Regeneration

by Stacey Berg

  Jozef tapped his thumbs together. The councilors’ eyes clung to him. Echo had seen that kind of dread in a sick person’s eyes, when he waited to hear his fate. Then the Patri said, “It is true, Kennit. But there is no cause for alarm. She is a single woman, from a small outpost far away. We knew such a thing was possible.” It was as if he said, it might rain, or, the crop could be better than expected.

  The man licked his lips. “A stranger? What is it as she’s wanting with us?”

  “It is the other way around. We. . . invited. . . her here, so that we can learn more about this other place, and whether it might offer anything of use to the city. It is only conversation, of so little consequence that I did not think it necessary to inform you before our scheduled day.” He let the mild rebuke hang in the air.

  “A stranger,” Tralene said, amazement in her voice. “I know we always hoped—but to happen now—may we see her, Patri? Talk with her?”

  “There will be time for that later. She only just arrived, as perhaps you also heard. Be patient, please.”

  Teller’s fingers drummed the three-beat rhythm again, then stilled. “Won’t be so easy. People hear, they’re going to want to know as all it means.”

  “I’m only asking you to wait until we’ve finished our assessment. If anything important comes of it, I will share it with you immediately.”

  “North will do that, then,” Tren said with a ponderous nod.

  “Can wait forever, as I see,” Kennit added. “The Church has always been help enough, North knows that, if not some.” He cast an oblique glance at the Wardmen. Teller glowered, but Tralene laid a hand on his scarred arm, and he subsided. The Benders only stared, first at each other, then at the Patri, seeming unable to speak at all.

  It was a worrisome division, Echo thought: which cityens would treat the arrival of a stranger as of no practical difference in their lives, and which would see a pivot on which their whole future might change. Waiting gave them too much time to think about it.

  “We’re in agreement, then,” Jozef said. He considered a moment, then said, “I have a more immediate problem to discuss with you, and perhaps it is best that this also not wait for our scheduled day. A man was found dead last night, killed by a projectile weapon. That’s the third one since the truce. The hunters will get to the bottom of it, of course, but if any of you has useful information, I would welcome it.”

  The dry tone suggested nothing beyond the facts, but it didn’t have to. Weapons, and hunters searching the city for them—if the Patri meant to distract the councilors from Khyn, he had made a good choice. After a moment, one of the Benders found his voice. “Man’s name was Wold. Kind who got in a little bit of trouble now and then, but not so you’d think he’d be killed for it.” Gem had said the man was killed by his own malfunctioning weapon. Interesting that the cityens didn’t seem to know that.

  Kennit smoothed his sleeves. “Seems as trouble always finds those as make it, Silton.”

  “Seems as those who can buy their way away from trouble don’t know that they’re talking about,” Teller said before the Bender could answer. “Of course if North didn’t try to keep more than your share—”

  “Like you’ve kept from the grain stores? You Wardmen think as we don’t know about that? Harvest came in, the claves’ portions are all put up separate like we agreed, sure enough. Problem is, the portions aren’t divided as it seems they should be. Seems as some wanted more than what they’re owed.”

  “The amounts were agreed to in advance,” the Patri said. “And what does all this have to do with the dead man?”

  “Respectfully, Patri, point is it’s not the agreement as caused the trouble,” Kennit said. “More the keeping to it. Could be the same with the weapons. Maybe some still haven’t learned all that lesson as they should.” His heavy-lidded gaze at the Warders left no doubt who he meant.

  “We gave up our weapons in the truce,” Tralene said with a shudder. “And glad to see them go.”

  Silton, the Bender, glared at her. “Who killed Wold then? Somebody’s still got them. Could be as just some troublemakers in the fringes, but Wardmen didn’t think weapons were so horrible when you were using them against the other claves before.”

  “We always did! It was only a few had them, and most of them gone now”—Tralene’s breath caught for a moment before she continued—“and those that aren’t are sorrier than you can know.” She didn’t look at Teller; he didn’t look sorry.

  Tren studied the backs of his callused hands. They were crisscrossed with shiny burn scars. “Going to be searching the smithies I’d say. Be honored if you’d as start with mine, Patri.”

  “Was me, I’d look in every habitation in the Ward,” Kennit muttered.

  “And free to do it,” Tralene said sharply. “As for the grain, if someone shows we’ve stored more than our share, we’ll give it back. I’m only asking don’t make the children go hungry in the winter.”

  There was a little silence. Echo waited for the Patri to break it with an order, but instead he let it go on. Then the shopkeeper from the Bend said, “Could be a mistake with the portions. Seen that sort of thing happen in the shop with someone counting chits. Maybe just recounting would settle things. Have a hunter help us watch.” Heads nodded all around the table. Even Kennit made no objection, though his look was as sour as Teller’s.

  Silence fell again. Something still bothered them, and none wanted to be the first to say.

  “If there is nothing else?” the Patri said.

  “Fine,” Teller snapped. “If the rest of you won’t, I’ll ask: what about the Saint, then?”

  Echo felt her pulse skip. “The Saint?” Jozef’s voice thinned across the word.

  Teller said, “Ward might not have all the fancy shops as in North or fabricators like the Bend, but we still got our power lines and our mill. Three times yesterday the lights went out. Came right back on, but that’s a thing shouldn’t happen. Makes people worried. They seen too much of that when the old Saint was sick.”

  Jozef waved a dismissive hand. “The Saint is strong. There is power to spare, so much that we have to divert the flow to storage now and then. That’s what happened yesterday. You needn’t concern yourselves about the Saint.”

  Tralene’s lips moved silently, forming a name. “She’s well, then, Patri?”

  Jozef frowned. “The systems are functioning fully. Now, cityens, if there is really nothing else?” The councilors, dismissed, filed out of the room, but Echo stopped Tralene with a hand on her arm.

  “Your child. How is he?”

  “You’re the one who was Lia’s friend, aren’t you? I never would have thought . . .” Tralene’s voice trailed off. Then she smiled softly. “He’s a sturdy boy, like his da. Thanks to Lia. If she hadn’t taken care of me, when I was so sick carrying him . . . But now she’s taking care of all of us, isn’t she. I hope she knows how we’re grateful.”

  “Come on, Tralene,” Teller said with a scowl.

  Nyree led the councilors away, and Gem went in the middle of the group. Echo waited in the hall to bring up the rear, all proper procedure. But Kennit hung back, delaying to speak to the Patri alone. He kept his voice too low for a cityen to hear, but Echo’s sharp ears had no difficulty picking up the words. “About the stranger. Patri, we know as your decisions are always for the best. But it seems as that this is not the time to welcome such a one. With all the things as going on already, last we need is new to stir up trouble.”

  “I told you, Kennit, there’s no reason to be alarmed. The hunters have increased their patrols just in case. The city is safe.”

  “Respectfully, Patri, remember as what happened before. Hunters almost weren’t enough. Something happens again, you’d be needing cityen help. North will serve, you know we will. Only it’s just, with Wardmen so erratic, it’s as may be they explode any time. The stranger might just be the thing as sets them off. Or the Saint. They claim she was a woman from the Ward, I hear some say, not
a proper Saint as the Church makes and that’s as why the lights go out.”

  A surge of anger burned through Echo. Not a proper Saint, when Lia had sacrificed everything—

  But the Patri replied with no more than a hint of irritation. “The cityens needn’t worry so much about the Saint, Kennit. The Church preserves the city, that’s what’s important. Do you understand me? Good. Make sure the rest of your clave does too.”

  “Yes, Patri.” It might be relief in Kennit’s voice. “North’s as grateful for your strong hand. Church as it’s always been.”

  Echo blocked the Norther’s path as he exited the room. “It is blasphemy to question the Saint.”

  Kennit managed to meet her eyes. “I heard as the Patri said, esteemed hunter.” He brushed past her without waiting for her reply.

  “Echo,” the Patri called from within. The old Patri would have known she had overheard his conversation. Did Jozef?

  “How may I serve?”

  “You lived among the cityens. What did you think?”

  She started where the ground was surest. “Obviously the claves still harbor resentments against each other. That could be beneficial, if it discourages them from unifying in any potential . . . disagreement . . . with the Church.”

  “Another rebellion, you mean. I don’t see how fighting among the claves would be much better. Do you think the councilors were telling all they knew?”

  “On the grain count I believe they all thought they spoke truly, though they could not all be correct. But about the weapons . . . I am not certain.”

  Jozef’s fingers steepled, and he rested his chin on them, his eyes narrowing like a priest contemplating a print whose meaning was unclear. “I find it difficult to be certain of anything with them. If I give them some leeway to manage their own affairs, it may help prevent further outbursts. Or so the prints I am studying suggest. I do not pretend to understand the way cityens think.” Jozef laughed without mirth. “Vanyi did me no favors when he dragged me out of the laboratory. The magnifiers make it possible to see clearly. One simply gathers evidence and then arrives at a conclusion. What else did you observe?”

  Here the footing was less certain. She remembered again Vanyi’s secrecy about the dying Saint. Perhaps this Patri too feared the rumor of weakness as much as the weakness itself. “About the Saint—they were frightened, even Teller. Your words reassured them.”

  “They were true. She is the strongest Saint in a hundred annuals.” Jozef laughed again, short and bitter. “Vanyi expected that to be the solution to every problem. He was wrong about many things.”

  An unreasoning anger mixed with the dread his words brought. “Forgive me, Patri, but the priests seem barely able to control the surges.”

  “It is a matter of adjusting the inputs. They will find a way.”

  “Has Khyn’s information been useful, then?”

  Jozef’s eyes narrowed. “That is a matter for the priests. You heard what I told Kennit.” He had known, then. It was a lesson to keep in mind. “There’s no need for so much concern about the Saint.”

  “But Patri, surely, nothing is more important—”

  He stopped her with a sharp gesture. “My ways may appear different from Vanyi’s, but I am the Patri now, as much as he ever was. I require the same obedience you gave to him. Remember that, Echo Hunter 367.”

  The old Patri’s voice would have thundered across the yard. Jozef’s was thin as the edge of one of his instruments, that would cut and be gone before you felt the pain. “My service to the Church in all things,” Echo said, chilled.

  The pale eyes rested on her. “As it must be.”

  Chapter 14

  Echo could not follow Dalto and Khyn’s discussion of the sanctuary systems. She lacked the technical expertise, of course, but more than that, she struggled to pay attention. The altar tugged all the time at her, insistent as a voice she could not quite hear trying to tell her something of surpassing importance. She only wanted to sit and listen. Yet the silence, the emptiness inside as she gazed at the Saint, was unbearable. “Lia,” she whispered to the shadows, but then the quiet was pierced by another alarm, and a flurry of action from the priests as they brought it under control again. She swallowed her questions. Dalto said the surges could not originate from within.

  Khyn was not faring much better. The weight of exile pressed on her, and everything from the food to the wind seemed to remind her of how far she was from any familiar place. The cityens in the refectory stared and pointed, and though many seemed only curious, not all the looks were friendly. Echo did her best to keep Khyn apart from them, fearing that any sign of hostility would make Khyn think twice about disclosing the Preserve’s capabilities. During one lull in the sanctuary work, Echo brought her to the small grove behind the priests’ domicile, where hunters rarely wandered. It was deserted at midday, too hot for the priests to find comfortable, though for a hunter even this sparse shade was pleasant. The trees had been watered this morning; the smell of moisture baking slowly from the earth contrasted with the flinty sharpness everywhere else in the compound. Someone had missed a late pomme, a surprising oversight; it hung withered from a branch, the sweetness gone sickly with rot.

  Khyn wiped sweat from her face. “I understand what they’re asking, but your systems are so different I can barely explain . . .” She broke off, brows drawing together. They did that more often than not, and lines of tension narrowed her eyes in a constant, worried squint. “You said they would be able to help with the Preserver line. Why won’t they tell me anything?”

  Because they have no need. Echo felt a guilty relief that Khyn did not have a better grasp of tactics. Far better that the priests first obtain all the information she could provide. If they were still reticent after that, Echo would do what she could to persuade them; she owed Khyn that, at least. But if what Khyn knew was inadequate to help them deal with the surges . . . Echo began to regret the thoroughness with which she had covered their trail from the Preserve. “You must tell them everything you can.”

  Khyn laughed shortly. “Or what? They’ll set Nyree on me?” Then, when Echo didn’t answer, her face paled. “I’m trying. You know I am, don’t you?”

  Khyn wept again that night, hard sobs that shook the bed stand, until Echo finally did as she must and wrapped her arms around her. If Khyn felt the tension in the shoulder she buried her face against, she gave no sign, and finally, breath still faintly stuttering, she fell into a deep sleep. Echo slept too, and dreamed of being pushed over the edge of a cliff, and as her body flailed against air she looked back and saw that it was herself who had done the pushing.

  Echo stared at the mast burning atop the spire. You go there from weakness, she chastised herself; it is time to serve as a hunter again. Swallowing her resentment, she sought Nyree, who merely said, “I will assign you if I think of something suitable.”

  Yet there was no shortage of work that needed doing; the hunters were stretched thin. Most of them, those who were not occupied teaching the juveniles or guarding the Church compound, were out patrolling the city. They went in twos or threes, more for the cityens’ safety than their own: a misguided cityen might fantasize himself the match of a single hunter, and if he were armed, or unlucky, the hunter might have to injure him, or worse, to protect herself. But a group of hunters together was too formidable to be challenged.

  Unless the cityens doing it meant to start a war.

  She heard Kennit’s warning again: the city might explode at any time. In the rebellion, the old Saint had suffered the most: consumed by the attempt to protect the city from itself, devoured by the violence . . . And now the new Saint on the altar, but the same fate waiting.

  A haze filled the air. For an instant Echo’s pulse sped as if battle had come to the Church again, but it was only dust, kicked up by another gust of wind. She blinked, and her eyes cleared, revealing a group of small hunters marching across the yard, Indine in their wake. It appeared to be a formation drill, simple
enough, but one of the girls was struggling mightily, too fast on the turn and not close enough to the others. As Echo approached, Indine called the group to a halt.

  Fury stomped impatiently in place. Then, seeing Echo, she cut out of her line, throwing herself gleefully at her. “Caught th’ hunter,” she said, a game the smallest juveniles practiced. Fury was too old for it.

  “Get back to your batch,” Echo ordered, conscious of the juveniles and other hunters watching. Scowling, the girl returned to her place, where she stood, arms crossed and hips askew. Disheveled, a pointed stick thrust through her belt, she looked more like the cityens from the fringes than a hunter. Indine sighed. “You are a bad influence, Echo Hunter 367.”

  “She’ll learn. Where are you taking them?”

  “North clave. Gem is overseeing the recounting of the grain allocation; we will join her in the inspection.”

  “I shall accompany you.”

  Indine raised an eyebrow. “Have you no other duty?”

  “I am free at this time,” Echo answered stiffly.

  By the time they got to the granary, Echo was reconsidering her decision. Fury had scuffled twice with the 384s around her. She was probably an annual or so older than they, no way to know, but they were hunters, already stronger and quicker despite their size disadvantage; and blood now dripped steadily from her nose although she defiantly refused to wipe it off, or cry. The 384 whose fist had caused that was still rubbing a swelling knuckle. “That is why,” Echo advised as she fished cloth from a pack, “it is better to use your elbow when striking a hard part of the body such as the head. Wrap your hand with this. Fury, clean your face. You will distress the cityens.”

  The granary occupied the front part of a building that had been old even before the Fall, though not so ancient as those farther south in the Ward. Built of hewn stone, it took up most of a block. The front wall, perhaps four stories high, had been graced with huge arched windows, long since bricked in; more recently, irregular openings had been cut in the brick and covered with haphazard bits of glass to let in some light. The floor inside was another kind of stone, off-white and still polished smooth after all these annuals. Fluted columns supported the ceiling, and arched openings echoing the windows led to other rooms, almost as large; some of those were still full of debris. A tumble of what looked like huge stone bones spilled through one archway. A ribcage large enough to hold three hunters captive lay upside down, the shape bound together by metal straps; next to it, a chain of vertebrae strung on wire extended in a long tail past the pelvis they were attached to. Discarded nearby, a triangular head the size of a grown man’s torso had been reassembled from pieces each no bigger than Echo’s palm. She ran a finger over the glued joints, wondering what odd impulse had moved cityens before the Fall to spend so much effort to so little purpose.