by Matt Wallace
“Be that as it may,” Tang says, “Gen Stalbraid has no other pleader to stand for Brio in his absence. Unless you’ve absorbed a new kith-kin or have taken a new husband, and I am unaware.”
“No, Senior Arbiter, we remain as we have, and I am still married to Brio. However, I would like to submit myself to stand, in what I hope will be the short remainder of his absence, as pleader for the Bottoms.”
The galleries stir, excited chatter spreading like a sickness through the crowd.
“Silence from the galleries, if you please,” Senior Arbiter Tang calmly requests.
To Lexi, he says, “Te-Gen, we are all certain you mean only the best in appearing before us here. I also sympathize with your Gen in its time of strife. However, you are simply not qualified to plead on behalf of a Capitol Division, not in an official forum.”
“You are correct, Senior Arbiter,” Lexi agrees. “I am not yet qualified. I do, however, plan to be as soon as is possible.”
She unfurls one of the scrolls in front of her and holds it up. “This is an official request to undertake training at the Academy. A copy has been dispatched to the Tenth City.”
Lexi drapes the scroll over the front of the pleading altar and the floor page quickly scurries across the gap between it and the Arbiters to collect the document.
“That is admirable, Te-Gen, but until you’ve completed that lengthy training—”
“As I said, Senior Arbiter, I have recently immersed myself in Crachian law and procedure. The Doctrine of Arbitration clearly states that a novice may substitute for a standing pleader in the event that pleader is unexpectedly detained or incapacitated, providing that novice has begun the process of training and has observed a standing pleader for at least twenty sessions. By submitting my request I have clearly begun the process, and I have observed Brio in countless sessions on this very floor.”
“That is a very loose interpretation of that particular provision, Te-Gen. It is meant as a temporary relief measure, for a single session at most, not to appoint a permanent replacement for a Division’s pleader of record.”
“You will forgive me, Senior Arbiter, but I don’t believe that is left to you alone to decide.”
“Of course not,” Tang admits readily and without any sign of ire. “This matter will be put to a vote by the Arbitration Council.”
“May I address the Council before that vote takes place?”
Tang pauses before answering, his expression changing just slightly as he looks across the well at Lexi. She can’t be sure how his perception of her is changed in that moment.
“Please, proceed,” he bids her.
Lexi is careful to meet the eyes of each member of the Council individually as she speaks.
“Te-Gens, De-Gens, I know you may view my request as some kind of stratagem born of a desperation, a gambit to keep my Gen thriving in dire times. I will not tell you that very thing does not at least in part motivate my every action. But I would also tell you that for generations Gen Stalbraid has been devoted to defending and giving voice to those who are born, live, and often die outside the grace and favor of the Capitol, even as they subsist in the shadow of this very Spectrum. Stalbraid took up the cause of the people in the Bottoms when no other pleading Gen would choose to represent them.
“I have spent my entire life serving that cause in whatever capacity I could. Today, this is what that cause demands of me, and I want only to meet that demand. Yes, I wish to hold my Gen together. However, there is a much larger concern involving a great many others who do not live in the high towers of well-kept cooperatives. A number of those people are in this room today because they have nowhere else to go. I would ask you to allow me to do this, not for the sake of Gen Stalbraid, but for the simple reason that it needs to be done.”
Almost half the galleries erupt in applause on the heels of Lexi’s final word. There are indeed many residents of the Bottoms in attendance, and their voices quickly overtake the entire floor. Taru looks around, seeing at least a dozen men and women rise to their feet in support of Lexi. Seizing the opportunity, Taru bolts up from the bench and begins thunderously applauding Lexi’s speech. The retainer seeks the gaze of every ragged body still seated and gestures for them to do the same.
Soon it seems more people in the galleries are standing than sitting. Their cheers reach a deafening crescendo.
Senior Arbiter Tang is waving his arms. “Silence from the gallery, please, people! Please, we must have silence!”
It’s another full minute before the commotion begins to die down, longer still until those on their feet sit down once more. Taru is the final one to return to the bench.
Lexi realizes she’s never been so acutely aware of her own heart beating, but her composure, long practiced even if it has never been such a focal point for so many, remains intact.
“The Arbiters appreciate those words, Te-Gen,” Tang assures her. “We recognize both the need for attentive pleading on behalf of Division Nine and Gen Stalbraid’s long commitment to that cause.”
“Thank you, Senior Arbiter.”
“Are my colleagues ready to vote on Te-Gen Xia’s petition?”
There are no dissenting voices from the other five members of the Council.
“Very well,” Tang proceeds. “We will vote on this matter now. Those who would oppose Te-Gen Xia’s petition to be recognized as pleader for Division Nine of the Capitol, make yourselves heard.”
“No.”
“No.”
“No.”
The three votes come so quickly that Lexi barely has time to register their implication. It takes her another moment to accept that a fourth dissenting vote isn’t forthcoming, meaning the matter is not yet settled. Sudden panic giving way so quickly to relief sends a rush of cold running through her.
Senior Arbiter Tang allows several silent ticks before calling for the other half of the vote. “Those who would favor Te-Gen Xia’s petition to be recognized as pleader for Division Nine of the Capitol, make yourselves heard.”
“Hai.”
“Hai.”
“Hai.”
The final assent belongs to Tang. His eyes meet Lexi’s as he casts his vote, and she finally realizes he’s studying her and has been since she first stepped up to the altar. If he has yet to form a conclusion, he must at least be swayed.
“Stalemate,” Tang announces. “As Senior Arbiter, it is left to me to decide. And it is my decision to allow Te-Gen Xia to represent the Ninth Division, as I feel it is in the best interest of its people.”
The reaction from the galleries may be mixed, but the jubilant are far more vocal in their celebration than the disapproving are in their doubt. Taru’s smile is thin and subtle, but present.
Lexi finds she’s almost numb. As often as she watched Brio plead before the Council, she never truly understood the pressure, like canyon walls pushing in on you. She also never understood the power that fills ones veins, like lightning striking the ground beside a tree. It is all at once frightening and uplifting.
She also finds she already craves more of it.
“I would add,” Tang continues, raising his voice to be heard above the lingering applause, “that this is provisional. Te-Gen, this Council will not treat you lightly because of your inexperience. In point of fact, we will hold you to the highest of standards when pleading before us. Should you prove unequal to those standards, I will revoke my decision. Is that understood?”
“Of course, Senior Arbiter,” Lexi assures him with a deep bow.
“We will consider this matter closed for the time being, then. You may step down, Te-Gen.”
Lexi offers the entire Council another deep bow as she backs away from the altar. She spies Councilwoman Burr from the corner of her eye, rising and exiting the galleries, her face’s reaction to the events of the last few moments hidden behind those granite features.
When she finally turns, Taru is waiting for her in the aisle, still smiling.
Lexi o
ffers them a sly smile in return, deftly motioning for Taru to return back up the aisle with her.
“That went well,” Taru remarks as they walk side by side.
Lexi’s expression quickly turns serious. “If killing me was meant to silence me, then I want to see to it that I have the loudest voice possible when the time comes.”
“When the time comes to do what, Te-Gen?” Taru asks.
Lexi lowers her voice. Somehow it makes her words sound more powerful.
“Swing the truth at the entire Capitol like a fucking sword,” she says.
THE BONES OF THE WORLD
BELOW THE CREST OF THE hill is where the world ends and nothing begins.
It’s a pitch-black pit that seems to stretch all the way to the horizon, as if a patch of night sky fell to Earth and sank into the ground. The pit possesses the depths of a shadow; there’s no way to discern how deep its belly truly descends. What’s more, the surface appears as tentative and fragile as turtle jelly. It’s utterly impassable and spans miles in either direction.
The Savages line the hillcrest, staring down into the unknown depths. Evie, Brio, and the Elder Company are joined by a scraggly collection of almost twenty others who survived the late-night ambush by the Sicclunan masks. All of them seem content to follow the commands of the Elder Company, who are, at least for now, following Evie’s lead. Unfortunately, most of them are spindly sneak thieves and sickly old or infirm Bottoms residents who fled the moment they saw the first flaming arrow. Evie estimates there’s scarcely a fighter among them, perhaps a handful of battle-hardened Savages. She cursed herself for measuring their worth by that yard, but she also knows their journey will be a bloody one.
Fortunately, half a dozen members of B’ors tribes join them. They all agreed to make the trek with Evie’s band in force, at least for the time being.
Bam dips the end of his mallet’s haft into what is immediately revealed as mud-soft ground. The end of the haft quickly becomes its middle as the wooden pole arm slides easily into whatever substance the soil has become. Bam halts, despite the obvious fact the unnatural depression could swallow his weapon whole. When he extracts the haft of the mallet it clings to the pit with tendrils of black tar.
“What in the light of the Fire Star is it?” Evie asks no one in particular.
“What’s left,” Mother Manai answers her simply, offering no more.
“What was it before?” Evie presses. “And how did it become… this?”
“The machine,” a withered voice offers from somewhere down the line.
Evie leans forward and peers across the dirty, rune-stained faces of the surviving Savages.
The speaker is a scrawny man of middle age, his long hair and beard overtaken by more gray than brown. He has a hawkish-pointed nose and deep-set eyes that seem to be ever staring at something Evie and the rest of them can’t see. Evie quickly realizes he’s not looking into the pit, he’s watching something illusory far beyond it, perhaps the past.
“What machine?” Evie asks him.
“The machine. The Crachian machine. I was a worker for Gen Terran before… well, just before, is all. They had one of the mining concessions along the front. This is what we left behind when we’d stripped the land to its guts. This is how the cities get fed, how life is so good for so many folk. It’s why we keep pushing and pushing and pushing the front, eating every patch of ground and always needing more. Crache feeds on the bones of the rest of the world.”
The ghost of the man’s words seems to linger in the air between them all like the echo of distant thunder.
“What’s your name?” Evie asks him.
“Doesn’t matter anymore.”
There’s nothing rueful or sour in his words. It’s as if he’s stating that the sky above is blue.
Evie looks from the nameless Savage to Brio, questioning him with her eyes.
He shrugs, looking older and wearier than she’s ever imagined him. “If you’d asked me a year ago I might’ve offered an alternate explanation. Now…”
“It was the same before these wars,” another voice, as cold and hard as a gravestone, adds from farther down the line.
It belongs to a B’ors woman Evie has come to know as the de facto leader of the small contingent composed of several different tribes. From what Spud-Bar and the others had told her of the B’ors and their fiercely individual and independent nature, Evie expected to have to convince each of them individually to join their fleeing Savage band. She’d been surprised to find not only had they all come together as a unit, but they’d also elected their own captain and followed her unquestioningly.
She is called Yacatek. The others, all men, seem to readily defer to her despite the fact she’s neither the largest nor the strongest warrior among the small band (it occurs to Evie that’s another perception she created in her own mind about them). In fact, the only weapon she carries is a decorative stone dagger hung in a leather sheath around her neck. The B’ors refuse to wield the shoddy secondhand steel supplied to the Savage Legion. Valuing their fighting ability if nothing else, the Legion has allowed them to retain whatever weapons were in their possession upon capture, clubs crowned with knotted wooden fists hard enough to split skulls and short axes with heads of carved stone or the jawbones of stallions.
Evie’s conversation with Yacatek before they departed the razed Savage camp had been brief. Evie told Yacatek that they were stronger together than separated. She told Yacatek that they were the same, all condemned as Savages.
“We are not the same,” Yacatek had immediately corrected her in a voice that commanded Evie’s attention, “and I am not here to teach you the difference. You only need know we will band with you for our reasons, not yours. Those reasons may change as the wind does. You must be prepared.”
That sounded more than fair to Evie, not to mention that having been raised in the Crachian Capitol she’d learned to appreciate honesty as blunt as the head of a mace.
It wasn’t the only thing about the B’ors to surprise Evie, especially once their trek began. They started out with little food and virtually no drinking water. The state of the surrounding countryside provided no relief; Evie had yet to hear so much as a single bird chirping in the distance. Her only secret, desperate hope was that they’d come upon some small oasis, or even a small Sicclunan or Skrain force they could overpower and whose supplies they’d then raid.
Several miles before they reached the foothills, Evie realized she and the other Savages had left the B’ors behind. They’d all fallen out of the march silently, deftly, as they’d no doubt learned to exist in a world that treated them like wild animals fit only for the hunt. When Evie walked back to investigate, she found them standing in a circle around an unpleasant and wholly remarkable patch of land.
Though she was never a farmer, the surface of the ground there looked as sallow as scorched earth to Evie. She watched as one of the B’ors, an old man with a shock of hair as white as sea-foam but whose skin was still as tight and hard as someone twenty years younger, twisted a slender stick from one of the few fossilized trees standing dead amidst the landscape deep into the dirt. They’d passed a dry, cracked riverbed not far from camp. The old man must’ve plucked from it several husks that were once reeds. He removed the stick and threaded one of the hollow stalks through the hole he made, puckering his cracked lips around the end and sucking until it concaved the stony flesh of his cheeks.
It took several moments, but then Evie saw the liquid rise up and darken the inside of the reed.
It was water, fresh and nourishing from a place below the salt, where the earth was still alive.
Evie had called the Savages back with a joy she thought lost after taking in the sight of the camp slaughter. They all drank, not nearly their fill, but enough to keep going, and with a renewed hope that their B’ors companions possessed the knowledge necessary to survive this wasteland.
Now, standing atop a hill overlooking this sunken abyss created by her peo
ple, Evie stares down the line at Yacatek and the other B’ors with fear-swollen confusion clouding her eyes.
“What do you mean?” she asks the B’ors leader. “What happened before the war?”
“This is what you did to our land, long before you began claiming your empire of cities,” Yacatek says. “This ‘machine’ of which the nameless one speaks. We were its first victims.”
“You and I weren’t even born when that happened.”
“It’s worse in our time. I’m sure in their time your mothers and fathers thought the milk of our land would be enough to sustain them forever. Now they know, it is never enough.”
Evie doesn’t know what to say to that.
“Don’t pay ’er too much mind,” Lariat warns. “The B’ors like their stories about the past, and only half of ’em are made-up.”
“And the other half?” Evie asks.
Lariat snorts into his mustache. “Lies.”
She’s certain believing that is soothing to most Crachians, even a man like Lariat, but Evie has doubts.
“Reminiscing won’t ford this muck, nor change it back to solid ground,” Mother Manai reminds them all.
Evie nods. “Mother’s right!” she announces to the whole band. “We’ll have to go around. There’s no other choice. So let’s get moving.”
The subject is left there, but being forced to skirt the edge of the rolling abyss is a constant reminder to Evie of the haunting words they’ve exchanged.
The Savages hike along the hillcrest for what must be three miles. Evie spends most of that trek worrying after Brio, for whom every step seems to cause more and more pain. He refuses to give his increasing agony voice, however. Brio simply hobbles along in silence with sweat pouring from his brow in thicker sheets than any of them. Whenever Evie offers him support he refuses.
“That leg isn’t getting any better,” she finally says.
It’s not a question.
“To be fair,” he manages through steadily grinding teeth, “I haven’t exactly had a chance to rest it.”