by Patty Jansen
“I want to speak to General Finnisius. I also want a team in there to take out the dead and select the most desperately ill and their families.”
“We tried to collect the bodies, Sir,” one of the guards said. “But they won’t let any of their relatives out of their sight, even if they’re dead. Some people say . . .” He swallowed. “Some guards say that these southern strangers eat their dead.”
“Oh, nonsense. You don’t believe that, do you?”
The man looked away. “None of them appears to speak Chevakian, sir.”
“Then get an interpreter.”
The man’s eyes widened. “But where do I find—”
“Go and get Lady Armaine or one of her daughters. Don’t pretend to me you don’t know where she lives.”
“Yes . . . yes, sir.” The man bowed, put his helmet back on and trotted out of the office.
Never, ever, trust this woman.
Sady heaved a sigh and turned to Orsan, and noticed with satisfaction that General Finnisius had come in. “The army is at your service, proctor.”
“Thanks, Finnisius. We need to establish a contact, a leader, and we need tents to house them. I want the army to set up a camp on the field on the Ensar road. We need vehicles to take them there and we need men to put up the tents. I want the route to be fenced off for citizens.”
“What about the people who want to use the Ensar road?”
“Put up signs that they should use the Mekta road instead.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want drivers and anyone working with the refugees to wear suits. I want all army personnel out of the camps before the refugees move in. We need to process the refugees first by decontaminating them. No one is to deal unsuited with anyone before decontamination. We need a temporary hospital. We need food.”
“We can deal with the tents and decontamination,” Finnisius said.
“All right, arrange it.”
Finnisius left.
He turned to the mayor. “Could you ask the hospital to send a team, and for food for these people? Report to Orsan.”
“I can do that, proctor.” The mayor met his gaze squarely. He was a tall man, with short-cropped curly hair, quite handsome in his late middle age. “What account do I use to pay the merchants for that food?”
It was a valid question, and probably made out of innocence, because Sady didn’t think the mayor of the city had much of a reason to be aware of the financial woes of the doga, but it chilled him to the core. What account to use to save thousands of foreign lives?
“Use general expenditure.”
“But—”
“I’ll make sure there will be extra funds to cover this event.” He hoped he sounded confident, because he didn’t feel it. He really needed to find those missing books and get someone to get to the bottom of this financial mystery.
“And wait.”
The mayor stopped with his hand on the door.
Sady undid the chain he wore around his neck. On it dangled a small key that would unlock a cabinet in the town hall. He gave it to the mayor, whose eyes were wide.
“Do you want me to ring the bell, sir?”
“Yes. Once only, at this stage.”
“Yes, sir.” He bowed and left, leaving behind silence and the murmur of the crowd downstairs, the residual hissing of the train’s engine, the shouts of soldiers, all muffled by the presence of a floor between them and the platform.
“Ringing the bell? Is that really necessary?” asked Orsan.
“Precaution.” Or so he hoped, but if whatever the City of Glass had unleashed made its own citizens flee, then what hope did Chevakia have?
Then he turned to the stationmaster. “Do bring the other trains in here as soon as you clear the platform. We’ll process the refugees at the station. Also, cancel any inbound trains. Keep Westside open, and the Curly Loop as well. Close the main line.”
“But the people going to work—”
“When the mayor rings that bell, no one will be going to work. I want this part of the city sealed off, together with a corridor we will use to take the southerners out of here.”
The stationmaster nodded, feebly.
“We’ll need some help from the refugees themselves, but I want to wait until we have some interpreters who can talk to them—”
“Two young men have just come in to offer their services as interpreters, proctor.”
“Excellent. Take them to the platform and let them explain what is happening. Now, excuse me. I’ll go back to work.”
He rose and picked up his helmet.
Sady and Orsan went back down into the station hall, where it was noisy, hot and smelly. Most of the people were still seated, but there were some pockets of disagreement, people yelling at the guards who kept them on the platform.
“How are you coping?” Sady asked a guard, and his voice sounded muffled in the helmet.
“Only just, sir. Ideally, we’d need a lot more people. And someone to talk to them.”
“We’re working on that. Meanwhile, keep them occupied and show that we’re doing something. There should be some young men to work as interpreters soon. Start by organising these people into groups so they can be transported to the camp we’ll set up. I want you to select any that are severely ill or injured . . .” He hesitated. “. . . or very young or pregnant.”
He looked over the crowd, but couldn’t see the pregnant woman.
Chapter 26
* * *
IN THE MORNING, Isandor still sat huddled under his cloak at the tent entrance. His legs were stiff from sitting in this position all night, and his arm ached from clutching the dagger.
He didn’t think Jevaithi, in the tent, had slept much. He had heard her cry and he’d ached to comfort her, but he didn’t dare leave his post. She’d been right; they weren’t safe. He still shuddered at that moment of panic, when the shadow had loomed over him, the horror of feeling the shorthair cloak under his hands. By the skylights, these were Knights. Not only that, they were hunters.
But when the light grew from blue to white to pink, he was happy to see that the rogues with their van had indeed gone. He’d heard an engine after the attack, but it had been too dark to be certain. Additional vans might have appeared in the night.
Time for breakfast.
He stretched limbs stiff with sitting in the same position, huddled up under his cloak, and finally slid his dagger into his belt.
He checked in the tent, and found Jevaithi still asleep, her hair fanned out over the pillow. His heart ached to touch her, but he didn’t want to wake her.
Next, the goats. They already stood in the corner of the pen closest to him and when he collected the bucket from the back of the truck, a few let out plaintive bleats. Their udders were swollen with milk, and they jostled each other to be first in line.
Isandor got the stool and bucket and sat down with the first animal, its warm smell all around him.
Milking had become an easy, relaxing task.
Milleus said that they were on their way to Tiverius. Apparently, he had a brother there, but Isandor wished they didn’t have to rely on Milleus. He couldn’t muster the courage to tell Milleus that they were going their own way. He didn’t even know if he wanted to go his own way. Alone, he and Jevaithi would be so much more vulnerable.
But by the skylights, Tiverius.
There were a lot of people in the city and people meant danger. He couldn’t imagine that Tandor would be the only southerner ever to travel to Tiverius. There had to be other southerners who regularly crossed the borders. They would recognise Jevaithi.
Isandor wanted to find somewhere safe for them to live, not
to keep running, but for now it seemed everyone in Chevakia was running. Maybe people in Tiverius were running, too. Milleus had explained why they were running, but Isandor still didn’t quite understand how an increase in icefire had everyone in such a panic. Yes, he knew that icefire was lethal to Chevakians, but somehow deep inside he didn’t really understand. Chevakians were people just like southerners. They even had Imperfects. Yesterday he had spotted an old man on the road, pushed in a chair with wheels by a younger woman.
How could Chevakians be killed by icefire? They looked just like him.
By the time he finished milking, the sun had gone and grey clouds were rolling in. A gusty wind tore at the trees around the clearing, making them whistle and sigh.
The young mother from the family they had met yesterday came to buy some milk. Isandor poured the rest into a container and sat down with a cup of the frothy, tangy liquid.
Isandor stoked the fire and fed it some wood. Meanwhile, he put out the plates and the judged it safe to go to the creek to get water.
When he came back with the pot, a man he hadn’t seen before stood at the fire watching him. He was middle-aged, dressed in a rough woollen jacket, loose trousers, wearing a scarf on his head against the sun. A typical Chevakian peasant.
“You can share some of our water for tea.” Isandor nodded at the man and went on with his business, pouring a bit of water in the teapot and scrubbing it out, and then adding tea leaves.
When he looked up, the peasant had come right up to the fire, squinting at Isandor.
“You are from the south?”
Isandor straightened. “Yes, I am.”
The next moment, the man took a swing at him. Isandor saw it coming and ducked.
“Hey, what are you—”
Another punch missed his head.
Isandor managed to get hold of the man’s arm to stop him punching again, but he had the strong arms of someone who worked in the fields.
“What have I done?”
“It’s because of you that we have all this trouble,” the man said, spitting between his teeth. “You’re filthy, raping savages, that’s what. You’re ruining our country.”
“Hey, calm down, let him go.” This was a new voice. Milleus pulled the peasant’s arm, and he let go of Isandor, but continued to glare with hatred in his eyes.
“These young people are refugees just like all of us,” Milleus continued.
The man spat on the ground. “They’re southerners. They are raping savages, the lot of them. Why do you defend them, Mister? Even as we’re all running for our lives because of them. They burned my farm. They killed my animals.”
Milleus snorted. “What—these youngsters?”
The man squinted at Isandor. “I don’t care which of them did it. They came on their damn birds and set fire to the house. They killed my father-in-law in front of my eyes. Ran a sword right through him, like that.” He made a slashing motion. “And you . . .” He pointed a trembling finger at Milleus. “You dare come here with a pair of them. Protecting them. Letting them touch our food.”
“One southerner isn’t the same as another.”
“They’re all the same to me. Evil magicians. Much as the idiots in Tiverius tell us that there is no magic.”
“There isn’t. The Scriptorium has explanations for everything.”
“Oh, there is no magic, huh? Then tell me mister, how come we’re all running from this non-magic we can’t see but that kills us nevertheless? Are you going to tell me the south doesn’t control it either? Are you going to tell me that those vile southerners are doing this to us by accident? Are you telling me that the southerners are not doing this so that they can send rampaging hordes into our land to take our farms? And that while this goes on, we should smile kindly at any southerner we meet?”
A deep anger welled up in Isandor’s chest. “The City of Glass wants none of your land. They wouldn’t even know what to do with it—”
“Raping savages, the lot of you!”
“I’ve done nothing. We have fled ourselves—”
“Isandor.” That was Milleus, a steady presence behind him. “Ignore him.”
“But this man is saying untrue things about us.”
“Leave it. He’s angry and hurt. Arguing will not change his mind about southerners.”
“Too right, Mister. I will never change my mind about southerners.”
“But they’re lies,” Isandor called out. “No one in the City of Glass wants your farms. They don’t even know what a farm is.”
“Then tell me: why did they come to our farmhouse and burnt it? Why are we all running from this menace? Why did the barrier break?”
Isandor shrugged. He thought he knew why the hunters—those who had tried to kill him last night—burnt the farms: to mark the ones they’d searched. And the reason they were searching was Jevaithi. But he couldn’t tell anyone that. As for the barrier, he had truly no idea. He hadn’t even known Chevakia had barriers.
“Ow, give the boy a break,” Milleus said. At least twenty curious onlookers had gathered. “I found the two of them in my barn before any of this happened. They are young lovers having eloped from their families, fleeing an arranged marriage. They know nothing. They are innocent and can answer our questions just as much as you or I can. If you want answers, you should look at your local authorities.”
Several people laughed at this.
A man said, “Destran’s probably too busy covering his own backside to look out for any of ours.”
Another said, “What have the authorities done to keep us safe? None of them warned us of this magic.”
“They did talk about it a bit, but no one ever said it was urgent.”
A strange expression came over Milleus’ face. He straightened his old back. “Did they ever send suits?”
Several people laughed at this.
A woman shouted. “They promised they’d send some ages ago. They finally sent twenty, for a town of thousands. And they were all a huge size.”
Another chimed in. “Yeah, like all their promises. Has Destran put in the road he promised? The school? The hospital? All the things that made the district vote for him? Of course not.”
“So why didn’t you vote out your representative?”
“He’s all right. A local man. In the job for years. We couldn’t vote against him. There is no one else, really.”
“No? But your mistaken loyalty has consequences. Because you vote for him, the local representative gets away with doing nothing, because he knows that he doesn’t have to work for your votes.”
Milleus looked like he had grown, and shed ten years in age. Like this, he was formidable, nothing like the old man on the farm. An echo of something he used to be, Isandor thought. Something he no longer wanted to be, but couldn’t help breaking through at times.
A flutter of movement stirred the air at Isandor’s back. Jevaithi had come out of the tent, her hair mussed, her skin still warm from the blankets. She took his hand behind his back and rested her head on his shoulder.
“Let me guess,” Milleus went on. “The council says that in order to get these things approved, they need to be signed by the doga, and in the doga, with all the regional factions bickering against each other, your road, your school, your hospital becomes unimportant, because they are debating other problems in districts more important to them than yours. Because you re-elected your representative, who is a long-time supporter of Destran. I tell you something else . . .” Milleus now discarded the farm jacket he’d been wearing for the past few days. They had gathered quite an audience. Women, men and little children had come out of the vans and watched. “The money that goes into paying your council, and paying their trips to Tiv
erius, and paying their meals and their work clothes and the buildings they sit in—that money—where do you think that comes from? Tell me where? Out of Tiverius?” He pointed at the peasant, who took a step back and mumbled something.
Milleus continued. “No, it comes from your pockets, and you should determine what is done with it.”
Jevaithi looped her arms around Isandor’s waist while standing behind him. In a way, he was glad that Milleus had diverted attention away from him and the issue of southerners. On the other hand, something strange was happening.
One woman on the other side of the fire elbowed her neighbour and whispered in her ear. The other gaped, and then elbowed the next one.
“They know him,” Jevaithi whispered.
Yes, she was right. And Isandor thought of the library and all the books on warfare he had seen in Milleus’ sitting room. “Do you have any idea who he is?”
She shook her head. “It’s been a long time since we had any visitors from Chevakia at the palace. When they still came, they’d have to come to the palace all suited-up. Mother wouldn’t let me be there when she received them anyway. I was too little.”
“Could he be a retired army general or something?”
“Could be, but I truly don’t know any of their names.”
And Chevakia, Isandor remembered reading, was governed by a large council of representatives chosen by the people.
But there was the fear and the stories. Things he had been told in his brief time as Apprentice Knight. Chevakia had resoundingly defeated Arania in the year he was born. A few years later, Chevakian weapons made mincemeat of Knights who had been caught in the border villages. Apparently, Chevakians didn’t like the idea of Chevakian girls being offered the chance to be well-respected breeders in the City of Glass. The girls had volunteered, never mind the whole thing had been a mistake with results none of them could have foreseen. The Knights had reduced icefire to a point it hardly existed, and still it killed Chevakians.