Strange Fire

by Tommy Wallach

  “I’ve got four brothers,” she’d said. “The farm’ll get along fine without me.”

  Gemma had agreed to take Irene in once they got back to the Anchor. Clive would’ve offered himself, but because he and Clover would be living alone in their parents’ house, such an arrangement wouldn’t be proper.

  “It’s all so big,” Irene said, gazing around in wonder.

  “You know anything about how the city’s laid out?” Clive asked. She shook her head. “So it’s one big circle, walled all the way round, with gates at the four points of the compass. There’s one big road that runs all the way around the, uh . . . the . . .”

  “Circumference?” Irene suggested.

  “Circum-what?”

  “It’s geometry,” Clover said, as if this were obvious. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Clive bit his tongue. His brother had only grown more sullen and difficult since their parents had passed; it was his way of grieving, Clive knew, but that didn’t make it any easier to put up with.

  “It means the edge of a circle,” Irene explained.

  “Oh.” Clive could feel his face reddening. “Didn’t realize they taught math out there in Eaton.”

  Irene put on a little show of being offended. “Not everyone outside the Anchor is an ignorant lump, Clive. Farmers gotta know things too.”

  That was another thing about the girl; Clive felt slow around her, the same way he’d always felt slow around his little brother. It didn’t bother him with Clover—he could always smack the kid around a bit, to remind him who was top dog—but it was different with Irene. He didn’t want her to think he was stupid; he wanted her to be impressed by him, dazzled even. Maybe that was what he liked best about her: she made him want to be better than he was.

  “Anyway,” he said, “the road that runs around this circumference of yours is called the Ring Road. It’s what we’re walking on now. Then there’s the roads between the gates, north-south and east-west, and two more that run diagonally.”

  “Those are called diameters,” Flora said.

  “You gonna start too?” Clive asked. Flora grinned in response. “So the four roads make for eight slices, which we call quarters, even though that doesn’t make a lick of sense. The roads all meet at Notre Fille, the cathedral right in the middle of the city.”

  “You left out Portland Park,” Flora said. “It’s the best thing in the Anchor.”

  “Where’s that?” Irene asked.

  Flora pointed. “Sorta in the corner back that way, where the river comes under the wall.”

  “Circles don’t have corners,” Clover and Irene said at the exact same time.

  Clive groaned. “I don’t know which of you two is more annoying.”

  It was midday, and the streets were raucous with the lunchtime crowds: vendors hawking their wares and haggling over prices, ever vigilant for the cutpurses who plied their trade in the busy squares and alleys of the city; protectorate peacekeepers in their immaculate red-and-gold uniforms, always on hand to settle a dispute or toss a drunkard in a cell to dry out; a clutch of seamstresses, their fingers insensate with calluses, dividing up a huge, steaming flatbread with mushrooms. Clive had expected to feel comforted by the familiar sights and smells of the Anchor, yet for some strange reason, it all left him cold. He’d spent enough time on the road to know that no physical place could ever really be your home; your family was your home, and his family was fractured now, irrecoverable. So what was the Anchor, really? Just an empty vessel with a familiar handle and a fading warmth.

  He quickened his pace so he could walk parallel with Burns. “There are some things I’d like to discuss with you, when you’ve got the time,” he said quietly.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Not now. Not around the others.”

  Burns looked back at Clover, who was talking to Irene. “You’re keeping secrets from your brother now?”

  “We don’t tell each other everything.”

  “Well, you know where to find me, when you’re ready to spill your guts.”

  They kept on walking, until the red sandstone blocks of the Bastion became visible over the tops of the houses that ran between the Ring Road and the Anchor wall. Clive realized he was following Burns automatically, still attached to the idea that any nearby adult could be trusted to lead him in the right direction.

  He stopped in place, and the others bunched up behind him. “Where are we going, Burns?”

  “I’ve got no idea where you’re going,” the sergeant said, “but I’ve gotta make my report. I imagine you’ve got your own duties to attend to.”

  He walked away without so much as a pat on the back for any of them.

  There was a time when Clive would’ve been surprised or even offended by the sergeant’s brusqueness, but he’d come to understand Burns better over the past couple of months. He knew now that there was a profound empathy in the man, hidden away beneath the layers of scar tissue and crudity.

  “We should probably get going too,” Gemma said. “Granddad should hear about Da from us, not the gossip around town.”

  “You really don’t think he’ll mind putting me up?” Irene asked.

  “Of course not. He’s gonna love you.”

  Mitchell Poplin was a kindly old furniture maker who’d only become more doting in his dotage, and who would welcome the opportunity to regale a pair of fresh ears with his lifetime’s worth of meandering stories. He still lived in the big shambly house at the edge of the city where he’d raised his eight children—plenty of space for an extra body.

  “We can walk you there if you want,” Clive said.

  Gemma smiled. “We know the way just fine.”

  They all hesitated for a moment, knowing that no gesture or speech could encompass everything they’d been through together. Eventually they started hugging one another, making sure not to miss anyone, like when you were seeking out everybody’s glass during a toast. When Clive had finished hugging Gemma, she gave him a quick peck on the corner of his lips. “Come see us tomorrow?”

  “Of course.”

  Clive watched the three girls walk on along the Ring Road. Just as they were about to disappear around the curve, Irene glanced back over her shoulder. Her eyes found Clive’s, and she smiled.

  A half-familiar novice was seated in front of the visitor’s log, making notes in the margins of a Broken Book. He had beady black eyes and a downturned mouth that allowed him to maintain a sort of perpetual scowl—the kind of face that started arguing with you before you’d spoken a word.

  “We need to see the Archbishop,” Clive said.

  The novice kept scribbling for a few seconds, then shut the tome and looked up at them. “The Archbishop doesn’t meet with strangers off the street.”

  “He’ll meet with us. Tell him that Honor Hamill is dead, and his sons seek an audience.”

  The novice’s expression made it clear that the name Hamill still carried weight here. He wondered if anyone would even recognize it a year from now.

  “Take a seat,” the novice said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  The two of them sat down in the high-backed, torturous chairs reserved for supplicants. Even for urgent news such as this, the novice would have to go through the proper channels. Every bishop in the Gloria was assigned an innocent—a simpleton who acted as a kind of assistant. The Archbishop’s innocent was named Preston. He had strange, overly broad features, and his vocabulary was limited to a few hundred words.

  The novice returned after a few minutes, but only to deliver the message that someone would be with them shortly. An hour passed before the door swung open to reveal Francis—Bishop Allen’s innocent. He was completely bald, with blue-black skin and sad, sunken eyes. His stutter sometimes made him difficult to understand.

  “Buh-Buh-Bishop Allen will speak to you,” he said.

  Clive tried to hide his disappointment. Allen was the last person he wanted to see right now. “What about the Archbishop?”


  “He is unuh . . . unuh . . .”

  “Unavailable?” Clover said.

  The innocent nodded gratefully, then gestured for them to follow him. But before they could pass beyond the door, the novice reached out a hand to bar their way.

  “Sorry,” he said, imbuing the word with a sadist’s joy. “But the bishop doesn’t grant audiences to children. The little one will have to wait out here.”

  “ ‘Little one’?” Clover said, eyes flashing. “You pompous, ignorant—”

  “Can you make an exception this once?” Clive interrupted. “My brother might remember things I don’t. I could really use his help.”

  The novice shrugged. “Do you want to see the bishop or not?”

  Clive turned to his brother. “I’m sorry, Clover. Just stay here for now. I’ll see if I can convince the bishop to let you—”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Clover strode out of the waiting room before Clive could say another word.

  The novice chuckled. “That boy needs to watch his temper.”

  “One more word,” Clive said, “and I’ll make you swallow every tooth in your head.” The novice was too shocked to respond, which Clive figured was probably for the best. “Come on, Francis,” he said, and pushed open the door.

  The innocent led him quickly past the wide arcade of the scriptorium, where novices sat copying out Filiae by hand, then down a wide set of stairs. The lower floor was all narrow hallways and small offices; here, the various members of the Holy Order toiled away at the Lord’s busywork. In the evening, they would scatter across the Anchor to perform vespers at one of the city’s twenty-four chapels, or to a nearby township without a full-time Honor.

  Clive’s father’s chambers were just down that passage there. Sometime in the next few days, Clive would have to come here and empty them out. The thought filled him with dread.

  Down another set of stairs, they came to the floor where the bishops had their chambers. Francis knocked twice on Bishop Allen’s door, which was artfully inscribed with a collection of bland Filial verses.

  “Come in,” said a voice from inside.

  Immediately upon entering the bishop’s office, Clive remembered why it was he’d never liked Allen. The room was terribly ostentatious, dominated by a large desk with brass fittings, lighted by a large annulus of wrought gold in which three or four dozen candles had been mounted. The bishop sat in a velvet chair with gold tassels hanging from the upper corners. He was short and plump, with round, shiny cheeks; in his flowing purple robes, he looked a bit like a freshly washed grape. Back when he’d been an Honor, Allen had often come to the Hamill home for dinner—but they’d seen little of him since he’d received the bishopric of the West three years ago.

  “Thank you, Francis,” he said, after Clive was seated. “You may go.”

  The innocent left, shutting the door behind him. “Novice Dawson tells me your father is dead,” the bishop said without even a trace of pathos or empathy.

  “Yes, sir. And my mother. And our—”

  “Requiescat in pace,” Bishop Allen intoned, making the sign of the annulus on his ample chest. “Tell me everything.”

  There was something unsettling about telling the story from start to finish; Clive felt as if he were performing somehow, as if all the people he’d loved and lost were just made-up characters in a novel, rather than flesh and blood. He kept the account as brief as possible.

  “I’d like to recommend Burns for an official commendation from the Church,” he said, once he’d reached the end of the tale. “He’s the only reason I’m standing here today.”

  “That’s never going to happen. We aren’t exactly handing out medals to Protectorate soldiers these days. Honestly, it might have been better if he hadn’t come back at all.”

  Clive felt offended on Burns’s behalf. “What does that mean?”

  “Grand Marshal Chang has arranged another plebiscite on the subject of Protectorate autonomy. It’s scheduled for six weeks from now.”

  Clive could remember his father complaining about the Protectorate’s constant political agitations: for a larger standing army, for clearance to organize random sorties against the Wesah, for a loosening of Library restrictions on anathema that might aid in the defense of the Anchor.

  “So what?” Clive said. “The Protectorate always loses those votes.”

  “In the past, yes. But this news, that one of our most senior Honors was murdered? It could shift the balance of things.”

  “But it’s the truth. People have to know.”

  “There are many truths the people emphatically do not have to know, Clive. What happened to your family was terrible, but spreading the word of God in godless lands is, by nature, a dangerous task. By your own admission, you were operating outside the borders of the Descendancy.”

  “That’s what traveling ministries do. It’s our job to spread the gospel.”

  “And you did that job admirably. But we will not allow a single tragedy to compromise the very foundations of Church doctrine. We do not actively seek out conflict.”

  “The conflict came to us!”

  Bishop Allen leaned across his desk, his expression darkening. “I understand that you’re upset, but you will never raise your voice to me again.”

  Clive could feel his insides churning. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to jump across the table and grab hold of this fat old man by the neck. But he wouldn’t risk his future, not to mention his brother’s, for a single moment of satisfaction.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he finally said. “It’s been a difficult few months. I’m not myself.”

  The bishop leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers. “A memorial service will be held this coming Sunday, with all the pomp and circumstance a man of your father’s stature deserves. Until then, tell no one else what you’ve just told me. I’ll expect a full written report by the end of next week.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good boy. You may go.”

  Clive stood up and gave the bishop a small nod in parting; he was afraid if he spoke at all, everything he was feeling might come pouring out. He was already halfway out the door when he caught the bishop’s final words, spoken like the afterthought they were.

  “And I’m truly sorry for your loss, Clive.”

  Sure you are, Clive thought, and pulled the door shut.

  3. Clover

  THE DAY AFTER HIS RETURN to the Anchor, Clover appeared at the Library gatehouse at the crack of dawn. Given the momentous nature of his visit, he hadn’t considered the possibility that no one would be there to let him in when he arrived, yet the post stood empty. He sat down on the cobblestones to wait.

  The streets were quiet, the air so still and fresh it felt as if you could collect dew on your fingernails. Yet as the minutes passed, a sense of apprehension began creeping up on him. It wasn’t just because of what he’d brought with him either; this feeling had been with him ever since that night at the pumphouse—a constant anxiety that he was being pursued by someone who wished him ill. In some ways, it had been easier out in the country, where you could see for miles in every direction. Here in the city, everything was shadow and periphery. Danger could come from anywhere and everywhere, and when it did, there would be nowhere to run.

  “Hamill!”

  He jumped at the sound. A man was glaring out of the gatehouse window—Denver Suchland. Like many who worked at the Library, he’d always been slightly resentful of Clover’s precocity. “You have business, or you just loitering?”

  “I’m here to see Attendant Bernstein.”

  “You mean Grand Attendant Bernstein?”

  So the old man had gotten a promotion during Clover’s time away. Good for him.

  “Yes.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “Yes.” Only that wasn’t quite true. “And also no. He isn’t expecting me at this exact moment, or even anytime soon. But he’s expecting me in a more general
sort of—”

  “Daughter’s love, Hamill,” Denver interrupted. “Talking to you is like watching grass grow.”

  Clover frowned. “I’ve never understood that saying. Grass is actually very interesting. Did you know that blades of grass grow from the base, rather than from the tip, so the underlying plant isn’t damaged by grazing animals?”

  “Ugh. I’d rather do my actual job than listen to more of this.”

  Denver disappeared out the back of the gatehouse, and Clover sat down once again to wait. Beyond the gate, a path wound its way across the Library gardens to a guardhouse built into the walls of the Library itself. Denver would describe Clover’s business to the soldiers stationed there, then he’d have to wait while the message was passed on into the Library itself.

  If only they had a machine like the one at the pumphouse; then Denver wouldn’t have had to leave his station at all. To pass the time, Clover brainstormed other uses for such a device. Novices working in far-flung corners of the Descendancy could recite sermons provided to them by Honors working in the Anchor, rather than their own second-rate compositions. The weather at Borst could be communicated to all the towns west of the mountains, so no one would waste their time trying to cross the Teeth when the pass was snowed in. Restaurants and public houses could make specific orders for produce, so that local farmers would only have to transport exactly what they knew they could sell. On and on, the ideas unspooled, until finally Clover glanced up to find that Denver had returned.