The Burning City

by Jerry Pournelle

  He heard Freethspat climbing in behind him. There was a rustle as he hid under the tarp. “Well done,” came the whisper. “Couldn’t have done it better myself. Whandall, I’m proud of you.”

  Whandall didn’t care to speak.

  Freethspat examined the dead man, then cursed softly.

  “What?”

  “He’s a Toronexti,” Freethspat said. “So was the other one. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Tell you what?” Whandall demanded. Suddenly he remembered Wanshig’s words: Alferth had hired Toronexti to guard the vineyards.

  Freethspat sighed. “You have a lot to learn, boy. You don’t gather from the Toronexti. Ever.”

  Whandall pointed to the dead man. “They’re not so tough—”

  “No, they’re not. But there are a lot of them. You kill one, others come looking for you, and you won’t know who they are.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We get out of here with this stuff.” Freethspat frowned. “We get rid of it as quick as we can. Maybe they gathered the wagon. No Toronexti marks on that.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “Never you mind.”

  It was tempting to think in terms of secrets: of hiding. The wine under the false bed was in little flasks. Those could be hidden. It was what you did with wine. But how would you hide a wagon?

  They discussed it after they’d cleared the gatehouse. They reached home in a stony silence.

  Whandall began moving garbage.

  Friends offered suggestions: get shovels, line the wagon with hay. Some of the Serpent’s Walk men helped him do that. Others helped move garbage away from where they lived, until they got bored. Freethspat stayed with it. If any part of the scheme had collapsed, Freethspat would have gotten Whandall out alive and then never let him forget it. But he became good with the shovel, and he stayed with it.

  Four more were good enough at it, and stayed long enough, that Whandall and Freethspat shared wine with them. They stayed as a core, to gather other men.

  Four days of that, and everyone was tired of it. Serpent’s Walk was full of men from Alferth’s quarter who knew very well where and how Whandall got that wagon. Whandall left the wagon abandoned. It disappeared, with a few flasks left under the boards as a gift.

  There was wine for Mother and Mother’s Mother; for his sister Sharlatta and the man she’d brought home after Whandall evicted Chapoka; for Elriss, who had known no man since Wanshig disappeared, and Wess, whose man had taken to vanishing at night. Wine served as a don’t-kill-me gift for Hartanbath, the man he’d cut. That was Freethspat’s suggestion. Whandall and Freethspat shared two bottles with Hartanbath and some of his Flower Market friends, and were gone before Hartanbath had drunk very much.

  Dusk in Tep’s Town. Whandall stood at the western edge of the Placehold roof garden to watch the sun fall into the sea. The landscape below softened, hiding the garbage and the filthy streets. A few kinless hurried home, eager to reach shelter before darkness gave the world over to gatherers and worse.

  There were Lordkin with no place to go. Some found shelter with kinless. That could be tricky. Kinless had no rights, but some were protected. Pelzed and other Lordkin leaders put some streets off limits. The Lords didn’t permit a breach of the peace, but they never said what that was. Armed Lordsmen might come to help a kinless house under siege. Sometimes Lordsmen squads swept through Tep’s Town and rounded up any Lordkin unlucky enough to get their attention. They took their prisoners to camps where they were put to work on the roads and aqueducts for a year. That didn’t seem to happen in Serpent’s Walk. Pelzed? Luck? Yangin-Atep?

  Probably not Yangin-Atep.

  And you didn’t steal from the Toronexti. But only Freethspat could recognize them, so now what? And how did he do that?

  The day faded, and now the city was lit with a thousand backyard cook fires.

  Whandall took out three flasks of wine. He drank the first in three gulps. He was halfway through the second when he heard the scream.

  He listened long enough to be sure it didn’t come from the Placehold. He sipped more wine. Not his business. The scream ended with a strangled gurgle. Someone had died of a cut throat. Whandall wondered who it might be. Someone he knew? A kinless who resisted? More likely a Lordkin knife fight.

  Freethspat was proud of him. He’d killed the guard. His first kill. Some would add to their tattoos, or wear an earring. It was what Lordkin did. This was what it meant to be Lordkin.

  His belly spasmed and spat the last swallow of wine straight up into his nose and sinuses. He doubled over, coughing and snorting and trying to get the acid out of his windpipe, and more wine came up. Stupid. He knew what wine did. He got himself under control and took another swallow.

  There were torches over by the new ropewalk. The scream had come from that direction. Could someone be gathering there? Who’d be such a fool? The ropewalk was in Pelzed’s forbidden zone. Two Lordkin families lived among the kinless rope makers. Whandall had been inside that area only once, during the Burning. Rebuilding of the ropewalk started the day after the Burning, and Pelzed himself came down to supervise and make it clear that the kinless working there were never to be molested. Rope was important, both to use and to sell. Once Whandall had been curious about how it was made, but no Lordkin knew that.

  Hemp held many secrets. Where hemp was grown, how the fibers were stripped from it, always at dawn after a night of heavy dew, but no one knew why. Tar was brought from the Black Pit. Hemp fibers and tar were taken to a long narrow building, and later they came out as rope, some tarred, some not, to be used and sold. Ships used rope. Rope left Serpent’s Walk, gold and shells came back, and every step of that was protected by Pelzed here and the Lordsmen elsewhere.

  A dozen torches now. Whandall began the third flask of wine. It was his last. The screams had stopped. The torchbearers went out of sight. Whandall thought he saw shadows moving near the ropewalk.

  The next morning a Lordkin from the Hook was found with his throat cut. Someone had gathered his clothes and shoes, leaving him naked on a trash heap.

  CHAPTER

  27

  Thus Whandall—who already knew how to fight and how to run—learned how to gather a pony-drawn vehicle and really move out. One day he might be glad.

  And he had a hell of a story to tell, if the chief flasker ever wanted to make something of it.

  That was unlikely. Alferth worked with (never for) certain lords. Whandall had robbed them. Alferth would defend his status, but he would never defend property. To Alferth, Whandall and Freethspat had only demonstrated their skill.

  A great many Lordkin were part kinless, as many kinless merchants were part Lordkin. Only kinless would defend property. And Alferth’s nose was a little too pointed, and he didn’t have enough earlobe, and in fact any fool could see (as any wise man would forget) that Alferth had kinless blood.

  But somewhere a Lord had been robbed. Whandall wondered about him, and about the Toronexti that Lord had hired to guard and move his wine. What would they do? The Toronexti guarded a path to nowhere, and nobody knew who they were. Alferth knew who had killed two of them.

  Whandall was coming to realize that no one ever felt safe in Tep’s Town.

  He stopped worrying about Alferth, though. Alferth wouldn’t talk to the Toronexti now. They’d want to know why he hadn’t spoken earlier. They’d lost a wagon they were guarding; they’d never want anyone to know that! If Alferth spoke, he would only embarrass himself and the Toronexti. Nobody did that.

  They were still talking, somewhere in the higher circles no Lordkin had seen save Whandall, up there where the Lords set the taxes and the kinless made their futile protests. On the street corners there was talk of compromise. Whandall heard the rumors and wondered what to believe.

  Tep’s Town was to have a troop of guards.

  Whandall laughed when he heard that, but the rumors piled up details, and the laughter faded. Someone in the counci
ls was serious.

  Several hands of kinless men would be given weapons, never to be concealed. Most would be allowed hardwood sticks and torches.

  Torches? A mad suggestion. Fire belonged to Yangin-Atep. Darkness belonged to any gatherer in need.

  Rigid rules were laid down. The guards might use their sticks in carefully described circumstances, but never otherwise. Only officers (their numbers restricted) might carry blades, and those no longer than a hand. Guards would wear conspicuous clothing. They must never approach a Lordkin by subterfuge. From time to time their behavior would be reviewed by the Lordkin and the Lords.

  Whandall wondered what the kinless thought they had won. Hedged about with such rules, they’d be more helpless than ever. The Lords themselves, and the loudest voices among the Lordkin, might have agreed to this nonsense, but if Lordkin saw fit to take a stick away from some kinless guard, they would!

  But water and food were moving again. Garbage was leaving the inner city, though a few of those ash pits turned garbage pits were being made to grow food. Structures began to rise to cover the scars of the Burning.

  Everyone was happy about that, but Whandall remembered the Lordshills and wondered.

  Rumor flowed down from Lord’s Town. There, Lordkin and kinless lived together and worked for mutual benefit. Garbage still moved. The fountains were turned off, most of them, but the date and olive trees weren’t dry. Flower gardens still grew.

  How was it done? Who were these Lords to have a city and a life when Tep’s Town was dying?

  It was death to go and look.

  There had been a living god who gave fire to men. Nobody could doubt that. But Alferth, who started the Burning when Whandall was seven, hadn’t been possessed by Yangin-Atep. He’d laughed when Tras suggested such a thing. The fires he’d set didn’t seem to be motivated by anything bigger than the whim to watch a fire.

  Whandall was losing faith. Yangin-Atep must be mythical by now.

  Morth of Atlantis was gone.

  The Placehold women didn’t want Whandall to take a woman. He was the last man born in the Placehold. Yangin-Atep forbid he should leave—the house would have no trusted protector—but one more woman would be a hardship.

  Wess came to share his bed sometimes, so he should not have been lonely. Wess had reconsidered. Freethspat wasn’t interested in a second wife, and Whandall was as good a catch as Wess was likely to find. She made it clear to Whandall that she would move in anytime he asked.

  Whandall refused. It rankled that she had moved out of his room when she thought Freethspat might be available….

  And other men came to visit. Wess was never unfriendly to any man who might have power. Freethspat was here, and his sister Ilyessa brought home a man… and it didn’t feel like his family anymore.

  One day Whandall would bring home a mate. The women would presently accept her. He would sire children. He was a fighter—or the rest of the city thought he was. He would rise in power among Pelzed’s counselors, and a few would whisper that Pelzed thought of him as his heir. In later years he would sometimes collect taxed goods to supply a feast. He would speak with the Lords to shape civic policy. The Placehold and the city expected these things of him.

  They didn’t know that fire had claimed the Placehold men because Whandall stayed behind to get laid.

  He was leery of making decisions for others. He held his opinions to himself and shied away from being too persuasive. And he watched the city rebuild.

  PART FOUR

  The Return

  CHAPTER

  28

  Two years after the Burning, Elriss had blossomed into a very handsome woman, desired by nearly every man who saw her. She worked in the roof gardens and tended Arnimer, the son born months after the Burning. She taught all the Placehold children. She worked with the other women, and she was respectful to Freethspat; but except to go to Peacegiven Square on Mother’s Day, she never left the Placehold, and she never spoke to men, visitors, or single Placeholders, except for Whandall.

  She treated Whandall like Wanshig’s little brother. Even wine hadn’t tempted her. Presently even Whandall thought of her as a sister.

  Whandall was dressing. Presently he would go to the meetinghouse to drink tea with Pelzed, carry out any errand Pelzed might have, watch how power was used…

  Elriss came shouting to his door. “Wanshig is back!” she cried. “I see him! He’s coming up the street.”

  And moments later Wanshig was there. He looked older, thinner, and a great deal stronger. Whandall had only moments to greet him before Elriss swept him into the room she had held from before he left. She showed him her son. Then the infant Arnimer was sent out to play with the other children, and no one saw Elriss or Wanshig for a long time.

  Whandall went to the roof.

  Wanshig knew! Whandall could have come to help the Placehold men, but he stopped for Dream-Lotus. Wanshig was back, and Wanshig knew.

  They sat drinking weak hemp tea after dinner. Everyone listened as Wanshig told his story. He was looking at Whandall as he said, “I ran just as fast as I could and I was still too late. I saw an old man running away, looking back. I wondered if it was Morth.”

  Whandall realized he’d been holding his breath.

  “The shop was full of Lordkin,” Wanshig said. “I could see them through the door and a big window: at least ten, and they were all Placeholders, Whandall. Enough Placehold men to drive anyone else away.

  “Things were burning inside. Resalet was possessed of Yangin-Atep! I saw him wave at a shelf, and a whole line of pots puffed into flame. He picked up something big in both arms.”

  “What was that?”

  “I never knew. Understand, I was moving at a dead run. Legs like soggy wood. All I saw of anyone was a shadow backed by fire. I knew Resalet by the way he moved, and his arms were wrapped around a heavy round thing about as big as… as Arnimer.”

  The babe looked up on hearing his name. Wanshig stroked his back and said, holding his voice to an icy calm, “I tried to scream ‘Get out! Get out!’ I went, ‘Whoosh!’ No breath. I sucked in air to scream. Whatever was burning in that shop caught in my throat. I went into a coughing fit.

  “Cousin Fiasoom staggered through the door, clawing at his throat, and fell to his knees. Resalet was coughing too. I could see him hunch over, just inside the doorway. He gestured the edge of his round thing into a tiny white flame, very bright. He plucked off the lid.

  “Everything went white.”

  “The box exploded?”

  “No. I saw just that much. Resalet exploded. Resalet was one great glare like looking into the sun at noon. It was like daggers in my eyes. I screamed and threw my arms over my eyes and curled up around myself. I felt Yangin-Atep breathe on my back, one long blast, and then he went away.

  “I was blind. When I could move, I waited a bit. Maybe someone from the Placehold would see me, see? Nobody did, so I started feeling my way around. I stayed back from the heat that must have been Morth’s shop. I could hear the riot around me.

  “My sight came back with edges and white spots. I could see people around me gathering and burning. I wanted out. You understand? Out. No more Burning. No more Serpent’s Walk, no more Tep’s Town.”

  “Sure, Shig.”

  “Nobody’s called me that in a long time.”

  “What then? The women were guarding the Placehold—”

  “I didn’t even think of that. I went to the Black Pit. I couldn’t see; I couldn’t fight. I needed a place to hide, and you told me ghosts couldn’t hurt me, remember? I thought they’d scare away anyone else, so I went there. Spent the night.

  “In the morning I could see more. My good white tunic was charred all across the back where Yangin-Atep had breathed on me. My hair came off in handfuls. It was crisp. There were a lot of fires far away, east and south. Whandall, I never wanted to see fire again.”

  Whandall laughed.

  Wanshig didn’t. He said, “I went to the do
cks. I played sneak-and-spy past a few Water Devils. There were ships. I went to the biggest.

  “The entrance to a ship, they call that a gangplank. Two men were on guard there, not Water Devils. I told the big one, the older one, ‘I want to sail on a ship.’

  “Both men laughed, but I could feel them separating a little, you know? To put one behind me. The big one said, ‘Well, that’s not a problem, boy,’ and I turned fast and caught the other one’s arm.

  “He’d tried to hit me with a little wood club they call a fishkiller. You know, Whandall, we practice this kind of thing. I broke his arm and let him dangle over the water, holding him out with my one arm—you know, showing off. I told Manocane, the big guy, the officer, ‘I want his job.’

  “That was Sabrioloy. His job was guarding the Lordkin. When the Lordsmen wheel up a cart full of gatherers, Sabrioloy knocks them on the head, shows them who’s boss. He tried that with me. After that, I was boss, boss over the Lordkin sailors, anyway. Sabrioloy showed me the rest of what I needed to know. He trained me, and I didn’t throw him over. Whandall, he couldn’t swim.”

  “A ship’s man? I thought even Water Devils could swim.”

  “Most sailors can’t swim.”

  Their doubt must have showed. Wanshig said, “We were just pulling out of the bay. The officers wanted more sails up, so Sabrioloy and I drove the men aloft to raise them. Jack Rigenlord was an old hand, and he was up there above us all. Then a mountain of water stood up out of the sea and hit us broadside. It must have been magic, Whandall. I never saw anything like it before or since. Waves come in lines, rows, but this just stood up and curled over and wham. The ship heeled over and the mainmast bowed like a whip. Jack flew into the sea. He waved once at us and was gone. That made me a believer.