Coldmarch

by Daniel A. Cohen

  ‘And from the rotundness of your belly,’ the puppet’s imaginary answer came from the corner of Split’s mouth, in a raspy and out-of-breath voice, ‘it’s also been too fat.’

  Split beamed, but his eyes were all shadow and loss. He unrolled the strings and paddles, letting the puppet dangle, the tin shoes dancing above the dusty floor. ‘Got me again, Baba.’

  Then I spotted perhaps the most interesting item in the room.

  On the shelf next to me was a stack of books. They were all so old that I thought the bottom one might disintegrate under the weight of the others, the pages maybe holding more rot than words. They all looked important, as if they held the secrets of the Coldmarch. Of Langria. Of why the World Cried was so miserable; but it was the book on top that nearly made me gasp.

  A thin blue tome with white writing on the spine, just like the one at Mama Jana’s. It was nearly obscured by a layer of dust, but this time I could make out what was written on the spine.

  A name.

  I clutched the Coldmaker close.

  ‘I’m not a loony,’ Split said, turning around and giving me a look that might have proven otherwise. ‘It was … it was our routine. The jokes always made my girl smile, so just— just let me have this, okay?’

  I gave a simple nod, keeping my voice even. I tried to keep calm, knowing that what was on the book had to be a coincidence. Micah was quite a common name in Paphos. I was just searching for meaning where there was none. ‘You’re our Shepherd, Split,’ I said. ‘You take whatever you want so long as you lead us on the Coldmarch.’

  ‘Did you call this tubbo a Shepherd?’ Split baulked as the puppet, his voice rising in both gravel and pitch. The tiny dancing feet wiggled as the puppet jostled. ‘You starting that up again, Fellezehall?’

  ‘Yes, Baba. I think so,’ Split said. ‘And you know only my mother called me Fellezehall.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ the puppet said, Split’s voice changing back to his own. He tilted his grip on the paddles, and if I didn’t know better, I’d have said he somehow made the puppet’s wooden wrinkles appear to deepen. ‘Didn’t know that. I only ever heard her call you a mistake.’

  Split chuckled, the sound of loss dripping into his voice. ‘Got me again, Baba. And yes, we’re going to go back on the Coldmarch.’

  ‘Good,’ the puppet said. ‘Because if I had to spend another minute stuck in that damned trunk with your old underwear I might have cut my own strings.’

  Split paused with a sniff, wiping away a single tear that had fallen to his cheek. A thin line of blood dribbled down from his nose. ‘You’re too kind, Baba.’

  ‘Um, sir,’ Cam said, clearly perturbed. ‘Have you lost your mind?’

  Split wrapped up the puppet’s strings with care, threading them around the paddles. He pulled out a small carrying case from the trunk and lowered Baba in, closing the lid and patting it down.

  ‘I was in charge of these artefacts,’ Split said, standing up and gesturing around. ‘Jadan culture. Things the Coldmarch leaders didn’t want burned, just in case Langria ever became truly stable.’

  ‘What do you mean stable?’ I asked, perking up at the mention of Langria, eyes coming off the book. ‘Isn’t Langria where we’re going?’

  Split nodded, but his head didn’t move completely up and down, as it was too busy trembling. ‘Yes. But, well, I’ll explain everything on the way. I guess we have to do supplies first.’ He started grumbling something unintelligible and gestured to one of the side corridors, his eyes still decidedly as far from Shilah as possible. ‘I have stuff here, shelves full of waterskins and groan salve and beige clothing. And decoy goods so I can pass as a Pedlar. It’s not like us Shepherds planned on shutting the Coldmarch down, you know. The order came all the way from Langria. Although I would have demanded it be shut down myself if I knew you were going to be—’ Split took a deep breath, bringing his volume back down, his hand scratching his thigh once again. ‘Never mind. Just. Never mind.’

  I was struck with an idea, rubbing my fingers against the tattoo on the back of my neck. Individual birth and barracks number. The markings had been there since I was assigned to barracks forty-five, all Jadans in Paphos inked to keep order and in case we tried running away. The numbers weren’t there so we would be sent back to the right barracks, however, since runaways were taken to the Khat’s Pyramid. Rather, they existed so the taskmasters knew which barracks family to whip bloody as punishment for allowing one of us to escape.

  ‘Split,’ I said. ‘Do you have ink and needles down here?’

  His face creased as he looked around, but then he spotted a desk, and his eagerness returned. ‘We didn’t write much to each other, just in case the notes were found, but yes, I think I have— wait!’

  I gave a start, snatching my hand back from the bookshelf and turning his way.

  The Pedlar suddenly blinked over and over, his eyes red and raw and distant. He looked at his fingers, touching them to his tongue one at a time. ‘My skin is Cold. Why is it Cold?’

  I nodded. ‘Ice.’

  Split squinted as he surveyed the room, genuine confusion clouding his eyes. ‘What are we doing down here?’

  Cam shot me a look as he quickly brushed a finger under his nose and sniffed.

  I waved him off. ‘We’re preparing for the Coldmarch, Split. And we’re hurrying.’

  ‘We are, aren’t we?’ Split asked, a second line of blood from under his nose joining the first. His smile was easy, almost wistful.

  ‘And you’re finding me ink and needles,’ I said.

  I turned to Shilah. From the look on her face I would have bet she already knew my plan.

  ‘But of course!’ Split said, shuffling off. ‘Ink and needles. I’ve peddled those!’

  Shilah pulled her sleeve back, giving me a wink. The Opened Eye tattoo on her arm looked darker than ever, reminding me what a spectacular feat Little Langria had been, and how lucky I was to have her by my side.

  ‘I’ll do you first,’ Shilah said to me under her breath as Split went searching. ‘You have a lucky number?’

  I shook my head, an idea striking. ‘Maybe not lucky. But important.’

  ‘Do what now?’ Cam asked, fixing his glasses as he glanced around. His eyes focused mainly on the stacks of faded books and sealed scrolls.

  ‘How often have you heard other Nobles say, all Jadans look the same to me?’ I asked.

  Cam looked down at his feet, mumbling something.

  ‘Bastards,’ Split said, practically spitting as he rifled through some drawers, the mysterious contents glinting within. ‘We’re all bastards.’

  ‘If the Khatdom is going to be looking for us,’ I said, tapping the back of my neck, trying to peel my eyes off the painting of the World Crier so I might concentrate, ‘then taskmasters will check our numbers first, since it’s the quickest way to identify us. I say we change the numbers.’

  ‘A crime punishable by death!’ Split said almost happily, his voice slightly slurred now.

  I looked the Pedlar over, remembering how potent the Droughtweed could be. I was glad I only spent a few weeks under its influence before Abb had pulled me out of my hole.

  Split pulled a bottle of ink and a needle from the drawer and stared at me for an uncomfortable amount of time, his soot-stained bottom lip starting to tremble. Finally, he shook his head of whatever thought was bothering him and returned his attention to the puppet. ‘I need a few minutes. I’m going to go back upstairs.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I asked carefully, hoping he wasn’t planning on heading for a secret Droughtweed stash. If we were going to trust this Pedlar to get us through this next part of the Coldmarch, I’d prefer he be able to recognize the difference between his feet and the rocks beneath them.

  ‘This may be ten years too late,’ he said quietly, setting down the needle and ink on a table and picking up the puppet, his hand trembling. His face was now so close to breaking I knew a single word might shatter him, ‘but I g
uess I’m finally going to pray.’

  I nodded and wrenched my eyes away.

  ‘Take your time,’ I said, holding the Coldmaker close.

  Chapter Eight

  As I watched Picka attack the miracle from her pen, I wondered if there was anything in the World Cried that sounded more excited than a dwarf camel licking Ice. After years of living between the thin walls of my barracks, I thought I’d understood the extremes of pleasure, but nothing even came close to this.

  Picka brayed and snorted and happily grumbled, her long tongue running over the glistening block. She explored every inch of the Ice as her eyes bulged, showing off their long, sand-proof lashes. The soft tufts around her neck jiggled to match her hysteria, the fur thin enough to reveal patches of irritated pink. I wondered whether the wounds were from Sun or neglect, but otherwise the camel looked healthy enough to travel.

  Shilah stood by with her hands covering her mouth, face lit up with tenderness; she looked as if she might squeal along with the camel. She didn’t seem to be bothered by the new numbers on her neck, which once again proved how much tougher she was than me. I couldn’t stop pressing a palm against the sting of the ink settling into my skin.

  Split tried to snatch the block of Ice away from Picka, his eyes set with worry. ‘This is a holy substance! She’s just a beast, and doesn’t deserve it.’

  I’d never seen such a caring look in Shilah’s eyes. ‘I’m sure the same thing was and will be said about the Jadans. Now tell us about Langria.’

  Split looked stunned for a moment, mumbling something under his breath as he backed away. His eyebrows furrowed – his face was so dirty from Droughtweed soot that it looked like one long eyebrow – and turned his gaze back towards the top of the valley from whence we had come.

  ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Coldmarch rules.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Shilah said bluntly.

  Split turned his back on Shilah and started to go back inside, leaving the Ice where it was. I’d brought the block out to share with Picka before our journey and I’m glad I had, because the little camel was reacting the way I hoped everyone would after seeing what my machine could do.

  I ran my hands over her shaggy mane as she howled with excitement. I finally smiled, feeling her delight through her shaking fur. I wondered if her ancestors had ever tasted Ice before the Great Drought.

  I gave Picka a last pat on the head, but I doubted my touch even registered over her happy indulgence. Going to follow Split inside, I adjusted the Coldmaker bag on my shoulder, but before I’d taken so much as two steps, the Pedlar turned and put up a halting hand.

  ‘You’ll not be helping, Spout,’ he said, deadly serious.

  I gave him a curious look.

  ‘Your wrist,’ he said with a narrowing of his eyes.

  I looked down at my bandaged left hand, having nearly forgotten the pain of the Sobek bite. ‘I’m fine.’

  Split gave me a sad smile, his crooked nose drooping a little lower. ‘You and me both, kid.’

  Without further explanation, the Pedlar guided me behind the shack where the shade was the thickest, giving me a pat on the shoulder. His eyes did not stray from the Coldmaker bag. Shock and the nasty heat of the Sun seemed to have cleared the Droughtweed from his system, but there was still something off in his expression, as if he was constantly about to wince. ‘You have to keep it safe.’

  ‘I—’

  But before I could argue, he was gone.

  I leaned against the stone rim of the well, the place where his water must have come from, as there was no other source within a day’s walk of the shack. I pressed my palm against the sting on the back of my neck, and continued to listen to the sounds of excited licking coming from the stable. The stillness gave me time to think about the nature of my invention, and I was left agonizing over how I might get my hands on another Frost to make a second machine. The other components would be easy enough to obtain, but each Coldmaker would need its own Frost to work. There might be one buried deep in the sands from before the Great Drought, but I would have bet everything that they had Frosts in Langria. The free Jadans would have their own Cry Patch, otherwise the place would be as dead as everywhere else in the world.

  But if they had Frosts, they would have shared them with the rest of Jadankind. Possession of the holy Cold would have proven us worthy and begun the long climb towards freedom. Our biggest shackles weren’t the kind made of metal.

  I strained to keep my mind away from darker thoughts while I watched my friends make a few quick trips from shack to stable, carrying up decoy goods under the Pedlar’s direction. My hand once again went to the back of my neck, and I suddenly realized it wasn’t so much the pain that was bothering me.

  I snatched my hand away, not letting my mind wander too far in that direction. A true Inventor had to have as much control over his thoughts as his materials.

  Instead, I stuck my hand in the Coldmaker bag, reaching for the side pocket where I’d stowed my new acquisition. I felt a bit bad about stealing the book from Split’s chamber, but I couldn’t leave it down there. Not when it had my name etched into the cover. The letters were a bit ornate, and the ‘i’ and ‘c’ had tails that they usually didn’t, but it almost certainly spelled ‘Micah’. I could read as well as any other Street Jadan, and had seen the word written out before, but there was something about the way it was written on this book, about how the letters melted into one another, that called to me.

  I would eventually get around to telling Split that I had stolen one of his artefacts, but not right now.

  I peeked around the corner of the shack to make sure everyone else was preoccupied, and once all three had gone inside, I took out the little volume and blew off the remaining dust. Carefully opening it, I found time-weathered pages ready to crumble, filled with rows and rows of Ancient Jadan I couldn’t read. I frowned, my heart sinking; I had hoped that it was going to be written in the common tongue. There were a few drawings of the Opened Eye, however, and what looked to be a map, but I didn’t get a chance to look closer because Split shot out of the shack.

  Still hidden in shadow, I stowed the book as the Pedlar tossed a few rolled-up beige parasols on the ground. Cam and Shilah came out behind Split, each with armfuls of ornate silk. Everything was colourful, and much more modern than most of the stuff I’d seen in his chamber, which was comprised mainly of linens and small trinkets and jewellery. The heaviest thing in the pile looked to be the puppet’s carrying case, although there were a few wind-up trinkets and Khatclocks that I knew might come in handy.

  The last thing they brought up from the chamber was a cart with wheels and a harness for Picka, setting it down with care.

  The dwarf camel was still going at the block of Ice with fervour, launching attacks from every conceivable direction. It was curious that even under the heat of the beast’s tongue and the bite of the Sun, the block of Ice looked just as solid as when I’d set it down.

  I swept out from behind the shack as Split piled all the decoy goods on the cart in a hurried manner, without any sense of order. As he bent over to grab the parasols and Coldboxes and Closed Eye necklaces, I saw the tops of a few glass vials peek out of his pockets. He was moving quickly, but the flash of grey gave them away.

  ‘They’ll be coming,’ the Pedlar said, not meeting any of our eyes. ‘They know how to find anything.’

  ‘The hounds?’ Cam asked, plastering down his hair. He’d changed from the billowy green blouse into a form-fitting shirt that Split had offered, although already it was soaked through with his sweat. ‘But we doused ourselves in rosemusk and are days away from Paphos.’

  Split scoffed, stuffing the rest of our personal supplies on top of the cart. The final pieces to go in the cart were all the fake documents he’d shown us before leaving the chamber. He assured us the scrolls proved him to be a shipper of slaves, and although a bit dusty and out of date, that this would swiftly be overlooked with the help of a bribe.

&
nbsp; The Pedlar turned to me, scratching his thigh with frantic fingers. ‘Rosemusk and distance ain’t enough.’ With a grimace, he bowed. ‘Anything else you need before we go, Spout?’

  Cam smirked, cutting in, ‘Any chance you have any Marlea cheeses and roasted—’

  Split snapped a warning look at Cam. ‘I wasn’t asking you, Tavor!’

  ‘Take it easy,’ Cam said, retreating into himself. ‘I was just joking.’

  ‘We don’t need jokes,’ Split said, spitting on the ground. ‘Jokes ain’t going to cut the ropes when they string us off the Pyramid. Jokes ain’t going to remove the hooked blades from our—’ He took a deep breath through his nose, whirring with the sounds of snot. ‘Nothing, dammit. Let’s just go.’

  My eyes went back to the block of Ice, which still refused to yield. Picka continued to make exultant sounds, but her eyelids were droopy and her tongue moved slowly, as if she were finally losing herself in a pleasant dream.

  ‘We need to move,’ Split said, pointing to the thin road that led from the shack up the other side of the valley. ‘You can put the chest of golden tears on the cart so we can walk—’

  ‘No,’ I said, instinctively clutching the Coldmaker more tightly.

  Split looked at me with a blank stare, his wheels clearly turning. Then he snapped out of it and gave a single nod, taking Picka out of her stable and hooking the camel up to the cart. Now out in the light, I noticed the poor creature was frailer than I realized, her legs bony and thin, and her fur missing patches near her rear.

  Shilah held up her hands, looking ready to protest.

  ‘She’s stronger than she looks,’ Split said, not looking over at Shilah as he gently guided the ropes around Picka’s chest and legs. ‘I’m sure you can relate.’

  Shilah crossed her arms over her chest, but for the moment looked satisfied.

  I finally touched the back of my neck, the skin still throbbing from needle and ink. Perhaps it wasn’t the smartest decision to have Shilah change my tattoo in such a way, but I couldn’t help myself. I should have just had her ink the markings into completely random numbers that couldn’t point back to my old life, but the opportunity was too great to ignore. Abb and I had belonged to the same barracks, and the numbers were already somewhat close. Shilah had to take some liberties in order to get them to match, but if I was going to wear any branding other than my own, it was going to be that of my father.