That a disease, virulent and unstoppable, was within their body economic, these plutocrats dismissed as an impossibility. They had treated the first signs of the fever as they would have placated a head cold. Now that the disease had broken out in convulsions of pain and destruction, they were astonished that so malignant a thing had given so little sign of its coming.
The general revolt, planned for the afternoon of the Celebration of Perpetual Grace, had begun at the docks. The outbursts were designed as protests against recently enacted import restrictions; shipping owners were now being forced to pay gratuitous tariffs by bureaucrats within the government who sought to protect their own interests. As usual, friends of the government prospered, with less dishonest merchants made the victims.
Governor Jakovas, answering these dockside protests, had sent two squadrons of city guards to the waterfront to impose order. With attention thus diverted to that end of town, other groups of rebels moved into the streets according to the plan to challenge all government and business activity in the city on several fronts at once.
A large mob attacked the governor’s mansion in the Shemtu Square. Jakovas, protected for the holiday by only a small number of guards, was slow to react. Protestors with handmade weapons and sharpened tools broke into the house, forcing Jakovas to take refuge on the top floor, where his shields contained the angry rebels at the top of a grand staircase.
Shortly, military reinforcements moved into the square and rode into the mansion. The confrontation that followed left thirty-two dead within the governor’s house; corpses of men and women were piled hip deep in the dark blood that covered the fine floor designs and the marble walls. Seven guards and soldiers, too, were killed.
But a second wave of determined rebels then moved into the governor’s mansion. These people managed to kill the remainder of the men protecting Jakovas, as well as the governor himself. They removed Jakovas’s body outside and set it on fire in the square, then took possession of the mansion. One hundred twenty-four citizens of Sulos barred the house from the inside, took every weapon they could from the corpses of the soldiers and personal guards that lay dead on the mansion stairs, and let it be known that this house would now serve their own headquarters for the command of the new political and economic order they had devised.
* * * *
Galvus and Orain moved toward the bed, away from direct view of her chamber door. The small army of footsteps thundered past.
Galvus had had a glimpse of them. “The servants,” he whispered.
Bravely he moved toward the door, peeked out, and glanced up and down the corridor. He motioned for his mother to cross the room.
“If we can get down this hall—” he pointed to the end of the corridor, in the direction opposite that taken by the servants “—we have a chance to get downstairs.”
“And then?” Orain whispered to him.
“I don’t know, Mother. We hide in a cellar, if we can get to one. At least we’ll—”
He said no more; he was wasting time. Gripping one of Orain’s hands, Galvus pulled her behind him and moved into the corridor.
They made their way quickly down the stairs and, at the bottom, passed through an antechamber that led into the kitchen. To their right, an open door led into Mantho’s large dining hall. But a second open door at the opposite end of the kitchen led, Galvus and Orain knew, outside into an alley, and the alley opened upon a small street.
They heard no sounds beyond that door. Possibly they might be safer outside.
Yet Galvus did not move. Indecisive, he stood where he was, trembling, listening.
Orain felt his trembling, She touched his shoulder. “My son,” she whispered, “do what you feel is best. We will be—”
A gasping voice came from the doorway that led into the dining hall. A man stumbled there; he came forward with jumping arms and stared at Galvus and Orain. He supported himself for one moment in the opening, looking at them in shock.
Mantho.
His beard was wet with blood. His face was wet with blood. In his chest was a hole; his shirt was torn, and gore—raw muscle, blood—could be seen.
Orain screamed.
Galvus stepped in front of her to block the view.
Dark spittle rolled down Mantho’s neck, and he slipped forward, not throwing his arms out, and fell straight onto the tiles and did not move.
There was a heart-pause of silence before a second figure pushed into the doorway, its shadow moving on Mantho’s corpse. A man, and in his right hand, an ornamental sword, dripping with purple blood.
Euis, the servant.
He stared at Orain, his eyes so dark, and he was scowling.
Galvus showed him the knife he held. “Come at me,” he threatened, clearing his throat, “and I’ll use this on you—I will.”
But Euis did not come at them. He ignored Mantho’s body and continued to stare into Orain’s eyes—
“No one seems to have any answers, and there is no peace.”
And then, words. “I am a man!” he yelled at her.
“Oh, Hea!”
“I am a man!” Euis said again. “Not a dog! Not a…dog!”
Galvus watched him carefully, and he was ready to open with movement, to jump in his mother’s defense—
But Euis coughed thickly, and he brought up a deep spray of blood. He lifted one arm to support himself in the doorway, as Mantho at first had. Orain and Galvus now saw a wet run of blood pour from his right leg, from under his trousers, and move down the man’s boots to collect on the floor.
Then he, too, fell face forward, on top of Mantho.
Buried in his back, broken, was half of Count Mantho’s gold-topped walking stick.
Galvus moved now, and Orain clung to him. She was dizzy, but as she hurried across the floor, the dizziness lifted. Galvus felt so excited, reacting to the blood and the death, that he wanted to burst through the wall, swing his knife, and leap into the air. Accelerated, he raced into the alley, making sure that Orain stayed by him. Down the alley, into the street.…
Another mob, another crowd.
Astonished, Galvus and Orain looked upon a street filled with aristocrats, huddled, some clutching a few belongings, all in the middle of the avenue and surrounded by mounted imperial guards, protectors. Trumpets blasted intermittently; soldiers were calling back and forth to one another—and in the distance, still, came the confused noises of conflict, the screams and the crashes.
Someone in the crowd saw Orain and Galvus. “Hurry!” she screamed. “Hurry, please! Come with us!”
They ran and moved into the crowd as, at the urging of the mounted troop, all of them began to move down the avenue, protected by their escort.
The wails. The moans. The sobs and cries. “My family…my baby…my father…my son.… I saw my little girl, my little girl was—”
Protected, the fractured and the bruised moved down the avenue, closed and clogged, cursing and crying, even as the cloudy afternoon let cold rain begin to fall on them and as the darkening sky filled with an orange light, the glow of buildings two or three blocks away, on fire.
Fire.
They had begun to set fire to Sulos.
They had begun to reduce the city of injustice to ashes.
And as they were moved on, protected and escorted, these privileged and entitled, one well-manicured hand reached to the wet stones to pick up a gold coin that someone else, in fleeing or dying, had dropped.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Snow was falling in Mirukad, the first snow of late autumn. Fat, wet flakes settled on the streets and rooftops. In the brightness of early morning, the new snow lent such beauty to the old port town that Adred found himself enjoying the view, despite the chilliness.
He watched the falling snow through the window of his second-floor room at an inn outside the center of the city, and meanwhile he periodically stoked his fireplace, whistled a tune, and packed his belongings. It was two days after the Celebration of Perpetual Gr
ace, and Adred felt that he had stayed long enough in Mirukad. He was in much better spirits than he had been when he had left his friends in Sulos. He had seen the sights; he had talked with friendly strangers in taverns and in the sellers’ stalls. He had bought himself a new pair of boots and for the first time in his life had trimmed his beard and mustache—both now sufficiently full to require daily attention. He had bought Orain more material than she could possibly use, some very fine cloth, and, for Galvus, two books. He had even found a gift for Mantho: an exquisitely carved figurine that he knew his friend would add proudly to a collection that contained some of the finest—and rarest—miniature sculptures in the world.
When his things were packed, Adred finished dressing and took his breakfast downstairs in the serving room. He was in a light mood, so he joked with the woman who brought his meal, the innkeeper’s wife, a portly woman, friendly and talkative. Adred settled his bill with the house master and asked him whether one of the man’s sons could porter his belongings down to the wharfside later in the morning. The innkeeper assured him that, yes, one of the lazy good-for-nothings could be hired for the purpose.
After finishing his breakfast, Adred walked down to the docks. He might have taken a carriage, but he preferred to stroll. The day was chill, but there was only a slight wind. He noticed few others on the street, however, and many who passed him had indeed hired carriages. Adred wondered if civilization had brought with it distaste for the cold and for being out of doors.
When he came to the docks, he entered one of the city offices and inquired about buying passage on the next sailing to Sulos. The young clerk behind the counter was surprised by the request.
“To Sulos?” he repeated.
“Yes,” Adred told him, imagining that perhaps this one hadn’t been at his job for very long. “You know—south of here? In Kendia? Rather a large city—lots of ships, quite a few tall buildings.”
“Sir, excuse me—we aren’t permitted to release any passages or shipments to Sulos until we hear what’s happened with the revolt there, sir.”
Adred missed a breath. “The revolt?”
“You haven’t heard?”
Fear gripped him. The room blurred. “What revolt? In Sulos?”
Now the clerk seemed to become as frightened as Adred. “Two days ago. I’m sorry. We thought everyone knew. Everyone was in the streets two days ago down there, on Celebration. Half the city’s burned; they killed the governor—”
There was a second clerk in the office, an elderly bureaucrat who, overhearing all of this, now moved from his desk farther back and approached the counter. “Careful, now,” he cautioned the younger man. “We don’t have all the facts yet.”
“Tell me what’s happened!” Adred said. “Please, please. I have friends there!”
“Sir, we don’t have all the facts yet. People without jobs started some trouble. We’ve heard that there were fires set.”
“How many people have been killed?”
“We don’t know, so don’t—”
“I have friends down there!” Adred exclaimed. “They’re like family to me!”
“Sir, I understand. I have friends, too. We’re waiting, is all we can do.”
“When will ships sail again? From here?”
“I can’t say. We can sell you passage on—”
“Is there a way overland?”
“Sir—calm down, please, sir.”
Why hadn’t he heard before now? All of those people in the taverns, in the streets, yesterday, the day before—had they been discussing it? Had he simply not been paying attention while shopping for cloth and toys? Why hadn’t he overheard?
He looked up again. “Can’t you at least—”
The door to the office opened, a cold wind blew in, and the clerks looked up. An old sailor entered, stamping snow from his boots. He slammed the door behind him and tramped to the counter, shaking his feet. He reached beneath his long overcoat to produce thick envelopes of paper, slapped them on the counter, and began to untie them.
“In from Port Aru,” he announced. “My mate’s unloading now. You’ll want to check with the—”
Adred was staring impatiently at him; he knew that Aru was a small city farther north, but perhaps the captain had heard—
The older clerk noticed. He interrupted the ship’s master with a curt, “News from Sulos?”
“None.” He shook his head quickly and noticed Adred. “You don’t want to be going there, do you?” he asked.
“If I can board a ship, yes. Yes, I do.”
“They went crazy down there, lad. Set fire to the place. I been to Sulos a thousand times. Had some land there. Was going to settle there after a few more boatloads. I expect it’s gone, now.”
Adred left. He moved up the street, numb. The wind had come up; it blew in off the waves, attacking him, sending icy rain into his hair and the back of his neck. He began to shiver uncontrollably; tears started hotly in his eyes, and he fought to hold them back.
Name of the gods, Sulos burned to the ground? He had to get back there! How could he get back there?
* * * *
“Oh, there’s a sea to the north,
And a sea to the west,
But the see I love best
Is to see her…un—dressed!”
He cackled with laughter. Drunk. Old dog. Glanced over at Galvus and nudged the youth with his elbow.
“Understand?” he chuckled. “‘Sea’? ‘See’? Understand?”
Galvus looked toward Orain, who was sitting across from him, huddled by their open fire and stirring the soup pot. Trying to keep warm. Not that it was much of a fire. The wind might have whipped it to life, but instead, as damp as it was, the flames had been reduced to warm coals.
The old gentleman, an aristocrat born, pulled at his wine jug (where he had gotten hold of it, Galvus had no idea) and laughed and laughed at himself and at the lad beside him. Galvus looked from his mother to their makeshift tent; it was ragged and would need to be redraped soon, and tied down again before they could spend another night in it.
Another night.…
That tent was as wet as the field that was their home now. It kept the wind from them, or the worst of the wind, when it picked up, but that mattered little. Galvus was already soaked through, and had been for three days.
Beyond the tent, the field. Dusk was settling, and the enormous crowd of outcasts, homeless, frightened—reduced to senselessness, many of them, by their lack of plush cushions and servants, their warmth, their fine clothes—was becoming an indistinguishable knot of shadow, a lump against the high darkness of the purple sky and the gray of the wind-combed field.
Orain glanced at her son. “We might as well eat it now,” she whispered to him. Her voice was hoarse. “Are you hungry? You should eat.”
He shrugged.
“Galvus?”
“No,” he said tiredly. “I’m not very hungry.” But he pulled his arms out from under the blanket he had wrapped around him and extended an army-issue ration cup he had been given. Orain dipped it into the warm pot of soup and returned it. Steam lifted into Galvus’s face and made him blink; he sipped, but the broth was hotter than he’d expected. It faintly burned his tongue.
Next to him, the aristocrat began another verse. Galvus tightened.
“Don’t,” Orain cautioned him, nodding quickly to the man. “He’s not as strong as we are. He needs to do it this way.”
Galvus frowned and continued to sip.
At the sound of an approaching horse, he looked up. An officer, surveying them.
“Everything all right?”
Galvus nodded but jerked his head toward the drunk.
The soldier smiled. “We’ll get you back into the city tomorrow,” he promised. “Or the day after. Soon, now.”
“What about the rebels?” Galvus asked him. “The governor’s house?”
The soldier’s expression turned grim. “We’ve sealed off the square,” he answered Galvus, some
what curtly. “But the rest of the city’s safe.”
In order to invite no more unwanted questions then, he reined away, asking the next clot of huddled exiles, “Everything all right? Anyone sick? Anyone need an extra blanket?”
Galvus continued to sip.
Orain sneezed.
All around them sounded the low din, the whining, the complaints.
While inside the city, Galvus thought, the corpses were piled as high as monuments, out here, these purebloods and gentry, now that the shock had passed, complained about trivialities, small injustices, leaks in their tents, the boredom.
Complained—because they were still alive.
The dead weren’t complaining of boredom, he wanted to tell them.
It disgusted him. Disgusted him to his core.
He turned to the drunk and growled angrily, “Shut up!”
But the old man laughed at him, invited him to sing with him, and, after another long swallow of Silesian ale, continued with:
“Oh, she gives me a wink
As she passes. I think
With what pleasure I’d sink.…”
Orain patiently reminded Galvus again, with a smile, to remain temperate.
But Galvus now was concerned with more than the stupid, drunken aristocrat. Other thoughts had taken hold of him.
That he was nephew to the king, that his mother was sister-in-law to the crown, neither of them had mentioned. They preferred it thus. There was far too much potential danger in their identities, and they had no reason to flaunt their station.
Galvus looked upon the walls of Sulos and, in that moment, by the dark light of the night and his reflective, embittered spirit, saw those walls as the enclosures of a trap, saw them as the fortifications of an enigmatic maze, saw them as an illusion, and a lie.
And he had no reason to think of himself as a liar, and he had never been a friend of illusions or deliberate injustices, or traps.…
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