The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  “Walk,” she ordered. “You’ve brought him far enough.”

  When they reached the edge of the marsh, Nicolas turned his eyes back to the flatland. He stood with his feet ankle-deep in mud and looked out over the reeds and murk to the blue sea.

  “Where are you?” he whispered. “Tell me how to find you. I want to free you—I’m here.”

  There was no answer. Nicolas bowed his head and turned away. He took three more steps toward the sand dunes and turned back once again.

  “Thank you,” he said. His voice was clear and strong. Marja looked out over the marsh, but no answer met her ears—or his.

  The burning ship beyond the harbour sent clouds of smoke into the sky. They mixed with other clouds: a storm was brewing. A cold wind whipped through the sand dunes and made the going harder. Sand coated Nicolas’s hair and face and clothing. It clung to Marja’s skirt and got into Peter’s pipe, even as it closed in around their feet as they tried to walk.

  The sailor in their arms continued to breathe and stare, but gave no other sign that he was alive.

  They made it underneath a pier before the storm broke. There, they rested on the wet sand left behind by the tide. Marja and Peter laid the sick man down on the highest part of the ground. Nicolas stretched out and fell promptly asleep.

  Peter looked down on them and shook his pipe ruefully. Grains of sand retained their stubborn residence and kept him from lighting it. Marja sat down by Nicolas’s head and let her eyes rest first on one of the sleepers, then on the other. Her fingers moved to Nicolas’s hair, and she flicked grains of sand from it while rain drummed on the pier overhead.

  “Odd, isn’t it?” Peter asked.

  “What?” Marja asked.

  “Look at them,” Peter said. “They could be the same man. A boy beside his future.”

  Marja shivered. “No,” she said. But she saw it as well as Peter did. The dark, curly hair—jet black in the one, greying in the other; the lanky form, the set of the jaw. The lines in Nicolas’s forehead were only deepened in the older man.

  She noticed, suddenly, that the sailor’s lips were moving. He was talking to himself deliriously, and she leaned closer to hear what he was saying. She grew pale at his words, but had no time to think over them before Peter grunted and fell to the sandy ground beside her.

  A voice said, “Stand up slow, Gypsy. You’re under arrest.”

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  Under and Around

  In Pravik, under the ground, it was cold and numbingly grey.

  Maggie sat by one of many small fires and warmed her hands through worn wool gloves, her fingers poking through at the tips. She followed the smoke with her eyes as it curled up through cracks in the ceiling, drawn out to the world above. She was thinking, as she often did. There was little else to do.

  Pat was stretched on the rock beside her, twisting a piece of string around her fingers. She looked up and regarded her friend.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  Maggie looked up from the flames. “Hmmm? Oh, it’s nothing.”

  Pat sat up and drew her long legs underneath her. “Don’t give me that. What are you thinking of, Maggie Sheffield? Fields of posies and hills of green?”

  Maggie laughed. “No.”

  “Are you thinking about him?” Pat said. Her voice was gentler now.

  Maggie nodded and covered her mouth with the heel of her hand, resting her fingers against the side of her cheek. When did she ever not think of him? Jerome had created a new place in her and then left it empty. Empty, aching, and daily more confused.

  “You have to let go someday,” Pat said.

  “Of what?” Maggie asked. “I don’t even understand why I loved him—if love is the word. He wasn’t just a man to me. He was—all this.”

  Pat raised an eyebrow. “Dark, cold places underground?”

  Maggie smiled. “You know what I mean. All these changes—this colony—the fight against the Blackness. He was going to change the world.” Her voice grew very soft. “I was going to help him.”

  “We’ll change things yet,” Pat said. “They won’t keep us underground forever. I know, though—that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt when some dreams don’t come true.”

  Maggie was still looking at her hands. Dreams. She’d had a dream once—a dream in which Jerome had left her behind, had left her to fall back into the darkness while he flew to the light. She bit her lip. She wished there had been more to the dream. Some sign for her waking hours—some pathway to the light.

  “Maybe they’ll come true yet,” she said.

  Pat drew herself closer so that the firelight brought colour to her face and played in her short dark hair. “When the King comes?” she said.

  “Yes. Or when we go to him.”

  “‘Beyond the sky,’ is that the phrase? The professor always uses it. It’s very poetic.”

  “That’s the one,” Maggie said.

  “The professor’s been quiet lately,” Pat said. She picked at the string in her hands. “I don’t think he’s well.”

  Maggie tilted her head up and looked at the solid grey ceiling above her. “The ground weighs on him. On everyone.” She sighed. “Sometimes I don’t believe the sun is up there at all anymore.”

  “Of course it’s up there,” Pat said. “But it’s lonely for us, I’ll bet. Up there all it has to keep it company is the Emperor and his minions.”

  Maggie chuckled. “What a terrible thought.”

  A young boy appeared in the light of the fire and bowed. His voice was hoarse from the cold, and he spoke with the accents of an Eastern farmer.

  “A message from Professor Huss,” he said. “He wishes to see you at the Upper North Gate.”

  “We’ll come at once,” Maggie said.

  * * *

  The Upper North Gate was not a gate at all, but a maze of tunnels near the surface of the ground. The rebels knew the way through to an entrance on the hillside, outside the wall of the City of Bridges. It was the usual entrance of the refugees and adventurers who had come to join them since the Battle of Pravik. The Ploughman had posted guards in the maze to see to it that friends found their way in and enemies did not. With High Police patrolling the mountains, the Ploughman had forbidden his people from going all the way outside.

  Maggie and Pat joined Jarin Huss at the entrance to the Gate. An intoxicating scent tugged at Maggie’s senses as she reached it, the smell of outside—of people whose hair and clothes still smelled like snow and wind and mountains, of horses, mud, and sweat.

  The Gate was full of ragged Gypsies. One of them was deep in conference with Professor Huss. Huss smiled as Maggie and Pat approached. He held out his arms to them and greeted them like daughters.

  “This young gentleman has told me a very interesting story,” Huss said. “It seems that he and his people were rescued by an extraordinary young man and two Gypsy companions.”

  Maggie’s heart jumped, and she fought to keep a smile from her face. It was no use smiling until she knew for sure.

  “Nicolas?” she asked.

  “I do not doubt it,” Huss said.

  “And his companions?” Maggie asked.

  “A young man and a young woman,” said a voice from the shadows. The Gypsy leader called the Major stepped into the torchlight. His eyes were dark in his bearded face. His shoulders had lost nothing of their broadness; his stature nothing of its height. Even so, the Major was paler and thinner than when Maggie had first met him. Life underground was not easy on anyone, but of the community of rebels and refugees who lived under Pravik, the Gypsies suffered most from their deprivation.

  The Major clapped a big hand on the young Gypsy’s shoulder. “Darne here says the young man smoked a pipe and the young woman was very reckless and beautiful.” He winked. “Nicolas likes to be alone, but it would seem that our friends have found him.”

  Maggie stopped trying to hold back her smile. “Then Marja and Peter are also alive?”<
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  “And wandering the roads of Italya,” the Major said.

  “Italya?”

  “Yes,” Huss said. “Nicolas has gone south.”

  “How is that other fellow coming along?” the Major asked. “The one you think Nicolas rescued and sent to us by the strange doctor.”

  “He is well,” Maggie said. “The wound was a bad one, but Libuse’s tendings have kept infection away. He’ll be whole again before long.”

  The Major inclined his dark head. “We are much indebted to the Ploughman’s Lady for the care she takes for our people.”

  “They’re not just your people, Major,” Maggie said. “Down here we all belong to each other.”

  Her eyes strayed to the refugees huddled in the Gate. They were thin and filthy, and their Italyan clothes did little to keep out the cold.

  A rustle in the tunnel announced a new approach, and Libuse entered the Gate. Her clothing, once fine, was drab and ragged, but her carriage was nothing less than regal. Rich brown hair hung down her back in a thick braid. She inclined her head to the young Gypsy leader, who bowed.

  “Princess,” said the Major, “this lad is Darne. He led the band you see here.”

  “He has done well,” Libuse said. “You are welcome here, with all who seek refuge from the Empire.”

  Darne lifted his eyes. “Thank you, my lady.”

  “Now,” Libuse said, “it looks as though some of you could use bandaging after the tender care of the High Police. Major, you will take them to the northwest cavern for me?”

  “Right away, my lady,” the Major said.

  “I’ll be off to the kitchens,” Pat said. “I’m willing to bet that by the time you’re finished binding up their wounds, they’ll be more than ready for a bite to eat.”

  Darne roused his entourage to their feet, and the Major led them away through the tunnels to the northwest. Libuse followed behind them, with Maggie and the professor at her side. Pat disappeared in the opposite direction. A young rebel carried a torch before them.

  “The Ploughman returns soon, I believe?” Huss asked.

  “I hope so,” Libuse said.

  “These excursions are necessary. If we continue to bring in refugees, we will soon outgrow our refuge.”

  “I know,” Libuse said, managing a smile. “But there is a knot in my stomach every time he leads our men deeper into the ground. It is so dark here. Sometimes it seems that all that stands between us and nothingness is the torchlight. The Ploughman takes his torch, and descends where I cannot see him—and then I wonder if he is there at all, or if he has truly disappeared.” She laughed a little. “I know that sounds ridiculous.”

  “No,” Maggie said. “Not at all.”

  They went on in silence until the tunnel widened into a stone hall, and then into a high-roofed cavern. Torches blazed in the walls, lighting numerous makeshift cots where the sick and injured lay. They smiled and reached out for Libuse as she passed by. She stretched her own hand out and touched their fingers gently, whispering comfort.

  A stout woman greeted them as they entered. “Here, Princess! Maggie!” Mrs. Cook said. “Look who’s walking!”

  A thin Gypsy, his chest and shoulder swathed in bandages, approached slowly with a wan smile. Libuse smiled back and took his hand in hers.

  “It is healing nicely,” she said. “The Major will be pleased to hear it. He has been wondering how long it will be till he has you on his task force.”

  The man stood a little straighter. “I’ll be ready to work in no time,” he said.

  “I’m sure you will.” Libuse turned and kissed the stout woman on the cheek. “Is this your doing, Mrs. Cook? I’m sure I said he wasn’t to be out of bed for another three days at least.”

  “That you did,” Mrs. Cook said. “You were wrong, and don’t tell me you’re not tickled pink to know it.” Mrs. Cook surveyed the other two sternly. “Maggie, how is your cold?”

  “Fine,” Maggie said. “My throat still hurts a bit.”

  “Cup of tea would fix that,” Mrs. Cook said. She sighed. “Why no one brought tea down with them I’ll never know,” she said. “My own stash is nearly gone. I’m saving it for emergencies. Professor!”

  Professor Huss stood up straight, startled.

  “You look pale.”

  He smiled. “I imagine we’re all a good deal whiter than we used to be.”

  “True,” Mrs. Cook said. “But you look worse than most of us. Are you eating?”

  “Very well,” Huss said.

  “See that you keep it up,” Mrs. Cook said. “We’re not out of food yet.”

  “Thank the King, no, we’re not,” Huss said. A shade crossed his face as he spoke. They yet lived on the stores brought down by the farmers of Pravik and the spoil looted from the city after the battle, but no one believed it would last forever.

  Other women, once the mothers, wives, and daughters of farmers and tradesmen, now themselves warriors in the fight against cold, dark, and death, were already tending to Darne and his people. Libuse watched them for a minute and hurried to help when a child began to wail. Mrs. Cook slipped her arm around Maggie’s waist.

  In a moment there was a clatter in the tunnels, and a voice carried down the stone passages: “The Ploughman has returned!”

  * * *

  They sat together around a low table in the Ploughman’s alcove, using cloaks as cushions on the rock. The Ploughman dipped a hunk of brown bread into his watery soup and ate with evident satisfaction.

  “The caverns and tunnels below aren’t as extensive as they are on this level,” he said, “but they will offer us relief from the cramped spaces here. The men have mapped out a good portion. On our next trip down we’ll begin to make the caverns ready for occupation. It shouldn’t take more than a few days.”

  “Then you’ll be leaving again soon?’ Libuse asked.

  “Soon enough.” He put down his food and looked at Huss, seated next to Maggie on the other side of the table. His voice lowered. “Professor,” he said, “are you aware that there is another level below the one we just explored?”

  Huss blinked. “No,” he said. “I was surprised to discover one below this.”

  The Ploughman nodded his head. “I thought as much,” he said. “But it’s true. We uncovered more than one passage leading down through the mountain. I don’t know how far they go. When I am peering down them, it seems to me that they might go on forever.”

  “That they might,” Jarin Huss said. He frowned. “I’m not sure I like the thought.”

  “That is not all we discovered,” the Ploughman said. “There is evidence that we are not the first colony to settle underground.”

  “What?” Libuse asked.

  “Carvings, stairways, sconces,” the Ploughman said. “All of them very old. In a few places there are words carved into the walls that must date before the Empire, for they are not written in our language.”

  “Fascinating,” said the professor. “I should very much like to see that.”

  “You shall,” the Ploughman said. “Come with us on our next journey.”

  Huss took a drink from a clay mug. “Perhaps I will.”

  “More refugees came today,” Libuse said.

  “Gypsies?” asked the Ploughman.

  “Yes. Fifteen of them. Six are in the sick ward. The others are under the Major’s care.”

  “It is good we went deeper when we did,” the Ploughman said. “We’ll be needing the extra space very soon.”

  His face looked drawn and severe. Maggie’s heart moved for him. Once a farmer, then a warrior, the Ploughman belonged in the open air with the sword of freedom in his hand. But he had buried himself here for the sake of his people, his ever-growing colony. Under the leadership of the Ploughman and Libuse, the underground city had become a refuge for the oppressed, a place where all men were given a voice. Pravik was the capital city of a whole new world, born of one miraculous battle, out from under the thumb of Athrom and everything
that was wrong in the Empire.

  Maggie remembered a discussion among the leaders one night shortly after they had gone underground.

  “We are everything Athrom is not,” Huss had said. “You must be everything the Emperor is not—a leader who leads out of compassion and conviction.”

  “But what good can we do here?” the Ploughman had asked.

  “All the good we can do. If Athrom is a place of darkness in the sun, then Pravik must be a place of light in the darkness. It is not our surroundings that matter now, my friend. New worlds are born in the hearts of men. Look to your heart—to all our hearts.”

  And he had, Maggie thought. The Ploughman and his lady had given the people hope and freedom. Yet, the underground was no place for brave hearts. And she remembered Huss’s final words. “The time will come. We will go above again.”

  They would have to, Maggie knew. Food would run out. Space would grow too tight. And then—well, who knew what would happen then?

  The Ploughman stood and turned his back on the company. “Excuse me,” he said. He began to move toward the door, but the others stood and vacated the alcove before he could. Maggie cast a compassionate glance on him as she left.

  Libuse, who had not gone, stood and touched his hand gently.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “We cannot burrow forever,” he said. “I have no wish to bury the people alive, Libuse.”

  “There is nothing else you can do,” she said. “We are waiting, that is all. Waiting until something changes, as it will—as it must. Strengthening our hearts. In the right time you will lead us up again.”

  The Ploughman covered Libuse’s hand with his long fingers. His ruby ring glinted deeply in the torchlight. He closed his eyes.

  “I am not enough for them, Libuse,” he said. “I am not enough for any of you.”