With a quick motion, Linden unplugged the bucket and gripped its handle. It was heavy, and her shoulder hurt madly—and it hurt even worse when the cook screamed and threw himself at her.
His body was heavy; the impact threw her to the ground. The bucket clanged a few steps away from her. Wretch him if he had broken it; even two buckets of fire were too few already ...
"The light! The light!" He was panting, his big hands thumping, grappling the stone floor, trying to find her, squeeze her. She rolled over, and he missed her, finding the bucket instead. He kicked it away, then scrabbled for Linden again. "Heinous witch, the Lost Ones' own servant, may the Master curse you for eternity!"
She rolled over again, but he managed to clutch at her elbow—which gave her an idea of where exactly he was, so she could kick him in the stomach. He gasped, but he was too big for her. He did not let go, and he was twisting her hand now, maybe breaking it. Both Rianor and Master Keitaro had shown her tricks for fighting a bigger opponent, but in the next few moments not one of them worked, for she was already weak and wounded and becoming confused.
Then, suddenly, her free hand found the dagger at her belt. She had forgotten about it; her mind had been focused on trying to remember what exactly Rianor and Master Keitaro had taught her. Yet, now the hand itself acted with knowledge older than that, knowledge that right now did not even reach the mind. The hand thrust the dagger into the man's wrist by itself.
She kicked him in the head then, and again, until he fainted, the dagger still gripped firmly in her hand. She tore her sleeves and tied his hands with them, and she tied his legs with his own belt.
"I am sorry," she whispered as she located the two buckets in the darkness and tied each handle with an end of her own belt, hanging the whole thing from her less abused shoulder, dragging herself to the stairs. She could carry it all. She should, for there was no one else but her.
"I am sorry, Cook, but two buckets are too few already, and only the Master knows how much fire the kitchen has already used up and wasted from the bucket I plugged in here. You are just one foolish person, while up there is a whole House—and you could have come with me. I can't carry you, and I can't leave you untied, either. You are mad right now. Even if you don't hurt me and prevent me from going, you may hurt yourself or the next person who comes here. I am sorry."
She was sorry for stabbing his hand, too—but there had been no other way. At least her mind had taken enough control of her hand on time for her to not drive the dagger into his body a second time, and into a more suitable place.
So easily did a dagger enter a human's body.
And yet, so difficult was it for a dagger to enter metal or stone. So difficult to make mechanisms. That was the thought that occupied Linden's mind while, panting, trembling, colored spots dancing before her eyes even in the full darkness, she transcended each step to the hallway. So difficult it was to make mechanisms, even though it was mechanisms that people needed.
Mechanisms, and knowledge.
Even though people only thought they needed light and warmth. Those in the hallway would have all crammed together in the alcove beside her mechanical elevator, where she plugged a bucket and lit two candles and a heating stove. They were pushing, shoving, having no regard for anything or anyone else at all.
"Stay back! I am taking it all away if you come any closer! Aren't you thinking? Where you are is lit and warm enough."
While there were others, up in the servants' wing, who were screaming and perhaps hurting themselves or others in the darkness even now.
"Out of my way. And don't you dare touch the bucket. Either help the wounded ones, or don't do anything!" Somehow she managed to swing herself on the elevator's platform, grateful to the Master or whatever it was that had made her leave the platform here and not chain it on the top floor two days ago. She needed the elevator. She did not have the strength to lug a bucket up the Servants' stairs, dodging those who would dash down those same stairs in darkness and madness.
In her condition right now, she did not have the strength to elevate herself and a bucket, either.
"You." There was a man in a guard's uniform who was watching her instead of watching the light. "Come here."
He came, of his own accord, even though his knees started trembling as he stepped on the platform, and he had difficulty keeping his balance at first. Good that he had come by himself. For if he had not come, she would have found a way to force him—or to force someone else.
"Good man, pull this lever now. Yes, this metal stick, exactly. Now push it back. Pull again. Push—Close your eyes if you can't watch, but don't stop pushing and pulling."
If he did close his eyes, she did not know it, for the platform had moved high enough for the light to stop reaching them. But he pushed and pulled, steadily.
"Good. Keep it pushed now and reach out with the other hand." Click. "Yes. Good. Come now, you'll get some more light for a while, but then we are going back."
Somehow, she dragged herself out of the platform, and dragged the man, too, for he would not know where to step. Then, after she lit two other candles, she wondered—wearily, as if in a dream—why the screams would not stop despite the light, and wondered where the servants were.
"Lind! I knew you would come! I knew it!" Clare, gripping Linden's shoulders, staring at her as if, whatever the maid's words, she did not believe that it was her lady she was truly seeing. Clare's hands were cold, and she was barefoot, her hair entangled and falling over her eyes. She wore only a thin nightgown, and goosebumps and bruises were visible all over her.
"Oh, Clare. Clare, my darling ..." Linden could have born many things, but not that—not her maid, her dear friend, in such a state.
"We locked them all in, Lind, all that had not yet run." Linden might have been about to break down at Clare's sight—but then, suddenly, she saw that Clare's body might be battered but her eyes were fierce. Linden also realized that, even though some screams were still coming from the stairs, most were coming from the servants' rooms. A moment later, Brendan, too, came to her. His eyes were narrowed, and his hands held a giant chain of keys.
"My lady." He made a shaky bow to her. "We knew that we should stay by the elevator. We knew that you and the High Lord would not forget it."
* * *
Linden might have managed without Clare and Brendan that night—but then again, she might not have. If tens of Qynnsent servants had been running mindlessly in the corridor, shoving whoever and whatever came in their way, and if even only one or two of those had tried to assault her like the Cook had, she might have failed.
With Clare and Brendan's forethought, however, she had to deal with at most five servants at a time, and she had Clare and Brendan, as well as the man who had run the elevator for her, to help with those.
Nan had left the keys to her study with Brendan and asked him to stay on duty by her door, so that if she sent people from the cottage area to bring something to her, Brendan would let them in. Brendan, observant as he was, also knew where exactly in Nan's study the keys to all other rooms in the servants' wing were.
He had snatched those keys as soon as the fire had failed, even though he had overturned a table and sprained his ankle in the process. He had bumped into Clare, who'd had the same idea as him, under that very table. They had then scrabbled outside the study and locked every door they could—on all four servants' floors—so that others would not come out in the corridors. They had taken some beating in the process, especially in running up and down the stairs, but they had mostly succeeded. They had even managed to shove some of their colleagues into Nan's study and lock them there.
Nan would not like that; the study must have taken a beating itself. But Nan was not here, and those who were would deal with the situation as they could.
Linden banished the thought of how Nan was, or whether the fire had also failed in the cottages, at least twice this night. All the while, she and Clare and Brendan and the other man kept opening
rooms, giving those inside a few seconds to get used to the small light in the corridor before jostling them onto the elevator's platform. Then the same, on other floors. She could not afford to think of other things before the job was done.
Many more times she banished thoughts of Rianor. He would come.
He would come.
The elevator man was very helpful. He said nothing at all, but he was calm and operated the lever many times without tiring. He was transporting people down and then transporting only himself and Brendan up again, Brendan standing beside him to protect him from those who would attack him in their mindlessness. Fortunately, there was almost no need for protection, for most were frightened into immobility once on an elevator that was of Science and had no walls.
Linden and her people transported all servants down—except those already on the stairs, but most of those found their own way, anyway. Lastly, down came the now unplugged bucket, to replace the one plugged into the ground-floor hallway when it became exhausted.
Only one bucket would be used at a time now. Linden must save all the fire she could, now that most people were gathered. She did not know how long a bucket could maintain the stove and two candles in the hallway, and a stove and two sleep candles were the needed minimum for so many servants there. A bucket could maintain her mom and dad's apartment for ten days, but this was not her mom and dad's apartment.
Having only one stove and two sleep candles on was the reason Linden had brought all servants in one place—why she had risked having fearful, unstable people on the elevator. She would have even risked having them on the stairs if there had not been an elevator—but fortunately, there was. Servants would fall down the stairs, but a mechanical elevator was something she could control.
Linden prayed to the Master and to anything else that would listen that two buckets would be enough, that there would not be darkness again before the morning had come.
She prayed for Rianor, too, and she prayed that those at the cottages would somehow manage without fire. She had thought of bringing one of the buckets to them through the moonlit garden, and she could have done it. She could have forced her body to manage the walk even now.
But what was better—or what was less bad—two buckets in the House Proper and no buckets in the cottages, or one insufficient bucket in each place? Two buckets here to perhaps ensure light and warmth until morning while the others had no light at all, or light in both places now, with a good chance that in both places the light would not last long enough?
Light here, until morning. Some people saved, at least. That was Linden's choice.
She would have still crossed the garden, without a bucket, to try to bring the people where the light was. However, someone was still crying somewhere on the staircase—and she had to bring this person here first.
She could not save everyone at once.
Linden ordered Clare and the two men to mind the others and the buckets, and would have climbed in the darkness by herself.
Then, the light was back.
Rianor
Morning 29 of the First Quarter, Year of the Master 706
Rianor must have fallen asleep with his eyes open, for he suddenly saw the picture on his desk as if for the first time, even though he had just sketched it himself. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen since Desmond had left and another fifteen until he was back. Half an hour for himself was all the High Lord got these days—all that he occasionally allowed himself after the fire outage.
He stared at the sketch. He had drawn the crossbow, after all—perhaps because the House was almost back on its feet again. After days of dealing with sickness, madness, Commanders, deaths, fear, punishment, Bers, fire, and the damn holiday with its grain preparation and the obligatory Fireheart visit tomorrow, everything was finally clicking into place and getting back into a familiar rhythm.
Rianor could finally afford to start thinking his own thoughts again.
There was a knock on the door, and Rianor told Desmond to enter. Why was the First Counselor bothering with knocking at all. Rianor had known he might fall asleep and had told him to come straight inside. However, this time it was not Desmond but Linden who stepped gingerly through the doorway.
"A good day to you, High Lord," she said. Rianor had already stridden through most of the distance that separated them but now halted at the formal greeting.
"Please sit, my lady" he said, instead of physically helping her to the sofa as he had initially intended. "You should not be walking."
She looked at him as if accusing him for the very words.
He had last seen her walking on that fateful night, after he had dashed into the Qynnsent hallway. She had staggered in from another direction a moment after him, her face bloodied, an arm hanging limp beside her, the other arm around a toddler. The toddler's legs were wrapped around her waist and she swayed as she walked, the child too big, too heavy for her.
"Here is Nancy. Comfort her. She has had a hard time." She reached out with the child to a wild-eyed serving woman—and then, as the woman wailed and grappled towards the child, Linden suddenly shoved the woman away. "I said comfort her, not stress her further! If you can't take care of your child, I won't let you have a child! Why did you leave her up there alone in the first place!"
The woman cringed and then wept. "Oh, Master, there she is, the samodiva. Even fire can't banish them now! She's stolen my daughter, oh sweet Master, my only child!"
"Shut you up, Johanna, how dare you talk like this to our lady! You'd be in darkness and cold still, you wench, if it weren't for her!"
This was Brendan, his own face bloodied, his eyes angry. He had come after Linden, hauling three other, older, children. "Move aside now, lest I—My lady, please, let Nancy down. I could have carried her as well, you shouldn't have taken her at all. Give her to Anne here now, Anne has a right mind—Oh! My lord! Thank the Master!"
Brendan noticed Rianor at the same moment Linden did, which was a moment after everyone else had. Linden and Brendan only looked too relieved to see him, but he suddenly noticed that the others were also afraid. Rianor had stridden to Linden and the guard, and only now did he realize that no one would know what the steel rods in his hands were for—that he had returned to his House on that perilous night as if wielding two long, shiny, outworldly weapons.
Indeed, it was good that the servants did not know the rods' purpose, for weapons they might as well be, but not the weapons they would think. As soon as Rianor could afford the time, he would prepare a contained environment and start making tests.
On the night of the fire outage, he had felt the fire stop even though he had been far from his House. He had needed to be away. For two days and nights before that, he had closed himself inside his suite, building and testing mechanisms, thinking of Science, and making himself not think of anything else. He might have had fever at some point but ignored it, and he remembered to eat only when his anxious manservant had begged him for at least one whole day and had finally brought Nan to beg him herself.
Linden had come on the third day only to, as she assured him, check if he was sick. Then she left, fled almost, when he put his current project aside and focused entirely on her.
He decided that he needed a breath of fresh air only when he had to fight himself hard to not chase after her. He needed a cool mind to deal with her, and a cool mind was exactly what he lacked. She knew about the pigs, no doubt. And others must know, too. Nan had hinted that the High Lord needed to soon show himself before the House's retainers, lest they became convinced that some curse or madness or what not had come onto him.
He would—but he would do other things first.
Rianor left the House alone this evening and headed towards the commoners' Mierber, for the first time since he had met Linden. This time, however, he did not amble about Ber firewells. He headed towards the Steel Factory Warehouse District. It was becoming more and more dilapidated, he had heard—and that, to the High Lord of
Qynnsent, meant that the Bers' grip on it had become weaker. It meant that perhaps he had a chance to get closer, to possibly find metal materials or even tools that he could not have found before. To possibly learn something of what the Bers knew. He had grown tired of building mechanisms with his dagger.
Night had almost fallen when he got there, the Factory itself a dark shadow before the sky. The wind blew, and the walls of the old buildings around seemed to whisper. Rianor repressed the urge to shudder. Would he meet something here, like in the Healers' Passage? It was not impossible. Could he learn here something about Magic that he had not learned at the wells or in his own House? He shook his head. He would not fall into this again; he would not make the same old mistake. It was materials for mechanisms and tools—known, working Science—that he sought here, and nothing else.
There was not a little side street in the corner, even though a moment ago Rianor had been convinced that there were. He shook his head again and walked forward, towards the Factory itself.
Good that there was a small opening between two walls several corners later. He crouched there when he suddenly heard the sounds of chasing from one of the big streets crossing his way. A moment later a small figure in full-bottomed breeches sped past him, followed by the thud of two pairs of heavy boots.
"Thief, stop, in the name of the Master, or I'll fire!" one of the pursuers shouted, then halted an arm's reach away from Rianor and raised his small crossbow.
Militia. Only the secular law enforcement officers had the right and capability to wield that weapon. Rianor had never seen one close. A weapon such as this had special Magic in it, everyone knew, and even the crossbow's action of throwing a metal bolt with great speed was called "fire."
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