The Icefire Trilogy

by Patty Jansen

  On top of that, the station guards had reported fighting on the second of the trains. Not angry citizens trying to smash their way out of the carriage, but people fighting each other. It looked like the refugees were from two different factions, and he might have to separate them to keep the group under control. Except he didn’t know who was who, and needed the interpreter worse than ever. And Lady Armaine wasn’t helpful by disappearing at this crucial time.

  Meanwhile, the young musician he had sent to spy had come back from his task and caused him worry by reporting that Alius’ secret visitor was none less than Destran. Yes, he understood why Alius wasn’t happy about the timing of Sady’s visit, but what did he have to discuss with Destran, who continued to serve as senator?

  There was still no sign of the missing account books. And, as predicted, Tiverians lined up in front of his office grumbling about money being spent on housing the southerners. He didn’t know what of those things worried him most, but he resolved to tackle the easy problems first. Part one: since he could find no Chevakians spoke the southern language, he had to find southerners who spoke Chevakian. Southerners who were respected by those in the camp. He’d already made the mistake of not checking people who offered themselves once, he was not going to make it again. So that was why he was here, at the camp.

  The truck stopped at a tent where a number of soldiers waited.

  Sady climbed out of the cabin to salutes and nods.

  “We have five people for you,” a soldier said.

  “Five? Is that all?”

  “Sorry, sir. We asked everywhere, but only five responded. Either people are too scared to come forward or there are only few people in the south who speak Chevakian.”

  Wonderful. Just what he needed: people too scared to speak out. Scared of what or whom? “Let’s go and look at these ones, then.”

  Sady and Orsan went into the tent, which was an administration post. A Chevakian officer scurried from behind his desk. “Ah, proctor. We have the people here, as you requested . . .”

  The five sat on a bench, three men and two women, all clad in southern fur cloaks, not talking to each other. Only two met Sady’s eyes. One of them attempted a clumsy greeting.

  “Thank you. I’ll talk to them now. I’m very busy.”

  “I understand, proctor. Please, use my desk.”

  Sady sat down.

  The first person to join him at the table was an elderly man. He was dressed in a black shirt that had smears of slime or some other goopy substance over the front. His hair was thin, greying, and tied together at the nape of his neck. He had a straggly beard that hadn’t seen a barber’s knife for a long time, with the long pointed end hanging down from his chin yellow with dirt.

  He bowed deeply.

  “I understand that you speak Chevakian?”

  “I have learned a bit your language,” the man said.

  “Where did you learn it?”

  “I learn as young man. When travel to your country.”

  “As merchant?”

  A blank look.

  “Were you selling things in Chevakia?”

  “No. I was in army.”

  Mercy, that would go down well with the doga. One of the men who had raided the border regions. Probably had done his fair share in raping and pillaging.

  The next person was a young woman with wide eyes, who gave confused answers to Sady’s questions. She had her well-endowed bosom half hanging out of the shirt and fixed his gaze with wide eyes. Whatever she wanted, being an interpreter it was not.

  The next person was a young man with intense eyes. Although he seemed to understand Sady well enough, he answered with monosyllables.

  The fourth person was an older woman, a favourite auntie type, rotund and smiling. At least she didn’t appear to have an ulterior motive, but her Chevakian was worse than that of the others.

  The last person was a middle-aged merchant who, went Sady asked questions, came up with a huge jumbling theory about market advantages of something that Sady didn’t understand.

  Sady cut short the torrent of incoherent babble and turned to the administrator, who stood by the door.

  The man gave him an apologetic look. “Those were the only ones who applied.”

  Sady sighed, and put a hand on the man’s shoulder as appreciation. They were doing their best, all of them. “It’s not your fault. I think they’re spooked, afraid that if they speak up, they’ll be singled out. Understandable, although not helpful. Do you think it would be safe enough for me to walk through the camp and ask for volunteers informally?”

  “In that part where people have been given beds and food, yes. Don’t go near the processing area, because some of them get pretty violent.”

  Sady nodded. He could understand that being asked to remove their clothes, being scrubbed with soap and hot water while they didn’t understand why, could make people angry especially if they were tired and hungry.

  “Tell these people I may need them later. I’m going for a walk.”

  Orsan raised his eyebrows, but followed.

  “Honestly, I cannot use any of them,” Sady said to Orsan when they were well out of the tent. “It seems like the only people who volunteered are at least mildly disturbed.”

  Orsan said, “The guard mentioned that he thought the people might be scared. I think he’s right. Everyone comments on how subdued these people are.”

  “Well, we’ll see if any come forward if I talk to them directly.”

  They went into a few tents where refugees lay on mats, and where no one replied to Sady’s greetings, and Sady was cursing himself for having been part of the government that allowed this country to become so isolated that no one spoke each other’s language.

  Then, as they were about to enter the next tent, there was some sort of commotion behind them. A woman was screaming and people yelled out in Chevakian, “Stay here!”

  Another called for assistance.

  Orsan glanced at Sady, who nodded, “Let’s go.”

  Orsan and one of the guards went first, then Sady and another guard.

  In the tent, the found the woman he’d seen at the station, stark naked, her belly like a balloon, screaming and fighting two nurses, who held her. Her belly was vividly coloured with bruises and red lines. Mercy, he had never seen anything like that.

  Orsan didn’t have time to help before she collapsed, and the nurses heaved her onto a bed.

  Sady felt a little queasy. He was a politician, not a physic.

  Mercy, he’d never had a wife, let alone witnessed a woman grow with child. Yes, Suri, hidden under her clothes. Were those marks and bruises normal? No wonder women hated it so.

  The woman now lay on the bed. Sady walked to the table, trying to focus on something other than her hideously swollen belly.

  The woman was not what you’d call beautiful, but her face had strong angles that made her look like she would put up a good fight. Her black curly hair was tied in a loose ponytail. Curly wisps had escaped the tie and danced around her head. She was older than he would have guessed, with faint wrinkles around her eyes and greying hair at her temples.

  “Can someone please cover her up?”

  “Sure, Proctor.” A nurse rushed over with a sheet.

  “What are you going to do with her?” he asked the physic at the table.

  “We’re waiting for a midwife to come. We hadn’t envisaged dealing with these sorts of problems.”

  “How long will it take before she’s here?”

  The physic shrugged. “Hard to tell. There is so much work to be done, we need all our people.”

  Sady glanced at the mound under the sheet. “Is she having twins
?” He could not remember Suri having looked anywhere near as big as that. If anything, he remembered her looking rounded and cute, but that brought the uncomfortable thought that he wished the child would be his and not his brother’s.

  “No, a single child.”

  Mercy. “I didn’t know that women could get like . . . this.” He felt like squirming.

  “It won’t be easy,” the physic said. “She’s going to need a lot of help.”

  Sady felt goosebumps crawl over his skin. Even he had heard some stories that made his hair stand on end.

  There were voices behind him in the tent. A man said, “Proctor, excuse me. We’ve located someone who claims to speak for the refugees.” The sheets of the temporary barrier rustled.

  “Yes, I’m coming,” Sady said, started to turn, glanced at the woman again, and asked, “What kind of help, exactly?” Not really wanting to hear the reply. The subject made his skin crawl.

  “Well . . .” The physic hesitated.

  “Not pretty.” Sady filled in the blanks.

  “No. The child is too big to be born the normal way.”

  Sady shuddered at the thought of what had to be done. He’d heard stories about that, too. Many women died horrible deaths.

  “Proctor, please—” The man at this back insisted.

  “Wait. I’m talking to someone!” It came out more sharp than he intended. Yes, he knew that following the disaster with the previous two interpreters, it was important that they found someone else.

  The physic raised her eyebrows. “No help needed, proctor. We have everything under control here.”

  Sady said, “About this woman, I’ve heard that there is this thing, where you can cut out the child without killing either it or the mother . . .”

  “Yes. We do that for our women, but I honestly think we’re going to be far too stretched to extend the procedure to refugees. It’s very expensive—”

  “I’ll pay.”

  The physic’s eyes widened. “But—”

  “From my own personal funds. That’s allowed, isn’t it?” He couldn’t quite say what possessed him. Maybe the chance to save one person from a horrific death, the chance to make a difference. He had never seen injury and suffering on this scale. This looked like a problem he could fix, with a happy outcome.

  “Uhm—yes.”

  “Well, then, what are you waiting for? Take her to the hospital. Bring the physics you need here. Whatever. Get it done.”

  “She can’t go to the hospital, sir. We have an exclusion zone in place around the camp. Until we’ve decontaminated everyone, taking anyone outside would place the citizens of the city at risk.”

  Mercy. He’d been so caught up he’d forgotten about the exclusion. Mercy. He wiped his face with his hand. The skin of his palm scratched over his chin. Since when had he last shaved? He was so tired.

  “Proctor?” the man behind him insisted.

  “Yes, I’m coming.” Sady sighed. “Is there anything else we can do? Anywhere else she can be treated?”

  The woman lay there, her face peaceful, unaware that her fate was being decided. Sady knew he could not let her die. He could also not leave her child to be killed by the hands of butchers.

  “If we’d take her in the city, she would need to be in an isolated place, possibly underground, or with thick walls, away from any other people.”

  A place where other people were a long way away. The solution was crystal-clear. “My house.”

  “What?”

  “It’s huge, and mostly empty.” Ever since I failed to marry. “We can put enough stone walls between me and her, and her family. I’m hardly ever there at the moment. Take her and her family to my house and let the physic come there.”

  The woman raised her eyebrows, but started to make arrangements.

  As Sady left the tent, he looked over his shoulder. The woman lay peacefully, as if she was asleep, her dark hair draped over the side of the bed. She looked tough. Someone who wouldn’t have time for nonsense. He hoped she and her child would both survive.

  He and Orsan left the tent . . .

  Into a menacing circle of people, all facing the tent entrance.

  Sady found himself shoved aside by his guards. Orsan, a head taller than him, stepped in front, protecting him with his sheer size.

  “What’s this?” Orsan said, in that intimidating voice of this very tall and muscular man.

  Between the guards’ bodies, Sady could see the faces of men. More than the occasional few had beards. A lot of them were dressed in black, like the man who had applied to become an interpreter.

  Sady’s guards drew guns.

  “Who are these people, and what do they want?” Sady asked.

  The woman he had seen earlier, the one with the suggestive clothing, came out of the group. “I see what people want.”

  “Who are they?”

  “From the Outer City.”

  Sady remembered having seen the community referred to as the Outer City on his trips. No one went there, his hosts had assured. The workers lived there. It was full of criminals.

  And those would have been the people most likely to survive a disaster. If anything, they were used to surviving. Living in the southern land was about surviving.

  “Tell them that if they threaten me, it is unlikely to impress the Chevakian doga.”

  She spoke. Sady had no idea if what she said was anywhere near accurate, but there were protesting grumbles.

  “They say they want bodies of their dead. They want . . . ceremony.” Someone in the crowd commented. “Funeral,” she corrected.

  Sady wasn’t even sure where the army had taken the bodies of those who had died on the train. It was a horrible thought, to have lost a loved one, and then not to know what happened to the body.

  He raised his voice, hoping that at least someone would understand. “Select a couple of representatives, make a list of which bodies you need, age, gender, clothing and we’ll speak tomorrow.”

  “Today,” a man said, in heavy accent. He also had a beard. This was no someone who had come forward as interpreter.

  “Tomorrow. It is late. We need interpreters. Why didn’t you come forward when we asked?”

  “When we do that, everyone can see us.”

  Another man yelled something in a loud voice.

  Several of the black-clad men yelled back at him.

  The guards raised their guns.

  “Stop,” Sady called. “I will meet with you. Both groups. I’ll meet with anyone who feels they should have a voice in his camp. Tomorrow. You’re safe, fed and you have beds. There is nothing that can’t wait until later.”

  Several of the black-clad men still protested, but others calmed them. Who were these people in black? Mercy, he needed a crash course in southern politics and culture.

  With that, Sady’s guards cleared a path and Sady walked through the group who formed a strange kind of honour guard all the way to the truck. There were a lot of these black-clad people. With a disturbing feeling, he noticed their age, too. Many young men. Angry young men with beards.

  Into the truck. The door shut, and while the driver fired up the engine, Sady felt safe enough to remove the hot suit. His clothes underneath were sweaty and dusty. Outside the window, the groups of refugees lined the road. There were so many, and the Chevakians so few.

  “What’s with the black and the beards?” Sady asked.

  “Apparently, they call themselves the Brotherhood of the Light. Those guys are trouble,” Orsan said.

  “Yes, and I have no idea who they are and what they stand for,” another guards added. “There seem to be a lot of them in the camp, but I d
on’t know that they would speak for many of the refugees. I don’t even know that anyone speaks for any of the refugees.”

  “We have to ask Lady Armaine.” Orsan again.

  “No,” Sady said.

  Orsan frowned.

  “Lady Armaine offered to help us. She was much too keen to give me the money for my trip. I think she might be part of the problem. The south is not at war with us. It’s a civil war, and we have the two groups here, or whatever is left of them. Something done by one of the groups caused the explosion. As outsiders don’t know who the groups are and what they stand for. We don’t know who did what. And we don’t know who, if anyone, we should support.”

  They had arrived at the gate, manned by two Chevakian guards. Much too few, Sady realised, to contain a conflict within the camp. But the army was already stretched. Finnisius had sent units to Twin Bridges, and to help ready the balloons, and to manage the camps, and to patrol the curfew imposed by the bell.

  The doga wasn’t just running out of money; it was running out of people.

  Chapter 33

  * * *

  CARRO SAT at the desk, and leafed through the book, his hands trembling. The columns of numbers danced before his eyes. He was back in the warehouse. He felt the biting cold. He heard his stepfather’s footsteps.

  So that was what his father thought of him?

  Death by accountancy.

  The Knights in the room were all busy at work. Reading through Chevakian documents, or writing notes on tiny pieces of paper to be carried by gulls. The squawks of those birds drifted in from the courtyard.

  No one took any notice of Carro. He could make a scene about how much he hated this work, but no one would care. So he opened the book.

  The account book was Chevakian. He claimed a bit of knowledge of the language, but there were a lot of lines with long words that were unfamiliar to him.

  Someone thunked another book onto the desk.

  Carro slid it towards him and read the Chevakian text on the front sheet. Planned and actual expenditure of farm operations.