Old Broken Road

by Alexander, K. M.

  This morning I had committed the names and faces of Shaler’s crew to memory. Some of Shaler’s other hires were friendly enough. Chance and Range—the cousins whose names I had forgotten at the boarding house—both gave me a friendly nod from behind the reins of their oxen. Chase drove a cargowain while Range drove Shaler’s personal prairiewain.

  I wiped the dust off my face. Opposite me, on the other side of the column, Wensem was arguing with two of Shaler’s men: the Lytle twins. They were both strong-shouldered and broad-chested, their dark skin further darkened by a latticework of tattoos that crawled up their arms and necks, as if fighting to hold in their muscle. Their faces were shadowed by stubble that hid the crooked lines of their lips. They weren’t tall; Wensem stood a whole two heads taller than either of them.

  They didn’t like taking orders from a maero. They argued with Wensem about everything. I watched as Wensem spoke calmly, nodded, then gently placed a big hand on each of their shoulders. I couldn’t hear what he said, but whatever it was, it worked. The mouths of both twins closed firmly, and one gave a curt nod and walked back toward the chuckwain.

  Wensem was good with people. Even those that didn’t like him. His cool and collected demeanor worked well when pitted against unruly roaders. In many ways, he was a better leader than I could ever be. I wished he had been there when Shaler had walked in the previous night. Maybe we wouldn't be here now.

  The other drivers ignored me as I hobbled alongside them. No one spoke to me, and that was fine. I needed to stay focused on our trip. As I passed the prairiewain, I could see Shaler through one of the plastic windows, reading a paperback while she lounged on a small bed.

  A throb began to burn brightly around my right knee, but I did my best to ignore it.

  The scrubby brush of the high prairie was slowly giving way to the tall bunchgrass of the foothills as we gained altitude. To the northeast the long narrow trunks of lodgepole pines intermixed with fir and stands of birch and cottonwood. It’d be nice to get out of the dust, have some trees to block the winds that howled across the high desert plateau.

  Three stages. Three days to Meyer's Falls, and then the journey truly began.

  I picked up my pace, sensing the end was near and wanting to get off my knee for a stretch. Pulling myself up into the rear of the gearwain, I picked my way past our supplies to the front, where Samantha and Ivari Tin sat in conversation. The gearwain was the one piece of equipment Wensem and I purchased before heading east from Lovat. Our first big acquisition for the company. We had the name “Bell Caravans” stenciled in red paint on the side in our native Strutten, a crude symbol of a bell with a wagon wheel at its mouth splitting the two words.

  Wensem had chosen the name. Said it had a nice “ring” to it. He thought that was really funny. I recall that he was drunk at the time.

  “By the Firsts!” Tin shouted, grabbing his chest when he spotted me crawling up from the back of the wain. “You scared the bloody hell out of me, boss. I thought you were a bandit.”

  Tin was a young dauger; a member of the territory’s masked race. I have never seen a dauger without a mask, and for that matter, didn’t even know anyone who had. As a people, they keep them on in all but the most intimate situations. Only other daugers are allowed to see a dauger maskless. I’ve heard all manner of rumors as to what’s underneath.

  Their masks play an important role in their species hierarchy. Precious metals denote richer families, while more base metals are worn by poorer ones. With his mask and family name, Tin’s station seemed clear. He was probably glad to get out of the city and its class rankings and into open country.

  I had hired him at the caravansara in Lovat, and he was eager to prove himself as a roader. Dauger don’t take to the life as often as other races, but like everyone else out here Tin had an axe to grind. I had been impressed. He had done well on our trip from Lovat—quite well—and had the makings of a proper caravaneer. It was good to see he had remained with us, even after harder men had cashed out. If he could keep his wits about him, he might become a regular.

  “Hah!” I said. “We’re a long way from bandit country yet.”

  I sat down behind the seat that stretched across the front of the wagon, on a crate of tarpaulins we used at laager. Samantha turned around and smiled a warm smile that made my knees weak. She wasn’t wearing her normal attire. Instead, she had opted for roader clothes: a lightweight ivory-colored shirt and brown canvas pants that hugged her curves. Her wild hair was pulled back into a thick ponytail, and she wore a brick-red keff as a hood to keep the sun off.

  “How’s the knee?” she asked.

  “Hurts,” I shrugged. “You liking the—”

  “Is it really that dangerous?” Tin interrupted, his voice tentative. “The Broken Road?”

  “Honestly?” I sighed. I was tired of lying. “I have no idea. When I registered our route, the clerk told me the last record they have of a legitimate caravan coming this way was seven years ago.”

  “Seven years…” said Samantha, looking at me warily.

  “As I said, it’s a route usually avoided.” I tapped Tin on the shoulder. “We’ll break around midday for some food. Still some miles left, but I’ll let you make the call.”

  Tin nodded quickly, eager for the responsibility.

  “Look, take your time slowing the caravan down. Give the yahoos behind you time to realize we’re breaking. You rush it, they’re liable to drive their oxen right into your ass, and then we’re in a huge mess. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How’s the caravan?” said Samantha.

  “Seems fine enough. Just came from Taft, she has a fine batch of coffee brewed. The cargowa—”

  “Coffee?” Tin interrupted again. “Taft has fresh coffee?”

  “You want a cup? I can take over for a spell.” I was eager to spend some time alone with Samantha. We hadn’t found much time to talk since setting out from Syringa.

  Tin nodded and offered me the reins. I took them and we switched spots. As I settled in, he leapt off the wain and ran down the line.

  I chuckled, and watched him go over my shoulder. “He’s a good kid.”

  I looked over at Samantha and caught her smiling at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “It’s nothing,” she said.

  “Right, and I’m Hastur himself. What is it?” I gave a little tug on the reins, slowing the oxen a bit as we rumbled over some small ruts.

  “It’s nice seeing you in your element, is all. That’s partly why I wanted to come along. When we came from Lovat I hardly saw you, I ended up spending most of my time talking theory with the other clergy. I wanted to see what drew you to caravanning.”

  I laughed self-consciously at the idea of her observing me. “Not sure there's much to see.”

  “Sure there is. I can see how much you care, how much you want your people to enjoy the road like you do. It’s nice, and it certainly beats wasting away in the priory in Syringa talking with the sisters and the brothers. I’m seeing a side of you that up until now I had only seen at a distance.”

  I frowned slightly. “I wish it was under better circumstances.”

  “I know this isn’t the route you want to take. I know you’re worried but I doubt most of the others can see it. You look confident. The way you move, the way you speak. It encourages them. Your crew look up to you.”

  “Yeah?” I said, feeling unsure. “I guess I’m just doing what needs to be done.”

  “Sometimes that's all you can do,” she said, turning away to stare across the vast and empty hills. I knew what she was thinking about: the tunnel. My memories were murky, but clear as day I could remember her standing in the shadows, gun in hand, doing what had to be done. I couldn’t ever repay her for that, not properly.

  I reached over and squeezed her knee reassuringly. It had taken a lot for her to do what she had done. She turned and gave me a sad smile, and her eyes sparkled as she asked, “Have you been ab
le to remember what happened? Has anything else come back?”

  I shook my head. The whole experience was convoluted. I had been in shock and spent a few days in a coma. As a result I could only piece together parts of it, only remember flashes. It felt like big chunks of memory had been torn from me. Sequences were missing.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I mean, I remember Black dying, crushed by the tunneling machine. I remember Wensem fighting someone, I remember knowing you and your brother were safe. Everything else…” my voice trailed off.

  We rolled along for a while. Quiet, enjoying one another’s company despite the difficult memories. I tried to focus on the road and not think on the ugliness from the tunnel. I had spent enough time worrying over it. My friends were safe, I was safe. I don’t think I could have asked for a better outcome.

  “I hate to ask this again,” I said, breaking the silence.

  She seemed to anticipate what I was about to ask. “So don’t.”

  “Sam. It’s—”

  “I said no and I meant it. I won’t carry one. You know that.”

  I also knew how good she was with a gun. I could feel her tense up next to me.

  I pressed a bit further. “Even Taft has a—”

  “I said no,” she said, a bit of heat creeping into the words.

  “Okay, okay.” I held up my hands, letting the reins drop into my lap temporarily. “Just figured I’d try one last time.”

  She gave me a smile, but it lacked the warmth from earlier. I wished she understood where I was coming from. I had asked her about the gun before we set off, hoping she’d carry one. I had no idea what lay ahead, and bringing her into unknown territory made my stomach sour.

  We settled back into silence.

  The miles slowly rolled by. Thick stands of trees, dense mounds of tangled brush, fast-moving streams, and peaceful little lakes all slowly passed as we moved along. The tension began to slowly bleed out.

  “Did you speak with Wensem?” Samantha eventually said.

  “No. He looking for me?”

  “Not directly, but he was bickering with Shaler’s thugs. The Lytle twins. Figured you might be able to help.”

  “I saw them arguing. Think they’re trouble?”

  Samantha nodded. “They didn’t seem keen on a maero giving them orders. Had a bit of an air about it. They were being snippy when I saw them.”

  “They’ll need to learn to deal with it. He’s in charge of caravan security, they're guards. They were hired by Shaler, but when it comes to the caravan, orders come from Wensem or me. It’s not their call, it’s his.”

  I realized as I said it that Wensem hadn’t been making any calls. If anything, I was forcing him to follow my orders like a regular hireling. No wonder he was frustrated.

  “Well, you might want to find them, maybe lay down some ground rules?”

  Wensem seemed to have everything handled, but I didn’t need the potential of insubordination looming. It was about to become dangerous enough without these two kicking up dust.

  “I’ll find them,” I promised.

  We fell into silence as the gearwain moved forward. I was lost in my thoughts. Already the potential for trouble burned within the caravan, and we didn’t even have one stage complete. It wasn’t a good sign. The road would get much more difficult the farther we withdrew from civilization.

  I couldn’t shake the sense of dread that was ever so slowly filling my chest.

  FIVE

  WE CRAWLED ACROSS THE BONE-DRY PLAINS, fighting the occasional dust storm and laagering beneath stands of trees. We had only one broken wheel, an easy repair I was able to do myself. We met a few other caravans while at laager for the night; companies working the road between Meyer's Falls and Syringa. Most of them were smaller parties of three or four people, sometimes a half-feral dog, and a cart with an ox or a bison tugging at it. Otherwise, it was miles of dust and days of walking and endless empty skies.

  When we arrived at Meyer's Falls, Shaler requested we stop for a few days. “I want to make up for lost profits. Maybe sell a load to the other caravans.”

  “You sure they’ll buy?” I asked, “Meyer's Falls is awfully close to Syringa, and they’re overrun with apples and pears right now.”

  “I’m weeks delayed and losing contracts by the day. I need to try to make up lost profits,” Shaler said as she leaned out an open prairiewain window. She rarely left the thing, preferring to issue orders from within. She only came out to relieve herself, and on occasion when the company met.

  Now that we were underway, our discussions were more amenable. She could be pleasant enough as long as she got her way, and I went out of my way to see she did. I agreed to stop in Meyer's Falls, but had a request of my own.

  “We don’t know what the passes hold. We might be facing a drought over here, but the western mountains are dangerous and have a reputation to keep. The passes can get buried in winter and soaked in the fall. Wet roads means mud, and mud can slow our pace to a crawl,” I explained. “We need time to do reconnaissance.”

  Shaler bristled. She had a deadline to keep. A promise to her old man. But when she saw the caravansara outside Meyer's Falls buzzing like a hive and filled with bored roaders waiting for the Big Ninety trade to reopen, she relented.

  I doubted I’d find a veteran of the Broken Road, but at least I could try to learn more. Meyer's Falls was off the telegraph lines, and any foot messengers were as choked up as caravans. We knew little about what lay ahead.

  Calling Meyer's Falls a town is generous. It is little more than a scratch in the wilderness, a small collection of buildings, barely civilization. Without the militia fort, I doubted it would exist as anything more than a waypoint. The fort sat at the center, leagues bigger than anything around it. It was composed of a ten-foot cement wall that encircled a single tall tower. From a distance, it always reminded me of a chess piece missing its battlements. Above it, a massive Syringan flag flapped in the breeze; diagonal green and blue stripes side by side on a white field.

  A few small houses huddled like weeds around the fort, and between them a few businesses were scattered. They consisted of a message dispatcher, a bank, a general store, a restaurant named Gallea’s, and the Three Flags.

  On the outskirts sat the caravansara. Compared to most trading posts it left much to be desired. It was little more than a long, low-slung building with a hitching post and a barn that served as a livery. One large caravan company dominated the area, which forced the remaining four or five caravans to circle their wains and set up laager until they decided to move on. Trying to ply some trade in the wake of the closures, no doubt. This was probably the busiest the small town had been since the war nearly thirty years ago.

  As a militia town, its main industries were guns, Syringan patriotism, and heavy helpings of beer. When the Big Ninety is open, only the circuit caravans move through here; the only thing in Meyer's Falls are surly militia soldiers, hermit hill farmers, and the poor folk who have to live here and deal with the others. It had to be three, maybe four years, since I had last set foot here.

  I slid my handgun—a heavy .45 caliber Judge—under the glass partition across the counter, to the bufo’anur doorman. His massive globular eyes focused on me, then looked down at the piece, his expression inscrutable. I watched him file it into a cubby marked in crude Cephan and begin to fill out a small paper card.

  “Name?” he said, his rumbling voice laced by a strange accent. The dry gray flesh beneath his wide mouth jiggled as he spoke. The sides of his huge face drooped under the weight of his cheeks.

  “Waldo Emerson Bell.”

  He scratched my name down, tore off a slip and pushed it across the counter towards me. I pocketed it.

  “Thank you, Mister Bell. You can claim your weapon upon leaving. Should you forget to claim your weapon, we’ll hold it for a period one week. If the piece remains with us beyond a single week, the Three Flags reserves the right to pawn it or sell it in the store. Do you agree t
o these terms?”

  “Does that happen often?” I said, genuinely curious.

  The bufo’anur looked at me, his bored expression turning to one of annoyance. We were going off-script, and his eyes kept flicking to the tawdry romance paperback he had been reading before I had approached.

  “Does what happen?”

  “Customers leaving their weapons behind? Does that happen often?”

  “We’re thirty miles from Victory,” he snapped. “What do you think?”

  Admonished, I agreed to the terms and ducked inside the low door into the heart of the Three Flags. It was a militia bar, though you wouldn’t know it from this crowd.

  I lingered in the entranceway, allowing my eyes to adjust to the low light. The smells of fresh roasting meat, tobacco smoke, and the sour stench of beer filled the air. People milled about on the edges of the tavern, avoiding the tables in the center in favor of the shadowed corners.

  I studied my fellow drinkers, moving between the tables and towards the bar. A tall olive-skinned man with dark sharp eyes held up the bar, drinking a black ale; farther down, two gray-skinned bufo’anur mercenaries wearing bulletproof vests split a bottle of whiskey and compared scars.

  Most Lovatines were surprised when they first encountered the anur’s much larger—and significantly less timid—cousin. Where the anur are a water people, the bufo’anur love the desert. The anur are small while bufo’anur are thick and muscular, dwarfing other races. The only other people in the Territories that could match their speed and strength had to be the long-limbed maero.

  Two roaders, old acquaintances of mine, huddled over their drinks in a booth near a corner of the tavern, their faces lit with a golden hue from the oil lamp that burned on the table between them. This was a pleasant surprise.

  Agata Levigne was a plain-featured, dimanian caravan master. Across from her sat sour-faced Berkus Mathison, a surly human Wensem and I had once worked with before founding Bell Caravans.