by Patty Jansen
“Now you’ll have panic.” The tailor had come onto the footpath behind him, still in his suit. A few women also waited. To buy thick fabric inside the shop, Milleus guessed.
“Panic at this stage is better than the alternative. Any preparation for what may come is better than none. Every step people can put between themselves and the barrier will be beneficial, if the barrier doesn’t hold.”
Milleus let the threat hang between them. If the unspeakable happened and the barrier shattered, everyone in town would be dead within days, no matter how far they walked.
“Anyway, I’ll go back to the farm to get my goats. You better go and serve your customers.”
“I can’t let you leave like this, Milleus, you really have to come inside with me now.”
“And be scrubbed? No thank you.”
“You’ll endanger the people you live with.”
“And just exactly who is that?” They glared at each other for a moment. “I’m old, and if a little bit of exposure to sonorics will kill me in twenty years’ time, I’ll be dead anyway. So just back off, and let me do my work.”
He crossed the street to his van.
The man stared after him through the visor of the helmet, but Milleus felt uncomfortable. Back off and let me do my work. Those exact words he had used many times as proctor. They were the words that had led to praise but eventually to his downfall. Too much, too brash, too fast. Not enough communication and consultation with his workers. He liked to boss people around.
Well, sometimes the situation didn’t lend itself to endless talks. And anyway, he was no longer in politics and right now, he’d best go back to the farm to start packing.
The youngsters would have no trouble with sonorics, but he wasn’t so lucky, and he wasn’t sure about the goats, but there was no way he was going to leave them.
He reached the van, opened the furnace door and flung a couple of shovelfuls of coal inside, pumped the bellows a few times and checked the water level in the tank. Steam hissed from the escape valve.
Then he climbed in and drove off. Already some vans were on the road, travelling in the other direction.
People still listen to me. It surprised him every time. It warmed him. It made him think of the old times, when he used to come to the district with his guests, and go hunting, and have good times.
His hand strayed to his pocket.
Oh, curse Sady and his signatures. He was not going back to the doga. They didn’t want him; they voted him out.
But they’re incompetent.
Never mind. Let them stew in their own problems.
There are lives at risk. I should do something.
Milleus’ white-knuckled hands tightened on the steering wheel. Curse Sady, curse him all the way to Tiverius.
When he crested the next hill, he noticed a column of dark smoke at the edge of the forested hills. High above it, a few shadows darkened the sky: huge birds circling.
His heart missed a beat. Mercy, the farm, the youngsters, the Knights who had come to the neighbour’s house and still had to be somewhere in the area. The neighbour might be a cranky old bastard, Milleus didn’t think the man had lied about those things.
Mercy, mercy.
He slammed the boiler escape vent shut. Pressure in the boiler increased. The pistons of the engine thunked and thudded. The truck’s speed increased, windows rattling, the wheels jumping over bone-jarring bumps. This old farm truck was not made for speed. Down the valley. Up the hill. The air became hazy with smoke. The scent of burning wood grew stronger and he was pretty sure that the labouring engine was not the only source. Now he could see clouds billowing from over the hill. Milleus groped on the back seat for the gun. It had to be his house. There were no farms other than his.
Mercy, mercy.
The van crested the hill and his house came into view.
Orange flames licked at the roof of the guest quarters. Most of the house was still unaffected, but once that straw roof burned, it wouldn’t stop by itself.
He pulled out gears and the let the weight of the van carry it down the hill, honking the horn. Into the driveway, between the paddocks where the goats stood bleating at the fence. He crunched into the pebbled yard, braked hard, spraying pebbles everywhere, opened the door, jumped out, pulling the collar of his shirt over his nose. Smoke drifted into his face. He coughed.
I’m too old for this.
“Milleus!”
The front door of the main section of the house had opened, and Isandor and Nila stood there, white-faced and dirty. Isandor carried Milleus’ meat cleaver from the kitchen. Thank the heavens they were safe.
“Come here! To the van!” Milleus called.
Isandor took Nila’s arm and they ran across the yard. At that moment an enormous bird flapped up from the other side of the house. As it rose into the sky, Milleus noticed that there was someone in the harness.
Milleus gasped. “Quick! Come!”
But there was no time for them to hide; they were in the open. Surely the rider would see them and come back, and then Milleus would have to fight sonorics weapons he had no idea how to fight. He pointed the gun, keeping it aimed at the bird, not even sure if the measly hunting bullets would bother something that big.
The eagle flapped lazily over the roof of the house. Milleus could see the rider on its back, black curly hair flapping in the wind, his face turned towards the scene in the yard. Surely any moment now . . .
Milleus raised the gun, keeping the point aimed at the eagle. Just a bit closer . . .
But the bird kept rising. The man on its back looked down, but did nothing.
Isandor and Nila reached the cabin and clambered in. They squeezed into the front seat, panting, faces smudged with soot, smelling of fire.
Milleus stared after the bird, now even further out of range, and lowered the gun. It had reached the treeline at the top of the wheat paddock and showed no sign of turning back. Surely the rider had seen the two come out of the house?
“Your house,” Isandor gasped. “We have to put out the fire—”
Milleus grabbed his arm. “Nothing we can do. Don’t endanger yourself.” A gust of wind carried burning straw to the kitchen roof. In the guest wing, the fire had spread to ground level. All his furniture, his memories, all beyond rescue.
Mercy, his library.
“How did this happen?” he asked.
“The men came to the house and banged on the doors,” Nila said. Her eyes were wide. “We didn’t open for them. Then they broke the windows and climbed in. We hid in the pantry. They didn’t see us. They got angry and smashed things. And then they set fire to the house.”
“Who were they? Eagle Knights?”
“They were not in uniform,” Isandor said.
“Hunters,” Nila said, her eyes wide, and whatever hunters were, they had to be something really bad.
“But now they’ve seen you. Are they likely to send a ground party?”
“The Eagle Knights do not violate the border without the Queen’s consent.”
Milleus was surprised at the anger in Nila’s voice. Her determined, soot-streaked face had an expression that chilled him, and reminded him how much she wasn’t like Suri.
He turned the van’s engine off and let himself slide from the seat. A breeze blew clouds of smoke across the yard.
Over the sound of snapping and burning wood, he became aware of an eerie sound: a mournful keening, something he had hoped never to hear: the singing of the barrier under the pressure of sonorics it was absorbing.
“Come, help me pack whatever we can salvage from the shed. We must go.”
He had some stores in the shed . . . and the goats. H
e was not leaving his goats.
Chapter 19
* * *
NOT LONG AFTER Loriane and Ontane’s family passed the barrier, the road grew wider and rutted with tracks. Pools of muddy water covered the road in places, making passage difficult and messy.
Tandor sat unmoving and rigid, atop his camel, and Ruko lay, still unconscious, over the luggage in the cart. Neither had shown any sign of waking up, although Tandor’s face twisted in awful grimaces at times, as if he was trying to say something. Loriane hated seeing it, but after a few times, she ignored the horrible faces; they were probably just caused by muscle spasms.
Ontane led the camel. Dara and Myra walked behind, with Loriane following.
The going was slow.
The camel could not be shooed to go any faster. Loriane suspected that the animal was tired. On top of that, the tracks were deep and broad, much further apart than the wheels on their cart, which meant that the cart moved on an angle a lot of the time. Loriane wondered what sort of vehicles the Chevakians used that churned the road up so much.
They passed the occasional house and a few times Loriane saw vehicles. They were nothing like Ontane’s cart. Much bigger, most with four instead of two wheels. Some had harnesses like they were meant to be drawn by animals, but some carts were huge and bulky, with barrels of dark metal, with chimney-like protuberances on top. There would be a covered cabin for people to sit, with chairs covered in fabric. Ontane said that those carts moved by themselves, through fire in their metal bellies and steam.
Tandor had often spoken of the Chevakian engines, but somehow she had never taken him seriously. Back then, his talk hadn’t mattered to her. Chevakia was far away and not a place she’d ever visit.
At one house they passed, a woman stood on the doorstep staring after the group. She held a broom and wore a neat and crisp dress, and a clean apron. She had dark hair, and didn’t look as Chevakian as Loriane had expected—didn’t they have sandy-coloured hair?—but this was clearly a woman from a much more civilised family than anyone except nobles in the city of glass could ever hope to be.
Loriane imagined what they must look like to her: a bedraggled group of travellers, their filthy clothes and their shaggy camel. The camels in the fields were much leaner. Their fur was short and neatly brushed. Most wore colourful harnesses with bells that tinkled as they walked.
Loriane had never felt ashamed of herself, not even in the Outer City, but now she did. Her clothes were dirty and she hadn’t washed in days. The machines frightened her, as did the strange animals, and the smells and the colours. There was so much light here. More than that, she felt so backward and stupid, and the people’s expressions only confirmed that.
“People here don’t like us much,” Myra said when Loriane mentioned it to her. “The Knights used to come and raid this area. They’d kidnap the older girls and take them to the City of Glass to serve as breeders.”
Loriane knew. There’d been that year, shortly after she started work as healer, that the birth rate at the palace almost doubled. Many of the Chevakian girls brought in by their masters were closer to death than living. Many had died in childbirth. Others had birthed malformed children before dying soon afterwards. And those were just the ones who had made it to the end of their pregnancy and hadn’t died horribly before that time. Chevakians didn’t survive long in the City of Glass. Even those who did developed horrible skin sores which eventually crept into their bones. The kidnappings had been nothing but a sad waste of young lives. Not even the surviving half-Chevakian children were entirely comfortable. Many, now Isandor’s age, had left and lived, if not in Chevakia or Arania, on the edges of the southern plateau.
They came among more closely-set houses, blocky and painted white. Yards had high walls, and in each grew at least one spreading tree. Children came of gates out to stare, bare-footed in the sand. It was so much warmer here that Loriane sweated under her dress and cloak. She hated the smell of herself. In the City of Glass, there were no smells, but here the earth breathed filth with every breeze. Everything stank, even the flowers on trailing vines by the side of the road.
The road was no longer a dirt track, but paved with smooth stones. Flowers grew in planter boxes, a riot of colour that hurt Loriane’s eyes.
Ontane and Dara, ahead, argued as usual.
Dara was suggesting that they set up camp in the field before going into town to get food.
“That’s just disgraceful,” muttered Myra, glaring at her mother. “You can’t expect mistress Loriane to sleep in a tent when there are guesthouses. Even Tandor never wanted me to sleep in a tent once we arrived in the City of Glass. You should say something, mistress Loriane.”
Loriane shook her head. “Soon, I’ll be taking Ruko and Tandor off your hands and let your parents be.”
“What? You’re not going to travel like this?” Myra’s eyes were wide.
“I don’t see what else I can do. I’ll sell something from Tandor’s chest to buy another camel. Ruko knows how to look after it. Tandor has family in Chevakia.”
“But they live in Tiverius.”
“Yes.”
“But . . . mistress Loriane, do you know how big Chevakia is? We’re only in the very southern province. This is the border town of Fairlight. Tiverius is days away from here. Days and days.”
Loriane shrugged. “It really can’t be helped. I have to go, and your parents have their own concerns. They don’t want to come with me.”
“Then I will.” Myra’s face was set. The baby in the sling was starting to stir and make noises, and she patted it. “I’m not going to leave you alone.”
Loriane didn’t know what to say. It was a nice gesture, but she really preferred to be alone, and people referring to her state as if it was a great illness made her angry. She had given birth alone, twice before. Once in a night with weather so foul she couldn’t possibly travel to the palace. Once in her practice rooms when she’d left going to the birthing rooms much too late. Once, too, she had to instruct the sled driver to assist her when the child refused to wait until they were at the palace. She wasn’t afraid. Her body was used to it.
They were still bickering by the time they entered the village and had come to what looked like a central town square. Under a collection of trees some sort of market was in progress, a handful of stalls where vendors sold fruit and brown things in baskets. Another sold fabrics. There was also a woman stirring a large pot over a fire. To the right, a makeshift pen held a handful of young camels. The scents of dung, cooking and people made Loriane’s stomach churn.
The people noticed the group of travellers. Merchants stopped doing whatever they were doing and watched. Children came around and asked questions. Loriane didn’t understand them. Tandor sat high on the camel in the bright sunlight. His head lolled to one side and he was drooling over the front of his cloak. Ruko lay like a deadweight on his stomach on top of the bags. Ontane had him lashed down so he wouldn’t fall off. The skin on his hands looked blue.
Villagers blocked their path until they were surrounded.
“Get out of the way, you lot,” Ontane called. “We’ll not be doing you any harm.”
The people chattered in Chevakian.
Ontane pushed Myra forward. “You talk to them.”
“What do I ask?”
“Ask them where we can find an inn—”
Dara interrupted. “I said we shouldn’t stay in this town. These are not our friends. If we’ll go in an inn, they’ll rob us.”
“Please, Ma, stop it. It’s not as if we have anything worth stealing.”
“Myra! Don’t you dare be rude to your mother.”
Myra faced her father, eyes blazing. “I’m a mother, too. I need rest. We all need rest.”
“We do,”
Dara said. “And if I’m to cook a meal, I’ll need time to buy some things, and I need hands to help me carry things.”
“Then what do you want me to do, woman? Why are you always bossing me around? I am doing the best I can and you—”
“Stop it, I said! Both of you! I’m sick to death of having such stupid, selfish, bickering parents.”
Loriane touched Myra’s arm. “Please, Myra, it’s all right.” She just wanted to be gone.
“No, it’s not all right. You need rest.”
They continued walking, because arguing was not going to bring a solution.
Their progress across the markets was slow. There were too many curious onlookers.
A couple of women were feeling the fur on Myra’s worn cloak. Ontane was shouting at the villagers to leave his daughter alone. Dara glared at them, her arms crossed over her chest. Loriane suspected that her defensive stance didn’t help the locals’ mood, but at least the villagers left him and the camel with Tandor alone.
Then a couple of men in brown uniforms pushed themselves through the crowd and came in their direction.
By the skylights.
“Tandor!” Loriane clutched his leg, hoping for him to wake up. He spoke fluent Chevakian and would know his way around.
But he didn’t wake. Everyone was arguing and yelling around them. Loriane understood none of it, and panic rose in her. It was a bad idea to come here. They were going to be locked up. They would be punished for something they didn’t understand they’d done—a sharp pain lanced through her belly.
She gasped.
Oh, little one, not now.
But the pain built, and burned. She had to stop walking. The yelling voices of people around her faded into meaningless noise.
“Loriane!” Myra put an arm around her shoulder, and then there were women all around her, touching her. She panted, chest heaving with deep breaths. Oh, this hurt.
One of the brown-uniformed men called out. The crowd parted at his words. Two other men formed a chair linking their hands and heaved Loriane off the ground. In the throng and smell of bodies, she fought not to scream. It was like someone was trying to poke through the skin from the inside. She put her hand on the spot and felt a sharp bump. By the skylights, what was that?