Jana sensed approval from the officers for Bartok’s plan. The Troops' experience at Wind Point Plateau had proved that such a task could be done. Jana could feel a determined confidence throughout the room.
Bartok ordered some of the officers to arrange for the wagons and some to send out patrols to stop any looting. He also had Redwood Gate and First Gate closed until the situation was in hand. Riders were sent out into the City to gather information on the damage caused by the earthquake and the Dead Wind. Fires still smoldered; some water and waste lines had been disrupted.
Bartok dismissed the officers and motioned for Jana to come forward. As she approached him she could feel the satisfaction radiate from him. There was no doubt of the Troops' loyalty and confidence in Bartok, and he seemed to drink in the approval.
“Scout Jana,” he said. “I'm glad you were here for the planning.” He reached out take her arm, but Jana turned slightly, and Bartok's hand missed making contact. Her movement hadn’t made him look foolish, however, and he fell into step with a stumbling grace. “S-stop doing that,” he said with a slight stammer.
“What's that, Captain?”
“Oh, never mind.” He took a breath. “What did you find at the Scout Lodge?”
“All dead.” Jana bowed her head for a moment. “I may be the only scout left.” With these words, her grief took on the added dimension of loneliness.
Bartok touched her arm gently and, folding her in his arms, held her as she cried.
Seven
The City: Government Building
Early morning found the courtyard overflowing with people. Most had tied cloth over their mouths and noses to filter the growing stench of the dead. Bartok looked out the glass doors that opened up to the speaker's balcony, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of Jana. He would have to be careful; Jana was looking too much like a woman and too little like a scout.
“Nance!” Bartok shouted over his shoulder.
Nance trotted over followed by two boys.
“Yes, Captain?”
“Who are they?”
“They call themselves messengers and are rumored to be linked with Hoodeye the Beggar. For a small coin they carry messages to and from any part of the City. They are far more efficient than the limited force we have. So far they’ve been quite useful.”
The boys looked harmless, even clean, though a bit thin. Bartok nodded. “Call out the guard,” he told Nance. “We start now.”
“Yes, Captain.” Nance jotted on his ever-present pad, tore the paper free and handed the note to one of the lads. “Give this to Lieutenant Stev.”
The boy nodded and ran out of the room.
Through the glass doors, Bartok watched two squads of horsemen take their positions under the archways on either side of the Speaker’s Balcony. When the crowd became aware of the riders, Bartok threw open the glass doors and stepped out onto the balcony.
The murmuring of the crowd rose for a moment and then settled into silence. Bartok opened himself to the emotions coming from this throng— grief, fear, anticipation, even hope.
“We have survived the Dead Wind!” the captain told them. “Many did not! Those who did not are waiting for us to do them honor. The Dead Wind caught the City Troop at Wind Point Plateau. Each surviving Trooper loaded two fallen companions onto wagons, and then we gave the dead to the sea. We will do the same here in the City. Each one of you will go back to your district and start loading wagons from there. The City Troop will direct and assist you with everything. When a wagon is full, the load will be driven to the docks and the fallen will be placed on barges. The barges will be brought to middle of the bay and burned.”
Bartok fell silent for a moment, waiting for people to take in what he had said. When he could feel they were beginning to accept the plan, he continued. “We are a strong and diverse lot, and there is much good here in the City. We cannot let the City die with the Dead Wind! After we have honored our dead together, each of you will go back to the trade you had. If you are the only one left, the business is yours. If there are others in your trade, group together and make it work!”
A cheer of enthusiasm rang in the courtyard as the people shouted approval. As the sound died Bartok raised his hand, “First we honor the dead!”
The squads of riders came from under the archways and led the procession of people back to the City streets. The terrible task had begun.
Bartok watched from the balcony. Though the spirit of the people was strong, he feared that they wouldn’t be able to meet the enormity of their task. He turned away from the glass doors and found Nance and a girl of ten or so at his side. “Now, what do you have?”
“Our patrols questioned teams of dockworkers and teamsters and reports are that First Gate, the Wharf District and the Market District are under the direction of the merchant Ronzal. They gave no trouble when the patrol closed First Gate, yet they did not seem to think it was a good idea.”
“Why is that, Nance?”
“Something to do with farmers, but the report is unclear. However, Captain,” Nance waved a letter in the air, “this young lady has just delivered this message from Ronzal.”
Bartok took the paper, broke the seal and read.
“I have been invited talk with Ronzal at the Cabbage, noon today.” Bartok placed the letter on the desk while he sat. “What do you know of Ronzal? I recall he is considered successful, even wise.”
“Wise I'm sure, sir. But because he is rich and successful, he may consider you a threat. Be aware of danger, Captain.”
“Oh I don't think so, Nance. But I will take a proper guard.”
Bartok took paper and pen and wrote a note of acceptance. He came around the desk, held out the note and a coin. “Here, young lady, take this to Ronzal.”
The girl took the paper, bobbed her head, and dashed from the room.
The City: Scout Lodge
Jana had heard Bartok speak to the crowd. She had felt the people’s hope, and she held that hope in her own heart as she drove the wagon to the Scout Lodge.
Two young troopers had volunteered to help her with the bodies at the lodge. They were respectful, but full of questions about being a scout, and what would happen to the scouts. Jana knew that re-establishing the scouts was a problem she had to resolve. She told the troopers that once the City was clear of the dead, she would talk to them about becoming scouts.
The three loaded the wagon with solemnity but speed. On horseback, Jana led the wagon along the long, downward road around Government Square, past Market Square and through the Wharf District to the docks.
Crying on Bartok's shoulder was unacceptable. He was a comfort in her loneliness, true, but she did not want this to go any further. Jana gathered her thoughts, as the wagon rolled past the walled-garden estates of the wealthy merchant and shipping families. The grand houses stood silent.
Master Aiken had been fond of pointing out to his student that true comfort comes from the inside. She felt lost and alone, though, as if the weight of the City was on her shoulders. She longed to talk to Big Red. Bartok was too confusing; she did not trust him enough to confide in him.
The wagon pulled through the shop area just above the main market. The two- and three-story town houses here were ocher-brick with red-tiled roofs. Many had shops on their ground floor, and Jana spied an open café. On the next corner there was also a tavern doing brisk business.
Other vehicles filled with the bodies of the fallen rolled along the winding streets toward the bay. Jana and her wagon approached Market Square, a complex of buildings dedicated to feeding the City. This square was surrounded by a large paved plaza, which is where farmers would set up booths and trade their produce. Today only a few stands were open.
The south corner of Market Square held the Cabbage, a two-story building with the merchants’ offices and a large common room as well as an inn with fifteen guest rooms. The common room was open to the public for drinks. Jana supposed that peoples’ need for comfort and diversi
on prompted the tavern owners and their families to be the first back in business.
The road began to leave the Warehouse District, and as they neared the City Bay, a breeze lifted the fetid air. Jana was horrified to notice that she had become used to the smell of the dead.
Jana's wagon pulled up to the barge, and she and the two troopers began to unload the bodies in silence. The City Troop directed the operation with grim diligence. When their task was done, Jana bowed to the young men who had helped her. “Thank you for surviving the Dead Wind. Thank you for your help with this unfortunate task. When we recruit new scouts, I will let you know.”
She mounted her horse. “Please return the wagon, and report to your sergeant.”
After bowing awkwardly, the two young men climbed onto the wagon. Jana watched them for a moment before she turned north and rode along the Bay Wall, tears on her cheeks.
Woodside Mill
Bell pushed the oatmeal around with her finger, her head propped by her arm on the kitchen table. She missed her mother. She missed her mother most at breakfast—missed her voice, her touch, her warmth and earthiness.
“Bell!” Grandfather Lute called from outside the kitchen garden window. “Let’s get going. It’s time to move the horses.”
Since the Dead Wind, Grandfather Lute had been trimming the operation of Woodside Mill. The amount of work involved in keeping everything running was beyond what the two of them could handle. Today most of the remaining horses would go to pasture, where they would be able to fend for themselves.
Bell stood up and put her bowl into the crowded dishpan. Dirty dishes! She gave a melancholy smile thinking of yet one more reason she missed her mother. Grandfather often said memories were made for smiling. Maybe this was what he meant.
“Coming, Grandfather,” she called.
Coat on, she joined her grandfather in the walk to the stables, with Scruff the sheepdog darting ahead. The usual early morning fog clung to the redwood trees. Bell listened with pleasure to the sounds of the birds: blue jays calling, woodpeckers tapping. The first days after the Dead Wind, she hadn’t left Grandfather Lute's side. Then time took on a new pattern, a new normal, and the fear and deep sorrow receded somewhat. Now, she felt lonely at times but not most times.
Just over the main bridge, the mill stood next to the stream, where it could take full advantage of a waterfall. The forge was beyond, sheltered by live oaks. Across the main circular drive were the stable and a small warehouse for the drayage business. Usually this area would be booming with activity, but now only the birds sang. The stout oak wood gates stood open, hanging from the tall stone walls that protected the front of Woodside Mill.
Grandfather Lute led the way to the stables. Scruff barked a warning and dashed toward the main gates. Bell heard horses and a wagon coming fast. She sprinted for the gates, Grandfather loping behind. A pair of horses pulled an unusual looking coach into the yard; two young men leapt to the ground and hurriedly pushed the gates closed.
Seeing who it was, Bell dropped the crossbar and threw the lock bolt into place. Grandfather Lute called out, “Mark and Matt Brody! You are alive!” He hugged them. “Welcome!” he said, and then asked, “What’s the big rush?”
“We ran a road block at the Roadhouse Inn on Ridge Road,” Mark said. “Some of them went for their horses. They’re after us,”
“We don’t want to put you in danger,” Matt added, “but we didn’t know where else to go.”
Grandfather Lute took charge. “Bell, Matt, run to the forge and bring back staves and swords. Mark, climb on the rock behind the wall—the one to the right of the gate. You’ll be able to see over the wall. There are baskets with stones you can throw at anyone who threatens. I’ll take the rock platform on the other side of the gate.”
Scruff started barking. Horse’s hooves and shouts heralded five riders galloping down Mill Road. Bell climbed up next to Grandfather Lute and handed him his sword. She leaned her staff on the wall and picked up two plum-sized stones from one of the baskets.
The riders slowed their pace when they saw the gate closed. The lead rider, dressed in finery scavenged from the victims of the Dead Wind, rode up right up to the closed gate and kicked the wood with the heal of his boot. The gate proved solid, and the man called to his band, “Scale the walls and open this gate.”
Grandfather Lute shouted, “No entry! Turn your horses and ride away!”
“Or what, old man?” the leader demanded, “I want that wagon, give it over, and we’ll leave you alive!” He rode toward the wall that held Grandfather Lute. Though mounted on his horse, he could not see over the wall. Two of his riders rode to the gate and dismounted. “Should we try to climb here, Rude?” one of the men shouted.
“Climb anywhere you can get over, dummy. Just get that gate open!”
“Last warning!” Grandfather Lute called, “Leave now!”
“Ha! Old man, what can you do?”
“Now!” signaled Grandfather Lute. Bell and the brothers hurled rocks with speed and accuracy. The climbers at the gate retreated quickly attempting to hide behind their horses. Rude’s horse was hit in the rump and reared up tossing Rude to the ground. Bell’s throw caught Rude in the back as he staggered after his horse. Once out of range and back on his horse, Rude raised his fist and shouted, “I’m the ruler around here! There is no one to stand against me! You will pay. I want that wagon!” He turned his horse and sped up the road, his riders fell in behind.
Bell watched the angry pack disappear where the Mill Road turned behind the edge of the woods dense with poison oak. She jumped down from the wall and went to inspect the Brody brothers’ much sought-after wagon. Grandfather Lute joined Bell. Rather than the boxy norm, the boys had crafted a coach with curving lines by bending the oak frame. A door opened out in the center of both sides.
“I really like the way the sides curve,” Bell said. “It looks fast.”
Mark pointed to the front wheel assembly, “We modified the suspension for a smoother ride.”
Grandfather Lute peered at the wheel. “Your father spoke of this coach. He was very proud of you boys.”
“With our folk killed by the Dead Wind, we thought we might hook up with one of your runs to the City and maybe sell the coach and build another.”
“I suspect it will be some time before we go to the City. But you must stay and live with us. We can put you in the bunkhouse. With the likes of Rude around, we must band together.”
Matt and Mark looked at each other. “Yes,” Matt said, and Mark added, “Thank you. We are honored to stay and help.”
Bell smiled. Seeing the Brody brothers had lifted her secret fear that she and Grandfather Lute were the only people left alive. “There might be others who are alone and need protection from Rude,” Bell said, leading the way to the livery. At the main doors, she ordered Scruff, “Stay! Guard!” The dog stood by the door and looked back to the gates.
Bell helped the brothers tend their horses, and then the three young people followed Grandfather Lute to the two-story bunkhouse. He opened the windows and prepared the stove to be lit.
“This bunkhouse was never completed,” Grandfather Lute said, pointing to the half erected interior walls. “From the looks of that coach, I say you are the perfect pair to finish the work. Plenty of lumber and everything you might need is stored around back. Design as you see fit.”
“Can we start now?” Mark asked.
“Not quite yet. I’d like you to help us move the horses up to the pasture. Then we can stop at the forge. I’m hoping you’ll take a look at my trip hammer. It hasn’t been working quite right.”
“A trip hammer?” Mark said. “I hope we can figure it out.”
“No need to worry,” Grandfather Lute. “You’ll do the best you can with it. But after your innovations on that coach, the trip hammer should be easy. Now, let’s move those horses.”
Eight
The City
Bartok rode with a mounted squad that was
under Lieutenant Stev, a quick, hard veteran. The streets held many wagons loaded with the fallen. Stev led the party into the circular drive to the front of the Cabbage Inn. He and Bartok dismounted and entered the ornate glass doors to the Cabbage common room.
The room was not as crowded as it usually would be at the lunch hour. But the smell of cooking food and hum of conversation was a pleasant contrast to the stench and grim work going on outside.
“Captain Bartok?”
Bartok turned to a large, richly attired young man. He admired the young man’s clothing and longed for such finery. “I am Bartok.”
“I welcome you on behalf of Ronzal. Please come this way.” The man led them through an archway into a tile-floored hallway that was lined with closed doors. The young man opened the third door on the right and stood aside. Lieutenant Stev took up station outside in the hall.
The room was much larger than Bartok expected. The far wall contained tall glass doors that looked out onto Market Square. A beautifully crafted staircase led to the upper floor. Everything Bartok could see was the finest that could be had. Ronzal sat at a small, ornate wooden table, with service set for two. Bartok noted that the settings shared a corner of the table and that he would not be seated with his back to the door. He eyed Ronzal with curiosity and growing respect.
The slim man of middle years rose and bowed to Bartok. “Thank you for surviving the Dead Wind, Captain.”
Bartok stopped in the middle of his own bow. “I thought that greeting was used only among the City Troop.”
“The greeting is being used everywhere, throughout the City.” Ronzal smiled.
Bartok finished his bow and responded, “Thank you for surviving the Dead Wind.”
“Please, sit, Captain. You have become the talk of the City. You bring hope and purpose. People seem to like your plan, and most of them are following your orders.”
Bartok sat. “I’m just doing my duty, as any officer would. Only through the luck of Anaso the Trickster was I the only officer to live.” The old captain’s angry face floated before Bartok’s mind’s eye, and he inwardly shuddered.
The Dead Wind Page 5