by Patty Jansen
“No, we came with a Chevakian farmer. These are his goats.” He grabbed the bars of the railing. The press of the warm and hairy bodies against his hands was comforting. They had become his goats as well.
“We came on the train, and the Chevakians put us here.”
“How many of you?”
“All of us. The whole camp.”
Isandor let his eyes roam the hillside dotted with tents. There were thousands of people here.
More even. Now he understood. Milleus had assumed the camp was for refugees from the Chevakian border regions. But it was for southern refugees.
“Why did you flee?”
“There was a massive explosion. They say the Knights messed with the Heart of the City, and the Heart took revenge. Some say there was a war. Some say the Knights did it on purpose.”
“Hey, guys!” Another youth called out to his mates some of whom still jostled with the Chevakians. “Hey, come here, guys. The Queen’s champion is here!”
A couple of people came running out of the darkness. A boy of about ten, a girl and a young woman. They looked dirty, pale and emaciated. Their furs were filthy and matted.
“We all thought the Knights had killed you,” a girl said. She was about Isandor’s age, but her face was scabbed and oozing fluid. Her eyes were wide with pure adoration.
Isandor felt sick. While he had been eating well and frolicking with the Queen, the people of the City of Glass had suffered a terrible disaster. The next moment, panic clawed at his insides. Mother. Where was she?
More people came running towards the Chevakian convoy. “The Queen’s Champion is here!” The shout was repeated by people across the grassy field. “The Queen’s champion! The Queen’s champion!”
“Go back to your tents immediately!” a Chevakian soldier shouted. There were only two soldiers, and at least thirty southern people. Isandor recognised the emotions in their faces from that night in the Outer City. They were hungry, desperate, frightened, bored, all recipes for a riot.
Isandor didn’t want to start a riot. He wanted to know where his mother was.
One of the Chevakians from the truck convoy joined the soldiers, and yelled at the southerners, “If anyone touches any of us, I’ll shoot.”
Isandor shouted at the southern youths. “Go, before there is trouble.”
The group made a half-hearted effort at retreating, but didn’t go very far.
Chevakian men gathered next to Milleus’ truck. Isandor remained in the shadow, feeling their angry gazes on him.
One man said, “So Destran gives all this to southern scum while we have to wait outside and get nothing?” Isandor recognised the driver of the truck in front of Milleus’.
“And why close off the road?” another said. “That is the most stupid thing I could think of doing.”
The first man said, “Why isn’t there a camp here for us? We have nowhere to stay.”
“And no money to pay for their expensive inns,” another added.
“Now you people here, listen.” The grumblings grew quiet at the sound of the clear male voice of a Chevakian soldier. He looked to be of senior rank, with glittering buttons on his uniform.
“I’m going to have to ask you to turn back. I don’t know how you got in, but—”
“We made a hole in the fence, that’s what,” Milleus said.
The soldier looked at him, briefly raised his eyebrows, and went on, “You have to leave for your own safety. There was a disaster with sonorics in the City of Glass, and these people have fled—”
“We have fled, too,” a woman said, and some people cheered.
“These people are contaminated and a risk to your health.”
“Any more of a risk than starving to death?” someone yelled.
Several others agreed.
“You have to go back the way you came,” the soldier shouted over their voices. “Turn your trucks around immediately and go back the way you came. Follow the Mekta road into the city.”
“Where we will find what? Have you got something set up for us, too or is this just another way to keep us out of your hair? This camp looks good enough for us.”
“We can’t allow you to go through here. Return where you came from. That is an order. Disobey and you risk being fired at.” The soldier’s voice rose.
“Come on, mate, you wouldn’t really shoot at a fellow Chevakian.” This soothing voice was Milleus’, and he pushed his way through the group. “That is against the army’s mandate.”
The officer turned his head to him, swallowed visibly, clutching his gun. “Who are you?”
His nostrils were wide, and his chest moved fast.
Isandor knew the type; he’d seen them in the lower ranks of the Knight officers. They had some responsibility but didn’t have the experience or aptitude for higher command. They were used to having their orders obeyed and panicked when they were not. He wished he could tell Milleus to watch out. Such men could do strange things at no notice and this one looked at the end of his rope.
Milleus put his hand on the man’s shoulder and said some quiet words that Isandor couldn’t hear.
The officer’s eyes widened. He sprang into a military salute. “Honoured to meet you, sir.”
Milleus said something else.
The officer listened, and then said, “The command won’t like that, sir.”
“No,” Milleus said. “They probably won’t, but they’ll like the alternative even less.”
The man nodded and they spoke more. Milleus gestured at Isandor to get into the truck. By the skylights, it looked like Milleus was actually going to convince them to let the convoy through.
Isandor made his way towards the truck when there were fast footsteps and more Chevakian soldiers arrived. They spoke to their comrade and Milleus.
Milleus protested.
One of them said, “It’s our orders to keep the camp sealed and remove these people.”
“Let’s be realistic. There is nowhere for them to move to,” Milleus said, his voice calm. “The road is blocked with too many people still arriving. People out there are angry and hungry. Let us pass through to clear up the jam. Seal the fence afterwards.”
And so it went on. Milleus argued in favour of common sense. Someone in the Chevakian army had given the order to remove the Chevakians from the camp, and some soldiers thought it was all right to interpret that as letting these people out on the other side of the camp, and others said it was not.
Over their heads, Isandor noticed that southern people were gathering further down the hill. Some were pointing at him.
Another group of Chevakian guards arrived and tried to shoo the southerners back to the tents. Isandor heard shards of shouting, some mentioning his name. Milleus was still talking to the other Chevakians.
A scuffle broke out further down the hill.
“Be calm! Don’t fight!” he shouted in his own language over the heads of Milleus and the soldiers. His voice sounded thin on the wind.
Voices shouted back. “Champion, champion.”
“Don’t fight. They will kill you!”
“Champion, champion, champion!”
Now several of the Chevakians civilians of the truck convoy turned to Isandor.
“That’s one of them,” Isandor heard a woman say.
“What is he doing here?”
“I saw him with the old man.”
“He’s the one who gave us milk.” This was a child’s voice. “I like him.”
Down the hill, the scene descended into chaos. Isandor spotted a man in a Chevakian uniform beating a refugee on the ground. Some southerners threw rocks at that soldier. Other
Chevakians went after the rock-throwers. Most of them ran up the hill to the shelter of the Chevakian trucks, where Isandor spotted one man clambering in the back of a trailer, and one crawling underneath the vehicle. Another climbed on top of the wood stack. The truck’s owner who had been tending the boiler yelped when he found a stranger behind him.
Chevakian soldiers walked past the column inspecting each truck. They caught the southern youth hiding in the trailer, dragged him down and kicked him.
In all that chaos, Milleus came back to the truck in great angry strides.
“Get in,” he said to Isandor.
“But they’re beating up my—”
“Get in. Now.”
There was no arguing with that voice. Isandor climbed into the back, where Jevaithi put the gun aside and clamped her arms around him. Her skin was clammy and cold.
“The people in the camp are all southerners,” he whispered. “They’re refugees from the City of Glass.”
“Oh!” Her eyes were wide, but she said nothing else. She stared into the distance and he could only imagine what she felt.
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.
“There will be Knights.”
“If there are, they’ll have me and Milleus to deal with, but I haven’t seen any.”
“You don’t understand what they can do if they don’t get things their way.”
“We’ll be fine. Milleus is with us.” But he understood very well. He knew what the Knights could do. The pain of having his very essence sucked into an icefire sink was not something he’d forget easily. Now that the Chevakian barriers had failed, they were no longer immune from icefire.
He kissed Jevaithi on the lips.
From his position, he could see four or five Chevakian soldiers, walking past the trucks. One yelled and swung his baton, clanging it against each truck. “Move, move, move! Turn back!”
The truck in front jerked forward in a cloud of steam, stopped with squeaking brakes to avoid running over a youth who was being chased by a couple of Chevakian guards, and then completed the half-circle and went off back up the hill. A couple of southern youths chased after it and jumped onto the back.
Chevakian soldiers ran after them and tried to pull them off. One of the youths fell and was besieged by Chevakians. A fight broke out.
Milleus had started the engine.
More and more trucks from the front of the column were now driving back towards the hole in the fence, many with people hanging off the back. Chevakians tried to pull the hitchhikers off. They didn’t get all of them. The Chevakian soldiers were too few in number to stop the fights that broke out. Isandor could do nothing but watch, clutching the edge of his seat, while Milleus waited for boiler pressure to build.
“Are we going back?” he asked.
“No way. We’ll be sleeping at Sady’s house tonight.”
Now that the truck in front had gone, Isandor had an uninterrupted view of the camp, where more and more people were streaming out, up the hill, many carrying burning torches.
A soldier came to the window. “Move please, sir.” He flapped his hand in a general uphill direction and said a few words Isandor didn’t catch.
Milleus grumbled, “Old man? I’ll show you who’s an old man.” With a sharp clink, he dropped the truck into gear. “Hold on, youngsters.”
The engine roared, blowing a cloud of steam by way of a threat. The soldier didn’t move.
“Get out of the way!” Milleus shouted out the window.
“Sorry, sir, you can’t pass. Proctor’s orders.”
“And do you know what you can do with that dishrag of a proctor?”
He cranked the truck into reverse, shot back as far as they could without hitting either of the two trucks that were still following, and made a sharp turn to the right, over the edge of the road, ploughing through the grass and past the soldiers. The goats in the trailer protested with the jerky movements.
“Hey, hey! Stop!” The soldier ran beside the truck, but he couldn’t keep up. There was a loud bang.
Milleus gunned the truck as fast as it would go. “Did you hear that? They fired at us! They shot at honest Chevakian citizens. Hang on, this will be a rough trip.”
Isandor grabbed the handholds on the side of the door. Jevaithi clung into him. Milleus steered the truck around bumps and gullies. He seemed to enjoy himself. They rolled down the hill faster and faster and soon Isandor couldn’t see the running soldier anymore. He glanced over his shoulder.
Jevaithi’s eyes were wide.
Isandor held her. He was scared, too.
The truck bumped and creaked and clanged. They kept going downhill, getting closer to the first line of tents. There were no longer other trucks in front. The sky showed faint blue at the horizon, and the glow lit Milleus’ determined face. He muttered obscenities to himself.
The truck clunked back onto the paved road with a sound that Isandor hadn’t heard before. The engine roared, but they were not going as fast as Isandor would have expected.
Milleus swore. “They shot the tyres.”
A few loud bangs echoed over the field, these ones further away, presumably aimed at the trucks trying to follow. The truck laboured down the road. They were now coming up to the first of the tents. Refugees thronged at tent entrances to watch the spectacle. People of all ages, all southerners in fur cloaks. Skinny, filthy refugees. Many of them were wounded. There were hundreds, thousands.
While they progressed slowly, some of the refugees cheered. Children ran with the truck, barefooted.
“I wish all these people would get out of the way,” Milleus muttered. He glanced over his shoulder, where a group of Chevakian soldiers fast caught up. “The old lady can’t pull much with a couple of flat tyres. We’ll probably have to stop soon, when they catch up with us. You’re ready?”
“Ready for what?” Isandor couldn’t run with his wooden leg.
“We’re likely to get arrested by the soldiers, and they’ll take us into the city. You’ll have to come up with a story that will convince them that you’re no southern spies.”
Isandor met Jevaithi’s wide eyes.
“Whatever your reason for being in my shed, it can’t be political or have anything to do with the government of the City of Glass.”
By the skylights, were the Chevakians that scared of the south?
Jevaithi’s breath was coming fast. Her face glistened with sweat. Isandor held her tightly, and could feel his heart racing in her chest.
If there were any Knights in the camp, this wouldn’t end well. If they were caught by Chevakians, this wouldn’t end well.
A Chevakian soldier caught up with the truck, jumped on the outer step, yanked the driver’s door open and half-pulled Milleus from his seat. The truck stopped abruptly when Milleus’ foot left the accelerator.
Jevaithi let out a squeak and buried in Isandor’s arms.
Milleus struggled to free himself of the soldier’s grip, cursing, but the soldier was stronger and dragged Milleus from the cabin.
Champion, champion, champion, the southern people were chanting.
Some of them climbed onto the front of the truck. Soon, they would come inside, and then . . .
“What do we do now?” Jevaithi cried. “It’s over. We’re lost.”
“No, it’s not,” Isandor said.
Something clicked in Isandor’s mind. The people he’d talked to briefly were Outer City people, because people from the City of Glass proper would never have recognised him. It made sense that if something had caused an explosion of icefire, most of the refugees would be from the Outer City. Knights would have eagles, and he’d seen none. Maybe there were no Knights here. He had
to take the risk.
The Outer City people he knew well, and those people loved the Queen. Jevaithi had another protection: her name.
“Wait.” He released Jevaithi and turned to the door.
“What are you doing?” Her voice sounded like a squeak.
“Wait. Come out when I ask you.”
“No, Isandor.”
“Yes. I have an idea.”
He pushed the door open. The scene outside was utter chaos. People were fighting the Chevakian guards, or each other. Three people were on the trailer, trying to get it open. The goats were bleating and jumping about. Milleus had vanished in the seething mass of people.
Still in the door opening, Isandor pulled himself up onto the truck’s roof, his trembling hands slipping in the layer of soot and dust that covered it.
He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled as hard as he could.
“Stop. Fighting!”
Not that it made much of a difference. The wind carried his voice and the words were lost in the chaos.
But then a man yelled, “There is the Champion! See? I told you so.”
A woman replied, “Our Champion!”
“That can’t be. The Knights killed him.”
Isandor yelled, as loudly as he could, “I’m not dead, as you can see.”
Fights stopped. A few people laughed.
Cheers went up all around, and all the southerners in the vicinity of the truck gathered to watch. Isandor spotted Milleus with the Chevakians at the back, also watching.
He asked. “Are you all from the Outer City?”
A woman replied, “Most of us, yeah.”
“Are there any Knights here?”
“If there are, they’re keeping their cowardly heads down.” The man who had spoken was dressed in black, and when he spoke, voices quietened.
By the skylights, since when had the Brothers of the Light been so visible? There must be truly no Knights here. “Are you the leader of these people?”
“I’m Simo,” the man said. He was perhaps in his thirties. He had a thin beard and a balding patch at the top of his head. “Leader is probably not the right word, but we are leaders, of some kind, for the freedom of the people of the City of Glass. I’m glad to hear that you survived. The last we saw you was when you were being taken away by Knights.”