Bannerless

by Carrie Vaughn

  Enid wasn’t at all surprised to find that Philos’s household was organized, attractive, comfortable—a place anyone would be happy to live in, and she imagined he was very proud of it. Philos seemed to pay attention to appearances. Several whitewashed cottages, roofed with shakes and solar collectors, sat around a courtyard that marked where the blocks and streets from before the Fall must have been—the center block was left open and held a couple of fruit trees, a kitchen garden, and the ubiquitous chicken coop. Hens scratched in the dirt path surrounding the yard. A windmill and cistern were tucked back behind one of the cottages. A painted sign stood at the entrance; BOUNTY, it read, and was decorated with the same flowers and loops of ivy as the sign into Pasadan, likely made by the same person. Nice touch.

  An open-air shed housed a forge, cold and quiet for now. The rhythmic clap-and-beat of a loom sounded from another cottage. Bounty farmed grain for trade but produced their own staples of cloth and metal. Nothing out of the ordinary jumped out at her.

  “What’s Kirk do?” Enid asked. Philos continued a hard-and-fast pace to the larger cottage at the back of the household, probably the kitchen and sleeping quarters.

  “Manages the household,” he stated over his shoulder. “Building upkeep, taking care of water and heat. He also does our trading. He travels.”

  Philos let her into the cottage’s common room. “Wait here,” he ordered, then disappeared out the back. Gamely, she did so, hands clasped behind her, studying the wild roses in the vase on the table, the couple of banners hanging on the wall.

  It wasn’t long before two men came storming back through the back door as if in response to a terrified scream. But no, it was just her, gazing back calmly and with interest.

  Kirk saw her, glared. “What do you want?”

  He could be more polite, Enid thought.

  “She wants to talk to you,” his father declared.

  “I want to talk to you,” she repeated, more cheerfully. “Shouldn’t take long. Would you like a seat?”

  He remained standing, Philos beside him, the two of them together like a wall.

  Enid said, “Philos, would you mind leaving us alone for a bit?” She knew he very well would mind. Why was he so very protective of his son? Did Kirk need protecting? When Philos didn’t leave—when he clenched his fists at his sides like he was considering defying her—she wondered if she should have brought Tomas and his staff with her instead of leaving him to conduct the other interviews on their list.

  But no, she stood her ground, kept her expression calm, and Philos ducked his gaze and left through the front door. Kirk still didn’t sit down, but Enid did. Just to throw him off.

  She said, “I saw someone with Miran watching Sero’s pyre yesterday. Was that you?”

  There was often that moment when someone hesitated, deciding whether to tell the truth or lie. Deciding which one would cause them less trouble.

  “Yeah,” he said finally. He gave a decisive nod as if saying yes, this was the story he would settle on. “I was only there because she was. What’s your concern with her? She hasn’t done anything—”

  “Never said she did. She’s a friend?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And why was she there?”

  He shrugged, looked away. “I think she was just curious. I told her she should let it go. It’s kind of morbid, you know?”

  “How well did you know Sero?” she asked next.

  “I didn’t. I never spoke to him.”

  “Never?”

  “I had no reason to.”

  Her turn to shrug. “You might have, if he’d ever done any work here or nearby. Pasadan isn’t that big of a village.”

  He crossed his arms. “I never talked to him. I didn’t know him at all. I mean, apart from rumors. People talked about him. They say he was bannerless.”

  “Yes, I know. He wasn’t, though. That’s just a rumor. Do you know if Miran talked to him?”

  “Never. Why would she?”

  “In fact, she did. He did some work for Sirius household. I understand she was his contact for that.”

  He didn’t deny it this time, and he didn’t look surprised.

  She said, “We’re trying to learn who the last people who saw Sero alive might have been. They might give us a better idea of what happened to him—”

  “I heard he fell. He just fell.” Kirk picked at the seam on his trousers.

  “Do you know anyone who might have been at his house before he died?”

  “No, no—”

  “What were you doing, oh, five days ago? Where were you that morning?”

  “I’d have to think about it a minute.”

  “Take your time.”

  He did. He paced, just a short little arc around that end of the table. He kept glancing at her, presumably watching for signs of impatience. She didn’t show any, waiting calmly, still studying him like he was an interesting experiment.

  “Five days . . . I was working here at home. Weeding the garden, getting the kitchen ready for canning. Summer chores, right? Anyone can tell you. Philos was here—he’ll tell you I was here all day.”

  She imagined he would. “Bien, thanks. Please let me know if you remember any other details. Oh—and why did you want to see Sero’s pyre?”

  “I didn’t, I told you. I was there with Miran.”

  “Because you’re friends.”

  “Right.”

  “Thanks, Kirk.” She turned to go, leaving him looking sour and distracted.

  Philos was waiting for her directly outside. He might have been listening in the whole time. The image of him leaning in with his ear pressed to the wood amused her.

  “Can I help you?” she asked him.

  “You’re not going to find what you’re looking for.”

  She cocked her head, inquired quizzically. “What is it you think I’m looking for?”

  “Someone to punish.”

  “Ah . . . that isn’t even my favorite part of the job.”

  “What is?” he asked.

  She leaned in. “Making people squirm. Have a good afternoon.”

  She strode off, aware of the man watching her leave—making sure she left.

  Philos was hiding something.

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

  “Enid!”

  She was on the road back to the community house and stopped at the call. Dak was coming up the lane, because of course he wouldn’t leave her alone. Complications, indeed.

  “Hola, Dak,” she said. “Sounds like you all had a wonderful time last night.”

  “We did. I’m sorry you missed it.”

  She hid a smile, because she felt rather like she’d been there the whole time.

  “You know I’ve not had a hug from you yet?”

  She had to think back, and sure enough they’d never come closer together than arm’s reach last night. Being very careful with each other. She was still getting over the shock of seeing him at all. Did he really want a hug from her, in this uniform?

  “Not while I’m on duty,” she said. “It’s not really appropriate.”

  “Ah. Yes.”

  She considered that he might actually make a good informant—everyone knew him. Everyone liked him. Assuming he didn’t realize she was trying to turn him into an informant. “Can I ask you something? Just to get your perspective.”

  “Sure.”

  “Are Kirk and Miran in a relationship?”

  “Well, yes, that’s gone on for almost a year now.”

  Just friends—they’d both said that. Why not say more? Might not be important, but then again it might. “Any reason they might not be upfront about it?”

  He chuckled. “They are a little squirrelly about it, aren’t they? I think they’re worried about pressure from their households. Bounty doesn’t want Kirk to leave; Sirius couldn’t survive without Miran; and if the two of them start talking about a banner together . . . which household gets the banner, and so on. I thi
nk they’re trying to avoid the fuss and rumor.”

  Enid couldn’t blame them; seemed to be a lot of both around here. “Might they try to skip the banner?”

  He looked sharply at her. “No. They’d never do that. Being an investigator really does give you a devious mind, doesn’t it?”

  “I’ve seen some pretty devious things,” she agreed. “Your imagination would be shocked. What do you think of Philos?”

  “He worries a lot. Ariana, too. But that’s why they’re on the committee.”

  “It’s a hard job. Lots to worry about. And why is Lee on the committee?”

  “Ah, yes. The third seat rotates households every two years. It was his turn. He’s doing the best he can, I think.”

  Poor man. Not really suited to decision making or standing up to either of the other two. They probably liked it that way.

  “You like it here, then?” she asked him. “Will you take a turn on the committee when your chance comes up?” She had a hard time picturing Dak on any kind of committee. But people changed . . .

  “Pasadan’s a nice place, Enid. Not like some we’ve seen. You know the ones.”

  Yes, she knew: the villages and households they’d visited without enough resources, in states of disrepair and neglect. No, Pasadan wasn’t like that at all.

  “Just perfect here, is it?”

  “Well. I’m sure you’ll find cracks if you pry hard enough. Ariana and Philos not getting along, for one.”

  “Why is that, you think?”

  He studied her, a wry tilt to his lips. Here she was interrogating him, and he was trying to look amused about it. “Town’s due for another banner. It can feed another mouth without stretching resources. And with Sero gone . . . well. That’s yet another mouth, isn’t it?” Not that a death automatically meant a new banner—or murder would be a lot more common, wouldn’t it? The accounting of resources was more complicated than that. “Trouble is, whose household deserves the banner? Ariana’s or Philos’s?”

  They were fighting over who got the next banner? That almost seemed too easy. “Draw straws, I say.”

  “Spoken by someone who never wanted a baby,” he said.

  Enid didn’t mean to, but she thought of Olive and scowled. Would he be surprised to learn that her household had a banner? Looking hard at him, she said, “Are you giving me rumor or data? Do you actually talk to anyone about this sort of thing?”

  His tone remained amused—the better to cut her with. “I hardly know this side of you, Enid. So hard, so terrible. You didn’t used to be like this.”

  She laughed. She didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t help it. For him to make a pronouncement like that? For him to judge anything? “You never knew me, Dak. Not further than you wanted to see, anyway.”

  “Enid—”

  “Are you going to tell me we shouldn’t be here? That nothing wrong happened here? Someone died in a terrible accident, and you’re all just innocent as lambs—”

  “The town should be able to take care of it—”

  “Yes. Yes, they should. But they’re not. You’re not. It’s too hard, isn’t it? And that’s why we’re here. Because it’s too hard.”

  He stepped back. Conceded the point with a bow of his head.

  “I’ll talk to you later, Enid. Maybe after you’ve wrapped up here.” He strolled off on whatever business he was on.

  For now, at least, he’d stopped wandering. He had roots here and couldn’t just take off when he didn’t like the look of a place. Who’d have guessed?

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

  Enid hid away in the meeting room, where she wouldn’t be bothered and wouldn’t be stared at. She pulled out all the records and notes about Pasadan they’d brought with them from the archives. Everything that might be relevant, just to get a rough idea of how the place was doing. Back at Haven, Tomas had identified the trouble with research before a case—one never knew what might be relevant, and so everything looked relevant. They hadn’t had much time to prepare; the notes were rough.

  The town hadn’t had any quota violations, not in a decade. This was usually how a town like Pasadan got in trouble—exceeding quotas, wasting resources, misappropriating excess. Cutting down all the trees in a forest when it only needed half, tilling twice as much ground as required, exhausting farmland that might be desperately needed in another five or ten years. Not planning ahead, and not learning lessons of the past—this was the kind of trouble most towns got into, what committees and investigators tried to prevent.

  Philos had been on the committee here for almost a decade—not unusual. Some towns rotated out committee members every couple of years. Some liked to keep at least one person on for longer, sometimes for life. It created institutional memory. But it also created inertia. Bad habits.

  Tomas came in, knocking as he did so she wasn’t startled. “You look very serious,” he said.

  “More so than usual?”

  “You’ve always been serious. You like fixing things.”

  Hmm. She could be accused of worse. “Did you notice that in ten years Pasadan has never had a quota infraction?”

  He pulled up a chair and melted into it, pulling off his boots with a sigh. They had planned on being back on the road to Haven by now. “Really. You think it means something?”

  Towns and households usually had some kind of quota blip—usually by accident, not anyone’s fault and not a big problem. An unexpected bumper crop or an enthusiastic season, the give-and-take as a place found its best balance. Folk—committees, investigators—looked for that kind of up and down. All of it normal for a dynamic system, as any system involving people was. The problems they looked for were large and purposeful—intentional rule breaking.

  Pasadan’s record was ideally, predictably normal. Enid showed Tomas the numbers. If she hadn’t been looking for something to be wrong, she might not have noticed.

  “So who’s hiding what?” Tomas asked.

  “It’s that obvious once you shine a light on it, isn’t it? Philos is the person least happy to have us here.”

  “He might just have an anxious disposition.”

  “Maybe he does. But it merits a look around. You find anything?” she asked.

  “Couple of things. We should keep an eye on Ariana and Philos. I get the feeling this has brought a deeper conflict to the surface. Not saying it’ll help figure out what happened to Sero, but it’s something.”

  “Yeah. I talked to Kirk.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Defensive. They’re all so defensive. Philos barely let me alone with him.”

  “They don’t want anyone poking around.”

  “Except Ariana,” Enid said, pointing. “Ariana wants someone poking around. What else did you find?”

  “I’m pretty sure Miran was the last one to see Sero alive, the morning he died.”

  “Really? But she would have seen him at the house. Or would she have gone to the shed? What did she see?”

  “We’ll talk to her again,” he said. “Push harder next time.”

  “And then there’s Dak.” She shook her head, scowled. “He’s thrown me off.”

  “Yeah?” Tomas said suggestively, eyebrow raised.

  “I think maybe I was a little more torn up about Dak than I wanted to admit back then.”

  He had the nerve to laugh. He probably could have told her that years ago. She’d been too proud to ask.

  CHAPTER EIGHT • FINTOWN

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

  Escape

  Enid tried sneaking into the common room at Petula Dock to listen to the investigators talk to Fisher but was noticed and politely asked to leave them alone. Instead, she tried to track down what gossip she could in a town she didn’t actually know. Everyone knew investigators had arrived. No one would say why, and their gazes flicked away from Enid when she pressed.

  She wasn’t an investigator. It wasn’t any of her business, and she should
let it go.

  The sky was overcast, but the rain had stopped. Gulls sailed overhead, calling. The place smelled of rotting seaweed. Folk were out working while they had the chance. Near the docks, on a wide gravelly stretch of beach, a couple of men spread out nets, checking them over, making repairs when needed. The nets gave Enid an idea, and she asked for—and they gave her—some of the scraps of hemp twine they were using. Sitting on one of the docks with her feet dangling off the edge over the water, she knotted the twine into a sort of mini-net, a snug little bundle just big enough to hold the pieces of sea glass she’d found in the sand a few days ago. She made two, one for each piece, the white one and the green one. Next, she attached the pendants she’d made to long cords, to be worn around the neck. Might have been more elegant to drill holes in the glass. She knew it must be possible, but she didn’t have the tools or ability, and didn’t want to risk cracking the glass. So a rough woven setting it was. One for her and one for Dak.

  Maybe not pretty; definitely not useful. She felt a little silly, like a kid painting rocks and calling it art. But, well—it meant something. The frosted glass from another time, and the sudden otherworldly feeling that she didn’t belong anywhere. She put the green one over her neck, then hid it under her shirt. The feel of it against her breastbone was an anchor, reminding her to breathe.

  She walked back to Petula, the other pendant stuffed in her pouch.

  Not long after, Dak and Xander came up the hill. She waited for them. They both looked worried, holding themselves stiffly, leaning in as if in conversation.

  Dak saw her and asked, “Enid, where are they now?” Didn’t need to say who, just assumed she’d know what he was talking about.

  “They were in talking to Fisher for a while,” Enid said. “Don’t know if they’re still there. Do you know what it’s about?”

  Xander frowned. “Could be a couple of things. If my hunch is right . . . well. We’ll find out soon enough.”