by Patrick Ness
The Source’s voice tells us the leader of the Clearing is a man who forms no real alliances. That he will only rule alone no matter what temporary measures he takes with the far hilltop. That he will, if pressed, betray the other side without hesitation. This is their weakness, and one the Land can exploit. Our attacks begin again at daybreak. We shall see how their alliance stands up to pressure.
I glare at him. But you would still make peace with them. I see that in you.
If that would save the Land, yes, the Sky would. And so would the Return.
He is not asking me. He is telling me I would do it.
But that is why I bring you here, he shows, directing my voice back to the man. If peace comes, if that is how matters are settled, then I will give you the Source entire. To do with as you will.
I look up to him, puzzled. Give him to me?
He is nearly healed, the Sky shows. We keep him asleep to hear his unguarded voice, but we could wake him at any time.
I turn back to the man. But why would that give me vengeance? Why would–?
The Sky makes a gesture towards the Pathways’ End, causing their voices to make room for the voice of the man–
So that I can hear it.
His voice–
I walk right up to the stone tablet and lean down towards the man’s worn face, covered in the hair that scars the faces of half of the Clearing. I see the Land’s healing pastes on his chest, the ragged clothes he wears.
And all the time I hear him.
Mayor Prentiss, he says.
And weapons.
And sheep.
And Prentisstown.
And early one morning.
And then he says–
He says–
Todd.
I whirl round to the Sky. But this is–
Yes, shows the Sky.
I have seen him in the Knife’s voice–
Yes, shows the Sky again.
This man is called Ben, I show, my voice opening wide with amazement. He is worth almost as much to the Knife as his one in particular.
And if peace is our outcome, shows the Sky, then in payment for all that the Clearing has made you suffer, he is yours.
I turn back to the man.
Back to Ben.
He is mine, I think. If there is peace, he is mine.
Mine to kill.
[TODD]
We hear ’em coming thru the trees, distant but rising fast.
“Wait for it,” whispers the Mayor.
“They’re gonna come right at us,” I say.
The first misty rays of dawn shine off his face as he turns to me. “That’s the risk of being bait, Todd.”
Boy colt? Angharrad says nervously below me.
“It’s all right, girl,” I say, tho I ain’t at all sure it is.
Submit! thinks Juliet’s Joy next to us.
“Shut up,” the Mayor and I say at the same time.
The Mayor grins at me.
For a second, I grin back.
The past week has been almost good, compared to what went before. The food and water exchanges have gone how they’re sposed to, no funny business by either the Mayor or Mistress Coyle, and it’s like a rule of life that yer automatically happier when you don’t gotta worry about something to drink. Things have settled down in the camps, with the town almost seeming like a town again and Viola saying the hilltop’s got calmer, too, almost normal. She even says she’s been feeling better tho I can’t really tell if it’s true over the comm cuz she’s also found reasons every day for us not to see each other and I can’t help but worry, I can’t help but think–
(I am the Circle and the Circle is me)
But I’ve been busy, too, with the Mayor. Who’s gone all friendly. He’s taken to visiting the soldiers round the camp, asking bout their families and their old homes and what they hope for after the war and with the new settlers and on and on. Doing it to the townsfolk, too.
And he’s also been giving me all kindsa good stuff, like having a grumbling Mr O’Hare make my tent way more comfortable, with a softer cot and loads more blankets against the cold. He always makes sure Angharrad has more than her share of feed and water. And he tells me every day what his doctors are doing to try and cure the bands, to make sure Viola ain’t in any danger.
It’s been weird.
But good.
Tho all this good stuff has only really been possible cuz there ain’t been no Spackle attacks for the whole week. Not that that’s stopped us from planning for ’em. Using the probes, Bradley and Simone picked out a coupla different ways the Spackle might sneak into town and the Mayor set about making those ways good targets. And with the help of our new allies who ain’t got Noise and can’t be heard slinking round the woods at night, they prepared things.
And right now, it’s looking like the preparayshun was a good idea.
We’re facing down a small road that cuts thru the woods south of town and we can hear Spackle coming, right from where we thought they would.
And they’re getting louder.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” the Mayor says to me, glancing up thru the trees to the probe hanging in the sky behind us. “It’s all going according to plan.”
The Spackle Noise goes up a notch, louder and steadier, too fast to be able to read anything in it.
Todd, Angharrad says, getting more nervous. Todd!
“Calm your horse, Todd,” the Mayor says.
“We’re okay, girl,” I say, rubbing her flank. But I also pull her reins to the side so we’re a bit more behind the well-digging equipment me and the Mayor are pretending to guard.
I bring my comm up. “Can you see anything on the probe?”
“Nothing clear,” Viola says back. “Some movement, but it’s so blurry it could be the wind blowing.”
“It ain’t the wind.”
“I know,” she says, coughing into her hand. “Hold tight.”
The Spackle Noise gets even louder–
And louder still–
“It’s happening, Todd,” the Mayor says. “Here they come.”
“We’re ready,” the comm says but it ain’t Viola. It’s Mistress Coyle.
And then the Spackle are pouring outta the shadows like a flash flood–
Onto the path and running right at us–
Their weapons up and ready–
“Hold,” the Mayor says to me, aiming his rifle–
They keep surging onto the path–
Twenty, thirty, forty of ’em–
And me and the Mayor on our own–
“Hold,” he says again–
Their Noise is filling the air–
And they keep coming–
Keep coming till they’ve gotta be in weapons’ range–
And there’s a fizz as one of the white sticks is fired–
“Viola!” I shout–
“Now!” I hear Mistress Coyle thru the comm–
The trees on either side of the road blow into a million burning splinters, ripping thru the Spackle, sending the Mayor and me reeling and I’m struggling hard to keep Angharrad from bolting or throwing me off–
By the time I spin back round, the smoke’s already clearing and we can see fallen trees and burning trunks–
And no sign of any Spackle–
Just bodies on the road–
Lots of bodies.
“What the hell was that?!” I shout into the comm. “That was way bigger than you said it would be!”
“An error in the mixture, no doubt,” Mistress Coyle says. “I’ll have a word with Mistress Braithwaite.”
But I can see her smiling in the screen.
“A little over-enthusiastic, perhaps,” the Mayor says, riding over to me, smiling big, too, “but the peace process has begun!”
Then we hear another sound behind us. The group of soldiers who laid in wait down the road in case something went wrong and we needed help. They’re marching up to us now, fast and happy–
>
And they’re cheering.
The Mayor rides among ’em in triumph, like he expected it all along.
{VIOLA}
“That was slaughter,” Bradley says angrily. “How exactly does that constitute an overture to peace?”
“We overcooked the mixture,” Mistress Coyle shrugs. “It was only our first try. Lesson learned for next time.”
“Next time–” Bradley starts to say, but she’s already on her way out of the cockpit where we were watching everything happen on the main screen. Simone’s outside with the remote projector, displaying the whole thing in three dimensions to the hilltop crowds.
There was a big cheer when the explosion happened. There’s an even bigger one when Mistress Coyle steps outside.
“She did it on purpose,” Bradley says.
“Of course she did,” I say. “That’s what she does. Offer her an apple and she’ll take the tree.”
I stand up from my chair–
And sit right back down again because my head is spinning so fast.
“You all right?” Bradley says, his Noise full of concern.
“Same as usual,” I say. Though it isn’t, actually. Mistress Coyle’s timed treatments have worked okay, but my fever came back with a vengeance this morning and hasn’t left. Six more women have died, too, all older and unwell, but there are a lot of us getting sicker. Sometimes, you can tell who has a band and who hasn’t just by looking at their faces.
“She hasn’t found anything in the information the Mayor provided?” Bradley asks.
I shake my head, starting to cough. “If he’s provided everything.”
“Thirty-three days until the convoy arrives with a full medical bay,” Bradley says. “Can you hold on?”
I nod, but only because I’m coughing too much to talk.
The past week has gone unnervingly smoothly. Wilf rides down the road with tanks of water and rides back with cartloads of food, no problems at all. The Mayor’s even sent soldiers to protect him and engineers to improve the water collection. He’s also accepted Mistresses Nadari and Lawson to help inventory the food and supervise the distribution.
Mistress Coyle, meanwhile, looks happier than I’ve ever seen her. She’s even started talking about how to make the truce. Apparently, this involves a lot of blowing things up. Mistress Braithwaite, who did my soldiering training what seems like a lifetime ago, plants bombs in the trees, hoping to show the Spackle we can outwit them and also hoping to capture one who isn’t killed in the blast. Then we’ll send it back saying we’ll keep blowing things up if they don’t talk to us about peace.
Mistress Coyle swears this is how it worked last time.
My comm beeps, Todd calling with final word after the attack.
“None survived, did they?” I ask, coughing some more.
“No,” he says, looking concerned. “Viola, are you–?”
“I’m fine. It’s just coughing.” I try to swallow it away.
I’ve only seen him over the comm the past week since our big meeting by the old house of healing. I haven’t gone down there and he hasn’t come up here. Too much to do, I tell myself.
I also tell myself it’s not because a Todd without Noise makes me feel really–
Makes it seem like–
“We’ll try again tomorrow,” I say. “And again and again until it works.”
“Yeah,” Todd says. “The sooner we can get those truce talks started, the sooner this is all over. The sooner we can start making you well.”
“The sooner you can be away from him,” I say, realizing too late that I’ve said it out loud. Stupid fever.
Todd frowns. “I’m fine, Viola, I swear. He’s being nicer than ever.”
“Nice?” I say. “When was he ever nice?”
“Viola–”
“Thirty-three days,” I say. “That’s all we have to get through. Just thirty-three more days.”
But I have to say, it feels like for ever.
[TODD]
The Spackle attacks keep coming. And we keep stopping ’em.
Submit! We hear Juliet’s Joy shouting down the road. SUBMIT!
And we hear the Mayor laughing.
Heavy hoofbeats come pounding outta the darkness, the Mayor’s teeth shining in the moons-light. You can even see the gleam of the gold threads on the sleeve of his uniform.
“Now, NOW!” he’s calling.
With a disgusted cluck of her tongue, Mistress Braithwaite presses a button on a remote device and the road behind the Mayor erupts in gales of flame, instantly burning the Spackle who were in pursuit, Spackle who thought they’d found a random soldier away from what seemed to be the obvious trap we’d laid down another path.
But that trap wasn’t a trap. The random soldier was.
This is the fifth attack we’ve stopped in five days, each one getting cleverer with us getting cleverer in return, with fake traps and fake fake traps and different paths of attack and so on.
It feels pretty good actually, like we’re finally really doing something, like we’re finally–
(winning–)
(winning the war–)
(it’s ruddy thrilling–)
(shut up)
(but it is–)
Juliet’s Joy comes heaving to a stop next to Angharrad, and we all watch as the flames gather up into a cloud rising thru the trees and dissipating against the cold night sky.
“Forward!” the Mayor shouts, the buzz of it rocketing thru the Noise of the soldiers gathered behind us and they surge past in formayshun, racing down the road after any Spackle who might still be alive.
But from the size of the flames, it don’t look like there’ll be any left this time neither. The Mayor’s smile disappears as he sees just how much destruckshun there is down the road.
“And yet again,” he says, turning to Mistress Braithwaite, “your detonation is mysteriously too big to leave any survivors.”
“Would you rather they killed you?” she asks in a way that says that’d be fine by her.
“You just don’t want us to get the Spackle first,” I say. “You want to get one for Mistress Coyle.”
You could pretty much eat dinner off the glare she gives me. “I’ll thank you not to talk to your elders that way, boy.”
Which makes the Mayor laugh out loud.
“I’ll talk to you any way I damn well please, Mistress,” I say. “I know yer leader and there ain’t no pretending she’s not up to something.”
Mistress Braithwaite looks back at the Mayor, not changing her expresshun. “Charming,” she says.
“Yet accurate,” says the Mayor, “as usual.”
I feel my Noise go a little pink at the unexpected praise.
“Please report to your Mistress the usual success,” the Mayor says down to Mistress Braithwaite, “and the usual failure.”
Mistress Braithwaite heads off back to town with Mistress Nadari, scowling at us as they go.
“I’d do the same if I were her, Todd,” the Mayor says, as the soldiers start to return from the fire, no living Spackle found, again. “Keep my opponent from getting an advantage.”
“We’re sposed to be working together,” I say. “We’re sposed to be working towards peace.”
He don’t seem too worried about it, tho. Just look at the soldiers marching past us now, laughing and joking amongst themselves at what they see as another victory after so many defeats. And there’ll be still more to congratulate him when we get back to the square.
Viola tells me Mistress Coyle’s getting the same hero treatment up by the scout ship.
They’re fighting a war over who can be more peaceful.
“I think maybe you’re right, Todd,” the Mayor says.
“Right how?” I ask.
“That we should be working together.” He turns to me, that smile on his face. “I think maybe it’s time we tried a different approach.”
{VIOLA}
“What’s happening now?” Lee says, scratchi
ng underneath his bandage.
“Stop that,” I say, slapping his hand playfully, though the movement causes a terrible pain in my arm.
We’re in the healing room of the scout ship, the viewscreens on the walls showing the probes dotted around the valley. After yesterday’s too fiery attack by Mistress Braithwaite, the Mayor surprised us all by suggesting Simone lead the next mission. Mistress Coyle agreed, and Simone set to work, planning the whole thing with the absolute focus on capturing a Spackle and sending it back with a message of peace.
Which seems strange after we’ve killed so many of them to do it, but it’s been obvious since the beginning that wars make no sense. You kill people to tell them you want to stop killing them.
Monsters of men, I think. And women.
So today, Simone’s set up an even bigger diversionary tactic, positioning the probes in broad daylight to make it look like we expect the Spackle to come down one particular path from the south, where Mistress Braithwaite has planted decoy bombs, set to go off early like we made a mistake, all the while leaving another path open from the north, a path where armed women from the Answer, led by Simone, wait in hiding to capture a Spackle, hoping their lack of Noise will surprise them.
“You’re not telling me anything,” Lee says, scratching the bandage again.
“Wouldn’t it be easier for Bradley to sit here with you?” I say. “You could see what happens through him.”
“I’d rather have you,” he says.
And I see myself in his Noise, nothing too private or anything, just a better-looking version of me, cleaned and washed and fit, instead of feverish and too thin and grimy in a way that doesn’t ever seem to wash off.
He hasn’t talked about his blindness except to make jokes about it, and when there’s someone else with Noise around, he can still see through that, saying it’s almost as good as having eyes. But I’m with him a lot when he’s alone, as we both seem to live in this stupid healing room these days, and I can see it in him, see how most of his life disappeared all at once, that suddenly all he sees are memories and other people’s versions of the world.
And how he can’t even cry about it because the burns are so bad.
