Finally, one afternoon when Norling and she sat at a table in the kitchen of Lantern Lane over cups of tisane gone stone-cold, Gustie could keep quiet no longer.
“Norling, they need you in Jutterdam. You should go. I will stay here and care for Hartling, the very best I know how.”
Norling smiled wanly. “Goodness, child, you are growing up quickly.”
Gustie refused to rise to the condescending “child.”
“Norling, think clearly. This is the only sensible solution.”
Norling stirred her tisane.
To demonstrate her willingness to serve as nurse, Gustie got up to check on Hartling. He was sleeping, his broken hand cradled on his chest. She cracked the shutter so the room would get fresh air.
When she returned, Norling had her arms folded on the table and her forehead resting on her hands.
“Are you all right?” Gustie asked.
Norling ignored the question about herself and picked up her head. “You know, Gustie, you’ve never really told me your story.”
“My story? How can that be relevant? There’s not much to tell.”
“Every person has a story. And every story is important. Start at the beginning,” said Norling.
“If you wish,” said Gustie, humoring her. “I was born in Weaverton, which you may know is a smallish city in Wígat. It’s famous for its large textile workshops, but actually my father is a silversmith. He is a man of some standing and repute, consulted about the city’s important issues. I never knew my mother, she died birthing me. My older brother went to live with her family, but my father insisted on keeping me close.”
“The apple of his eye,” murmured Norling.
“Yes, well, when I was ten I found myself supplanted by a stepmother, who was kind enough, I suppose, though I found her gauche.” Gustie really didn’t know why she was telling Norling these personal details. “My stepmother produced a litter of children—she popped one out right after another—and they wailed and peed and puked. And the house, which had always been so quiet and tasteful when it was just the two of us … Anyway, I asked my father if I could lodge at Weaverton’s Upper Academy. It was there that I became interested in languages.”
Gustie brushed some strands of hair off her face. “Ancient Languages are fascinating. They present whole new ways of thinking; they bear the traces of lost cultures and customs. Do you understand?”
“Not really,” said Norling, “but go on.”
“So after Upper Academy, my father agreed to pay so that I could enroll at the Scoláiríum, where I studied with Tutor Andreata, who knew twice as much as my master in Weaverton. I was happy at the Scoláiríum; I had a lover there, named Quinith, but I hadn’t really decided whether to marry him when—”
“All this happened and upset your life, just as you were beginning it on your own terms,” said Norling. “No wonder you feel such anger. Aye, this is all so unfair.”
Gustie took a steadying sip of her cold tisane. She was not going to let an old lady’s sympathy inside her armor.
“Let me tell you my story, child. Perchance that will help you understand why I cannot leave Sutterdam.
“When I was some years younger than you are now, really just a green girl, I married a man I fancied, a man who knew how to make me laugh. His kisses tasted like butter … Well. We used my inheritance from my parents to buy an inn on the Post Road. Awful hard work to run an inn, upstairs and downstairs all day and all night long, cleaning and fetching and cooking and smiling. My husband did little of the labor, arguing that chatting up the guests and pouring the drinks was his part of the enterprise.
“Anyways. It became an unhappy marriage—like so many. And when my husband saw a way out to another life, he grabbed it. Ran off with the barmaid and all our valuables.
“This was twelve years ago. I thought my life was over. I had no children, no husband, no coin, and not even any neighbors on that lonely road.
“And then my younger brother—aye, the man who lies suffering in the room yonder—said, ‘Norling, come live with us.’ More than being willing to take me in, he made it as if I was doing them a service. Then, of a sudden, I had a second chance, a true family. For many years I knew deep contentment. I’ve worked hard, but my labors helped those I loved.
“But then the Oros invaded.” Norling listed for Gustie all the tragedies that had befallen her family. “So now you ask me to choose between my brother and more bloodshed? There is no choice. I will stay with Hartling. When he is hungry, ’twill be my food he eats. When he wants to talk, it must be to me, someone who knows the ghosts flitting in each room, yet can remember when this house overflowed with laughter. The best healer in the world can’t give him what I can offer him.”
“I understand,” Gustie said, twisting her hair around her fingers. She had dismissed Norling as a boring old biddy, but she realized now that Norling’s life had its own color and drama.
“But just because I’m going to stay here, doesn’t mean I haven’t been pondering on how best to help,” said Norling. “I’m going to send you in my place. I’ve hatched a plan to lift the Occupation of Jutterdam, but these instructions are not for the faint of heart. You’ll have trouble getting the citizens to follow them. Even Mother Rellia …
“Let me put it this way.” Norling sat up very straight. “You will need every drop of that haughty, stubborn arrogance to see this through.”
Gustie sat silent, refusing to rise to Norling’s bait. Privately, she knew that her stubbornness and arrogance were what had kept her alive in Umrat’s quarters.
Norling spoke again. “I’ve visited Jutterdam, but you lived there for some moons?”
“Yes,” said Gustie. “My brigadier was originally stationed there.”
“Good. Tell me everything you recall about the layout of the city. Oh, and fetch a piece of paper—tear a sheaf out of a book if need be—and a quill. Together we may be able to fashion a sketch that will serve.”
* * *
The next morning Gustie set off on a mule with a limping gait. At the end of a week of tedious riding she came upon a Defiance roadblock four leagues south of Jutterdam. After a great deal of arguing with guards, Gustie succeeded in gaining a meeting with Mother Rellia.
Mother Rellia had made her headquarters in a farmhouse not far from the main road. It was merely a one-story building with a thatched roof, but over the years, with their growing prosperity, the owners had appended extra bedrooms in a rambling fashion. Around the central structure, hundreds of Free Staters camped haphazardly in the barn and the fields. Their clotheslines of drying garments festooned the yard like holiday decorations.
When Gustie finally gained entrance to the farmhouse’s sitting room she realized that the light wheeze she had heard in Mother Rellia’s breathing during their walk away from the Poison Banquet had worsened into a constant hack. Rellia, seated in a chair, could hardly speak for coughing, though the farmer’s wife and grown daughters bustled around her with hot drinks.
For all her ill health, Rellia’s eyes still shone brightly and she recognized Gustie. She looked avid when Gustie explained that Norling had sent her with a proposal.
“Is it a strategy to dislodge the Oros holding the Jutters captive?” she asked.
“Aye,” said Gustie. “And having lived here for a year and seen the strength of the walled fortifications, I believe Norling is right. This is the only way.”
“And what is it?”
Gustie unrolled their sketch on a table. The farm women moved Rellia’s chair close and gathered round.
“The walls around Jutterdam stretch in three directions for over a league,” said Gustie, pointing at the sketch. “They are high and thick. The Defiance cannot breach them. We do not have siege towers, ladders, trebuchets, or sufficient fighters. So a direct assault is out of the question.”
Rellia coughed into a kerchief but nodded as if she’d already concluded as much.
“Jutterdam has a deep and large p
ort, around here”—Gustie touched the place on the map—“which is why it has grown into such a great city and why it has been valuable to the Oros for shipping food to Oromondo. We need to send boats in on a dark night to see how many ships are still anchored in harbor. Can we do that?”
Rellia cleared her throat. “I would think so.”
“Good. Well, Norling suggests that our people sink these ships.”
A general cry of surprise arose from the other people in the room.
“Go on,” said Mother Rellia.
“With the ships sunk, the Oros could not escape by sea. The only ways to leave Jutterdam would be through these two gates, Electors Gate and Kings Gate, both of which lead first to the Jutter Plain.” Gustie indicated the place on her map. “The plain is this area here we’ve marked with the hatch marks—it’s a flat and pretty meadow by the Jutter River. Before the occupation, the city folk used it for carnivals, fests, special markets, and such. My father brought me there once for a Solstice Fest.
“But here, we have the two bridges over the Jutter River: Electors Bridge, the newer, and Kings Bridge, the older one. Norling suggests, and I concur, that the best solution is to block the two bridges. I think we can do that; we—that is, the Defiance—should be strong enough to take and hold the bridges. Then we just keep ahold of these blockades.”
“Why?” asked the farmer’s wife with a frown.
“We’d box the Oros into the city. It’s like a siege only from a little farther away. We don’t let any farm carts pass. No foodstuffs.”
The farm women looked confused, though Mother Rellia nodded.
Gustie clarified, “We starve them.”
At these words, a woman carrying Mother Rellia another hot drink dropped it on the floor with a crash. The room grew still except for the sound of Mother Rellia’s hacking.
When Mother Rellia regained her voice, she remarked, “You realize—Norling realizes—that while starving the Oros we would also be starving their ten thousand captives.”
“Obviously. Though if any managed to flee the city we would let them through.”
“Kind of us,” said Mother Rellia, ironically. “What about those too old or injured or jailed by the Oros?”
“They will die,” said Gustie, lifting her chin. She continued in a rush, “But however we proceed there will be deaths. If we tried to attack the city, how many hostages would the Oros kill? How many of our fighters would fall on the walls or gates? And if we attack we’d have no assurance of winning out in the end. We could all be wiped out—after all, their soldiers are much stronger and much better trained than ours. In laying implacable siege to the city, we could be sure of eventually killing or capturing every single Oro encamped there.”
“Why couldn’t they simply swim the Jutter and flank our bridge blockades?” pressed Mother Rellia, pointing to the river on the map.
“I lived with Oros for moons. Ask anybody: Oros don’t swim. And the Jutter runs wide and deep here at its outlet. Even the bravest, most experienced swimmers would have a hard time getting across.”
“That’s true, Mother,” echoed one of the farm women. “Why, in my day, the farm boys used to dare each other to swim the Jutter and the Nimuel boy drowned. Drowned dead. And those lads, they were good swimmers.”
Rellia tapped her fingers against the empty mug she held in her hand. “Could we hold the bridges against determined strikes? As you say, the Oros are stronger, more numerous, and they have better weapons.”
“But they don’t have archers and we do. If we can lay our hands on enough bows and arrows, we’d have more than a chance,” said Gustie.
“I have arrows, and we’ve been fletching hundreds more each day,” said Mother Rellia with a tiny nod of satisfaction. “How long are we talking about? Jutterdam boasts many granaries and warehouses; wouldn’t these keep them supplied?”
“Yes, mam,” agreed one of the hangers-on. “There’s blocks and blocks of ’em down by the harbor.”
“I believe that most of the granaries are empty these days,” Gustie argued. “The Oros have already sent those stores across the sea. It took them moons to drain our caches, but that was their first priority.” She raised her chin even higher. “I concede, however, that an undercover expedition to confirm the state of their supplies might be wise.”
“Suppose you’re right—suppose that the Oros have precious little supplies left inside of Jutterdam. When they get hungry enough, what’s to keep them from eating…?” Mother Rellia couldn’t finish the thought aloud.
“Our countrymen?” Gustie spoke without a quaver. “Nothing. They will butcher Free States women and children.”
A woman in the room wailed, “My sister! My sister is trapped inside Jutterdam!”
“But what’s the choice, Mother Rellia?” Gustie pressed on. “Allow the Oro army food, allow them to sail reinforcements into their harbor, allow them to spread out and assert control over more of the countryside again? Allow them to imprison, enslave, or burn us all? We’ve harried them until they’ve bottled themselves up in Jutterdam. If we can trap them there, eventually they will all die. Or surrender.”
Mother Rellia closed her eyes, coughed into her kerchief a few times, and then opened them again.
“I will go down in history as a monster,” she said.
“Not at all,” said Gustie. “You will be remembered as the only person strong enough, clear-sighted enough, to save the Free States.”
At that, Mother Rellia muttered something Gustie couldn’t hear. “Excuse me, what did you say?”
Mother Rellia repeated, “My people come from the steppes of Melladrin. We are not faint of heart. The Stars will guide us.” But all brightness had died in her eyes. She looked ancient and ill.
23
Salubriton
Time, food, and rest aided Phénix; she regained mobility.
She would have recovered more quickly if she slept more peace-fully at night. Now that she was away from Healer’s (or Restaurà’s) protective aura, her nightmares, or rather a single, recurrent nightmare, plagued her again. In her sleep a red-eyed face—whether of man, bat, or wolf she couldn’t say—laughed at her and taunted her. Once Hope shook her shoulders to wake her up, and Phénix gathered that she’d been thrashing and crying out.
As she became better acquainted with her housemates, she learned that the qualities that mattered most in a recovery house differed from those prized amongst the Raiders. The Raiders had focused on fighting skills, and then on bravery and self-sacrifice. In this circumstance, by contrast, the most appreciated trait was empathy. Phénix prized Damyroth above all her fellow lodgers because he could always read the pain in her face and invariably sought to ameliorate it or distract her. Everyone grew impatient with Lymbock, the jaundice patient, because he rarely pitched in with anyone else’s care. And though they understood that the injury to Hope’s psyche must have been severe, the fact that she walked by Sezirō without even noticing that he shivered with fever infuriated them all.
Tonight Phénix put off retiring to her bed and evil dreams. In the common room, Lymbock had rubbed her sore shoulder until he got bored; Phénix smoothed salve onto the raw tissue on the bottom of Damyroth’s stump and offered Sezirō sips of lemon water. Hope sat unmoving where they’d placed her in a chair. Jitneye brought out a strange stringed instrument that was something smaller and more rounded than Phénix had ever seen before and strummed it. Phénix softly began to sing a common children’s song that counted up to nine ducks and back. Although Jitneye often fumbled, Damyroth and Lymbock joined in.
Halfway through the song, tears started flooding down Hope’s mute face. They all noticed but pretended not to. Phénix and Jitneye exchanged meaningful looks; purposely he kept playing and she kept singing children’s songs until they had made it through all such songs they had in common.
When Hope and Phénix retired to their attic bedroom, Phénix lay on her back, listening to nighttime street noises of a busy city.
“He killed them,” said the woman in the bed next to hers, startling her with a voice rusty from disuse.
“Who killed them?” asked Phénix softly.
“My husband.” She was silent for a long moment, and Phénix held her breath. “He killed my boy and my baby right in front of me.”
Phénix gasped at the thought. “How? Why?”
A sniffling sound in the dark attic room indicated that Hope was crying again. “With his butcher’s knife. Because he thought I was making eyes at a neighbor.”
“Oh, Sweet Waters,” whispered Phénix, as tears flooded her own eyes. “Did the guards arrest him? Hang him?”
She heard a muffled “No,” as if Hope had her hands over her mouth.
“Why ever not?”
“Because after he cut the baby’s throat, he smiled at me and cut his own.”
“Oh, the Waters!” Phénix breathed. She could too readily imagine the gush of blood, the lifeless little bodies. Her heart ached for her roommate, who was now wailing full-out into her pillow. She thought of crossing the room to her, but speech itself was such a breakthrough that she didn’t dare jeopardize this progress by adding touch.
When the sobbing abated a notch, Phénix asked the darkness, “What is your name? Would you prefer we call you by your real name?”
“‘Hope’ will do.”
“May the Waters bless you, Hope,” said Phénix, and she lay in her bed staring at the ceiling for a long time even after her roommate fell asleep, thinking about different varieties of pain.
A Broken Queen Page 17
