by Guy Haley
“Leave the boy be.”
Quinn stepped out from behind the wagon. The driver stared at him too.
“What are you so interested in, friend?” asked Quinn.
The driver decided his interest was best directed elsewhere.
“You,” said Quinn to Germaine. “This boy is with me. Are you detaining him?”
“Why, sir, I am only seeking to . . .” blustered Germaine. He held up one hand, drawing attention with it while he hid his dagger away. Quinn wasn’t drawn by the ruse, eyeballing the knife, then staring at the man hard.
“Go seek somewhere else,” said Quinn. “He isn’t interested. You stick around, you might find that I am.”
Germaine backed off, slipping through the traffic backward.
Quinn watched him go, then put a hand on my shoulder. “Be careful in a place like this, son, listen to the patter of a man like that, you’ll find yourself on a Mississippi slave ship heading for the Gulf.”
“I weren’t falling for his uncle act,” I said.
Quinn looked all around the crowd, alive to danger. Theo had wormed his way fifty yards down the bridge, and was talking to three men even dirtier looking than him. He glanced back at me. All the warmth was gone from him. He broke eye contact, and then he was directing his ruffians elsewhere into the crowd.
“Don’t matter none if you were or you weren’t. Men like that aren’t above getting rough if the soft soap don’t work. Be careful.”
Charleston
WE PASSED THROUGH THE toll gates before noon. The guards there didn’t ask no questions and gave us a chit for the Elk River gate once we’d paid up. Quinn had his horses hitched to the tailgate of the wagon and rode up front with me and Mom. She paid from the hoarded coins of her bride price.
Traffic moved slowly between the two gates of the Kanawha bridge, us touching down on dry land opposite the city walls for maybe ten minutes before we were off and over the second bridge.
It was by now early afternoon, and warm. The smell of the place was intense. So many people all together, the reek of the machines and works inside the city. Towers of white steam and black smoke poured upward. There was a banging and clamor from inside the walls so loud I thought I was about to pass into hell, and my heart beat to match.
From the Elk we got a better view of the city. The walls went sheer into the water, forty yards tall at least. But it was the Emperor’s Tower held my eyes, so much grander than the patchwork masonry of the others. That tower was the most impressive thing I ever saw. It was all fresh made, not a bit of it picked off the carcass of another civilization, but something we built. That gave me a little hope for the future. There was another, tall tower, a little lower and a lot thinner than the Emperor’s Tower. This was capped by a roofed belfry housing a massive bronze bell, and permanently manned. I recognized this alarm bell for what it was. We’d had one ourselves, back in New Karlsville. That so large and fortified a city needed one brought on a shiver of disquiet.
Hard men with wary eyes patrolled the wall, walking with the deliberate, slow-stepping swagger of soldiery. They were armed with muskets. I’d not seen so many guns in one place. I glanced at Quinn’s six-shooter. His was a far more potent weapon, made with old knowledge from the Gone Before. That reassured me, somehow.
Quinn leaned in to me as we drew up to the gates. “Stay close. Charleston’s not big, but you don’t know it. There’s more than one Theo Germaine in a place like this.”
Fronting the Elk was a gatehouse, bigger than those on the bridges, its arch enclosing a massive pair of gates. They were tall, made of heavy wood faced top to bottom with steel plates. The gates and the portcullis behind were open, it being daytime, but heavily guarded.
The wagon in front of us went into the town, and a soldier liveried in blue and a dirty yellow that might have been gold if you squinted hard waved us forward. He wore a steel helmet with a sloping neck piece, and carried a slender sword and a heavy flintlock pistol. He was outclassed in every way by Quinn, but he was pompous enough not to notice.
“State your business in the city of Charleston,” he said.
“Salvaged mail wagon, coming up from the south,” said Quinn.
“You aren’t the mail driver,” said the guard.
“Salvaged, like I said.”
“Where is he?”
“Dead. In the back. I came across the wagon and these two on the way here. I’m seeing them safe. They were traveling with the mailman.”
“How did it happen?” said the soldier. He was looking over the wagon suspiciously.
My mother spoke up. “The wagon broke its axle. Mr. Quinn here replaced it for us. The driver fell, bashed his head in on a rock. It was an accident.”
The guard wasn’t entirely convinced. There’s a problem with putting a reward on mail that gets lost—sometimes folks can get a little preemptive, trying to scoop up rewards for solving misfortunes they made themselves. It’s a stupid thing to do, mail robbers get hung no matter which city or kingdom you’re in, but it don’t stop people trying. The guard looked at Quinn’s armor, his swords, his gun and his snowy white horse tied to the back of the mail wagon. Outside the walls it was very still. The noise of the town was louder than ever, the people, horses, smith’s hammers, clatter of workshops. There were a crowd of people at our backs, all yammering away, but it felt quiet. The rivers cast a spell on the place.
“You are a knight,” said the guard.
“Yes,” said Quinn.
“I thought your kind were all dead.”
“Most. Not all.”
“We haven’t seen any knights in Charleston for a long time.” The guard looked for Quinn’s badge on his shoulder. “You’ve no heraldry. Which city are you sanctioned by?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Quinn.
The guard’s eyes narrowed. “It’s my business to ask your business, knight or not. Who is your mortal lord? To which of the angels’ cities do you owe your fealty?”
“That doesn’t matter either.”
Quinn and the guard stared each other down a moment. My mother was getting anxious. Quinn radiated unfriendliness.
“You sure you’re a knight?”
“I’d be dead if I weren’t,” said Quinn. “Dreaming Cities don’t take kindly to imposters.”
“Depends how long you’ve been imposing,” said the guard. “You might last a week or two.”
“I might, but I’ve been a knight a sight longer than that,” said Quinn.
“The two you found. Where are they headed?”
“That’s their business.”
“Where are you headed?”
“That’s mine.”
“You are not helping your case, sir,” said the guard.
“I’m a knight, servant of the angels. I don’t have to say what I’m doing. Most times, it’s better if I don’t. For all concerned.”
This exasperated the guard. “I need something. I have my own duties. Writing down what your business is in our city is one of them.”
“North,” Quinn said. “I’m taking them to Winfort. They have kin there. We’re here to rest and resupply.”
Now the guard snorted. “You’re suicidal if you want to head to Winfort. Nothing but bandits and the living dead, that’s if the dragon doesn’t get you. The Angels of Pittsburgh don’t want anyone heading that way.”
“That’s the way we’re going.”
The guard stepped aside. “That’s your choice. Good luck to you. Go to the post office, off Clendenin Street. You’ll have to make a report. If your story checks out, you’ll get your reward.”
Quinn nodded. “It’ll check out.”
The guard waved us on. He was already losing interest, scrutinizing the next would-be entrant.
Mom geed up the horses, and we went into Charleston.
Through a cool tunnel of vaulted stone, and out the gates the other side. A burst of sunlight and noise welcomed us. There were people everywhere. Shops and stalls lined both sid
es of the roads. So much color, so many voices all talking at once. All kinds of people, some of them as weird looking as Quinn. There were workshops there at the base of the tall chimneys, the stink of Charleston’s industry. Hammers ringing on forges, arguments, music, so much noise! The main street kept to the boundaries of the Gone Before, and was wide. The shattered concrete of it was patched with square-cut stone, and more recently, concrete again.
“Post office is this way,” said Quinn. He steered the horse off up an intersection. This road narrowed sharply, the margins of it built over with the constructions of our own era. The main road I could handle, it being broad and open to the sky. But there timber buildings crowded in, chunks and scraps of ancient structures incorporated into their fabric. Crowded though it was, the street preserved the uncanny straightness of the towns of the Gone Before, and we came out onto another wide road. On the far side was a squat stone building, solid as a fort, roof topped with wooden turrets in the Virginian style.
We crossed the street, and went into the post yard through a double gate. A couple of mail workers in uniforms took the horses’ bridles and looked at Quinn with grave suspicion. The older of the two said something, and the second ran off. The first hitched up his belt, and stood his ground.
“I’ve brought this wagon in. Found it on the road,” Quinn said.
The mail worker patted the horse’s neck. “This is Lincoln. He went out with old Walter.”
“That’s right.”
“Where’s Walter at?”
The other post worker had come back with a couple of friends. All of them had drawn swords, short slashing blades. One carried a stubby shotgun.
“In the back.”
The older mailman’s nod sent two of them round the tailgate of the wagon.
“He’s dead,” said Quinn before they got there.
“He’s right, sir.”
“Get him out,” said the mailman. “Is this your doing?”
“No.”
The mailman pursed his lips doubtfully.
“I am a knight, not a bandit,” said Quinn.
“And where is your proof? You have no badge.”
“I have my seal.” Quinn reached for the fastenings of his mail vest.
“No! No, leave it. I won’t be thanked for bringing the attention of the angels down on us.”
“Suit yourself,” said Quinn, and let his hand drop. “I’ll be needing to speak with your postmaster.”
“Yes, you will.” The man didn’t look pleased. “I’m Hanneger. Come with me.”
Quinn followed the man out of the yard through a side door. I slipped down off the wagon seat and followed. My mom called my name, but no one made to stop me.
The backways of the post office were narrow, and crammed with sacks and boxes. There were several doors opening on rooms full of people sorting the mail into racks. Electric lights buzzed feebly over them; the windows were real narrow, good for guns, not sunlight. There were a lot of men clutching paper, moving between the rooms in that purposeful way that men with important jobs have, forcing me to dodge or be knocked down. The first four ignored me, but the fifth barred my path and clapped his hands on me.
“And where do you think you are going?”
“Mr. Quinn! Mr. Quinn!” I shouted.
Quinn had reached the far end of the corridor. He turned back.
“He’s with me,” he said.
If the mailman was surprised to find a knight in his domain, he did not show it. “He shouldn’t be back here. This is royal territory. He could be hanged for this.”
“I said, he’s with me,” said Quinn. He took my arm hard and pulled me past the man.
“Got quite the talent for trouble, haven’t you, kid?”
“Sorry, sir.”
He let go. “No harm. You stay close by me. And don’t say a word, you got that?”
I nodded mutely. Hanneger was waiting impatiently at a door down the end.
“Postmaster Friend is within. You sort this out with him, or you won’t be leaving this place.”
“If you say,” said Quinn.
“Well then.” Hanneger opened the door, and ushered us in.
Postmaster Friend’s office was well proportioned. With four of them gun-loop windows in the wall it had a fair amount of sunlight. He had electric light too, but this was weak and supplemented by a handsome spirit lamp on the desk that whooshed pleasantly. Friend was a fat-faced man with spectacles. He had a visor on his head, to shade his eyes from what, I ain’t got a clue to this day. It was dingy in that office. His clothes were fine, his belly round, and his hands soft. To me he looked ridiculous, but then I hadn’t ever seen a rich man before.
His attitude was a world away from Hanneger’s.
“A knight!” he said with a bright, wide smile. “I hear we owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“I’d settle for the reward,” said Quinn. “Man’s got to eat.”
There wasn’t a hint of animosity from this little fat man. He laughed and clapped his hands, delighted by Quinn. “Of course! We’ll see you straight. Please, come in, sit down. Can I offer you a whisky?”
Quinn nodded for the drink, but did not sit down. I did.
I’d never sat in a chair like it, padded all round, and on some kind of swivel. When I discovered that, I swung myself back and forward until Quinn clapped his hand on the back to stop me.
“It is very fine to see one of your sort here again,” said the postmaster, handing over his glass. “We haven’t seen a knight for years.”
Quinn knocked back his whisky in one and hissed through his teeth. “Not that many of us left,” he said.
“Yes, yes,” said the postmaster. “A lot of war and trouble these last decades.”
“That’s about it,” said Quinn.
“I would have thought your numbers would be replenished.”
“Since Columbus fell, there have been no more knights made, by the will of the angels.”
“The Lord does move in mysterious ways,” said the little postmaster. He refilled Quinn’s glass.
“Don’t he just.”
“Well,” said the postmaster. “A knight! The city will be abuzz for weeks. Can you perhaps relate to me your purpose here in Charleston?”
I thought Quinn would not say no, but I was surprised.
“I’m on my way west, as it happens. Plan to skirt Columbus. Business of the angels. I’ve agreed to take this boy and his mother on to Winfort before I do.”
This surprised the postmaster. “Columbus? There’s nothing but plains of glass there, sir! Fair took the wrath of the Lord on itself in the war, that city of the fallen angels! Gone the way of the Gone Before and all the other wickedness of the world, and that is no bad thing. We remember it only as a byword for evil.” His eyes widened, face open as the pothole that had killed Walter, begging for an explanation to fill it. “And Winfort first? The curse of the angels still lies on the land between here and there, worse further north. This whole region is yet to recover from the war. What with the wrath of the Lord coming in hard on Columbus, and the dragon keeping Ohio and Virginia from tangling afresh in the marches, I don’t know if it ever will.”
Quinn ignored the man’s concerns. He ignored his fishing for an explanation harder. “I’ll not be stopping long. What are the roads like to Winfort?”
“You know the area, sir?”
“Some. I’ve not been out this way since the war.”
The postmaster scratched under his visor. He had bad news written across his face.
“Not a whole load of trade coming this way from out of Ohio. The princes prefer to deal with the north, up the Ohio under the watch of Pittsburgh. We’re losing trade. Lord Corn at Winfort’s the only one in the wild. People are just heading straight on out to Huntingdon. Between you and me, it’s getting worse every year. This town ain’t what it was. We’ve had no contact with the Winfort. Ohio ain’t that keen on us. Columbus destroyed by Pittsburgh at the Lord’s command, Jackson
burned off the world by the emperor’s armies, they’ve not forgiven Virginia yet. It’s a sorry state, sir, that’s all I can say. I hope I never see another war with men and angels on both sides. It’s always we little folk that lose out. This boy and his mother are lucky to have a knight to hold their hands, yes, sir. These are challenging times.”
“What about the railroad?”
“Oh that’s fine right the way through to Huntingdon. Get you there in a day or so, then you can get yourself a riverboat up the Ohio.”
“I mean the way north, the spur over through Winfield on to Point Pleasant.”
“Well, we used to get a lot of folks coming down that way.” He frowned. “Only, it ain’t seen any traffic for five years or more. The dragon’s all riled up. It started swimming the river and coming into the Bend about, oh, about twenty years back now. There’s no one there now at all, those as weren’t burned out left of their own accord. We shut the tollbooth some time back, and the bridge hasn’t seen much work on it for eighteen years or more, none since the dragon began its marauding. It’s hard to believe that when I was a boy not much older than you”—the postmaster spared me a smile at this point—“there was talk of resettling the Bend, blasting through the Winfield rapids to open the way direct to the Ohio, but it came to nothing. If you’re intent on braving the dragon, then you go careful on that bridge. Wood’s getting rotten so I hear. We’d patch it up ourselves but . . .” He shrugged and smiled, an adult gesture that I couldn’t decipher, but which I suspected meant they just didn’t care. “I figure once you get out into Pleasant Valley you’ll be right as rain, yes, sir. But that was in the old days, and rumor has it the dragon has started to intrude on Lord Corn’s lands.” He frowned. “No, no on second thoughts, I really can’t recommend it.” The man swallowed, and blinked again. His eyes were froggy behind his glasses. He thought he was being foolish and presumptuous, but he was brave enough and kind enough to warn us anyway.
“Winfort’s still there?” asked Quinn.
“Yes, yes, I believe so. The dragon lets that be, for the time being at least. But the land around it? None can say. Communications between here and there are cut, have been for, oh, getting on for seven years. I won’t risk my mail wagons that way. Might I suggest another way? I wouldn’t cross the Kanawha, sir. Get a boat out of Huntingdon like I said, take you all the way to New Virtue. There are post roads in Ohio, good and straight. The boy and his mother can get a boat north, and come down on Winfort from above.”