A Tonton points a gun at a man on the ground. He lies face down, hands behind his head. Black hair, stocky build, dusted with the red of New Eden roads. There’s a strange horse, travel stained, must be his. Somethin flickers in me. Do I know this guy? Two horses, shiny with polished kit. Tonton mounts. So where’s the other Tonton? Then Lugh walks outta the cookhouse. He’s got his hands in the air. Behind him another Tonton, proddin Lugh’s back with a firestick. Two Tonton. Present an accounted fer. What the hell’re they doin here?
Then the guy on the ground’s bein yanked to his feet. Shock kicks my stummick. It’s Manuel. The Steward I met at the mill. He must be here to see me. Somethin so important that he chanced the roads by night an broke curfew. The Tonton patrol must of spotted him an followed him here.
My eyes meet Tommo’s, my hands open in panic. I ain’t got no weapon. He shakes his head. Nor does he. Think, Saba, think. Any second now they’re gonna be rakin up Lugh’s sleeve, checkin fer a arm tattoo that ain’t there. An when they don’t find it, they’ll shoot him, no questions.
I look around us. Junk. Nuthin but junk. Useless, worthless—I stare at the pile next to my head. No, no good, not that one neether—yes! That’ll do. I take hold of a sheet of battered metal, some bit of a car I think. I signal Tommo to do likewise. They’re jest big enough to give us decent cover. We hurry, hurry but make no noise as we loop bits of string into rough handholds. A shield each.
We got surprise on our side. Nuthin else.
I point Tommo to his man, the guy with Manuel. We raise our scabby shields. I count us in silently. One. Two. Three. Then we charge, shriekin wild mayhem. High pitched an crazy. I go straight fer the Tonton with Lugh. He’s off balance, startled by the racket. Tracker streaks past me, leaps an bowls him over. His gun goes sailin. As he’s scramblin up, I hit him at top speed. He flies backwards. I crash land on top of him, shield first. That does him. He’s out.
Lugh’s grabbed the gun. Help Tommo! I yell at him.
It’s a messy scrum on the ground with Tommo, Manuel an the other Tonton all strugglin an kickin. The Tonton clings to his gun like grim death. Then, somehow, he’s scrabblin free an on his feet. His gun swings towards Manuel. Jest as I yell, Look out! Peg comes harin outta nowhere. She scuttles up behind him, swingin the yard bell by its rope. She sledges him such a body whack he goes spinnin around full circle. Then she belts him to blankness with one clonk to the head. He hits the ground like a tree.
I reach down a hand an help Manuel stand. He’s a little bit dazed an a lot outta breath.
What is it? I says.
I got a message, he gasps. Fer you. He rummages in the pouch at his waist. It was left in a safe drop, he says. One of our lot picked it up late last night.
Fer me, I says. How d’you know?
He hands me a folded piece of cloth. There’s a shootin star marked on it in charcoal. That’s you, he says.
The rumpus in the sky’s down to me, huh?.
That’s the word goin round, he says.
I unfold the cloth, a torn off bit of shirttail or somethin. There’s a single star an a circle with a tiny circle on top of it. I study it a moment. Then I tuck it in my pocket.
Okay, we’re on the move, I says. Lugh, Tommo. Strip these two jokers an put on their gear. I need a Tonton escort. We’re goin by road.
We leave Peg an Tracker to hold the fort. Wherever Em’s sloped off to, she ain’t gone far. All of her stuff’s here. It’s in a fine old mess. Tracker’s pawed through it. He was after a stale bit of jerky she had stashed, but sicked it up after a few chews. She helped herself to a chunk of Peg’s nettlecake, so she must plan to be gone fer most of the day. No doubt she’ll be moochin about the woods, singin to herself like she has bin of late. Molly puts her oddness down to growin pains.
Manuel’s still callin his grateful humble endless thanks to Peg fer savin his life as we ride through the gates of Starlight Lanes.
We dump the two Tonton along the road a ways an empty a keg of Molly’s hooch over ’em. The best use ever fer the vile stuff. If they’re lucky, they’ll come to an run off before one of their comrades stumbles on ’em. They’d be hard pressed to explain. Where their horses an gear went, fer one. Fer another—an a damn sight more awkward—how they come to be lyin in each other’s arms, wearin nuthin but lady dresses, an stinkin of rotgut drink.
I’ll probly git it in the neck from Slim fer stealin two of his late mother’s frocks. But from what he’s told us, Big Doe was a rakehell in her day. I figger she’d approve an then some.
So we dare to ride the roads in the daylight. It’s the fastest way to where we gotta go. The northwest corner of New Eden. It was Slim sent the message. The circle with the tiny circle on top. That means one of the lethal pinballs that we used to blow the Causeway an Resurrection. They come from the arms dump at Nass Camp. The single star is Auriel Tai, the star reader.
Auriel’s there, at Nass Camp. If Ash an Creed found her so fast, she must of bin on the doorstep of New Eden. The question is, did she come alone? Or did she bring her people from the Snake River? An if she did bring ’em, how many?
They asked Emmi a lot of questions. Where she was born and when. Who her parents were, how they died. Things like that. She only had to lie a bit for most of those. Did she have a brother? No. A sister? No. In a little room on their own, a woman who reminded her of Mercy called her dear and looked her all over.
Teeth, ears and eyes. Hands, feet, hair, and skin, strength and straightness of limbs. Her height was checked to a mark on the wall. She had to say if she’d ever had this fever, that sickness, quite a list.
Then they tattooed the numbers on her arm. It hurt. It took a long time and burned like fire and bled and hurt a lot. She didn’t cry though. She wouldn’t let herself. She screwed her face tight and thought about Saba. How she never cried after that first time they made her fight in the Cage. Never, no matter how much they hurt her. How she didn’t cry when the hellwurm ripped her shoulder and Jack stitched it. This was nothing compared to all that. To shed even one tear would be shameful. So she didn’t. Not one single tear.
Today our boldness works. Tomorrow it might not. Today the weather’s set to unsettle. Uneasy nights give birth to uneasy days. The sun rises to brood darkly red. Not long after we leave the Lanes, a cold fog rolls in from the north. But the sun will not have its power denied an burns the mist red, like a thin blanket of fire.
There’s a spare few rigs on the road. Otherwise, the land’s silent as we roll our way northwest. Tommo an Lugh ride up front. Manuel an me follow behind. He drives a little cart of Peg’s, with Hermes tied to the rear. I sit on the bench beside him, muffled in Auriel’s shawl. Unner Molly’s green dress, my belly billows with its pad of corn husks. We’re Stewards of the Earth. Our Tonton escort of two’s bin charged by the Pathfinder hisself with makin sure we git back home as soon as possible. I’m a precious cargo, pregnant with the first set of twins in New Eden. Nobody’ll dare to ruffle us.
A sudden thought has me grabbin Manuel’s arm. Don’t say a word about Jack, I whisper. Not to nobody, okay? It’s important.
He slants me a look of dark-eyed closeness. I ain’t no talker, he says.
Despite the risks of road travel, it beats crawlin through the backwood trails. We make decent enough progress, so far as caution an conditions allow. I should be champin at the bit to go flat out. But we’ll be there soon enough. Too soon.
Then the guy on the ground’s bein yanked to his feet. Shock kicks my stummick. It’s Manuel. The Steward I met at the mill. He must be here to see me. Somethin so important that he chanced the roads by night an broke curfew. The Tonton patrol must of spotted him an followed him here.
My eyes meet Tommo’s, my hands open in panic. I ain’t got no weapon. He shakes his head. Nor does he. Think, Saba, think. Any second now they’re gonna be rakin up Lugh’s sleeve, checkin fer a arm tattoo that ain’t there. An when they don’t find it, they’ll shoot him, no questions.
I look around us. Junk. Nuthin but junk. Useless, worthless—I stare at the pile next to my head. No, no good, not that one neether—yes! That’ll do. I take hold of a sheet of battered metal, some bit of a car I think. I signal Tommo to do likewise. They’re jest big enough to give us decent cover. We hurry, hurry but make no noise as we loop bits of string into rough handholds. A shield each.
We got surprise on our side. Nuthin else.
I point Tommo to his man, the guy with Manuel. We raise our scabby shields. I count us in silently. One. Two. Three. Then we charge, shriekin wild mayhem. High pitched an crazy. I go straight fer the Tonton with Lugh. He’s off balance, startled by the racket. Tracker streaks past me, leaps an bowls him over. His gun goes sailin. As he’s scramblin up, I hit him at top speed. He flies backwards. I crash land on top of him, shield first. That does him. He’s out.
Lugh’s grabbed the gun. Help Tommo! I yell at him.
It’s a messy scrum on the ground with Tommo, Manuel an the other Tonton all strugglin an kickin. The Tonton clings to his gun like grim death. Then, somehow, he’s scrabblin free an on his feet. His gun swings towards Manuel. Jest as I yell, Look out! Peg comes harin outta nowhere. She scuttles up behind him, swingin the yard bell by its rope. She sledges him such a body whack he goes spinnin around full circle. Then she belts him to blankness with one clonk to the head. He hits the ground like a tree.
I reach down a hand an help Manuel stand. He’s a little bit dazed an a lot outta breath.
What is it? I says.
I got a message, he gasps. Fer you. He rummages in the pouch at his waist. It was left in a safe drop, he says. One of our lot picked it up late last night.
Fer me, I says. How d’you know?
He hands me a folded piece of cloth. There’s a shootin star marked on it in charcoal. That’s you, he says.
The rumpus in the sky’s down to me, huh?.
That’s the word goin round, he says.
I unfold the cloth, a torn off bit of shirttail or somethin. There’s a single star an a circle with a tiny circle on top of it. I study it a moment. Then I tuck it in my pocket.
Okay, we’re on the move, I says. Lugh, Tommo. Strip these two jokers an put on their gear. I need a Tonton escort. We’re goin by road.
We leave Peg an Tracker to hold the fort. Wherever Em’s sloped off to, she ain’t gone far. All of her stuff’s here. It’s in a fine old mess. Tracker’s pawed through it. He was after a stale bit of jerky she had stashed, but sicked it up after a few chews. She helped herself to a chunk of Peg’s nettlecake, so she must plan to be gone fer most of the day. No doubt she’ll be moochin about the woods, singin to herself like she has bin of late. Molly puts her oddness down to growin pains.
Manuel’s still callin his grateful humble endless thanks to Peg fer savin his life as we ride through the gates of Starlight Lanes.
We dump the two Tonton along the road a ways an empty a keg of Molly’s hooch over ’em. The best use ever fer the vile stuff. If they’re lucky, they’ll come to an run off before one of their comrades stumbles on ’em. They’d be hard pressed to explain. Where their horses an gear went, fer one. Fer another—an a damn sight more awkward—how they come to be lyin in each other’s arms, wearin nuthin but lady dresses, an stinkin of rotgut drink.
I’ll probly git it in the neck from Slim fer stealin two of his late mother’s frocks. But from what he’s told us, Big Doe was a rakehell in her day. I figger she’d approve an then some.
So we dare to ride the roads in the daylight. It’s the fastest way to where we gotta go. The northwest corner of New Eden. It was Slim sent the message. The circle with the tiny circle on top. That means one of the lethal pinballs that we used to blow the Causeway an Resurrection. They come from the arms dump at Nass Camp. The single star is Auriel Tai, the star reader.
Auriel’s there, at Nass Camp. If Ash an Creed found her so fast, she must of bin on the doorstep of New Eden. The question is, did she come alone? Or did she bring her people from the Snake River? An if she did bring ’em, how many?
They asked Emmi a lot of questions. Where she was born and when. Who her parents were, how they died. Things like that. She only had to lie a bit for most of those. Did she have a brother? No. A sister? No. In a little room on their own, a woman who reminded her of Mercy called her dear and looked her all over.
Teeth, ears and eyes. Hands, feet, hair, and skin, strength and straightness of limbs. Her height was checked to a mark on the wall. She had to say if she’d ever had this fever, that sickness, quite a list.
Then they tattooed the numbers on her arm. It hurt. It took a long time and burned like fire and bled and hurt a lot. She didn’t cry though. She wouldn’t let herself. She screwed her face tight and thought about Saba. How she never cried after that first time they made her fight in the Cage. Never, no matter how much they hurt her. How she didn’t cry when the hellwurm ripped her shoulder and Jack stitched it. This was nothing compared to all that. To shed even one tear would be shameful. So she didn’t. Not one single tear.
Today our boldness works. Tomorrow it might not. Today the weather’s set to unsettle. Uneasy nights give birth to uneasy days. The sun rises to brood darkly red. Not long after we leave the Lanes, a cold fog rolls in from the north. But the sun will not have its power denied an burns the mist red, like a thin blanket of fire.
There’s a spare few rigs on the road. Otherwise, the land’s silent as we roll our way northwest. Tommo an Lugh ride up front. Manuel an me follow behind. He drives a little cart of Peg’s, with Hermes tied to the rear. I sit on the bench beside him, muffled in Auriel’s shawl. Unner Molly’s green dress, my belly billows with its pad of corn husks. We’re Stewards of the Earth. Our Tonton escort of two’s bin charged by the Pathfinder hisself with makin sure we git back home as soon as possible. I’m a precious cargo, pregnant with the first set of twins in New Eden. Nobody’ll dare to ruffle us.
A sudden thought has me grabbin Manuel’s arm. Don’t say a word about Jack, I whisper. Not to nobody, okay? It’s important.
He slants me a look of dark-eyed closeness. I ain’t no talker, he says.
Despite the risks of road travel, it beats crawlin through the backwood trails. We make decent enough progress, so far as caution an conditions allow. I should be champin at the bit to go flat out. But we’ll be there soon enough. Too soon.
