Exile's Children

by Angus Wells

  Which had prompted Flysse to blush furiously and explain to the cook all that had transpired on board the Pride of the Lord; except, that was, for the fact that she now believed herself firmly in love.

  Dido had nodded then, as if she understood, and said, “He appears a remarkable man. A gentleman, you say? Well, my girl, don’t allow your heart to rule your head. It was the attentions of a gentleman”—she gave the word offensive connotations—“that got me sent here.”

  “Arcole’s not like that,” Flysse protested.

  But Dido ignored her denial. “Men are men,” she declared, “and your Arcole’s just another. Nor’s he a gentleman any longer, not here. Here he’s just another exile, and whether he’s better or worse than the rest remains to be seen. You’ll not seek him out, d’you understand?”

  “Yes.” Flysse had nodded, blushing anew at the suggestion, but quite unable to resist asking, “But shall I see him sometimes?”

  “Like as not,” Dido had allowed, “for you’ll be scrubbing pots out in the yard often enough, and we eat together. And then there’s church.”

  “Church?” Flysse had asked.

  “Indeed, church,” Dido had replied. “This is a God-fearing household, and the master allows us to attend the early morning service each Sunday. You’ll see him then. But there’ll be no dawdling or such foolery, you hear me?”

  “No,” Flysse had promised. And then was struck by another thought: “Shall Davyd be there?”

  “The lad from the ship?” Dido had ducked her gaunt gray head in agreement. “Master Gahame’s a God-fearing man, so he’ll be attending. Your young friend was lucky to find such a master.”

  That had pleased Flysse, and Dido’s manner had seemed so kindly that she had ventured to ask if they might meet on other occasions. She thought it should pleasant to find Davyd again.

  “Other occasions?” Dido had seemed to find the question hard of understanding. “What other occasions?”

  “I wondered …” Flysse had hesitated: the cook’s seeming incomprehension disturbed her. “I wondered if I might not see him about the town.”

  “About the town?” Dido had echoed, and then laughed. “God knows, missy, you won’t be going about the town for a long time. That’s a privilege, don’t you know? It’ll be a few years before you earn that.”

  Flysse felt her heart sink. Was this mansion to be all her world for years to come? Abruptly timid, she said, “But Nathanial … ”

  “Is a manservant,” Dido concluded, “and been with the master years now. Nathanial’s earned the master’s trust, so sometimes he’s allowed out, like Benjamyn or me. But you? No, young Flysse, you won’t be setting foot outside until you’ve earned the privilege. You just work hard and prove yourself, and then”—she smiled benignly, as if granting a gift—“why, in a few years’ time perhaps you’ll be allowed the odd trip to market or suchlike.”

  Flysse had swallowed, fighting sudden tears. This apparently kindly woman obviously saw nothing untoward or odd in such confinement. Indeed, she clearly considered the promise of a tiny measure of freedom a prize worthy of the striving. Flysse supposed that was the cost of exile, of indenture: it seemed a dreadful price. she endeavored to console herself with the thought that she shared this mansion prison with Arcole, and somehow—even be it at risk of punishment—she would contrive to see him, to spend what time she could with him.

  She had wiped away her tears then and put on the dirndl, and followed Dido to the kitchen and the first day of her new life.

  25 Events Unexpected

  Autumn gave way to winter and the first snow fell on Grostheim. For Arcole it was welcome relief from the tedium of indentured life: as streets of hard-packed dirt were churned to clinging mud, Governor Wyme gave up his sedan chair in favor of his carriage. No longer was Arcole condemned to the endless round of stable duties, and if he must wear a uniform he found entirely ridiculous, at least he wore it outside the confines of the mansion. With Fredrik and his fellow grooms, he was required to accompany Wyme or the governor’s wife on journeys about the town. He thought this likely saved his sanity.

  The months had passed slowly for Arcole. He had given up immediate hope of finding himself promoted—he supposed that was the correct word—to a position within the house where he might catch Wyme’s eye, and instead felt himself condemned to life as a stablehand. This he accepted with stoic resignation, employing all his wit and charm to be friend his fellow servants. He had come to realize a hierarchy existed amongst servants as rigid as the rankings of society, and he stood at the foot of the ladder. It was a hard lesson. He consoled himself—and was surprised he should—with the thought that he still saw Flysse. They met at mealtimes, when all the servants ate together, and often when she was given some menial task that brought her outside to the yards. They spoke then, and often as they might they contrived to sit together in church. Arcole found her company lifted his spirits, and with her his smile was genuine. Sometimes they managed a brief word or two with Davyd, but none too often and never at length. Arcole gathered the boy was content enough with his master and that his nimble fingers had been turned to the repairing of tools and weapons, which information he filed away for future reference. He no longer thought of finding like-minded folk amongst his fellow exiles, and had given up his vague dream of fomenting rebellion. The indentured folk seemed to him inured to their lot, as likely to rise against their oppressors as sheep against the shepherd. He thought now only of escape, albeit he could not yet envisage how. Still, did Davyd have access to weapons … Arcole wished he might find a means to speak at greater length with the boy.

  Then, when snow blanketed the rooftops of Grostheim and the wind came howling chill out of the north, things changed. It seemed to Arcole as if he were dealt cards blind, to find on turning them that he held the Imperator and the Monarch and need only gain the Queen and the Duchess to obtain a winning hand—unlikely, but not impossible.

  First came an influenza epidemic. It struck sudden and savage as the wind, and the servants of Wyme’s household were not spared. Housemaids and manservants were confined feverish to their beds, those immune to the disease called upon to work the harder, their duties often as not doubled. Arcole was glad that Flysse did not succumb: more that Benjamyn summoned him from the stables.

  “You’ve some social graces, no?” The majordomo sat with hands cupped around a mug of beef broth, a necklace of protective garlic bulging his starched shirt. “You understand the niceties of society?”

  “I believe so,” Arcole replied. “In the Levan, I moved in society.” That seemed a lifetime away now.

  Benjamyn’s tongue clicked against his teeth. “You know the difference between a fish fork and a meat fork, eh?”

  Sharp eyes studied Arcole, who said, “Of course.”

  “There’s no ‘of course’ about it.” Benjamyn gestured at a box of cutlery on the table before him. “Set those out for one.”

  Curious, Arcole did as he was bade. When he was finished, Benjamyn clicked his tongue in what might have been approval. “Now glasses,” he ordered.

  Arcole set out the glasses, and Benjamyn nodded. “You’ll do, I think.”

  “For what?” asked Arcole.

  Benjamyn said, “The house. We’ve too many sick and a need of manservants. Fetch your belongings from the stables, eh? From now on you’ll sleep here.”

  Arcole suppressed a smile and hurried to the shed he shared with the other grooms. Fredrik grimaced when told of this sudden elevation, but offered no further comment as Arcole gathered up his meager possessions and returned to the mansion.

  He was kitted out with the waistcoat and shoes of his new position, which irked him no less than his groom’s clothing, and shown his new quarters. They were more comfortable—surely far warmer and spacious, the sick having been quarantined in separate rooms. That night he attended Governor Wyme and his wife; and though it sat ill to stand silent as they ate, springing to obey whenever summoned to refill a g
lass or remove a plate, he told himself this change could serve only to further his inchoate plans. He was, at least, closer to Wyme. And later, when master and mistress had eaten and the servants were allowed to take their dinner, he learned that Flysse, too, rose through the ranks of the indentured.

  “I’m to attend the mistress,” she told him. “Lynda fell sick and I’m to be a chambermaid.”

  “An honor,” Dido advised them, “for all it must leave me shorthanded.”

  “I only hope she’ll do,” said Chryselle. “If you let me down, missy …”

  Arcole saw Flysse turn toward the housekeeper, her expression a mixture of submission and eagerness. He wished she did not look so servile, so eager to please. Almost, he spoke out on her behalf, but to his surprise Dido came to her defence.

  “She’s a good girl, is young Flysse,” said the cook, “and does she work so hard for you as she has for me, then you’ll have no cause for complaint, Chryselle.”

  The housekeeper said, “We’ll see, eh? God knows, we’ve all our extra share of work with this cursed epidemic.”

  So it was they both found themselves raised swifter than would ordinarily have been the case, and Arcole found himself in a position to turn another card to his advantage.

  He attended Wyme in the governor’s study. The shutters were closed against the wind and heavy curtains drawn. A fire blazed in the hearth and Arcole stood awaiting his master’s summons—to pour a glass of wine, or remove a spent lucifer. Such humble duty would have chafed the harder had he not been able to read the documents Wyme perused: it seemed not to have occurred to the man that Arcole could read and write. Arcole supposed that few, perhaps even none, of his fellow servants commanded those attributes; nor, he had come to learn, did indentured servants possess faces. To their masters, they were merely useful, anonymous creatures whose presence was taken for granted. He now felt a pang of guilt that he had once treated servants in like manner. But never would again, he promised himself as he let his eyes slant down to read the papers spread across Wyme’s desk.

  They dealt mostly with routine affairs—tables of figures concerning crops and vineyards, production reports, requests from inland farms for more indentured hands—but set to one side was a map of the known territory. Grostheim was marked, and the location of the inland holdings, the rivers that boundaried the cleared land, the wilderness beyond. Arcole determined that he must obtain a copy, did the opportunity arise. He thought that Wyme would not miss a page or two of paper, and could he only find the chance and the time to transcribe the map, he should own a useful tool.

  Once, his musings were interrupted by the arrival of Major Spelt and a young lieutenant, whose name Benjaymn announced as Rogyr Stantin. The lieutenant looked to have ridden hard, and on his face Arcole saw writ alarm. Spelt appeared grim.

  “There’s ill news,” he said, and favored Arcole with a scowl.

  Wyme took the hint and said, “Arcole, do you bring us two glasses and then leave us.”

  Arcole brought the glasses, and thought to add a humidor. He bowed as Wyme waved a dismissive hand, and retreated to the kitchen. Bells hung there, to summon servants, each one marked with the location of a room. Arcole waited, wondering what ill news the Militiamen brought. He supposed it was most likely further word of the epidemic, or a request for labor to clear blocked roads. But were that the case, he mused, then why had Spelt indicated he be dismissed? He wondered what the major and the lieutenant had to say that need be kept from servants’ ears. When the bell rang, he returned to the study.

  Spelt and Stantin were gone, and Wyme sat grave-faced, a glass forgotten at his elbow. Three cold pipes lay on the desk and the room was thick with smoke. Wyme said, “Help me up,” and Arcole bent to lift his bulk from the chair, passing the governor the crutches he must use to walk. He escorted the man to a sitting room and saw him settled in an armchair by the hearth.

  “Wine,” the governor ordered. “Then ask my wife attend me.”

  Arcole obeyed, setting a decanter and two glasses on a table. Before leaving he asked meekly, the thoughtful manservant, “Shall I tidy your study, ’sieur? Perhaps air the room?”

  Wyme nodded absently. He appeared preoccupied, and Arcole sensed that news of grave import had been delivered. He hurried to find the governor’s wife, conveying to her the message, and made his way back to the study. It was the work of only moments to gather up the glasses and pipes, which he set aside by the door, crossing to the desk. He began to rummage through the clutter there, seeking clean paper on which he might transcribe the map, when he noticed that the original was altered. Around a holding marked Thirsk Farm, Wyme had drawn a circle in red ink, and the figure 3. Sand still littered the inscription, and Arcole assumed it must be connected to the visit of the Militiamen. Curious, he bent to peruse the map closer. There were two similar notations—older, and ringed and numbered in like manner, marked Defraney Mill and Clawson Farm. Arcole wondered what the red rings and the numbers meant. He saw a sheet lying beside the map, that, too, sprinkled with sand, the ink not yet quite dry. He guessed the paper represented notes taken during the interview with Spelt and the lieutenant, and that were it known he could read, Wyme would never have allowed him in this room.

  He forgot his original purpose as he began to read.

  At the head, in a hand embellished with grandiose flourishes, was written the word Attacks. Beneath, Wyme had employed a personal code. It was easy to decipher—Arcole frowned, his heart quickening as he studied the governor’s notes.

  Beside the figure 1 Wyme had written Clwsn Fm; Summer. Dstryd: all sls lost. No sign. Beneath that entry was the figure 2 and the equally cryptic comments: Defrny Mill; Summer. Burnd: no survrs. No sign. A line was drawn across the page then, and under it the words: Ptrls fnd no sign. Wilderness? Spelt suggsts svges. Then a second line, below which was the figure 3 and the coded remarks, Thrsk Farm, Autumn. Burnd: no survrs. No sign. Then Wyme had inscribed a large question mark and the words: What are they? Spelt suggsts Mil. expdtn. The notes were then ended with a second outsize question mark.

  Intrigued, not sure what he had discovered, Arcole set the papers in order. As best he could surmise, Wyme’s notes indicated that three inland holdings had been attacked and destroyed, with all there slain. He looked to the map and saw that the three ringed locations stood close to the forest edge. It seemed that Major Spelt believed the attacks were the work of savages, and had suggested a military expedition be sent out. Were he right, Arcole thought, then Salvation was not the empty land folk supposed. Somewhere—likely in the wilderness forests—there were others, hostile to the Autarchy’s colonists.

  The idea was startling. Salvation was assumed to be Evander’s foothold in this new world, the stepping-stone from which the Autarchy would eventually conquer all the wilderness. But if there were already inhabitants, and they opposed to the newcomers … Arcole whistled softly as myriad ideas ran wild through his head.

  Were there folk in the wilderness, might they not welcome refugees? Perceive escaped exiles as allies in their struggle against Evander? Arcole moved from the desk, aware his absence might soon be noted. Playing his role of obedient servant, he drew the curtains open and threw the shutters wide. Cold air intruded, shocking as his discovery. He returned to the desk. There was no time now to copy the map, but that could be done later; now his head was abuzz with the implications of these attacks. They were, obviously, kept secret, likely for fear of panic. But how long should that secret be kept, did Spelt mount an expedition? Or were there further attacks? What effect might such news have on the citizens of Grostheim?

  He tended the fire, wondering how he might use this knowledge.

  Of itself, it seemed worthless, save that he became privy to information he was confident Wyme preferred be kept secret. Which would likely prove dangerous, were his knowledge made known—unless he could somehow contact these mysterious savages. Of a sudden all his suppressed resentment of Evander, of the Autarchy, came flooding b
ack. He drove the poker hard into the hearth, raising a cloud of sparks. He thought of burning cabins, of Grostheim itself in flames. He was not alone! Even were his fellow exiles become docile, there were some in this new land who did not accept the authority of Evander. Surely he might find common cause with them. Save, he wondered, how? How might he contact them? And were they savages, how might he survive contact? He set the poker aside and went to close the shutters, draw the curtains, his mind racing.

  He thought of Davyd. The boy was employed by Rupyrt Gahame, whose warehouse, by Davyd’s account, was full of weapons. What if guns could be stolen? Surely weapons would make such a gift as must guarantee friendship. And knowledge of Grostheim—gleaned as a groom—could help, did these mysterious potential allies invade the citadel itself.

  He took a deep breath, forcing his thoughts to slow. He ran ahead of himself, allowed that hatred of Evander he had believed controlled to flare up too fierce again. He counseled himself to patience: he had knowledge now, and knowledge was a weapon, did he but find the opportunity to use it. He must wait—God knew, servitude taught him how to do that—and amass more knowledge. And first he must find some means by which to speak at length with Davyd.

  He collected the dirty glasses and the pipes and returned to his duties, once more the patient servant.

  • • •

  “Are you well?” Flysse studied him with solicitous eyes. “You’re not ailing?”

  “No.” Arcole shook his head, dismissing her concern with a smile. “I was only thinking.”

  “Of what?” she asked.

  They sat alone in the kitchen, the hour well past midnight. The mansion slept—soundly, Arcole hoped, for it was currently his duty and Flysse’s to attend the governor and his wife, should they wake and require some service. It was an odious task, did Wyme demand his chamber pot, nor much better when he fretfully demanded mulled wine or hot chocolate. But so far neither bell had rung, and the thought had entered Arcole’s head that this would be an ideal time to transcribe Wyme’s map. As best he knew no hexes were laid on the study or its contents. What point, when the papers therein were only meaningless scribbles to the servants?