Realization dawned between Malory’s upraised eyebrows. After we climbed back inside the dragon, for it had drunk its fill and was ready to resume flight, she bade one of her staff to relinquish his chair in front of his monitor. She sat and switched the image from the SNN broadcast to an aerial representation of Greater Metropolitan Washington, overlaid with text identifying each street and building.
Malory studied the image for several minutes, occasionally clicking through to read the extended description of a selected site or region, zooming in, zooming out, shifting the map this way and that, all without comment, question, or the solicitation of advice from anyone. Finally she pulled out her phone and sent the following message to her pilot:
“Land me in Sanctuary.”
Goodness gracious me, I never had seen such a volatile eruption of protests—even among the Round Table knights when some hardy soul had announced his (utterly foolish and fatal, in all cases save one) intention to assay the Siege Perilous—as I did that moment from every woman and man of President Malory’s staff. One would have thought she had commanded to be dropped into a war zone headfirst and sans chute.
Malory would not hear any arguments regarding her personal safety and security; when set upon a course, she could be as stubborn as a herd of asses, all seated and braced, each one as impossible to move as the last.
Sanctuary districts occupied outlying sectors of most American cities, established several administrations ago to contain their homeless populations. The grand idea had been to get these people off the streets, shelter them, educate them, feed and clothe them, find them jobs, and reintegrate them into productive society. Due to poor planning and inadequate funding, however, the districts degenerated into anarchy, necessitating the construction of castle-like walls to protect the rest of the cities’ residents, workers, and visitors. Being walled out of sight had made a bad problem grow worse. I recalled reports I had heard every now and again of armed police battalions attempting to enter DC’s Sanctuary to establish order; inevitably, they would be forced to either withdraw or impose the peace of the grave.
No one had ever ordered the latter option…up till now.
Chapter XXIX:
The Smallpox Hut
WHILE HER GUARDS were finalizing the details, I drew Malory aside.
“Slaughtering people—are you mad? If your ridiculously squeamish public hears of this—”
“They won’t. I approved the measure to be employed only as the very last resort. My security staff never would have let me go in otherwise. Besides”—here her voice dropped to a whisper—“there will be no need to slaughter anyone, for you are going to protect us, yes?”
I was less concerned with her implication that I cast a magical warding spell—such enchantments are quite effective and not difficult—than I was with her use of the word “us.” On occasion, I have been forced (by my dear brother, among others) to occupy castles under siege, and I did visit the battlefield on the Salisbury Plain but only after I knew the fighting had concluded. I do not as a rule walk blithely into hot combat zones, magic or no magic.
“And, by ‘us,’ you mean…”
“My security detail, of course. I will need you there, too, in case we encounter something unexpected.”
I nodded my acquiescence. However, “Are you certain this is a wise decision, President Malory? What if something should go wrong? My arts can solve many problems, but resurrection of the dead has never numbered among my skill set.”
She bared her teeth in a most un-Presidential grin. “Might I remind the esteemed Ms. Hanks that she was the one who advised me to be spontaneous?”
“So noted—but only if Madame President in turn acknowledges that I said ‘spontaneous,’ not ‘stupid.’”
“Acknowledged. I’m counting on you to remind me of the difference.”
In truth I would not have left Malory’s side even to obtain the Thirteen Treasures of Britain.
The President’s silver dragon alighted on a weedy field of a size and shape vaguely familiar to me. I did not recognize it for what it was until we emerged from the beast and my toe scuffed against a hard, oblong lump half-buried in the grass. Closer inspection revealed it to be the rubber from an old pitcher’s mound. Heaven knew how long the field had lain in disuse. The bags and backstop were gone, as were the infield and base paths, and the only evidence of the out-of-play fences was a handful of metal posts canted at mournful angles, ragged scraps of fence wire still attached, monuments to their struggle to remain on duty. A copse of trees, by their heights and girths at least two decades old, partially concealed a lone section of metal audience seating along what once was the first-base line, trunks and dirt-caked aluminium twisted into a testament to nature’s perseverance and inevitable triumph.
To say the field was deserted would be to say boiling water is hot. But it was no ordinary abandonment; the total enveloping silence suggested even the birds and insects were gone. Probably this was due to the dragon’s landing. I hoped so. While the guards fanned out, Malory and I stood without speaking, each turning a slow circle to take in—and make some sense of—her surroundings, as if we believed that to utter words might break some ancient warding spell and bring upon us unwanted attention. I chose not to pry into the workings of the President’s mind, but I confess thoughts of that ilk were coursing through my brain.
A narrow house—by this century’s standards, more hut than house—lay beyond what once had been center field. Being the closest habitation, the President set course for it, striding resolutely as if it were the destination of the most important mission of her life. Perhaps for her it was.
The hut was in as bad a condition as the ball-field: encircled by a moat of weeds and saplings, its roof caved in places, every window either cracked or broken, and loose sheets of siding creaking indifferently in the sporadic breeze. A knock on the rusty door produced no sound of either welcome or rejection. It was not locked.
When Malory would have entered, her guards insisted we both stay outside while they investigated. Our compliance pacified them. Sidearms at the ready, two men entered, while two remained with us. A fetid stench burst from the open door so palpable I could taste it. Everyone grimaced; the two investigating guards visibly steeled themselves and forged into the gloom. Muffled footfalls and muted talking marked their passage throughout the dwelling.
I knew the stench; I needed no guard to report the discovery of two corpses and two others, ravaged by the same disease, who would transition to that state soon. And I knew there was nothing I could do to reverse the disease’s march.
“They are beyond saving?” asked Malory, and the guards nodded. “Then we must comfort them as best we may.” When the President started for the door, her men blocked her way. She crossed her arms and leveled a frank look at them. “I have had every vaccination known to Man, and several more besides. These people can be no threat to me. Ms. Hanks, your inoculations are current, too, are they not?”
Since I had cast a spell of immunization over every person in the party the instant the death-stench had hit my nostrils, my nod was not precisely a lie.
The stalemate between Malory and her guards was pierced by a long wail. She shouldered past them, and so did I. Just inside the door we found a woman sitting on the bare floor, swaying and keening and cradling to her breast the body of a smaller, much younger woman, probably a daughter. As we watched, helpless in our uncertainty, the mother’s strength failed, and she collapsed over the still form, sobbing.
Malory rushed forward, knelt, and hugged the woman. I cringed despite our immunities; the failing afternoon light filtering through the ragged window coverings revealed the merciless signature of pox upon every body in the house: the woman, her newly dead daughter, a man, and a girl.
“Sweet Jesu, have mercy,” I murmured.
The woman raised her head. Her face was red and swollen from the disease and from her sobs. “No mercy here…”
“What happened?” Malory asked
.
“No mercy here…”
“The Doglords took everything!”
I furrowed my brow, trying to puzzle her meaning. “Druglords?”
“They were that, at first. But over time their power spread everywhere in Sanctuary: drugs, food, property, prostitutes, down to the very dogs…” She blew a derisive sound between pursed lips. “That, for the Doglords! They wanted my sweet daughters, but my grown sons fought them and were taken. Probably to the Big House. I don’t know whether they are alive—part of me hopes they are, but part of me wishes they are free at last of this hellish place.” Malory winced to hear “Sanctuary” equated with “hell;” only by my decades of self-discipline did I not do likewise. “The Doglords only left the rest of us alone when they realized we’ve got smallpox. Perhaps it’s God’s mercy at work, after all.”
Malory asked me to find water for the woman. As I set about my quest, I pondered the hideous injustices that had contributed to this family’s woes, not the least of which being the fate of the sons for trying to defend their sisters. And I pondered the marvel that I had even recognized the injustices at all; the ancient me would not have expended the effort to care.
The water was easy to find, flowing reasonably clear from the kitchen tap, but drinking vessels were another issue altogether. These “Doglords” had stripped this abode down to its very roots. I cupped my hands beneath the stream and brought it to the woman as best I could. She sucked it gladly, greedily, and far too fast: it touched off a coughing fit that left her weak and wheezing. Malory, bracing the woman’s shoulders and stroking her hair, said, “Good mother, soon we shall take you to a hospital where you will receive much better care than we can render here. And we will learn the fate of your sons, and bring you word.”
“What of my beloved daughters and husband?”
“We shall see to them, as well. You have my word.”
I noted that Malory did not employ her title to lend weight to her vow, nor was it required. Her sincere assurance was enough for the afflicted woman, and her countenance relaxed as she lay back onto the floor. Malory’s guards, who had followed us inside and had borne witness to all that had transpired within the hut, were already snapping orders into their headsets for the implementation of the President’s will.
Of a sudden the guards went silent and alert, like bird dogs on point. An eyeblink later, they were hustling us outside and back into the dragon, clearly responding to a reported threat. Neither Malory nor I resisted them. Only when we were aboard and the beast safely aloft did we learn that fire had broken out within a nearby tenement building.
Malory ordered that we continue to circle Sanctuary and monitor the situation, and I cast a warding spell over the woman we had left behind and any of her family who might still be alive.
Chapter XXX:
The Tragedy of the Big House
AVIDLY WE WATCHED the screens as events unfolded, switching between the dragon’s camera views, satellite images, and the SNN broadcast. Normally the event would have passed unremarked, but because SNN reporters had learned that Malory had been in the vicinity, the world’s eyes had turned upon humble—in the sick woman’s estimation, “hellish”—Sanctuary.
From our altitude, it appeared as if someone had poured Greek fire upon an anthill. The largest building of the district was engulfed in flames, spouting great gouts whenever another window exploded; the fires were now surging to consume other buildings, and people were rushing everywhere in a mad dance. Zooming in on specific sites revealed another chilling fact: some people were fleeing, while the rest were pursuing them, brandishing weapons. Occasionally a mob would overcome a fugitive, subdue him, and string him—or her—up in the nearest tree, leaving the victim dangling and kicking against the advancing flames. A flock of dragons were dumping water on the blazes but had yet to make any appreciable headway. Against this grim montage ran the SNN commentary in a serene female voice:
“President Malory Beckham Hinton to-day ordered Cavalry One to make an unscheduled landing inside Sanctuary, the one-point-eight-square-mile walled-off district reserved for the homeless people of Washington, DC; but she and her escort were obliged to leave suddenly when Sanctuary’s largest tenement, colloquially referred to as ‘The Big House,’ burst into flames. Cavalry One is circling the region at a safe altitude. It is unknown what prompted President Hinton’s visit, or why a military medical helicopter has been dispatched to a house in the fire’s path by her personal orders; the President is unavailable for comment. One patient, identity and condition undetermined, was observed being removed from the house, along with three body bags.” Cut to a live view of the dragonling ascending. “The helicopter’s destination is the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland.
“Early reports indicate the fire and resulting riot were started by three residents”—here flashed the photos of young men bearing a strong resemblance to the woman Malory and I had tried to help—“who claim to have been abducted and tortured by other residents identified only as ‘The Doglords.’” God alone knew whom they resembled; the faces displayed in these images had been charred beyond recognition. Around them, several people had gathered to laugh, dance, and spit upon the corpses. “As you can see by the reactions, resentment toward the Doglords apparently has been brewing for quite some time, and other residents are hunting down and dispatching their oppressors’ underlings.” Cue images of the hanged in all their grisly detail. “Casualty figures already number in the dozens and likely will climb higher until the fires are quenched. The arsonists have eluded capture, but the overwhelming sentiment among survivors has been unabashed gratitude.”
The face of a scruffy older man lurched into view. He said: “Arsonists, hell and damnation! Those boys should get medals for standing up to the Doglords and ending their unholy tyranny. But that ain’t enough, not by a long shot. These walls have to go! We’re not criminals—well, most of us, anyway. The Doglords were criminals of the vilest sort. The rest of us, we’re just down on our luck because nobody wants to give us a chance. The walls make everybody forget about us! Madame President, are you listening? Help us! Don’t forget about us!”
She was listening, and she would not forget; I could see it in the intensity of her gaze and the set to her jaw.
The President’s PR chief had denied all requests for interviews while working to craft a statement for Malory to broadcast. I said:
“Do not make public statements or grant interviews as the President yet. Continue being yourself awhile. What would you, not as the President, but as Malory Beckham Hinton, do now?”
“I would go to Walter Reed and find out what’s happened to that woman. I would also offer amnesty to her sons and reunite them with their mother.”
I approved. I sensed she needed the affirmation, as new as she was to the concept of behaving in a manner true to her inborn nature rather than attempting to project a “perfect,” phony façade that duped only those who were too stupid to discern otherwise, or too apathetic to notice—which amounted to a solid ninety-five per cent of her constituents; still, phoniness is never a sound policy in the long term, because it implies a character disorder of the deepest magnitude.
Malory’s thirty-second broadcast offered no explanations for her unscheduled visit to Sanctuary or for the amnesty she announced for the three fugitive arsonists, if they would surrender themselves to authorities to be brought to the hospital. This micro-speech set the SNN heads to buzzing with endless speculations about what the President was doing and why. I am not certain Malory herself could have explained it if asked; but acting as her full queenly self, she was nothing short of magnificent.
Outside the hospital a battalion of reporters was awaiting the arrival of Cavalry One. From their ranks, in an attempt to minimize disruptions within the hospital due to the President’s presence, one journalistic team was selected to accompany the President inside, along with myself and Malory’s guards: the attractive young woman who had b
roken the SNN story and her cameraman. Together we learned that the Sanctuary woman’s name was Mary Annis, she was being treated in the Intensive Care Unit, and—as Malory and I had suspected from the start—she was dying.
ICU rules permitted one visitor at the patient’s bedside. By tacit agreement that visitor was Malory. The rest of us kept vigil from behind the glass. The camera operator recorded several images of tears sliding down Malory’s cheeks, and nobody present could doubt they were real. What words Malory and Mary exchanged we could not hear over the cheeping and beeping and whirring and purring of the machines, and out of respect I did not eavesdrop by magic. I discerned pleas from the afflicted woman, and Malory’s solemn nod of assent, followed by palpable gratitude from the former, though to what Malory had agreed I had no idea. When Mary’s sons arrived some hours later, when it was almost too late, Malory swiftly relinquished her post to them. All three piled into the tiny space around the bed and between the machines, rules be damned.
The reunion was tearful and far too brief, but Mary died with a smile on her lips and the reflection of her sons’ faces in her eyes, and for that I was immeasurably glad.
When the hospital staff began asking the brothers questions regarding the burial arrangements for their parents and sisters, another reporter—whom I had not seen until that moment—said:
“Let me help.”
“Who are you?” Malory asked.
“Marco Markson of the Washington Times, Madame President. I was covering the Sanctuary story on the inside when the Annis brothers approached me for help. They’d heard about your amnesty offer but didn’t know who else to trust.”
Malory turned a withering gaze upon the trio. “You three violated the terms of my offer.”
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