by Gayle Greeno
As she pounded by Myllard’s Inn, a wagon pulled around the gaudy building, sweeping wide as Myllard lashed the horses, his nightgown-clad wife Fala standing in the wagon bed behind him, steadying herself against his shoulders. The wagon looked jumble-loaded with blankets, buckets, other necessities. Somehow Fala caught her trembling outline in the shadows, yanked at Myllard to haul up, and Doyce tumbled up beside him, breathless but relieved. Of course Myllard would throw himself into the thick of things, an honorary fire chief, and with good reason, given the flammability of his three-storied wooden inn.
“How,” she gasped, “are you going to force the wagon through? It’ll be a madhouse the closer we get.”
He concentrated on handling the team, urging them along dark streets, around tight comers, through narrow alleys. Fala, nightdress gleaming white beneath Myllard’s old coat, hair in braids down her back, answered for him. “Back delivery door. Everyone always tries to come through the front. Only firemen note other possible entrances and exits. And tradesmen who deliver ale at the back door. You,” a cuff stung Doyce’s head, caught her by surprise, “should have stayed put. In your condition! Think you’re birthing a fire-brand?”
Giddy from the blow and the wagon’s sway, she spun on her hip and shouted at Fala, “Much as I’d like it to happen as soon as possible, I doubt you’ll be tending a birthing tonight. Just give me plenty of space to maneuver and I’ll be fine.” Sheer bravado, a patent lie, and she was relieved Khar wasn’t there to catch her out. Not fire again, even if it had cleansed Vesey’s soul.
Closer now, the fire’s heat already beating on hands and faces, the light too, too bright, seductively familiar. Luckily, the wind carried most of the smoke away, so breathing wasn’t too difficult as yet. Still, the horses grew restive, panicky about moving nearer.
Khar’s mindvoice jolted her thoughts. “Hurry! These louts are reaping with fire and sword! A rumor that the Elder Hostel shelters a Gleaner set them off!”
Reining the team short at a hastily erected barrier across the street, Myllard gave a bellow for the firefighters to pass him through. Doyce hushed him, groaned inwardly at the profusion of collars boasting silver crescent sickles, winking fiery orange-red in the light. Not firefighters, but the foe, Reapers. “Keep them talking,” she hissed at Myllard, and rolled off the tailgate without being seen, she hoped. Blocking their view as much as she could, Fala began a vociferous argument, distracting attention.
Edging along the alleyway, Doyce at last spotted the back kitchen door ajar, a beckoning vertical slice of gold against the dark walls, surmounted at roof level by smoke swirls spinning in the updraft. Flames danced and surged out of upper windows. Dangerous to open the door further, cause a bigger draft, suck in air to fan the flames higher. Exactly what had happened the night she and Varon had rushed home to find their baby Briony in jeopardy from Vesey’s childish revenge. Apostle moons protect me, but I need a way in. Maize is inside, Khar as well. This time I’ll save them!
Setting her shoulder to the door, she pushed, prayed her body would block the draft, pushed harder, the door balking, partly jammed. Her sword dangled under her arm, clunked against the door, reminding her she’d never drawn it, and she began to fumble it free as she leaned her full weight against the door. From the street front she could hear streams of water surging, arcing from the hand pumpers against the building, playing over the roof, steady and hard, then a sucking hesitation as a pumper ran dry, was dragged clear, and replaced by another.
Mesmerized by the flickering, shifting lights playing deep within as she wedged herself through the door, she ignored the murkiness beneath her feet. Stepped on something solid yet yielding, foot nearly twisting beneath her as she squinted at the shapes of two bodies, no, three. Her penchant for accuracy made her giggle hysterically. One appeared to be garbed in white kitchen gear, while the others wore darker clothes. Bending, she patted and fumbled at collars, the sharp point of a miniature sickle lancing her finger, keen answer to her fears.
Something slammed her behind the knees and she buckled, tumbling forward, gasping in shock, arms rigid to break her fall, protect her belly from smashing into the floor. The air whooshed above her, exactly level with where her head had been, and she sensed the racketing trajectory of a broad, heavy object propelled by ferocious strength and equally strong arms. A sound, half-clang, half-thud, like a berserk gong, vibrated in her ears and the door pinched hard on her extended leg.
“Head cook has a powerful long reach,” Khar leaped over her, landed with back arched, tail fluffed defensively until she appeared twice her size. She held the pose, allowing herself to be identified. “Best identify yourself as well. Jenret’s robe isn’t as professional-looking as a tabard, you know. Hurry, I deserted Maize to rescue you!”
A woman of flour-barrel girth and massive arms hefted the large cast-iron skillet as if it were light as a pancake flipper and cocked her wrists, ready to swing again. “Seeker Veritas Doyce Marbon and her ghatta Khar‘pern at your service, ma’am.” The, skillet sank marginally, not toward Doyce’s head, but toward the woman’s shoulder in a modified rest position.
“Puny reinforcements. Ye’d best get inside and help. Me and Trenchard,” she indicated the body in white on the floor, “been holding the back door against those murtherous spawn. Knew you wasn’t one of the fire boys, but wasn’t sure what ye were. There be wimmen Reapers, too.”
Jerked to her feet by an assisting hand, Doyce plowed through the debris of a kitchen fight, smashed crockery mashed food, scattered pots and pans, some dented and crushed. A final backward look showed a meat cleaver sunk deep into the door casing.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am. Guard well, but take care, other friendly souls may try the back door.” She struggled free of Jenret’s robe, wrapped its bulk around her left arm. “Which way, Khar?”
“This way! Maize’s upstairs.” The smoke still rankled and stung the back of her throat, her eyes watery, but the heavy smell of doused wood, soggy ashes, and wet plaster told her the worst of the fire was under control. The halls were hazed, wreathed with smoke that made it hard to see, but she glimpsed a few elderly bodies collapsed along her route, some almost peaceful-looking, as if they’d drifted off to sleep, others contorted, faces cyanotic blue, a few charred bodies. Hostel workers collided with firefighters and Guardians, evacuating residents, coaxing them from behind barricaded doors. She counted four bodies with the silver sickle crescents pinned over wheat sprigs, dodged a firefighter feinting his ax at a cornered man, defiant with a club.
Where was Khar leading? Her mind blurred the Hostel’s layout as much as her stinging eyes; she’d not absorbed the sense of it on her previous visit to Maize Bartolotti, too intent on journey’s end, rather than the route there. Up the stairs. She took them cautiously, charred wood crunching beneath her feet. The shifting shape of a ghatt awaited her on the top of the stairs, two other ghatti faintly visible in the gloom and hanging smoke. More ghatti, in fact, wherever she turned.
“Maize sounded the distress call. Begged any of us within hearing distance to come to her aid.” Paw poised in mid-step, Khar halted in concentration and tilted her head toward the sunroom, strangely cavernous and foreboding. It spanned the whole west end of the house, its glass panes shattered, glistening like ice fragments loosened from a tree by the sun’s heat after an ice storm. Plants lay broken and battered, spilled dirt and crushed greenery underfoot like a dying jungle, the smell sharp with battered, bruised leaves, almost pleasant, though somewhat overcooked.
As she skirted closer, the darker shape of figures took on definition at the far end of the sunroom. A Seeker Veritas, weaponless and wounded, held his ground beside Maize Bartolotti, protecting an old man huddled on hands and knees, blood stringing across his face and scalp. Three Reapers-the sight of one of them brandishing an actual sickle made Doyce’s hair rise with an atavistic fear-jockeyed to gain ground, kept at bay by two ghatti, claws as lethal as the sickle as they flowed in
and out of the smoke, disappearing and reappearing where least expected. Alternately threatening and blustering, the three stumbled into each other’s way more often than not.
With a piqued hiss, Khar launched herself into the fray. “Humans are so impossible sometimes! Absolutely no interest in a Seeking to determine the Truth. That would be too simple, might convince them they erred.” Sharp ghatti teeth punctured an unsuspecting Reaper’s unprotected calf. Panic-stricken, the man screamed, tried to kick loose, Khar’s jaws still latched tight. Not easy to levitate a ghatta weighting almost twenty kilos who’d now wrapped all four legs around his. Wavering, he grabbed his comrades for support, and Maize’s arm shot out, the crook of a purloined cane lifting his other foot off the floor. Too easy, almost unfair, and Doyce let her sword point caress his throat as he lay flat, stunned. His two comrades required no further invitation to depart as quickly as possible. “Others’ll scoop them up,” Khar promised.
Other supporters, Seekers, firefighters, and Hostel attendants poured into the sunroom, chasing after the escapees as Maize collapsed into the remains of a chair. “Took you long enough. Not as spry as you once were, eh?” Maize wheezed, coughed black phlegm, her face and nightshift soot- and dirt-streaked, wet spots exhibiting a midnight black muddiness. “Still, not too bad, any of you, ‘specially this young’un here.” The tall, wounded Seeker Doyce had assumed was male turned out to be Cady Brandt, pale-faced, pinching together a deep sickle gash in her upper arm. “She tossed two over before they ganged up on her.” An affectionate pat as high as Maize could reach grazed Cady’s waist. “Wasn’t sure if anybody’d come when I sounded my distress call, but the ... ghatti remembered.” With that she fainted.
The cleanup, the succoring of survivors, the removal of the dead consumed the rest of the night, Doyce helping until she was drained and numb of spirit at the wanton, senseless destruction. At last Myllard and Fala pulled her away and frog-marched her to their wagon, now set up out front as an impromptu aid station, dispensing bandages, hot cha and sandwiches, blankets, and odd pieces of clothing to half naked but still upright senior residents.
Fala thrust a cha mug into her hands, then pressured her shoulders until she sank onto a rug-covered crate serving as a bench. Wiping Doyce’s face thoroughly with a damp cloth as if she were a child, Fala instructed, “Now drink up. That’s an order.” .
The cha scalded, tasted smoky, the predominant taste and scent of everything, including the lining of her mouth and throat. The next sip tasted better, the added honey soothing. “What happened?” she pleaded. “I still don’t know what really happened. Everyone’s been too busy to ask, even Khar.” And Maize was beyond asking as well, unconscious, gently carried outside on a makeshift stretcher piled high with blankets.
Myllard hitched his suspenders higher, tucked his night-shirt into his trousers where it billowed in the back. “Pays to be on good terms with the fire boys.” Well-pleased, he tugged at his side whiskers to restrain himself and thumped Doyce on the shoulder, began to rub her back. Myllard tended to be a tactile man, and tonight, this morning, whatever it was now, she relished his touch, leaned into the massaging hands. “From what I can gather, about a dozen young toughs broke in well after midnight, overpowered the night duty attendant. Began running from room to room with torches shouting for Max Lewinton. That if they didn’t find him, they’d burn the place. Began to live up to their word.
“Some poor old souls were too petrified to unlock their doors. Wasn’t meant to provoke the Reapers, ’twas simple fear. Reapers kicking down doors, throwing torches inside, sometimes they’d drag the resident out, sometimes not. Smoke took some, others died of fright.” He stared into the distance, wrapped an arm around Fala, “Neither’s a good way to die, whether you’re young or old.”
From the shelter of his arm Fala added, “When you think how many couldn’t see or hear well, walk well, you could hardly expect them to march out meekly and prove they weren’t Gleaners.” Her voice broke. “All they knew was that they were scared, weren’t sure what the ruckus was about, best stay safe in their rooms. Safe indeed!”
“Apparently a few, led by your friend Maize, put up some resistance along with the other night duty attendants. They may not have been strong, but they were canny. They lured the bulk of the Reapers away while Maize hid in the sunroom with Lewinton.” Myllard looked admiring. “Once the fire boys doused the sunroom, she figured at least they were safe from the fire.”
“Is Lewinton a Glea ...” she stopped herself, “a Resonant?” It didn’t matter whether he was or not. A brutal, bestial act had been committed with no concern as to the larger outcome. But to murder innocents along with the purportedly guilty?
Myllard continued rubbing the back of her neck. “I gather that he’d claimed bragging rights on it recently, now that being a Resonant might be good, or at least interesting, but the attendant said he bragged about anything, loved to bask in the center of attention whenever he could. Tall tales: ” He shifted gears suddenly.
“And speaking of tails, attendants didn’t understand what brought the ghatti running, but I set them straight on that.” He whisked a bedroom-slippered foot in Khar’s direction; Doyce hadn’t noticed her return.
“How’s Maize? Any change?” If anyone knew, Khar would, but she asked aloud to include Myllard and Fala in the conversation.
“Didn’t Myllard tell you?” Khar stretched her length up Myllard’s leg, nosing at the pan of water being poured. “Still unconscious, but the eumedicos think it’s overexertion, nothing more. She’s resting at Myllard’s Inn.”
“Tell you, did she?” Fala beamed. “Thought you’d like that for your friend, and better for her if she didn’t wake up in the hospice, sure the end was nigh. Once they think that, it’s often true. Those as needed it have been admitted, but we’ve been trying to place the other residents in temporary homes nearby, make them part of a family for a bit.”
Doyce sank back in relief, head lolling. Lady above, she hadn’t realized the depths of her exhaustion and dread, or how afraid she’d been. Myllard and Fala grabbed her arms and boosted her into the wagon bed. “We’ve done enough here, all we can do tonight. Now we’re going home and you’ll pass the night with us. No sense going back to that empty guest house.”
“ ‘Nother surprise there for you as well,” Fala announced boldly, and Doyce glimpsed Myllard’s face as it darkened, then relaxed, wistfulness mingled with pride. “Claire and the baby are visiting. Just visiting,” she emphasized in her husband’s direction. “She’s not going to apologize for marrying that peddler, and you won’t apologize for making her run away to do it, so you can leave it lie, Myllard.
Claire, too? It sounded wonderful, Doyce thought muzzily as Khar jumped in beside her and curled against her side. The wagon began its excursion across town. “You smell like a smoked ham,” was Khar’s final comment as Doyce fell asleep, lulled by the rocking journey.
She sat in the corner where the Seekers traditionally congregated at Myllard’s, forearms resting on the table, hands clutching a tankard of weak cider. “Barely had time to turn,” Fala had assured her, “scarce no alcohol at all.” Sleep had been equally sparse in the remains of the night; after being ensconced in the Inn’s marvelously pink porcelain bathtub, soaked and scrubbed clean, she’d tried, but to no avail. On top of everything else it brought back memories of her last bath in this extravagance, the night she’d learned of Oriel’s death, discovered she wasn’t pregnant with his child. It seemed so long ago, far distant-had it truly been only a little over a year ago?
The Inn was nominally closed, but a steady stream of weary firefighters, Guardians, and citizens who’d helped control the blaze wandered about, breakfast plates stacked high. Others, too spent, too smoke-sickened to eat, sprawled on benches—one snored on the floor-still caught up in the companionship, the brotherhood engendered by overcoming a disaster, and the opportunity to relive its dangers with those who grasped the risks entailed.
She’d spoken briefly with Maize as dawn broke, but the woman was still too weak to comprehend much. Indeed, Doyce suspected there wasn’t a great deal to comprehend; few had the scope to understand such a heedless, vicious act. But Maize was adamant that Max Lewinton was no Gleaner, no Resonant. “Never a hint in all the years I’ve known him. Never.” And the look she’d fixed on Doyce was acute despite the exhaustion dulling the once lively eyes. “I think Seekers are more sensitive to it than others, don’t you? Always had an inkling about certain people, something a bit peculiar about them, An‘g and I did. Or rather, An’g did, though she’d seldom say more.” Her burned hand shifted, stroked the ghatta on the bed beside her. “Ask Khar.”
A discomforting idea. But none of the ghatti had ever specifically identified a Resonant, ever pointed one out through all the years, except recently, when they’d been so ordered. Puzzling. The ghatti had been innocent about what Arras Muscadeine and his kind represented when they’d visited Marchmont.
“Of course we didn’t know.” The ghatta’s fur stood up in spikes from the damp toweling Claire had given her, scrubbing off as much soot and smoke-smell as possible. “They never opened themselves to us, not until Muscadeine permitted M’wa to search his mind. Even so it almost surpassed belief if it hadn’t been the truth.” The fur around her face looked especially sleeked, as if she’d been caught in a heavy mist. “But occasionally through the years as we ghatti Sought as part of the ceremony, we’ve run into a mind with potential, sometimes witting, sometimes not. If the mind posed no threat to the person harboring it or to others, why say a thing? Their minds are theirs, not ours.”