Nights of Sin
Page 11
As I watch, a huge pallet, larger than a house, heaves over the top of the cliff, dangling from a web of cable. Men swarm the load like ants. It is hoisted into a fenced-off enclosure guarding the base of the crane, one of a dozen or more spaced along the cliff-side. The moment the pallet touches down on the flagstones, the stevedores begin loosening the myriad ropes and cables that secure the load. Empty wagons stand ready outside the fence, waiting to load the cargo for transport.
Sergeant Cyr bellows for us to turn, and we move to do his bidding. The crowd, reluctantly it seems, parts for us, opening a space leading towards one of the fenced-off oases. As we approach, I see that a rough queue has formed outside the tall iron gate.
Soldiers, members of the 43rd Infantry by their insignia and banners, stand inside the bars, looking bored. Their officers stand beside sharp-faced men and women dressed in the maroon of the Imperial bureaucracy. As we approach, the soldiers command the caravan waiting for admission to move aside so we can enter. When we have passed through the gate, the men of the 43rd close the barricades, shutting off access to the loading area inside the fence. The crowd grumbles at the delay.
Sergeant Cyr greets his counterpart, and presents his orders. The other officer nods and accepts the paperwork, then commands his men to fall in for final inspection. The infantrymen form ranks beside us, and we stand for fifteen minutes, as the officers of the 43rd perform their final inspection.
All the while, the crowd gathered outside the gate stares in. About half are obviously foreign, tradespeople or caravan runners from gods-know-where, but the rest are dressed in the fashions of the Imperial City. I frown at the sight, and nudge Malthus with my elbow.
"What?” he whispers, his eyes straight and level.
"Why are so many people gathered?” I whisper back.
"Trade never sleeps,” he replies, quoting one of the City's most beloved mottos. “Thanks to the cranes, the bounty of the south will flow up, into the City, all winter."
"But these people are waiting to be taken down, into the lowlands. Look at them: many are just laborers. Or craftsmen. And they have their families with them."
I nod towards a couple, leading a brood of six children. A hand-cart is beside them, piled high with a trunk and several bundles wrapped in what looks like carpets. A dog barks at the crowd, straining at the rope tied around its neck. The eldest daughter, a willowy girl of no more than thirteen, dressed in a pretty, if simple, flowered skirt, curses it and orders it to be still. The dog, overexcited by the smells and sights all around, does not listen, and strains against its leash until it chokes.
Malthus shrugs. “Perhaps they desire to spend the winter in warmer climes. Not that it will matter, of course."
I open my mouth to ask him what he means, then I remember. By order of the emperor, none can leave the city. It must not seem as if the populace is fleeing the capital, lest our enemies feel they are getting the upper hand. This is why we are here, after all: to maintain order and to assure that the emperor's will is enforced.
I shake my head at the waste of it all. If any cared to ask me, I could tell the emperor's strategists that the Mor do not care about a moral victory, nor are they concerned with the resilience of our will. All that matters to them is tearing down the wall.
Soon, the infantry troop files out, headed back to their barracks. Sergeant Cyr gives us our final duty assignments and explains our rotation schedule, then splits us up into groups. We man our posts, our weapons strung and ready, and re-open the gates.
From sunup to sundown we are to provide security for the bureaucrats responsible for approving and recording the myriad forms and permissions required for cargo or passengers to go up or down the cliff. They, in turn, collect taxes and customs fees for all cargo which comes into the city.
We are to work in four-hour shifts, changing twice, then take a four-hour break for meals and sleep before starting it all over again. My first assignment is on gate duty. Other members of the 103rd inspect the cargo and conveyances that will ride down on the pallets. Passengers have their papers carefully checked; most are handed over to the Imperial functionaries to the accompaniment of the sound of clinking coins. Those bereft of the proper bribe are, as a rule, denied.
I stand inside the gate, beside Malthus and six other archers. The mood of the crowd is ugly and restless. The inspection process is time-consuming, for Cyr has commanded the company to carefully check every wagon, bale and crate for stowaways.
"In times of war, the weak-willed and the cowardly will try to avoid their duty to the emperor,” one of the bureaucrats explains, seeing my barely-concealed frustration at the slowness of the process. “Surely you agree that all must contribute to the glorious victory that will be ours?"
"I ... it's not for me to say, sir,” I reply.
The functionary shrugs and turns back to the dark-skinned man before him. More papers are passed across the desk. Again I hear the jingle of coins, this time from a silken bag. The inspector hefts the sack, judging its weight, then nods to the man beside him. The bag disappears, dropped into a maroon sleeve. The dark-skinned man smiles.
"Let them pass,” the inspector calls out, scribbling his name on the bottom of the forms.
The archers move aside as the caravan drivers make ready to assist the stevedores with the loading. Outside the fence, I hear the crowd grumble and shift. Their stares are rapacious and hostile, missing nothing. I am sure that some among them saw, or heard, the jingling bag.
I look over at the family I noticed earlier. They are closer to the gate, but still several groups back. They sit on the flagstones beside their tiny cart, wearily passing a skin of water. The father leans back against the wheel of the cart and closes his eyes, wiping his brow with a ragged, stained sleeve. They do not look like the kind of family that has a clinking bag of their own.
The mother unwraps a heel of bread and breaks it, passing it to the children. The eldest daughter holds the dog's rope and stares off, across the vast drop of the Northwatch cliffs.
They are still there, hours later, when we close and lock the gates for the evening. The father joins the loud, complaining throng just outside. His daughter stands at his side, her wide eyes silently beseeching us to let her pass. The bureaucrat ignores her.
"If you are in a hurry you can try walking down the cliff path to the Sunrise Gate,” the functionary calls out. “This lift must be reserved for military and essential cargo use in the evening hours. Now move back. Move back, in the name of the emperor!"
The crowd reluctantly moves aside, to allow the crane workers and stevedores to depart. Their replacements file through the crowd. They look nervous.
With the gate secured, we split into watch groups. My team files off to the watch house, where we eat a sparse meal and try to rest. I feel like I've barely drifted off when Malthus nudges me and says we have to go back. When we return, the cranes are busy once again, hauling a seemingly endless series of pallets loaded with crates and livestock up the night-dark cliff.
We walk the perimeter until the small hours before dawn. The family stays in line, crowded together for warmth beside their worldly possessions. The dog, tied to a wheel, growls and barks at any who come too close. Good. One can never be too careful when relying on the kindness of strangers.
* * * *
"But, it's all I have. Please, sir—"
The Imperial agent sighs and waves his hand. “It is not a matter of money; it is a matter of orders, and we have ours. You do not have the proper papers."
The family I have been watching since yesterday stands before the bureaucrats’ table. Between them lies a scattering of coins, copper mostly, but a few of gleaming silver. It is a paltry sum, a laborer's wages for a month, possibly two.
"Please, sir,” the father tries again, obviously struggling with his temper. “We have been waiting in line since yesterday. We need to get south, to Khellut, as soon as we can. My wife's father is ill, and we must get to him before he—"
"Dying father is it? I'm sure. Nevertheless, I'm afraid that it's quite impossible. Things are tough all over, and no one can shirk their duty to the emperor in these trying times.” He pushes back the pathetic heap of coins and looks past the father's shoulder. “Next!"
"I beg you!” the father says, not moving. “Please! At least allow my wife, and the children to—"
The bureaucrat gestures to Cyr. The sergeant frowns, but a moment later flashes a hand sign. I see the six archers that have drawn gate duty this morning tense, then slowly draw their arrows. I turn aside from the caravan wagon I am helping inspect as they set the missiles to their strings.
"Step aside!” the functionary commands, his voice shrill, like a woman's.
The father stands for a few moments more, his thick laborer's hands flexing, glowering at the archers. Then, reluctantly, he scoops the coins off the table and backs away. When he is three steps away, he spits on the flagstones, then turns to grasp the handles of his cart.
The family retreats outside the gate. The mother struggles with tears. The children are not as strong as she, and weep softly, with frustration or fear I do not know.
I stifle the urge to go to them and explain that they have nothing to fear. The Armitage is mighty, defended by the force of the army and the elemental mages. It will not fall, I am sure of it. It just ... cannot.
We admit the next group in line, a textile merchant from Shaat. His wagons are empty, save for some luxury foods and metalworking supplies. No doubt he means to use the shortage caused by the army's requisition of all such items to turn a handsome profit back home. We point out the contraband to the Imperial agent.
"Is good, is good. Have papers,” the caravan master says. He pushes across a leather portfolio crammed with documents. The sides bulge with something else, a roundish object, which clinks as the portfolio is shifted. The Imperial inspector smiles.
I turn aside, weary of it all. Rumor has it that Sergeant Cyr will receive a portion of the bribes collected here, which he will distribute amongst the men. Malthus has already told me of his plans for his “bonus,” as he calls it: a decorative fountain for his wife's beloved garden. No wonder he and the men were thrilled to be assigned to customs duty.
The caravan master is still working out the final details of his bribe when a commotion draws my attention back to the gate. I see a group of horsemen, household guards by their flashy livery, leading a small group of wagons. At their head is a carriage, windows shuttered against the dust and the stares of the throng. I spy the crest emblazoned on the guards’ chests, a pair of crossed mallets on a field of scarlet, but do not recognize it.
The Whelans, of Turksbury, my sister informs me. One of the founding families. Shipping and mining are their primary interests. I overheard at Argus Cho's party that their middle son, Reginald, just married the youngest daughter of Lath Mason. It seems as if—
"What's going on there?” I ask Malthus, cutting off the impending stream of gossip.
He follows my gesture. At the gate, the horsemen are demanding loudly that they be allowed to come inside. The others in the line that they have passed send up a frustrated cry.
"I don't know,” Malthus replies with a shrug. “Sounds like they want a ride down."
"Then they should get in line, or make their way down the cliff road to the Sunrise Gate like everyone else."
Malthus smiles at my words, and shakes his head. “If you want to tell them to ride the thirty miles or more that will take them out of their way, be my guest, but I'll not. And there's little chance that a House Major like that will wait in line with the common folk—wealth has its privileges after all."
One of the inspectors rises from his seat and approaches the gate. The guards open it, and the man moves to the side of the carriage, bobbing comically as he tries to walk and bow at the same time. I see him, speaking with someone inside.
I scowl as the crowd moves forward. They are angry, calling out in a dozen tongues. The words I can understand are laced with profanity.
"Malthus,” I begin.
"I see. Come on.” He picks up his bow and moves towards the gate. Others in the troop have come to the same conclusion, and are drifting forward alongside us.
As I approach the gate, I see the family that was turned aside earlier. The father stands at the front of the crowd, shouting that the carriage must get in line. Beside him, his wife screams along, just as loud. Even the children catcall and jeer, waving their tiny fists at the liveried guards and their horses. The girl with the dog is shrieking along with them, still clutching the rope tied around the animal's straining neck.
The Imperial inspector nods at something said from the carriage, watching the crowd nervously. Three members of the 103rd are with him, their hands on their short swords. They look every bit as scared as they do in the middle of a Mor attack, and with good reason: the crowd is turning ugly. I can feel the malice in the air, heavy and imposing, like a storm just before the lightning breaks.
"Surely he's not stupid enough to take a bribe out in the open like this,” I say to Malthus. “The best thing to do would be to tell them to come back tonight, when the line sitters are mostly asleep."
"Do the inspectors strike you as the most intelligent men you've ever met?” Malthus asks. I answer him by setting an arrow to my string.
And what do you mean to do with that? my sister asks. Will you really shoot into a frightened crowd, whose only crime was expecting fairness? Will you really defend such a corrupt weakling?
I pause, then sigh. I cannot say.
Before I can come to a decision, many things happen, all in close sequence. A hand comes out of the carriage curtains, holding a white cloth, a handkerchief or lady's sachet. The inspector reaches for it, obviously reluctant to accept it under the gaze of the crowd. His fingers fumble at the cloth. The white bundle slips from his grasp, falling towards the flagstones.
As it tumbles through the air, the loose knot securing it slips open. Time seems to slow. I see the gleam of ruddy gold as the tied ends slip free...
Coins spill across the courtyard in a ringing, bouncing flood. It is more money than a laborer, or shopkeeper, could expect to earn in ten years, if ever. The sound of the money's fall cuts through the shouts and cries, momentarily silencing them. Every eye turns towards the golden spill.
"Fuck,” I hear Malthus mumble, startlingly clear.
Utter havoc erupts. The people in the crowd nearest the inspector throw themselves forward, past the guards’ horses. Their hands scramble at the flagstones, snatching up fallen coins.
Those behind them give a roar of frustration, either at the revealed bribe or their inability to get to the fallen coins, and surge forward. The horses, already nervous from the shouting all around them, whirl in place, biting anyone who draws close, as their riders struggle to control them.
Those closest to the gold lash out at the ones behind, scrabbling for the coins while trying to push away others. The pushing swiftly degenerates into a brawl, a swirling melee of waving fists and yelling men and women.
I hold an arrow on my string, unsure what to do. I see the three men in my company, short swords drawn, attempting to hurry the Imperial inspector back to the gates. The naked blades serve as sufficient warning to make most, but not all, turn aside.
"Corrupt bastard!” I hear a man scream, the cry audible over the cacophony. I see a brawny arm flash up, a knife glittering in one clenched fist, and a moment later the inspector crumples, disappearing into the crowd.
The archers with him stop, struggling to hoist him up. The crowd closes in on them, most still scuffling but some retaining sufficient command of their wits to remember their goal.
The cranes.
"Form up!” I shout to the other archers inside the gate. “Form up and draw shafts!” Beside me, I see Malthus nod and raise his weapon, his arrow
half-drawn in a mute promise of violence.
I hear others running up behind me. Soon a dozen other members of the 103rd are beside me, a massed line of death for any foolish enough to charge our position. More are coming, at least a dozen more, spilling out of the day barracks or running from their inspection posts near the crane pallets.
Outside the gate, the impeding riot swells, gaining strength as others run towards the commotion, and are swept inside. The mounted guards have their weapons out now, and swing them back and forth just over the heads of the crowd. Their mounts whirl in place, whinnying, sometimes rearing up to menace the rioters with flashing hooves.
For an instant, the violence abates. The roar of the crowd dims, as commoner and guard assess each other. I feel a moment's optimism this might stop here; reinforcements are doubtless headed this way. As the crowd shifts back, I see our soldiers, lying on the ground, beside the crouching form of the Imperial inspector.
I hear a child scream, somewhere behind the front ranks of the glowering crowd. A dog barks, its excited yips approaching. I see men shift and look down as a small, furry shape lunges out from between their legs. A rope trails from its neck, whipping behind it as it runs. It clears the forest of legs and bounds towards one of the nervous horses. I see its tongue flash pink.
The horse, already on edge from the massed people all around, rears. Its rider curses and saws at the reins. The people in the front ranks push even further back, away from the huge animal. I see a small figure, dressed in a flowered skirt, push past them.
I see what is about to happen, just as I feel the bone-deep premonition, as impossible to ignore as the smell of rain before a cloudburst. Still, I whisper my denial, unsure if I speak to myself, or to the uncaring gods above.
"Gods, no."
I move towards the fence, even though I know it is already too late. The girl screams her dog's name and grabs for the trailing rope. Her fingers snag at its frayed end, just before the dog bounds up, nipping at the rearing horse's forelegs. I see its shadow fall across them, see the girl's eyes go wide as she realizes the danger looming over her. The iron-shod hooves descend.