Dance of Thieves

by Mary E. Pearson

  He waved me in, explaining that there was a lighting system in here that used thousands of mirrors. A single lantern could light an entire room.

  A hall lay before us that was roughly hewn from the granite mountain, and either side of it was lined with empty steel shelves. At least half of them were collapsed into heaps. Rusty girders jutted upward like broken bones.

  “The family quarters are in better shape. This way,” he said.

  “What about that?” I asked, pointing to another steel door.

  “We call it the greenhouse,” he said, “but it’s just a cave. The only other way in is through a hole about a hundred feet up, but it lets in enough water and sunlight to keep the rest green.” He said it was overgrown and a few animals like snakes, badgers, and squirrels that survived the fall through the hole lived inside. Once they encountered an injured Candok bear. The first Ballengers foraged in there and actually grew a few things to survive. “I’ll show you that another time. We don’t go in unless we’re armed with spears and nets.”

  We turned down another passageway and came to a smaller, more ordinary door. Jase opened it and lit another lantern.

  It wasn’t what I expected. A chill crawled down my spine. The thick metal frames of hundreds of bunks lined the walls like an army barracks. A few were collapsed, but most stood at attention like they were still waiting for occupants. The mattresses were long eaten away, and wispy filaments hung from the frames like ghostly skirts. The smooth walls were an eerie mottled gray. “What is this place?” I finally asked.

  “This is where it began,” he answered. “It was a shelter meant for hundreds. Only twenty-three made it.”

  “But the writing?” I said as I walked down the aisle between the beds. Scrawled over every inch of the walls were words. Thousands of words written in a language I didn’t know. Jase said it was the earliest version of Landese, which had changed over the centuries, but I did recognize names—those hadn’t changed. I saw Miandre and Greyson. More names, Leesha, Reyn, Cameron, James, Theo, Fujiko, Gina, Razim.

  “It was the last order of Aaron Ballenger—to write it all down as well as they could remember. They did. There was no paper, so they used the walls. There’s more. This way.”

  He took me into another room, and another. A kitchen, a study, a sick room, all of it covered with words. There was no reason to where or how they wrote. Some sentences stretched the length of the room in large block letters. Others were tiny balls of sentences, barely readable.

  “All of these rooms? Supplies? And there was no paper?”

  “They burned it for fuel.” He pointed to the empty shelves in the study. “These were probably filled with books. They were trapped inside for a long time. Scavengers waited for them outside.”

  “You know what all these say?”

  He nodded and looked at a group of words next to him. “This is one of my favorites.” He translated it for me.

  I hate Greyson. He looks over my shoulder as I write this. I want him to know. I hate him with the heat of a thousand fiery coals. He is cruel and savage and deserves to die.

  —Miandre, age 13

  “But weren’t they—”

  Jase smirked. “Years later. I guess she changed her mind.”

  “It still doesn’t say much for your revered leader.”

  “He was fourteen. He kept them all alive. That says everything.”

  “Why do they write their ages, after every entry?” I asked.

  “This might explain it.” He crossed the room to the opposite wall and crouched to read an entry near the floor.

  Today is Fujiko’s birthday. Miandre made a cake from a ration of cornmeal. She says birthdays used to be celebrated and we must do the same because we don’t know how many more we will have. Every year is a victory, she says.

  After we eat the cake, I write all of our ages after our writings.

  Someday we will all write 20, 30, or 40, I say to everyone.

  By then we will run out of walls, Miandre says.

  By then we will have new walls, I answer.

  It is the first time I have thought of a future in a world that has always been about After. Tor’s Watch is our new Beginning.

  —Greyson Ballenger, 15

  “Don’t you think it’s strange that they wrote their thoughts on the walls for everyone to see?”

  “I think everything about their lives was strange. Living in here was strange. Maybe when you’re fighting to survive, you need to share things with other people—even your deepest secrets.”

  I knew it was no accident that his eyes landed back on me with his last few words. Digging. Did he still suspect something about my encounter with the dogs?

  “Maybe,” I answered.

  “We can’t always judge a world by our own. I try to see it through their eyes, not mine.”

  He walked to another wall and read more to me. Only six of those who lived in here were witness to the stars that fell. The rest were born later. Of the six, only a few—Greyson, Miandre, Leesha, and Razim—had any memory of the world of the Ancients. They saw the ruins before they were ruins. They lived in the shining towers that reached into the sky, flew in winged carriages, and remembered all manner of magic the Ancients controlled with their fingertips—the light, the voices, bending the laws of the earth, and soaring above it. One thing was certain, these were children leading and protecting other children from predators.

  It explained a lot about the Ballengers.

  It made me wonder if their claim was true—that they were the first kingdom. Tor’s Watch appeared to have begun less than a decade after the devastation. Morrighan was established six decades after that. The other kingdoms, centuries later. When Pauline had first told us histories that were different from the ones that Vendans knew, I remembered we had all been skeptical.

  Jase crossed the room to read more entries on the wall.

  They promised they would leave if we gave them supplies. Instead they stabbed Razim and tried to take more. We do not know if he will live. I cannot stand the weeping any longer. The vault is full of beds, but no weapons. I use tools to rip one apart and hoist the metal upward, testing it with my arm. If it were sharp, it would make a good spear, and hundreds of beds could make hundreds of spears.

  —Greyson, 15

  Razim has recovered. He is an angrier and tougher Razim. He sharpens spears all day long now. I help him. There will never be enough, because more scavengers always come.

  —Fujiko, 12

  My grandfather was a great man and he ruled a great land. He has been dead for a year now. If we ever get out of here, I will go back to where he died and give him a proper burial. I will pile rocks high in his honor. I am not a savage as Miandre thinks, but sometimes I’m forced to make savage choices. There is a difference.

  —Greyson, 15

  I looked up to see Jase studying me. He wasn’t reading the passages to me, but reciting them from memory. His shoulders were leveled, his chin lifted, his stance like a wall that couldn’t be moved.

  “Why did you bring me here, Jase?”

  “I want you to know our history and understand a little bit more about who we are before we head out.”

  “Head out? What do you mean?”

  He laid it out quickly. The supplies had come in, and we were leaving this morning for the settlement site. The timing was good. Things were quiet here for now, but still, he couldn’t be gone for more than a day.

  “But you said—”

  “No more than a day, Kazi. I agreed to help. I will. I’ll dig a fence post or two and make sure the plans are set, but tomorrow morning I have to return to Tor’s Watch. My greater responsibilities are here. I’ve already been gone for too long. I can’t turn right around and disappear for days again.”

  “And who will make sure the work gets done?”

  “One of my brothers or someone else I trust will always be there supervising.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Not Gunner, I hope.”

/>   “He’ll do as I ask.”

  “That’s right. You’re Patrei. Just so you know, the Vendans aren’t impressed by titles.”

  “Then we have something in common.”

  * * *

  As we left the vault, I paused and looked down the opposite way—somewhere at the end of this long, dark tunnel was a locked door, poisonous dogs, and maybe poisonous secrets.

  “Go ahead,” Jase said. “Ask.”

  “What’s behind the door?”

  “Us, Kazi. We are behind the door. There’s nothing on the other side. It’s only another portal into and out of Tor’s Watch. Every good stronghold has more than one way out. Otherwise you could be trapped. It leads to a path that goes down the back side of Tor’s Watch. It’s narrow and more treacherous, but it’s a way out. Or in. We have to keep it guarded.”

  An exit? I had imagined something far more sinister on the other side of the door, like a large dark room with Illarion sitting in the center of it hiding from the world. I thought back to the ambassador I had mistakenly stabbed, and the face I had searched for over and over again that never materialized. I wondered if the captain could be an elusive ghost too, not hiding behind any doors, as far from this world as the face that haunted me.

  The thin line of light I saw could have been from sunlight shining behind it. And I had felt a draft coming from beneath it. Maybe it added up. Maybe it was a simple portal, guarded by dogs just as the front gates were.

  “When we get back, I’ll show you. There isn’t time now.”

  I nodded. Pushing the point would reveal I had been searching for something and not just lost, and since he was open to showing me, it didn’t appear that he was hiding anything.

  But when we reached the main tunnel, I noticed there was a guard stationed at the entrance who hadn’t been there before.

  “A new guard?” I asked.

  “There’s always been a guard posted here. He must have just stepped away when you passed by yesterday.”

  * * *

  With every mile we traveled, the tension grew thicker. Jase rode ahead with his brothers. More followed behind us—straza and drivers with empty wagons to haul Vendans and their belongings to the new site. Jalaine and Priya had wanted to come too, but Jase said he needed their muscle keeping an eye on the books and trades at the arena more than he needed them stringing together chicken coops or digging fence posts.

  Even Aram and Samuel, who were by far the most convivial of the boys, were stiff-backed and mostly silent. They had only looked back at Wren once. It was clear now that what Jase wanted me to understand this morning was that though the Ballengers would fulfill their end of the agreement, they weren’t going to pretend to be happy about it.

  “It should be quite a jolly time when we dish up dinner tonight,” Synové quipped. Jase had insisted Wren and Synové come too, as additional buffers between the Ballengers and settlers.

  It was difficult for the three of us to talk freely as we rode. A brisk wind at our backs carried our words forward.

  “Looks like you’ve lost some admirers,” I whispered.

  Wren snorted like she didn’t care.

  “Did you ever figure out who was who?” I asked.

  “Easy,” Wren answered. “Samuel has longer lashes than Aram. From the back, it’s all about hair curl.” She motioned to the boys riding on either side of Mason. “Samuel on right. Aram on left.”

  Both of them had straight hair.

  Synové and I looked at each other, mystified, then laughed.

  As disgruntled as the Ballenger boys were about the day, Synové was ebullient. She didn’t worry about her voice being carried, and in fact, that was sometimes entirely her point. She talked about the extreme foolishness of keeping poisonous dogs, the superiority of Vendan steel, and how perfectly well her dress fit last night, as smooth as butter. Most of her taunts were aimed at Mason. He completely ignored her, but his reactions could still be seen in the tilt of his head, as if he was working to get a kink out of his neck. She talked about his finesse as a dancer, that he would be good if it wasn’t for his four feet. They were quite large and always getting in the way.

  “And look at that,” Synové said loudly. “I wish someone would make him stop. He can’t keep his eyes off me!”

  Mason predictably shook his head in frustration, certainly counting the miles until we reached the settlement. We all silently giggled.

  As we neared the Vendan settlement midmorning, Jase galloped back to where I rode. It was agreed that he should approach the settlement with me at his side, while his brothers and the rest hung back—including his straza—so we didn’t look like a hostile army descending upon them.

  “It’s time. We’re getting close,” he said, and I rode forward with him.

  His jaw was clenched. This went against everything he believed. He saw it as rewarding people who had trespassed.

  “Remember, Jase. It’s not officially your land. It’s part of the Cam Lanteux and was granted to them by the King of Eislandia. They have a reason to be angry too.”

  I knew it was a sore spot for him, but it had to be said. Just as he had wanted me to understand the mindset of his family this morning, I needed him to understand the mindset of Caemus and the others. He was not going to be greeted with open arms or gratitude.

  He was silent and his eyes remained fixed on the rolling hills, waiting for the settlement to emerge from behind one of them.

  “How’s your ankle?” he finally asked.

  “Better than your jaw.”

  He turned and looked at me. “What?”

  “Stop clenching it.”

  His eyes were ice, and his jaw remained rigid.

  At last, the settlement came into view. Our long line of horses and wagons had to be a formidable sight. One by one, settlers gathered in front of their homes carrying hoes, shovels, and pikes. When we were still a good distance off, Jase raised his hand to the line of those behind us as a signal to stop and wait.

  As we neared, Jase stopped to look at the barn, burned down to the timbers, a hulking skeleton ready to fall over in a stiff wind. His eyes swept the charred sheds next, and then the pens that were noticeably empty. Only a few chickens pecked and scratched near a trough. The scorched grass reached all the way to the homes. The only thing that was green was the small vegetable garden we had seen Caemus hoeing the last time we were here. The settlers looked like they were ready to defend it to the death.

  “Watavo, kadravés!” I called. “Sava Kazi vi Brightmist. Le ne porchio kege Patrei Jase Ballenger ashea te terrema. Oso tor—”

  Caemus glared at Jase. “Riz liet fikatande chaba vi daka renad!”

  I looked at Jase but didn’t dare translate. “He’s happy to see you,” I said.

  Jase scowled and got down from his horse, bypassing my mediation. “You understand Landese?” he asked Caemus.

  “We understand,” Caemus answered.

  “Good. And I know enough Vendan to know when I’ve been called a horse’s ass. Let’s get this straight right now, Caemus. I’m going to offer you a deal, and it’s a helluva one. But it’s only good for this minute, right now, right here, and it will never happen again because I hope to never lay eyes on you again after today. We’re going to move you. Everything. And we’re going to rebuild your settlement on a better piece of land that’s far away from us.” Jase spit the terms and details out firmly, then took another long, scrutinizing scan of the burned buildings. “We took your shorthorn as payment for trespassing, but we didn’t do this and don’t know who did. We’ll try to make sure it doesn’t happen again, but if you ever wrongly accuse us again, it’s going to be more than a barn that you lose. Accept or not?”

  Before Caemus could answer, a small boy who’d been standing behind him ran forward wielding a stick and swung it into Jase’s knee with a loud smack.

  Jase bent over, wincing, cursing, grabbing his knee with one hand and yanking the boy by the collar with the other. “You little�
�”

  “Don’t hurt him!” Caemus said, stepping forward.

  Jase looked puzzled by Caemus’s command but turned his attention back to the boy. “What’s your name?” he growled.

  The boy was smaller than Nash, and even though an angry man held him by his collar, his large brown eyes were still full of defiance. “Kerry of Fogswallow!” he snapped back.

  “Well, Kerry of Fogswallow, you are personally going to help me dig fence posts. A lot of them. Understand?”

  “I’m not afraid of you!”

  Jase’s eyes narrowed. “Then I guess I’ll have to work harder on that.”

  The boy’s eyes grew just a little bit wider. Jase released him, and the boy ran back behind Caemus.

  “We accept,” Caemus said.

  I heaved out a controlled sigh. As Synové might say, this was off to a jolly start.

  The next hour was spent walking the property, taking inventory, assessing what was salvageable, loading up tools and chickens, grains and crates, dishes and people. As the brothers surveyed the grounds, I sensed there was a sobering awareness of how little time it took to collect all the Vendans’ worldly goods. At times, Jase simply stared, as if he was trying to figure out why they were here at all. He eyed the tethers of bones hanging from their hips too. Vendans didn’t wear them into town because of the attention they drew, but here the bones clattered at their sides as a remembrance of sacrifice.

  Wren, Synové, and I quickly helped a few women pluck ripe beans from the garden, dig up root vegetables, and then layer them into barrels with straw. We pulled up the herbs, root balls and all, and placed them in crates for replanting later. Anything that could go would go. As we worked, I spotted Jase, Gunner, and Mason walking up a hill some distance away. It seemed odd because there was nothing out there—no outbuildings or livestock. They carried rocks in their hands, and when they reached the crest they placed them on a mound of rocks that I hadn’t noticed before.

  When they returned from the hill, I asked Jase about it. He said it was a memorial marking the spot where Greyson Ballenger had covered his dead grandfather with rocks to keep animals from dragging away the body.