Green Jack

by Alyxandra Harvey

  Chapter 50

  Jane

  The Feral village was essentially the same: layers of baked clay and wooden platforms and hidden gardens, but the scorched edges were new. There were still plants, but not as many. The coyotes paced close, growling softly. As the emissaries, Jane and Nico walked in front, with Saffron tucked in the centre and surrounded with drawn weapons. Likely an insult to Feral hospitality but Greencoats knew one thing: protect the Green Jill, even here under the fierce blue sky and fiercer sun.

  Shanti and Anya waited outside one of the painted tents. Shanti’s white face tattoos glowed against her dark skin and Nico’s posture straightened slightly. Jane resisted the urge to smack the back of his head, but only barely.

  “Elisande will speak to you now,” Anya said. Her red hair was braided and coiled into what looked like a hangman’s rope. Jane decided not to take it as a sign. Sometimes, a creepy bloodthirsty girl was just a creepy bloodthirsty girl. Anya’s and Shanti’s spears crossed. “Only the Jill.”

  “The Jill has her honour guard, just like Elisande,” Jane said quickly before Nico started spouting poetry or Saffron shot her mouth off.

  Anya looked annoyed. “Fine.” She moved aside. “Hands where I can see them, Numina.”

  Caradoc pushed through to stand with Jane, and they escorted Saffron into the dim cool of the tent. Elisande sat on a stool, pouring hot water over the mint leaves she cut from a small plant in a mosaic pot. She wore her full ritual regalia, from the antlered headdress to the porcupine quill dress and the flute at her belt. If Caradoc was surprised that the shamanka was an adolescent girl, he didn’t look it.

  Saffron dropped onto the edge of a cushion and pushed the leaf mask up off her face. “It itches,” she said by way of a greeting.

  “Fox girl,” Elisande said.

  “Little girl,” Saffron shot back.

  Jane closed her eyes briefly. “Diplomacy, remember?” she hissed at Saffron.

  Saffron made an irritated noise but made an effort not to glower. Elisande’s eyes went distant, hazy. “Wolf,” she said to Caradoc. “And hawk,” she added to Jane. Jane could have sworn she felt the flutter of wings.

  “We have a proposal for you,” Saffron interrupted.

  “Is it in the form of an apology?” Elisande asked. “For burning down our gardens?”

  “I’ll apologize for that when you apologize for taking us hostage.”

  “We would have treated you well.” She was dangerously close to petulant.

  “And you still can,” Jane said smoothly. “We need warriors,” she continued. “And everyone knows Feral warriors are the best.”

  Anya smirked at the flattery. Still, it diffused some of the tension. Elisande was too sharp to take it at face value, but she still struggled not to preen. “We aren’t mercenaries,” she said.

  “Maybe not, but everyone has a price,” Saffron said, matter-of-factly. “We need fighters to infiltrate the city and take on the Directorate; you need a Green Jill.”

  “What exactly are you offering?” Anya asked sharply.

  Saffron reached out to touch the mint plant. It responded almost instantly, turning a dark vibrant green and unfurling new leaves. The strong scent of peppermint competed with the incense. “Once we’re done in the City, I stay here for a month in exchange for your help with the fight.”

  “Ferals don’t go into the City.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to take the fight to the Directorate for once?” Saffron asked. “To take them by surprise?” Saffron explained the situation, without mentioning Cartimandua’s relation to Caradoc.

  Shanti frowned. “This isn’t our concern.”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” Saffron pointed out. “Because come harvest time, you’ll have food to feed your village. And I think that is your concern.”

  “Only a month?” Elisande asked. “We’re worth more than that. A month per warrior.”

  Saffron choked. “No way. Two weeks per warrior.”

  “One month.”

  “Three weeks.”

  “One month.”

  Saffron muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like “brat” but was too muffled to be properly heard. “Fine.”

  “Why negotiate at all?” Anya asked. “You’re here now.”

  Caradoc hadn’t moved or spoken since he’d ducked into the tent and the harsh snap of his voice startled them. “Because I always assumed the Ferals had honour.”

  “You can’t eat honour,” Anya shrugged.

  “We’ve sent you food,” Caradoc pointed out. “The Greencoats have always shared their bounty. We aren’t the enemies.”

  Elisande pulled her knees up, making her look even younger. “And if you die, Saffron? We’re left with nothing.”

  “I’m not going to die, you creepy little girl.”

  “That promise isn’t yours to make, is it?”

  “Another Jack would take her place,” Caradoc said.

  Saffron’s shoulders hunched. “I feel like a potato being bartered over at the underground market.”

  “And how do we know this isn’t a plot to weaken us? To send our warriors out of the village and leave it vulnerable?” Shanti asked.

  Saffron rolled her eyes. “I don’t want your village. I don’t actually like it here.”

  “You have my word,” Caradoc said. “As Caradoc of the Spirit Forest.”

  “And you would really stay with us?” Eisande asked Saffron quietly. “Your oath on the fox that walks with you?”

  “For the agreed-upon time, as long as you treat me well.” Saffron answered very pointedly. “And you don’t get to keep me. I’m not a pet.”

  “But you’d stay inside the gardens the entire time? Sleep there too?”

  “I’ll make out with the corn if you think it’ll help.”

  Elisande sat for a long moment before turning to look at Shanti, then at Anya. Shanti shook her head. Anya smiled. Elisande closed her eyes, lips moving as she murmured words to spirits, or totems, or just herself. There was no way to know. Except for Jane, who felt numen brush her skin, lifting the hairs on her arms. Elisande’s eyes snapped open. “I agree.”

  “Good,” Anya’s smiled turned to a grin worthy of a people called feral. “I’ll go.” Shanti didn’t look pleased. Anya shrugged. “You don’t have to.”

  She sighed. “I go where you go.”

  Saffron stood up. “Good, let’s go now.”

  “Wait.” Shanti said. “We’ll need a demonstration first. If we’re to send warriors to fight with yours, then we need to know that yours can even fight in the first place.”

  Caradoc stood up. “A fair request.”

  Shanti looked at his scars and muscles and the way he stood. “Not you,” she said. “I’ll fight your weakest, not your strongest.” She turned to look at Jane. “Her.”

  Jane stared back at her, stomach suddenly filled with sparks. Saffron opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again consideringly. Caradoc just smiled slowly. “Deal.”

  “Are you crazy?” Jane asked under her breath as they left the yurt. She blinked at the too-bright sun. “You said it yourself, I’m not a fighter.”

  “Not like us,” he agreed. He turned her to face him. “So don’t fight like us,” he said. “Fight like you.”

  There was no time to prepare, she was suddenly pushed onto a long platform. There were swords and knives and spears stuck into the barriers, lining the platform with weapons. Tiny bells rang softly, tied to the ropes and the barbed wire railing. Feral music was iron and spear and hard red clay. It wasn’t her song. She tried to do as Caradoc suggested. She was anise seeds, the fire at the top of her skull, the way the light dappled through the cedars back at camp. She would make her own music.

  As Shanti’s spear caught the light, Jane took a moment for a long deep breath. I am the earth where seeds of wisdom grow.

  The first blow sent Jane into the barbed wire. Her arms stung, pinpricked and torn. Her ribs ached.
She thought one of them might have popped out, stabbing her from within.

  The second blow was harder, faster.

  The third blow didn’t land.

  Numen coursed up her spine, winding like fiery roots and digging into her brain. It was uncomfortable, painful, invigorating. Hers.

  Jane rolled out of the way. The spear scraped against the barbed wire and caught. She took advantage of the distraction to roll to her feet, behind Shanti. She could see Caradoc below them, fierce and patient, and Saffron hollering something unintelligible and no doubt profoundly rude. Jane turned away. She couldn’t afford to be distracted. She was alone on this platform. It was her song, her dance.

  Shanti swung around, but she didn’t use her spear this time. She aimed a savage kick at the outside of Jane’s knee. She missed, but only barely. Jane followed the pattern of the light, the shape of Shanti’s shadow. She leapt over the spear, dipped low under a dagger.

  Shanti smiled for the first time. “You can’t fly forever, little hawk.”

  Jane wanted to say something pithy, something witty like Kiri or Saffron would have, but there were only shadows and light and the tingle in her legs, urging her to move. She imagined she was back in the Castle ballroom, dancing an uncomplicated dance. Shanti slipped on a spatter of sweat on the boards. She was panting, her muscles gleaming. Jane was equally sweaty, but didn’t feel any particular gleam. She was tired and bedraggled.

  But she was winning.

  She twirled out of the way again and then shot her hand out, seizing the spear shaft. Instead of stopping it, she pulled it closer in a sudden move that had the other end stuttering when Shanti compensated. Jane followed through, smashing it into Shanti’s legs and knocking her down. Jane tossed the spear over the side of the platform, scuttling back out of reach. She’d lost the connection, her numen sputtering out like a candle.

  But it had burned long enough, just long enough.

  The drum stopped. Shanti flipped into a crouch.

  “You’ll have your warriors.”