IGMS Issue 2

by IGMS

  "Stop!"

  "Dear physic, you have made this more than necessary." He knelt next to Al-Ashmar, daring him to rise. "Now, I will assume, for the sake of your children, that Rabiah has come to you for a bit of advice, that she has come to spill her fears of the time to come. It is natural, after all; you of all people should know this. I'll also assume that you kindly told her that everything will be fine, that her sacred voyage will be painless, and that she should return to the palace, as any good citizen would."

  Al-Ashmar opened his mouth to speak, but Djazir talked over him.

  "But if I find differently, or if I see you again before I guide the Empress to the opposite shore, I'll have your head." Djazir stood. "Do we understand one another?"

  The door to the children's room was cracked open. Mia's whimpering filtered into the room. He had no choice. He had to protect them, and though it burned his gut to do so, he nodded to Djazir.

  Djazir smiled, though his eyes still pierced. "I see we have an understanding. It would be a pity for seven orphans to become orphaned all over again."

  And with that he left. The door stood open, and Al-Ashmar could only watch as Rabiah was forced to accompany them up the street, toward the palace.

  The sun had not yet risen. It was hours since Rabiah had been taken away but still Al-Ashmar could think of nothing. He was powerless to stop Djazir.

  "Peppa?" It was Mia, standing in the doorway to his workroom.

  "Go to bed," Al-Ashmar said.

  "Nobody can sleep, and it's almost morning."

  Several of the other children were preparing breakfast in the main room behind Mia.

  "Then eat."

  Mia sat on the stool nearby and picked up the Empress's book. "Is she coming back?"

  Al-Ashmar wanted to cry. "No, Mia. She's not."

  Just then a cat entered through the rear door of the workroom and rubbed against Mia's leg. "Bela!" Mia said.

  Indeed, the cat looked just like the Empress's. Al-Ashmar picked the animal up and examined her eyes, removing any doubt. This was certainly Bela, but how was it possible? The cat should have died with the Empress.

  Bela bit the meat of Al-Ashmar's thumb, and he dropped her in surprise. Bela walked from the room as if she'd never intended to be here in the first place.

  Al-Ashmar followed her out the rear door. Bela had already slunk beneath the gate of their small yard and out to the alley behind. Al-Ashmar followed and called back to Mia, who was trying to trail him. "Go back, Mia. I'll return when I can."

  Al-Ashmar trailed Bela through the pale light of pre-dawn. She wound her way through the streets, and it gradually became clear she was leading him toward the palace. But she avoided the main western road. She traveled instead to the rear of the tall hill which housed it. She climbed the rocks, often leaving her human companion behind, but she would stop when Al-Ashmar fell too far back and then continue before he could catch up to her.

  The eastern face of the hill held a shallow ravine with plants dotting a trail - most likely from the waste it carried from the palace to the river. Bela found a crook in the hillside, whereupon she stopped. When Al-Ashmar finally caught up, she circled his legs and meowed.

  Al-Ashmar parted the wall of vines clinging to the nearby boulder. A low, dark tunnel entrance stood there. Al-Ashmar rushed through, realizing that Bela - or more likely the soul of the Empress - was leading him up to the palace. In utter darkness, he climbed the spiral stairs as quickly as his burning lungs would allow. Occasionally the stairwell would end, forcing him to take a short passage to find another that led him upward once more, but by and large it was strictly a grueling uphill climb.

  His legs threatened to give out, forcing him to stop, but dawn would arrive soon, and Al-Ashmar feared that would be when the Empress's retinue would be killed.

  Finally, dim light came from above, and the peal of a bell filtered down to him. Dawn had arrived. Bela meowed somewhere ahead. He felt sure he'd climbed treble the height of the palace, but still he pushed harder. The light intensified, and he came to a wall with a grate embedded into it. Though the brightness hurt his eyes, he surveyed what he realized was the Empress's garden.

  Visible through the three peaked doorways, Djazir paced along the Empress's throne room. Six of the Empress's personal guard stood nearby, each wearing ornate leather armor with a sword and dagger hanging from a silver belt. Djazir wore a white silk robe embroidered with crimson thread, and a ceremonial dagger hung from a golden belt at his waist. The Empress was wrapped in folds of white cloth, her face still exposed. Five bolts of white cloth waited on the marble floor to her left.

  But to her right, on another bolt of cloth, was Rabiah, unconscious or dead.

  Please, Rabiah, be alive.

  Djazir continued to pace and wring his hands. A young man, wearing clothes similar to but not so grand as Djazir's, entered the garden and reported to Djazir.

  As the two of them conversed, too low to be heard, Bela strolled out from the grate. Al-Ashmar tried to prevent it, but Bela sped up just before his fingers could reach her. She walked up to Djazir as if she were asking for a bit of cream.

  "By the spirits, thank you," Djazir said loudly as he picked Bela up. "Now please," he said. "Prepare yourselves." Then he turned to the young man. "Prepare the procession immediately. You will find everything ready by the time you return."

  The young man bowed and walked back through the garden. Al-Ashmar heard a heavy wooden door close. Moments later, the palace's bell pealed once more.

  Al-Ashmar, heart quickening, searched the landscape of the grate, looking for any sign of a catch. He found something hard and irregular about halfway down on the left side, but had no idea how to release it.

  As the Empress's guards positioned themselves on their white cloths, Djazir ladled a thick white liquid from a ceramic bowl using an ornate spoon. He held the spoon to Bela's lips and waited as she lapped at it. Then he set Bela down on a silk pillow on the Empress's throne and petted her until her movements slowed.

  Bela rested her head on her crossed paws and stared directly at Al-Ashmar. Her eyes blinked, twice, before slowly closing for the last time. Her lungs ceased to draw breath mere moments later.

  The bell pealed again, long and slow.

  Djazir moved to each of the guards in turn and administered a spoonful of the liquid. Their bodies were already lying down, but each fell slack less than three breaths after imbibing the poison.

  Al-Ashmar worked frantically at the catch. Open, damn it! Open!

  Djazir moved next to Rabiah's motionless form.

  "Stop it, Djazir!"

  Djazir turned. He moved toward the grate, squinting.

  The catch released.

  Al-Ashmar stepped out into the light, ready to charge for Djazir should he make a move toward Rabiah. But instead Djazir dropped the spoon and pulled his dagger free of its sheath.

  "I was willing to let your children live, Al-Ashmar, but an affront such as this demands their deaths."

  Al-Ashmar, heart beating wildly, patted his vest for anything he might use as a weapon and found only the leftover phials of Bela's tonic. He swallowed hard and pulled one of them from his vest pocket.

  Djazir chuckled. "Are you going to heal me, physic?"

  Al-Ashmar unstoppered the phial and waited for Djazir to come close, but Djazir lunged much faster than Al-Ashmar had anticipated. Al-Ashmar dodged but still the steel bit deep into his shoulder. He flung the phial's contents at Djazir's face, aiming for the eyes. Enough of the acerbic liquid struck home, and Djazir screamed and fell backward.

  Al-Ashmar fell on top of Djazir, driving his good shoulder into Djazir's gut. A long, deep, noisy exhalation was forced from Djazir's lungs, giving Al-Ashmar time to scramble on top of him. Holding the knife to one side, Al-Ashmar seized Djazir's neck and applied all the leverage he could as the older man writhed beneath him, sputtering and choking, eyes pinched tight. Finally, as the palace bell pealed over the city, Djazir's body lost
all tension.

  Al-Ashmar breathed heavily, wincing from the pain in his screaming shoulder. He cleaned Djazir as best he could and tugged him into position on the remaining bolt of white cloth. Then he rushed to Rabiah's side and tried to wake her. He thought surely she was dead, thought surely this had all been for naught, but no, she still had a faint heartbeat. She still drew breath, however slowly. He slapped her, but she would not wake.

  The bell pealed. They would return soon.

  Al-Ashmar took a bit of the tonic still left in the phial and spread it under and inside Rabiah's nostrils. She jerked and her eyes opened. She was slow in focusing, but eventually she seemed to recognize Al-Ashmar.

  "Where am I?" she asked, rubbing the tonic from her nose.

  "Not now. I will explain all later."

  Al-Ashmar helped Rabiah through the grate, but before he could take the first of the steps down, Rabiah turned Al-Ahmar around and wrapped her arms around him.

  "Thank you for my life," she said.

  He freed himself from her embrace and pulled her toward the stairs. "Thank me when you have your new one."

  Al-Ashmar knew they would have to leave for foreign lands, but it couldn't be helped. He hadn't expected this change in fortune, but neither had he expected his wife to die or to raise seven children on his own. He would take what fate gave him and deal with it as best he could.

  With Rabiah.

  Yes, with Rabiah it will all be just a little bit easier.

  The Yazoo Queen

  by Orson Scott Card

  Artwork by James Owen

  * * *

  [Part of the Alvin Maker series, this story falls chronologically between Heartfire and The Crystal City.]

  Alvin watched as Captain Howard welcomed aboard another group of passengers, a prosperous family with five children and three slaves.

  "It's the Nile River of America," said the captain. "But Cleopatra herself never sailed in such splendor as you folks is going to experience on the Yazoo Queen."

  Splendor for the family, thought Alvin. Not likely to be much splendor for the slaves -- though, being house servants, they'd fare better than the two dozen runaways chained together in the blazing sun at dockside all afternoon.

  Alvin had been keeping an eye on them since he and Arthur Stuart got here to the Carthage City riverport at eleven. Arthur Stuart was all for exploring, and Alvin let him go. The city that billed itself as the Phoenicia of the West had plenty of sights for a boy Arthur's age, even a half-black boy. Since it was on the north shore of the Hio, there'd be suspicious eyes on him for a runaway. But there was plenty of free blacks in Carthage City, and Arthur Stuart was no fool. He'd keep an eye out.

  There was plenty of slaves in Carthage, too. That was the law, that a black slave from the South remained a slave even in a free state. And the greatest shame of all was those chained-up runaways who got themselves all the way across the Hio to freedom, only to be picked up by Finders and dragged back in chains to the whips and other horrors of bondage. Angry owners who'd make an example of them. No wonder there was so many who killed theirselves, or tried to.

  Alvin saw wounds on more than a few in this chained-up group of twenty-five, though many of the wounds could have been made by the slave's own hand. Finders weren't much for injuring the property they was getting paid to bring on home. No, those wounds on wrists and bellies were likely a vote for freedom before life itself.

  What Alvin was watching for was to know whether the runaways were going to be loaded on this boat or another. Most often runaways were ferried across river and made to walk home over land -- there was too many stories of slaves jumping overboard and sinking to the bottom with their chains on to make Finders keen on river transportation.

  But now and then Alvin had caught a whiff of talking from the slaves -- not much, since it could get them a bit of lash, and not loud enough for him to make out the words, but the music of the language didn't sound like English, not northern English, not southern English, not slave English. It wasn't likely to be any African language. With the British waging full-out war on the slave trade, there weren't many new slaves making it across the Atlantic these days.

  So it might be Spanish they were talking, or French. Either way, they'd most likely be bound for Nueva Barcelona, or New Orleans, as the French still called it.

  Which raised some questions in Alvin's mind. Mostly this one: How could a bunch of Barcelona runaways get themselves to the state of Hio? That would have been a long trek on foot, especially if they didn't speak English. Alvin's wife, Peggy, grew up in an Abolitionist home, with her Papa, Horace Guester, smuggling runaways across river. Alvin knew something about how good the Underground Railway was. It had fingers reaching all the way down into the new duchies of Mizzippy and Alabam, but Alvin never heard of any Spanish- or French-speaking slaves taking that long dark road to freedom.

  "I'm hungry again," said Arthur Stuart.

  Alvin turned to see the boy -- no, the young man, he was getting so tall and his voice so low -- standing behind him, hands in his pockets, looking at the Yazoo Queen.

  "I'm a-thinking," said Alvin, "as how instead of just looking at this boat, we ought to get on it and ride a spell."

  "How far?" asked Arthur Stuart.

  "You asking cause you're hoping it's a long way or a short one?"

  "This one goes clear to Barcy."

  "It does if the fog on the Mizzippy lets it," said Alvin.

  Arthur Stuart made a goofy face at him. "Oh, that's right, cause around you that fog's just bound to close right in."

  "It might," said Alvin. "Me and water never did get along."

  "When you was a little baby, maybe," said Arthur Stuart. "Fog does what you tell it to do these days."

  "You think," said Alvin.

  "You showed me your own self."

  "I showed you with smoke from a candle," said Alvin, "and just because I can do it don't mean that every fog or smoke you see is doing what I say."

  "Don't mean it ain't, either," said Arthur Stuart, grinning.

  "I'm just waiting to see if this boat's a slave ship or not," said Alvin.

  Arthur Stuart looked over where Alvin was looking, at the runaways. "Why don't you just turn them loose?" he asked.

  "And where would they go?" said Alvin. "They're being watched."

  "Not all that careful," said Arthur Stuart. "Them so-called guards has got jugs that ain't close to full by now."

  "The Finders still got their sachets. It wouldn't take long to round them up again, and they'd be in even more trouble."

  "So you ain't going to do a thing about it?"

  "Arthur Stuart, I can't just pry the manacles off every slave in the South."

  "I seen you melt iron like it was butter," said Arthur Stuart.

  "So a bunch of slaves run away and leave behind puddles of iron that was once their chains," said Alvin. "What do the authorities think? There was a blacksmith snuck in with a teeny tiny bellows and a ton of coal and lit him a fire that het them chains up? And then he run off after, taking all his coal with him in his pockets?"

  Arthur Stuart looked at him defiantly. "So it's all about keeping you safe."

  "I reckon so," said Alvin. "You know what a coward I am."

  Last year, Arthur Stuart would have blinked and said he was sorry, but now that his voice had changed the word "sorry" didn't come so easy to his lips. "You can't heal everybody, neither," he said, "but that don't stop you from healing some."

  "No point in freeing them as can't stay free," said Alvin. "And how many of them would run, do you think, and how many drown themselves in the river?"

  "Why would they do that?"

  "Because they know as well as I do, there ain't no freedom here in Carthage City for a runaway slave. This town may be the biggest on the Hio, but it's more southern than northern, when it comes to slavery. There's even buying and selling of slaves here, they say, flesh markets hidden in cellars, and the authorities know about it and don't d
o a thing because there's so much money in it."

  "So there's nothing you can do."

  "I healed their wrists and ankles where the manacles bite so deep. I cooled them in the sun and cleaned the water they been given to drink so it don't make them sick."

  Now, finally, Arthur Stuart looked a bit embarrassed -- though still defiant. "I never said you wasn't nice," he said.

  "Nice is all I can be," said Alvin. "In this time and place. That and I don't plan to give my money to this captain iffen the slaves are going southbound on his boat. I won't help pay for no slave ship."

  "He won't even notice the price of our passage."

  "Oh, he'll notice, all right," said Alvin. "This Captain Howard is a fellow what can tell how much money you got in your pocket by the smell of it."

  "You can't even do that," said Arthur Stuart.

  "Money's his knack," said Alvin. "That's my guess. He's got him a pilot to steer the ship, and an engineer to keep that steam engine going, and a carpenter to tend the paddlewheel and such damage as the boat takes passing close to the left bank all the way down the Mizzippy. So why is he captain? It's about the money. He knows who's got it, and he knows how to talk it out of them."

  "So how much money's he going to think you got?"

  "Enough money to own a big young slave, but not enough money to afford one what doesn't have such a mouth on him."

  Arthur Stuart glared. "You don't own me."

  "I told you, Arthur Stuart, I didn't want you on this trip and I still don't. I hate taking you south because I have to pretend you're my property, and I don't know which is worse, you pretending to be a slave, or me pretending to be the kind of man as would own one."

  "I'm going and that's that."

  "So you keep on saying," said Alvin.

  "And you must not mind because you could force me to stay here iffen you wanted."

  "Don't say 'iffen,' it drives Peggy crazy when you do."

  "She ain't here and you say it your own self."

  "The idea is for the younger generation to be an improvement over the older."

  "Well, then, you're a mizzable failure, you got to admit, since I been studying makering with you for lo these many years and I can barely make a candle flicker or a stone crack."