Bannerless

by Carrie Vaughn

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  A Suspicious Death

  The Worst Storm

  The Body

  Five Years After the Worst Storm

  Blood on the Wall

  Sea Glass

  Complications

  Escape

  Interrogations

  Hunter-Gatherers

  Waste and Excess

  The Next Worst Storm

  The World Might Not Remember

  Acknowledgments

  Coming Soon from Carrie Vaughn: The Next Volume in the Bannerless Saga

  About the Author

  Connect with HMH

  Copyright © 2017 by Carrie Vaughn

  All rights reserved

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to trade.permissions@hmhco.com or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  www.hmhco.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 978-0-544-94730-6

  Cover design by Mark R. Robinson

  Cover photograph © Tunart/Getty Images

  eISBN 978-0-544-94763-4

  v1.0617

  For Paolo, who might not know that he got the ball rolling on this one

  CHAPTER ONE • HAVEN

  ///////////////////////////////////////

  A Suspicious Death

  Enid came downstairs into a kitchen bright with morning sun blazing through the one window and full of the greasy smell of cooked sausage. Olive already had breakfast—sausage, toast, cream—set out on the table. In her dress and apron, her dark hair pulled back with a scrap of cloth, she was already at work—but shouldn’t have been, in Enid’s opinion.

  “How are you feeling?” Enid asked, hoping to keep worry out of her voice.

  “I wish people would stop asking me that,” Olive said, not looking up from the batch of dough that she was kneading, folding and punching it into the counter as if she could make it disappear.

  Three other batches of dough sat rising in nearby bowls. Serenity household didn’t need that much bread. Olive would probably trade it around the rest of Haven town.

  Enid couldn’t help herself. “How long you been up?”

  Olive’s smile was strained. “Up before Berol this morning.” Berol worked the early shift at the goat farm outside town. He was usually the first one up.

  “You sure you shouldn’t be resting? You don’t have to work so hard.”

  “I want to be useful. I have to be useful.”

  You are, Enid thought. Maybe part of Olive resting was just leaving her alone to mourn the miscarriage and recover in her own way. Which maybe meant making too much bread.

  “Tea?” Olive asked as Enid sat and took up a knife to smear cream on a slice of toast.

  “Sure.”

  Olive smiled broadly; such a little thing could please her. She bustled between the stove and counter to get the pot ready—of course, she already had water heated. When the tea was poured, Enid wrapped her hands around the earthenware mug to soak in the warmth, breathing in the steam, and tried not to nag too much.

  They made small talk about the weather and the town, the late-summer market coming up and which of the outlying households might travel in, which of their far-off friends might visit. Usual gossip about who was sleeping with whom and whether the grain harvest was going to be over or under quota, and if it was over, would the committee let a couple of fields go fallow next year, though some would grumble that with a surplus the town could support a couple more mouths, hand out a couple more banners. Folk always wanted more banners.

  After breakfast Enid helped clean up but only got as far as wiping down the table. Olive had already taken the plate and cup from her hands to put in the washbasin.

  “What’re you up to today, then?” Olive asked.

  “I’m off to see if the clinic needs any help. Work’s been slow lately.”

  “It’s good that work’s slow, yeah?”

  When Enid had work, it meant something had gone wrong. “It is.”

  She put a vest over her tunic, took her straw hat from its hook by the door, and went outside. Didn’t get much farther than that and stopped, seeing Tomas coming down the walk toward her.

  Tomas was a middle-aged man, his silvering hair tied back in a short tail, his face pale and weathered, laugh lines abundant. Average height, a commanding gaze. He wore his investigator’s uniform: plain belt and boots, simple tunic and trousers in a dark brown the color of earth, much deeper than any usual homespun or plain dyed brown.

  A charge lit her brain: they had a job.

  “Up for a tough one?” he asked in greeting.

  “What is it?”

  “Suspicious death out at Pasadan.” His frown pulled at the lines in his face.

  Enid stood amazed. She had investigated thefts and fraud, households that tried to barter the same bags of grain or barrels of cider twice, or that reneged on trades. She’d broken up fights and tracked down assaults. She had investigated bannerless pregnancies—women who’d gotten pregnant either because their implants had failed or, more rarely, because they’d thought to have a baby in secret. Keeping such a thing secret was nearly impossible—to her knowledge no one ever had. Though she supposed if they had managed to keep such a secret, no one would ever know. If you asked most folk, they’d say a bannerless pregnancy was the worst of the work she did. The hardest, because she would be the one to decide if the case was an accident that could be made right, or a malicious flouting of everything the Coast Road communities stood for.

  Murder had become rare. Much rarer than in the old world, according to the survivor stories. It still happened, of course; it always happened when enough people lived in close-enough quarters. But Enid never thought she’d see one herself. And maybe she still wouldn’t; suspicious death was only suspicious, but Tomas seemed grim.

  “Maybe you’d better come in and explain,” she said.

  //////////////////////////////////////////////////

  Tomas made himself at home in the kitchen, settling into a chair at the table.

  Olive, still at the counter kneading bread, looked up. “Hey! Company! Can I get you some tea—” The bright greeting was habit; she stopped midsentence, her eyes widening. It was the uniform. Always a shock seeing it, no matter if an old friend like Tomas wore it.

  “I’d love some tea, thanks,” Tomas said. “How are you, Olive?” His tone was friendly, casual—an everyday question, not the pointed one Enid and the rest of the household had been asking her for the last week, and so Olive was able to give him an unforced welcome.

  “Just fine,” she said, wiping her hands on a dishcloth then scooping fresh leaves from their jar into the pot. “If this is about work, I can leave you two alone . . .”

  “It’s all right,” Tomas said. “You’re busy—stay.”

  Olive finished prepping the teapot, then went back to her dough, slapping the fourth batch into a smooth loaf, round and puffed and smelling of yeast.

  “So what’s this about?” Enid asked. Suspicious death was frustratingly nonspecific.

  “A committee member at Pasadan requested the investigation. Man in his thirties, no other information.”

  “That’s maybe thirty miles south, yeah?” Enid asked. “Not a big place.”

  “Couple hundred folk. Stable enough, mostly subsistence farming and some trade. Healthy community, everyone at regional thought.”

  “But are they really thinking murder?”

  At the counter, Olive stopped kneading and glanced over, blinking disbelief.
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  Sam wandered in then, barefoot, shirtless, all wiry body, brown skin, and ropy muscles. Her Sam was thin but powerful. Folk thought he was weak, until he hefted fifty-pound bags of grain on his shoulder with one hand. He stood fast in storms.

  “Murder? What?” he muttered sleepily, then saw Tomas and the uniform. “Oh, it’s work. I’ll go.” He started to turn around.

  “Stay, Sam,” Tomas said. “Have some tea.”

  Sam looked at Enid for confirmation, and she hoped her smile was comforting. This would be all right; this was her job, after all. And Sam was family, part of what made her able to do the job. Someone to come home to.

  “Morning, dear,” she said, and kissed his cheek.

  He sank into a chair at the kitchen table and accepted a fresh mug from Enid. “Murder, you said?” He tilted his head, a picture of bafflement. Who could blame him?

  Tomas continued. “No one’s said the word ‘murder,’ but they want us to check.” He turned to Enid. “You up for that? You’re due to carry this one as lead.”

  “Well, yes. Someone’s got to, I suppose. But—are there witnesses? What happened?”

  “Don’t know yet. They’ve saved the body. We’ll see what we see.”

  “If they’ve got a body on ice, we ought to hurry,” she said.

  “I was hoping to foot it in a couple hours, after we’ve had a chance to go through the records.”

  Well, that was her day planned then, wasn’t it?

  “Is everything going to be all right?” Olive asked.

  They all looked to Tomas, the elder and mentor, for the answer to that, and he took a moment to reply. How did you answer that? Certainly, most things would be all right for most people. But they never would be again for the dead man, or the people who loved the person he’d been.

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” Tomas said. “That’s our job.”

  Our job. Investigators, moving through communities like brown-draped shadows of ill tidings.

  “Oh, I’ll always worry,” said good, sweet Olive, and the smile she gave them was almost back to normal. Then she sighed. “At least it’s not a banner violation.”

  She’d become deeply sympathetic to households caught in banner violations. Wanting a baby badly enough could make someone break the rules, she’d say, and then insist she would never ever do such a thing herself, of course. But she could sympathize. After all, you could follow all the rules, earn a banner, and then nature plays a cruel trick on you.

  On the wall above the kitchen door hung a piece of woven cloth, a foot square on each side, a red-and-green-checked pattern for blood and life: their banner, which the four of them had earned. They’d all come from households that put their banners on the wall as a mark of pride. This was their first, and they could hope there would be more. Then Olive had miscarried. They had a banner and no baby to show for it. Enid kept telling Olive that they had time and more chances. No one could take the banner away.

  //////////////////////////////////////////////////

  Enid and Tomas arranged to meet at Haven’s archives, where they’d go over any records they had on Pasadan, looking for . . . anything. Something not right. Something that stood out and might explain any anomalies they found once they got there.

  After Tomas left, she went to change into the uniform, the earth-brown tunic and trousers. Along with it, she put on the attitude she’d need to convince people she was in charge and her word was law.

  Serenity household’s cottage had a handful of rooms. The kitchen and workspace, several bedrooms. Olive and Berol had the downstairs one, Enid and Sam the upstairs. There, she sat on the bed, her brown tunic laid out next to her, her pack open at her feet, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. Sam found her there with her guard down, holding head in hands, just for a moment.

  He settled beside her, his weight creaking the ropes under the mattress, making her sway.

  “Don’t you have to get to work?” she said, straightening, combing fingers through her short hair to cover her unease.

  “We’re just putting the walls up on the new barn at End Zone. It can wait. You going to be all right?”

  “Yes, yes,” she said. “It’s probably a misunderstanding. Can’t really be a murder, can it?”

  “One way or another, you’ll figure it out.”

  “Nice of you to have faith in me.”

  She stretched out her hand; he took it and squeezed. His darker coloring contrasted with the pale sand color of hers. Both hands were calloused and weathered, rough, catching against each other. Pulling herself over to him, she gave him a long kiss, which he happily reciprocated. She hoped she would be back to kiss him again soon, and that he was right and she would figure this out quickly.

  Back in the kitchen, Olive was clearing up her workspace. Finally finished with the bread.

  “I shouldn’t be more than a few days,” Enid said, backpack over one shoulder. “Tell Berol I said hey, yeah?”

  “Enid. I was thinking.” Olive paused, staring at her clean hands. Avoiding looking up. “I was thinking maybe you should try. Maybe it was meant to be yours.”

  It. The banner. The baby.

  How could Olive say that so easily to a woman about to leave for a death investigation? Olive was the one meant to be a mother; Enid couldn’t seem to stop traveling. Enid teared up at the unfairness of what had happened, but she held herself calm—the uniform might have helped—and replied firmly, avoiding any tone that could be mistaken for anything but resolve. “I stand by what we decided. Don’t go dismissing yourself so easily, my girl. The banner is yours.”

  She went to Olive, kissed her cheek before heading for the door. Olive appeared both exhausted and grateful.

  Olive clasped her hand for a moment. “Careful, Enid. This sounds like a rough one.”

  “Don’t worry,” Enid said. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

  “Better,” she said sternly.

  //////////////////////////////////////////////////

  Serenity was on the outskirts of the town of Haven, situated on the Coast Road. The place occupied a wide, grassy valley, bounded by distant rolling hills and lots of sky. Pasture, cultivated fields, orchards, and vineyards, and the households that tended them, spread out along winding paths and the shadows of old roads. The settlement that clustered around Haven was home to a couple thousand folk. Sometimes, especially on the big market days, the place even felt crowded. But mostly it sprawled.

  The walk from Serenity to the clinic in the middle of town didn’t take long, maybe twenty minutes, straight down the Coast Road. Enid passed a handful of other households, some garden patches, and workshops. The forge was lit, metalsmiths working, and voices carried from the potters’. Chickens muttered from coops, and goats chuckled from behind sheds.

  Other Haven townsfolk were out and about; they started to wave when Enid came up the road, but saw the uniform and then held back. The uniforms changed people, and it didn’t matter how familiar their faces were, most folk never treated them quite the same while they wore the brown. Enid could smile and wave back all she wanted; nothing seemed to change that.

  The archives were in the cellar under the clinic building in the middle of town. One of the few surviving structures from before the Fall, it seemed incongruous next to the other buildings, which were all stucco and plank boards. The clinic was made of smooth concrete and metal, austere and oddly geometric, like a piece that had fallen out of a puzzle. An array of solar collectors covered the roof except where skylights peered through, and drainpipes fed into a cistern. The windows were tall and narrow, unadorned. A porch had been added, and orange and lemon trees edged the walkway.

  Most of the space around the clinic was taken up with the town square, which hosted once-a-month markets and communal herb gardens. A couple of nearby households worked to maintain the gardens and process the herbs, drying them for cooking, preparing them for medicinal and household use. This late in the summer, the air in this part of t
own smelled heady, almost overpowering, with mint and sage and lavender and a dozen other scents rising up and becoming rich and languorous. The air was hot and sticky; Enid’s hat kept the sun off.

  The packed dirt of the main road through town had once been asphalt. It had decayed decades ago, so folk tore it out. This was way before Enid’s time, but when she was young, Auntie Kath told stories about it, about the bones of the world from before and what they had to do to survive. The shadow of that world remained, the streets in the same places and the foundations of buildings still visible. But a new skin had been put over it. This was all Enid had known, but Auntie Kath used to sit on the shaded porch of the clinic and look out, murmuring, It’s so different now.

  Tomas waited for her at the cellar’s slanted wooden doors. She nodded at him, and he opened one of the doors and gestured her down.

  Down a set of concrete stairs, the clinic’s cellar opened up. A switch turned on a string of lights, powered by the solar panels on the clinic roof. The ceiling was low—so much so Tomas had to slouch—but the space was wide and filled with shelves, trunks, wooden crates, and plastic bins. Much of it was like a museum—odds and ends from before the Fall that folk thought might be useful someday . . . or might never be useful again but someone had thought worth saving, keeping dry and safe. The place had a musty, disused air that tickled the nose.

  Books—hundreds of them—comprised the bulk of the collection. The founders of Haven had looted a couple of libraries, so the stories went. Practical books on farming, food preservation, irrigation, medicine—everything they thought they might need. But also an odd collection of novels, commentary, magazines, and newspapers—things that would have been disposable back then. Now, they seemed like a time capsule. Artifacts of a lost world. And then the diaries, the journals, the accounts and letters written by people who lived through the Fall. History, now. During their training, investigators were required to read the extant diaries and journals, to understand people, to understand where their world came from and why their rules existed. To try to keep all that from ever happening again.