Poor World

“I slept badly last night, and so I was tired,” I said. “And I didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing.”

  “Dejain did not give you a list of tasks?”

  “She said I ought to be learning things from you first, because she’s too busy with her part of the plans right now.”

  “Then you should begin,” he said. “Practice every day at the weapons courts.”

  “Um, is there a schedule? Should I join with — ”

  “There will be a tutor free when you appear there. Everyone else has a schedule. Do you know your map?”

  “Ah, not really. I know my country, of course, and where Chwahirsland is, and a few of its neighbors, because I’ve been there, but that’s all.”

  “Learn your map. Practice. If there’s time, you will witness some of the exercises so that you can begin to grasp tactical planning.”

  So far it didn’t sound so bad — though I had no idea what tactical planning meant, at least there was no mention of practice at killing queens. “Dejain said something about strategy,” I said, hoping I sounded like I knew what strategy was.

  “That will come when you know something more about command,” he said, moving to the desk. He set one stack of papers down and picked up another. “You have the instincts. You need training.”

  “Speaking of training,” I said, hoping that a joke would ease the subject along better, “I’m working on my friends. You know, in the klink. But it might help their spirits if I could, maybe, take them a change of clothes and some scissors.”

  “Scissors?” He didn’t look even slightly humored.

  I had a feeling my little ploy had splatted worse than my one attempt at a joke, but I clodded onwards, “They’ve been sitting there a long time, you know, and they’re getting a little shaggy — ”

  Kessler put his papers down, and an eye blink later he was right in front of me. “Those three are no longer your friends,” he said. “You have chosen this work, so your friends are those who share your vision.”

  “But I just — ”

  He put his hands on my shoulders, and when I tried to twitch away the back of my head klonked against the wall.

  Then his hands tightened round my neck, and he said a lot more, but my head was buzzing too loudly and I couldn’t hear his words. I clawed at his fingers, but couldn’t budge them — and just when the pressure was actually beginning to strangle me, suddenly he let go and moved away.

  I flopped bonelessly into a chair. When I could hear and see again, I realized I’d been saved by some distraction; he was over at the desk, rifling through the stacks of papers with one hand, the other clasping that square thing as he talked in a low, clipped voice in a lingo I could not hear past the roaring in my head.

  I drew a long, shuddering breath, glad I could breathe.

  Kessler dropped the square thing back into his pocket and frowned at me. “I apologize, Cherene. I have a bad temper.”

  And that unsettled me more than anything else that long, dreadful day. A villain? Apologizing?

  I wasn’t about to let him know how the apology was more disturbing than the bullying, which, nasty as it feels, you expect from a villain. “Well, next time, how about a warning? I mean, I only got the one life, and flimsy as it is, it’s mine.”

  He gave me a curious look — an intent study, like he wanted to examine inside my skull — and said, “Does anything faze you?”

  “Of course!” I exclaimed, surprised. “I’ve got the worst moods of — well, anyone I know. But we all do, I guess. Only one I know that can woodface through the worst is ol’ Rel.”

  “Even pain?” Kessler said, looking interested.

  Alarm zapped through me. Was this crazy guy about to stalk over to the jail to test out my theories? “Oh, well, no,” I said hastily. “I don’t know anyone who stonefaces through that. And it seems kind of weird to crunch someone to see if his face changes,” I added, not very subtly — as if my opinion could possibly have dissuaded him from trying.

  But Kessler had already lost the interested look.

  “Well,” I said, deciding I’d gotten myself into enough trouble for one day. I got up — resisting the temptation to rub my aching neck. “Maybe I better get a start on the work. Um, when — or where — is dinner, so I don’t miss it, or cause any extra fuss?”

  “Right here. Whenever you want.”

  So much for my subtle hint about not having to eat with him.

  Groaning inwardly, I decided I’d better act on my expressed eagerness to get started on training right away.

  Five

  Dhana glanced up at the window: almost sunset.

  She sidled quick looks at the others in the room: five kids, from her age up to Rel’s, and maybe ten adults. She ignored the latter.

  The kids were still studying. Dhana fought a yawn and turned her attention back to the map on the wall. She already had it by memory, although when her turn came she would not reproduce the entire thing. Her instinct with any adults she did not trust — which was most of them — was to hide what she was capable of, unless she saw a clear advantage. To her, not to them. In this place, so far the only advantages to standing out seemed to be promotion — which meant the prospect of being sent to bump off rulers like Clair.

  The door opened from behind, and the tutor said, “Time.”

  Instantly everyone got up and filed in a neat line to their workroom. That was one of the lesser annoyances, so far, these orderly lines. Dhana loathed them on principle, and as she walked she had to resist the temptation to break the rhythmic stride that now seemed habit to the others, and dance in counterpoint.

  Luckily she was enjoying the game she was playing with the adults in charge, so it was easy to smother the urge to dance out her resistance, and walk along obediently.

  In the workroom, she sat down, and this time instead of calling each person up to repeat what he or she had seen, the tutor passed out paper and pencils and had them draw and label the map. Dhana worked carefully, gauging her pace according to the other kids. At all times she aimed for the average, neither slowest nor fastest, or the one with the least or most recall.

  She paid more attention to the physical detail of the map and less to the lines and markers that had indicated some kind of military plan. She could actually remember all those, though she had no idea what they meant — and didn’t want to know.

  She’d been picked to train as a spy, and so far most of the stuff they did was mildly interesting and once in a while even fun. Like walking through a room and then reporting on who stood where, what they wore, and what they said, and what objects lay where. But when it came to anything that smacked of war junk, she did a little worse than average.

  Irene had also been picked to train for spying, but Dhana only found out when Gwen whispered it to her at dinner. That was another thing that annoyed Dhana: the way all the Mearsiean girls had been separated. Not honestly, overtly. But effectively.

  She fumed as she looked down at her map. That first night somebody had come for them, an older lady who’d said she’d find bunk space for them. They’d been divided into two twos and one threesome then distributed to different barracks. The next day at breakfast, the girls had discovered you could only sit at table with your barracks — even if you hadn’t been officially assigned yet. Dhana had seen the other girls, but held no conversation with them, not until they were taken by that same woman to ‘evaluation.’

  This turned out to be a lot of tests, from reading and writing (Faline and Diana failed utterly at that) to various kinds of physical prowess tests. At first Diana had shown her skills, not to show off, just from the sheer joy of being able to move — and they’d promptly peeled her away and assigned her to something rather forebodingly labeled an Assault Group.

  She’d had no chance for anything but a backward glance, and Dhana hadn’t seen her since. The other girls had exchanged looks of warning, and when it was Dhana’s turn, she’d run like she had stones on her feet, and as for jumping, sh
e’d done the baby ones only. Sherry and Gwen were separated out next and sent to the kitchens, which resolved Dhana not to do too badly. She knew that Sherry and Gwen would not mind kitchen work — they volunteered for it most often in the Junky — but Dhana knew she’d go crazy.

  Seshe was assigned to something called Communications, then she, too, disappeared — though at least Dhana glimpsed her at meals. Dhana also saw Faline, looking uncharacteristically subdued; she was alone, at Supply. Dhana was glad that Faline hated her shape-changing powers so much she wouldn’t use them even to get out of what had to be a boring job. There were some worrying whispers about Kessler’s magician, some woman called Dejain, and how she liked live victims for her experiments. If Dejain found out she had a couple members of magic races on hand, who knew what nastiness she’d try?

  The bell clanged. The tutor glanced at the clock — all the rooms had Earth-style clocks — and said, “Leave your papers.”

  They got up from their benches, lined up, and walked to the mess hall. Dhana frowned at her feet, loathing the dry, hot air. Wherever they were, it wasn’t meant for her people. The reminder of her heritage brought her thoughts back to Dejain, and she frowned. Some people never came back from those ‘experiments.’

  “Though I heard Kessler doesn’t like her using us, not so close to the deadline,” a girl named Coley had told Dhana. “I hear she has to just use the prisoners now.”

  Dhana didn’t like that, either. Not when Puddlenose, Christoph, and Rel were in the klink.

  As they entered the mess hall, Dhana cast a quick look around. Rules said you don’t talk to people from other barracks unless ordered to. If you broke rules, you went on report. That meant various kinds of punishments, the easiest of which was extra hours of cleaning, and the worst ... Dhana shuddered. Not that anyone ever caused trouble.

  A flicker on the edge of her vision made her look up. Faline walked by, her hair neatly braided, her clothes plain. Faline’s freckled hand touched the other — ring finger — CJ. Faline’s brows quirked in question.

  Dhana pointed her thumb down briefly, and they passed out of one another’s line of sight. Dhana spotted Seshe’s long, pale hair on the other side of the room, and she squashed a sigh. No chance of exchanging even a glance.

  She got her tray, and waited unenthusiastically for her share. Neither Gwen nor Sherry was doling food out. Down the row she shuffled, receiving a dollop of boiled rice — no herbs — and buttered vegetables — again no herbs — and salted fish, though Dhana avoided that as surreptitiously as she could. Last, sliced lem-fruit.

  When Dhana sat down, Coley appeared and plopped her tray across from her. “Hi,” Coley said, smiling, as Dhana passed the water pitcher to her. Coley was round and brown and her bright cheeks made Dhana think of apples. “Good day?”

  “Of course,” Dhana said. “Like always.”

  They began to eat, and Dhana said casually, “Sure better grub than I ever got at home.” She said it softly; the grownups down the table were talking, but they might nose in. They would consider it their duty.

  Coley wrinkled her nose. “For certain.” They weren’t supposed to talk about Before, although some did — only to complain about how bad their lives had been before Alsaes had appeared with his wonderful offer. Coley hated her former country and its rulers. She’d been orphaned and then driven from her home city; before she was recruited, she’d organized some kids to attack merchant caravans traveling on crown business. She was by nature a talker, and even this place hadn’t completely squelched her.

  “Though I miss apple-crisp with cinnamon,” Dhana said.

  Coley sighed. “We had something like that, only with cream. But only in fall, after harvest. We stole a tray once ...”

  A lull in the general conversation made her stop. Dhana scrutinized Coley’s face; the girl was probably still thinking about food.

  Dhana said deliberately, “We’re near to Plan Day.”

  And watched Coley’s face blank. “Plan,” she repeated. “I can hardly wait for my orders.” Her voice was eager, cheery — and her eyes stared into space without seeming to see anything. Just like those of the adults around them.

  I’m right, Dhana thought. It’s not my imagination. They really are under some kind of spell.

  Everyone was — that is, everyone but Dhana and the Mearsiean girls. And it activated whenever anyone said or heard anything about the Plan.

  Did the other girls know?

  Dhana fought impatience, and while everyone’s attention was elsewhere she poured and drank a fifth glass of water. Even more important now to mirror the behavior patterns of the others. I’m a spy who is spying on the spies. The weird humor of it helped her maintain a calm front.

  If only it would rain! She’d have a better chance of snaking out — unless, of course, that Dejain had magic traps around to detect the presence of magic races in their natural forms.

  Dhana fumed as they lined up to drop their trays. Another long night stretched out ahead, no prospect of talk or fun with anyone she cared about.

  As they walked out into the dry warm evening air, she wrestled with a vile mood. Dhana had just taken two steps when they were approached by another group coming in late — Diana’s group!

  The two leaders paused to speak; Dhana slowed her steps until she was next to Diana, then she paused, bent, and pretended to get a pebble from between her bare toes.

  Diana also bent, extending a hand. “Just saw CJ,” she whispered — in Mearsiean. She didn’t know the name of the language everyone spoke in the compound, but it wasn’t related to Mearsiean. “Practice area.”

  “Watch out. There’s magic on the people — the word Plan,” Dhana murmured. “Doesn’t last, though. Pass the word.”

  The pressure of both lines separated them, and they went on their ways. Dhana wondered where Diana had been; she’d smelled of grass and herbs, not dust. They must have been transferred somewhere else to practice, because there was no grass here.

  Dhana was glad she’d gotten to talk to one Mearsiean, however briefly — and more important, there were now two of them who knew about the magic spell on the people. She sighed softly, bracing for another long, dry night, and then that morning cleanup spell, which left her feeling each day a little more like dust. How desperately she needed pure, clean, restorative water! She was glad no one seemed to notice how much she drank; still, her skin itched at the mere thought of a pond.

  Wishing that CJ would be able to think of something soon, she sighed inwardly as she followed the line into the barracks.

  o0o

  Unknown to Dhana, Seshe watched her go. Poor Dhana! She was doing an admirable job of faking cooperation; of all the girls, she’d been the one Seshe worried about most. But the signs of distress were there for those who knew her. Those fine, long fingers, so graceful in dance, now reminded Seshe of autumn twigs — stiff, brittle. The faint frown between her expressive brows, which at least were blond, so few noticed them.

  Seshe walked briskly along the dusty street, glad the punishing heat was gone for a few hours. She kept her face forward and her expression blank, but mentally she tallied each building, who was in it, and what she’d been able to glean of its schedule.

  One mild point in her favor: it seemed that all the senior Com people loathed trudging round at the end of each day to pick up the barracks leaders’ reports. Was it due to the heat and tiredness or was it the prospect of having to report to Alsaes? They talked about him a lot, his likes and dislikes, his words. Fear or fascination? The girls didn’t talk about Clair that way, but then Clair lived among them, and talked freely, and liked the girls to talk freely. She always answered questions, and she never ordered. Just asked. If the girls said no, that was that.

  Alsaes could be quite nasty to those who asked the wrong questions, so a lot of people second-guessed him. The leaders did talk about him a lot, discussing the littlest things he said and did as though they mattered terribly.

  Maybe the
y did. Everybody said that Alsaes enjoyed dealing out punishments. Seshe felt nothing but disgust, yet here she was on her way to Alsaes’s building, in hopes she’d overhear him talking.

  Not because she found him interesting. Just the opposite. He was a stupid, bullying adult with no vestige of interest in anything that mattered to Seshe — but how else would the girls find out anything important except by listening? Kessler never seemed to come around, except to watch some of the exercises in the practice courts. He and Dejain took large groups by magic transfer to some other place to perform training runs, and then he did stuff without the others seeing him. Seshe had overheard one of the tutors telling another that Kessler usually showed up after midnight to do his own practice work — and his energy wore out two or three of them before he’d decide that he’d had enough. The tutors were trying to catch up on their sleep in relays.

  It’s like piecing out a quilt, Seshe thought. Or a puzzle. All these strange bits of information, but if there was a way to put it all together into a plan of escape, she did not perceive it.

  If only I could find CJ and talk to her! Surely she’s learned a lot more, stuck there in Kessler’s command center.

  Where she’s also in the most danger. Poor CJ!

  It was just the sort of scrape she called her ‘bad luck’ (‘luck’ being a concept from CJ’s world that didn’t quite make sense), that being high on one villain’s hate list would net her a prime place in the snares of another villain!

  Reaching the last barracks, Seshe brought her attention back to her job.

  The tutor on duty handed her a sealed paper, which she slid in behind the others, and she continued on to the building at the corner of the street that led to the practice area. A sudden swirl of cool, dry wind kicked dust into her face. She sneezed as she stepped up onto the wooden porch.

  The door to Alsaes’ building was open. He called it his command center, and you were supposed to refer to it as a command center, but Seshe had noticed that in regular speech, the only time the words ‘command center’ were spoken was when Kessler’s name was in the same sentence. People tended to call Alsaes’s building by his name. Like, I have to take the letters to Alsaes, in a tone kind of like lifting a flower and discovering a slug.