Poor World

  “Are you ready for your job?”

  “My job?” I repeated — though I already knew what it was. Too many nightmares had grooved it into my brain.

  “I thought I told you during our initial interview. When you have a question, or need clarification, you must ask. Think of it as intelligence-gathering, a necessary part of command.”

  “Okay,” I mumbled, desperate to change the subject again. Except ...

  “I’ve arranged it so that you can dispose of the queen of Mearsies Heili. A fitting gesture, just like I will be the one to end Shnit’s life. You will establish yourself in your old country as your first assignment, and at the same time in the eyes of our colleagues. In return for this position of command, you must give me something.”

  Except not talking about it won’t prevent it from happening. Do something! THINK of something!

  “What?” Somehow my voice came out normal, though my throat felt like the poison-spot on my neck. “I mean, what is it you want?”

  “The white horse, the magical one I saw you riding once.”

  So he wanted me to give up Hreealdar, who was a being from another world, and who had adopted us Mearsieans for no reason that we knew — and I was supposed to do this in gratitude for the privilege of killing Clair?

  This was the most important conversation we’d had yet. All I could think was that there was no way, ever, ever, that I would kill Clair — but I had to hide that from him.

  “But I — I really like — ” I gabbled wildly, and then the words slipped out, leaving me listening in horror, “What if I refuse?”

  “That,” he said with a weird smile, “would be stupid.”

  My thoughts cartwheeled away from Clair, reaching for excuses.

  “But Lightning is magic — ” Then I struggled against giving him more information than he should have about that being who took the form of a white horse. “Um, that is — ” My mouth opened and closed — I couldn’t think.

  He said something — I gabbled something back, not hearing, and understanding even less, because my mind was still wheeling crazily, no it was revolving desperately, like a juggler who finds that her six puffballs have been suddenly replaced with sharp daggers, and that the floor has turned to a rocking boat. A leaky one.

  Clair.

  In a week, I’d be expected to do take one of those daggers to her. And if I didn’t, dawn had brought a fine reminder of what awaited me — that is, if Alsaes didn’t think of something worse.

  I blurted, “Do we have to kill Clair? She’s awful nice — not at all like Shnit. Couldn’t we, well, enchant her or something?” I hated myself as soon as I said it — but if she were turned into a toad, at least she could be unenchanted, right? It was a desperate try to buy time.

  And it was worthless.

  “You cannot be softhearted,” he said. “Something enchanted can be disenchanted. There is no room for sentiment when you are making great changes.”

  And so I tried for a third subject, one that would get me out of there. “Uh, should I do some work, or something?” I was desperately hungry and thirsty, but stronger than that was the urge to get away, where I could rest, and think.

  But he wasn’t through with me.

  “Let’s go see how you are progressing at the targets,” he suggested.

  He went to the door, gesturing for me to join him.

  When we stepped into the street the heat slammed into me. It was actually hard to breathe.

  Kessler walked right out as if it was a cool winter’s day, and I struggled to keep pace. Tough as my feet are from going around barefoot, they really hurt on that hot, hard-packed dirt. Luckily it was pale beige dusty dirt, not dark loam, or it would have burned like fire.

  Down the street we walked, past busily working or practicing people. They took no notice of us, other than quick looks and the stiff necks and shoulders that indicated they knew the leader was watching.

  Past Dejain’s ... I wondered what she was doing, and I almost wished we could go in, just to feel that cool air.

  But we turned the corner, passed Alsaes’s building. People were streaming in and out. Kessler didn’t give them a glance, just kept going. Whatever he was going to say to Alsaes was going to be in private, then.

  He would protect his old friend that much, and expected me to kill mine?

  I still did not see the obvious connection, but I was hot, and sick, and scared, and my thoughts were as scattered as bits of glass after a window smashes. And trying to think hurt as much as gathering glass would.

  We reached the practice areas, and he passed by the square for sword fighting. I saw an unfamiliar barracks group working away, their clashes and clangs sparking in the roaring heat.

  Past the archery area.

  He had something specific in mind, then, not just watching my progress. I trotted along, breathing through my dry mouth, wondering if this torture would ever end. I no longer thought about plans — it took all my wits just to endure.

  “Here.” Kessler stopped.

  We were at the knife-throwing targets. Some people had been practicing; I thought I saw Diana’s dark braids among them, but the group was too quickly lined up and taken away, their outlines blurred by my smeary vision and the fierce heat-waves shimmering the air.

  The place was now empty.

  Kessler walked me to the weapons rack, and I picked up a couple of the plain, wooden-handled knives. These knives were good for their purpose, that much I’d learned from my old antagonist Rel ages ago. They were sharp, well-balanced, and easy to handle.

  “I’m not all that great at this,” I said to Kessler.

  He looked amused. “You were first seen making quite a noise throwing knives against a tree.”

  “I was mad,” I said. “But really, except for the past few days, I haven’t done it since Kwenz last tried to take over Mearsies Heili. The tutors even told me I do it wrong.”

  “They’ve taught you how to do it correctly?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Then show me.”

  I repressed a sigh and turned away to face the targets, squinting against the murderous glare of the noon sun. My empty insides churned, and thirst raked at my throat.

  I hefted a knife in my hand, looked over, saw Kessler waiting. Would a positive comment convince him I was really a dutiful child, and send him away? I said, “Have to admit that these blades are really nifty.”

  “I had them specially made,” he said. “Try.”

  I moved away from the people-shaped targets to the beginner’s bulls-eye, took aim, concentrating on doing what the tutors had told me lest I land them in the prison. The knife thudded respectably within the smallest circle. Pride and fear yanked my emotions all skewed; he wanted me to do this to Clair.

  To kill the image in my own head I threw the next two hard, one after the other. The third hit the edge of the bull’s eye. Then I turned to Kessler, who motioned for me to continue.

  So I did, for five or six more sets. We stood there in the horrific heat, me getting damp and sticky from my efforts, him watching. I did better than I expected — probably inspired by good old fear.

  Finally Kessler said, “Promising.” His hand was in his pocket; I realized he’d been listening to magic-transferred communications while he watched. “Throw harder,” he said. “Your throws lack force, which affects your trajectory.”

  I obligingly threw harder, while being aware of the low murmur of his voice from time to time. My arm began to ache, and my face felt like a hot ember.

  Then I heard footsteps behind me — two sets of heavy boots crunching the tiny rocks, the third more quiet. Boots — guards.

  I whirled around, and looked straight into Alsaes’s smirking face. Behind him was one of the prison guards, and with him — Rel.

  I just stared, unable to think of anything to say, to do. Unable to move.

  Alsaes stood a little ways away with Kessler, talking earnestly. His manner was different from his usual swagge
r, though he still had that stupid uniform on. Unfortunately he didn’t look any too worried.

  Kessler nodded. Lifted a hand. Alsaes shut up.

  “Live target, Cherene,” Kessler said. “Let’s see how close you can get.”

  As he spoke the guard, who was about Rel’s own age, marched Rel up to the wall, and shoved him against it. Rel stood there motionless, his dark eyes squinting against the glare.

  “If you hit him, it doesn’t matter,” Kessler said. “Does it?”

  “No,” I lied, inwardly vowing that I’d drop a knife on my own foot before I’d hit anyone else.

  It was a strange sort of turnabout on the past, in a weird way caused again by Shnit. As I looked across the scintillate heat-waves at Rel’s shabby figure, I felt a strange sort of coolness wash through me. I could do it, I could keep him safe. All I needed was a steady hand.

  I would not let Alsaes see me falter.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I wiped my hand down my skirt. Then I picked up a knife and threw it. The knife landed about four inches off one of Rel’s arms. Behind me, Kessler was muttering again. He stepped nearer; I heard his shoes in the dirt.

  “Harder, Cherene.” And as he went on muttering in Chwahir.

  Past and present had blended in a twisted way, but I was not going to think about that now. I couldn’t control Kessler’s craziness, or Alsaes and his love of bullying, but I could — and would — control the steel death in my hands. And I would not kill anyone.

  The practice court was silent.

  Throw after throw, some landing close, some not, but never more than a palm’s breadth away. Rel’s expression never changed, nor did he move, even when, on the last one, my sweaty fingers shifted minutely just as I threw and the knife pinned a fold of his grubby shirt to the wall.

  I turned to Kessler, hiding my jumping nerves, and said, “My arm is sore, and I’m losing my aim.”

  He nodded. Alsaes was gone. Kessler said, “Continue to practice.” Then his gaze went blank — the communication magic.

  I ran to the wall to pull the knives loose. “Wasn’t my fault,” I muttered — in Mearsiean. No reaction. Of course.

  Kessler must have made some gesture of command; another guard had joined the watchers. The two guards prodded Rel into moving, and they took him away.

  When I turned around, I noticed for the first time that a crowd had gathered at the far end to watch. There was no time to react. On the edge I glimpsed some red hair. Bright red hair.

  I walked back, carrying the knives, my heart beating in the quick rhythm of joy for the first time in what seemed an eternity. Those were definitely Faline’s greenish-blue eyes. She stood with a wheelbarrow full of various supplies. Her face was earnest as she twiddled two fingers together, then dropped her hand to her side.

  A note. Had to be.

  Kessler stood on the opposite of the target area, talking to some tutors. I looked around. The other trainees were all talking quietly among themselves. No one was watching me anymore.

  So I decided on a bold front.

  “Hi, Faline,” I said, marching up to her. “Good t’see you! Working hard, I see. Enjoying your job?”

  “Of course,” she said in a fake voice, a little loud. “Good hard work is good for me. And it’s good to see you — ” She faltered there, a tremor in her voice. Even in danger, under threat of death, she could never lose her sense of the ridiculous. All those ‘goods’ — she was ready to make a joke.

  She stuck out her hand, small, square, freckled, and sweaty. I grasped it and we shook, and my palm closed over a moist square of folded paper.

  Her hand dropped. I put my hand under the other, which still cradled my collection of knives, and started away, looking first for Kessler. His gaze was on me, but his focus was distant — he was listening again.

  So I slid the note under my vest into my waistband — I was not going to move my hands anywhere near my skirt pockets.

  Two full sets of knives I threw. Those throws were increasingly erratic, but I no longer cared. No one’s life depended on it — except mine. And it had been in danger since I’d woken up. Now danger was beginning to seem like a regular part of everyday life, like the unending heat.

  Two, three, and the knife thudded just below the outside circle. I trudged up to the wall to pull the knives out. My fingers slipped. I had to use both hands to tug.

  I turned around, and the world turned just a little farther. I was beginning to get dizzy.

  Kessler was still there.

  “I think I need to eat something,” I said, my voice sounding in my own ears like a mouse squeak.

  “Then we’ll return,” he said.

  The walk back was accomplished in silence. So much had happened that I felt numb, and my thoughts were distant. Kessler’s presence no longer scared me. Nothing did. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, left, right, left, right, until at last the glare vanished and a few steps later I was able to sink into my chair in the office.

  o0o

  A meal banished the dizziness, and about four cups of water washed the last of Alsaes’s poison out of me. Slowly awareness came back. I did not look up at Kessler, but I heard the sounds of his pen scratching, and then the low murmuring voice. “I want to see them deploy in the snow. Take them north of Vennland.”

  It had nothing to do with me.

  I got up, and Kessler gave me a distracted look.

  “I’ll go back and practice some more,” I said in a quick voice, trying hard to sound eager.

  He gave a quick nod and returned to his task.

  Getting out of there was such a relief I almost didn’t notice the heat. Is this called jumping from the fire back into the frying pan?

  I walked slowly up the street, checking for Alsaes, for anyone. I’d discovered that the row of buildings between Kessler’s and Dejain’s were empty, awaiting commanders in subsequent stages of the Plan. I walked up the street toward Dejain’s, and when I was sure I was out of the interest, if not the view, of the guards before the prison, I ducked around the side of one of the empty buildings, and crouched down in the shade.

  Checking in both directions — nothing — I pulled out the note and unwrapped it eagerly.

  Gwen had written it, I saw by the handwriting. I had to reread the first line a couple of times because the homesickness that swept through me was so strong I couldn’t get the sense of her words.

  CJ. Take Over on Wed. or Thurs. Everyone practicing. Tell us a plan and hurry. Things look bad. Can’t talk to the others except by aksident, and that’s short — too many nosers. Heard about the poison. We couldn’t see you, and just as well. Alsays stinks to Shnit’s beerd — and that’s a stench! He hates us too, but not like you and Irene. She backtalks him something awfull. Give us news if you can, same time and place. GWEN

  I shredded the paper then rubbed the bits between my fingers into tiny round balls. Then I scratched holes into the hard ground to bury them. When the pale dirt was smooth again, I straightened up, and decided my next move had to be Rel and the boys. Would Rel think I had set that up? If Alsaes had anything to do with it, they probably did.

  So I took a deep breath and headed back up the street for the jail. I knew it was risky, but the look on Rel’s face as he stood against that target wall would not go away. In addition I kept hearing Kessler’s It doesn’t matter — and my hypocritical No.

  The guards did not stop me, but I felt their gazes. And I knew now that Alsaes was aware of every visit; I dared not glance behind to see if Kessler was still in his office, watching.

  I still could convince them to switch, I told myself. If Kessler asked, that would be my story.

  Lies, lies, deeper every day. Every hour.

  The jail was cool and still and dark inside, a physical relief after the horrific morning. I felt my way down the stairs. There was no greeting, which made me feel cold inside. Were they asleep — or had I been right about my guess?

  “Guys?” I said, f
eeling my way to their cell.

  “Go away, CJ.” That was Puddlenose. He didn’t sound angry, just tired.

  “Argh,” I said in disgust. “I don’t care what Alsaes told you — you can’t have believed him — ”

  “Was it funny, settin’ Rel up like that? Paybacks for that time in the Chwahir mountains?”

  “If you believe for one second that I did that, you are the biggest, stupidest saps I ever heard of. It was K — ” I stopped.

  “Go ahead,” Christoph said. “Alsaes’ stoolie got yanked right before they came for Rel. It’s only us stupids now.”

  “It was Kessler who set that up,” I said. “To test me. Alsaes picked you, Rel. Even though I think you’re a baggie and a clod you don’t really think I’d do that, do you?” I thought about how I’d treated him in the past, and ploughed right on. “Look, you’re probably mad about me being out there having so much fun while you’re stuck here at Alsaes’ mercy, but you can’t be as mad at me as I am at myself.” My pent-up feelings nearly streamed out, and I struggled for control. “We have to stick together. The girls are waiting for me to make a plan. Me. How can I plan when I’m stuck with him all the time? I have to eat in his room, even — ” I was losing control again.

  “Begging?” Puddlenose cut in.

  “Huh?” My tirade spun away into confusion.

  Puddlenose said patiently, “Do you have to beg for meals? Say a lot of groveling stuff?”

  “No, it’s not that bad. All I say is ‘I’m hungry’ and that’s that. It’s the idea of it.”

  “Uh,” Puddlenose grunted. “Shnit made his heirs beg.”

  Coldness washed through my nerves, but it didn’t feel good. “Eeeuw. So what’s this, the opposite — he thinks?”

  “Go on,” Puddlenose said only.

  “He does bed checks in the middle of the night. Did Shnit do that?”

  “No. Sent Eric to attack sometimes.”

  “He can’t think I’m sneaking around right before midnight — it makes no sense. I have to ask questions, but if I ask the wrong ones I get strangled. I have to go out there every day in that heat and throw knives, which are supposedly meant for Clair, and I know I have to get out of that, but there’s no time to plan, no time to think, and I feel like a traitor because of you guys here — ”