Pix’s chin dropped. She looked about warily.
“No. But my turn be coming.”
“Your turn? Who decides when it’s your turn?”
“I decide,” Pix answered, but she looked around uncomfortably. “Swoles can’t be forced. They need to be offer’d.”
“So, you volunteer?”
Pix considered the word before nodding. “Every fem in Troyus can offer once her river breaks. Some wait though ’til they’s three and one, knowin’ the rules stay a fem’s sands when she’s swole. It’s bad play, but many do.”
“But not you?”
Pix shrugged, but Friday could see the fear hiding just beneath the surface.
“Truth is I ain’t ever ’posed well, even for a Yellow. I stewed the edi’s, fingered the threads, but by some and some, I always be faultin’. If’n I could hunt like Reds or thumb like Greens, ’haps I’d stick. But as the sayin’ goes, an orphan’s work is his worth.”
Friday understood. In her time, she’d known kids who didn’t fit in or who failed to meet their tribe’s expectations. Back then, she’d held them in contempt. But now she felt differently. Maybe it was her time with Crusoe. Or the fact she was pregnant. But she’d come to realize everyone has gifts. The trick was knowing how to identify and nurture them.
“How do you choose the boy?”
“You don’t. The three and ones earn the right to choose you.”
“So, you don’t know who the father of your child will be? Does that scare you?”
“Swoles serve Troyus. It’s our honor and duty.”
She said it loudly, but Friday could hear the fear underneath. She was about to press her for more when the baby started to fidget. Pix looked nervous a moment before turning the infant over and rocking it on her forearm. The baby drifted back to sleep.
“A handy tool,” Friday said. “Did you learn that on your own?”
“The walls do the learning,” Pix said, nodding to the walls of the room.
Friday hadn’t noticed before, but someone had painted stick-figure images in maternal situations across the room. Each cluster depicted a lesson to be learned. From conception to pregnancy to birthing and beyond. In the absence of mothers, grandmothers, and wet nurses, here their wisdom persevered.
“How long have these been here?” Friday asked.
“Since the far and back I ’pose. Times they fade, but when they do, it falls to us to remake ’em. We dark the lines. Make the voice known again. See there? That be mine. It speaks what a swole ’posed to do when a whelp won’t take to her.”
Some of the images were disturbing, like one with a blade posed over a mother’s belly when her child was breached. Yet these hard lessons needed to be taught.
“Does you ever listen to it?” Pix asked.
“What?” Friday asked, confused.
Pix pulled an old piece of equipment from her pocket. It was a hose of some kind with two metal pieces.
“Go on,” Pix said. “Put ’em in your ears.”
Friday reluctantly did. Then Pix set the round, cold end to Friday’s belly. She startled, shocked, then went still, as a gentle patter, like the falling of rain, came in double beats.
Bu-dum, bu-dum, bu-dum.
It was both terrifying and exhilarating. Friday had done her best to push back her fears about her child. And yet here, in this small room, she could hear its heartbeat and know it was alive. She immediately thought of Crusoe, wanting to share this with him. When she realized she couldn’t, tears welled in her eyes.
“Is it wrong?” Pix asked. “Do you hear nothing?”
“No,” Friday said softly. “I hear it fine.”
“Then why does you cry?”
“Because I wish my husband was here to hear this.”
Pix blushed, then looked around. “I liked a boy like that once,” she whispered. “He was called Eight cuz he was spurt two fingers shy. Still climbed trees like a monkey.” She laughed.
“And where is he now?” Friday asked.
Pix’s smile faded. “His sands run out. And now I fear the one to choose me will be Fang.”
“Why?”
“He led the Reds at three but waited. Then he turned Blue but still waited. Now, he’s lead of the Fives. His time has come. And when he looks at me…” She swallowed. “I know he wants to hurt me. He’s cruel.”
Friday knelt beside her.
“Men are often cruel. And you are right to be wary of him. My father used to say that true kings are those who fear the crown. Because they understand its weight but keep their eyes to the sky. Fang wears the crown, but others carry the burden. If he seeks a girl that is meek, you must show you are not that girl. You are strong. Do you understand?”
Pix looked to the floor and nodded. Friday reached out and lifted her chin.
“Do you understand?”
This time, Pix nodded and said, “I ’stand.”
Later that night, a short Green girl came in to let Friday know Robinson was waiting for her outside. They only had a few minutes, but he explained his plan.
“You will do this tonight?” Friday asked.
“Tomorrow. Or the evening after. I need a little more time at the library, and by then, I should have the rest of the ammunition made.”
“I do not like you going alone.”
“I’m not. Underfoot’s going with me.”
Friday snorted. “And should you cross paths with these Fire Lords, what will the little one do? Tickle their feet?”
“You might be surprised. He’s a resourceful kid. Though there’s something he’s not telling me.”
“I should be coming with you,” Friday said before coughing.
At first, it was a single cough. Then it turned into more until Friday was doubled over with a racking cough that hurt her chest.
“Are you all right?” Robinson asked when it was over.
Friday saw the worry in his eyes. How many times had she seen it before? It was maddening. Not even her own mother and father worried about her as Crusoe did. She had thought of it as a weakness on both their parts. That he believed it necessary suggested she had revealed some vulnerability—as if she needed to be rescued again and again. And yet the more she looked into his eyes, the more she felt as if she was looking into her own. The desperation he felt to protect and care for her was the same as she felt for the life growing inside of her. Only then did she understand one of the most agonizing truths of love was the fear of losing it.
“Will you do something for me?” she asked.
“Of course,” Robinson said.
She told him to close his eyes. After they were closed, she slipped the stethoscope’s earpieces over his ears. When he heard the heartbeat, he smiled. Then he opened his eyes and the smile slipped away. Friday was holding the stethoscope to her belly. She watched his chin tremble, but in a rare moment, he could not speak.
“Our child,” Friday said, her voice barely a whisper, “needs you as much as I do. Remember that when you are away from me.”
He reached for her then and pulled her close, maybe closer than he had ever held her before. She thought she might have felt his heartbeat pulsing against her chest, speaking what he could not. With each beat it made a promise. Of always and forever.
Chapter Nine
The Fire Lords
They set out after sundown. Fang had hemmed and hawed, but in the end, he knew something needed to be done about the Fire Lords, and he wasn’t willing to risk his own skin. His only caveat was that Underfoot shed his colors. That way if the boy died, it wouldn’t come back to haunt them.
Snapfinger, on the other hand, was furious. She insisted she go along to protect the orphan’s interests. Robinson thought it was because she wanted any credit of success for herself. Robinson mentioned another dream in which he saw a girl in red burned on the side of the road. After that, Snapfinger paled and never said another word.
Only when they were unable to see the glowing braziers atop Troyus did Unde
rfoot say where they were going.
“Two towns over. That’s where the mother nests.”
“You’ve been there before then?”
The boy’s eyes shifted. “Greens ain’t ’lowed to leave Troyus.”
“Look, kid, I get it. You must play by the rules to stay alive. But out here, there are a different set of rules. The ones the Fire Lords play by. I need to know what we’re heading into. So if you’re worried about me telling your friends that you like to sneak out at night, don’t. My best friend back home does the same.”
“You’ll keep the mums?”
“Yes. You can trust me.”
“The Fire Lords be rooted in a ’finery. Fore my sis left, she took us there, followin’ the moth … the plane, which sleeps inside.”
“How many are there?”
“My eyes saw two score. No more.”
“Forty,” Robinson said. “That’s not good, but it’s not exactly game over either. What about defenses?”
“Scouts. Fire throwers. But no guns.”
“Okay. And the road between here and there?”
“Huh?”
“What are the dangers? Are there afflicted? More of those snakes like in the desert?”
“The serpentes stick to the patch. They can’t run the ’urt, only sand. Lopers pass, but not often. The way should be clear.”
They turned from the road and skirted the edge of an old waterway before diverging at some old railroad tracks that led out of town. Underfoot continued to ruminate on Robinson’s words.
“So, trust be like crosses?” he asked.
“In a way. They’re both promises. Trust means I give my word and you give yours and we both believe the other will keep it.”
“For how long?”
“Hopefully forever. Think of trust as a tree: the longer it stands, the stronger it becomes.”
“Did a boy tell you that?”
“My father. Of course, my wife has a saying too: Trust, but bring your axe.”
“Your wife scares me.”
“Heck, kid. Sometimes she scares me too.”
The sky was clear when they passed through the second town, but as they approached the third, some clouds billowed in. The three-quarter moon slowly disappeared as a stiff wind rose, rustling the sparse shrubs and forcing Robinson to pull his jacket tight.
The snake bite had done more than injure his foot. It had left his boot torn, front hood lolling like a dog’s tongue. Finding replacements would be one more task to add to the list.
Just when it seemed like they might walk all night, Robinson smelled the heavy chemical odor of burning petroleum. Underfoot signaled him to break from the tracks and down an embankment. They pushed through a small copse of trees, and Underfoot pointed.
The refinery sat two hundred meters away in an open field, a sprawling complex of tanks, towers, and Byzantine piping that loomed four or five stories tall. Sentries could be seen atop various catwalks, carrying lanterns that spilled black smoke into the sky.
More guards walked the ground, some huddled around burning barrels while others patrolled the ground. They all looked like hulking brutes until Robinson realized they were carrying something on their backs.
Robinson scanned the area before pointing.
“There's grass in that gully there that we could use for cover. If it’s not booby-trapped. Good thing is I don’t see any dogs, so the only thing we need to be wary of are those men on the tower. Clouds will help, but it sure would be nice if it rained.”
“Don’t smell rain,” Underfoot said.
“Wishful thinking on my part. Okay, we wait for the magic hour, and then we go in.”
“Magic?” Underfoot repeated nervously.
Robinson chuckled. “It’s just an expression. People sleep their deepest a couple hours before dawn. That’s when our magic will happen.”
Underfoot smiled, but it vanished an instant later when one of the sentries atop the highest tower shot a torrent of flames into the air. A second stream erupted from its sister tower, followed by two on the ground. Then a bell began to toll. From an inner courtyard, a buzz of activity commenced, including the shrill whine of mechanical engines firing up.
Motorized cycles blasted out of the refinery and sped down the long, dark road leading away. Each rider, stopped at a set interval and waited. Then a familiar drone was carried on the wind.
“There,” Robinson said at last, pointing to the darkened shadow moving across the gray clouds. The plane was returning.
On the runway, the riders sent their own streaming torrents of fire into the sky. The packs these Fire Lords carried were obviously flamethrowers.
With the runway lit, the plane descended quickly toward the fiery cordon until its tires bit into the road, sending gravel shooting in all directions. The plane’s engine revved so high Underfoot had to cover his ears. The plane began its long slow crawl toward the refinery. All at once, the fiery salutation concluded, and the darkness returned as the motorcycles joined the plane and returned to the bowels of the refinery as all sound died away.
“Nothing like a good show to top off the evening,” Robinson said as he slapped Underfoot on the shoulder. The boy let out the air he’d been holding. “Can you sleep?”
“Not after that,” Underfoot said.
“Good,” Robinson said as he lay down in the lee of a tree. “You have first watch. Keep your eyes and ears open, but don’t wake me unless someone is headed this way. I’ll relieve you in two hours.”
Underfoot didn’t bother asking him how Robinson would be able to mark the time if he was asleep. He trusted him to keep to his word.
It was sometime later when Robinson woke with a start. His heart was thundering, though he couldn’t say why. He looked around for Underfoot, but the boy was gone.
The night had gotten colder, and a mist had settled in over the terrain, making it hard to see beyond a few feet. He hadn’t heard any alarms, so he didn’t think the boy had left for the refinery, but Robinson was having trouble reading him. Something drove the boy, but he couldn’t say what.
Robinson felt something sting his neck, and he slapped the skin, coming away with dead ants on his fingers. He looked up at the towers and vaguely made out the flickering lamps of the sentries on station. He saw no movement.
He decided to sit still and let his ears listen to the night. Yet his heartbeat was going crazy, and he didn’t understand it. Something had him on edge. Instinct told him to pull his pistol, but gunfire would only alert the Fire Lords to his presence. Instead, he drew his axe out slowly and stood.
The grass was high near the gully. Robinson couldn’t find any tracks from the boy. Other than the occasional sway of shrubs in the wind, nothing moved. Robinson didn’t believe in premonitions, yet he trusted his instincts. Something had woken him. Something told him he was not alone.
He moved cautiously through the grass, careful to avoid twigs that might snap beneath his feet. His breath was visible in the air, the chill creeping up his spine.
In the distance, he heard a rustle and thought he saw movement in the grass. He wanted to move closer. His feet wouldn’t let him. Then he heard a short inhalation of air—almost a hiss. He looked to his right and saw Underfoot kneeling in some bushes. He had a blade in his hand.
Robinson slowly made his way to the boy, who pointed down. Robinson’s heart seized as if it was suddenly incased in ice. There, in the dirt, was a large set of paw prints. They could have belonged to a mountain lion or even a bear, but only one figure came to mind.
The old terror came back. Robinson fought it down. He waited several minutes but heard nothing else but the wind. Eventually, he signaled Underfoot to back up with him until they sank back down into the gully.
“What is it?” the boy whispered eventually. “What’s out there?”
“Probably a bobcat or mountain lion. Don’t worry. It won’t come this close to the refinery. Most animals like that typically avoid men.”
Most. Not all.
“I’m going to head over now and take a quick look around. I want you to wait here while I do.”
“But I want to go with you,” Underfoot said. “I’m not afraid.”
“I know that. But I’ll move quicker if I’m on my own.”
The boy’s disappointment was clear.
“Hey, I need you here, okay? I need you to keep an eye out for those sentries. If any of them work around my flank, it’s your job to let me know.”
“How?”
“Can you whistle? Like a bird?”
“Birds don’t sing at night. But I can yip like a coyote.”
“That’s good. Once means someone’s on my tail. Twice means they’re onto us. All right?”
Underfoot nodded.
“I’ll be right back.” Robinson squeezed his shoulder before slipping away.
Robinson waited for the sentry to turn away before he stole across the field toward the outer door of the plant. Once inside, he found the hallways shrouded in darkness and let his senses be his guide. The pipe-filled corridor was hot and smelled of oil, sweat, and burning fuel.
A single lamp illuminated the long corridor, marked with stygian hollows where anything might live. Robinson passed the vacant doorways and silent ladders in lieu of moving toward a droning noise far ahead.
Eventually, the amber glow of a room beckoned. Robinson slipped inside. The room was hot; a furnace lit in the corner cast flickering shadows from its gate. At a table nearby, one man lay hunkered down, an iron bar at his feet. His large chest rose with each intake of breath, the table rattling as he snored.
Against the far wall, a second man slept on a cot, a crossbow hanging limply from his hand. Robinson wanted that crossbow, but he didn’t want to kill two men to get it. He decided to move on.
The rooms spilled together, dark and foreboding. Robinson worried he might get lost. Then a man stepped out of the doorway in front of him and Robinson swung his axe without hesitation. The flat of the axe hit the back of the man’s head, and he fell with a thump. He dragged the unconscious man back into a lavatory, dumping him near the commodes.
The corridor continued to wind deeper into the complex until Robinson saw firelight streaming from another room. One look inside and he knew he’d found the heart of the refinery with two dozen men and women sleeping on cots and the floor, spread about the room.
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