by Carrie Patel
Malone continued to watch the shifting man while Callo spoke.
“That was a risk we all discussed and agreed upon when we voted. There are no guarantees. But we said we wanted better lives for ourselves and better opportunities for our children.”
The shifting man had a thick, nearly black beard, but behind it she could see his mouth pull into a tight frown of agreement. He was straining to keep from nodding along with Callo.
“But how do we know about the rest of the communes?” another voice called. “It’s all well and good for us to take this step, but if they don’t follow through, we’ll be left high and dry.”
The din of voices rose, drowning out Callo as he raised his hands and shouted for order and silence.
The angry, bearded man finally stepped to the railing. “Enough.” His voice cut through the roar. The arguments subsided and, one by one, heads turned toward him. “You think the other communes aren’t having the same conversation? Questioning whether we can be trusted, whether the others can be trusted? This,” he said and pointed an accusing finger at them all, “this is the fastest way to prove them right. The fastest way to turn against one another. And when Sato’s eye is already on us, we don’t need more enemies.”
Malone remembered Sato’s assurance that the movement had a leader.
Another voice piped up from the crowd. “Sato ignored our first three letters. How do we know we even got his attention?”
Just then, the speaker turned his searchlight gaze to Malone. “Trust me when I say he’s listening.” His look was brief but intense. Only Callo seemed to pick up on it, and then he, too, saw Malone, taking in her pallor and her perfectly black attire in a single moment of anticipation and dread.
Callo took advantage of the lull. He cleared his throat. “Friends, I think it’s clear from this meeting that we’ve all got a lot of work to do.” He spoke to the crowd, but his eyes kept darting back to Malone. “We’ve taken the first step. Now, we wait and see how Recoletta responds.”
The crowd dispersed in that grudging, deliberate way of grumbling schoolchildren. Malone stayed in place while the crowd parted around her, a stone in the stream. When most of the assembly had left the square, she approached the porch. The group standing there watched her with a mixture of hope and trepidation.
She counted six men and four women including Callo and the firebrand. Callo stepped forward. “You’ve come from the city.”
Malone nodded.
He looked back toward the square, where the remaining onlookers had turned their curious attention back to the porch. “Let’s get inside where we can speak with more privacy.”
Malone and the rest of the contingent followed Callo into the building. It looked like a meeting house of some kind, with long wooden tables and a line of windows spattered with grit. The air felt stuffy and close, baked by the sun overhead. There was a stairway at each end of the room, one leading up and the other leading down. Malone instinctively headed for the latter.
The firebrand called out. “That’s for potatoes and emergencies, city dweller. This way.”
She followed the rest of the group up the stairs. Sweat beads popped along her arms as the wooden steps creaked underfoot. She realized her fear was probably irrational, but she also didn’t see the point in building rooms so far above solid ground.
The upper floor was even more stifling than the lower room. The firebrand eyed her as she removed her coat. She kept herself from undoing the top button of her shirt and rolling up her sleeves, but she was sorely tempted.
“Let’s open some windows,” the man said. “I don’t think our guest is accustomed to the climate.”
Now that they were all gathered, she got a better look at him. He seemed younger than she’d first guessed – probably in his mid-thirties. The lines on his brow were sun and sternness, not age. The face underneath the coal-black beard was probably even considered handsome.
The eyes of the other leaders darted between Callo and this younger man. There were questions on their lips, but the bearded man was in no hurry.
“A drink, Miss...”
“Malone. And yes, at the risk of sounding clichéd, I’ll have what you’re having.”
A woman wearing a blue cotton blouse disappeared down the stairs while the firebrand pulled a mismatched pair of glasses from a cabinet against the wall. Next to them, she caught a glimpse of earthenware jugs, tin cups, and copper mugs. A pair of windows slid open. The dry breeze brought relief.
“Please,” Callo said, gesturing at the chairs around a large oak table.
Malone took her seat, and she took the stemmed glass that Callo’s bearded counterpart set in front of her. She recognized the mark of a Recolettan glassmaker on the foot, but the thick bowl and gaudily spiraled stem had been out of fashion in the city for at least a decade.
As the firebrand finished distributing the assorted stemware, the woman in blue returned, her steps thudding and creaking across the downstairs floor and finally up the staircase. She handed one long-necked bottle to him and uncorked the other herself, and between the two of them, they began filling the glasses around the table.
The liquid that sloshed into Malone’s glass was an almost colorless wine that glowed with the last rays of the setting sun. She drew it closer, surprised by the faint chill in the glass. She wanted nothing more than to hold it to her neck.
Callo raised his glass in a silent toast while the firebrand finished serving the rest of the gathering. No two glasses were alike.
Malone raised her own glass in response.
“Now that we’re sharing a drink, we should get to know one another,” the young man said as he took his own seat.
Starting with Callo, the others introduced themselves, and she sipped her wine, as crisp and tart as a green apple. She concealed a grimace. The introductions made a full circle around the table, ending with the bearded firebrand.
“Benjie Salazar,” he said.
“Nice to meet you all,” Malone said. Watching the conviction in their eyes, and knowing she was about to twist it against them, she made an effort of will to meet their gazes.
“So,” Callo said. “What exactly did Sato send you here for?”
The walls popped and cracked, and she suppressed a wince. “Talking terms,” she said. The words stuck to her tongue like the sharp wine.
Expectation flickered again in the eyes of most of the farmers’ representatives. Callo merely looked weary.
“Your terms or ours?” Salazar asked. His face betrayed guarded amusement.
Salazar would be hard to sway, but the others were still holding onto hope. And with hope came recklessness.
“A little of both,” Malone said. “If you’re willing to work with me.” She reminded herself that, technically, that was true.
Excitement rippled through the other eight delegates as Malone dangled the bait and they rose to snatch at it.
Only Salazar looked thoroughly unconvinced.
Callo spoke next, cautious optimism creeping into his voice. “And what kind of compromise does Sato suggest?”
Malone folded her hands behind her glass, pretended to consider the question. She was more conscious of Salazar’s steady gaze. “Sato’s sympathetic to your aims. I think he’d be willing to work toward most of the boons you’ve requested in another six months.”
Callo nodded, and the other delegates breathed sighs of relief.
Except for Salazar. “Horseshit,” he said. “You’re here to stall us.” Something about his earnestness seemed suddenly familiar.
The others looked from Salazar back to her, and she could feel the temperature in the room shift again. The poison packet seemed to radiate her accumulated body heat. She was beginning to see the elegance of Sato’s logic.
The thought turned her stomach again.
“I’m here to convince you to wait,” she said. “That’s not the same thing as stalling.”
A nasty grin crossed Salazar’s face. “If Sato’s so
genuinely interested in helping us, then why didn’t he respond to our first three letters? Wasn’t until we cut the grain quota that you lot took notice.”
Not for the first time, Malone missed Sundar and his easy way of smoothing over tensions. She forced a thin smile. “This comes at a difficult time for us. We’re reestablishing peace with our neighbors–”
“We’re your neighbors,” Salazar said.
“Which means that, if the other cities turn on us, you’ll be caught in the middle.”
A man in a worn flannel shirt bit his lip, looking grimly convinced.
But Salazar hadn’t given up yet. “A delay isn’t a compromise. If Sato wants to show his good faith, have him send something we asked for. A dozen doctors, teachers, and engineers. That would mean something.”
Malone blinked back at him. “You want professionals. Sato isn’t going to compel his own citizens to go anywhere. So why would they choose to come here?”
It wasn’t until she saw Salazar’s lowered eyebrows and bared teeth that she heard the insult in her words, and by then it was too late. “If this is an undesirable place to live,” he said, “it’s only because you city dwellers have kept it that way.”
Malone cleared her throat. “As I said, Sato will work with you in his own time. But the combined leadership of the surrounding cities will not.”
Salazar cocked his head. “It sounds like you’re telling us that Sato’s desperate.”
The sharp edges of the packet poked at her belly. “I’m telling you that he could be your ally if you’ll be patient.”
“Sato had his revolution,” Salazar said. “Why should we have to wait for ours?”
“He waited fourteen years.”
Salazar glowered at her under furrowed brows, but she could see the logic seizing the others, smoothing their grimaces into sober, thoughtful frowns. She knew the look – they were grateful for a way out of the corner they’d blocked themselves into. Without Salazar’s influence, they’d be easy to convince.
It was getting harder to forget that packet that Sato had given her. It seemed to rattle and shift with her every movement in a way that reminded her of crumbling bricks and toppling walls.
“So I’ll ask again,” Malone said, wetting her mouth with another sip from her glass. “Are you willing to be patient for another six months?”
The delegate next to Callo looked ready to burst. “If there were a guarantee, perhaps,” he said. “We could get the other signatory communes to agree.”
Callo tried to mask his disappointment. Salazar did not. “You fool,” he said, shaking his head.
“Relax,” Malone said, trying to salvage the situation. “It was clear enough from the meeting in the square that the protest hasn’t been popular with everyone.” She wanted to remind them of that.
Salazar attempted to take the reins again. “I can see what you’re doing here, Miss Malone. It may work on them, but it doesn’t work on me.” He looked at her, not quite glaring, but watching for a reaction, no matter how small. Malone was again struck by a resemblance that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
The other delegates looked at the two of them, drifting back into a center of uncertainty. Salazar continued. “We’ll ally with one of the other cities before we compromise with that hypocrite.”
“You think I’m stonewalling? You’d get no concessions from them,” Malone said.
Salazar grinned, again looking like someone else. “Doesn’t matter. Sato’d have to listen to us once he’s under siege and we’re feeding his rivals.”
“He’d let you run straight into their arms,” Malone said. “And if your new patrons didn’t break you to keep you in line, Sato would stomp you into the ground as an example, and no one would lift a finger to stop him.” Malone held up the glass, cloudy with years of use. “The cities give you their castoffs at best. You think they’re going to tolerate a list of demands from you?”
Callo folded his hands and closed his eyes. Salazar crossed his arms and looked away. The rest of the delegates glanced at one another anxiously.
Salazar turned back to her. “It appears Sato isn’t convinced that we’ll go through with this. I suppose we’ll have to show him how serious we are.”
“Maybe you will,” Malone said. “But your allies may not follow you.”
Salazar’s look of brutal satisfaction evaporated.
“In fact, I think you’re pretty certain some of them won’t,” she said. “Or could be persuaded not to. Many of your own citizens in the square sounded rather anxious about this. How hard would it be to convince your co-conspirators in Wheatton or Woodsey to accept amnesty and, say, reduced quotas in exchange for abandoning this pact?”
“You just told us Sato wouldn’t compromise with us,” Salazar said. “But he’d compromise with our confederates?”
Malone should have heard the danger in his tone, but she only heard the gravely edge of anger and dulled certitude. “I couldn’t say what he’ll do,” Malone said. “All I know is that he only deals on his own terms. And he’ll do what’s necessary, whatever the cost.”
“When he finds out about our schism,” Salazar said, glaring.
Malone suddenly realized that she had gone too far.
Callo coughed. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to get on the next train back to the city.” His voice trembled as he glanced between Salazar and Malone.
Salazar took a long swig of his wine. “Doesn’t come until tomorrow morning. I’m afraid you’re stuck with our castoff hospitality for the night.”
Malone kept her face a mask of neutrality, but she was calculating, coasting on the frantic energy of panic. Salazar’s emptying glass was all the way across the table. Even if she got the chance to use the poison, it wasn’t supposed to kick in for a full day. Where would she go in the meantime? Had the other delegates already been pushed beyond the point of reason?
Callo was quiet again, and the others kept their eyes on their wine glasses. It was the between-courses silence of an overlong dinner party.
Malone looked at her own half-empty glass, feeling her stomach drop.
“The inn’s just off the main square,” Callo finally said. “They’ll have extra beds for the night.”
“Surprised we’ve got one of those?” Salazar asked.
“Much obliged,” Malone said, ignoring Salazar. Beads of sweat popped out on her forehead. From heat, panic, or poison, she couldn’t say.
The other delegates waited for Salazar and Callo to push back from the table before rising. When they did, they rushed out, and it was Callo who hung back. He touched Malone’s arm lightly. “This didn’t quite go the way I was hoping,” he said. “We don’t want to add to Recoletta’s burden. We’re just looking for better opportunities here.” He spoke with the falling inflection of someone who already knew he’d lost.
Even as Malone listened to Callo, her gaze flickered to Salazar, who stalked out with the rest of the delegates. Was Callo really that naive about the younger man, or was he trying to lure her into a false sense of security? Either way, it was a moot point.
“I appreciate your good faith,” she said, turning back to Callo. “Understand that I’m just the messenger.”
Callo grunted. “You’ll be wanting to get settled in, I expect.” He didn’t meet her eyes. “The inn’s just off the square. Green door with a sign overhead. I can show you if you’d like.”
“I’ll manage,” Malone said. “Thank you for your hospitality.” She hurried out of the building, taking just enough time to maintain the facade of civility.
When she got outside, the square was already full of people. Crowd camouflage was normally an advantage, but she didn’t have her bearings here, didn’t know how to blend her step and her profile with those of the people surging around her. She needed cover while she figured out how to escape. Lamps winked and flickered at the corners of buildings, and she quickly found the green door under a hanging sign that announced the Sheaf and Sow inn, displaying a
picture of an absurdly feminine pig holding stalks of wheat like a bouquet of flowers.
Malone shouldered her way inside, keeping her head down. The building, like the rest in town, she supposed, felt rickety and musky with the myriad odors and temperature fluctuations that seemed to be the norm on the surface. The innkeeper looked up from a long, wooden counter. Malone read suspicion in his gaze, but she told herself it was merely the surprise of seeing a new face – he couldn’t know who she was or where she was from.
Or if he did, she was in greater danger than she’d supposed.
“A room, please,” she said, approaching the counter.
“How many nights?” He spoke slowly, taking in her outfit.
“Just one.”
He turned to the wall and pulled a key from a row of hooks. He jerked his thumb at a stairway in the corner. “Upstairs, second-to-last door on the left. You, uh, want me to show you?” Too hopeful.
She gave him a tight smile. “I can manage.” She took her valise and went up the stairs, half expecting the floor to give way beneath her at every step.
Malone found her room and locked the door behind her as soon as she was inside. She kept her pistol in hand as she checked under the lumpy bed, in the closet, behind the moth-eaten curtains that brushed the floor. But there was barely any place for anyone to hide, and really, she supposed it was too obvious. Salazar would come for her when she wasn’t expecting it. She had to get out before that could happen, even if it meant walking through the night to the next commune. She’d be safer on the train tracks than here.
But she couldn’t leave through the front door. Salazar would be watching.
She crossed to the window. It looked out over an alley between the inn and an adjacent building. A glow from the revelries in the town square spilled into one end, and she could see the unobstructed ground below.
Malone looked back at the room. The alley was her best chance, really. Both ends were open, and no one appeared to be paying attention to it. She had to move while that was still the case.