by Stacey Berg
“All of you,” Echo ordered, “sit down where you are. Now.”
Cityens had killed hunters in the rebellion. Only a few, and the price had been great; but now they knew it was possible. A man raised his chin a little, sniffing the air like a predator deciding if its larger prey were weak enough yet to take down. She focused a hard stare squarely at him, raising the trodes for good measure. Self-preservation prevailed; he folded to the ground, hands in the air.
No one else objected to her order. She slipped the projtrodes back in her belt. The market-goers would sense the trouble abating, return to their business, panic averted. But it had been far closer than Echo liked. The vendor from North still lay where he had fallen by his cart. One of his friends knelt next to him, white-faced. “He’s dead!”
“Dead?” Echo reached down, feeling his neck for a pulse, found none. She stepped back, dismayed.
“You killed him!”
A shocked silence spread over the circle of sitting men. It was one thing for them to fight each other. But for a hunter to intervene, and a cityen end up dead, when it was the hunters who were supposed to save them from themselves—
The high, flat crack echoed across the square. The cityens whirled, wild-eyed. They knew that sound as well as she did. “Get down,” she snapped at them, and raced in the direction the noise had come from, ignoring the stab of pain from her ankle. Folly to run at danger, but there was no choice. She couldn’t let whoever had fired that weapon get away. Her whole body tensed, bracing itself against the invisible blow that could fall any second. Then she heard a different noise: footfalls up ahead, quick and light. Moving towards her. She froze, hugged tight against a wall. Closer. She eased the projtrodes from her belt. Closer. Around the corner and—
She jerked her hand aside just in time to send the trodes into the ground instead of the girl. “Fury! What in the Saint’s name are you doing here?”
“Caught th’ hunter!” The girl put on a triumphant grin, but her wide eyes followed the trodes as Echo rewound them. “Supposed t’ be with Deann, but heard a noise. That weapon, like before.” Fury had been in the city alone at the start of the rebellion. Alone because Echo, to her shame, had used her as a decoy while she escaped with Lia. “Knew was you running. Wanted to warn.”
“Do you know where the noise came from?”
“Th’ mill. Show you.”
“No!” Echo caught the girl back roughly. “Get Deann. Tell her”—a juvenile might be useful as a distraction, two juveniles could certainly aid in a fight, but against projectile weapons—“tell her to bring reinforcements.”
Echo knew the mill Fury meant. Each clave had small towers repurposed from grander structures that no longer functioned in the curtailed world, polymer vanes using wind to drive the gears. The Ward’s was just ahead. Exey had designed its new mechanism, and its fine-ground flour made the best bread in the city. Echo had shared that bread at many a meal with Lia.
Why someone would fire a weapon there . . .
A minute later Echo sheltered behind an empty cart outside the mill. Most days at this time the place would be bustling with activity. Today, with everyone at market, it appeared to be deserted. The windwheel on its tower still hummed, wings ablur, and the long jackscrew turned, but inside the squat building, all was silent. White-powdered bootprints tracked out from the single door, mingling with the dust. Echo crept forward noiselessly, making herself as small a target as she could.
The door stood ajar. She paused, a hand on the latch, listening, but still heard nothing. With a single motion she flung the door open and threw herself in a roll across the floor. The roll ended in a leap upright, her knees bent in a fighting crouch, trodes in hand.
Nothing happened. The silence was broken only by steady whir of the turning screw; she heard nothing else. No one so much as breathing. The mill’s gearing had been disengaged, the great stones motionless. Empty grain sacks lay piled on a table, their former contents no doubt among the goods being sold at market today. White dust, disturbed by her skidding roll, hung in the air. Straightening, Echo blinked flour from her eyelashes. It dropped in tiny flakes, disappearing into the slowly spreading stain on the floor.
She hadn’t heard the man breathing because he was not. His blood mixed with the flour in a sticky pink paste, stirred into little mounds were his dying hand had scrabbled in it. The weapon lay nearby.
She squatted to examine the man more closely. There was a small hole in one side of his belly, and a much bigger one higher up on the other flank. The air smelled of offal. She chose not to search through the mess for what might be left of the projectile. Something glinted in the gore, a chit, perhaps, the last trade the dead man would ever make. But no, it was bigger, more delicate. A flat-beaten clasp of golden filigree. She pocketed it, then rose to survey the room again. Her initial impression had been inaccurate. Not all the grain sacks were empty. The one on the table was still half full.
But not of grain.
She heard steps outside now, familiar ones. She tried ineffectively to brush the soft dust from her hands, leaving white streaks down the front of her trousers. A shadow appeared in the door.
Nyree’s sharp gaze moved from Echo to the dead man to the weapons on the table. “Caught the hunter,” she said.
Chapter 18
Gem squatted with her elbows on her knees, studying first the fallen weapon, then the dead man’s wounds. “I believe we are meant to believe that he discharged the weapon accidentally. However, the angle suggests otherwise.”
“Murdered, then,” Nyree said with a hint of satisfaction.
“I did not kill him,” Echo said. “Use sense, Nyree. Half the market heard the noise. I was still with the Northers.”
“That hardly went any better.”
The air reeked. Echo paced, her thoughts just as foul. Without witnesses, the hunters couldn’t know all that had happened here, but what they had found was all Nyree would need. Gem examined the weapon, sighting down both barrels and disengaging the trigger mechanisms before dropping it in the sack with the rest. “This is the last of them.”
“For now.” Nyree stood frowning, hands on hips. “The Wardmen must distribute them from here. The traffic in and out would be good cover. But that still doesn’t tell us where they’re made.”
“I want to take these back to examine further. They appear to be of the new design, but the one that fired is defective. The second mechanism would not have functioned. The others seem to be the same. I think—”
The door swung open to admit Cara, slightly out of breath. “Northers are on their way, Nyree. I don’t know how they heard so soon.”
“How are they armed?”
“Clubs and knives. No projectile weapons as far as we’ve heard. If we move now, we can intercept them before they cross into the Ward itself.”
“We must stop them,” Echo urged. “If North and Ward break into open conflict . . .” It brought back too fresh a memory, mobs of cityens attacking each other before turning on the Church, and too real a fear. The rebellion had damaged the old Saint beyond recovery.
“We will,” Nyree said. “Not you. Take these weapons back to the Church, if you can manage that without creating a worse incident. Cara and Gem, with me.” She was out the door without waiting to see that Echo obeyed.
Anxiety roiled Echo’s gut. She came within a breath of following the other hunters to the fight. Then sense prevailed. Her place was with the Saint.
But the knot in her belly grew tighter all the way back to the Church.
“What is the Church going to do?” Kennit was half out of his chair, leaning towards the Patri with both palms pressed to the table. “North as deserves to know, after all as been done to us!”
“You deserve what the Patri decides, cityen,” Nyree said coldly. “More might be dead than just the one in the mill if we had not gotten to the Ward first.”
Kennit had the sense to sit back down. “Apologies, Patri,” he said, voice brittle. “Ou
r men, they were only so upset as they didn’t have time to think what they were doing. I’m grateful as the hunters stopped them from making a terrible mistake. But that leaves the Wardmen still to learn their lesson. We know as what was found in the mill. The rebellion started in the Ward, and it still festers there.”
“It’s the Church’s duty to teach the cityens, Kennit. There can be no doubt of that.” Jozef’s tone was mild, but tension chiseled the planes of his thin face. For all its progress since the Fall, humanity still teetered on the edge of a cliff. A small push was all it would take to tumble them back into the dark. They might not climb out a second time.
Then Echo thought of the Preserve, and the seed stored in the Vault. For a dislocating moment, she was back there, listening to Stigir speak of the rebirth of the world.
“I understand, Patri.” The prominence in Kennit’s throat bobbed. “But the old Patri, he used to call us his children from time to time. He said with children so precious, a man loves them all; and he wants them as to have everything easier than he did himself. But without firm direction, they can run themselves into trouble. The more as he loves them, the firmer he needs to be. That’s as he said.”
The Patri folded his hands. “The miller is in custody. He told us the dead man was a customer of his, who had asked to meet him after market. He claims that he knows nothing of weapons. We are searching the area even now, to be sure there is no other cache.” That was mostly for show. The hunters would never be able to clear the city of weapons, not unless they eliminated the source. The gold clasp weighed in Echo’s pocket.
“We’re glad of that, Patri,” Kennit said. “Seems as the Wardmen are bolder every day, there’s no knowing what might happen next. And then our man Rolt—” Kennit’s voice trembled, but it was as much with anger as with fear.
“The Ward did not kill your man,” Nyree interrupted unbidden.
Echo bit back an angry retort. It served no one to remind North that now they had a grievance against a hunter as well as the Ward. Kennit pointed an accusing finger at her. “And it’s not as he was attacking children, or had a weapon either. Rolt was innocent. That’s the one as killed him, is it not? The same one as was in with the Wardmen before the rebellion. That’s as they say. Asking your forgiveness, Patri, but it would be a terrible thing, wouldn’t it, if a hunter as took sides? Favoring the Ward, as maybe it is, against the other claves? In all the nerves, Patri, with people so frightened—a sign from the Church would go a long way.”
“A sign?”
“Something as to make us understand the Church still favors North equal as the others, that’s all I’m asking, Patri. It seems a small thing, after all as has happened.”
The Patri’s thumbs chased each other in circles. A coldness spread through Echo’s gut. No single hunter was worth more than the Church’s interests. Perhaps this was what Nyree intended: a debt easily paid, a way to give North some satisfaction. The old Patri had made many such calculations. Echo forced herself to stand still, equally expressionless. If it kept the peace—a part of her almost hoped that Jozef had the strength. We are made to serve. And then, as the Patri still hesitated, she heard herself say, “I regret the man’s death. It was an accident.”
Kennit’s eyes jerked to her, blinking in confusion. Nyree flashed her a look of plain contempt before the hunter mask closed over her expression. The Patri only leaned back thoughtfully, his thin face telling her nothing. “I understand the man’s heart was weak,” he said at last.
“Ah, yes, that’s as was known,” Kennit stammered.
“Yet he tried to attack the Wardman.”
“Was only self defense, as was, the Wardman started it all.”
“With a weak heart a man’s friends might have wanted to keep him out of a fight, I should think.”
“Rolt was a stubborn man,” Kennit allowed.
The corner of the Patri’s mouth drew down. “I understand how that can be. Explain to your friends that the hunter was just trying to protect him. Tell them how sorry she is that she failed.” Echo stifled an absurd flash of resentment. The Patri continued, “Remind them too, Kennit, that the man with the projectile weapon ended up dead. That is the most important lesson here.”
“I—yes, Patri, that’s as I will.” The heat rose in Kennit’s voice again. “But that still leaves the matter of the Ward. Patri, one more thing I want to tell. You know already, but I’m saying so as you hear that we know too. Church as it should be, North remembers. If Wardmen are forgetting, whatever lesson they need, North is willing to help teach. Our men are ready. Howsoever you see fit, we’d do all as you ask.”
Saints. He was offering to be the Church’s weapon against the Ward.
Jozef smiled grimly. “Thank you, Kennit, but that won’t be necessary. I know exactly what to do.”
“Cut the power to the Ward?” Dalto, hovering over his board as if to protect it with his body, stared at the Patri in shock. The other priests fixed their eyes on their panels, pretending not to notice; but one bit his lip, and another’s hand froze over a dial. Khyn, a fixture among them by now, looked equally appalled, her gaze darting from the Patri to Dalto and back.
“Only for a time.” Jozef gestured impatiently. “It can be done, can it not?”
“With the splitter in place, yes, we can control the flow precisely. And with the Saint so strong”—Dalto sounded just like Exey for an instant, before his better sense kicked in—“but cut power to the city, even a part—we have never done such a thing. The cityens will think the Saint is dying. There will be panic.”
“Yes. Then we will explain. It will remind them how much they still depend on the Church.” Jozef tapped his fingers on the panel, a gesture that made him for a moment seem oddly like Teller. “I thought they had learned the lessons of the rebellion. I wanted to believe it was only a few malcontents. I hoped. But we cannot escape the evidence. Claves arming themselves, provoking others to violence—the Saint only knows what they were thinking.” He broke off, looking towards the altar. “Perhaps she does. There has never been a Saint who was a cityen.”
And he would make her punish them, when all her sacrifice had been to save the city. A surge of anger burned in Echo’s chest. “Patri, it is too much. The Ward’s children, their sick—without power, their lights, their wells won’t even run. Even if someone in the Ward is making the weapons—”
“There is no if. You yourself found the proof in their mill.” Jozef’s laugh was mirthless. “‘Church as it should be.’ What a mess Vanyi gave me to deal with. Can you imagine what he would do in my place? Yes, the Wardmen will be frightened. Some may be hurt. But everyone will learn the lesson.” Jozef’s boney shoulders rose and fell. “If it is the worst we have to teach, we’ll count ourselves lucky. Now do it.”
Echo clenched her fists behind her back. Her anger was not all for the Patri. If the Wardmen were not such fools, if she had been quicker to stop the disturbance in the market . . . Dalto worked at his board giving instructions, the priests setting dials and switches, confirming positions. Khyn sat at the board they had rigged by the splitter. It lit her face from beneath, like the fires she and Echo had shared in the desert, but her eyes were shadowed. By the set of her features, her thoughts were grim. Echo felt a thread of unease. Things that had never been done, tech that was new—what if the power did not come back on? It seemed a terrible risk. Yet the Patri was right. The cityens—all of them, for this was a lesson for more than the Ward—must learn. The city would not survive another rebellion.
But the Saint did not deserve this.
As Echo watched, the boards changed, a part of the pattern separating from the rest. It was like seeing the city from the tower room, only in colors and flashing lights. She felt a touch of surprise, close to fear. The Saint’s thoughts are not for a hunter to understand. Then she dismissed the notion. These were not thoughts, only signals in a circuit. When Dalto gave the last order, a priest would move a switch, the splitter would change the flow,
and the part of the board that stood for the Ward would go dark.
She would not let the Saint see that alone.
Unnoticed, Echo slipped out of the sanctuary and took the ladder-like stairs that led from the vestibule up to the loft. She would watch with the Saint. At least she could offer that. What it must be like for her—the whole city her body, Ward or Bend or North as close as her own hand, the pumps and power lines her veins and nerves . . . Would it hurt, what the priests were doing?
Echo’s eyes stung suddenly. Instead of Khyn she should have brought Stigir, whose expertise was so much greater. He would have known how to control the surges without the splitter, Khyn had said so. Echo should have trusted the hunters to handle the vektere, and the Patri to persuade Stigir. Even if they had simply left the beacon on, giving the vektere a trail to follow, one the hunters could watch, prepared for what might come . . . Instead she had acted in fear, cutting off all chance of contact between the city and the Preserve. Now the Saint was helpless in the hands of the priests, forced to act against cityens, against her own clave . . .
Stop acting like an untrained juvenile, Echo told herself with contempt. To imagine the Saint weak and helpless as a cityen only insulted her. It served no one, the Saint least of all.
The heavy, muffled silence weighed on the air inside the sanctuary, the charge splitter a barrier between the Saint and any disturbance. Yet if there was any chance the Saint could know Echo’s thoughts in some strange fashion, as she felt the city need more power here to make a lightstring glow, or there to shape the forceshield keeping out the wilderness . . . Lia was gone, subsumed into that vast consciousness, but Echo knew no other way, and surely the Saint, if she could know at all, would not scorn her offering, little as it was—
Echo fixed the image of Lia in her mind, and thought: I am here.
The loft was silent. In the sanctuary below, the priests continued their work; she heard the steady stream of their voices, the occasional counterpoint from Khyn. The process must be difficult; a treacherous part of her hoped they would fail. She cut off the thought as ruthlessly as the Patri prepared to cut the power.