Sitting Stone walked around each of the fires in turn, casting feathers around them. Other chieftains followed, dropping a variety of objects, each of special importance to that particular tribe.
Then a few drops of rain fell from the sky. One of them caught Whistler on the forehead, and he was visibly surprised. Then many more drops came, until soon it was lashing down, the kind of rain that none of them, not even the tribespeople, had seen since before the Harvest.
“It's raining!” Whistler cried, turning around, his arms outstretched. His saturated hair stuck to his head and face, and the rain ran into his eyes. It soaked through his clothes, and yet he smiled as he was drenched. In an older time, people would have complained about this weather, but the people there were grateful for this experience, knowing well that it might be their last.
The rain doused the fires, one by one. It was strange to see them go out in order, not in unison. Sitting Stone told them that the spirits were accepting each tribes' sacrifice. Many of them would die in the coming battle. Their lives were exchanged for rain, so that the land could still be fed without their carers. One life for another.
Before the rain started, Brooklyn sat alone by one of the fires. Rommond would have sat with him, had he not been required at the chieftains' table. Brooklyn cast some little straw men into the fire, one for each of his people who had died in the recent attack. He dared not think of how many more little figures would be jumping into the flames when they launched their own attack against the railway gun.
He looked at his metal hand, and thought of straightening up the fingers. The hand complied, just like his human hand would. Likewise, he closed it into a fist. He tried all kinds of movements, and it seemed it answered to his mind. But something did not feel right. It almost felt like a ruse, like the hand was only complying so that he would let down his guard. He remembered the crushing of the Udanudag's neck, and knew that this was not a command he gave.
He made another straw man, spending more time on it than the others, carefully crafting the arms and the legs, the head with its short hair, and the little hand with a tiny sliver of metal wrapped around it. He was crafting himself, a little miniature form. This was not how the tradition went. These straw men were for the dead. But for him, he felt it was already so.
What little wiring there was left in him did not matter. There were times when he felt like more of a machine. The spirits did not welcome him as one of their own. He was no longer a true Ootan. Even the Resistance no longer felt like a home to him. He had lost his connection. He was broken, and he felt like he could not be repaired. He felt like he had to be scrapped.
He cast the little figure into the fire, and the straw burned, and the metal burned, and whatever of the soul was captured in that form, was released to join the ancestors of the land, and finally found its home among the dead.
16 – THE GATHERING
The journey back to Blackout was swift, helped by the wind created by the Dust Riders. They rode alongside the Silver Ghost, making it look more ghostly than ever in the shimmer of the sands. Some of the tribesmen boarded the warwagon, but others refused to be carried by machines, either distrusting the machine spirits which moved them or feeling it was disrespectful to them. They followed in wooden wagons, or on foot, and many of them struggled to keep up.
“Why are you called the Free Tribes?” Jacob asked Sitting Stone inside the Silver Ghost.
She smiled. “You are tribes that are not free. Imprisoned by walls of your buildings. Imprisoned by money. So many different captors.”
“I suppose,” Jacob said, “though sometimes thinking you're free is just another prison.”
“You sound like Brooklyn,” she said. “He philosopher.”
Brooklyn blushed.
“Well, I don't think I am,” Jacob replied.
“Ah, but still thinking. Philosophers always in their head.”
They arrived at Blackout at midday, finding it bustling with activity. With Rommond gone, its citizens did not feel like they were under house arrest, and the Treasury made sure to avail of this opportunity, asserting its control. Ebronah made several speeches to the people from the balcony of her manor, urging them to pull together, and though they were different kinds of people, the kinds that “together” never seemed to apply to, they rallied to her words.
The Baroness was a master of ceremony, and she made sure to use Rommond's victorious return to the city to help fuel the atmosphere there, because she knew that they needed all these little successes when it seemed that failure loomed around every corner. The streets were lined with bunting of all colours, and the youth carried balloons, while overhead the Treasury's own hot air balloons floated. How things had changed—that was how the Treasury survived.
Communication was tightly monitored, so as to avoid any intelligence leaks to the Regime. Radios were, in most cases, prohibited, though a few were intentionally turned on at Mudro's camp to the south to further draw the enemy's attention to the seemingly massive army gathering there.
The Silver Ghost rolled into the city, with Rommond and company perched on the top, holding onto the shallow railing. The Dust Riders trotted through, and luckily for the city's people, they left the dust devils outside. A trail of tribesmen followed, like carriages of a train, until everyone gathered in the central plaza, where the field hospital had been replaced by a market faire.
There was music and celebration, and if the Regime had any spies there, they might have feared to report back the mood, for the mood in the east, in Ironhold and the other bastions of the Regime, was grim. At first the people of Blackout were suspicious, even frightened, of the tribespeople, but those suspicions and that fear was soon forgotten when they found that they all danced and drunk the same.
“Enjoy today,” Rommond told his people, as the Baroness invited him onto the stage, pinning another medal, the City Saviour, to his uniform. “Tomorrow will not be easy. Yet, for our enemy, it will no be easy either. We have fought them in the sands and the sea. We have fought them in the sky. We will continue to fight them, anywhere they assail us. In the bowels of the earth. In Heaven or Hell, there they will find us waiting, gun raised. When they march to us, they shall tremble in their stride. When they view us from afar, they shall want to stay there, out of reach. When they fire upon us, the shells shall be as rain.”
The cheers were deafening, and perhaps even the Iron Emperor heard them in the east.
“Nice speech,” Jacob whispered to the general as he stepped down.
“I wish I believed it,” Rommond whispered back. “This rain will hurt. This rain will kill.”
He did not stay for the celebrations, nor did any of his lieutenants. He holed himself up in the War Room, where they made last-minute preparations for the assault on the Iron Wall.
Later that day, Mudro joined them, and he seemed the least celebratory of them all.
“She's gone,” the doctor said, limping up to them.
“What do you mean?” Rommond asked. “Who's gone?”
“Alakovi,” Mudro said. “She left, not long after you did. She didn't help with the decoys. Many of the Vixens went with her.”
“Damn it!” Rommond shouted. “We gain new allies, but we lose old ones.”
“Speaking of allies,” Taberah said, bringing someone into the room.
Rommond stood up sharply. “You,” he growled.
Jacob was not sure who he was, until Whistler reached up and whispered into his ear. “That's the Crocodile. That's General Leadman.”
17 – THE CROCODILE
General Leadman was an older man than Rommond, with thick grey hair, but not a whisker on his mouth, and none upon his massive square jaw, which was unquestionably his most prominent feature, and what gave him his much-detested nickname. He was the kind of man who would not just berate you; he would grind you between his teeth. He was taller than Rommond, and quite a b
it more plump, but he still dressed as finely, brandishing just as many medals—though Rommond would say that he earned his in half the time.
“Clear the room,” Rommond told the others when Leadman was brought in. They left without protest, but some of them pressed their ears against the door.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Rommond said. “I thought you were on vacation.”
“You know there's no vacation from the war, Rommond.”
“I know that,” Rommond said, pointing to himself. “But who's been kicking back in Copperfort all these years? What made you come here? What made you pop your head out of the sand?”
“The rumours.”
“The rumours of what?”
“That the tide is turning.”
“Well, the tide has turned because some of us have been busy at sea, while you've been basking on the beach. That's why facts for us are only rumours to you.”
Leadman had a granite face, but the anger could be seen through the cracks. “You should have a little bit more respect, Rommond. Let me remind you that I outrank you.”
“Only in years.”
“Let's get down to brass tax,” Leadman said. “We don't like each other. That's been the case since the trenches. But we don't have to like each other. All we have to do is recognise the benefits of a mutual relationship.”
“Go on.”
“I haven't been idle while you were busy fighting your war, Rommond. Copperfort is a bastion now, more than it ever was, more than Goldwall was.”
Rommond eyed him coldly. “Goldwall fell.”
“But Copperfort is still standing.”
“For how long?”
“I haven't ignored the threats we face.”
“No, you sided with the enemy.”
“While it was convenient to do so, yes.”
“Ever the politician,” Rommond said.
He had another name, which was not so pretty. The troops in the trenches came up with it, calling him the Crocodile. His large jaw always seemed ready to snap shut, so they never called him it to his face.
“We both plot and plan, Rommond,” Leadman said. “Don't pretend you aren't just as much a schemer as I am. I'm just a little bit more honest about it.”
“Go on then. Tell me your latest scheme.”
“When I signed my agreement with the Iron Empire, the Resistance was losing this war. Now I see that the tide is turning, and I want to ensure that when the sand settles, I still retain a prominent place.”
“If you built a sandcastle, the shifting winds can be very dangerous.”
“Indeed,” Leadman said. “But my castle isn't made of sand, nor is my army. While your landships were depleted, mine have only grown. Sure, we used Brooklyn's designs, which my agents secured, but it's not just the quality that matters; it's the quantity. And I have both.”
“Then why don't you join the fight?”
“I intend to,” Leadman said. “The question is: which side do I fight on? If I fight for you, with you, then I want you to guarantee me a place at the head of the table when we're enjoying the, as it were, post-war feast.”
“You mean, you want be the new Iron Emperor.”
“A Lead Emperor, if you will, but really the metal does not matter.”
“I can't guarantee that,” Rommond said, “and I think the days of empires are over.”
“You're the face of the Resistance, Rommond. You have sway. If you tell people to follow me, they will follow. Call it an empire, a kingdom, or anything you will, so long as the people call me leader.”
Rommond sighed. “That's asking a lot.”
“You're asking for more,” Leadman replied, prodding the table with his index finger. “You're asking me to risk everything to join the fight.”
“I'm asking you to risk a little to help win the war.”
“It's all about perspective, isn't it, Rommond?” Leadman asked. “And perspective's pretty much all about politics. What will you do when the war is over? You're a war-time leader, Rommond. I'm a leader for all seasons.”
“Well, we've only got war and summer now, so it seems you'll have to wait.”
“I can wait, Rommond. The question is, can you deliver when the waiting is over?”
“I don't know,” Rommond said. “What if I can't?”
“Then I might have to consider other options. At present, I rule Copperfort, but if I pitched in with the Iron Empire to help quell this … rebellion, I could rule a lot more. It's no good just getting power. You have to keep it too.”
“But what legacy would you leave? Humanity will eventually die out. There will be no one to sing your praises.”
“If I am not here to hear them, what does it matter?”
“That is very short-sighted,” Rommond said.
“Perhaps, but I bet that, of the two of us, I'll live the longer life.”
“So you would sell your soul to the Devil, that you might be crowned a king of Hell.”
“Or you could crown me a king of whatever new Heaven you intend to create. The option is yours. Be an angel, Rommond.”
Rommond rubbed his fingers across his moustache. There were more bristles there than there were soldiers left in his army. The siege of the Iron Wall was about to get under way, and though Leadman was an opportunist, Rommond could not help but feel that he needed to be one as well.
“I'll think about it,” he reluctantly said.
“Don't think too long,” Leadman replied. “The tides are always turning.”
When Leadman left, as smugly as he could, Rommond called for Taberah, and her alone.
“You know Leadman,” Rommond said.
“I sure do.”
“He wants me to promise to crown him king when we topple the Iron Emperor.”
“So, promise it to him.”
“The problem is,” Rommond said, “I'm not sure I can keep that promise. I'm not sure I even want to. I think the people deserve a real leader, not an opportunistic coward like him.”
“Then lie to him,” she said. “Pledge whatever you need to get him to pledge his troops. Dangle the crown for him. He'll never wear it.”
18 – THE IRON MEDICINE
While the general and other plotters and planners got to work, Jacob relaxed a moment before the next big job, knowing well that it might be his last. He managed to get back into his old room at The Olive Inn, and found the book The Essential Guide to Minerals there, where he hid his smuggled amulets. He brought it down to the bar. With Blackout in Resistance control, it did not need hiding any more. He opened the book at the bar, and was surprised to find it contained something extra: a small red pouch containing five coils.
The money I gave Soasa, he thought. God, I wish she'd gotten her patch of land. In a way, she did. She was buried there now.
“Didn't take you for the readin' type,” the landlord said.
“Everyone needs a hobby,” Jacob replied, closing the book and patting the cover. “I guess 'minerals' is mine.”
“You sure it isn't alcohol?” Gus asked, topping up the whiskey glass.
“A guy can have two hobbies.”
“So he can.”
“What about a girl?” Lorelai asked, stepping up to the bar.
Jacob smiled. “A girl can have anything she wants.”
“I wonder if that smooth-talking is you or the drink,” she said. “Maybe you can be a little smoother and get me one.”
Jacob humphed. “You heard the lady,” he said to Gus.
“A gin and tonic, please.”
Gus nodded. “You got it, doll.” He poured her the drink.
Jacob took out the bag of coils and slid one across the counter.
“Back to the riches now, are we?” Gus asked.
“Not quite,” he said. “More like a parting gift. Might
be the last one I get.” He slid another coil over. “That should cover the whiskey too.”
“It should,” Gus said, “and you'd get a few for that, but you still owe me for the room.”
“I'll add you to my will. You might get to cash in on it quick enough.”
“Used to think of retiring,” the landlord said, “but pouring drinks isn't so bad compared to what some people are doing.”
“Drinking them isn't so bad either,” Jacob said, taking another swig.
Gus chuckled as he walked away, throwing his towel over his shoulder. They heard him moving kegs in the back room. Jacob was not exactly sure why. There was no one else in there, and the cobwebs suggested there had not been for days.
“So, what brings you to this fine establishment?” Jacob asked Lorelai. “The free gin?”
Lorelai smiled. “No, I just think I need a drink after patching up Brooklyn. He had a nasty head wound. Pity the general won't let me stitch him up. I could tell he had some injuries too.”
Jacob showed his bruised knuckles. “Don't we all.”
“So, why are you here?” she asked. “Drowning your sorrows?”
“Boredom.”
“That's what all the drunks say.”
“No,” Jacob said, faking a wobble in his seat. “We slur it.”
“Surely you can't be that bored with that kid chasing you around. Is he your son?”
“What, Whistler? No.” He took a bigger swig this time. “I don't have any kids. Well, there was Elizah, but … she's … she's not here any more.”
“I can relate,” she said, downing half her drink in one long gulp. “He was around Whistler's age when he died. He's why I became a nurse.”
“Sorry to hear that. I mean, about your kid, not the nurse part. You make a great nurse.”
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