Dissension

by Stacey Berg

  “That’s true.” Brit considered. “We’ll take the woman with us. As a calming influence on her more precipitate friends, like that one over there. You stay here to help discourage them.”

  Hunter shook her head. It was absurdly like bartering in the market. “Leave her. I’ll come with you. Better numbers.”

  “But it gives us no cover.”

  “Three hunters shouldn’t need cover, Brit Hunter 364.”

  A flicker of something crossed her stolid face. Disdain. “Don’t try to shame me, Echo. I don’t want to hurt these cityens. Besides, how can I know which side you’ll take? No, my plan has fewer variables. As long as everyone else behaves, the woman is safe with us. We’ll let her go at the Church steps.”

  Hunter weighed her choices. Lia stood perfectly still, both hands clutching at Ava’s rock-­hard arm around her throat. She would be feeling that strength and reckoning how easily it could squeeze the breath from her, should this negotiation go awry. Hunter met her frightened gaze, tried to reassure her. “As far as the forcewall, then,” she said to Brit, “and I come with you too. When we get there you release her to me. Unharmed,” she added, with a hard look at Ava. The young hunter’s face betrayed nothing, but the knot of her larynx worked up and down.

  “That would do.” Brit nodded, then raised an eyebrow. “But do you speak for them?” The crowd had edged closer. They had kept quiet enough to hear most of the exchange, but now voices were rising, fingers pointing as they held their own debate. The naked hate in Loro’s eyes chilled her. Only fear for Lia held him back. Brit smiled, coldly amused as she read their mood. “I’m not sure you’ve helped us, Echo.”

  “They’re reasonable ­people,” Hunter answered, loud enough for all the cityens to hear clearly. “They won’t do anything foolish.”

  “No, no, indeed, we won’t.” Hunter didn’t have to turn. She heard the crowd murmur as the Warder stepped past her. Finally she risked a glance behind, where Milse stood bent at the waist, gasping; he must have run both ways to get the Warder here so quickly. By contrast the Warder was barely breathing hard. The chatter died to a tentative hush as he addressed hunters and cityens alike. “I think safe passage is a good idea.”

  “But, sir,” Loro objected, coming up to stand beside the Warder. “They were here to take the census. To count our girls, for the tithe.”

  “Perhaps. If so, we owe them that duty.” The Warder raised his voice for all to hear. “The Church protects us, and we respect that, and honor it. But,” he said, and his voice grew uncharacteristically stern as he turned to the hunters, “you did not protect us today, it seems. Is that man dead?”

  “No,” Lia choked out. “I just want to—­”

  “These ­people attacked us,” Ava broke in, tightening her grip on the med. “We had no choice but to defend ourselves.”

  Hands jammed in his pockets, the Warder regarded her curiously. “May I ask your name?”

  “I am Ava Hunter 378.”

  “Three seven eight? You are still young, then, if I understand the way you name yourselves. You must acquit yourself well, for the Church to send you on such an important mission. Still, young Ava, forgive me, but it seems that this one has not come out so well, has it?”

  Ava flushed, but before she could speak Brit interrupted. “It would be best to end this before there is a chance for any accident.” She made a show of putting away her trodes. Only Hunter knew how quickly they could be back in her hand and firing. “Release her, Ava.”

  Ava obeyed instantly, pushing Lia away, no harder than necessary to get her clear. Hand to her throat, the med stumbled up against Loro, who threw an arm around her. Catching her breath, she shrugged it off, kneeling once more by the fallen man. She gestured impatiently, and Hunter brought her bag, careful not to make any sudden movements. It brought her so close to the hunters that she could smell them, the slight sourness that betrayed Ava’s fear though her face showed nothing, the flint that was Brit. Her throat closed painfully.

  “Thank you, Ava. Thank both of you,” the Warder said. “I think you should go now, you and your friend. These ­people are hot and tired, and no doubt they’re also ready to go home.”

  Brit inclined her head. “The Church will remember your assistance, sir. When the Patri asks, what name shall I give?”

  The Warder plucked at his hems for a moment before answering. “My name’s not important, respected hunter, not in the larger vision, though some call me the Warder. Please tell the Patri we cityens stand with him, with him and the Church. And if you will, commend us to the Saint, and tell her we are grateful.”

  Brit’s face was unreadable. Hunter wondered if the Patri had spoken of the Warder to her, before he had discovered Hunter’s uselessness, or after. There was no way to tell. “I will,” was all Brit said. At the jerk of her head, Ava backed off down the empty alley, shielding the priest who stuck close as her shadow. It was working: the crowd hung back, its surging anger damped. Brit waited, watching the cityens, until Ava and the priest were safely away, then turned to follow them.

  “Brit,” Hunter hissed at her as she passed. “Tell the Patri I still serve. Tell him.” The hunter paused but didn’t turn. Hunter knew she could hear. “I still serve.”

  Brit said nothing at all. Then she was gone.

  The cityens milled around with the uncertainty of a mob deciding it was just a crowd. They began to disperse in little groups, still muttering, but anger dissipating. The Warder walked among them, smiling and nodding, helping them unknot themselves. “I need to get this man back to the clinic,” Lia said briskly, ignoring all that. “Echo. Echo.”

  “What?”

  “Can you carry him?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good.” Lia started to rise, brushing dust off her skirts. Hunter reached down to help her up.

  “Don’t touch her.” Loro shoved Hunter back with a two-­fisted punch to her chest. “You filth.”

  ­People who had been walking away paused, looking back. Hunter felt their attention focus on her, danger ratcheting up again. The Warder, speaking to someone on the other side of the square, didn’t seem to notice.

  “Just pick him up, Echo,” Lia murmured. She took Loro’s hand with a smile, but her eyes were furious.

  Hunter hesitated, then obeyed. The man was beginning to stir as she lifted him. “Let’s just get away from here,” Lia said.

  “How can you—­” Loro began, but Lia stopped him.

  “Not now,” she said. “Not now.”

  Ignoring the crawling between her shoulder blades, Hunter turned her back on the crowd and led the way back from the square. A few sets of footsteps followed for a little way, but then broke off, and finally retreated. She kept going, not slacking her pace until she was convinced that there was no pursuit. The man she carried was heavy, and when a few minutes along he began to struggle in earnest, she set him down on the curb.

  “Let me see him.” Lia studied his face, felt around his head as he blinked, dazed. “Nothing’s broken. What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “Someone said . . . hunters, a girl needed help. . . . I can’t—­” He shook his head, stopped with a wince.

  “Don’t worry. You got a good knock on the head, but you’ll be all right. Is there anyone we can send for?”

  “Salry,” he mumbled. “I promised Salry I’d be back before . . .”

  “We’ll find her,” Lia promised, then chuckled shakily as his eyes drifted closed. “She’s not going to believe his story.”

  “She will when word gets around what happened,” Loro said, eyes gleaming. Something was beginning to replace the anger in them, something Hunter didn’t like at all. “We had those hunters trapped. We could have taken them, easy. Would have, if you hadn’t gotten in the way.”

  “They would have slaughtered you,” Hunter said flatly.


  “Don’t think I won’t take care of you next, you filthy, spying—­”

  “Loro, stop it!” Lia said.

  “I’m not stopping it, Lia. She lied to us. She’s one of them. When I tell the Warder—­”

  “The Warder knows,” Lia said. “She’s a friend, Loro. Can’t you see that?”

  “They’re never our friends, Lia. They pretend, so they can take what they want.” He spat, then turned on Hunter with a gleam of triumph. “But they don’t want you, do they? Not even good enough for them, I guess. Maybe it’s lucky for you.”

  “Loro!” Lia began, but he ignored her.

  “Just watch,” he taunted. “They won’t come back here any time soon. They know what happened. So do you. You just wait. This is only the beginning.”

  It wasn’t worth arguing. Shaking her head, she brushed past him. He called her a filthy name, laughing, thinking he had won, then Lia said something to him, anger plain in her voice, then the two of them were arguing. Hunter shut her ears, ignoring them both, and walked away.

  The guard at the clinic entrance smiled pleasantly and let Hunter in, a sure sign that word hadn’t traveled this far yet. She retreated to her corner pallet, glad the place was empty. She would deal with the cityens when she had to, but for now all she wanted was a little time to herself. Sitting cross-­legged on the bed, she tried to focus on her breathing, let the disturbance of the market settle, drain away until she was calm again, quiet, quiet. . . .

  “Echo, I’m so sorry.” Lia stood by the foot of her bed, twisting the strap of her kit bag over and over.

  Hunter opened her eyes reluctantly. “For what?”

  “I heard what she said, that hunter. About not having a reason to live. It was a cruel thing to say. She had no right.”

  “She thought it was true.”

  Silence, while Lia thought her way through that. “I’m sorry,” she said again at last.

  “You don’t need to be.” Then, because Lia’s eyes began to fill, Hunter added, “I’m sorry too. It wasn’t the market day you planned.”

  The med choked out a weak laugh. “Hunters, a mob—­no, that wasn’t the kind of day anyone had planned.”

  Maybe it was, Hunter thought, with a sudden chill. She remembered what the injured man had said, and how Loro had just happened to turn up to stoke the mob. I have plans, he had said the night before.

  And he had wanted Lia to stay away.

  There was no point in burdening the med with her suspicion. Lia still stood uncertainly, liquid gathering in the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill. Hunter shifted on the bed, felt something press into her hip. Reaching into her pocket, she drew out the forgotten pomme, now sadly bruised. Lia bit her lip, a dismay Hunter thought had little to do with the condition of the fruit. “Don’t worry, it’ll still be good. Sit down, we can share.”

  Lia sat, finally beginning to smile as she took the proffered pomme. Hunter cut a small piece for herself. The crisp sweet taste, exactly as she remembered it, made her close her eyes, holding the half-­chewed bite in her mouth for a moment before she remembered to swallow.

  “Do you like it?” the med asked.

  “Yes,” Hunter answered. “I do.”

  “Good,” Lia said softly. “Then my market day wasn’t wasted after all.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Loro was both right and wrong. More and more often, guards or cityens brought word of hunters moving through the city, singly or in twos or threes. Taking the census as Loro had accused, Hunter thought privately, or making some other kind of preparations. She wanted to observe them for herself, but the Warder would have none of it. “I’m sorry, Echo, truly,” he said. “But we’d best keep you far away, where it’s less likely anyone will be tempted into doing anything foolish.” Whatever they were up to, the hunters provoked no further overt dissension in the city. The tension that had led to the confrontation near the market still simmered, but it seemed to have no focus at the moment.

  And hunters never came into the Ward.

  Yet Hunter was troubled: her living among the cityens was unprecedented, as Brit had so helpfully pointed out. It should provoke some kind of reaction from the Church. She made her calculations grimly. If the Patri had seen the Warder as a threat before, how much more dangerous would he be with an exiled hunter at his side? The solution to that problem seemed obvious: send a hunter patrol to demand that the Warder hand her over or have her taken from him by force. The Warder might hate to give up such a valuable asset, but even in losing her he would still win something, for by acceding to the Church’s requirements, he would make himself seem all the more a model cityen. And if the Warder were not what the Patri thought, he would be even more willing to let them take her. If she fought back, well . . . the Patri had feared making a martyr of the Warder, but he would have no such concerns about eliminating her. Besides, if they came for her it could only lead to one end, and it scarcely mattered where they finished it.

  No, it was certainly not fear of the cityens that held them back. And yet . . . There could be another explanation. Maybe Brit had carried Hunter’s message back. The Patri might be pleased to learn that she was still on his mission, insinuating herself among his enemies as he had planned, carrying out his directive to watch, and learn. He would hold the hunters in hand, waiting, watching in whatever ways he had, to see what value she might still hold. If that were the case, if it were not all her desperate grasp to justify the unforgiveable . . . She schooled herself not to hope, chided herself for being tempted by a wish.

  And, buried before it was fully born, the fear that she no longer knew what it was she wished for.

  Something else bothered her too, and it was a great deal more concrete. “Milse,” she said a day or two after market, when Lia was out of earshot. “I’ve been wondering. How did you get the Warder to the square so fast?”

  “Oh,” he said. “Didn’t I tell you? I met him halfway. He was already on his way to market.” Milse shook his head soberly. “That was lucky, wasn’t it? The Saint was watching out for us that day, for sure.”

  Hunter thought darkly that the Saint most likely had nothing to do with it at all.

  Surprisingly, the Warder’s ­people seemed indifferent to Hunter’s unmasking. It made her daily life easier, if anything. If Loro were angry with Lia or the Warder for keeping Hunter’s secret, it didn’t show. Striding triumphantly around the Ward as if he himself had defeated an entire hunter patrol in personal combat, he actually grew less hostile to her and instead adopted an air of tolerant magnanimity that was considerably more annoying. Only once did it give way to something else entirely, when he caught her aside at the clinic where no one else could hear. “Did you know a girl named Luida? Short, with long brown hair, and always laughing?”

  The nuns all looked like that to her. “I didn’t know most of their names. I’m sorry.” For an instant, he was only a disappointed boy. “Loro. Their life is good there.”

  He cursed and pushed her away.

  Justan, good-­natured as always, held no grudge. Sitting across from her at the evening meal, he had just shrugged and reached for more bread. “There’s enough for us all,” he said. “Better t’ share than waste.” If outsiders were troubled that the Warder had a tame hunter among his ­people, or if they even connected that hunter with Lia’s helper in the clinic, Hunter saw no sign. With some chagrin she remembered how carefully she had worked to lead them to identify what she was at the proper time. It seemed it didn’t matter at all. She wondered, uneasily, what else she might have been wrong about.

  Or perhaps the cityens were simply distracted. Something was going on, something unrelated to her. The tithe was coming, of course, and the hunters’ stepped-­up patrols buzzed in the background like static. But there was something else too. Hunter felt it in the mood of the cityens who still streamed daily into the clinic: a kind of excitement that ran under
every interaction, an alert anticipation not unlike that of a hunter before action, only with a lighthearted edge entirely unfamiliar to Hunter. She remarked on it to Lia one day.

  The med answered absently, absorbed in the print she was indexing. “It’s the harvest fest.” At Hunter’s puzzled silence, Lia set her stylus down, eyebrows raised. “I thought you knew. The Church always sets the day.”

  “I forgot all about it,” Hunter admitted. No wonder: hunters didn’t particularly mark the harvest fest; it was nothing to them, though for the cityens it was a welcome time to set aside trivial disagreements and celebrate another annual of survival.

  The med shook her head in mild exasperation. “Somehow I’m not surprised.”

  That stung peculiarly. Lia saw, and touched her arm. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t tease you about things like that.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You always say that, Echo, but it does.” The med twirled the stylus in her fingers a moment, thoughtfully regarding its tip, then asked casually, “Can you dance?”

  “Dance?” Hunter repeated, bewildered.

  “Yes, dance—­you know, put one foot after another in patterns, to music, with a partner.” A mischievous twinkle lit Lia’s eyes. It was a rare thing to see in the usually grave med, and it showed her unexpectedly young. Again Hunter was struck by the absurd wish that the Church had taken Lia for tithe, raised her carefree and lighthearted, with none of the worries she carried here to wear her down. It was too late now; the lines in her face were carved too deep to smooth away, even in a moment like this. And yet—­and yet—­

  “I know what dancing is,” Hunter said, perplexed as much by the turn of her own thoughts as by the med’s.

  “Yes, but can you do it?” Lia was laughing now, like an innocent child.

  Hunter remembered it bone deep. The carefully choreographed steps in the yard, blocks and blows, throws and parries, parries and strikes, every beat precisely measured, pattern repeated over and over until repetition set the hunters free of the form—­ “Yes, I can do it.” Better than most, as it happened, though they all were skilled. Not just in practice either, but the applications, in the field, the flowing lithe movements so much a part of her nature that her body had seemed to move on its own, the girl dead at the foot of the cliff almost before she knew what she had done. . . . She forced herself to see the face in front of her: Lia, not Ela. Lia, smiling still, the golden eyes warm, the upsweep of her mouth full and sweet, asking her if she could dance, with no comprehension at all of what it was that stood before her. “I can do it,” Hunter repeated, more to herself than the med.