by C. A. Lang
She had started as an apprentice.
An apprentice in this business—of being an outcast, a malcontent, a scoundrel—partly paid his dues by the time honoured practice of sleeping in ditches when necessary. “When necessary” was usually most of the time, barring any contingent success in actually stealing anything valuable enough to pay for a room.
And this glorious morning, when Capra awoke with a stiff neck and dirt in her nostrils, she reminded herself that she was still a security consultant, even though she had spent the night in a ditch.
It was not really a ditch, but a space under a small foot bridge. She had wandered the streets past the Damwall area, with its perfect walls and houses that could never be robbed by the seething mass of cretins who lived on the outside, and ended up down here when she had run into a squad of soldiers.
She stood, made sure she had collected her things. At once she scrunched her face at the metallic, bitter taste in her mouth. She spat several times, and when it persisted, vowed to find a pub and burn it out with a few shots of plum liquor.
She climbed up the embankment and crossed the bridge. Why had she pointed herself in this direction in the first place? They had split up, running... Vasi had left them before they could glean a fraction of what had happened...
It was no use trying to make sense of it. But it wasn’t as if there were anywhere better, so she continued to walk south. No giant towers loomed here—those were now at the skyline to her back. This area was eerily deserted, yet the air still vibrated with noise. Rails ran parallel to the disused road, and she felt the rumbling of a locomotive in her feet.
Only once before did she remember riding in a train, and it was one of the failed steam-driven ones. Luckily, it had not exploded during their journey—
The journey. Out of the mountains and into Mizkov. Like cattle.
Later she would learn that her family had held out in the years after the war and tried to keep their place in the mountains, but Yahrein was serious about keeping the mountains clear of Valoii, since the treaty had awarded the ancestral lands to them.
She shivered as the iron beast gained on her. Two lamps shone at the engine’s front, and out of twin smokestacks jets of pure black trailed. She braced for the strange hiss of the steam-drive, but when it came, it was even louder and more aggressive—a banging, a growling, and the whole thing was like a mountain ram mad from winter starvation, breath steaming from its nostrils.
But instead of snow-capped mountains and trees, she walked among scorched earth. Here, in the empty lots, heaps of red sand sat in rows. There was no winter here, and surely no sheep, and the smoke was not the innocent breath of an animal, but an expression of extreme heat and dirt.
Now farther into the area, her denim coat became a soggy oven. She shrugged out of it, and the sun broadsided her shoulders with a pleasant warmth. Only minutes later, it seared her shoulders and neck. Except, of course, the scarred patch on her left shoulder, which felt nothing.
Would the danger really dissipate in two days? What if waiting only allowed Alim and his allies to gather their strength? And what about Vasi?
An hour later, her once tight plait now a frizzy, damp sketch of her military neatness, she found the factories. Tall barbed fencing cut the desert into giant squares, with industrial castles rising out of the sand. Plumes of vapour joined the city’s haze.
Ahead, there stood several strips of low buildings. One of them had to be a pub or a café. There were men in rough brown overalls coming in and out of them. Something was different, though. They were taller, and she found not a single Ehzeri cloak among them.
She stopped to gaze at the different businesses. Any concerns about Alim and escaping Blightcross drowned in Capra’s thirst. Damn, one of these places had to sell a good drink—
There was a bell tone behind her, but she ignored it. A rumbling. A skidding sound, screeching. When at last she turned to find the commotion, she sprang to dodge the carriage speeding towards her. Too late.
Capra rolled onto her back. Whatever she lay on, it was reasonably soft.
Noise, impact... the last thing she remembered.
She sat up, rubbed her head. A cutting pain seared the left side of her head with each touch. When her vision cleared, she found herself in a small room, planted on a medical bench. There was a pong of ether and the odour of alcoholic plant tinctures.
The door squeaked open. Was it a prison surgery? Bloody hell...
She rubbed her eyes, gritted her teeth, prepared for the worst. The man who walked in wore brown coveralls and a flat cap. He looked out into the hall before shutting the door.
Capra stood. Wobbled a bit, steadied herself on the bench.
“The surgeon says you’re fine. Said your knockout was more from shock than the impact of the transport.”
The man’s biceps rippled through a dingy undershirt. Capra didn’t want to find out whether or not she could take him in a fistfight, and slipped her hand behind her to the tray of implements lying beside the bench. There—a scalpel. Plenty sharp. It would be over in two seconds.
She shifted aside to cover the action. “Is that so?”
He stepped forward and reached out to her. Capra failed to react when he snaked his hand round her back and grasped her wrist. He took the knife from her hand. “Relax. Everything is fine. It was just an accident.” He dropped the knife onto the tray. “You shouldn’t walk in the middle of the road.”
The road... now she remembered. How stupid she had been, now that she recalled the heavy iron machines that rolled through the streets in Blightcross. She eyed the man for any clue about who he was. He didn’t look like a prison guard, but one could never be too sure.
“I’ll get to the point,” he said. “I’ll forget about the knife. I think I can understand where you’re coming from.”
At the same time, she both felt somewhat eased and more tense at this frankness. “Where am I?”
“A machine parts factory in Redsands. When the driver hit you, he assumed you were one of the workers here, so he loaded you into the corporate wagon and took you back. When I came to investigate the problem, I realized that you had no identification.”
She backed away.
“Relax.”
She’d relax when she left the place and found Dannac. There wasn’t much point in staying at this factory. She moved to leave.
The man barred her with his arm. “Whoa, wait a second, honey.” Now he leered at her. “Where do you think you’re going?”
She bit her lip and held back the urge to flatten him. “As you said, I’m not one of your employees. I shouldn’t keep you any longer. Sir.”
“My name is Laik and I sure as hell am not ‘Sir’.” He smiled and let go of her. “I’m a foreman here.”
“How nice. I really must get going.”
But he blocked her again. “You aren’t from here. That much is clear.”
She said nothing.
“I’ll be honest. There aren’t enough people on my shift working. I need cleaners.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I need cleaners. If I can’t find any good workers, the management is talking about allowing Ehzeri into this factory.” He grimaced as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of glass.
“And you think I want to work as a cleaner in a factory?” She almost laughed.
Laik pointed into the hall. “Let me show you the place.”
“I’ll save you the trouble by saying no thanks.”
He clenched his fists and breathed heavily. “Look, Valoii. I know things are different in Mizkov, but here, you treat a man with respect. Do I make myself clear?”
“Get out of my way. I can’t think of any way to have an intelligent conversation with someone like you.” She shoved him aside and strode into the hall. The floor was shiny and reeked of cleaner, and she passed many a bewildered man along the way.
Who did that guy think he was? She could hear his heavy steps thump behind her. He didn’t
know how damned lucky he was. These Naartlanders clearly didn’t know much about their allies if they would toss around a Valoii soldier based on her gender. Hell, a single platoon of Kommzad could probably find a way to lay waste to the Blightcross armoury without much trouble.
She passed through a glass corridor, and below was the factory floor. Giant vats of glowing orange, like the Blightcross sky melted into a pot. Chains everywhere, men with blackened faces. Sparks showered the concrete floor. And unlike the rest of the city, she saw no Ehzeri workers.
Now she had to find the way out of this damned place. But she slowed when she tried to think of what to do after leaving. She had a few days to lie low, to keep out of the public and wait for Sevari’s attention to drift to some other injustice.
Before she could work it out, a hand grabbed onto her collar and jerked her to a stop. She whirled and let fly an open-handed strike. The attacker caught her hand.
Of course, it was Laik. “Calm down.”
“You just don’t get it, do you? I don’t belong here.” But, on the other hand...
“That’s right, Valoii. Which makes my offer all the more generous. Only Naartlanders are given work in the factories. If I weren’t so nice, you’d be sent back to the city to work in the refinery with all the other immigrants. And nobody wants that.”
He let go of her, and she began to catch his subtext, which was the only reason she didn’t snap his neck. “So you’re desperate enough to keep Ehzeri out of your cleaning crews that you’d let a Valoii in, is that right?”
There was an odd flash in his eyes; a smugness. “It’s a premium job. You could do much worse.” He grinned. “And I think you have.”
The comment snatched her breath. She glanced around and stepped closer to him. “Cut the nonsense. What do you know?”
“Me? I know that I’m short on cleaning staff and you’re right here, probably jobless, and in need of a place to stay. Got me?”
A minute of silence, an appraising stare. Laik’s expression held fast. Did he know who she was? Or was he just desperate for workers and bluffing?
No matter how much she hated the backwards men of Naartland and Tamarck, Capra reminded herself that these cultural problems didn’t necessarily make the individuals who perpetuated them untrustworthy. At the worst, most were probably just ignorant clods. The facts were that the authorities were after her, and Redsands was a nice distance from the heart of the city, and the exclusive status given to these factory workers meant that the authorities probably wouldn’t think to look for her here.
It was only for a few days.
She winced once more, then said, “I think I get you, Laik.”
Dannac told himself to stop worrying about Capra—she was capable of keeping her mouth shut in dire enough circumstances. She did possess basic reasoning skills, and knew when her opinions needed to be silenced. Sometimes, anyway.
After they had split, he had taken the opposite direction and eventually came back to Corwood Park. He remembered the address from the eviction days earlier, and was pleased to find it still vacant.
He stood in the townhome’s living room now, partly hidden by the wall and gazing out the front window for signs of Alim and his men. He fought hard not to be lulled by the halcyon air of Corwood Park, the peaceful order of these apartment blocks. The order had come at a cost—it had to. It always did, like the rows of Valoii houses in the foothills, where the cost had been a thousand Ehzeri lives.
He could see into the homes across the way—the glow of their ovens and furnaces, blobs of colour spread into vaguely human forms, as if his vision saw into a world made by Helverliss’ perverted paintings. Ever since the Valoii attack that had left him blind, it was as though it had bounced him into a different reality.
Maybe the world really was completely different. Did the human senses lie?
He stopped himself from descending into a philosophical mania. There were soldiers after them, and he could not enjoy the comfort of squatting in the townhome forever. In fact, just down the road he noticed three forms heading purposefully towards the place.
He slipped away from the window and gathered his pack on the way to the rear of the house. Best not to take chances—places to live were in short supply here, and one night’s vacancy was probably pushing it.
He went into the small back yard and hopped over the fence, into the gravelly square of the neighbour's yard. He did the same three more times until he emerged on a main road continuing east.
Ahead were the cranes he had glimpsed from the flying boat. They were shorter cranes than the ones at construction sites. Cranes for cargo. He sped to a jog, headed towards the harbour. It would be as good a place as any to hide. Lots of cargo, transient workers, slackened enforcement.
When he looked to the river, it barely stood out against the sand on the other side; the water was warm. Far warmer than a river ought to be. It must have been the way the refinery straddled the river, likely using the water in its processes.
He went to the water’s edge and walked along the quays. Minutes later, he found his tentative goal: a group of depleted Ehzeri huddled near the ground, tossing around a pair of dice.
They stopped as soon as they caught sight of him. Gambling bastards. Gambling and charging interest—two things expressly forbidden by the Blacksmith. Perhaps his people were better off with these weaklings rotting away across the ocean.
“Good day,” Dannac said.
A short man whose cap was askew and smothered his small head approached. “I’ll be damned, the cursed one with three eyes. I had thought you to be a myth.”
“Who did you have to betray to get back your sight, anyway?” asked another man.
Dannac reached for his hand-cannon, but stopped short of the concealed holster—it might be best not to advertise the weapon at this point. “I need a place to stay. Perhaps a very small loan to cover provisions for a few days as well.”
“Loan?” The short one snickered. “Yes, let me just confer with the other board members of this fine financial establishment.”
The man’s companions guffawed.
He began to circle the short man, cutting him off from the rest. “I remember you.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. The raid about three years ago. Ilagam, near the foothills.”
“I see, I see. You must have read about it in the news, because I doubt the son of a coward who squandered his family’s power in Tamarck to entertain our oppressors would have the courage to fight with us.”
Dannac stepped closer, pushing the man further away from his friends. The others looked on, expressions unchanged. “I was there when a certain group of fighters were directed to join the vihssat at the head of the attack and defend him so that we could at least take out their command. I was there when that group saw the numbers of Valoii, and realized how utterly useless they were despite their big talk and love of violence and collection of blades and pathetic bombs that never work. I saw you all surrender. I know you, and I know what pathetic, unworthy trash you all are, and I need your help.”
The little man blinked and Dannac saw a shift in the man’s complexion. “It was a stupid attack. It never would have worked.”
“It did, in the end. We did win, no thanks to you.”
“And two days later, the Valoii came with more men and maybe a new war engine and squashed hundreds and took the land as if nothing had ever happened.”
Dannac said nothing.
“In a way, maybe your father was smart. He did what he wanted with vihs, he followed his heart. He did not risk his life fighting for nothing.”
“Like you.”
“Yes, if you like. What do you want?”
Dannac smirked. “I told you.”
“I can give you no loan. I know some businessmen who are always needing help, though.”
“What kind of work?”
“Smuggling.”
He shook his head. “I don’t need any more attention from Sevari
’s people. I need something legitimate and safe.”
“Legitimate? Smuggling is the most legitimate thing going on in this town. Everyone knows it happens, everyone agrees with it. If you contract yourself out as private security, you will deal with more papers and officials than if you just do what everyone expects and deliver a few packages of contraband to the armoury.”
The armoury—they had to be joking. He said nothing to the man, instead letting the silence speak for him.
“Yes, the armoury. That is all you need to do. It is not nearly as hard as it sounds.”
“If this is so accepted, why is it illegal?”
“Why must you ask so many questions?”
Dannac thought about it and gazed at the freighters bobbing in the river. Perhaps the man was right. His stomach growled, and he was thirsty. He had grown used to comfortable conditions, thanks to Capra, and besides did not trust that he could fall asleep in an alley here without being robbed or murdered.
“Fine.”
For now, at least, it was fine. But what would he do if Capra failed to show at their planned meeting? What if they never reconnected?
Could he find the painting without her? Or would he be stuck with these other Ehzeri? He could smuggle himself off the island, but then he would be back where he started: on the continent, a wanted terrorist, and utterly alone. His own people had become careless and apathetic concerning matters outside fighting the Valoii, and the rest of the world was convinced that he wanted to destroy everything of value to everyone.
The little man led him around the quays to a yacht. Its sail showed a Tamarck folk-art depiction of a fire giant, all orange and red, with a long tail ending in spikes.
For the first time in a year or more, he felt the isolation. The sense of being cut from the rest of humanity because he could not see them. Had he really grown that dependent on Capra? She had made him feel normal, and even made him laugh at his own misfortune once or twice. Now he began to sink into a hard coldness that he hadn’t realized he had overcome.
He focused back on the yacht and forced himself to forget about the issue. This was reality—everyone was alone, including himself.