. “A man like that can’t be working in a quarry.”

  “Well he isn’t,” Freya said, still whispering. “It’s separate, just like your manager’s place. But this is – maybe – trying to be secret.”

  The dunes, constantly clipped and spilled by the low winds, lay in endless hills, dips and valleys. In a shallow valley near where they had camped themselves, was a cabin of sorts, and from it three men, keeping their heads below the outline of the rolling hill, had crept, and now lay against the short rise, peeping over the top as though to see but without being seen.

  “They can see us if they turn,” Pod said between his teeth.

  “And yes, it’s Kallivan.” Then Freya shrank back. “Not just that vile monster, but another one as bad. It’s Bembitt.”

  Pod knew no Bembitt but had heard of Kallivan. “And they’re spying,” he said, staring out over the plain. “There’s a third – who’s he?”

  “It’s Thribb, Kallivan’s real father,” Freya said, still keeping her voice beneath her breath. “The three men I hate the most. Indeed, I loathe four men, but these three are probably the worst.” She frowned at Pod. “I want to kill them all. But I know I can’t. And if I can’t kill them, then I have to run. They – tortured me before. All of them. Now I have to get away.”

  Pod understood. “The two from the Mill, and the one who burned your shop and killed Feep?” Freya nodded, feeling sick and moving back. But Pod moved aside, whispering, “Wait here just one moment. They’re spying, I can see they are. So I’m going to try to see if I can hear something.”

  She wanted to stop him, but Pod was not a man easily distracted. “I’ll be just a moment. And I won’t risk your safety, not for one moment, and not for any information I might hear.” He slipped away immediately and crawled like a lizard until his own flat shadow edged to another small dip in the dune close to Kallivan’s back. Freya sat with the camels, caressing and talking very softly to them, ensuring they did not stand or roar, doing nothing to draw attention.

  She felt a year had passed before Pod returned, then he put one finger to his lips, and they began very quietly to lead the camels out into the wilderness where no men, no huts nor cabins, and no quarry could be seen.

  Finally, as they mounted, Pod said, “An interesting experience, and interesting men, these three monsters of Eden. I’ve overheard far more than I’d guessed I would. Get comfortable, my love, and I’ll tell you what seems to be happening.”

  Slumping forwards, Freya jerked the lead, the camel fastened its pace, and Pod followed. Once south west of the expanse, she looked up. “Tell me,” she said. “They’ll be planning murder or something equally disgusting.”

  “There might be murder involved.” Pod pulled his hat further over his eyes as the sun rose a little higher, its brilliance on the back of their necks. “But they’ve heard something and guessed more. The believe someone name of Logon, whom they know but not as a friend, has been called in to the quarry to enlarge its scope. They are now, it seems, about to begin something entirely new, and more exciting, more profitable, unexpected and possibly dangerous. None of these monsters of yours knew exactly what they were missing, but they know it is important, and they’ve no wish to be excluded.”

  “They’ve been mining coal there for years and years. Fifty – a hundred. It was a hundred and eight years ago when they started digging it out.”

  “For coal, yes.” Pod grinned. “But there’s something more recent and more interesting. Certainly more profitable. “They suspect the managers have discovered gold, or possibly diamonds. If so, the king should be informed. It would be taxed, and half to the crown since all the land is his. Your friend Kallivan thinks there are two or three ways to gain. To blackmail these men and threaten to inform the king unless they get a share themselves – or to tell the king himself in exchange for a share. There’s another way of course, kill those who have discovered the gold or whatever it may be, and take over the entire business.”

  “A hundred men or more work in that mine.”

  “No – this is separate. I saw the huts where I saw men well dressed and business-like. Managers, I thought. But evidently no, they’re those who intend mining something quite different and significantly more precious.”

  It was later when Freya muttered, “I’m a coward. I’m just running away again. That’s what I always do, run away from here, run away from there. Oh, Pod, my love, am I just a useless coward?”

  “It’s not a coward’s game, my beloved, to leave a place of misery and try to go somewhere happier. If you hate a man, you leave him. If you hate three men and know they like to steal and kill, you’d be a fool to run into their arms. Going from the bad to discover the better, that’s intelligence.”

  “But I don’t know where I’m going to. I just know I want to get away.”

  “Should you stay where there’s danger?”

  “I don’t know,” Freya leaned once more against her camel’s neck. The sun beat down and the golden glare faded as she closed her eyes. Within a breath, she dozed, sleeping as the camel’s gait rolled her into sweeter dreams. Pod kept his fingers on her camel’s lead as he stayed awake, pondering the plots and suspicions he had overheard.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  As Freya and Pod rode south west away from the mines, so Jak, Chia, and their two guards also rode away west, but heading north back towards the river, the city, and the land they knew. Gradually the weather’s constant heat waned and over the days it began to drizzle, just a silver haze over the scrubby bushes spouting from the pebbled sand, and onto the muddy paths, then finally the long-wet road north to the city of Eden. They talked little, both deep in the thoughts of what they had seen and what they believed. Chia already missed her laughing husband, but Jak, solitary more often than in company now, was considering a future without wife or children, and wondered whether, as a flying adventurer, this might be a sensible choice. Until the invention was secure, a pilot might crash and die early in his career. Or, arranging a marriage within his class, and rearing children expected to help lead Eden into a more prestigious future where the slums of the poor and the dungeons of the prisons would be eradicated, unneeded and therefore replaced with gardens and comfort.

  “Idealistic naivete”, Jak laughed, and Chia looked over the horse’s neck to where he rode a little in front. She called, “Telling yourself the jokes of the past, Jak?”

  He looked back over his shoulder. “Simply reminding myself of my own genius.”

  Chia also laughed, the sun now in her eyes as it slid towards the west, making her squint. On horseback it was a shorter passage back to the north, and they did not see Pod or Freya who ambled the sands on camel back, although heading in almost exactly the same direction.

  “It seems,’ decided Number Eight, perching on the chapel bench, “that Number Nine is still away. Although you are back, and naturally welcome. However, I hear that you, Number Ten, and your friend Number Nine, have been travelling together in the south.”

  “My own identity is well known to you, doctor. Number Nine’s identity is clearly also known to you, doctor. And since your own identity, Doctor Errin, is certainly known to me, must we communicate by numbers still?”

  Looking somewhat discomforted, Doctor Errin tapped his fingers on his tumbleweed
clad knee. “Most improper, sir. We prefer anonymity here.”

  Jak shook his head. “Anyone preferring anonymity,” he yawned, “is apt to be hiding something, and it makes others suspicious. If Frink’s new council ever begins, I understand he has insisted that we all be recognisable.”

  Doctor Errin did not mention that he had not yet been invited to sit on such a council. He cleared his throat before speaking. “Council business can be suspicious, young man, and therefore anonymity can be useful,” he said. “We have spoken of killing this king, and the last. The last died, though personally I suspect a different assassin’s face, and one without a number.”

  Uninterested, Jak nodded. “The King Ram? The wretched man was considered benign enough. Who wanted his death?”

  “He caught the pestilence. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, died of the plague at that time, throughout the court, the city, and around the local villages. The Bog Dock was almost wiped out. They threw many of the dead into the canyon because burning so many could have set the city alight.”

  “It’s a vile disease. I caught it myself when younger.”

  “You were cured?” Errin stared. “There’s few can survive.”

  Jak shrugged. “I had unusual help. Special help, and they call it rare enough. I know I was lucky, though the luck’s escaped me since. Perhaps the gods feel that luck once in life is sufficient.”

  “The king survived the disease,” Errin said. “At least, that’s what I was told. Some silly girl came straight from the laundries to the royal bedchamber. I was – away at the time – helping others, so I cannot be sure, but I would say she killed her king. He was smothered, and it wasn’t the Pestilence that took him.”

  Another of the Council side beside them, taking the place beyond Errin since Logon was absent, still in the south. Quite suddenly he threw off the hood of his cloak.

  “I doubt you know me, young man,” he stretched out his hand, and clasped Jak’s, ignoring Errin between them. “I’m Axtoor, no lord and no smug churchman. But after the king, who steals everything he can lay claim to, I’m the richest man in Eden, and have no need to hide my face. I knew Ram. A man of sympathy and kindness. He had tastes I didn’t share, but I still called him friend and he was a better king than most. There was no cause for secret assassination – but someone did it anyway.”