Strange Fire

by Tommy Wallach

  Garrick set his tea down and crossed over to the fire. Clive couldn’t hear what was said, but Clover got up a moment later and went with Garrick out beyond the circle of firelight. Irene stood up soon afterward, just as Clive had expected; she never spent time with the soldiers without Clover close at hand. Clive followed her, away from the campsite, toward her tent. She’d taken to setting it up as far as possible from the rest of the contingent—she said the soldiers’ snoring kept her up at night, but Clive suspected it was because she knew he was keeping an eye on her.

  When she reached her tent, she didn’t go inside, but stood in front of the flap, staring up at the sky. Slim as a reed, or a sapling: a stark brown shoot rising from the snow. She spoke even before he emerged from the shadows of the trees.

  “I expect you think that was spectacularly subtle.”

  He stepped out into the moonlight. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Obviously you wanted to get me alone. Once upon a time, I would’ve thought your motives were romantic. Now I know they’re only the same tired suspicions.”

  “You’re saying it would be romantic if I wanted to steal you away from my own brother?”

  Irene shrugged. “We love who we love. But you don’t love me. You hate me, in fact. All because I chose him over you. It’s sad, really.”

  The conviction in her voice. The arrogance. At first it made him want to grab hold of her by the throat, to break her. But as he let the rage wash over him, he saw something in her eyes—a kind of strain, as if she were trying to keep track of a hundred possible futures at once. This was a game, he realized. It had been a game all along. And Irene’s latest play was this seemingly invincible confidence. Take it away, and there’d be nothing left.

  “You can stop this now,” he said, trying to channel his father’s calm, implacable authority. “It’s over.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  Clive smiled slightly but said nothing, letting the silence seep into the cracks of Irene’s certainty.

  “You’re acting even stranger than usual,” she said, a little more quietly. “You feeling all right?”

  “My only question is this,” he said. “Why’d you come back? You’d made it out. I never would’ve known for sure if you hadn’t come back.”

  Irene laughed. “Clive, I’m really not sure what nonsense you’ve invented in that twisted little head of yours—”

  “Enough!” he said, his tone that of an exhausted parent dealing with a stubborn child. “Didn’t you hear me? It’s over. You’re smart enough to see that.”

  For a few more seconds, Irene kept up the pretense of astonishment. Then, as if by some trick of the light, her face suddenly transformed. There was no sign of diabolical delight or grim solemnity in her expression—only a dismal sort of relief. Her eyes turned watery, and she took a first halting step toward him.

  He backed away, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword. “What are you doing?”

  She kept coming, until she was close enough to throw her arms over his shoulders. At first he thought she was trying to choke him, but then she began to sob—huge gasping breaths that shook her whole body. He was caught by surprise, and fumbled for an adequate response. “Irene. Irene. It’s okay. It’s done. You can stop pretending now.” His arms felt silly dangling at his sides, so he put them loosely around her, giving her a few consolatory pats on the back.

  But now something strange was happening. Her sobs were growing more and more intense, until they reached the point where she was thrashing around in his arms like Gemma during one of her fits.

  “No, Clive!” she shouted. “I said no! Let go of me!”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  A flash of white—Clive’s first thought was that he’d been struck by lightning—followed by an awesome pain that bloomed outward from a point at the back of his head to encompass his whole body. And how had he ended up on the ground? He reached around to touch the place where the pain had originated, and his hand came away wet with blood.

  “You touch her again and I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

  Clive’s vision was finally beginning to clear, and now he saw Clover standing over him, holding a flawless white stone in his right hand. Clive remembered exactly where his brother had found it, in the streambed near Amestown, the last time they’d been something like happy. If things hadn’t gone so wrong, that crystal would’ve ended up on the mantel in the kitchen, where Clover used to keep his rock collection: the quartz and agate, the chunk of pyrite that he’d tried to pass off as real gold, the topaz and sea glass and azurite, the uncut opal Bernstein had given him as a birthday gift. But Clover had given all of them away a few days after they got back to the Anchor. He said it made him too sad to look at them.

  And yet he’d kept this one.

  “Clover . . . you hurt me.”

  Clive felt his stomach turn over, and before he could say anything else, he threw up into the snow.

  “Why did you make me do that?” Clover shouted. “Why couldn’t you just leave her alone?”

  But Clive wasn’t listening. He had to get up. Had to stop Irene. And Clover was standing in his way.

  Though he still felt shaky, he’d managed to get his feet under him again, and now he sprang at his brother like a cat pouncing on a mouse. They landed hard in a frozen snowdrift, bones bruising against the craggy ice. Clive’s head was spinning, but his first punch connected solidly with his brother’s jaw, as did the second. He kept swinging even as Clover got a wicked grip on his hair, pulling at it until a great hunk came loose. The pain was so intense that Clive nearly retched again, which gave his brother time to slither out from under him.

  “You’re a bully,” Clover said, panting heavily. He was bleeding from a gash in his left cheek. “That’s all you’ve ever been. That’s why Gemma threw you over, and that’s why Irene didn’t want you. You’re nothing but a bully and a killer, and Da would’ve been ashamed of you.”

  Words. Clover had always been good with those. He’d always had them at the ready, an inexhaustible quiver of poison-tipped arrows. But words weren’t the only thing that cut. Clive launched himself at his brother again, closing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. Clover turned to run, but his foot slipped on the ice, sending him face-first into the snow. He scarcely had time to flip over before Clive was on top of him again. Their hands, raw and red from the cold, scrabbled fruitlessly for a few moments, until Clive’s superior strength finally prevailed.

  “Stop,” Clover said. “Stop, please.”

  But Clive was beyond reasoning now. He closed his fist and brought it down, jerking his brother’s head first one way and then the other, amazed at how his anger only seemed to increase with every blow he landed. Jealousy, grief, shame, regret, despair—all of it was transmuted into a blinding rage, like a tornado pulling everything into its howling vortex, until finally Clover’s protestations were silenced and his body went still.

  Then Clive stood up, wiping the tears from his eyes and smearing his face with blood. He looked around.

  Irene was gone.

  11. Clover

  HE WAS BARELY CONSCIOUS WHEN the beating finally stopped, and through the narrow horizon line of his half-closed eyelids, he watched his brother duck into Irene’s tent and emerge with the gun—one bullet left—then sprint off into the woods.

  Clover fell asleep after that, and when he woke again, it was to a chill that was worryingly close to warmth. The moon was high in the sky, beams of light transfixing each individual snowflake as it tumbled lifelessly down to join its fellows. He could feel death hovering somewhere close by, just out of sight, whining in his ear like a mosquito: Would you like to come with me?

  It took him a few tries to stand up. The snow all around where he’d lain was stained with blood. Droplets led off to the east, like a trail of bread crumbs. Clover knew he had to follow them. If Clive caught up with Irene, Daughter only knew what he’d do to
her; after all, he’d nearly beaten his own brother to death just a few minutes ago. Things would’ve been so much simpler if she’d just run the other way, toward the contingent: simpler, and safer . . . and smarter.

  And Irene was nothing if not smart. She must have known that Clive couldn’t hurt her if the other soldiers were around—so why would she take her chances alone in the woods?

  Because she was guilty of something. Because she had something to hide.

  The doubts had always been there—so many seedlings, waiting only for a bit of sunlight and water to sprout. What were the odds that their wagon axle would break like that? What were the odds that a farm girl from the outerlands would risk her life for a bunch of strangers? What were the odds that a girl that beautiful and brilliant could really be in love with a freak like him?

  The questions proliferated, a forest fire leaping from tree to tree, until finally his whole world was ablaze, and the full ramifications of what he’d done crashed into him like the Daughter herself making landfall.

  He’d told her everything. Everything he’d learned in his time working at the Library. Everything he’d read in the anathema stacks. Everything the Epistem had asked him to do for the Descendancy. She knew all his secrets, and she would bring every single one of them to Sophia. The mission would be over before it began.

  Unless Clive caught up with her first.

  “Irene,” he whispered, as if in mourning. And then he had a thought that made him laugh, only the laugh quickly devolved into a thick, bloody cough: “Irene” probably wasn’t even her real name.

  There was no point in trying to catch up with them; both would be moving far faster than he ever could. Instead he limped back to the campsite. The fire had been abandoned; all the soldiers but the night watch had gone to sleep.

  Clover went to Burns’s tent and found the marshal kneeling at the edge of his cot, head bowed in prayer, lips moving silently.

  “I didn’t know you believed in praying,” Clover said.

  Burns opened his eyes. “Figure it can’t hurt,” he said, standing up and brushing off the knees of his trousers. Then he noticed Clover’s face. “Daughter’s love, what the hell happened to you?”

  “It was Irene,” Clover said, which was technically true, though not the whole truth. The least he could do now was protect his brother, who’d been right about her all along. “She attacked me, then ran off. Clive went after her.” Clover hung his head. “I . . . I told her things, Burns. Things I learned at the Library. I’m sorry.”

  The marshal gave him a gentle pat on the back. “I’ve done stupider things for a woman. And you beating yourself up doesn’t do us any good now. You wanna make it up to me, get everybody out of their tents as fast as you can.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t think that girl would’ve taken off unless we were close to Sophia. We’re gonna beat her there.”

  The snow stopped falling just as they decamped, and though the sky was still patchy with clouds, the attenuated moonlight was more than enough to see by, illuminating a sparkling snowscape so perfectly serene it was as if time itself had frozen. Though the soldiers were as exhausted as they’d ever been—the combination of near-death experience, sudden salvation, and interrupted sleep—Clover thought there was a remarkable grandeur to them tonight, as they marched uncomplainingly toward whatever fate God had in store for them. It was the most admirable aspect of humanity, the willingness to be subsumed into something greater than oneself; Clover had never felt more connected to his family than when they played music together.

  Oh, but he missed them all so terribly. His parents. Eddie. Gemma. Clive. Even Irene. All of them were gone now: dead or disappeared or alienated beyond recovery.

  So maybe it was for the best that he was about to give himself over to Sophia. There was nothing tying him to his old life any longer. Nothing holding him back. No one to be ashamed of his betrayal. And if he did die in the line of duty, there would be no one left to mourn him.

  He’d expected a long journey, but scarcely an hour after they’d started marching, still cleaving to the course of the Ivan, there was a cry from the front of the line. A moment later Clover saw it for himself: the infamous Sophia. They crossed a sturdy bridge and passed through a gate, which for some inexplicable reason had been left open.

  At first glance, it seemed like any another town built on a hill, its main street like any other main street, its houses like any other houses (though a good ways better constructed than those of the average outerland burg). The top of the hill was obscured by buildings and trees, but Clover felt certain the academy was up there somewhere, perched like an eagle waiting for him.

  There was no one out on the streets at the moment, not a single candle visible through the windows of the houses. Burns ordered the soldiers to knock on a few doors, but no one answered.

  “They’ve emptied out,” the marshal said. “Probably holed up in that academy of theirs.”

  “So what are we waiting for?” Garrick said. “Let’s go.”

  But they hadn’t made it more than a few steps up the hill when something truly extraordinary occurred. Though Clover had noticed the lampposts that lined the main street, he’d assumed they ran on gas, like the lamps in the Anchor. But at that moment, every single one erupted with bright white light. Farther up the hill, the face of a small clock tower was also illuminated, revealing the time to be just past ten o’clock. The contingent cried out in surprise, which quickly transitioned to wonder. Clover had seen electric light before, in the anathema stacks, but he hadn’t realized until now the full ramifications of the technology. This wasn’t a slight improvement on the gas lamp, but a world-changing revelation. With light this powerful, night could be counteracted, cured like an illness.

  The soldiers were laughing now, as if they were party to a miracle. But all Clover could think about was why. Why turn on the lights now? Did the Sophians really care about impressing a bunch of Protectorate soldiers?

  Of course not. This must have been done for a practical reason, and there was only one that made sense.

  “Run!” Clover shouted. “Everyone run!”

  Garrick gave him a condescending pat on the back. “It’s just light, little man.”

  And that was true: light to aim by.

  The first bullet buzzed like a bee as it passed, a high singing whine that ended in a wet thump. There was a look of utter befuddlement on Garrick’s face, as if he’d just been told a joke with no punch line. A puddle of darkness spread out from the center of his uniform jacket. He fell onto his knees, hands breaking loudly through the crust of snow as he went down on all fours.

  All hell broke loose after that. Clover couldn’t tell where the shots were coming from; the Sophians had been prepared, and were perfectly positioned. Soldiers screamed as they or someone near to them was hit. The contingent broke apart, every man running toward whatever piece of cover was closest. Clover tried to do the same, only Garrick had grabbed hold of his ankle.

  “Help me,” he whispered, then coughed a spritz of red across the white.

  Haemoptysis: the coughing up of blood. The bullet must have pierced one of Garrick’s lungs. Even with the best doctor in the Anchor to hand, his chance of survival would’ve been slight. Out here, there was no hope for him at all.

  “I’m sorry,” Clover said. He tried to pull himself free, but Garrick was holding on too tight. It wasn’t until Clover planted a firm foot in the boy’s face that he finally managed to get loose.

  The gunfire slowed down as the surviving soldiers found something to hide behind, and now they began the slow process of climbing the hill, scampering quickly from one piece of cover to another. More than once Clover heard a bullet carom off the low stone wall he’d just slid behind; more than once he heard the strangled cry of someone less lucky than himself.

  By the time they’d made it up the first thousand feet or so of the hillside, a good half of the company had been lost. After that, the structures
of the town grew slightly denser—the equivalent of a few Anchor blocks of two-story brick and stone buildings. Those who’d survived the initial assault grouped up in an alleyway behind a smithy. Burns was still with them, though he’d taken a grazing shot to the left leg.

  “There’s six of them,” he said. “Or six with guns anyway. And unless they moved in the last couple of minutes, they’re hiding out in three places. In here.” He pounded the side of the smithy. “In the big house across the street, and in that clock tower up the hill.”

  Burns divided the soldiers into three groups, one for each of the gunmen’s shelters. Clover waited in the alleyway with Burns as one group of soldiers set themselves to knocking down the door of the smithy, while another headed across the street.

  “If I’d known it would go down like this,” said Burns, “I would’ve left you back in camp.”

  “I wouldn’t have stayed there anyway,” Clover replied.

  Burns smiled grimly. “I suppose not.”

  The sound of wood splintering, a chorus of shouts, followed by the first couple of gunshots. Burns signaled the remaining soldiers to prepare to run for it. A countdown: five, four, three, two, one . . .

  Clover watched them go. The first soldier went down almost immediately—taking one bullet in the chest and a second in the gut. In the end, this was probably a lucky outcome, as it allowed the rest of the company to make it up the hill unharmed.

  Burns would notice that Clover was missing before long; it was time to go his own way, to do what he’d come here to do. He waited until the marshal and his cohort succeeded in breaking down the door at the bottom of the tower, then simply took off running up the wide-open street. He wondered what a bullet felt like as it entered the body. Like a blunt force? Like a stab wound? Was it possible to die before you even heard the shot ring out? But the only shots he heard were distant, aimed at someone other than himself, and the loudest sound was the scuttering of his shoes on the snow, fast as his heartbeat.

  A half mile or so up the hill, the houses had thinned out completely; it was as if he were back in the woods. And then, coming around a bend in the road, the strangest building Clover had ever seen hove into view. From the front, it looked like a large gray cube, perhaps twenty yards high and two hundred wide; from this angle, there was no way to know how far back it went. It appeared to be made of some kind of concrete, though smoother and more polished than anything they used in the Anchor. The surface was unblemished but for the single set of doors carved into the front and the line of windows up near the top of the structure, glowing with a warm yellow light.