“The war before this one?”
Gikka drew herself up short at the boy’s words. Yes, taken for all in all, she supposed this was a war, as surely as the war against Kadak had been. She sighed, looking around herself. There was no denying it now. “Aye, the war before this one. And I’ll thank you not to be dallying and looking at the sky when we’ve work.” She tossed aside a flat piece of wall and crouched. “Might you come and help me lift this poor soul clear? He’s a stout one.”
Around them, the hundred or so of the scavvies Tagen had brought back with him sifted through the wreckage, but as scattered as they were, their numbers disappeared into the seemingly endless heaps and drifts. They emerged only occasionally carrying bundles of wood or bodies to the areas Damerien had designated for them.
She’d recognized some among them, children she’d known who were now adults, adults who were now elders, and all of them stricken dumb with loss.
As they found the dead amongst the rubble, the bodies were laid out and identified as best they could be and put to the pyres with as much respect and blessing as the scavvies could manage since even the temple priests were among the dead. Here and there, a bit of a statue or a broken icon had been pulled from the wreckage to create a makeshift shrine to lend their blessings some solemnity. Those set to seeing to the bodies tried to remember the rituals of the gods that they’d seen, living as most of them had in the shelter of the temples, but their half-remembered rites for the dead were crude and broken with sorrow.
They had known these people, of course. The shopkeepers who had sometimes turned a blind eye toward their thefts out of pity, the townsfolk who had occasionally chipped them a haypenny as they passed, the sailors who would tip them a pint for their insights into the sea’s mood. And of course, they’d known the priests who had let them sleep on the temple floors.
They’d also known cruelty and derision, and not just from the rich. Even apart from those who took advantage of their misery or abused them outright, those poor who styled themselves too good to be scavvies were the cruelest of all and least likely to help a scavvy to leave that life for something better. But now, of course, none of that mattered. To the scavvies’ honor, such as it was, they treated everyone alike in death.
Had she not been so exhausted with her sad labors, she might have found irony in these most wretched of the wretched giving final charity to those who were, to a man, called their betters. As it was, she had no thoughts to spare for it. She could only sift through the loss and destruction and see to the dead alongside them as best she could.
At first, most of the scavvies had been inclined to hoard what they found in the rubble: gold, silver, rings, the kinds of things that had held value before the disaster but which held no value now. They’d stolen jeweled pendants from the very throats of dead women and fine weapons and boots from the rotting bodies of the men, but as the enormity of the tragedy struck them, some few had put it all aside and set themselves to the sad labors for which Tagen had gone to fetch them while others had lumbered away with their hauls never to look back, never to return. Tagen had let these last go without a word even while Gikka had been inclined to ride after them and cut them down in a rage.
“Been too long among the do-gooder knights, you have,” he’d said to her. “What of it, if they take from them what won’t miss it and go in their guilt? Saves them taking from them what will miss it, and saves us having to mind our backs. Sure you’d not be inclined to bring them back so we’d be tasked with keeping a wary eye on them, would you? Let them go, my starling, and good riddance.” He’d glowered after them. “They’ll not see the inside of these walls again, not an I have any say.”
Damerien had sent Tagen at first light to bring the scavvies back to Brannford from where they’d been camping inland with careful instructions that they were not to know that their duke was among them, for their own sakes even more than for his. The duke would not have his enemies, whoever and wherever they might be, harm these people because of him.
So it was that now Trocu, Duke of Damerien, ruler of Syon, stood shoulder to shoulder with the lowest of the low, hefting stinking dead bodies to the pyres and separating out the usable metal and wood, the metal to be melted down and reforged, the wood to be used either in the fires or to rebuild the city. Not far from him, Nestor was overseeing the fires, and Gikka wondered if those fires would ever have started with the soaked wood and constant rain without Nestor’s subtle help.
Jath had managed to find some horses loose in the wilderness surrounding the town, those who had broken loose during the quakes, or maybe even during the initial “rumbling” as Tagen had called it, and their instincts had taken them inland. He said he’d begun looking because he’d not seen any horses among the dead, which meant they had fled but were likely staying near. He’d brought back only about ten so far, but it was at least enough to help with moving the larger wreckage aside. More would eventually return once they trusted the ground beneath their hooves again. By then, she reckoned, she and the others would be away from here.
“Gikka! I see him!”
She looked up at the sound of Chul’s voice to follow his gaze. They watched Colaris fly from the counting house rafters, and in the same moment, they saw the gulls diving on him. Chul drew breath to shout warning to the bird, but Gikka gripped his shoulder hard.
“Still your tongue. You’ll kill him an he slows to find your voice.” When she was sure he understood her, she released him. “He knows they’re there. He let them get too close, and well he knows it, so now it’s about breaking them off. Watch him,” she smiled. “You’ll learn a thing or two.”
The small hawk flew high above them, pumping his wings, riding thermals upward and diving downward to gain more speed. But the gulls were also gaining speed. Colaris gave a soft call of recognition, passing over them, but did not slow. The harrier wheeled back toward the oily smoke clouds that rose above the city, keeping the gulls just far enough back that they could not reach him but near enough that they would not give up. He’d even slowed a bit as they tired of pursuing him, the idlers, and called out a challenge to keep their interest. But his sharp cry had had another purpose. Gikka smiled. The echo had told the harrier exactly where he was.
She watched him fly south now, over Damerien and the scavvies and circle back over her. She bit her lip. The gulls were losing interest. They were going to go back to the flock. If they did that, he’d be having to contend with their mad and stupid games for at least another day, every time he left his perch.
He let out a cry of pain and broke his flight. The gulls paused in their flight, watched him a moment, and then on they came, with that ridiculous gloating expression frozen on their beaks. Gikka grinned. Stupid birds…
“He’s hurt!” Chul took a step toward him. “Look at his wing!”
“Patience, lad,” soothed Gikka. “Watch.”
The gulls came closer, and he cried out again, beating his “lame” wing uselessly, rising slowly, almost imperceptibly as he flew. Their loss of interest had created a luxury of space between him and them, space that allowed him to play up the broken wing while keeping ahead of them. They were bearing down on him, but she knew what he was about. As she expected, he waited until they were nearly upon him again, then dropped all pretence and flew at full speed due north, right through the thickest clouds of smoke, with the gulls flying at full speed right behind him, keening and screaming after him.
The gulls’ cries stopped sharply.
Gikka chuckled and went back to her work. “Well played, little one.”
Chul looked at her, worry filling his eyes. “What happened?”
Gikka nodded toward the smoke. “Just there, lad, beyond that smoke, is the only standing wall in all Brannford now, save bits of the city wall.” She shook her head. “Solid brick it is, the same wall them above’s been circling for hours.” She moved aside some broken timbers. “Seems Colaris remembered it were there, and they did not.”
“But where is he?”
As if in answer to his question, he saw several horsemen enter cautiously through a breach in the rubble of the city wall. Their tack and surcoats were of a familiar blue and silver, and on the bracer of the silver haired knight at their head, fluttering his wings impatiently and panting from his exertions, stood Colaris.
“Lord Daerwin!” the boy shouted, and ran toward the knights.
From where they worked in the piles of rubbish and bodies, several of the scavvies looked up, grateful for the distraction from their grisly work. In spite of the tragedy surrounding them, they could not help but feel their spirits lift to see the heroes of the Five Hundred Years War, and many of them cheered and waved.
“Easy, lads, spare your backs.” Tagen called to them. He moved between his people, helping where he could. “I’ll not have you going lame while we’ve a whole city’s worth of mischief yet to right. Work together. Sure we’ve no need of broken heroes!”Tagen glanced northward to where Gikka and the boy Chul worked together. A Dhanani with “the touch” was a thing sure he’d never thought to see, a thing unique in all the world, he mused. Who but she could have found and tamed such a one? The boy had a gift, no mistake, and being Dhanani, who would ever suspect him?
He raised a hand to his brow, watching them. They were working only a few feet from where the miserly old jeweler’s shop had stood, where his Gikka, child of his heart, had designed and executed a confidence game so simple yet so masterful that the old scavvy had finally had to admit to himself that his starling no longer needed him. That had been a strange thing for him to swallow, the bittersweetness of his pride in her. But it was not mistaken. For all that he chided her for taking up with the knights, she had made her way straight to the side of the duke of Syon, something she could not have done had she stayed in Brannford. Nor, he knew, could he wish for her a better life than what she had made for herself.
So, like a father, he could only stand by and feel again that same mix of pride mingling with loss.
Last night, he’d smiled to see shadows of his own teachings in the way the boy moved and the things he marked. Today, he’d seen the ease with which the Dhanani came to move among the scavvies like one of their own. She’d remembered what he’d taught her and passed it on as important. He took as the greatest honor of all that his Gikka should trust his wisdom enough to pass it like an heirloom to her own ward, and the thought brought a lump to his throat.
“Come on, lads,” he called, breaking his reverie before he became too publicly emotional, “We’ve no time for loitering about. These bodies aren’t getting any fresher.” Tagen rubbed his hands together for warmth, eying the knights who rode toward him. He shook his head, wiped his hands on his breeches and walked out to meet them.
Blue capes. He looked over the scattered band of scavvies waving and cheering for the knights and he kicked angrily at the stones. That could only mean Gikka, his noisy little starling, the child of his heart if not of his body, would be going away again.
* * *
“Pyran,” breathed the sheriff. He stood warming his hands at the fireplace, considering what Lord Damerien and Tagen had told him. “Are you certain?”
The sun had long since set, and the scavvies had reluctantly given up their work, once the light failed, to make their camp outside the city walls again. Another day would make their job even more unpleasant and more dangerous as the bodies swelled with putrescence where they lay in the water, but there was no helping it. They could only work so fast to clear it away.
Outside the farmhouse, the knights had made camp in a field under Lady Renda’s supervision. By now, their fires were dying down, most of the knights having gone to sleep. “Not full certain, no,” answered the duke. “I’m supposing it could have come from further north, though how or why…” He shook his head. “In any case, Pyran is the only other port of any size. The fleet here is destroyed, so any hope we have of reaching Byrandia lies there.”
Lord Daerwin frowned. “You’re assuming their fleet was not also destroyed.”
“Hoping,” the duke murmured. “Not assuming. My thought is that, if those who attacked Brannagh did indeed come here from Byrandia, they would leave themselves a means of returning. But then, perhaps that of itself is an assumption.”
“What of the wave?” the Bilkarian abbot’s voice was calm and quiet. “Whatever caused it cannot be left to run rampant through Syon.”
“If the cause of the wave be not there but further north, it is likely Pyran’s fleet was likewise destroyed, ending any hope we have of achieving Byrandia. In that case, we will be forced to continue to fight the battle here, in Syon, until we can build a ship that can make that voyage.”
Jath stared into the fire and shivered. “The water’s cold,” he murmured. “So very, very cold, that far north.”
Tagen leaned closer to Gikka. “Boy sets my skin to crawl, he does,” he whispered.
“That leaves what to do about Brannford,” the duke sighed. “We must leave for Pyran just after dawn.” He nodded over the rest of the city. “In so doing, Tagen, I fear we shall leave to you and your people the odious task of rebuilding Brannford yourselves. This cannot be helped.”
Tagen nodded. Of course. This was no less than what he’d expected from them. They would abandon him and the scavvies here, take Gikka away again just as they did every time, and put this all behind as if none of it were real. Give it a tenday, and come a wave of refugees and merchantmen from up the coast, and there he and his would be again, the poor scavvies, with nothing, begging and starving, after they’d rebuilt all.
“…no trade from up the coast, of course,” the duke had continued on, “which also means gold will be no use to you, at least not right away. Obviously, such straits make of this a task most noblemen could not do well. Rebuilding Brannford under these circumstances calls for cleverness, subtlety and perseverance, not to mention hands with generous calluses. Given that, I can think of no one better suited to the task.”
Lord Daerwin nodded.
Tagen’s brow furrowed in confusion. Was Damerien still talking to him, or was he now talking to Lord Daerwin? But no, both men were looking at him expectantly.
“Aye,” he said cautiously, still not sure what was happening. This was as bewildering as a meeting of the board of ministers, except these noblemen looked to him for a voice in it.
The duke paced across the room. “Come the Feast of Didian, any farms as stand still abandoned are yours to distribute, but I charge you: above all, see to it that they do not stand fallow. Syon has lost enough farms already. An the entire land would not starve the year, every acre of every field must be planted, with home gardens in the city besides. To the same end, see to it that the fishing fleet is rebuilt at once, even if your people must live in tents the while. Salt away a full two thirds of the haul.”
“Two thirds!”
“Aye,” sighed Lord Damerien, “an you can, without starving yourselves. The bay is no doubt irritable just now and the fish will be far to sea, but see to it that your cellars stay filled. Rebuild the walls and train your militia. I know not what comes behind us.” He drew his sword. “Would that I could offer you more ceremony than this, but…kneel, Tagen.”
Tagen’s eyes grew wide, but he dropped to his knees, more the pose of a man pleading for mercy than that of a man being elevated in station. He felt the tap of the sword at his shoulders and felt faint.
“And rise, Lord Tagen, Baron of Brannford.”
“Baron?” He looked at Gikka with terrified eyes, but she only smiled. “I’m but Tagen! How is it, I’m become a baron just now? A mistake this is, Your Grace, begging your pardon! I’m but a scavvy, a low-life!”
“So it was with me when Renda met me,” Gikka smiled reassuringly. “Sure I was no better, Tagen.”
“Aye, you are,” he said with unaccustomed intensity. “Aye, lass, better by leagues than old Tagen.” He turned pleading to the duke. “Sure you cannot knit of my makings a posh
baron, you can’t!”
“Posh? No.” Damerien smiled sadly. “Riches you must need accomplish on your own, for my purse is committed to the coming war. But between the farmland and the fishing fleet, you, and by extension your people, shall not want, I think. I charge you, my Lord Baron, with the wellbeing of this, my city, and its environs westward to the edge of Moncliff and northward to the Hadrian lands, and outward over the sea. In all matters pertaining thereto, you are third only to myself and Lord Daerwin in authority. Be as you’ve demonstrated yourself to be: just, wise, and vigilant. You will have to rebuild a city and feed a nation by yourself, all in the space of a year.”
“Oh, now, that I can do. Fed the scavvies on naught but stoled fish, me. Getting it fair, I could feed the world and have some to sell besides.” he smiled unsteadily. “No, it’s that baron part, might be a challenge.”
Laniel smiled. “Then it will be a good year for you.”
Lord Damerien took a ring from his finger and put it in Tagen’s hand.
“This ring gives you my voice here in Brannford. Should you fail in this task or abuse your power over these people, you will answer to us,” he said, looking eastward across the ocean toward Byrandia, “in this life or among the stars.”
Eleven
Pyran, three days earlier
“Halt,” called the guard from the doorway of the gatehouse. The guard was Syonese by appearance, which was something of an oddity in Pyran, but his manner and inflection, even in that single word, suggested a fair bit of time spent among Hadrians. Not surprising, given that Pyran had belonged to the Hadrians almost since the Liberation. Unlike other more provincial cities deeper in the Hodrache mountain range, the Hadrians of Pyran were generally hospitable to the Syonese and even tolerated the occasional Bremondine.
At his age, this guard had probably served at Pyran’s gate for thirty years or more, and while he might have had a much harder look about him during the war, the softness around his belly belied the nature of his post during peacetime. He stretched one stiff leg and then the other as he moved himself out onto the path, apparently not too concerned at the sight of a single rider, though of habit, he scanned the roadway behind and the trees beyond the clearing for movement.
Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2) Page 17