by Myke Cole
“Poch!” Leuba’s voice rang out like a peal of thunder. The drover fell silent, staring at her. All eyes snapped to Heloise’s mother, and she looked suddenly shy. She glanced at her feet and swallowed hard before looking up, her eyes flashing. “Those Kipti are always going on about loss. Like hurting makes a woman a lord somehow. Well, if that’s the case, then we’re all of us princes here. We’ve lost our home and our way of life. We’ve lost our place in the Emperor’s bosom … No, Barnard, let me talk. Nobody ever listens to me. You and Chunsia’ve lost two children now, and half the village is gone. And now you, Poch Drover, want us to lose what little we have left.”
“Leuba.” Poch reached for her and she pulled away to Samson’s side.
“No!” she shouted. “I’ve known you since you were a boy, Poch Drover, and I will not sit here and let you treat me like I’m stupid.” Her eyes swept the crowd. “You people are all I’ve ever known. You’re my home, all of you. You dyed my dresses, Danad, and Barnard, you’ve mended every pot and sharpened every knife I’ve ever held. Sald, your Marta has seen me through winters where I’d have had to go hungry to feed my daughter. And now Gunnar and Basina and Myron and all the folk we knew in Hammersdown are in the dirt. And you want to run off with half of who’s left? And for what? What do you plan to do that’s so much smarter than what Heloise wants? Even if you don’t hold to her being a Palantine? What plan do you have?”
Poch looked at his feet, stammered.
“What plan?” Leuba asked again. “Heloise wants us safe behind walls. She’s sayin’ we’re not fast enough to outrun Pilgrims with horses, and that makes sense to me. What do you say to that? Well?”
“Leuba, please,” Poch said.
“Please, what? Sald? What’s your great plan to keep us safe if what my daughter has to say is so foolish? Seems to me she’s the only one talking sense here of late.”
The grower joined Poch in contemplating his feet.
“You’re dear to me,” Leuba said, “all of you. You’re dear to me, and I don’t want to lose anyone else. Not to the Order, not to the road, and not because you stand on pride because it’s not a man grown leading the way for once. The Kipti”—she caught Heloise’s eye and corrected herself—“the Sindi may love loss, but I don’t. I’ve had enough of it to last a lifetime.”
The silence stretched as Poch and Sald stood shamefaced, mouths working, unable to meet Leuba’s eyes. Heloise’s mother’s thick cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittering, and Heloise thought for a moment that, machine or no machine, she looked more the Palantine than anyone.
“Well, Poch Drover,” Heloise spoke into the silence, “since you have no plan of your own, will you at least hear mine?”
* * *
But after she’d said her piece, and the village had started off, Sald Grower refused to move.
“Sald,” Barnard began.
The old grower held up a hand. “We’ve come far enough,” he said. “I’ll take my chances with the Red Lords. Might be they’ll turn me away…”
“Might be they’ll string you up,” Sigir said. “Don’t be a damned fool.”
“Who’s a fool?” Sald shook an angry finger at Sigir. “Me making for the border? Or you trying to take a garrisoned town?”
“You’ll never make it,” Sigir said, “they’ll catch you out on the road!”
“Aye,” Sald said, pointing in the direction of Lyse, “much wiser to race right into their arms. They’ll never catch us then. I don’t care what Leuba says, or you, Barnard. I’m not going no farther, and I’ll take my chances, and you shouldn’t try to stop me.”
“Sald, you can’t—” Sigir said.
“No,” Heloise cut him off. “He can do as he likes. And so can you, Poch.” She turned, facing the village. “So can any of you. When we move on Lyse, there will be no more time for doubts. If any of you do not have the heart for this, you have my leave to go.”
“We don’t need your leave,” Poch said.
“Then go,” Helosie said to him. “You have heard my plan. If you feel you will be safer on the road, on your own, if you feel you can outrun the Order’s outriders, or any brigands you may meet, then go on your way. I am going on to Lyse, and I am going if I have to do it myself.”
“Will no one else come with me?” Sald asked the village. “Will you make me try my chances on the road alone?” None answered, but neither would they meet his eyes. The villagers looked at their feet, up into the trees, out to the horizon.
“Come on, Poch.” Sald’s eyes were pleading. “I don’t care what Leuba said, this is madness.”
Leuba only looked at her feet, and Heloise watched Poch’s eyes flick to her mother, then to the Maior and back to her again.
But the old drover did not move. “If no one else is going…” Poch said, so low that Heloise had to strain to hear him, “… it’s safer to stick together.”
Sald muttered something under his breath and rummaged in the cart, helping himself to a small sack of bread and a waterskin. Sigir moved to stop him, but held back at a gesture from Heloise. “You’re all mad,” Sald said, started on his way, then turned back to the villagers.
“You’re all mad! If any of you live through this … well, I suppose I’ll be seeing you. But more likely we won’t meet again until we’re in the shadow of the Throne. The Emperor be with you all.”
And with that, he turned on his heel, and set off into the woods.
The villagers stood in silence, watching his back until it disappeared.
There was a hollow space in Heloise’s stomach, growing into an ache. “Well?” she asked the rest of them. “Are we a village or aren’t we?”
None spoke, and none moved, and at last Heloise turned and walked on. The village followed, but she could feel their eyes on her back the rest of the way.
Lyse stood on the edge of a river, sprawling on a flat patch of ground cleared of trees. Samson said it had only had a palisade when he was a boy, but by the time he first took Heloise there for the fair, the stone walls were in place. They had seemed towering, impossibly thick. She couldn’t imagine how many men had labored to build them, how long they had to work.
But as she looked at them through the wood’s edge, she was amazed to see what a difference a few years had made. The gray walls seemed childish now, little more than oversized heaps of poorly mortared stone. The gates were close-set planks banded with iron, standing closed against the empty dirt track that wound its way along the riverbank.
Samson looked up at her. “Do you remember when we were here last?”
She nodded. “Yes … it looks … different.”
Her father cocked an eyebrow. “Different, how?”
“The walls, the road. It’s all … less … somehow.”
“It’s no less, no more than it was before.” Her father sounded sad.
Heloise stared in silence for another moment before Leuba rapped her knuckles on the machine’s metal thigh. “Well, I made a damn fool of myself yelling praise for your plan before, dove. Suppose I can’t well talk you off it now.” Sald’s departure had made them all sober, but Leuba’s tone was as airy as if they were just out for a summer outing.
Heloise smiled at her mother. Just a few days ago, Heloise had seen her over a bubbling pot in their hearth, stripping a chicken carcass. There had been no devil then, and the Order was nothing more than a chance and unsavory encounter on the road. “I suppose not.”
“Just tell me it’ll be all right, dove. Tell me you’re a Palantine and that the Emperor whispers in your ear. Tell me that He says He will tear these walls down Himself if that’s what it takes to keep you safe.”
“Come now, dear.” Samson put his arm around his wife.
Leuba leaned into her husband, but she repeated her request, her eyes earnest. “Tell me.”
“I love you, Mother. You know that, don’t you?”
“Aye, dove. I do.”
Sigir and Barnard approached, the cart trundling along behin
d them. “Heloise,” the huge tinker said, “the light won’t hold forever. It’s time.”
For the second time, Heloise hunched the machine over so tightly the metal knees pressed against the breastplate. It took some work to wriggle the machine onto its side in the cart, but she managed it. They draped one of the huge canvas tents over her, lighter and less oppressive than the woven branches piled with earth had been. It was still dark beneath, but Heloise could breathe the sweet air where it wafted up through the gaps between the wooden boards of the cart’s bottom. The engine’s smoke puffed out through a gap between the canvas cover and the wagon’s sides, a slim tendril that Lyse’s sentries might notice, but she had worked out the story with Barnard if it came to that.
The cart bumped along, yoked to a single horse. Barnard rode the other, his huge body filling out the Pilgrim’s gray cloak, head shadowed by the hood. Barnard was big enough that a casual look would take him for armored. Heloise prayed it would be enough.
The single horse strained with the weight of the cart, but no Pilgrim would ever be seen in a drover’s chair. Sigir sat there now, handling the reins as skillfully as Poch ever could. The drover might have been more convincing, but Leuba’s upbraiding and Sald’s departure had left him sullen, and Sigir didn’t trust him with anything so delicate. Samson had Poch and Danad both under close watch among the trees, cleared back from the walls as much as the townsfolk of Lyse could manage, but still far too close.
Heloise could feel the cart’s axles strain under the machine’s weight as the Lyse tipstaffs waved Barnard to a stop just beyond the treeline. “Begging the Holy Brother’s pardon,” Heloise heard one ask tentatively. His eyes would be downcast, keeping him from getting a good look beneath the tinker’s hood. “We’d had no word that…”
“Nor would you.” Barnard made his voice hard, but Heloise could hear the villager’s lilt in his speech, the hint of the low-talk disdained by real Pilgrims. “I am on the Procurer’s business, and did not think it wise to announce it and my cargo to every bandit in the valley.”
If the tipstaff noticed Barnard’s accent, he gave no sign. “Apologies, Holy Brother, we’ve never had the Order come through unannounced…”
“Do I look like the whole Order, you simpleton?” Barnard sneered. “There is only me. Quieter that way.”
“Yes, Holy Brother. But we still must see what’s in the cart. Everything through the gate is inspected, no exceptions.”
“This,” Barnard rapped the machine’s leg through the canvas, pausing to let the dull ringing echo, “is an Imperial commission. Do you know the law?”
“Aye,” said the tipstaff, some of the courage returning to his voice now that he was dealing with something familiar, “but there’s no vault here.”
“Vault or no, if you gaze on the Imperial will, which is reserved for His eyes alone, you will incur the wrath of the Order.”
“Maybe,” the tipstaff said, his voice frightened, but determined, “but I’ll incur the wrath of the watch captain if I don’t have a look. Just a quick peek. I won’t tell anybody.”
“It is a tinker-engine,” Barnard said, gesturing to the plume of seethestone smoke wafting up from under the canvas, “as you can see. You are a tinker?”
“No, my lord,” the tipstaff said.
“Then it will just look like a pile of metal to you.”
“Then show me a pile of metal,” the tipstaff said, “and I’ll trouble you no more.”
“Very well,” Barnard said, “it’s your own soul to damn.”
She gritted her teeth, swallowing the terror as Barnard peeled back the canvas to expose the machine’s bent metal leg, a handspan below Heloise’s flesh one. “What’s that look like to you?”
“A … pile of metal,” the tipstaff admitted. “All right, Holy Brother. Thank you for indulging me.”
“The chapter house will hear of this,” Barnard said, and clucked his horse into a trot, flipping the canvas back over Heloise and motioning to Sigir, who flicked the reins of the cart horse. Heloise felt the wooden wheels bounce on the rutted track. She didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until she finally exhaled.
Sigir heard the sigh and grunted. “Take another breath now, your eminence. The real test is upon us.”
“He’s good,” the tipstaff was calling, and Heloise heard the gate guards answer, the groan of iron hinges, wood creaking as the portal bent slowly inward to admit them.
“Holy Brother,” two voices said softly. Guards, bowing to Barnard’s cloaked form, ushering him in.
“What in the shadow of the Throne is this?” This voice rang out clearly over the others. It was haughty, with the smooth tone Heloise had come to associate with the high-born. “Who are you? What are you doing here? From what chapter do you hail?”
Barnard’s horse reared slightly, stamping its hooves as it came down. The cart jerked and halted, a corner of the canvas flap lifting on the sudden rush of air to give Heloise a glimpse of scarlet.
“My apologies, Holy Father,” Barnard grunted, trying to control his horse.
Heloise could hear the jingling of a chain. “I asked you a question, Brother. Who are you? Let me see your seal.”
More high-born voices, chains jingling, boots tramping in the mud.
“I am sorry I could not give you more time, your eminence,” Barnard said.
“What in the shadow of the Throne do you mean?” the high-born voice demanded.
But Heloise knew that Barnard wasn’t speaking to him.
She rolled onto her knees, the machine lurching to match the motion of her body, putting all of its weight on the cart’s edge and tipping it over. She spilled out onto the ground, tangled in the canvas, the machine’s metal knees digging furrows in the ground. She heard shouts, the pounding of boots on earth.
She stood, the engine’s strength easily tossing the wooden cart aside, shredding the canvas where it tangled around the machine’s legs.
Heloise blinked at the sudden light, eyes assaulted by a rush of motion.
One of the gate guards had already dropped his spear and fled, running away from the town, toward the tipstaffs farther down the track, who stood gaping at her. Barnard was struggling to control his panicking horse. The cart horse, broken free from its yoke, was a galloping dot in the corner of her eye, shrinking with each passing moment. Sigir lay on his back a few paces distant, groaning. She whirled around.
A Sojourner, flanked by two of his Pilgrims, was stumbling back from her. His face was even more pinched than that of the Sojourner Clodio had killed, pointed nose and thin lips practically converging. His squinting eyes finished the look, more hungry rat than man. He held a long staff instead of a flail, topped with the golden figure of a Palantine, wings spread, palm outward to ward off the enemy. The other two Pilgrims were spinning their flail heads, but with little confidence.
“Come on!” Barnard was shouting now, reining his horse around. He cupped his hand over his mouth and called again toward the treeline. “Come on! The Throne-cursed gate is open!”
The rat-faced Sojourner’s eyes widened comically. “Close the gate!” he squeaked. “Close the gate now!”
The Pilgrims raced to the heavy wooden doors, began shoving them closed. The remaining gate guard thrust his spear at Heloise, but she parried it easily, then swept down with the shield. The guard cried out in pain, dropping the weapon and cradling his arm.
He bent to retrieve his spear, but stopped at a word from the Sojourner. “Forget it! Close the gate! Close the gate!”
Heloise risked a glance behind her and saw why.
The villagers had burst from the tree cover and were running toward the open gate, waving their weapons over their heads. A few had traded for Sindi knives, others scraps of armor. They were a ragged bunch, but they were more than the town had expected, especially with a tinker-made war-machine at their head.
The Pilgrims finally got the weight of the doors working for them, and they swung easily inward, u
ntil Heloise stretched out the machine’s arms, stopping them with a bang.
The Pilgrims pushed, grunting, but Heloise scarcely felt it inside the machine’s frame. Rat-face squeaked again and thrust his staff at her, succeeding only in breaking off the gold finial and sending it tumbling to the ground. “Go!” he shouted. “Sound the alarm! Bring the brothers!”
The Pilgrims seemed all too glad to get away from the towering machine, and released the doors, running deeper into the town, not even bothering to retrieve their flails.
The Sojourner tried another thrust, but Barnard swept it aside with his flail, then spurred the horse forward. The animal’s broad breast knocked the Sojourner onto his back. Barnard raised the flail, but Heloise stopped him with a shout. “Leave him! Get the Pilgrims! They’re raising the alarm!”
Barnard nodded and began to ride off, but the horse only took three steps before he reined back sharply. “The alarm is already raised.”
Over Barnard’s shoulder, Heloise could see five more Pilgrims coming at a dead run, flail heads bouncing.
She checked to ensure that the machine’s arms were fully extended, bracing the gates open, and glanced back toward the treeline. The villagers were nearly to her now, the guard and tipstaffs running before them, hopelessly outnumbered and more willing to try their luck getting past the war-machine than against the shouting mob behind them.
Heloise let them through. Lyse might be a town, but what was a town but a big village? Lutet had its own tipstaffs and sentries, and they were good men all. These men scurrying past the machine’s legs had never troubled her. Her business was with the Order.
But it was the sentries that charged her now, leaping down from the parapet and throwing their shoulders into the doors, heaving them back closed. She stretched the machine’s arms wide. The doors shuddered against her metal fists. With so many men pushing on them, she should feel the strain now, but the machine held on, the engine bellowing, metal joints groaning.
But holding the doors open meant that she couldn’t use her arms, and a few of the guards came forward, finding their courage now that the machine was pinned. The Pilgrims slowed to a jog as they saw the guards engaged. The Sojourner scrambled to his feet.