The Icefire Trilogy

by Patty Jansen

  He laughed, but Isandor felt angry. So that was it, now? That was his function? As Outer City boy, they probably thought he was not smart enough for anything else. He wanted to tell them that he knew how to read and speak Chevakian, but that would make him look stupid.

  While Jevaithi told the listeners how they had come here with Milleus and what had happened on the way, he drew his knees up to his chest and looped his arms around them, feeling the wood of his missing leg bite into his buttocks.

  The people, mostly citizens of the Outer City or Bordertown, told their stories, of a massive explosion in the City of Glass, of a ring of icefire expanding outwards, of the shattering of the Chevakian barrier, of the forest fires, and the harrowing trip in the train.

  People held conflicting opinions about what had caused the explosion.

  “It was the Knights,” one said.

  “No, it was a servitor,” someone said, and others argued and suggested that cycles of icefire happened by themselves.

  “There were many servitors,” a woman said. “Big shapes made from icefire, destroying everything in their path.”

  “Those were not servitors,” a man said, and people argued about what exactly servitors were, which no one seemed to know, apart from the fact that they had no hearts and obeyed their masters blindly.

  “The city is a mess,” one man said. “Most of the buildings were destroyed that I could see. No one will be going back there in a hurry.”

  “But why were you not safe even in Bordertown?” Jevaithi asked.

  “After the explosion, these . . . people, servitors, things, whatever you want to call them, made of icefire came out of the ground. They formed a bubble of icefire that expanded outwards.”

  A woman said, “Yes, and those things were still following us off the plateau. Setting fire to the forest.”

  Jevaithi looked at Isandor, her eyes wide. “I don’t even understand what they’re talking about. Shapes of icefire?”

  Isandor shrugged. His knowledge from books failed him. He’d never read about anything like that.

  Simo took up a stance with his hands behind his back and his legs slightly apart, as if he was teaching. He said, “We’re fighting icefire itself. Through the Knights’ trying to stifle it, it has become so strong that it has burst from the ground and has taken possession of people’s bodies. Somebody did something to those people and they’re angry with us.”

  The woman said, “And these monsters have taken possession of our city? Are they ever going to leave?”

  “We may have to fight,” Brother Simo said, spreading his hands in a grandiose gesture, as if fighting was something glorious.

  A man said, “How would you fight beings of icefire anyway? You can’t.”

  Isandor was tempted to jump up and tell them that all knowledge on icefire held in the City of Glass was based on myth and that there was no proof for any of the things in Simo’s conclusions, but he had no proof to the contrary either, and he was sure most of these people here would support Simo. Who’d listen to a boy whose only task was to fuck the queen and get her pregnant?

  The debate carried on around him.

  Simo said, “Someone unleashed this power, so there must be a way it can be defeated. Icefire can be collected. Sinks do that. We need sinks. Lots of them.”

  Then there was debate about what sinks were. It was all so futile. They didn’t have sinks, and if icefire was strong enough to blow up buildings, no number of sinks of the type the Eagle Knights had was going to have any influence.

  Isandor glowered over his drawn-up knees at Simo’s back and the people seated around the makeshift throne. Faint sounds of shouting and crashes came from outside. He wondered where Milleus was.

  Jevaithi’s eyes met his briefly. Her expression looked resigned, and that made him even more angry.

  “What he says is all rubbish,” he said to her in a low voice, in Chevakian. “Milleus’ brother knows more about how icefire works than these people.”

  “These Brothers have a lot of support,” Jevaithi said, her eyes wide.

  “Yes, these people believe anything. Just because a Brother says so doesn’t mean it’s true. We should say something.”

  “Please, let’s make sure we are safe first—”

  “We can’t be safe until this type of idiocy ends. We have to speak out or they will be just as bad as the king was, or the Knights—” All of a sudden, his voice was the only one in the tent.

  Brother Simo had turned around and everyone watched Isandor. Their looks were suspicious. A worthless Outer City boy was one thing, but a worthless Outer City boy who spoke Chevakian to their Queen? Outrageous.

  Yes, he got the message.

  He unlooped his arms from his knees and rose, awkward because he placed his wooden leg on someone’s boot and he nearly tripped.

  In the silence, he said, “We should not make up our minds while no one knows what is going on and what caused the explosion. I think there is someone who may know more about it. The master of the blue servitor that killed the bears and the driver is a middle-aged man named Tandor. He does not live in the City of Glass, but he poses as a travelling merchant.” Tandor, his mother’s lover. He saw a sudden flash of his mother coming out of the door to the inner room of the limpet. The expression on her face was one of worry. Emotion threatened to overwhelm him. He finished with a lame, “Has anyone seen him in the camp?”

  An older Brother near the entrance said, “I think I know the one you mean. Wasn’t he the fellow collecting old stuff in the Outer City?”

  “That would be him,” Isandor said. “Have you seen him since leaving the Outer City?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “I think he was on the train,” a woman said.

  Another said, “No, I know the one you mean, but I didn’t see him.”

  “Yes, he was here,” the original woman said. “But he was badly burned. He was with a family, and they got taken away to some medical place, I heard.”

  “That can’t be him. Tandor doesn’t have a family,” Isandor said.

  Simo sniffed. “How can one man make such a difference?”

  “He asked me to be his apprentice.” People gave him odd glances. Some expressions were clearly annoyed. Feeling the situation slip from his control, Isandor continued, “Before all this happened, he came into the Outer City with a servitor, and tried to recruit me for his plans.”

  “Why you?” Simo asked, in a who-do-you-think-you-are kind of way.

  “Because he saved the lives of many Imperfect children put out on the ice floes. I’m one of those he saved.”

  Simo held his gaze briefly, and those eyes were full of pity, before turning away to talk to Jevaithi about people in the camp, and how her wish was his command.

  Jevaithi answered him politely. Why didn’t she see that Simo had no intention of giving up his position?

  What did she know, having been locked up in the palace all that time? Knights or Brothers were all the same: they only wanted power. Failing power, they’d suck up to someone who had status, just so that they could grovel their way up.

  He pushed himself off the bench. Why ever had he introduced Jevaithi to these people? Why had he even agreed to come with Milleus? There was no need for them to flee advancing icefire. They should have let Milleus go alone. Offered to look after his farm, so that they could learn to be farmers.

  “Where are you going?” Jevaithi asked.

  “Out,” Isandor said, and he knew he sounded angry and Chevakian was an excellent language for being angry.

  “What’s going on? I thought you agreed with these people?”

  “These people are idealists, and they won’t stop poking the Knights un
til they hit back.”

  “I thought you’d been betrayed by the Knights.”

  “I was betrayed by one Knight.”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this, after Knights tried to kill us. The Brotherhood is for the people.”

  “And who is to say they won’t form another group that will end up just as evil as the others? I want to know what they stand for. What do they believe in? What do they want?”

  “Who cares? All of those ideals are useless if we can’t go back to the City of Glass. The Brotherhood wants to help us.”

  “They don’t. They want power. They’re annoyed that we’ve turned up.”

  “That’s nonsense. They’re helpful and courteous.”

  “You’re too trusting. The Knights aren’t the only ones with dicks to rape you.”

  Her eyes widened and Isandor cringed. That was a tactless remark, but, her naivety was so infuriating.

  “You are so suspicious.”

  “That comes with living on the streets. You should try it once.”

  Her nostrils flared. “Are you saying that I am dumb?” Her eyes flashed with true anger that made him feel chilled inside.

  “No, I’m not. I’m just—” Although in a way, that was the translation of what he’d implied. She was so innocent as to be a danger to herself. She had always been protected by Knights.

  “Yes you are. Don’t you think that living with the threat of being raped every day does nothing to you? Do you think that I have been living an easy life?”

  “I never said that.” But she’d known no hunger, no worry of disease.

  “Yes, you did. What do you want us to do then? We can’t be farmers. We can’t hide. These people need our help. They are our people.”

  “I never said they weren’t and that we shouldn’t help.”

  “Then what? What is your problem?” She spread her hands in a frustrated gesture.

  People watched. There was sure to be someone who understood some Chevakian.

  Isandor started to say I don’t like being treated as a nobody or, I’m not just a dick with a pair of eyes but that sounded stupid and selfish, and it wasn’t really that. It was that he didn’t like all the men in black, and didn’t like their mysterious organisation. They had the crowd just as much under control as the Knights had, only people seemed to willingly subject to them, and he was angry about that, because he’d thought people would be smarter than that, after so many years of repression by the king or the Knights.

  Jevaithi repeated, louder now, “Come on, tell me, what is your problem?”

  “Shhh, calm down,” he said.

  She whirled to him. “No. I’ve had enough of being treated like I’m a toddler.”

  “All right, all right, I’m going.” He gave a mock bow. “Your Highness.” He left the tent, but his legs were trembling and his heart—her heart—was beating like crazy. Why couldn’t she understand him?

  Chapter 6

  * * *

  WHEN THE LARGE mob of southerners carried the youngsters off amongst the tents, relative quiet returned to the hillside on the south side of the camp. With no illumination, and a heavy cloud cover blanketing the sky, it was pitch dark.

  The remaining Chevakians gathered by the light from their trucks. Squally wind brought cheers of many voices, presumably from the southern tents. News came that the soldiers had repaired the fence, although the soldiers appeared to have vanished. Milleus could make out a faint glow of light uphill, at the spot where they had entered the camp. He also thought he could hear the sounds of wood being chopped. So someone had finally used their brains and was cutting a road through the forest, or more likely, widening an existing track, so that the people behind the fence could move. He was unsure how many Chevakians had made it into the camp with him, but the vast majority had turned around. The sight of soldiers had frightened them off, or maybe it had been the thought of contamination, or the fear of “magic” folklore ascribed to southern people. It disappointed him that so many people lacked the courage to push on.

  For the remaining foolhardy Chevakians, too few to force their way out of their situation, there seemed nothing else to do but to stay put for what remained of the night. They arranged the trucks in a circle and pitched tents inside this circle. Some people had dogs, which they tied up on the outer periphery. As for himself, he had to fix the truck’s tyres before he could do anything, but that didn’t take long.

  And then there was nothing more to do except pay homage to that old Chevakian saying, If all else fails, make tea.

  “We’re not going to sit here and do nothing,” Milleus said.

  They had gathered around the pot bubbling on the fire. Orange light danced on attentive faces. There were about thirty of them, twelve trucks besides Milleus’, men and women, old and young, all of whom had been on the road for days. It was a mixed crew: there was a family of five with a child that needed medical attention, a young couple who had no money and knew no one in Tiverius, and were afraid of the cost of staying there, an elderly couple whose truck had a trailer that contained at least a hundred chickens, and two sisters who were looking for a brother who had travelled ahead of them on the Ensar road, but whom they had been unable to find in the crowd.

  “Then what can we do?” said the man who had introduced himself as Artan, the owner of the chickens. The days on the road had left him with grey-flecked beard.

  “We’re going into Tiverius. Or at least any of you who want to come.”

  “But aren’t you afraid that the soldiers—”

  “The soldiers can go polish their guns and shine their boots. They cannot stop us travelling in our own country.”

  “Maybe not, but they have the guns.”

  “They will not fight Chevakians. It’s in the charter of the army.”

  “How do you know that for sure? I’m not keen to be a test case.”

  “Because they will listen to me.” And when everyone’s eyes were on him, Milleus added, “Because I used to command them.”

  Milleus took the pot off the stove, added tea leaves and stirred, aware that everyone around the fire looked at him.

  A man whispered, “Milleus han Chevonian?”

  “The very one.”

  The man smiled, and some of the people started laughing.

  “Milleus han Chevonian? In a southern refugee camp? With goats?” There was more happy laughter, and cheers.

  “How did you end up here?” a woman asked.

  “I run a farm now, and I’m rather attached to my goats. You won’t find better milking goats anywhere in the country.”

  “Hey, let’s drink to that!” A man called.

  Someone brought glasses, and a bottle was passed around.

  When it came to him, Milleus shook his head, the previous time that he’d drunk still vivid in his mind. At that time, he’d almost lost the youngsters. “I don’t drink, thanks. But I do have some tea.”

  Glasses and cups were shared and a man carried an elderly grandmother to the fire. The old lady turned out to have been a great supporter of Milleus back when he was in power. “Best ever, best ever,” she said, moving her lips with great flexibility in her toothless mouth.

  Milleus smiled awkwardly, because hadn’t been the best ever, and by being stupid when Sady came for him, he’d missed an opportunity to make a difference.

  “So,” said Artan. “How are we going to get out of this camp?”

  “It was my plan to simply go up to the lower camp gate and tell the guards who I am. I guess they are likely to let me through. It may not be easy, and we may need to create a fuss, but they won’t want to keep us in here, because the news that we’re here will get out as soon as the others reach Tive
rius and there will be a lot of questions about the mismanagement of this situation in the doga. So they will let us out, it they want to or not. And then when we’re free, I’m going straight to the doga. I’m fed up with their incompetence. They are too disorganised to make sure emergency supplies of suits and salt pills were available in the regional towns, but no, keeping those supplies up-to-date would have been too easy. And now this debacle.” Mercy, he was angry, about everything. Why were there no soldiers here to keep order? Why had they closed the road? Why had no one built a camp for the Chevakian refugees?

  A woman asked, “Do you think anyone in the doga will listen? They’re too busy with their regional squabbles, especially those from the north.”

  “They will listen, or I will make them. Before all this happened, my brother came to ask me to return to the doga. He said he had the necessary votes. I said no, let the past be the past. I should never have let him leave, but I should have gone, and we might not be in this mess we’re now.”

  “You changed your mind?” The man sounded hopeful. He was older, and would remember Milleus’ time in office.

  “I had no idea of the severity of the situation.”

  A man said, “Destran is an idiot, letting all this happen. If the army can’t control a couple of unarmed refugees, then what have we come to.”

  “It’s not quite as simple as sending in the army. It is not an invasion of a foreign army. These are refugees. Everyone still alive from the City of Glass is here. Something happened there that destroyed the city.”

  “Their filthy magic,” whispered a woman.

  An uncomfortable silence followed. Many people glanced at Milleus, knowing that during his term, the doga had tried to stamp out the use of the word magic. Magic was fear. Magic was unknown, something no one understood. The Scriptorium had progressed to a different stage with sonorics. They understood it now. They could measure it. Sonorics was not magic.