The August 5

by Jenna Helland

  5

  GRAND CUSTOMS HOUSE UNDER SIEGE BY COTTAGER REBELS!

  The last of the cottager rebels are holed up in the Grand Customs House at the mouth of the Lyone River. A group of fifty extremists cowardly invaded the Grand Customs House, terrorized the workers inside, took them hostage, and then blockaded the entrances. Steamer travel between the islands has been disrupted by the cottager violence, and Chief Administrator Toulson Hywel has not returned to the capital city from his home in Norde. The Chamber is holding an emergency session today to plan a response to these villains.

  —Zunft Chronicle, August 7, Evening Edition

  Dozens of noisy rovers skidded to a halt on the pier beside the Grand Customs House. Navid Leahy had never seen so many rovers at once and never ones with cannons bolted to their frames. He lay on his stomach on the roof across from the ornate customs house, which had weathered many storms as it kept watch over the port of Sevenna City. It was the focal point of the deep-water harbor, where modern schooners shared the water with old-fashioned mast ships. Michael Henry had told him that before the War for Aeren, the customs house had been the manor of a powerful local estate, but when the Zunft had won the war, they had transformed it into the headquarters for all Zunft shipping operations. For nearly fifty years, the city expanded around the Grand Customs House as the Zunft monitored everything that came in and went out of the harbor.

  The customs house was the heart of the Zunft, or so Michael Henry had said in a speech a few weeks ago. He’d stood on a stone wall on the corner of East Ash, and the people kept coming until the streets were jammed with listeners. Navid had been perched on the wall near Michael Henry’s feet, where he could hear every word from the great man’s mouth. It was from the Grand Customs House that they collected the taxes that kept his family poor. It was from there that they regulated travel among the islands. Cottagers faced harsh fines and prison terms unless they submitted to the customs house the proper paperwork for everything from birth to death. But the rules were so complex that no one could ever do it right—and that was the point, said Michael Henry. The Grand Customs House, with its gilded windows and authoritarian air, was a symbol of everything that cottagers hated about the Zunft.

  And now the customs house was about to be destroyed. Not by the small band of cottager rebels who were holed up inside of it, the last vestige of the cottager rebellion that had been easily suppressed on every island but here. It was about to be destroyed by the Zunft and their cannons mounted on rovers. Eleven-year-old Navid monitored the situation from the roof of one of the many unassuming warehouses that shared the waterfront. He didn’t think he was close enough to be hit by an explosion from the volley cannons, but if the wind picked up and sparks shot across the sky, he would run. Running was his job. Running and watching. Born and raised in Sevenna City, Navid knew the avenues and alleys of the city better than anyone. He knew which roofs were close enough to jump between and he could make it for miles across the urban landscape without ever touching the muddy streets.

  Another group of rovers sputtered to a stop along the pier. These were vehicles designed for transporting troops. Zunft soldiers, in their distinctive silver-and-black uniforms, jumped out and began preparing the volley cannons. Navid inched backward away from the edge of the roof until he was out of sight of the street. Then he hopped up, ran to the far side of the roof, and leaped across the gap. On the neighboring roof, two teenage boys were crouched near the heating pipe, arguing over a map printed on ragged paper. Navid skidded to a stop beside them.

  “They brought cannons,” he gasped.

  At this news, one of the older boys jumped up and ran to carry the message to his superiors. Navid knew the boy who remained by the heating pipe. Tilo Locke was seventeen and worked in the mill although he was really a musician. Navid’s parents ran a pub, and when Tilo and his band played, everybody danced. Tilo was usually a carefree boy who liked to make people laugh, but there was not a trace of happiness on his face now.

  “How many rovers?” Tilo asked Navid.

  “Eight, at last count,” Navid told him. “One had loads of chatter-guns.”

  “Okay, back to your post,” Tilo said.

  “Who’s still inside?” Navid asked.

  “It’s down to fifteen men,” Tilo told him. “They sent ten of the younger fellows out last night.”

  “The Chronicle says they have hostages,” Navid said.

  “Yeah, right,” Tilo scoffed. “Since when do you believe the Chronicle?”

  “Is Mr. Henry still in there?” Navid asked. Michael Henry was close friends with Navid’s father, Brian Leahy. He ate every Sunday dinner at the Leahys’ house and Navid always liked his visits.

  “Of course,” Tilo answered. “You know he’d be the last to leave.”

  “They’re gonna die,” Navid said.

  Tilo squinted at Navid. “Return to your post.” But when Navid turned to go, Tilo called out: “Does Brian know you’re here?”

  Navid nodded, which was enough to convince the distracted Tilo. In truth, Brian Leahy thought Navid was helping at East Ash Garden. Brian Leahy had forbidden his son from going near the waterfront and the Grand Customs House, but Navid wanted to help Michael Henry. While he was glad his father wasn’t down there facing the cannons, he didn’t understand why Brian Leahy hadn’t joined the fight with his friend.

  Navid had just leaped across the gulf to the warehouse when the cannon fire began. He could see Tilo waving his arms and yelling at him to come back, but the noise was deafening. He flopped down on his belly and inched like a snake toward the roof’s edge as the blast reverberated across the rooftops. He wanted to witness this. He had to see. He had to know what happened to Michael Henry.

  As he reached the edge, the façade of the Grand Customs House crumbled to the ground in a heap of smoking rubble. As the volley cannons continued to pound the building, a group of cottagers charged out the side door. Bullets whizzed from the soldiers’ chatter-guns and smoke blurred Navid’s vision. A man was hit, blood bloomed across the back of his jacket, and he fell to the ground. Navid leaned over the edge to see who it was, but rough hands grabbed him from behind. He turned his head and saw a grim-faced Tilo. The older boy caught him by the back of his jacket and dragged him across the roof away from the violence. Below, Navid could hear the familiar voice of Michael Henry shouting: “For Aeren! For freedom!”

  But the thud of cannons was the only answering call.

  6

  COTTAGER REBELLION OVER!

  The last rebels were arrested outside the Grand Customs House, which was destroyed by the cottagers during the recent violence. The five cottager leaders are now in custody in the Zunft Compound. Those charged with treason are:

  Brandon Cook of Sevenna City

  Hector Linn of Port Catille, Catille

  Michael Henry of Sevenna City

  Kevin Smythe of Black Rock, Aeren Island

  Jack Stevens of Sevenna City

  They will be given a fair trial. If convicted of their crimes, they face execution by firing squad.

  —Zunft Chronicle, August 8, Evening Edition

  Even from the loft high above the floor, Gavin Baine could catch snippets of the urgent conversation among the men of the Chamber. The well-dressed lawmakers who sat below him ruled Seahaven not because of merit or even popularity, but because of birthright. They were all landed gentry and men of Zunft. People like Gavin, a cottager who had been born to a mason in South Sevenna, wouldn’t be able to speak their mind inside these walls—washing the tiled floors would be as close as a cottager could get to the Chamber floor.

  “Where is Mr. Hywel?” the men kept asking each other. “Why hasn’t he returned?”

  The Chamber was a long, narrow room with shiny mahogany pillars and a high ceiling, which had been painted with a scene from the War for Aeren. But the paint was chipped and faded, and even from his position high in the viewing loft, Gavin could barely make out the image. Below him, two tie
rs of wooden chairs faced each other over an empty expanse. The East Tier, which traditionally represented the more moderate wing of the Zunft, was mostly empty. This was Mr. Hywel’s faction, and when the Chamber had last been in session in July, almost every seat had been filled.

  The West Tier, which represented the more conservative sector of the Zunft, was Colston Shore’s kingdom. In sharp contrast to the July session, every seat in the West Tier was filled, and there were junior members standing in the back and along the railings. After the cottager rebellion, many of Hywel’s supporters had opted to join Colston Shore. Even some of Hywel’s closest compatriots, such as Karl Anderson, had made the “short walk,” which meant they had switched allegiances in the wake of the cottager violence.

  Gavin Baine was a cottager journalist who paid close attention to Zunft politics. Of course, being a cottager journalist was as illegal as the newspaper that Gavin had started with Michael Henry, an enterprise he intended to continue in Michael Henry’s absence. After months of attending sessions of the Chamber, the fickleness of Hywel’s supporters did not surprise him. Colston Shore was a fearmonger and skilled manipulator. The so called August Rising had ended only a few days earlier and Colston had already run an opinion piece in the Chronicle warning that there would be mass killings of Zunft unless the cottager rebels were dealt with swiftly.

  From the cottagers’ perspective, Hywel had been the most generous chief administrator in generations—and Colston Shore was now twisting that to his advantage. Especially since Chief Administrator Hywel was conspicuously absent. Gavin was disappointed. Hywel was a talented speaker and a charismatic man. Gavin hoped that if Hywel stood up in the Chamber and defended himself against Colston Shore, many of the men would return to his side.

  Adjudicator Kaplan rapped the gavel against the wooden table. The adjudicator sat at a table between the two tiers and was supposed to be an impartial moderator between factions. A massive tome of Zunft statutes sat on the table in front of him. If there was disagreement in the Chamber, the adjudicator had the final word. Kaplan pounded the gavel harder and the din in the Chamber finally died away.

  Colston Shore rose and waited to be acknowledged. Kaplan pointed at him with his gavel.

  “The cottager violence has been stopped,” Colston said, and both sides erupted in applause. “But lives were lost. The cottagers destroyed the Grand Customs House, a great symbol of our Zunft heritage. Despite these tragedies, we must do our duty as Zunftmen. We must repair these islands for the sake of our children and their legacy. But I ask you, where is Mr. Hywel? Why is our chief administrator not here to do his duty?”

  Richard Shieldman jumped to his feet. He was the highest-ranking member of Hywel’s supporters who had not defected to the Carvers, and his chair clattered backward in his haste to interrupt. Baine felt sympathy for Shieldman, who was only in his late twenties and now thrust into a leadership role far beyond his experience.

  “He was regrettably delayed on Norde,” Shieldman called. “Your insinuations are insulting to our chief administrator.”

  “You must wait to be acknowledged!” Kaplan reprimanded Shieldman.

  “Is that so, Mr. Shieldman?” Colston replied. “Karl Anderson arrived yesterday and I believe his estate is farther north than Mr. Hywel’s. Is that true, Mr. Anderson?”

  Mr. Anderson rose from his seat on the West Tier and waited until Kaplan jabbed the gavel in his direction.

  “Yes, it’s true,” Anderson said. “I came from Norde and I had no difficulty with overland travel or sea travel. Perhaps cottager violence isn’t important enough to bring Hywel back from his holiday.”

  Anderson looked pleased by the laughter of the men behind him in the West Tier. Shieldman flushed red and shook his head in disgust. Two months ago, Anderson had sat by Shieldman’s side, voting in support of Hywel’s policies.

  “You know that’s a falsehood,” Shieldman retorted, and the men in the East Tier shouted in agreement.

  “I know that he isn’t present today,” Anderson said. He studied the men around him with exaggerated deliberation. “These gentlemen have arrived with haste from the far corners of Seahaven. Everyone acknowledges the gravity of the situation—except for the man who should be here to answer for his actions.”

  “What are you implying?” Shieldman asked.

  “It was his misguided policies that caused the violence,” Anderson bellowed. “It was his lack of control that brought us here. His pro-cottager measures are to blame. And that is why I have switched sides. That is why you see us standing together with Colston Shore!”

  Loud voices filled the air as the two sides shouted accusations across the floor. All except Colston Shore, who sat back and let the others squabble. Gavin’s attention zeroed in on the lean, arrogant Shore. His cool detachment in the midst of the heated arguing made Gavin nervous. Kaplan stood up and slammed his gavel against the table. In the stillness that followed, Karl Anderson raised his hand and was acknowledged by the adjudicator.

  “I move for a vote of no-confidence for Mr. Hywel,” Anderson said. “Given his absence in a time of national crisis, we need a leader who can act decisively.”

  “I second the motion,” Colston said. His supporters stamped their feet in approval while the members in the East Tier hissed their disapproval.

  “I nominate Colston Shore as his immediate successor,” Anderson said.

  “I move that the vote of no-confidence be postponed,” Shieldman called. “There are extenuating circumstances that must be taken into account. Mr. Hywel must be given a chance to justify his actions.”

  The disapproving utterances of the Carvers in the West Tier were louder than the shouts of approval from the East Tier. By law, the chief administrator was the only one who had the right to postpone a vote in the Chamber, but because of Hywel’s absence, the decision fell to the adjudicator. All eyes turned to Adjudicator Kaplan, an elderly Zunftman who had declared himself a Carver at the beginning of the summer. It had barely registered to anyone at the time, but now his allegiance to Colston Shore took on exaggerated importance. Adjudicator Kaplan made a show of consulting the ledger and then proclaimed:

  “The vote of no-confidence will proceed.”

  The Carvers stamped their feet in approval. Hywel’s supporters glanced at one another uneasily. If the vote was held today, Colston Shore would be the next chief administrator, which had been inconceivable only a few months before. Colston had tried to force a vote during the last session on a sweltering day in July, but he’d failed to oust Hywel. Now, Colston Shore was poised to ascend to the highest position in the Zunft.

  Gavin shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench of the viewing loft. Despite the gravity of the proceedings, there were only two spectators in the cramped balcony above the Chamber floor: Gavin, and the official journalist from the Zunft Chronicle—Gavin recognized his face from the portrait that ran with his articles in the newspaper. At the moment, he was polishing his pocket watch and seemed to be paying little attention to the proceedings below him.

  One of Hywel’s reforms had been to open the proceedings of the Chamber to the public, which, for the first time, allowed cottagers to witness how the laws of the country were made. But Michael Henry had discouraged cottagers from attending the Chamber sessions, saying the system was rotten from the inside out. Gavin and Michael Henry were close friends and Gavin didn’t disagree with that assessment. But he went anyway, in defiance of his friend, saying that there was much to learn from watching the Zunftmen in the Chamber. After the Rising, he had expected the viewing loft to be packed with curious onlookers, but it was as empty as it had been during the previous session.

  The adjudicator raised his hands for quiet, but it took several minutes before the ruckus died down.

  “All in favor of continuing the term of Mr. Hywel?” Adjudicator Kaplan asked. The East Tier did its best to vocalize their support for their absent leader, but the diminished ranks of Hywel’s men sounded small in the echo
ing Chamber.

  “All in favor of electing Mr. Shore to be chief administrator of these islands?” Kaplan asked. Even before the old adjudicator finished his sentence, the Chamber erupted into deafening support for the leader of the Carvers.

  “The Zunft has spoken!” Kaplan shouted above the noise. “Colston Shore of Shore Manor, near Port Kenney, Aeren Island, is the new leader of these islands, our great Seahaven!”

  With a sinking feeling, Gavin stopped writing and shoved his spectacles higher on his nose. How had that happened with just one vote? Because Seminary was not an option for a cottager, Gavin had studied jurisprudence on his own and he knew that the proceedings hadn’t followed the letter of the law. Shouldn’t it have been a vote of no-confidence and then a separate vote for the next chief administrator?

  Colston strode to the center of the Chamber. With gray hair, sunken eyes, and a thin, prominent nose, he reminded Gavin of a bird of prey. Gavin wrote in his notepad: Very much a predator despite his unassuming appearance. Colston laid his hand on his heart in thanks and bowed slightly toward his supporters.

  “My fellow Zunftmen,” he began. “My greatest fears have been realized. The cottagers have shown their true brutish nature. Mr. Hywel insolently accommodated them, which was a grave error indeed. Still, they resorted to violence. Now there is no end to what they’ll demand. They would see us all dead in the ground!”

  The West Tier erupted in stomping and hissing, while the remainder of the Hywel supporters gaped at the blatant disrespect directed toward the former chief administrator. Mr. Shieldman raised his hand and waited to be acknowledged, but Kaplan’s gavel remained on the table. So much for being a partial observer, Gavin thought as Colston continued.

  “As reported in the Zunft Chronicle, we have arrested the ringleaders and charged them with treason. I move that the trial be held immediately. Let’s deal with this situation en masse and hold swift executions for the guilty. We must demonstrate our ability to render swift justice before the situation worsens.”