by Patty Jansen
Sady shook his head. “I’m here to talk about this. It’s serious.” Sady’s eyes were pleading. “Something needs to be done.”
“Good. Tell Destran that. What would the doga propose to do? What is causing this rise? Hasn’t anyone investigated that? What does the Scriptorium have to say about it?”
“Not much, and that’s the odd thing. Alius is acting strangely—”
“He’s always been strange—” Academics, Milleus had no patience for them.
“Not like this. He’s evasive.” He hesitated, as if he deliberated on saying something and decided against it. “And ever since I’ve raised the issue, Destran is stalling on giving me extra funds for sonorics testing and safety measures. I’ve sent out some scouts, and some balloons, but no one has yet come back with an answer. I need more funds for better equipment and more people.”
“My guess is Destran probably doesn’t have any funds. All spent on his roads projects and other things to appease the districts. Doesn’t keep a free reserve for emergencies. He can’t withdraw any of his money streams for the fear of losing votes. Districts have been voting through their wallets the last few years. Sady, you don’t have to tell me all this. Is there anything I don’t already know that’s not going to make me fume with anger?”
“Yes. This.” Sady placed something on the red and white checkered tablecloth. A folded envelope. “Although I hope you deserve it.”
Milleus took it, frowning. He knew what it was before he opened the envelope, but he opened it anyway, his hands trembling. It was indeed as he had feared: a petition from more than fifty members of the doga—for Milleus han Chevonian to come back to the capital and once more stand for the position of Proctor.
Oh mercy.
His life flashed before him: his quick ascendancy as popular senator. His appointment as senator responsible for the army. The Aranian invasion and the crushing defeat of the Chevakian troops which were but poorly organised, poorly equipped and poorly motivated. His lobbying with the Scriptorium with the young student who had developed an air ship. His speech in the doga. We are going to build these things. We are going to win. How had they all cheered. How had they lined up to volunteer for service. How had they hammered, sewn, trained. The magnificent sight of seeing the air ship fleet take off. And then the victory of that first battle. Milleus had gone on the airships to show his commitment.
Meanwhile, the south had assumed that since Chevakia was busy, they wouldn’t miss a few girls from their border regions. The balloons had gone after the eagles, and young and brilliant Alius had designed the barrier, and no Eagle Knights had ever come back.
After the war, when concerns turned from freedom to taxes, that’s when things started falling apart. When governing the country became a series of monotonous, mindless tasks to do with stupid trivialities. So the doga wanted a younger leader, someone who liked that sort of stuff.
“I can’t.” Milleus let the paper fall.
Sady watched him, his face unreadable.
Fifty signatures. Mercy.
“You have to, Milleus. Destran might be a good administrator, but he’s hopeless in a crisis. If Destran carries on like this, it will be too late to do anything when we need to. You’re the best hope we have. The south is up to something. Arania is nervous. There could be war. The army wants you.”
“They don’t vote in the doga.”
“I know, but they want you anyway.”
Milleus didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t say anything. Silence fell between them and stretched on for uncomfortable moments. Sady expected a “yes”, that was clear. Milleus picked up a spoon and scraped the bottom of his empty cup to gain time for thinking. Found some strands of reason. There were many capable men in Tiverius both younger and more loved than he. He would be held to glorified incidents that hadn’t been so glorious even at the time they happened. War was dirty business. Properly preparing a country for one meant discounting a lot of people’s voices, running straight over their very valid objections like some sort of army general.
“I have the farm now. I’m happy here.”
Sady spread his hands, and rolled his eyes at the kitchen. Pots and pans teetered on shelves. Most of Milleus’ pantry was on the kitchen bench, as were the plates he used regularly. Dirty clothes spilled from a basket in the corner. “Happy? You call this dust-bowl happy? This outpost? You, who always were in the thick of it all? It aches me to see you so, brother. You have no one even to talk to. Ever since you’ve come back here to live, you’ve been alone. This place is run-down, a pale shade on what it used to be like as the Proctor’s country estate. It needs painting, the garden needs weeding, the roof needs cleaning. This was once a lovely house, back then.”
Milleus glared at his brother. One word about Suri’s death, and about how he should visit his sons more, and he’d bash his brother’s face in. His jaw moved stiffly when he spoke. “After a life in the doga, I happen to like being alone, so I don’t have to listen to all these nattering voices around me.”
Sady harrumphed. “Take a look at yourself, brother, covered in mud and shit. I’m used to seeing a proud man, not a lowly farmer. And when I look at you, brother, I still see a highborn man, not a farmer. I see a highborn man hiding from the world, just because once, and I mean once, forces conspired against you.”
“What? Are you calling me a quitter? I have worked this land with my own hands and turned it from a dust bowl into a profitable farm.”
He glared at Sady and his brother glared back.
Milleus blew out a sigh and leaned back in his chair. “Honestly, I’ve done my bit for the country. I’m too old.”
“The doga needs you.”
“Trust me, Sady, the doga does not need me. I’m nothing but an old man who’s run out of ideas.” He put a dirt-stained hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Do me the favour and stay the night before you head back, but talk to me as my brother Sady, and not as Sadorius han Chevonian, politician and mouthpiece of the doga. You are welcome at my table, brother, but understand one thing: however much you talk, and whatever has happened, I will not come back to Tiverius with you. I’m done with politics, and that is my final word.”
Chapter 8
* * *
LORIANE WOKE UP in a soft grey light.
Her first thought was that she was not in her own bed at home. The second realisation was that a warm body lay nestled against her, which a glance confirmed to be Tandor, still on his back. But his arm had shifted and now lay over his chest. His breathing was regular. He was definitely getting better.
The third realisation was that some ruckus seemed to be going on outside the window, with people shouting. The fourth realisation, as she heaved thick furs aside, was that she’d been asleep for a long time and that, despite the salve Myra had put on, her pains hadn’t started. The bandage had shifted and the salve, slimy and warm, was leaking onto her left inner thigh.
By the skylights, was this child ever going to budge?
Loriane stumbled to the window and shifted the sides of the curtain apart.
By the feeble light from the not-quite dawn, she could make out people in the yard, outside the shed where Tandor’s sled still stood. There were men and women, standing around a sled talking. The sled’s bear lay in the snow, its head resting on its paws.
Loriane didn’t understand who those people were and what they were doing here, so she dropped the curtain and turned back to the room. She was so weary.
The thought of another day having to cope with Myra’s bickering parents, and being away from her comfortable home made her eyes prick.
Where was she going to live now that she couldn’t return home? Not here, that was for certain. What was she going to do with this child she didn’t want?
Tandor gave
a startled snore, as if he had heard her.
“Tandor?”
His lips moved, but no sound came out.
“Tandor, can you hear me?”
A bottle hovered through the air—Ruko was still in the room—and was pressed to Tandor’s lips. He drank the water in big gulps, spilling some over his cheek.
“Tandor, I know you can hear me. Can you stop this nonsense and talk to me?” She wanted to shake his shoulders, but something grabbed hold of her hand, a hard and ice-cold grip that closed around her wrist like a vice. Ruko.
She tried to wrench herself loose. “Oh, by the skylights, let me go. I’m not going to harm him.” Or at least not until he told her what he’d done and how to fix it.
The grip loosened.
She grabbed her clothes off the chair in front of the hearth, which had almost died and only gave off the merest glow of heat.
Harsh voices sounded outside, a group of men arguing. She went to the window again, but the group was behind the barn and she could only see their sleds and bears, steam rising from their backs by the light of the street lamps.
Loriane slipped on her clothes and winter cloak and left the room. Everything in the house was still dark. As quietly as she could, she crept down the stairs. Through the quiet corridor, the dark kitchen, and out the back door. First, the outroom.
While she sat there on the cold slab of wood, the shouting between the houses intensified. Men’s voices, the words just out of hearing. The swish of sled runners in the snow. The growl of a bear.
She hoisted her clothes back up and went outside.
Fresh snow had fallen overnight, covering the yard with a pristine layer of white. The sky was not completely dark, as it wouldn’t be at this time of the year, but dark enough for a couple of stars. There was a single lantern in front of a house opposite the road, and by its light, she could see silhouettes of people walking past. People with sleds, people carrying packs. Many more people than lived in this small town. Bears snorted clouds of steam into the air.
There was a group of men camped in front of the shed doors. One was shouting at another group of people in the street. She feared going up to them—What would they do when they discovered that she had food and had slept in a warm bed?—but maybe she could hear what they were talking about from inside the shed. When would it be safe to go back to the City of Glass? How many people had died? Whatever news she could snatch.
The shed door was open. The air inside smelled of straw and animals. It was pitch dark in here and Loriane inched ahead foot by foot. On a bench she found a lamp and a lighter, and a bit of fumbling later, the tiny flickering flame lit the hay shed.
A sound issued from somewhere in the dark corners such as Loriane had never heard before. A growl—not quite aggressive, a call like those made by mating Legless Lions.
In the corner, in a box surrounded by wooden planks and filled with straw, stood a most unusual animal. Much, much taller than a bear, on knobbly, spindly legs, with a long neck curved upwards, a body strangely out of proportion, bearing a flabby hump on its back. The fur was shorter than the bear’s, brown, shaggy and moulting in clumps. The animal had an elongate head, with large, mournful eyes and long eyelashes like a pleasure-house girl. Its nose was soft, with slits for nostrils. The animal lifted one side of its soft lips, showing huge yellow teeth, and stretched its neck up in a curious way.
She had often heard Tandor speak of a camel. Was this such a beast? She heard people rode on them. This one didn’t look very friendly.
The straw behind her rustled.
Loriane whirled around, but could see nothing.
“Ruko?”
There was no reply; it must be him. By the skylights, he creeped her out. Myra had said he could walk through walls. He could just pick up a knife and kill her and no one would be any the wiser, and no one would ever catch him. The time of the old King must have been frightening for his enemies, and she was fortunate indeed that she didn’t live in his time, never mind the trains and other marvels. Icefire was evil, and she wanted nothing to do with it.
A strip of flickering light came in between the shed doors. The shouting had stopped, but there were still a lot of voices.
Loriane pressed her face against a crack between the doors and peered outside onto an area where at least six sleds had stopped, sheltered from the wind by the shed walls. There were families with children, elderly people, a man with nobility tattoos on his face caring for someone injured, an elderly woman, she thought. They had made a fire in Ontane’s yard, and built a rough igloo out of snow. Three bears were tied to the lamp post in front of the house, which was a laughable sight, because the animals could easily rip the post out of the ground if they wanted, but they were resting, shaggy heads on their paws. The poor things were probably exhausted.
Loriane listened, but whenever the people said something, they spoke of boring things, like, Can you fill this with clean snow? Or, Has your brother come out of bed yet? That sort of thing.
She was getting cold when over the general noise of the camp, someone shouted,
“This be my house. I want all of you gone by morning. There be plenty of room at the inn and they cook for you, too.”
Loriane cringed. Ontane.
Some men laughed.
A woman closer to the shed said, “. . . annoying old bear. Easy to talk for him in his big house and nice fire.” She spoke in a city accent. “Come, help me, it’s getting light now. Let’s see if we can open this door, so gramma and the little ones can be out of the wind.”
Loriane just stepped back in time when someone pushed hard against the doors of the shed, but the bar that locked it was heavy and the wood new, so it didn’t give. Until they came back with something heavier, or found an axe. Desperate people did desperate things.
Meanwhile, more sleds arrived, swishes in the snow. Shouts of women, crying children. Reunions of families with their loved ones. Loriane caught snatches of conversation.
“. . . just a wall of steam. It came over the house and it exploded, just like that . . .”
“. . . and when we left, there was this incredible, horrible sight. Do you know that the entire Outer City is on fire?”
“. . . No . . . I haven’t seen anyone who looks like that. A man and two little girls?”
“Twins. My husband.”
“My husband says the icefire is coming this way.”
“Yes, her husband is one of the Brothers of the Light.” This voice was sneering.
“Well, say what you want, but I’d rather travel with her husband than with people who have no idea what they’re fleeing. Tell me—what did your husband say?”
“He’s a minion for the old royal family, that’s what, and it’s them that caused this trouble.”
“Oh, do us a favour and shut up. Don’t listen to her. Tell me what your husband knows.”
Loraine stood there, staring into the darkness.
This was just too frightening. Tandor had sometimes spoken of the Brotherhood of the Light. He’d said they were ignorant poor idiots with good intentions. All she knew was that they ran schools and orphanages. And did mysterious calculations. The orphans they raised often became successful merchants, because they were good with numbers. Some of them also disappeared. Malicious rumours said that the Brothers sacrificed these children, but a more likely rumour had it that they left the country.
She wanted to go out and ask why these people blamed the Brotherhood for whatever had happened, but she had no idea how many people were outside the shed and was too frightened to open the door, lest the shed be overrun by refugees.
And if the people found out Tandor was in the house, they would lynch the man who had caused their misery. Once she had asked Tandor abou
t his relationship with the Brothers and he had said there was none, and she had asked him about rumours that some members of the old royal family were still alive and he said that if she meant Thillei, yes they definitely were, else why would there still be Imperfects, and they’d gone into a long discussion about what to do about icefire: use it or ignore it, and it wasn’t until later that she realised how deftly he had avoided answering her question. And she also realised how much she didn’t care about a conflict that happened more than fifty years ago. And how much she should have.
There were heavy thunks outside, like an axe hitting wood, and then a shout, “Hey, ye city folk, keep yer hands off my fence.” Ontane again.
A man replied; Loriane couldn’t hear the words, because the thunking continued unabated.
Ontane swore, and there was a hard bang, and then the sound of footsteps coming into the back door of the shed.
Loriane stiffened, but it was Ontane, his face red from the cold, snowflakes in his hair and the fur collar of his cloak. He stopped a few paces inside the door, held his storm light up, and looked around. In his furs, he looked like a malformed bear waddling on its back legs.
“Mistress, what’d you be doing here?”
“I heard the noise. I wanted to know what was happening.”
“You tell me. They all come from the City of Glass, ye know what’d be going on there, why they all need to come out here like they own the place.”
“I suspect they have nowhere else to go,” she said, her voice soft. “There is nothing left of the City of Glass. They’re tired, cold and hungry and scared.”
She met his eyes and he looked away. He had taken her in, even though Myra had a lot to do with that, but she suspected that underneath that blusterous attitude, he did have a heart.
His shoulders slumped. “Let’s go inside. It be warm there. Dara will have some breakfast. You look like you could use some.”
But when he pushed open the back door it was to find a big group of people at the door of the house and Dara, bewildered, in the doorway.