by Gary Meehan
“Down by the far docks, but it’s not been used for years.”
“Executions are the tools of tyrants,” said Rekka.
“God’s rule is not tyranny,” said Father Broose.
“Tell that to those who don’t believe in Him.”
Father Broose gave a weary wave of his hand and returned to the table. “Take them away.” His head drooped. The harshness dissipated from his voice. “Meanwhile, let us pray. It has been a hard night for all of us. God, born of the eternal universe . . .”
Megan’s momentum slid her off the roof far faster than she was expecting. The horizon spun and found itself in alarming positions. The ground began to accelerate toward her. She stuck an arm out, grabbed the spike at the top of the wall and dangled in mid-air. She swung a leg, looking to find something to support her feet. She found it by ramming her shin into it. Her eyes filled with tears, which at least meant she couldn’t see the hard earth spinning below.
Fast as her trembling limbs would allow her, Megan climbed down the spike ladder, dropping to the ground earlier than was strictly necessary. She crouched and squeezed soil between her fingers, promising never to be so far away from it again, then hurried around to the front of the hall. Two sets of guards were heading away: one in the direction of the barracks, one toward the docks. She scurried after the latter.
They made their way past empty jetties and neglected piers. Megan flitted between barrels and empty crates that stank of fish. Only a couple of boats remained, stragglers at a party long since over. Most of the fleet had sailed after disgorging its catch, off to trawl the seas for more food to fill the bellies of the city’s swollen population.
The opportunities for cover were becoming less and less frequent. Megan was reduced to edging along a warehouse wall and simply hoping none of Afreyda’s escorts looked too closely or, preferably, at all. She reached the limit of the building. Nothing but bare deck from her position to the gallows. It stood on the edge of the very last pier, as if shunned by civilization, the dim glow from the soldiers’ lantern picking out its simple but chilling form.
There were four soldiers. Too far away to sneak up on, and as Afreyda had her hands tied behind her back she wasn’t going to be much use. Charging them would be suicidal, but what choice did Megan have?
Voices floated down the waterfront, faint but clear. “Right then, lads. String her up.”
“Problem there, sarge. No rope.”
“What do you mean, no rope?”
“Do you want me to jump up and hold on by my hands?” asked Afreyda.
“Shut up, love. It was one of my mates you skewered.” The sergeant dithered for a moment, then pointed at one of his men. “Odi, go get some rope.”
“Where from, sarge?”
“This is a port, isn’t it?”
“Yeah . . .”
“And what do you find in ports?”
“Ships, sarge.”
“Oh for Saviors’ sake.”
“And sailors, sarge,” said another of the soldiers.
“And aubergines,” said the fourth.
“What?”
“I’m from Levenport, sarge. Number-one trading center for aubergines in the Realm.”
“And we needed to know that because . . . ?”
“My dad grows ’em.”
“He’s not a hangman in his spare time, is he?”
“No . . .”
“Then he’s not sodding relevant, is he?” snapped the sergeant. “If no one gets me some bloody rope in the next minute I’m going to start cutting heads off.”
“The High Priest didn’t give us permission to . . . Oh, you don’t mean hers.”
One of the soldiers broke away from the group and headed back toward Megan. She pressed against the wall and slunk down, trying to merge into the warehouse. The soldier—Odi, Megan assumed—spotted her anyway. He strode over to her.
“What you doing here?”
Megan held a hand up to him, keeping the other one tucked behind her back. “Spare a shilling, sir?”
“Don’t you know there’s a curfew?”
“Thought there’d be less competition,” said Megan. “Half a shilling?”
“Get out—”
Odi made to backhand her. Megan whipped her non-begging arm forward and sank a knife deep into his thigh. She twisted, hearing the muscle fibers tear in the silence of the night, before Odi’s pain receptors caught up with his mouth and he shrieked.
Megan leaped to her feet, throwing her weight at the soldier. He staggered and fell. Megan followed him, slipping in the huge puddle of blood that had already spurted out of Odi’s wound. He aimed a half-hearted kick at her. She rolled out of the way, wrenched her knife out of his leg—which caused another ear-splitting shriek—and charged at the gallows.
The soldiers drifted toward her as she ran, their body language suggesting uncertainty. It didn’t stop them drawing their swords though. Silver moonlight slashed across steel. Megan was going too fast to stop. The only choice was to commit herself absolutely.
“Afreyda!” she yelled. “I’m coming for you.”
“I see!”
“No, literally!”
Megan hurled her knife at the soldiers. They flinched. Afreyda took advantage of their momentary distraction to barge them aside. Megan leaped at her, caught a flash of alarm in Afreyda’s eyes, then the two of them were flying off the pier and tumbling through the air.
seven
As they plummeted through the icy water, Megan fought the instinct to release Afreyda and strike for the surface. Afreyda couldn’t swim and her panic made her squirm in Megan’s embrace. There was no way to reassure her, encourage her. All Megan could do was hold on tight and pray Afreyda trusted her.
She twisted, her occupied hands and the burden they held meaning she had to kick twice as hard to stop from sinking. The blackness made it impossible to see, the pressure on her lungs made it hard to think about anything other than sucking air back into them. Afreyda went limp in her arms. Had she given herself over to Megan or to a less earthly power?
They bumped against something. Megan risked unwrapping an arm from Afreyda to feel what it was. The slimy stone of the seawall. She pushed up, slowly as she could. She had to minimize the splash, hide their surfacing from the soldiers.
More darkness greeted them as they broke the water. They were under the pier at the point where it joined land. The sudden availability of air made Megan spasm. She fought it, rationing her breaths. Afreyda began to buck in her grasp. Megan clamped a hand on her mouth.
“Slowly,” she whispered.
Afreyda nodded. Megan released her hand a little. Afreyda’s breath warmed her chilled skin.
A sliver of light flitted above their heads: the soldiers’ lantern through the gaps between the slats. It briefly illuminated one of the pillars holding the pier up. Almost within arm’s reach. She gave a little kick. They drifted toward it.
Megan wrapped an arm around the pillar, jamming Afreyda between her and it. Boots rattled the planks above them.
“Thought I heard something, sarge.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t look too closely if I was you.”
“What d’you mean?”
“You know who that girl was?”
“No.”
“The witches call her the Apostate.”
“What’s one of those, sarge?”
“I don’t know, but do you want to mess with someone the witches went out of their way to name?”
“What do we tell the High Priest?”
“The Diannon girl threw herself in the water before we could hang her. She drowned. She could hardly swim with her hands tied, could she?”
“S’pose not, sarge.” There was an anguished shout in the distance. “What do we tell him about Odi?”
“He missed while trying to sheath his sword,” said the sergeant. “We’d better go see to him before he bleeds to death.”
Footsteps receded. There was a pause and c
urses of agony as they retrieved their comrade, then they picked up again, slower than before, and faded into silence. Megan looked around. There was a ladder halfway along the pier. She unclamped from the pillar and headed for it, swimming on her back, Afreyda pushing on to her with all the buoyancy of a brick.
“You could at least kick,” hissed Megan. Afreyda did so. They started to spin. “In the same direction as me.”
They reached the ladder and clambered up to the pier. Afreyda bent over on all fours, coughing and spluttering and showing general disapproval of all the water that had entered her lungs. Megan crawled over and slapped her between the shoulders. She pulled a knife out of her sodden boot and began to saw through Afreyda’s bonds.
“Are you all right?” Megan asked.
“Why did you . . . ?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” said Megan.
“Could you not have just threatened them? They are obviously scared of you.”
“I didn’t know that then.”
Afreyda rolled on to her back, rubbing her now-free wrists. Her clothes clung to her, revealing her every curve. Megan felt something twinge inside her. No time for that now.
She helped Afreyda to her feet. “We have to get indoors, out of these wet things”—her subconscious sniggered—“before we freeze to death. Then we have to find Cate.”
“Willas has her.”
“Willas has her? Why not . . . ?”
Afreyda bristled at the omitted “you.” “I distracted the soldiers while he got her away. I stand out a bit more than he does.”
“Where did he take her?”
“Up in the mountains. There are caves there.”
“She’s safe?”
“For the moment.”
For the moment. Megan’s instinct was to run to her, but that would mean crossing the city and risk attracting the attention of Father Broose’s soldiers. Better Cate stayed with Willas. Megan had responsibilities in the city.
Squelching and shivering they made their way back into town. Megan pointed at one of the houses. Lights shimmered in its windows; faint coils of smoke crept out of its chimney and curled into the sky like lazy dancers moving to steps only they knew.
“Here,” said Megan. She rapped softly against the door. “Know any Hilite?”
“Only tiviki dámant plesántes,” said Afreyda. “It is what Willas uses to dismiss us at training.”
Megan rapped again. “Possibly not much use.”
“True. I think plesántes is a rude word.”
“How rude?” said Megan. Afreyda whispered in her ear. “That is rude. And probably impossible.”
“I know someone who could do it,” said Afreyda. “Mind you, she was quite—”
The door opened a crack, revealing one wide eyeball and a forest of facial hair. Megan did her best to look pathetic and helpless. “Could you help us, please?” she said.
“You Faith.”
“Yes . . .”
“Tiviki dámant plesántes.”
Afreyda’s limited Hilite had come in handy. Who knew? “We’re not your enemy,” said Megan. “The soldiers tried to kill us too.”
Afreyda tapped her chest. “The Faith . . .” She mimed being hanged, which made up in melodrama what it lacked in realism.
“Can we . . . ?” Megan pointed at her and Afreyda and then inside. “We can pay.” She pulled out a pouch of coins Rekka had doled out to her to help during her stay in Hil. She had no idea how much was there: whether it was a king’s ransom or a child’s pocket money.
The householder took the pouch and counted its contents. His expression softened a little. He opened the door a little more, looked up and down the deserted street and invited them in.
The heat hit Megan like a tidal wave, making her skin prickle. She resisted the urge to dive for the fire and shoulder away a woman who was tending to a pot of bubbling stew. She offered the woman a timid wave and another to the two small children who were sat at the table gawping at her and Afreyda.
The woman stared back warily. The man limped over to her—his ankle was strapped and he needed a stick to support himself. He handed over the pouch and had a brief conversation. The woman beckoned Megan and Afreyda over and pushed two steaming bowls of stew into their hands.
Megan forced the food down so fast it blistered the top of her mouth. “Thanks for this,” she said between mouthfuls. “Do you have any . . . ?” She pulled at her saturated tunic.
The woman got the message or at least appeared to. She barked orders at the man Megan assumed was her husband. He returned a few moments later with a pile of clothes. Megan and Afreyda sorted through them, selecting anything that remotely fitted. Melancholy swept through Megan. How many times had she done this with Eleanor?
Megan made to undress, then realized the householder was staring at them, waiting for the show to start. She cleared her throat. He grinned. His wife scowled and dragged him out of the room.
Clothes hit the floor with a splat. Megan warmed her cold, wet skin at the fire and snuck a glance across to Afreyda, who was doing the same thing. Afreyda’s athletic perfection only made Megan aware of her own shortcomings: the nasty scar across her thigh; the bruises, scrapes, stretch marks and broken veins that mottled her skin; the ragged ear—not that Afreyda could complain about that. Even if what Megan was thinking was possible, what did she have to offer?
“This doesn’t make sense,” said Afreyda.
“I think you wrap it around you like this.”
“Not the clothes, this . . . I do not know . . . this takeover. Father Broose cannot hope to hold the city.”
“They’re scared,” said Megan.
“And stupid.”
“Don’t knock stupidity. It’s saved you on more than one occasion.”
“This stupidity will not save them,” said Afreyda. “It will kill them. Willas has hundreds of men in the tunnels.”
“Might not be enough,” said Megan.
“That is not all. He got messengers away to the other Snow Cities.”
Megan stared into the fire as she calculated what that meant. “That gives us . . . what? A couple of weeks before they march on us?”
Afreyda shook her head. “The Tiptunites have a company less than a day away from Hil. We were meant to be training with them.”
“How many men?”
“About a thousand.”
“Saviors . . .”
“The Faith cannot hold the city against an attack from this side of the mountains,” said Afreyda. “The Hilites and the Tiptunites will outnumber them at least three to one. And that is before the other cities mobilize.”
“It’s going to be a massacre.”
Megan could envision the ignored pleas for mercy, the hacked-down bodies, the blood seeping across the streets like an infection. It didn’t require much imagination; she’d witnessed it often enough. She had brought the Faithful here without thinking what it would mean for them—she had been too obsessed with Cate and her own desires. She should have tried harder with Fordel, persuaded him to make some concessions to the refugees, instead of letting him back them into a corner.
“Someone has to persuade them to surrender,” she said.
“The Hilites?”
“The Faithful. Father Broose and his acolytes.”
“Will he listen?” said Afreyda.
“Not to a simple peasant girl, no,” said Megan. “But maybe to someone with a little more authority.”
eight
A call out in the street woke Megan. She opened her eyes to find dawn’s first rays dappling the straw-covered floor, the fire burned down to a few dull embers, and Afreyda wrapped in her arms. Reluctantly she untangled herself and went to see what was happening. The smoky glass of the windows reduced the activity outside to flitting blurs.
“What is it?” asked Afreyda, her voice thick from sleep.
“I don’t know,” said Megan. “I can’t see properly and they’re speaking Hilite.”
<
br /> “Perhaps it is all over?”
“Perhaps.”
Megan risked opening the door a notch. One of Father Broose’s priests stood in the street, declaiming to the world. He was protected by four soldiers of the Faith who shivered as the odd snowflake drifted on to their grubby uniforms.
Megan eased the door shut again. “Perhaps not.”
The householder strode out of one of the interior rooms, dressed in a nightshirt that was a little too short to be considered polite.
“Do you know what’s going on?” Megan pointed outside and gave an exaggerated shrug. The man walked his fingers then mimed hammering and sawing. “I think the curfew’s been lifted so people can go out to work.”
“I am glad you are here to translate,” said Afreyda.
If people were allowed back out, that was good. It would occupy the soldiers and mean Megan and Afreyda wouldn’t have to sneak about so much. It also increased the risk someone would recognize them of course.
The householder disappeared out into the backyard. There was a gush and splash of running liquid, then he returned with a foaming jug. He wiggled it at Megan.
“That is beer, right?” she said. The man poured himself a cup and downed it. “All right.” She pushed an empty cup over. “I think I’m going to need it.”
Afreyda got up and began to stretch. “You understand the plan?” said Megan.
“Yes,” said Afreyda, “but I do not like it.” She reached down to her toes, legs straight, palms flat on the floor. “You should not do this on your own.”
“I need you to get Cate. If it all goes wrong, run.”
“And if it all goes right?”
“I’m tempted to say run even faster.”
Afreyda rose. “We should both get Cate,” she said, “then make for Tiptun. Father Broose made his choice. He should face the consequences.” Maybe he should, but Megan couldn’t condemn the Faithful without even trying.
There was an explosion of noise as the children burst into the room, their words unintelligible but their demands obvious to any parent—breakfast, playthings, attention. Amidst all the politics and terror and violence, life went on. People needed food, shelter, someone to love.