The August 5

by Jenna Helland

  All of Hywel’s supporters were on their feet, shouting out in protest. Gavin sat in stunned silence. A mass trial and execution meant the August Five could be dead in less than a week.

  “Under Statute 389 of the penal code, you may not hold a mass trial for treason,” Shieldman shouted. “The accused are entitled to separate trials.”

  “An absurd law that simply slows the wheels of justice,” Anderson called, leaping to his feet. “I see that Mr. Shieldman is continuing Mr. Hywel’s soft-fingered approach to the cottagers.”

  Shieldman flushed, and even some of Colston’s supporters seemed embarrassed by Anderson’s language. Soft-fingered had a number of meanings, ranging from insulting to derogatory.

  “Quite the contrary, Mr. Anderson,” Shieldman replied, his voice shaking with anger. “I’m protesting a soft-fingered approach to our code of laws.”

  There was an uneasy silence as Kaplan consulted his ledger, flipping slowly through the pages and running his finger down the page. With a slight nod, he acknowledged the existence of the statute. The chief administrator’s first act had not succeeded, but he seemed surprisingly undeterred.

  “Due to the precariousness of our state, I’m presenting the Ancestral Homes Act.” Colston motioned to Kaplan, who held out his right hand with his palm facing up. Gavin knew that this motion indicated that proper procedure had been followed. Colston Shore must have submitted the Ancestral Homes Act before the Chamber had convened that day. Colston probably knew that his attempt for a mass trial would fail and had a backup plan. Gavin considered the extent of Colston’s manipulations with a growing sense of unease. In July, after Colston failed to oust Hywel, Gavin had assumed that Colston was no longer a player to be feared. But that assessment had been painfully wrong.

  “You may read the language yourselves before the vote, which will be held tomorrow. But here are the fundamentals: All cottagers must present official identification cards when questioned. If they cannot, they may be detained immediately and deported to their ancestral bond estates as determined by Zunft Records. Anyone without proper paperwork can be detained for an undefined amount of time until such an investigation is concluded.”

  With that, Kaplan slammed the gavel and ended the session.

  Baine felt as if the floor had dropped out beneath him. In Sevenna City, most cottagers were required to register their addresses with the Zunft, but they simply ignored it. This legislation meant that people would have to carry the proper paperwork or they could face arrest for no reason at all. Colston Shore had come to power and his first act was against the cottagers’ rights. Gavin had a sudden urge to go back to his newspaper offices, write an article, and tell the world what he’d witnessed in Chamber. He pulled off his flat cap, tucked it under his arm, and ducked out the door. He didn’t care how many more times the Zunft destroyed his printing press. He wouldn’t let himself be silenced by a man like Colston Shore.

  7

  SHORE REPLACES HYWEL AS CHIEF ADMINISTRATOR

  Toulson Hywel failed to attend the emergency session of the Zunft Chamber. At least thirty of his supporters succumbed to Colston Shore’s manipulation and switched their allegiance to his faction, which is known as the Carvers. Using unlawful tactics, Colston Shore ascended to the highest office of Seahaven. In his first act as chief administrator, Shore tried to avoid the Zunft’s own statutes and hold a mass trial of the August Five. By law, those accused of treason are entitled to separate trials and competent legal representation. The motion was suppressed, but will the August Five be given a fair trial under a chief administrator who is willing to break the laws of the land?

  The Zunft Chronicle reports that maritime traffic delays forced Hywel to miss the session, but this reporter found no delays in the ferry schedule. Where is Toulson Hywel?

  —JFA Bulletin, August 12

  “The vote was staged. Without Hywel, there was no one to stop it!”

  “Can they truly enforce the Ancestral Homes Act? Some of those bond records are a hundred years old! It will be economic chaos.”

  “Forget economics. It’s slavery!”

  Tamsin could hear the urgent conversation through a grate in the floor, but it didn’t make much sense to her. Her head still felt like it was stuffed with cotton from drinking root tea to take away the pain of her injuries. The only voice she recognized was that of Brian Leahy, the patriarch of the Leahy family and her father’s close friend. Tamsin was staying at the Leahys’ home, a narrow row house near the Lyone River. Heat from the woodstove rose through the grate into the little sleeping room that had once been a closet and could barely accommodate the cot where Tamsin rested. Instead of being dark and oppressive, the tiny room felt cozy and safe. The walls were painted a bright yellow with a vibrant mural of a sunflower above her bed. In Sevenna, several cottager families would often share one row house, and space was at such a premium that even the unlikeliest of spaces were inhabited. The Leahys had made a special effort to make this windowless room a pleasant place for their guests.

  A white candle flickered on the nightstand beside her. Tucked under a colorful quilt, Tamsin lay on her uninjured side. She felt lonely and wished she had the strength to get up out of bed and join the people downstairs, but whenever she sat up, she felt too nauseated to stand. She listened as the voices grew more agitated:

  “Where were the people during the Rising? Too scared to take to the streets!”

  “What about the pub, Brian? What’s going to happen now?”

  Brian and Katherine Leahy ran a popular establishment known as the Plough and Sun. Cottagers couldn’t own property, so a Zunft family name must have been on the title to the pub, but everyone referred to the pub as the Leahys’ place. The urgent conversation continued as Tamsin dozed off. She dreamed that she was walking with her mother, Anna, on a rugged beach back on Aeren. She tried to hold on to Anna’s hand, but her mother kept disappearing into the mist. In her dream, the waves crashed loudly and the mist encircled her like a funeral shroud. Finally, she saw her mother’s blond hair gleaming through the fog, but when she reached out to touch her, Anna shattered like glass.

  When Tamsin awoke later, the candle had burned down to a stub. The many voices she’d heard beneath her were now gone, replaced by silence. In her drowsy state, she had the impression that the front door had clattered opened and slammed shut. Maybe that had jarred her awake. She wondered what time it was. It seemed like it must be the middle of the night.

  “Hello, Gavin,” she heard Mr. Leahy say through the grate in the floor. “Take your coat off. Have a seat.”

  The rocking chairs creaked as the men sat down in front of the fire. When they began to talk, their words were so clear it felt like she was in the room with them.

  “Are you all set up?” Mr. Leahy asked.

  “Everything is operational,” Gavin answered. “We assembled the presses last night. I printed the first newspaper today with the news about Shore and the Chamber. He’s obviously bought Kaplan off. Having the adjudicator on Shore’s payroll is going to be a serious problem for us.”

  “Everything will be harder from now on,” Mr. Leahy said. “Colston Shore is a dangerous man. He’s a bigot and an extremist in a way that goes beyond most Zunftmen.”

  There was a long silence. Tamsin tried to imagine what was happening. Were they staring into the fire? Was someone getting a cup of coffee?

  “Any news about Hywel?” Mr. Leahy finally asked.

  “No,” Gavin said. “Colston and his cronies have tried hard to destroy his reputation. But if he arrives tomorrow, I still think he could put his faction back together.”

  “What was the vote on the Ancestral Homes Act?” Mr. Leahy asked.

  “Seventy-five to twenty-five,” Gavin said. “I’ll list the names in the newspaper for the public record.”

  “What about the trial?” Mr. Leahy said. “Has anyone been to the prison to see the fellows?”

  “No one can get in to see them,” Gavin replied. “J
ack’s wife, Meg, is at the jail every day, petitioning for a visit. She needs to be careful or she’s going to get arrested herself.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Mr. Leahy said. “Henry’s daughter arrived a couple of days ago.”

  “Does she know what Henry did?” Gavin asked.

  There was an awkward pause, and Tamsin imagined Mr. Leahy pointing at the ceiling. It may have occurred to him that she could hear the two men talking through the grate. It sounded like a chair scraped along the floor, and their voices grew quieter as they moved toward the kitchen but she could still hear them. She wondered if she should feel bad for eavesdropping, but there wasn’t really any way to avoid it.

  “Can you make her fake identification?” Leahy asked. “She’ll have to find work eventually.”

  “Now that the presses are running, we can start forging cards,” Gavin said. He stopped when someone knocked at the front door, which opened and closed loudly. Their voices were muffled as they talked to the newcomer in the kitchen. After a while, Tamsin heard someone climbing the squeaky stairs and a timid knocking on her already open door. Navid, the Leahys’ only child, was standing on the threshold, holding a tray with soup and a slice of bread. Tamsin pushed herself to a sitting position.

  “What time is it?” Tamsin asked the boy. She felt disoriented. Maybe it wasn’t even the night of the gathering she’d overheard earlier.

  “It’s only half past eight at night,” he said, giving her a wide smile. “How’s your head?”

  Navid was an endearing combination of little boy and young adult. He was a tall, lean kid with wiry arms and legs, but his face was still round with baby fat.

  “Healing up, thanks,” she said, smiling back. The wound in her side had gotten infected, and she’d been fighting a fever ever since she arrived at the row house.

  “Good,” Navid said. “You haven’t seen any of Sevenna yet. Have you been to the city before?”

  Tamsin nodded. “I visited Papa here once. Maybe when I’m better I can work in the garden with you?”

  “Well, if Mama says it’s all right,” Navid said. He set the tray on her lap and plopped down at the foot of the bed. “You don’t look so good.”

  Tamsin pretended to be offended and swatted his shoulder, but she actually loved the honesty of children. There was no guile, no hidden agendas. The burns on her neck felt scabby and raw and she’d been cooped up inside for a week. She could only imagine how sickly and pale she must appear.

  “I just need to brush my hair,” Tamsin joked. “Then I’ll be ready for the formal dance.”

  Navid looked doubtful. Apparently her humor was lost on him.

  “You were at the customs house?” she asked. “Your father told me that Papa was arrested, but I’d had so much root tea, I can’t remember everything he said.”

  “Are you sure you want to talk about this?” he asked. “When a bad thing happens to me, Mama tells me to think happy thoughts.”

  “That’s good advice,” Tamsin agreed. “But I need to know what happened to Papa. What happened on the last day of the Rising?”

  “They brought cannons on rovers,” Navid told her. “They hit the building over and over, even after the fires started. The Zunft had the building surrounded, and when the first man tried to flee the smoke and flames, they shot him.”

  “Who was that?” Tamsin asked. Mr. Leahy hadn’t told her that part of the story.

  “Christopher Stevens. Jack’s son.”

  “Did he die?” Tamsin asked.

  “Right there on the street,” Navid said.

  Tamsin felt sick. Jack was one of her father’s friends and another journalist. His son, Christopher, had been a childhood playmate and her first crush—although she’d never told anyone but Eliza. She hadn’t seen Christopher in four years, but she remembered how they’d dodged fireflies on summer evenings and raced with the other children along Miller’s Road. She and Christopher had been the same age, but she was faster and would leave him gasping in the dust, yelling at her to slow down and wait.

  “What happened then?” Tamsin asked.

  “The fire engulfed the roof. It was about to cave in. They must have split up because they came out in two groups, one group out the east door and another through the north door. They tried to take cover but the soldiers had them surrounded on all sides. There were sparks flying everywhere so I had to run while they were still shooting.”

  “Did you see my father?”

  “Yes, he came out the east side.”

  “Did he have a gun?”

  “No, none of our side had guns,” Navid said.

  “What happened then?”

  “Your father led his group away from the customs house while the soldiers shot at them,” Navid said. “They couldn’t get down the alley because they were blocked by the flames.”

  Mr. Leahy had told her this part. Nine were killed on the spot. Five escaped death, including her father. The soldiers had arrested the survivors. Her father was in the hands of the Zunft. His trial would be a farce to humiliate the rebels and condemn the cottagers. Michael Henry would be found guilty and executed. There would be no justice for the cottagers—the August Rising had failed. Fighting off a sense of hopelessness, Tamsin reached out and gently squeezed the boy’s hand.

  “I’m sorry,” Navid said. “I like your papa. And your mama, too. She made me a toy rabbit the last time we were on Aeren.”

  “I remember,” Tamsin said. “Do you still have him? Can I see him?”

  Navid’s face brightened. “Sure, but don’t tell the fellows. I’m too old for toys.”

  “Run and get him for me. I could use a bit of home.”

  As Navid ran to his tiny room at the other end of the corridor, Tamsin wiped the tears from her eyes. Navid returned, clutching the fuzzy rabbit whose soft ears had been well loved.

  “You can sleep with him until you’re better,” Navid said. When he handed the toy to her, Tamsin saw that his palms were a mass of angry red scars.

  “What happened to you?” Tamsin asked.

  Navid shrugged. “I got caught by a soldier on top of a warehouse. He glued my hands to the roof and left me there. When I tore free, it took all the skin. I can’t feel as much with them anymore.”

  “That’s horrible, Navid,” Tamsin said.

  “Yeah, it was,” Navid agreed. “I wish I could take all the Zunft and put them on a faraway island so they can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

  “Me, too,” Tamsin said, hugging the rabbit tight. She wondered if her mother already knew the fate of her husband. Her mother was the realist. She would make sure that their family soldiered on, no matter what. Her father was the dreamer, but now his dream had died in the ashes of the Grand Customs House.

  8

  CHAMBER PASSES ANCESTRAL HOMES ACT

  With the passage of the Ancestral Homes Act, all cottagers must carry official identification cards that list their current registered addresses. Those without cards may be arrested and deported by the Zunft.

  —Zunft Chronicle, August 15

  The ocean waves lashed at the pier while Tommy kept watching the dusky horizon. As soon as the ferry arrived, the twins were leaving for Sevenna and their new life as Seminary students. The capital city was peaceful again, or so their father said in his most recent letter, which had arrived with the official seal of the chief administrator’s office. Tommy still couldn’t believe that his father was now the most important man in the Zunft. From the day of the August Rising to this moment on the pier, everything felt unreal to Tommy. It was like a strange dream that occupied his mind even after he woke up. He could try to guess its meaning, but he’d probably be wrong in the end.

  While leaving Aeren felt like a momentous occasion to Tommy, the sleepy port of Blackwater was unimpressed by his presence. Blackwater was the largest city on Aeren Island, but it was still small compared to Sevenna or even Stokkur Town on Norde. The port’s population was about ten thousand during the winter months. Now, in
late summer when many cottagers were working in the Middle Valley, the town felt as sleepy as a provincial village. Soon the fishmongers would set out their wares, and the town bells would ring the start of the workday. But for now, it was only Tommy and Bern, waiting for the ferry to arrive. Tommy paced up and down the dock anxiously while Bern dozed on the wooden bench, oblivious to the crashing waves and crimson sunrise.

  Normally, the twins would have boarded a ferry in Port Kenney, but most of the village had been razed by the fire. So they had endured a bumpy carriage ride north to Blackwater with Bern pouting the entire way because Colston’s new rover had been co-opted by the Zunft for the hunt for the rebels. Their driver was a Zunft soldier, and Tommy had expected that the soldier would wait with them until the ferry arrived, but he unceremoniously dropped them off and left.

  The longer Tommy waited for the ferry, the more nervous he became. He wandered down the pier and kicked at a heavy coil of rope. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. It wasn’t like he expected a brass band and people throwing confetti to commemorate this next stage in his life, but he hadn’t expected it to be so desolate. Finally, a dark shape appeared on the horizon as the steamer emerged through the gloom and sailed toward the pier.

  “Wake up, the ferry’s here,” Tommy told Bern, who ignored him.

  As a kid, Tommy loved ships of all kinds, especially the steam-powered, iron-strapped wooden boats that carried passengers between the islands. All the Zunft ferries seemed a little outdated now because the new volt-cells hadn’t been incorporated into marine technology yet, at least as far as Tommy knew, but they were better than an old-fashioned sailboat. As the side-wheel steamer glided up to the pier, Tommy realized what he was missing. There was no one to say goodbye to. It wouldn’t have been appropriate for Mrs. Trueblood to come, and his mother was long gone. On rare occasions, he still found himself missing her—or perhaps he was missing the idea of having a mother. When that happened, it felt like ripping a scab off a painful wound.