The Wanderers

by Paula Brandon

  The last woman in line received her breakfast. Almost immediately thereafter, the guard bellowed, “Line UP, move OUT.”

  The prisoners obeyed promptly, forming a double column with an economical dispatch suggesting practice.

  “Where are we going?” Jianna inquired of a nearby tousle-headed scarecrow, who shook her head in wordless reply.

  “No talking, there,” the guard warned. “You want your rations cut?”

  Jianna fell silent.

  Two abreast, they marched out of the dormitory. As they exited, each deposited her tin cup and bowl in the wicker basket waiting beside the door.

  Through the gloomy corridors the guard shepherded his submissively mute charges, and, as they went, Jianna recalled that she had walked these same halls as a free and hopeful woman, less than twenty-four hours earlier.

  Hard to believe; it seemed so long ago. She had thought, then, that this morning would find her back in her lodgings with Falaste, the two of them together, happy, and safe; or as safe as circumstances allowed. Whereas now … The tears heated her eyes, and she dashed them away. But the thoughts would come. Had the failed escape attempt compromised Falaste’s safety, such as it was? Would the death sentence postponed for so long be reinstated as mysteriously as it had been suspended—because of her meddling? The First Inquirer Lorrchi had assured her that such was not the case, but perhaps Lorrchi had lied in order to secure her confession …

  If only she could see Falaste again, speak to him, and tell him how sorry she was. And he was so close, right here in this building. Sixteen East Gallery, somewhere above her, so near that they might have shouted to one another, but for the intervening layers of stone. As it was, he might as well have been stranded on some distant star.

  The prisoners came to the end of a hall. Their guard unlocked a heavy wooden door, opened it, and marched them through.

  Jianna emerged into daylight and chilly, early-morning outdoor air. She stood in an interior courtyard of the Witch; a big square space with a well at its center. And the courtyard itself was something like the bottom of a well, bounded on all four sides by the walls of the building, rising straight and unadorned for several stories, their flatness broken only by the myriad deep-set, unglazed windows, barred and grilled in old black iron.

  The courtyard was unpaved. An expanse of bare, stony dirt surrounded the well. The dirt seemed exceptionally dry and colorless. To the left, along the southern wall, stood a row of rough wooden bins, each filled with bulging burlap sacks. To the right, a line of square wooden frames, each an arm’s length in diameter, leaned against the northern wall.

  “Get to it,” the guard commanded.

  At once, the prisoners headed for the frames. Uncomprehending, Jianna followed the herd. Each woman took up a frame. Jianna did likewise. The wooden squares, she now perceived, were lined with wire mesh. Now her companions crossed to the bins on the opposite side of the yard, and each collected a burlap sack. Jianna did the same. The sack, she noted, was similar in size and texture to the one clapped over her head the previous night. She had no idea what it contained, but the contents were soft and yielding. She slung the sack over her shoulder, and found its weight easily manageable.

  Thus equipped, they deployed themselves about the yard; some migrating to the edges, there to brace their backs against the wall, some seeking the vicinity of the well, others settling down in the open spaces to enjoy the benefits of the daylight.

  Jianna chose a place in a corner, with two walls meeting behind her back. Should anyone approach her, she would know; the previous night’s outrages had taught her the prudence of this. The mesh-filled frame sat on the ground before her. She still had no idea what the thing was, and did not mean to ask. Talking was not allowed, and she was not prepared to suffer the threatened reduction of already-inadequate rations. Therefore she sat cross-legged, in watchful silence, until the mystery was solved, or partially so.

  The women around her were emptying their sacks out onto the wooden frames, and sifting the contents through the wire mesh. As the powdery subtance filtered through, assorted dark lumps were left behind. Over these lumps, the prisoners pored religiously.

  She hadn’t a clue what they sought, but deemed it advisable to imitate their actions. Pulling her burlap bag open, she poured a quantity of matter onto the sifter before her. It was pale grey interspersed with black flecks, and peppered with blackened lumps of varying size. Ashes. The dark chunks were charred remains of something or other. She shook the sifter, as those around her did, and the ashy matter fell away, leaving the larger remnants of a fire. She could see them better now; blackened sticks, shreds of fiber, and pellets. She slid her finger gingerly along one of the sticks, picked up a pellet, examined it closely, and put it back. Bones. Teeth. Animal or human? And what was she supposed to be hunting for?

  She prodded a tooth, scrutinizing it from all angles. Human. Months earlier, the sight would have shocked and disgusted her. Now it merely puzzled her.

  “What do you think this is—a pleasure garden?”

  The guard’s voice intruded upon her investigations. She looked up to find him towering above her. Her expression conveyed incomprehension, and he scowled. “Get to work.”

  “I’ll work hard, sir.” Jianna took care to keep her voice meekly soft, and her eyes respectfully downcast. “But I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.”

  “Is that some kind of a joke? Are you stupid?”

  “I’m new, sir.”

  “Right. Well. You can pull that one off exactly once. Listen up, then. Those bags over there—” He pointed. “They’re full of ashes from the city pyres. They’re what’s left of the dead folk. You sift through and check for valuables. Coins, silver, gold, jewelry, anything like that. The gold generally melts, so keep your eyes open. Something turns up, you hand it over to me, or whatever guard’s on duty at the time. Find something good, and there’s rewards—you get a square of flatbread to eat, barter, whatever you like. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One more thing—you get caught trying to walk out of here with anything stashed on you, and you get a beating that leaves your face smashed up for life. That’s the first time you try it. Second time, you get locked up in the dark, no food, no water, no company except for the rats. You get skinny, the rats get good and fat, before it’s all over. Understand?”

  She nodded bleakly.

  “Then get cracking.” With that, he left her.

  Jianna commenced, swiftly scanning the material on the sifter for valuables, of which there were none, and tossing the worthless remains aside; then refilling the frame, to shake it back and forth with a rhythmic movement of the arms, economical of strength and energy. The powdery ashes drifted down through the mesh, leaving the larger bits exposed. She studied them minutely, but discovered nothing of consequence.

  The minutes passed. At first, her mind simmered with dark fancies. She thought of the anonymous human dead—the good, the brilliant, the young and beautiful, the beloved—whose mortal remains, so deserving of respect, now sifted down to mingle with the dirt of a prison courtyard. She wondered who they had been, what sort of lives they had led, what kind of memories they had left behind. And when she thought of the children whose ashes now filled sacks—youngsters cheated of life before they had fairly tasted it—her throat closed and her eyes stung.

  But soon—really, it was distressing how soon—these thoughts faded away. The ghosts evaporated, and the ashes became inanimate heaps of powder and charcoal, meaningless save for the valuables they might contain.

  Of course, the chances of finding something good were relatively low. Days or weeks before their ashes had reached the Witch, the corpses had been thoroughly pillaged—by family members, visitors, servants, physicians, nurses and caretakers, tradesmen, Deadpickers—in short, by anybody daring to touch the person of a plague victim. Money and jewelry had vanished long ago. Now and again, however, some coin or trinket concealed in a secre
t pocket or body cavity would escape notice, until such time as the fires destroyed its hiding place.

  Jianna sifted; arms, hands, and eyes busy, mind elsewhere. Time passed unheeded, until she found that she had exhausted the contents of her sack. An empty sack was to be returned to the bins and there exchanged for a full one. She stood up, and, as if to reprove her audacity, a chilly little current of air slapped her. Here, where the sunlight only made itself felt around midday, the air remained almost perpetually cool; perhaps a blessing at the height of summer, but not now.

  She shivered, for the hundredth time mourning the theft of her big cloak. Then, on impulse, she shook the ashes out of the empty sack as best she could and draped the burlap over her shoulders in the manner of a shawl. The fabric was rough and loosely woven, yet the extra layer did furnish a little protection from the cold. She performed this action openly, making no attempt to evade notice. Several women watched her with mild curiosity, or, in a couple of cases, a certain dreary amusement. Crossing the yard to the bins, she selected a full sack, threw it across her shoulder, and carried it back to her place in the corner. She fully expected the angry guard to accost her, demanding the return of the burlap shawl/sack, and perhaps threatening her with voracious rats. But nobody troubled her.

  She seated herself and resumed sifting. Her thoughts wandered the corridors of the Witch in search of Falaste Rione. Then she was back in the courtyard again, for her fingers had touched upon an anomaly demanding attention. Taking up a small object of unusual hardness and texture, she examined it from all angles, rubbed a quantity of soot off, and looked again. She caught a fugitive glint of yellow, a flash of crystal, and realized that she held what was left of somebody’s gold-and-diamond ring. The setting had melted into shapelessness, and the stone was half sunk in a tiny lump of dirty metal. Both gold and diamond, however, were eminently salvageable.

  She had been commanded to turn all valuables over to the guard on duty, her diligence and luck to receive reward in the form of a flatbread square. The loudmouth instructing her had made it sound like a treat flung to an obedient animal, and she, like an animal, had bristled—invisibly, inside her head. There could be no denying, however, that she wanted that flatbread. She was hungry, and would probably continue hungry throughout the term of her incarceration. There would be few opportunities to secure so much as an extra mouthful. Yes, she very much wanted that flatbread.

  “I’ll have that.”

  A voice prodded her. Jianna glanced up to behold a small, skinny, goblin-faced woman standing above her.

  “What?” she asked, confused.

  “That sparkler you just dusted. I saw, no use trying to hide it. Hand it over.”

  The voice, squeaky and gutter-accented, sounded familiar, but Jianna could not immediately place it. She was holding the melted ring in her right hand, which now closed firmly.

  “Why would I give it to you?” she inquired.

  “Because you’re like to end up with a dent in your skull if you don’t.”

  “Really.” Jianna rose and drew herself to her full height. She now recognized the woman as one of those so brazenly cutting to the head of the morning breakfast queue. Nobody had ventured to object, but she did not pause now to consider the implications. The stranger, scrawny and shorter than herself, offered no obvious physical threat. “I think not. Now please stand aside. I’m going to take the jewelry piece to the guard.”

  “Oh, I think not. You got no right. I sift for days, and nothing turns up. You come mincing in like you think you’re some kind of princess, and your first day, you dust a sparkler.”

  “The laws of probability sometimes work in a mysterious way.”

  “Gimme that thing, or else.”

  The stranger grabbed at her arm, and Jianna shoved her away.

  “Keep your hands to yourself, you obnoxious cretin,” she advised.

  “What did you call me?”

  “Obnoxious cretin. Is a definition required?”

  “Why, you stink-faced, draggle-tailed, leather-twatted snot, d’you know who you’re dealing with?”

  “I don’t. Let’s keep it that way.” Jianna began to walk away. An alien hand plucked at her sleeve, and she shook it off without slowing her step.

  Behind her an angry voice squeaked. “You’re neck-deep in shit, bitch! Just wait till Odilline gets her hands on you—just wait!”

  Jianna ignored her. Head high, she crossed the courtyard and, as she went, sensed the pressure of covert collective regard. Her exchange with the mouse-voiced would-be bully had not gone unnoticed. She imagined that the captive audience had been amused, but a quick survey suggested otherwise. Nobody was smiling. The faces around her expressed surprise and uneasiness. A note of foreboding echoed across her mind. She tried to ignore it.

  She went straight to the guard and turned in her find. He squinted a look, nodded approval, and stowed the item away in his leather waistpouch. From that same receptacle he withdrew a square of flatbread, which he handed to Jianna with an air of large generosity. Resisting the impulse to grab, she accepted her reward and carried it back to her corner.

  Once again seated on the ground, a wooden frame heaped with ashy debris before her, Jianna examined her prize. It was anything but lavish—just a flat, hard, pale tablet of no great size. But it was edible, and she was famished. Instinct bade her hide it away for now, and eat it later, secretly, while most of her fellow prisoners slept. But this place teemed with predators, as she had already learned to her cost. Best by far to consume the morsel at once, before somebody took it away from her.

  But she mustn’t stop working. She resumed sifting, periodically breaking the rhythm of her toil to steal small bites of flatbread. The stuff was dry and tasteless, but seemed almost luxurious. Too soon, it was gone. Likewise gone—the contents of her sack, which had yielded no more sparklers. She could use another layer of burlap to replace her stolen cloak. Once again she draped an empty bag across her shoulders; once again, nobody objected.

  Around midday, when the guard changed, the prisoners were permitted a brief break from labor. During this time, they could rest, walk about the courtyard, drink water from the well, or even converse with one another, if they so desired.

  Jianna wanted to walk. There was nowhere to go but around and around the confined space, but she was tired to death of sitting on the ground, and glad of an opportunity to move. Her arms and shoulders were already sore from the incessant, repetitive shaking of the sifter, and it was certain to grow worse before her muscles accustomed themselves to the exercise.

  She stood up and commenced walking, stride long, arms swinging. As she went, she felt the eyes following her, and braced herself against the inevitable curiosity. They would want to know all about the new prisoner—her name, her history, the charges against her, her prospects—there would be a clamor for information.

  There was no clamor. There was nothing. No one spoke to her, but she was hardly ignored. The watchful eyes were everywhere, but all of them evasive, uneasy, unwilling to brave her own gaze straightly. Were they hostile, or indifferent—or afraid?

  During one of her circuits, she noted her goblin-faced enemy conferring with a couple of women. The trio studied her attentively as she passed. She ignored them.

  The break ended, and the prisoners went back to work. The afternoon passed uneventfully. There were no more incidents, no more sparklers, no relief from the monotony. The silent, slow hours passed in tedium. At last the square of sky visible above the courtyard began to darken. The still air cooled, the light dimmed, and when it grew too dark to work, the guard on duty blew a screaming blast on the whistle that hung at his neck. The women, like well-drilled soldiers, immediately dumped the contents of their sifters back into the burlap sacks, drew the strings tight, then stood up to return sacks and sifters to their respective places.

  The whistle shrilled again, and the women formed a double line. The guard marched them back into the building, back along the stone corridors
, the echo of their synchronized footsteps filling the space. The dull, repetitive thud somehow seemed to suppress both intellect and observation. As the line passed one of the storage alcoves indenting the wall, Jianna’s head was filled with little beyond thought of the evening meal. Surely there would be something more to eat. A bit of bread, a cup of gruel—anything.

  She was taken quite by surprise when a hand emerged from the darkness of the alcove to pluck her neatly out of line. In an instant she found herself pressed against the wall of the shadowy little space, with three women standing between herself and the exit. She could dimly discern their features. One she recognized as the obnoxious cretin from the courtyard. Another was stout, wide-faced, and large-bosomed, with torn earlobes and bitten fingernails. And the third was remarkably tall, remarkably gaunt—skeletal, in fact—with a face like an ax blade emerging from a sunset cloud of frizzy orange hair.

  The frizzy woman looked Jianna up and down, noting the makeshift wardrobe adjustments.

  “So, Burlap,” she observed, “I hear that you’re stupid, ugly, and snotty.”

  “At least I’m no thief,” Jianna rejoined promptly. For the other’s voice was instantly recognizable to her as the ringleader of last night’s robbery. Now that she had identified the leader’s tones, she recalled Goblin-face’s squeaks as well. Beyond doubt, these were the women who had subjected her to monstrous indignity, and stolen her garments into the bargain.

  “Reports are true, I see.”

  “Stand aside. Let me out of here.”

  “Not so fast. See here, Burlap—you’re new, so you’re like a little, ignorant child in need of training, which you get here and now. So listen up. I’m Odilline—you’d best remember that name. These here are my good friends Fraxi and Verth. I’ve been around this place a while, and I like to think that I’m due some respect, on account of wisdom and experience. So when I say something, or ask for something, I’m looking for cooperation. And that goes for my friends, too. Got it? Now, this morning, Fraxi talked to you out in the yard, and you were really disrespectful. How do you think I like seeing my friend treated that way?”