Hadrian looked to Dax for an explanation but the boy just stared woodenly at his wizard. He pointed to the waves. “The lake,” he observed, then put his finger on the withered tree. “The haunted oak above the ravine.” He pointed to the space above the arc, just below the lake. “The fishery plant would be here. Is this what you do for the jackals, keep secrets for them?”
Dax said nothing.
The first dates under the circles were from three years earlier. The realization began as a pinching in his throat, then fell upon him like an anvil. He dropped unsteadily onto the bench beside the boy.
“Suicides,” he said slowly. “The children.” He recognized several of the dates, had helped recover more than one body after responding to the screams of parents out searching for a tardy son or daughter. In recent years the ridge had turned into a favorite location for child suicides. A groan escaped his throat. “Why would you record the suicides? Why would Kenton care?”
He moved his finger along the dates and circles, then suddenly found his finger touching the next empty circle, with a date a month into the future. He grew very still. When he finally spoke his voice seemed frail. “How long have you had this map?”
“A year, maybe more.”
Hadrian closed his eyes for a moment. It wasn’t a record of suicides. It was a master plan for them. He indicated the empty circle. “A suicide has been ordered for there next month.”
The boy did not argue. “People decide for themselves when to go.”
“People? These are children.”
Dax spoke in a whisper, not to Hadrian but to his little wizard. “Some were parents who crossed over looking for a child that went ahead.” He glanced up. “There are no more suicides now than before.”
It took a moment for Hadrian to digest the words. The boy had thought about them before, or else was well rehearsed. They were correct as far as he knew. The rate of suicide, though horrifically high, had not really changed in recent years. “So what does that make you, a travel agent for the dead?”
The boy looked up slowly, as if fearful of making eye contact. “Travel agent?”
“You show them how to use the rope, where to hang it, how to start their journey. The road to take.”
“Not all of them. The young ones, mostly. They think about it, talk with the group. Once they decide, we just help them. Sometimes they like to hear about the ghosts. Sometimes Sarah comes and reads from Shakespeare. That Shakespeare knew all about ghosts. ‘I am thy father’s spirit,’ that old ghost tells Mr. Hamlet.”
It wasn’t so much the boy’s familiarity with suicide that Hadrian found so unsettling, it was the matter-of-fact way he spoke about it. “That day on the ridge by the sludge pit. It wasn’t a game, it was a practice.” There had been half a dozen children there, Hadrian recalled, including the governor’s own daughters. Was one of them to be the next?
Dax did not reply.
Hadrian had a hard time speaking through the tightness in his throat. “Do you ever see them, Dax, afterward? Have you ever cut one down?”
“I leave them alone. It’s a time for quiet. Sometimes you do. I’ve seen them hide, waiting for someone to pass. Usually it’s police, but sometimes it’s you. You’re the cheater, the cheater of death, I heard them say once when you went by, who wants to keep them from their treasure.”
Hadrian clenched his fists. “So this map is what Kenton wants?”
“He heard rumors. I don’t think he knows for sure it exists. The police stop the suicides when they can. They take us to the station every few months, interrogate us about a suicide cult. Ain’t no cult I tell them, just an after-school club.”
Dax stood and eased the paper out of Hadrian’s hand. Hadrian did not resist.
“If you’re so sure about the treasures on the other side, Dax, why haven’t you gone for them?” It was a brutal question, and Hadrian felt a flush of shame as it left his tongue.
The boy rolled up the grisly map without speaking. Only when he had returned it to its hiding place did he face Hadrian. “What about you, Mr. Boone, where do you think they go?” The boy asked in an earnest voice. “I’ve seen the ghosts, but Sarah showed us a Jesus book once that has angels. They’re nothing like the ghosts I know. Angels stay in heaven. Is that what you think?”
Hadrian felt like he had been kicked. There had been a crippled priest who had found his way to the colony in the early years. He used to hold court in a tavern over a whiskey bottle and preach that after the apocalypse heaven was full, that St. Peter had put out a no vacancy sign. For his part, whenever Hadrian tried to imagine an afterlife all he ever saw was his family in the last moment of their lives, looking at him accusingly while the flesh burnt from their bones.
“What I think, Dax,” he finally said, his voice strangely hoarse now, “is that your life doesn’t belong entirely to you. We need you here, we need all the children here. There is still a good life to be built in the world that you know.”
“Mr. Jonah didn’t think so.”
The words fired an unexpected anger in Hadrian. He stood and grabbed the boy by the shoulders. “Jonah did not kill himself!”
Dax ignored his words. Pulling himself free, he faced Hadrian. “Maybe it don’t matter who put the rope around his neck. Maybe what matters is why the secrets in his head were worth taking to the other side.”
LUCAS BUCHANAN WAS whistling as he entered the dimly lit cellar of the governor’s mansion. So intent was he on finding a bottle he failed to notice Hadrian shutting the door behind him until the deadbolt clicked into place.
“Micah Hastings took the name of his stepfather,” Hadrian abruptly declared. “You were hiding that from me. But I saw his mother today. It was Jenny Standish. I forgot she remarried.”
Buchanan cursed under his breath. “How the hell could you know I’d be down here?”
“Because I poured out the bottle of brandy you kept upstairs.”
For a moment Hadrian thought Buchanan was going to strike him. “You fool! No one’s making brandy anymore!”
“And you may have the last six bottles in the world right here.” Hadrian stepped to the wine rack and removed one of the precious bottles, absently looking at the label. Buchanan froze as Hadrian extended it by the neck over the stone flags of the floor. “You weren’t scared just because Jonah was killed. You were frightened because of the pattern no one else could see. Hastings was not Micah’s father, his father was Henry Standish. Which makes the connection you wouldn’t speak of. Standish and Jonah. You and me. The four original colonists, the founders.”
“Micah wasn’t alive at the time,” Buchanan said with a frown.
“His father was lost on a salvage run in the third year, when Micah was an infant. Fell in a biological sink,” Hadrian recalled, referring to the low swales where lethal gases had lingered. “It’s why Micah wanted to go on that scout, isn’t it?” Hadrian tossed the precious bottle from one hand to the other, then extended it at arm’s length. “To finish something. What was he looking for?”
Buchanan stared at the bottle, his expression troubled.
“I remember that year,” he continued when Buchanan did not reply. “Jonah found some regional maps and newspapers from just before the end. He spent days making calculations, pushing pins into the maps to mark sites of likely blasts. Then he used weather reports to identify communities that may have been sheltered, the ones in deep valleys below ridges that were perpendicular to the blast sites. Half a dozen candidates within a hundred miles. Standish volunteered to lead those scouting parties. I remember when he came in after a month, more dead than alive, shaking from the horrors he had seen. But when he recovered he was excited about one of the valleys, the last one he’d visited, far to the southwest, near the old canal. He had studied it from the ridge above, made a crude map of what survived. A long, narrow valley with commercial and industrial structures still standing, then blocks of well-built houses at the far end, above a river.
“We sent six
men and a dozen horses, more than we could afford to lose. Two months later one man came staggering back, half-blind, his lungs corroded beyond repair. They had reached the valley and in their excitement had galloped into a biological sink along the river bottom. He was the only survivor because his horse had gone lame and Standish and the others got out ahead of him.”
Buchanan grew somber as he listened but continued to stare at the bottle.
“Jonah then burnt his maps and refused to help plan any more expeditions except those to the train lines in the mountains.”
“You’re talking ancient history. Pyramids and black plague. Who can remember such things?”
“What was Micah looking for on his secret scout?”
“What every scout looks for. Glory and gold.”
“He knew about that valley.”
“Ridiculous. He was a baby when his father died.”
“His father liked to write notes about his travels. And there was that survivor.”
“He was worthless. A raving lunatic when he returned. He never really recovered.”
“You mean you exiled him.”
“Of course. You were either an asset or a liability. Liabilities were pushed out. That’s how we survived. How we still survive.”
“Jonah knew, didn’t he? He knew about Micah’s mission.”
“Not from me.”
“Micah knew Jonah would remember. A good scout would try to find out as much as possible about his destination.”
The governor did not argue. “Either an asset or a liability,” he repeated with a pointed gaze.
Hadrian did not resist as Buchanan wrapped his fingers around the neck of the bottle and pulled it away. Suddenly he felt very weary. He settled onto a high stool by the wine rack. “Why would you need such secrecy around your scouts?” he asked. “The government has been sending out salvage patrols for years.”
Buchanan frowned, then sighed. “Salvage on the rail lines isn’t affected. They just follow the old train routes in the mountains.”
“You’re saying something happened to the others? When was the last time one got through?”
His companion loosened the cap of the bottle and lifted it for a long swallow. “Nearly a year.”
Hadrian stared in disbelief. “But your guns. You have new guns.”
“No. What has expanded is the rehabilitation we do on the old guns we recovered through the years. Such as we have. Some have gone missing,” Buchanan confessed.
“Guns have been stolen?”
“I don’t know. Stolen. Mislaid. We had a couple dozen shotguns. No one can find them.”
Hadrian weighed Buchanan’s words. The police had never really needed guns before, but the shotguns would have been the heaviest weapons in their makeshift arsenal. “Were there other scouts killed?”
“One missing. Then that one who drowned out on the lake. Another was going south on horseback last year and woke up one morning to find his horse’s throat cut. He walked back and took up farming.” He glanced up at the half window that opened out onto the street.
“But salvage continues. The government still collects duties.”
Buchanan stiffened. “It was all restructured last year. The master of the merchant’s guild came in with a business plan. They would be granted exclusivity for salvage so long as they could guarantee an increase in customs duties.”
“You gave them exclusivity? There was no announcement.” Hadrian was incredulous.
“Privatization it used to be called. Much more efficient for everyone. No need for public hoopla. The Council agreed.”
“So you agreed to stop sending salvage patrols and kept doing so anyway. And what about your suspicions about smugglers working out of the fishery?”
“The agreement with the guild was that they would use only designated overland routes. We have the right to verify, to audit books.”
“Sergeant Waller wasn’t sent into the fishery for an audit.”
Buchanan’s eyes flickered with anger. “There were unsubstantiated reports of ships unloading salvage. Sending Sergeant Waller was a mistake. She has no appreciation for the subtleties of affairs of state.” Meaning, Hadrian knew, that he was furious with her for revealing to him her mission into the fishery. “She’s too inexperienced to rely on. Her first surveillance report was rife with speculation and extraneous, worthless details. She said she saw a wagon of grain driven into the fishery at night. Ridiculous. She even reported seeing ten steamboats in the harbor one morning. I had to remind her only nine are left in the fleet. She’d forgotten one sank last year.”
Hadrian stood and paced along the racks of wine bottles, digesting Buchanan’s words. “So you let the government be intimidated out of the salvage business.”
“Ridiculous. It was not our priority. A bargain was struck that reallocated resources for the good of the colony.”
“A bargain with whom exactly?”
“I told you. Head of the merchant’s guild. The Dutchman.”
“Van Wyck,” Hadrian said. “He was on the Council when I still served.”
Buchanan seemed amused. “He pointed out that salvage was too dangerous for small parties, and government resources stretched too thin. Later we agreed the guild would take over administration of the inspections and duty collection. He guaranteed that revenues would rise ten percent a year for the next five years.”
“Very generous of him.”
“He demonstrated how his guarantees assured the ongoing construction of public works, allow us to plan projects for the next five years.”
“So the government really doesn’t know what is coming in from the outside.”
“Nonsense. The guild files reports. We have the right to audit. Van Wyck is a great supporter of my initiatives, a positive influence on the Council.”
“Sounds more like he sold his vote to you in exchange for a monopoly.”
Buchanan gave an impatient sigh. “You know nothing anymore about the workings of the Council. He is an active member, regularly makes suggestions for improvements.”
“Suggestions?”
“Streamlining the government oversight of the guilds, so they can be more autonomous. More self-policing in the fishery.”
Hadrian weighed what he was hearing. Fletcher, the head of the fishery guild, had joined the Council as well. The fishery and merchant guilds were responsible for well over half the commerce of Carthage’s economy. “You mean giving the guilds more ability to operate in secrecy.”
“I thought you opposed keeping all the power in the governor’s office,” Buchanan shot back.
“Maybe you’re not really controlling Van Wyck’s vote. Maybe he and Fletcher are controlling yours. Your house looks more and more like a palace. You have the most exquisite collection of salvaged furniture in the colony.”
“It’s the governor’s mansion,” Buchanan said bluntly. “The guild wants to show its appreciation to the people, and the government is their representative.”
“Meaning Van Wyck offers gifts suitable to your status. I saw a grandfather clock upstairs that would have been worth a fortune even in the old world.”
“Van Wyck is a patriot. He has an instinct for what we need. An ally for progress. Just last week he sent in a suggestion to privatize the police launch.”
“Sent in?”
“He’s been ill. He stays on his horse farm in the far south now. He sends correspondence sealed with his signet ring.”
“A medieval touch. For how long?”
Buchanan hesitated a moment, lowering his voice. “A few months. Perhaps six or seven.”
Hadrian did not miss the nervous glance the governor cast toward the little window high on the cellar wall. “Who would have thought after all this time you would start being afraid of tree jackals.”
The words shook Buchanan. He took a long swig of his precious brandy.
“On the street there’re rumblings that a killer may be roaming the colony,” Hadrian ventured.
Hadrian’s mouth went dry. “We aren’t even close to understanding the killings.”
“Killing,” Buchanan corrected. “At the appropriate time we will have a memorial service for the scout Hastings who like his father died a distant, lonely death while performing his patriotic duties.” He paused. “I anticipate a double hanging.”
Hadrian’s mind raced. “No!” he protested. “They came only to honor Jonah.”
“Two slags infiltrated the colony. I am beginning to think they were on the roof to celebrate the success of their assassination.”
“You told the world Jonah was a suicide!”
Buchanan ignored him, taking another sip from his bottle.
“You may as well declare open warfare on the exiles.”
Buchanan shrugged. Upstairs his new grandfather clock chimed the hour. “I have a working firearm for almost every officer in the corps now. I’ve been thinking about this the wrong way. Jonah’s death isn’t a crisis. It is a window of opportunity.”
“Killing exiles brings you no closer to the truth, no closer to finding the real murderer.”
“Look for tomorrow’s paper. There will be an editorial bemoaning the gradual breakdown in public order, suggesting that the Council give me more power to deal with bad elements. On the front will be a headline about how I have discovered our beloved Jonah Beck did not die at his own hand after all. Our fellow citizens will read of the murder charges I am filing against two illegals who sought to undermine our government by killing a member of the Council. It’s time people saw an execution. Puts things in perspective. Our citizens take too much for granted. They become lazy, losing the vision of our greatness. They need a common cause to unite them, to restore their backbone.” The governor raised his bottle in salute. “In strength we endure.”
Ashes of the Earth Page 9