by Patty Jansen
The sled had stopped in front of the ruin of the house, and the driver was speaking to someone wearing a thick hooded cloak who might be the same man she had seen yesterday, except he had his back turned to her and the hood covered his hair.
The two young men were now unloading the contents of the tray into an area against the wall—and out of view of her bedroom window—which had been made free of snow and covered with a sloping canvas roof. In the shadow of this roof stood additional piles of bricks and cement. At the far end of the shelter stood a table and a couple of chairs near an outdoor stove with flames lapping over fresh firebricks. Two other men sat there, huddled within their cloaks, and a third was stirring a big pot steaming on the stove.
Only a few walls were still standing of the old house, made of fire-blackened limestone bricks, the same material used in most of the Endri houses. It was quarried from the coast and cost a bundle to be brought all the way up to the city. She’d heard that there had been much resin board and even real wood in the house, which had contributed to the severity of the fire. She had been a baby back then so remembered none of the scandal which had started with the betrayal of Iztho Andrahar and the Two Day War in the enclave of Barresh.
Over the years, vagrants had broken into the place and removed every single thing that could be of any use or sold, including loose stones, roof tiles and bathroom fittings. After the original fire, there had been two more fires, but for the second one the only available fuel had been a squatter’s shack and its contents. You would not think a shack would burn that well, but there were rumours that the old man who had lived illegally in the ruins had set his own shack alight because he grew too nervous of guards finding his illegal liquor. That liquor certainly burned well.
But now something had changed that she couldn’t have seen from her room’s window.
On the side of the ruin that faced away from her house, there were little yellow posts in the snow, with string tied between them.
A group of men came up from behind her. With greetings of Good morning, lady, they walked past Ellisandra and into the yard. They looked like workers, all of them dressed in coats and thick trousers.
If she hadn’t known any better, it looked like these people were going to rebuild the house, with the tent and the table—for the plans—and the stove and the materials.
But why would they do that? The house had not been sold, or everyone in town would have known.
Then a cold chill: was this possibly the reason why Enzo had wanted to get access to the council’s financial system? To check if the house had been sold recently?
And also: how in all of heaven’s name had this stranger been able to get the men to turn up while there was snow on the ground? Builders never worked on snow days.
It didn’t look like anything was happening here in a hurry, and she really needed to get going on finding people to build stage props, so she started downhill, a little reluctantly. Curiosity was one of her worst vices, and she’d much rather go back upstairs to peek at the goings on from a safe distance.
By the time Ellisandra had reached Miran’s central square, it had started snowing again. The first thing she always noticed when she came here was the round, flat-roofed library tower at the top of the council steps. It was an old thing, not particularly straight, and originally built as a jail. When Father worked as Miran’s chief librarian, he used to have an office on the top floor, at the end of a dark and curvy set of stairs. From the tiny window up there you could see all over the square and the commercial district. Father used to have to lift her to the windowsill. She could still feel the pitted stone under her hands.
She walked past the Foundation monument, a pentagonal platform with a post on each corner, looking sad and forlorn today. During nice days, school classes came out here to be told of Miran’s history, or there would be weddings in spring when the monument was decked out in mountain flowers and the couple were asked to join hands over the central point of the monument where that first council meeting was said to have happened.
These days few people had their weddings at the monument, but hers next spring would be one. Most people considered a wedding at the monument a quaint thing to do. Not even Nemedor Satarin’s daughter had married at the monument last year. At the time, Ellisandra had just started thinking about her own wedding and had asked him why not, because the important weddings were always held at the monument.
He’d smiled at her. “As a member of a Foundation family, yes, I understand that you’d like to adhere to the old custom, but frankly, Foundation has never meant much to me or my family.”
She’d thought long about whether that remark was a barb. Nemedor Satarin, of course, was Nikala, a property merchant. He had long survived in the council by acting as if he were Endri, as upper merchants were wont to do, but of course he wasn’t, and Foundation wasn’t as important for Nikala as for Endri.
Secondly, recent discoveries in science had made the history of Miran an uncomfortable and confusing subject.
For a fair while now, some people outside Miran, most of them in Barresh, had declared that the Mirani Endri people had come from Asto when that world had been struck by a giant space rock. They declared that the Endri were almost pure descendants of people they called Aghyrian, the human species that had given rise to all other humans and that had been thought lost.
People in Miran had scoffed at that theory for a long time, but then a group of those Aghyrians had come to town and taken blood samples. Ellisandra remembered that. They were mostly black-haired, paled-skinned but dark-eyed people. They were tall like the Endri, but she didn’t think they had much else in common.
They’d published the results in one of the gamra bulletins, and most people, some Endri even, accepted that they were right.
The new version of history was that Miran started not with two tribes coming together on the mountain pass, but with a ship full of government officials selfishly fleeing Asto when destruction was imminent, leaving behind all their citizens. Those historians had even gone way up the highlands and discovered the cave and metal fragments which might have been the remnants of the ship. There were many people, some historians, too, who didn’t believe this, but all agreed that the metal was non-Mirani.
People didn’t like it. The new information upset many ideals: of the purity of Mirani blood, of Asto as the ultimate enemy, of the unique construction of Foundation, the agreement between the Endri and Nikala people that described each of their tasks and responsibilities.
Historians hung onto their version of history for as long as possible, looking more like quaint old men with every passing day. The healers in hospitals and others who had taken part in collecting the data argued for the research. The historians argued against, based on flimsy arguments peppered with the word tradition. The argument went on forever. It was silly and stupid. People turned off and ignored it. Schools cut back on their teaching of Foundation, because teachers disliked having the arguments repeated in their classrooms. In the process, the truth got lost. And people lost interest in Foundation, because every time someone mentioned the word, a fight broke out.
The blocky shape of the market building stood on the high side of the square. In the gloomy overcast light, the warm glow of firelight spilled out of its many entrances. Inside, merchants were setting up their stalls, talking to colleagues, clutching steaming drinks.
The smell of cooking wafted onto the square.
The markets were still quiet enough that all the merchants greeted Ellisandra as she walked between the stalls. Most of the ones on this side sold food: wonderful warm fish bread, different types of flours, beans of all sizes, dried fruit and other preserves, fresh, dried and salted fish, fish meal and other fish products.
Most of these stalls surrounded an open area with tables and stools, where the hubbub of talk mixed with the clangs of cooking pots and the hiss of frying pans, where steam billowed from soup stands and where just about all merchants in the hall seemed
to be sitting and talking and having breakfast before the start of the trading day. A huge fire burned in an open metal dish, and people stood as close as they found comfortable to warm themselves.
Ellisandra’s appearance caused a string of nodded greetings of Good morning, lady. The only women here were merchants’ wives and daughters. They were all Nikala. In fact, Ellisandra bet that she was the only Endri woman to come here on a regular basis.
The men she had come here to see usually sat on the other side of the fire, or stood around a clustered collection of notice boards, checking out the latest job offerings. Lately someone had even set up a screen, although the handwritten notices were always the most popular.
Ellisandra took such a notice out of her pocket. She had written it last night, sitting in her comfortable chair by the fireside. Normally, jobs were in such short supply that the men would besiege her and walk with her to the board so that they could be the first to bid for the jobs she had on offer. Today, she made it to the notice boards without a single follower.
That was strange. She clipped the notice builders wanted onto an empty peg and turned around. Still no one.
That was really strange. Where were all the regular construction workers? Not near the fire. Not near the stands. Not even at merchant Almarin’s fat-fried fish stand.
Ellisandra felt stupid. She’d never come here and found herself so utterly . . . ignored. She strolled around the cluster of noticeboards, glancing casually at the jobs posted. Most were for domestic positions or workshop hands. Seriously, was Asitho Bisumar hiring even more grounds staff? His yard was not that big. What had happened to the previous ones?
While she was at it, why were all these men watching her?
Those men over there at the fish stand, and the ones near the fire, and the one on the opposite side of the fire.
Why had no one come to her to ask what sort of people she was looking to employ? The men knew her. They knew what she was doing here.
Heart thudding, Ellisandra walked down the line of noticeboards and stopped close to a group of men who were discussing one of the posted jobs, pointing at the notices and arguing about pay rates.
“I wouldn’ work fer that,” one of the men was saying. “What’s he think he is, wanting a fellow t’ bust his gut fer nothing but beans.”
“Yeah, he can keep his beans. I hear they make a person fart.”
Their mates all laughed.
“It’s serious, man,” the first worker said again. “I’d be getting less than my pa did ten years ago working fer th’ Andrahar family. Everything costs more. Can youz see th’ problem?”
Nods all around. “Those were th’ days.”
“We’re getting less and less fer doin’ th’ same work. This whole thing scares th’ pants off me.”
“Me, too. What’s goin’ t’ happen when all th’ old families who paid decent money are gone ’n we get left with a whole bunch o’ pinchpennies who’s out t’ screw us?”
“Yeah, like that old merchant Tamarin who was wanting t’ get th’ whole lot of us t’ work fer th’ price of one. They jus’ keep screwing us ’n screwing us, until we have t’ give in ’cause we need t’ eat, ’n any money’s better than none.”
“Yeah, th’ council is all about bein’ equal ’n that, but things don’ look too equal from where I’m standing. I din’ mind th’ Endri. Most of them, at any rate. I did th’ job, they always paid, ’n they fixed anything wrong with my house, ’cause it belonged to them. With these people, they want us t’ pay rent, and they pay less than half what I got before, and they don’ even fix th’ leaking roof.”
Sounds of agreement all around.
“Th’ council’s forgettin’ one thing. Endri ’n Nikala were never equal. Nothing in Foundation says they ever were. Foundation gave us things t’ do. It gave them things t’ do. Put it all together, and that’s Miran. Endri and Nikala aren’t equal. And not bein’ crude ’n all that, but though I can fuck an Endri girl all I like, she will never have my child.”
A burst of laughter went up from his mates.
Ellisandra’s ears burned. She ducked as deep into the collar of her cloak as she could.
“Better be careful now, eh?” one of the mates said.
“What?” The maker of the crude comment turned around and his eyes widened as they met Ellisandra’s.
“Oh.” His face went red. “I’m sorry, lady. I din’ mean—I mean . . . I’m sorry. I wasn’t talking about youz, or anything . . . Um. Can’t I help you with anything?”
Ellisandra had to do her best not to laugh. “Yes, you can help me, actually. Is Loret not here today?”
“Oh no, lady. They’s all got a job t’ do. Wen’ out early this morning, too.”
Damn it. “Are any other builders here? I’ve got some urgent work for you. We’re staging Changing Fate and I need the stage props to be built, with a moving stage. I will need about five to six people.”
The announcement was followed by an awkward silence. Normally, they’d be happy and would say things like, Sure, when do you want us to start?
Not today.
“Did I say anything wrong?” Her heart thudded. What was going on?
One fellow said, “I don’t know that you’ll find it so easy t’ get people. Many of us were just hired t’ do a job.” His name was Nissa, and he was an experienced carpenter. He’d worked for her before, with Loret, and he was competent, punctual and reliable. She didn’t want to have to find anyone else.
“Must be a big job?” Construction was normally quiet during the snow months.
“A strange fellow came in here yes’erday—”
His mate cut in. “Not jus’ a strange fellow. A foreigner.”
“Lemme talk, ya goof. I was gettin’ t’ that part.”
“A foreigner?”
“Certain as I’m standing here, lady. I mean—he looks Mirani, but he isn’t. Never seen him around here. He speaks well, but very old-fashioned. Fer his age, I mean.”
“Who is this foreigner?”
“You’d know, lady. He’s up there where youz are, rebuilding the traitor’s house.”
“The Andrahar house.”
“That’d be the one.”
“What’s his name? Where is he from?”
“He din’ say that, did he? Before youz ask, he din’ say why either. ’S all a big puzzle, that is. But he’s payin’ us all two tirans a day, so nobody’s complainin’. When I told her, it was th’ first time th’ wife has smiled at me for about a year.”
Ellisandra’s head reeled. Two tirans? For a building job? No wonder these men were not interested in her measly offering.
Damn it, what was she going to do now?
7
THE GIRLS of the theatre committee were meeting again that morning, so Ellisandra had no time to solve the problem of a shortage in good workers. It was a fair walk to Tolaki’s house, where they were meeting, and she had to walk very fast—because running would be unladylike—and still came late.
The maid opened the door to her and let her into the hall.
The house was smaller than hers and, being newer, it lacked some of the older features—like those small ornamental windows in all the interior doors that often rattled, let in cold air or even fell out—and had a more compact and practical layout. That meant it was warmer, cosier and looked less like some high-ranking councillor’s office.
Tolaki ran in from the living room the moment the door shut behind Ellisandra and rushed across the hall, sweeping Ellisandra in a hug. “Oh, here is my sister-to-be!”
“You’re acting like I haven’t seen you for years. I only saw you last night.”
“Yes, but that’s such a long time ago.”
Ellisandra laughed. “Is anyone else here yet?”
“Yes, they’re all here. Aleyo has almost eaten all the cakes.”
Aleyo called from the living room, “She has not!”
Tolaki giggled.
“I’m sorry,” Ellisandra
said. “I’ve run into some trouble. You know Loret and his team of builders?”
“Yes. They’re good.”
“We can’t have them.”
Tolaki’s eyes widened. “Why not?”
“Because someone hired all of them, and a lot of other builders, too.”
“But it’s winter!”
“I know. No one understands it. You know the man we saw yesterday in the Andrahar yard? He is rebuilding the house.”
“What? Why?”
“No one knows. I had a look in the yard this morning. He’s got a big tent sent up and a camp kitchen and he’s had a lot of building materials delivered. The builders don’t know why he’s rebuilding either. But it means that we’re stuck for good people to help us out. I don’t really know what to do now.”
“I’ll go over there and tell him that the men are yours,” came a male voice from the dining room door.
Ellisandra gasped. She had not seen Jaeron approach. He stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. He wore his black oiled leather suit in preparation for a day of work. His hair hung loose over his shoulders, immaculately trimmed and combed. His eyes met hers in a penetrating gaze.
Ellisandra protested. “But they’re not really my workers. They are free to—”
“I won’t have my wife coming second to some kind of blow-in foreigner.”
“He got the workers fair and square. I was just a little too late to—”
“There is no fair in this situation. He’s a foreigner, and he’ll be paying the men in foreign currency. I bet they like that, but it’s illegal.”
“Well . . .” She was a little taken aback by his abrupt stance. Nissa had said that they were paid in tirans—and a lot more than the theatre could afford.
Jaeron continued, “I’ll go and see this fellow tomorrow morning. I’ll bring Enzo and Raedon in case there is trouble.”
There would be trouble if Raedon was involved. “That’s not necessary. He’s probably just an employee for the family.”
“I don’t care if he’s Asto’s Chief Coordinator’s son. Those men work for you. And that is all there is to it.”
