Peregrin

  “Why would they?” said Vul. “We’re just soldiers. And besides, what’s to think? What Feril suggests is brilliant.”

  Canu settled back on his haunches, feeling some tightness in his throat. His face flushed as he regarded Feril, who was looking so plainly pleased with himself.

  “I’m going outside,” he whispered to Vul, and retreated back into the lane. A cook shack blazed with extra cauldrons of porridge and stew concocted from the supplies they had seized. At least they would have a hot meal for a change.

  The fighters in the lane parted for a woman who barreled down from the main house swinging one bad leg, led by one of Feril’s underlings. Her path took her straight towards Canu, who stood in her way. A glare as piercing as the tip of a lance sent him hopping off the lane into a muddy ditch.

  ***

  Tezhay left the meeting and went back to the barn, which once again harbored the dead. He sat outside on the stoop and began disassembling his gun. He pulled a wire brush from his pocket and a small tin of oil, both taken from the cache. He could hear Frank speaking to someone up in the loft. It sounded like Bimji.

  He ran the brush through the barrel and swabbed it with a piece of oiled cloth jammed onto the end of a stick. He picked and scraped at the grime gumming its firing mechanism with the point and flat of his dagger.

  Tezhay admired the simple design, well within the capabilities of the blacksmiths of Sesei if not Gi. The only parts that worried him were the springs. The alloys of his homeland did not have nearly the liveliness and resilience of the three used in this weapon. But springs were portable and could be brought over portals by the gross in a sack. Tezhay made a mental note. Someday, if the war continued, this information might be enough to turn tides.

  Ellie came down the lane with a pair of children in tow, each swinging a pair of empty baskets, going to fetch water, going to pick greens and roots from the garden, despite the immaturity of the plants that grew there. But present needs outweighed the value of a harvest that might never come.

  Ellie paused and gazed over the terraces into the distant hills. Disappointment creased her face.

  “What’s wrong?” Tezhay asked, in Giep’o, a language that matched his thinking much less awkwardly than English.

  “The Mercomar,” she said. “It never flashes anymore.”

  “Oh?” said Tezhay rising. The promontory blocked their view of the heliograph over Maora. Was she speaking of another? “Which one did you mean?”

  “The only one we can see from here,” said Ellie. “In the hills over Verden.”

  Tezhay turned and squinted at the barely visible blemish along the curve where hills met the sky.

  “The Mercomar there used to blink all day any time it was sunny. It took messages from Maora and relayed them to the Alar. But now it stays mostly dark. I miss its blinking.”

  “Interesting,” said Tezhay. “But you shouldn’t be missing it. Dark is good. It means the Alar is fighting blind.”

  Had this Mercomar been sacked as well, or did its silence have more to do with the absence of the relay over Maora? One would think that the Alar would still want to transmit missives to his outposts. Just because they couldn’t transmit didn’t mean they couldn’t receive. They had eyes in Maora, didn’t they?

  Events that should have happened a year or more ago were now cascading in to place. He had stumbled into Gi during opportune and precarious times. As much as he wanted out of Gi, now was not the time to go.

  The terraces below held several ranks of militia soldiers: one line set back slightly from the cliff edge behind a pathetic barrier of deadfalls and branches, and a second dug into the flower patch behind the wall holding up the first terrace. Lizbet had been furious when she saw the soldiers rip through her precious sweet peas, but the damage had been done. Not even a murderous, mad woman could dissuade them from completing their entrenchments.

  Defenders filled the pocket valley. Contingents stood atop the steep ridge on the west and even atop the striated pinnacle to the east. Combined with the refugees still huddled on every clear patch of ground, there was hardly room for anyone to move without getting in someone’s way.

  Teo rounded the corner of the next building up and waved Tezhay over. Tezhay took his weapon and an oiled rag and joined her.

  “We’re holding a discussion with Bimji’s spouse,” said Teo. “Please, join us. You know these Urep’o. Maybe you know a way to get her to listen.”

  “Me?” said Tezhay. “Why don’t you find one of her spouses to help you? She has three of them now. Maybe four.”

  “We can’t seem to find Bimji,” said Teo. “But maybe it is better that you are not her husband. Gives you more credibility, more sway.”

  Tezhay shrugged and followed her back to the reeking goat shelter where the palaver was still going strong. One of Captain Feril’s comrades had taken Tezhay’s spot on the floor, while Lizbet sat on a large overturned basket, towering over the others like a queen. Some of the thatch had been pulled away for more ventilation and light. Tezhay grabbed a handful, tossed it on the bare dirt and joined the discussion.

  “We can’t promise to protect you if you stay,” said Feril.

  “That’s fine,” said Liz. “I never asked you all to come here and trample my beets. I’d rather that we fended for ourselves anyhow.”

  “In that case, I can promise you’ll be slaughtered,” said Igwa.

  Liz threw the Nalki a glare.

  “How does Bimji feel about this?” said Idala.

  “Who the hell knows?” said Liz. “Ask him yourself.”

  Tom ambled in, looking pale, and as if he might topple any moment, he squeezed onto the basket next to Liz.

  “I couldn’t find him,” said Teo. “Bimji? He went to see Frank,” said Tom.

  “Frank?” said Liz. “Why would he—?”

  “Lizbet, please …” said Teo. “This is Tezhayaploplec. He is a Traveler. He knows the Venep’o well. I value his opinion.”

  “I know Mr. Tezhay,” said Liz,

  “What brother Igwa says is true,” said Tezhay. “They won’t spare you. If you were stronger, they might enslave you, but … in your case.”

  “You’re saying I’m dead meat, because of my hip?” said Liz.

  Tezhay shrugged. “More or less.”

  “They’ve always left us alone,” said Liz. “If you all leave, maybe they’ll pass us by.”

  “That’s not how this Alar works,” said Teo. “You gave us safe harbor. Not only that, your people killed some Crasacs, I hear. Those are grounds for your destruction.”

  “I can’t leave,” said Liz. “This is my farm. I worked hard to make it what it is. I’m not going to just … abandon it.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” said Tezhay. “Twice, these fighters have fought Crasacs and came out ahead. They have captured the Alar’s attention. If he has his way, he will exterminate every last one of us, and that includes you and your family.”

  “This Alar a friend of yours?” said Liz. “You make it sound like you all actually know the man.”

  “I know his kind well,” said Tezhay. “Men like him—Cra Supremacists—come from the same line of indoctrination. If you know that branch of Sinkor, you’ll know that mercy and tolerance have no place. They will wipe us from these hills like aphids off a leaf.”

  Liz smirked. “Let them try. This place is a natural fortress. Bimji and I didn’t settle in these heights for the fresh air or the view.”

  “We are not talking about some little patrol,” said Teo. “There is an army assembling out there. A siege army.”

  “By all means go, run,” said Liz. “I’m not stopping you. I’m not asking for any of your protection, either.”

  “The problem is,” said Idala. “If you stay, the villagers will stay.”

  “You don’t see me chaining them to any posts. They’re free to leave whenever they want.”

  “They stay, they die,” said Tezhay. “All of your refugees will be exterm
inated along with you.”

  “You’re comfortable, being responsible for their slaughter?” said Igwa.

  “We don’t know that will happen,” said Liz.

  “I do,” said Tezhay. “I saw it happen in Bohangor ... to a Sinkor family. They let some retreating militias sleep in their fields, gave them food. The Venep’o swooped in, rounded up the clan, decapitated them all. Don’t expect anything different here, except perhaps the method of your slaughter.”

  “Lizbet, we don’t have much time. This man, Canuchariol, has seen them at work in the forest,” said Teo. “They are bringing siege towers up against the cliffs on both sides. If they bring troops into the high meadows before us, they’ll trap us here.”

  “I can’t leave,” said Liz. “We’ve got crops in the ground. There’s people here, injured, can barely walk. Tom for instance.”

  “I’m walking just fine!” said Tom.

  Liz looked flustered, her eyes flitting around the room, searching for someone who would support her.

  “Bimji!” she called.

  “I told you, mom,” said Tom. “He’s with Frank.”

  Liz sighed deeply. “This is my home,” she said. “Five children, I gave birth to here.”

  “It’s not just you we’re talking about,” said Teo. “Think about the villagers. You will doom them if you stay.”

  Liz looked down at the dirt. Her face sagged. “How am I supposed to run away on this worthless hip?”

  “You have donkeys, don’t you?” said Idala.

  Liz glared. “I’m not some sack of beets. I ain’t riding on the back of no donkey.”

  “How much time do we have?” said Tezhay, turning to Canu, who seemed surprised to be consulted.

  “Time? Well, their siege wagons should reach the cliffs by tomorrow, easy, at the rate they were cutting.”

  Teo gazed out the doorway into the hills. “Idala and I have now fifty-four able bodies,” said Teo. “What about you all? How many can you muster?”

  “Eighty or so in fighting condition,” said Feril. “Ninety if we include some of the walking wounded.”

  “Forty-two,” said Igwa. “Some have left, but may return with reinforcements.”

  “How many villagers willing to fight?” said Teo.

  “About forty total,” said Liz. “Maybe half are old enough or young enough to use a weapon.”

  “Barely over two hundred,” said Teo. “Less than I had hoped. The Venep’o may field a thousand or more against us. Urep’o weapons or not, we can slow them down, but we can’t stop them. I’m not sure the rest of our Nalkies will mobilize in time to provide any relief. I was hoping to see the rest of your militias, Captain Feril.”

  “I don’t understand why they haven’t yet come,” said Feril. “It has been days since Comrade Ara went off to fetch them.”

  Liz slipped off the basket and hobbled slowly towards the door.

  “Where are you going?” said Teo.

  “To pack,” said Liz. “And shoo away whatever refugees I can shoo.”

  Chapter 48: Bottleneck

  The convergence burgeoned and ebbed, struggling to sustain its form, like a cloud over a desert. Its feeble light barely broached the darkness.

  “Go to it!” said Ara, pulling Seor back to her feet by the back of her hospital gown. Light as a bird, she had lost so much weight. Ara rushed Seor forward until the edge of the convergence field repelled her like a puff of wind.

  “I can’t go through yet,” said Seor. “It’s not ready.”

  Baas was halfway across the meadow, coming at them at a dead sprint, the moonlight sparkling off the reflective strips sewn into his coveralls.

  “Get down!” said Ara, reaching up and hauling Seor to the ground. She pried a stone out of the matted grass.

  “What are you doing?”

  “He doesn’t know I’m here with you,” said Ara. “Tell him you give up. Tell him you’ll go with him. Let him hear your voice, but stay low and keep still.”

  “But why?”

  “Just do it!”

  “I give up!” Seor shouted with all the voice she could muster. “I give up, Baas. I will come with you to Sesei.” Seor lay flat on the ground at the brink of the wavering field. Ara rose up, raised one arm, kept one on her back, hunched over, feigning infirmity.

  “You’re at the wrong, bloody portal then, aren’t you?” said Baas, slowing to a walk, puffing to catch his breath. “Get your scrawny ass over here. Quick. We’re using the one in the forest.”

  Ara hobbled towards his dark bulk, standing in the tall grass, silhouetted in moon glow. He held one arm bent upward. Too dark to tell for certain, his posture suggested he held a handgun.

  Ara’s rock in the one hand and the tiny blade cradled the other seemed pathetic and pointless now. By the time she got close enough to inflict any damage, he would see that she was not Seor and his bullets would rip holes into her.

  “So what made you change your mind, little bird?” said Baas. “Do you have family in Ubabaor? Little tykes you want to see? You cooperate and I’ll make sure they—”

  Ara stooped over and coughed.

  “You’d better not be coughing up blood,” said Baas. “I need you intact for the inquisitors.”

  She turned away from him, shading her face from the moonlight. If he came any closer, he would see she was not Seor.

  “Get your scrawny ass moving now, little bird!” He stomped after her and then paused, startled. “Those … clothes,” he said. “Where did you get them?”

  The convergence flared bright like a candle flame catching a draft. “Seor! Now! It’s opening. Go!”

  “Seor?” said Baas. “Who the … Ara?”

  Ara heaved the stone at Baas and wheeled back towards the convergence, Baas grunted as the stone struck his midsection.

  Seor had already crawled into the glowing space, but was caught between forces of attraction and repulsion. The gun went off and a bullet ripped through the weeds. Ara dove and slid. She threw her arm around Seor’s shoulder and dragged her deeper into the field. The convergence field toyed with them, slipping forward, hanging up like a faulty ratchet, backsliding—two notches forward, one notch back. Baas fired again, straight into the portal. The convergence swallowed the bullet, whipped it around and spat it back out over Baas’ head, forcing him to duck.

  He charged after them. Ara strained at the field, inching deeper. The convergence bathed Baas’ features in a garish orange glow as he came after them. The field surged, knocking him off his feet. He fell forward, bowling into them, his mass shoving them deeper into the portal. Sultry marsh air mixed with the cool tang of a September evening in Vermont. They squirted past the bottleneck.

  Ara landed on top of Seor in the well-trampled mud of the convergence ground, drawing a shriek of agony. She rolled away from the portal, coming to rest at the foot of a sentry. She tried to get Seor to stand but she remained crumpled on the ground in pain. Ara dragged her out of the field by the hem of her hospital gown.

  “Comrade … Ara?” said an astonished sentry leaning on his pike.

  “Get away from that portal!” said Ara. “There’s a man coming after us. He has a weapon. He’s dangerous.”

  Baas’ knee penetrated the interface. Then an arm poked through, fingers grasping. His face met resistance, stretching but unable to penetrate the invisible membrane.

  The portal, already narrowing, had twisted him up like a pastry. One of the sentries planted the butt end of his pike against the small of Baas’ back and pushed. Another man ran up to join him. Baas swung his gun and the portal puckered wide, but the first sentry quickly batted it away with his pike. The portal flared and snatched it back to Ur.

  Baas garbled unintelligible expletives, the portal’s distortion scrambling his words. Like dock hands shoving a heavy boat away from a landing, the soldiers slowly reversed his body’s momentum with their staffs. His shape faded and disappeared. The convergence flapped closed and its turbulence calm
ed.

  “That wasn’t a passable portal, ladies,” said the second soldier. “You really should have checked a tabulator.”

  “Thank you, comrade, for the advice,” said Ara. “Next time we plan to be attacked by a madman, we’ll be sure to consult the convergence schedule first.”

  “Mirec. Do you realize who this is? This is Comrade Ara of the cadre.”

  “Arahelios?”

  “Yes, that’s me,” said Ara, sighing morosely. She had never intended to return so soon. Resigned to her fate, she stood up, helping Seor carefully to her feet, supporting most of her weight.

  “You’re not even supposed to be here, comrade,” said the second sentry. “The Commander’s decree says that you’re confined to—”

  “Never mind all that,” came a robust male voice out of the darkness.

  “Excuse me, sir?” said the second sentry.

  A militia officer made his presence visible in the guttering light of a tallow torch. “I’ll escort her where she needs to go. Them, I should say.”

  He was a young man, with piercing eyes, his face exuding a level of calm that made him appear almost bored.

  “She needs help,” said Ara. “She’s hurt.”

  “Let’s bring her to my compound,” said the officer. “We have a wonderful healer. One of the best in camp.”

  “Who are you?” said Ara.

  “Captain Daraken, Cracao militia.”

  “You’re aware of the decree against me?” said Ara.

  “I don’t give a damn about Ingar’s decrees,” said Daraken. “You’re welcome in my camp, anytime.”

  They passed into the blackness separating the convergence zone from the bivouacs, and into a slum of shredded tents and tree bark shacks. A modest fire of peat block burned in a circle of such dwellings. Daraken, supporting one of Seor’s arms with Ara under the other, led them into one of the larger tents, its awning pieced together from various shreds of cloth and hide.

  Daraken’s healer, an older, one-eared man sat with a candle, pulling splinters from the calf of a trouser-less soldier. Another officer bearing the mark of Captain was watching the proceedings with a mug of tea.

  “I told you not to shimmy down that log,” said the officer. “Don’t go blaming it on me.” The officer stood and gave up his stool to Seor as Ara and Daraken brought her into the tent.