Kenton drew out his revolver and slowly rotated its cylinder, checking that they were all loaded. “He wasn’t cooperating. Too rich already, no motivation. The other two guild heads were resisting. We made sure they were there when we cut into his gut. My mistake was not tying you down beside him. Still, it kept the other guild heads on good behavior for a while.”
“Until their replacements were lined up. Then Fletcher poisoned them.”
“We could have turned it into a war. St. Gabe would have been outnumbered but those fighting for Carthage would have reported to me. Do you know how many would have died then?”
“We should no doubt be grateful. But there is the matter of the dozens you would have starved to death this winter.”
“Name a revolution where people haven’t died.” Kenton sighted his pistol against the light of the lantern. “I had so many chances to kill you, so many times Buchanan was on the verge of asking me to. But he was weak. He always held back, as if he owed you something. And after a while you were so powerless you hardly seemed worth a bullet.” Kenton aimed the pistol at Hadrian’s knee. “Today, however, I am willing to use half a dozen.”
“I’ve come up in the world. Jansen only justified two of your bullets.”
Kenton shrugged. “Jansen was uninspired. No ambition. The stupid bastard didn’t know what a shotgun shell was. He had actually had cut one open trying to understand what it was. I told him I could make him rich. The fool said he had orders from his sergeant, said he had taken an oath. He didn’t even understand when I had put the first round in him. I’m not sure he’d ever seen a pistol fired before.” A ragged laugh escaped Kenton’s throat. “He saw the blood on the front of his shirt and was confused, asked if I had done that, the idiot. I said here, let me show you, then put the barrel close to his heart and shot him again. He had no more questions after that.”
“Killing Jonah was your big mistake.”
“You know damned well I was with you when he died.”
“You arranged it when you went to the fair that day. As soon as he knew Hastings had been murdered Jonah might have started connecting the evidence. Buchanan hadn’t forgotten about that little valley where Hastings’s father had died. He was going to secretly send him there. Except he shared the secret with you and told you Hastings had probably told Jonah. You couldn’t risk Jonah’s knowing that Micah Hastings had been murdered before he even left. It would raise too many questions about that little valley he was going to. You ordered an earlier schedule for the patrols by the library that night. Then Shenker went in through the rear door. But the second man, I never understood who the second man was.”
Kenton knew Hadrian presented no threat to him. He was happy to gloat. “Sauger needed someone who came from Carthage, knew his way around the streets, knew what I meant when I explained I was sending the police patrol early, and to wait until they passed that Norger cafe. They say he wound up with a fork in his brain.”
Hadrian sighed. “Wheeler. I was afraid he died because of me.”
“He did. The sap told Scanlon he knew you, that you had been his schoolteacher. He was homesick. They thought he would talk to you.”
The lieutenant stretched his arms and rose, stepping closer, aiming his pistol at various parts of Hadrian’s anatomy and counting. “One, two.” Hadrian’s knees. “Three four.” His elbows. “Five, six.” His shoulders. Then over the edge you go. There’s a nest of tree jackals near here. They’ll find you sometime in the night.”
“I don’t think so. You’re not quite that stupid.”
Kenton’s eyes lit with amusement. “You’re going to stop me?”
“Sergeant Waller knows about you. If I don’t come back she will come for you.”
“That bitch? Nothing but a schoolgirl with an attitude.”
“But such an attitude. Before she comes she will tell Buchanan and the Council. You’ll be in prison the rest of your life if they don’t hang you. No. You’ll leave me and run to St. Gabriel. That’s your only chance. Regroup with Sauger.”
“She hasn’t told anyone or I would know it.”
“She’s waiting to see if I get back. Leave now, Kenton. We’ll give you until daybreak.”
Kenton spat a curse at Hadrian. He absently scratched his temple with the barrel of his gun and seemed about to concede when the door against the embankment creaked.
The lieutenant moved surprisingly fast, lowering the pistol to cover Hadrian as he leapt toward the door. As he slammed the door with his shoulder someone on the other side groaned in pain. He reached into the darkness and dragged out Jori Waller. He swung her out by the front of her coat, and when she struggled he slammed her violently against the heavy oak door. She collapsed. Kenton pulled away her pistol and dragged her to Hadrian’s feet.
“I forgot about that deer trail,” he said. “Imagine. The only two people in the world who can do me harm. Bad news, Boone, you only get three of my bullets now. A knee, an elbow, and an eye.”
Jori stirred. Kenton kicked her. She held her belly and gasped. He considered his two prisoners before extracting one of the brown shotgun shells. “A week’s worth of fairy dust. With half of this in each of you I can tell you to fly like a bird and you’ll leap into the ravine. No need to explain messy bullet wounds. I’ll write the report myself. Another tragic accident by overdose. You will pour it into her, Boone, then I—” Kenton paused, cocking his head toward the road.
The figure coming through the shadows made no effort to conceal his approach. The snow crunched loudly under his feet. He paused at the entrance to clean it from inside his shoes. Buchanan wore a suit and black overcoat as if arriving from a state function.
“Good job, Lieutenant,” the governor announced. He seemed unaware that the trail behind him clearly showed he had come from behind the door, where he must have been listening with Jori.
Kenton shot him.
Buchanan dropped to the ground as blood began seeping through his shirt and up over his collar.
“Idiot!” Kenton snapped, then looked back at Hadrian. “He’s the damned fool who caused all the problems. Bringing you in to investigate the dead scout, then Jonah’s murder. He couldn’t stay bought. He thought the money that came to him from Fletcher was just to keep quiet about the smugglers.”
Buchanan stirred, rolled onto his side, one hand in his coat, the other gesturing Kenton closer.
“Lieutenant,” the governor gasped, “Come closer, where I can see you. Everything is so dark.” He spoke with a wheeze, seeming to struggle for breath.
Kenton, strangely obedient, crouched over the bleeding figure.
Hadrian should have known the governor would have kept the best of the pistols for himself. It was a small, powerful semiautomatic he fired through his coat, four quick shots aimed at Kenton’s heart. Buchanan was suddenly up, flinging off his coat, leaning over the dying policeman. His wound, though bloody, was in his shoulder. The governor grabbed the drug shell in Kenton’s hand.
“You dared to put this in my Sarah!” he screeched as he straddled Kenton. He broke the shell open and began pouring its contents into Kenton’s gaping mouth. The lieutenant tried to roll, tried to pound Buchanan with his fists but he had no strength left. Buchanan emptied the shell and pummeled Kenton’s face until Hadrian finally rose and pulled him away.
Kenton was dying quickly of the gunshots but it was the drug that choked away his last breath. He gave a deep cough that sent out a spray of blood, then he moved no more. His eyes were fixed on Hadrian as they lost their light. His face was ghostly white with powder.
Epilogue
THE FIRST CARAVAN from Carthage to New Jerusalem took several days to organize. Not only did wagons to carry grain back have to be located but Nelly and Emily made sure they were loaded with blankets, barrels of pickled fish, and building supplies. They had stopped taking volunteers for the construction crews when the rolls swelled to two hundred.
At the big table in the hospital’s kitchen Hadrian s
tirred at the sound of grates being opened on the big cast iron stove. He had fallen asleep over a glass of milk.
“You look like a wreck,” Emily muttered as she dropped a log into the firebox. “When’s the last time you slept in a bed?”
Hadrian rose and extended his arms over the stove. “I spent the afternoon upstairs. A quarter of your nurses have left for New Jerusalem and there are three dozen addicts in residence.”
“Some will be ready for home in another week. Lucas had Sarah out on the veranda today.” Jonah’s antidote worked slowly, taking several days to reverse symptoms, but it was working nonetheless.
When Hadrian looked up, Jori was at the door, dressed for travel on the ice. Emily retreated from the room as the sergeant laid a heavy backpack on the table.
“They’re going to open a new police station in New Jerusalem,” Jori declared. “They’ve asked me to head it. An iceboat is being held for me.”
“Rather sudden.”
“I’m supposed to start recruiting in the camps tomorrow.”
Hadrian slowly turned, finding it strangely difficult to find words. “There is a lot of work to be done.”
She took a hesitant step toward him, then another. “They’re starting regular mail service in a week or two. I can write you if I know where you’ll be.”
Hadrian shrugged. “I’m going to try to decipher some of Jonah’s project plans. The library workshop. Try me there.”
Suddenly her arms were around him, her head buried in his shoulder.
“Jori . . . I can’t . . . I’m too . . .”
When she looked up at him a tear was rolling down her cheek. She brought up a hand and covered his mouth. “Shut up.”
“I don’t know how it would have been without you,” she offered after a moment. “I mean I never would have . . .”
“Shut up,” he said, and put his arms around her.
There were no more words spoken. From the chair where he had been sitting he lifted the woolen scarf Mette had given him and wrapped it around Jori’s neck. He remembered a pack of tea he’d bought that day and darted into the adjoining room to bring it to her. When he returned she was gone.
Hadrian ran into the frigid night without bothering to find his coat. He was panting for breath by the time he reached the knoll overlooking the moonlit harbor. The iceboat was being hauled out onto the lake. He watched as the big sail filled and the boat leaned, gathering speed. He stood in the chill air, not moving until she was out of sight.
HE WAS AT the library by dawn, working on the detailed drawings for the new bridge, then sorting through Jonah’s stack of plans. After several hours he stepped out onto the balcony to watch the town below. When he returned to the desk he pushed the files aside and pulled out several sheets of paper, setting Jonah’s inkpots and pens in front of him.
He did not know when he drifted off to sleep, was just suddenly aware of someone draping a blanket over his shoulders. As he straightened in his chair Dax pointed to the pages he had been working on.
“Chronicle of the Unified Colony, Year One,” the boy read from the top page, then straightened the blanket. “It’s cold in here. You need to take better care of yourself.”
“What I need,” Hadrian replied, “is a walk to clear my head.”
Outside they bought some roasted walnuts from a street vendor and strolled to one of the little parks overlooking the waterfront. Wagons were on the ice road now, their horses and oxen newly shod with cleats, beginning their long trip to New Jerusalem. Children were skating along the nearest dock. A cloud plump with snow was settling over the town.
“You should be in school,” Hadrian said to the boy as they sat on a bench.
“I tried school,” Dax said. “I get confused about what we’re not supposed to know and what we really have to know.”
“I think that will change,” Hadrian offered.
“I’m just tired of it,” Dax said in his old-man voice. “I wish there was a place I could go that has no time, not of this world, not of the last one, where I could just lie by a fire with books for the winter.”
Snow began falling on the cobbled streets below. Hadrian absently scratched his cheek as he watched the skaters. “You know, Dax, I might know such a place. I could take you there, stay with you for a day or two. You’d be welcome to spend the whole winter reading books in front of a fireplace.” He realized that for the first time in months a contented smile was spreading across his face. “But tell me something first. Are you frightened of bears?”
Author’s Note
ENDINGS OF WORLDS have occurred throughout human history. Some have been abrupt, like the annihilation of the original, ancient Carthage by the Romans. Some have been gradual, like the destruction of the Tibetan world over the past fifty years by the Chinese. But none have encompassed all of humankind. Only in recent years have we developed the capability for annihilation on a planetary scale. While there may be many reasons to believe that such a nightmare will never occur, the moment that capability became real, global apocalypse entered the realm of the possible.
This novel is certainly not meant to be a prophecy, but implicit in its backdrop are predictions about the state of technology and science after such universal destruction. Even with highly trained scientists among its inhabitants, it seems likely that a society of survivors with no electricity and no internal combustion engines would turn to early industrial age technologies. Locating the Carthage colony on the Great Lakes endowed its inhabitants with an environment rich in minerals, timber, water, and wildlife, meaning that simple technologies like those for making matches, paper, cloth, glass, and lumber would be readily available. Once foundries and forges were developed, steam engines and other simple machines would not be far behind. The setting on the inland sea also means the colonists are able to travel long distances by water—and in a region of long winters with few roads, incentives would be great to advance the iceboat technology of an earlier century.
The effects of global destruction on the external trappings of a community of survivors strike me as far easier to anticipate than the effects on the human psyche. Certainly baser human cravings and prejudices would not become extinct, yet nor would dignity, honor, and spirituality. With survivors comprising a random cross-section of modern society, there would be ample opportunity for the glory, and the shame, of humankind to be exhibited. It was this unique mix of worlds and peoples that drove my curiosity in writing this book. A stage on which a twenty-first-century cast relying on nineteenth-century technology struggles with murder, starvation, tyranny, and even the meaning of civilization itself provides fertile ground for imagination.
As my characters became more like companions on this journey, I began to sense an inevitable tension between the survivors, who must shoulder the nearly unbearable weight of memories of the past world and collective guilt over its fate, and the new generation, who would have to cope with inexplicable physical and emotional remnants of the old world. After being severed from their world would survivors lose all confidence in their past, would they shy away from history? Would the lost world seem more a myth than a nightmare to the new generation? How would it feel to glimpse the possible dying of humankind’s light? What would define the people who were the most successful survivors—and how far must humanity be sacrificed for the survival of humans? Of all the mysteries explored on these pages, perhaps the greatest is the nature of the spark that must be kept alive.
—ELIOT PATTISON
Ashes of the Earth Page 33
