Ashes of the Earth

by Eliot Pattison

  The secret workroom was well kept, an unusual levering device anchored to its solitary workbench. His first touch of its handle roused memories of visits to a great-uncle’s house as a boy. The uncle had been an avid hunter and Hadrian had helped him reload his shotgun shells with just such an instrument.

  He pushed the handle down, seeing now the wooden box with the brass bases, a second box with waxed cylinders of the thick grey paper fabricated in the workshop, a third with one of the racks he’d seen in the cache in Carthage, packed with over a dozen loaded shells. He dropped one of the shells into his pocket and quickly examined the rest of the room. There were no pellets, no sign of gunpowder, only one of the small kegs he had seen in the Anna, still tightly sealed. He took a step toward it.

  “Hadrian, please!” Jori’s call was desperate.

  He reluctantly stepped away, blowing out the candle as he reached the front entry. Wending their way through the alleys, they soon reached the small paddock adjoining the stable. He paused, watching the stable, seeing no sign of activity.

  “We don’t need horses,” Jori said. Her voice was overlaid with fear.

  “And what? Walk for two, maybe three hundred miles? Ten more minutes and we’re gone. An hour south of here the heavy forest starts. They won’t find us there.”

  She took a deep breath and nodded.

  Jori was surprisingly adept with the animals, calming the two Hadrian led out of their stalls with soft whispers. His heart lifted as he tightened the girth of the last saddle and began tying a blanket behind it. Then suddenly pigeons were startled from their roost at the far end of the building. He tossed Jori a set of reins.

  “Go!” he cried. Soft creaks on the floorboards became the pounding of running boots. Standing in the shadows behind the second horse, he swung his pouch of cans. His timing was perfect, hitting the first man squarely in the temple, knocking him to the floor. He jerked the head of the horse around and slapped its hindquarters, sending it toward the other shadowy figures. They would have to make do with one horse.

  He began to race out the front doors, leading the horse with Jori already mounted. But half a dozen men leapt in front of them. The horse reared back, throwing Jori off. Strong hands seized his arms. A sack was thrown over his head.

  HIS HEAD LAY against the surface of a table, facing a window six feet away. His eyes fluttered open and shut. He smelled eggs and bacon and cigar smoke. The sky was showing a hint of dawn. He did not stir, did not know if he could stir, just watched the stars fade into the greyness. His own light was fading. He was being pulled into a hole in the sky and didn’t want to come back.

  “No!” he moaned as frigid water suddenly drenched his head. He jerked up, his skull exploding in pain. Slowly he turned, taking in his surroundings. Jori was tied to a chair in the corner just behind him, her mouth gagged. Four men sat at the opposite end of the table, empty breakfast plates in front of them. Sauger, Sebastian, Fletcher, and Wade. Their faces were impatient.

  “Last night when I went to sleep, I felt such hope, Boone,” Sauger began. “But then I had to start my day with such disappointment.”

  “Am I to take it you are the leader of this town that needs no government?” Hadrian asked. His head throbbed terribly.

  “Like I said, we all must accept the role allotted to us,” Sauger said. “You might call me abbot of the order of St. Gabriel.”

  “Or boss of the criminal enterprise that is St. Gabriel.”

  Wade glared at Hadrian, then muttered something into Sauger’s ear, who held up a restraining hand.

  “There you go,” he said to Hadrian, “using old world concepts again. Crime is a political construct. When the great khans rolled over Asia, wiping out entire cities, that was not crime to their culture. That was glory, that was destiny being fulfilled. I remember once being hauled in front of a magistrate and fined for not shoveling the snow in front of my house. I said my father had never shoveled that snow for thirty years, and it wasn’t a crime then, so why would it be now? He said because the government changed its mind, that’s why. That was the disease of the old world. Some crusty bastards sat behind closed doors and decided how I should live my life. Forget the old world. It’s gone. Get over it.”

  “I know a crime when I see one,” Hadrian insisted.

  “So you declare yourself judge and jury?” Sauger asked in a contemplative tone. “Based on what? Some law no one acknowledges but you? Bullshit. There is only action and reaction. That’s the way of nature. When the cougar tries to bring down the stag and gets an antler in his heart, that’s not justice, that’s the penalty the cougar gambles against for his every meal.”

  “In other words, if you think you can get away with something, it’s worth trying.”

  “Exactly! If the shifting of the world taught us anything, it was that life is all about the odds, and improving the odds. What were the chances any of us would survive? What were the odds we’d be sitting here today? Where but here could you find such opportunity to improve your life? We offer you fulfillment.” Sauger’s smile remained but his eyes grew icy cold. “So intimate with the inner workings of Carthage but no reason to be loyal to her. A man interested in reform, much as myself. But last night you jumped the stag and lost. In another month you could have been sitting here, on the most powerful committee in the known world.”

  “Looks more like a breakfast club that forgot to bathe.”

  The words brought Wade out of his chair. For the first time, Hadrian saw a gun in front of Sauger. Jori’s pistol. The abbot of St. Gabriel touched it. “I’m not going to tell you again, Wade.”

  “The bastard killed my nephew!”

  Hadrian stared at him, confused. “I had nothing to do with the boy brought to the hospital,” he said.

  Wade fixed him with a venomous gaze.

  “I believe,” Sauger explained in a level tone, “our friend is referring to the one you killed at my table during your escape last night.”

  Something icy gripped Hadrian’s spine as he recalled the salvager, the one he’d recognized as an original crew member from the Anna. “Wheeler was asleep with his head on the table when we passed through,” he said hoarsely.

  Sauger wiped his mouth with a napkin and gestured Hadrian up. Hadrian rose, steadying himself against his dizziness for a moment, then followed him out the door. They stepped directly into the tavern, where a blanket had been thrown over a figure at the corner table. As Sauger pulled the blanket away from Wheeler, Hadrian nearly retched. One of the silver forks he’d seen the night before had been driven into the back of Wheeler’s neck, up into his brain.

  “A careful piece of work,” Sauger said in an admiring tone. “But the wrong fellow to kill. Wade is Fletcher’s man, and this one was Wade’s nephew. We promise his men our protection when they come here. This one was in training, so to speak. Fisherman. Death Digger. Familiar with the streets of Carthage. Proven reliable for special tasks, lots of potential. When Wade first arrived at our little breakfast, I had to restrain him from driving a fork into your head as you lay there.”

  “Someone didn’t want me to speak with him. He was from the Anna.”

  “Fletcher claims you’re trying to topple his operation in Carthage.”

  “His operation is your operation.”

  Sauger shrugged. “Our alliance is only recent. He has a lot invested in Carthage, over many years. We’ve just broadened his ambition, so to speak. Merged our business plans. Adjusted expectations.”

  “I wondered why fishermen would use jackals as their symbol.” He gestured to the stuffed martens on the walls. “It was your gang. You just gave Fletcher a franchise.”

  “You grieve me, Hadrian. You are deep, you are educated. I can speak with you like I can’t with the others. We could decide together what to do with your governor. Perhaps make you his successor. You could have had such influence at my side.”

  “I don’t do well at anyone’s side.”

  Sauger ignored him. “I thi
nk events may persuade you to reconsider. It will cost me dear to save you. Otherwise, Fletcher will have to kill you, to keep his men in line. If not here, then in Carthage. It won’t go easy for you. Wade would like nothing more than to find you some night and have you held down while he hammers a fork into your head. Most likely through an eye, slowly twisting it, to hear you scream. Cruel sons of bitches, those fishermen. Even when I fix things, they won’t accept you at our table now.”

  Sighing, Sauger waved Hadrian away, not bothering to cover the body again. Hadrian bent over Jori before retaking his seat. Her eyes were puffy but her cheeks were dry. She had no more tears left.

  Sauger had the air of a judge when he spoke again. Sebastian stood solemnly behind him, like a bailiff. “I think,” he said slowly, “perhaps the only real crime is that committed by those who fail to use their given talents to the maximum.” He silenced a growl from Fletcher, not with a command but with a glance at Sebastian, who put a restraining hand on the captain’s shoulder. Sauger studied first Hadrian, then Jori for a long time, before rising and gesturing Fletcher and Wade to follow him back into the tavern.

  When they returned the two fishermen were subdued. Sebastian brought in a tray of bread and hot tea, which he set by Hadrian before untying Jori. Joining Hadrian at the table, she began eating, not daring to look at the men at the other end.

  “There is a run across to Carthage tonight,” Sauger declared. “You will be deposited near town, free to return to whatever you wish. One last chance, we’ll call it. Fletcher and Wade will have little jobs that you will perform. If Fletcher sees one more policeman at the fishery than normal, senses the presence of any detective, he will find you and kill you both. If Buchanan tries to take action against him without advance warning from one of you, I will not be able to save you. As long as you cooperate, you’ll have Fletcher’s protection. Prove your value, and in a few months we may add to your responsibilities. Great opportunities lie ahead.”

  Hadrian emptied half his mug, then silently returned the tavern keeper’s stare.

  Sauger nodded at Jori. “Although you are welcome to stay.” He slid a small tin down the table toward her. “Your charms would be most valued.”

  She stared silently at the container with its familiar label. Angel Polish.

  For some reason Hadrian began leaning forward. His head was growing heavy. “Buchanan will throw me in a cell again. I left when Nelly escaped. He will assume I was behind it.”

  “Excellent. A few days will give you time to contemplate the new world order. But you have always somehow dealt with Buchanan. And,” Sauger added pointedly, “prison bars will not stop Fletcher from reaching you if he needs to kill you.”

  Hadrian’s head began to drift down toward the table. He looked over and saw Jori slumped by the plate of bread. The tea had been drugged.

  “Sounds too much like the old world order,” he said, though he never knew if the words made it out before he lost consciousness.

  CHAPTER Nine

  THEY WERE IN the hold of the Anna again, although this time with the cover off and a ship’s ladder braced in the opening. Jori was slumped, unconscious, against the opposite bulkhead as Hadrian awoke. He splashed bilge water on his face, then rose and unsteadily climbed the ladder.

  The little steamer was building speed, away from the setting sun, into the bite of a cold northeast wind. The St. Gabriel harbor was a mile behind them. He gulped the chill air, shaking the fog from his head, then made his way to the cabin where the helmsman stood. The face of the man at the wheel was in shadow but as Hadrian stepped to the steam pipe that provided heat for the cabin, he leaned over the compass. The hooded lantern over the instrument gave off only a dim light, but it was enough. Fear crept up his spine. It was Wade.

  “Slept off your St. Gabe hangover I see.”

  Hadrian was somehow more disturbed by the bully’s level tone than he would have been by a random punch. He retreated and made his way to the small figure huddled in a blanket in the lee of the cabin, watching the smoke etch a purple line across the dusk.

  “We’re making stars!” Dax exclaimed. The boy pointed to the sparks rising out of the smoke funnel. “Ain’t she fast!”

  “The Anna was always the quickest,” Hadrian said as he squatted by the boy. “Faster than she needed to be. The later models had a broader beam, with more power geared to haul nets. She was one of a kind. When I heard she’d gone down in a storm I felt a great sadness.” As he spoke he looked to the southeast toward a heavy bank of cloud. In the daytime the Anna would be conspicuous in Carthage waters. He did some rough math. It would be well over a hundred miles on a direct course cutting across the inland sea, a harsh, hot run for the steamer to make before dawn. Yet it was possible so long as they did not encounter too strong a headwind and if Wade knew the course, a challenge in the night under cloud cover. Then he recalled the predawn rendezvous routinely arranged by the smugglers. They’d made the surreptitious trip many times before.

  He wandered down the short companionway that led to the compartment that functioned as galley and bunkroom to discover Scanlon sitting at the table.

  “This ain’t your stateroom, Boone,” he growled in warning. The hand that clasped a steaming mug had a bandage around it, stained pink. The stump of his finger still oozed blood. Hadrian retreated to the stern deck, stacked now with a fresh load of wood that included sixfoot-long logs not yet cut for the boiler’s firebox. Climbing the stack, he confirmed that along the stern hung a sturdy little skiff, then collected an armload of wood and descended into the engine room.

  The broad-shouldered man at the engine was Tull, the engineer who had been ejected from the tavern the night before. He acknowledged Hadrian with a surprised scowl, then gestured for him to drop his load onto the small pile of wood by the bulkhead. Hadrian did so, then took another step. But as he approached the boiler, the engineer lashed out with the poker he used to stoke the coals, blocking his path, the red-hot tip of the poker embedding in a slab of firewood. Two inches closer, and it would have impaled Hadrian.

  He threw his hands up in mock surrender. “I know the man who built this engine,” he said in a loud voice over the noise of the machine. “He was always very proud of it.” It was all the explanation of his interest in the engine he would offer, and his quick glance was enough to confirm that he still recalled the placement of its regulators and shutoff valves.

  “There’s logs topside,” Tull shouted over the engine noise. “They didn’t have time to cut everything before we sailed.” There was a strange light in his eyes, a look of amusement that chilled Hadrian. “I was gonna tell the boy to do it, but your back is stronger. There’s a saw.”

  Hadrian gave an exaggerated nod and climbed back up the ladder. He took his time, slowly slicing up the first log as he considered the words of Sauger, the expressions of Fletcher and his men when Sauger had pronounced his verdict, then contemplated the boat and the men running her. The uncut logs meant Sauger had lied. No voyage had been planned for that night.

  He had begun a second log when Scanlon emerged to join Wade in the wheelhouse. Hadrian darted into the little kitchen, located the expected kettle of hot water, and poured a mug of tea.

  Moments later he was holding the tea in front of Jori, who groggily sipped it, then, reviving, gratefully cupped her hands around the warm mug.

  “We’re on the way to Carthage,” he confirmed.

  She greeted the news with a frown and stared into the shadows.

  “Kenton won’t care about any of this,” she said after a long silence. “He won’t believe it. All that will matter is that I left the colony without his permission. He’ll throw me off the force,” she predicted.

  He did not reply, did not know how to reply. “I’m sorry,” he said at last.

  “I’m young. My mother runs a business weaving rugs and blankets. She always wanted me to join her.”

  “I don’t think you understand, Jori. They don’t mean to deliver us to Car
thage.”

  “But I heard them. You were there.”

  “It’s their way of keeping us cooperative. Just like they drugged us so we couldn’t argue, couldn’t resist. The only two people in all the world who seem interested in stopping them are you and me. One of the men entrusted to take us across is Wade, who is certain I killed his nephew. Another is Scanlon, who had a finger shot off by you.”

  Jori responded with a chiding look. “You always have to be melodramatic about things. They would never go to all this trouble. Sauger promised. He struck a deal with Fletcher. Fletcher wants us as his damned slaves, but we’ll be alive.”

  Hadrian wanted to grab her by the shoulders, to shake her, to shout that Sauger could not be trusted, that he knew in his bones they had at most a few hours to live. But as she returned his gaze he could not find the courage to do so.

  He sat down beside her. “Tell me about your mother,” he said.

  After a long silence, during which she gave him a worried glance, Jori spoke about a loving, always weary woman, a survivor who’d arrived early in the formation of the colony, given birth to five children in the five years thereafter, losing two as infants. Her bedtime stories were always thinly veiled descriptions of the old world, and her hobby of weaving had become their livelihood after Jori’s father had died.

  “Once when I was ten I found her in the middle of the night by the fireplace writing a letter, back when there was no paper at all, when you had to tear pages out of old books and write in the margins. Her fingers were nearly raw from working the loom all day, and I could see the pain the effort caused her. As I watched she finished and folded the letter, then stood on a stool and hid it up under one of the eaves. It took me days to figure out how to get up there but I finally did. There were a dozen letters, all to my father who had been lost on the lake years ago.”

  Lost on the lake. In the early years most of those who perished in the deep waters were not fishermen. So many had ended their lives by drowning that the words had become another euphemism for suicide. Emily had told him Jori’s father was weak, chronically sick, in constant danger of exile. The suicides would take salvaged railroad spikes and stuff them in their belts before stepping off their borrowed dinghies.