Through Fire

by Jacob Magnus

  Chapter 2

  The sun rose across the shield wall, casting a deep shadow across the city, and the ashen heap that remained of the President’s funeral pyre glowed here and there with embers yet smouldering. Before it sat a dozen men and women on aluminium folding chairs, drinking coffee from flasks and shivering in the cool morning air. Flint took a spot on the edge nearest the shield wall, welcoming the cover of shadow though it chilled him. He snagged a mug of steaming coffee from a camp table, and relished the hot, bitter liquid.

  As time went by, more people drew near the pyre, and the sun continued to rise, raising a mist from the dewy grass and clover, until it cleared the rim of the shield wall, and warm golden light illuminated a huge crowd. The riggers had already come; these were the people, every able citizen of Bay City, for none would, by their own will, miss the beginning of the presidential race. The light brought warmth, and a festive cheer to the crowd, but as it cleared the mist, it brought Flint a new trouble.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  A hush fell on the crowd as Flint looked up from his second mug of coffee and saw a beefy man with a square head and watery black eyes scowling his way, curses streaming from his mouth. The man reached inside his patched denim jacket, and pulled out a length of heavy iron chain.

  “Hold there, Blenner,” said a second man in a calm, commanding voice. His muscles bulged, filling out his white shirt and jeans, and he laid one brawny arm on Blenner’s shoulders.

  “Ain’t right, Jerethy,” said Blenner, hands white where he gripped the chain. “He murdered Burl. You all saw it. He was to swing for my brother.”

  “His debt’s been paid,” Blen,” said Jerethy, gazing into his face with troubled eyes of iridescent blue.

  Blenner’s swollen purple eyes flared. “Not to me.”

  Flint sat and watched the two over the rim of his coffee. He supposed that perhaps it looked like cowardice or bravado, but he’d barely touched the stew his jailers had left him in the cell, and now he found he hadn’t the strength to stand up and match words, let alone weapons, with Blenner Clavar.

  Jerethy put a soothing tone into his voice, and he put a calming hand on Blenner’s shoulder. “You’re still hurting over Burl, and you’ve got right and reason. It’s gotta hurt a sight more with Flint sitting right there, and you can’t do a thing about it. There will be a time for justice, but it’s not this time.”

  “Aw, shove your pretty talk, Jerethy. I’ve got my justice right here,” said Blenner, and he hefted the chain, and tried to shove Jerethy’s arm aside, but Jerethy didn’t budge.

  “You won’t take the smooth way, then you’ll take the rough way.” Jerethy leaned in close to Blenner’s face, blue eyes to purple. “We’re doing tradition, now, Blenner, and tradition says this is a time of peace and grace before we take to the way. Once we’re on the way, tradition says there are no rules. We can butt and bash all we like. Well I’ll tell you this… You raise fist or foot or chain or blade against any man, woman or fluffy pet puppy inside the shield wall, I will ram you with the Dragon, and your pathetic rig will burst.”

  Blenner’s face turned white, and he stumbled away from Jerethy, hands shaking. He cast a wild look around the loose circle of riggers, and at the silent crowd beyond. Then he shoved the chain into his jacket, and shambled away.

  One of the riggers called after him. “Hey Blen, where’re you going? Race hasn’t started yet.”

  Blenner replied without turning. “I know the rules. Send me my charges, and blow your horns when we’re to go.”

  Once Blenner had vanished in the direction of the shield wall, Flint found the strength to get to his feet, and he headed over to Jerethy. “Thanks,” he said. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  Jerethy lowered his head, and his mouth became a tight line. “Didn’t do it for you,” he said through his teeth. “Far as I’m concerned, you should take the Rhino west, and just keep going.”

  “There’s nothing west but sea.”

  Jerethy looked at him with those strange glittering blue eyes. “I know.”

  A strange sense of loss and isolation flowed into him then, carried him back to his camp chair, and held him, brooding. He reached for his coffee, but the flask was empty, and there was no more on the table. He’d always been a loner, raised on the way by parents who were half-wild themselves, if the stories were true. He’d passed time with the other riggers, and known their camaraderie. There was a kinship among them; they were all drivers, living more on the road than here in the city, and while that brought them together in one way, it kept them apart more than not. Nevertheless, he’d come to feel that this pack of rough-edged runners were family, and now, it seemed, his delusion was ending.

  His thoughts broke apart when he heard excited chatter from the packed crowd, and a wave of applause. He looked up to see Vistor Ambrel stride into the circle, flanked by a couple of heavyset men straining to fit into their antique black suits. Vistor wore a pair of pale yellow slacks and a flowing black silk shirt that did almost nothing to conceal his girth, and somehow made his round head redder. “Dear people,” he said, in a voice that carried across the field. “Friends, old friends and new, thank you. In life you were Buck’s one concern; in death, his one consolation.”

  The gathering fell silent, and Vistor held a pause before he spoke again.

  “We have said goodbye to Buck, and though we will not forget him, we must move on. As his brother, the closest of his blood, I call on you now to witness a very special moment: the start of a new presidential race!”

  Applause greeted Vistor’s words, accompanied by cheers.

  He let the sounds die before he spoke, and this time he injected drama into his words. “Our great city, perhaps the last city, relies on our noble riggers. For generations they have run the way, daring the wild lands, the savages, the monsters, and worst of all, the King of Fire and his sons of storm.”

  The mere mention of the King sent a chill through the audience, and Flint shared their feeling, both the chill in the gut, but also the adrenaline, the excited pleasure that came from imagining a distant danger while sitting safe in the comforting presence of the shield.

  “The clothes we wear, the tools we use, the beasts we slaughter, and, most precious of all, the water we drink, these we owe to the riggers. Without their unending labour, we would wither up and die. And in profoundest gratitude for their service, we take the best among them, and bow our heads, for only one who would chance life for the state deserves the presidential crown.” At this he held aloft the simple circlet of yellow gold so it caught the light of the rising sun, and the crowd sighed.

  Flint allowed the rest of the speech to wash over him, knowing what was to come, and trying not to think of it. Besides that, something about Vistor’s words troubled him. Not the talk itself, for the words were scripted, and had remained almost identical for generations, no, but more about Vistor’s… His performance, yes, he thought, that was it. Vistor spoke like an actor, like a character from Shakespeare, as if he enjoyed the show even more than the audience. That, Flint decided, seemed odd, given that he had just lost a brother, and of course he was also losing any privileges that had come with being kin to the President. Then again, he supposed, the man was no Blenner Clavar.

  Movement brought him out of his reverie, and he saw a dozen girls line up in front of Vistor, all between ten and twelve years old, some dressed in nice dresses, or blouses and pressed black trousers, others in faded denim skirts and patched t-shirts. All wore a short golden necklace with a single gem for a pendant. He saw them glimmer and sparkle in the rising sun, emerald here, topaz there, pearl, sapphire, diamond and, yes, a ruby.

  The breath caught in his throat, and tears welled up in his eyes. He lowered his head and wiped his eyes with his hand, and when he’d got himself back together, he heard Vistor say the next bit, the thing he didn’t want to hear, the chain that bound him to the city. “...to show they can protect and provide for the state. These
passengers, one adult, and one unsold child, must return whole and unharmed, for the rigger to qualify. And now-”

  He rose and turned away, rubbing his temples with both hands. He couldn’t sit through this. If they wanted to put him back in jail they could, but he wouldn’t listen to another word. He stalked away from the circle, and the people of the audience stumbled over one another to make him a path.

  +

  A hand snared him as he walked away across the cool green grass and clover. He turned, brows narrow, right hand curling into a fist, then stopped as he found himself face to face with a fellow rigger, a shorter man with wavy brown hair and a flashing smile. “Wurnech.”

  “C’mon, Flint, call me Vern. Not my fault my old man was a book nut.”

  He shook his head. “Look, Vern, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not Mr Popular of Bay City.”

  Wurnech smirked. “It might have to come to my attention.”

  “So give yourself a birthday present, and don’t get seen talking to me.”

  “That’s the most involved way of telling a guy to piss off I ever heard. See, I like that about you, Flint. You put a lot of care into the details. Like when you told Burl Clavar to go to Hell, you crafted an eloquent message. You didn’t just say how you felt, you showed it, too.”

  He rubbed his jaw. “Okay Vern, now I don’t know if I should feel proud or ashamed.”

  “Life’s like that, Flint. Life’s ambiguous. Listen, I just want you to know the riggers don’t all share the conviction that you’re, well, a convict. Not all of us are gonna spill tears for Burl. You play it safe in this race, come back with all your own limbs, and we’ll all be like live and let live, and you know, that whole bit.”

  “You trying to make me cry, Vern?”

  Wurnech laughed. “If I want you to cry, I’ll invite you to race me.”

  “Rhino against the Comet, is that it?”

  “You won’t even see me go. One moment the Comet’ll be sitting there way back behind you on the flat, and then next your poor old lumbering Rhino’ll be shaking in the shock wave as I burn past you, supersonic like.”

  The absurdity of it struck deep, and though he tried to resist, he couldn’t hold back the smile that crawled across his face and sat there, or the chuckles that burst from him like firecrackers. “You’ve been breathing too much smoke, Vern. There’s no rig that can go supersonic.”

  “All I will say to that, my very dear friend, is watch me. But listen, don’t worry about it. I’m not even gonna take my charges.”

  Flint scratched his head. “But the Comet is...”

  “Yup. The Comet is super fast. Not even the Dragon can get past me. But Flint, c’mon, do I look presidential to you? I don’t want that title. I don’t need that pressure. All I’m gonna do is enjoy the run.” He stuck out his hand, and Flint took it. Then Wurnech gripped him with surprising strength, and leaned close. “Play it safe, Flint. I want to see you come back.”