“Fancy,” John said. “I’ll have to stay there some day when they make me Pope.”
Lyle waved and turned away, disappearing into the crowd. John went back into the church and summoned Julian, his page, who followed him into the office. Father Thomas took a piece of paper from his desk and scribbled something on it.
“Julian,” he said, still writing and then sealing the note in wax. “I’d like you to shoot this off to the archbishop as soon as you can.”
Julian’s face brightened. “Yes Father.”
The young boy took the note and dashed out of the office, robes flowing behind him. John sat back in his chair, lost in thought.
The man was clearly hiding something. John wasn’t an idiot, even if he had a tendency to trust people a little more than was good for him. Maybe he had trusted Lynn more than he should have.
And Skyla now. Was that my fault too? Couldn’t I have taken her in? How many opportunities have I been given to help her?
He could still see Skyla’s face, staring up at her mother, tugging her sleeve, mortified as the congregation stared and jeered. He remembered how those jeers faded into something more dangerous until—what
was
that he had seen in the corner?
John stood up and looked out the window. A troop of militia marched by a recruitment line that went down the block. A factory he hadn’t noticed in a long time was now billowing smoke. A boy chased a wind-up toy down the street, laughing. Vendors bellowed from the shade of their markets, ignored for the most part by the bustle of busy men.
He could almost believe that the world was normal.
Chapter 8
Something small whizzed past Skyla’s ear and embedded itself in a branch near her head. She turned towards the sound and saw a small arrow with tiny green feathers sticking out from the end.
Movement caught her eye as she looked up into the foliage to see a figure lifting an impressively large crossbow. They readied it to fire a second time. A female voice called from the thick shadows. Skyla was certain it was a language, but it made no sense, simply a stream of buzzing Rs and Vs. The woman produced a warbling birdlike sound and the forest exploded with movement.
As her eyes adjusted, Skyla realized that there were more of them, people, covered from head to toe in dense leaf-green streamers, their eyes white dots hidden behind thick paint and mud, blending them perfectly into the surroundings.
The woman spoke again.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand you,” Skyla said.
A pregnant pause stretched out as the two of them stared at one another, a second camouflaged figure moving to talk to the woman.
“I. Don’t. Understand,” Skyla said in slow deliberate words.
The woman said something over her shoulder to the figure beside her. She could only tell he was a man by his voice.
“
Vana
says you are alone, but for your pet.” His voice carried the same rolling consonants.
“I am,” she said. “We are. Who are you?”
The man and woman spoke again and
Vana
lowered her weapon. Skyla exhaled as the woman engaged the safety and reset the string. Skyla realized her palms were sweating. She slowly wiped them on her uniform and felt the woman’s eyes follow her every move.
“I am Alexei. This is
Vana
. What is your name?” asked the man.
“I am Skyla,” she said.
“Skyla what?”
She froze, uncertain what to say.
“Just Skyla.”
Alexei narrowed his eyes and said something to
Vana
who began to raise the crossbow again. Skyla felt her heart race.
“Your last name, please.”
“I don’t have one.”
This drew another round of sharp dialog between the two lookouts. The woman lowered the crossbow again and laughed. Alexei turned back to Skyla.
“
Vana
says that you must be from Bollingbrook, because they are the only people who don’t let their poor carry surnames. Are you poor, Skyla?”
She cleared her throat. “Yes. Very.”
Orrin landed on her shoulder and squawked, echoing the sentiment.
“Bollingbrook causes us much trouble. Do you know this?” said Alexei.
“They cause me trouble too,” she said.
She was relieved to hear the man laugh. It was a warm sound and when he spoke to the woman she chuckled as well.
Vana
spoke again. He listened and translated to Skyla.
“
Vana
says she likes your goggles. She has never seen a pair in such good condition. She wants to know how much.”
“They aren’t for sale,” said Skyla.
Great
, she thought,
next they are going to just take them
. But another thought crept into her head as well.
Are there other goggles, other people like me?
Alexei shrugged and spoke to
Vana
. She seemed disappointed, but not angry. She spoke back to the man.
“
Vana
says that a young girl like yourself can get hurt in Lassimir. Do you plan to teach?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your name. It means ‘scholar’. So, you must be a teacher, yes? Because it also can mean you are a fugitive. Though you seem young to be a teacher.”
“No, I mean yes… I mean… I’m just trying to find my aunt.”
The two sentries spoke in hushed tones again.
“What makes you think she is here?”
“I don’t know.”
The man held up a hand. “Wait, please.”
He then took
Vana
by the elbow and turned their backs to Skyla. There was a long heated conversation between the two of them as the forest went still once again. When Alexei turned back to her, his voice was serious.
“Listen to me. You must do exactly what I tell you. You may visit Lassimir, but you may not live there until a city resident can vouch for you.”
“How do I do that?”
There was more discussion and the man sighed. “Many new people make acquaintances at the tavern on the edge of town. You find work, or you offer to help, eventually someone will let you in. We are not savages, but the people will not speak to you unless you show proof that you can be trusted. Do you understand this, Skyla?”
Skyla nodded fervently.
The man whispered something to
Vana
, who seemed satisfied. She gave a curt nod before the two of them descended down onto the trail, where Skyla followed them from a safe distance, that crossbow never leaving her mind. All above them a wooden clicking echoed through the tops of the trees, mechanical applause announcing her arrival.
“What’s that noise?” she asked when they had traveled a bit further.
“It is the semaphores,” said the man. “They are like lanterns that blink. They are relaying your arrival so that you will not be shot.”
“Who are you?”
“We are the guard,” he said, his face barely visible beneath the dense coat of leafy strands. “We watch for signs of trouble from the trees.”
“You live up there?”
The man laughed. “No, but it does feel that way at times.”
“What about the Wilds?”
The man cocked his head a bit. “What is this Wilds?”
“The place between here and Bollingbrook,” she said. “It’s where I came through.”
Vana
muttered something and Alexei leaned toward her. “Ah,” he said. “Your Wilds do not trouble us. We have… an agreement… maybe the wrong word. We do not bother the spirits and they do not bother us.”
The forest spilled out onto a muddy road, flanked on either side by dense woods. Alexei turned to her as
Vana
left, vanishing into the forest.
He pointed toward the river. “There is Lassimir. I suggest you do your best to make friends.”
“Wait,” she said as he turned to go. “Just me? All alone?”
His shaded eyes glanced between her and Orrin. “You must understand something, Skyla,” he said. “There are many people from nearby cities who do not wish to see Lassimir exist. We are large as a city, but we are not recognized. For me to let you this far, you are very lucky. I will hope you do well.”
And with a couple steps the forest engulfed the man until all that remained were the rustling of branches and leaves in the wind.
“Already we’re making friends,” she said to Orrin, who squawked from her shoulder.
*
The Hungry Skunk was one of the few solid buildings within miles of Lassimir. Unlike most structures near the river, made from cloth and rope, the tavern was a solid—if swaying—building of stonework and thick beams, a sagging roof and cobbled chimney. Several windows had been broken and replaced with new panes that didn’t quite fit, the residents doing what they could to preserve one of the few permanent monuments of the growing settlement.
Marley, the proprietor and second oldest monument to the city, rubbed a dirty dishcloth over the surface of a wood counter, his hand encrusted with massive steel rings. His head was a hairless dome, encircled by a scar running from eye to ear, his mustache a thick white horseshoe which twitched as he scowled, annoyed not for the first time by the only other person in the tavern, Half-Dale, who sat on a nearby stool.
Watching the man drink, Marley worked his way down to a mug at the end of the counter, which he cleaned while glowering at the man. He grumbled something incoherent as he jammed the dishrag into the cracked mug, scrubbing it furiously.
Dale simply stared at his pint, his mind somewhere else, his twisted stump of an arm tucked beneath a ragged uniform. He gave Marley a sideways glance and flashed a smile.
“But I provide so much needed companionship. I help you dispose of this swill so that you don’t throw it out and poison the trees. And I scare away the customers… the pretty ones anyway.”
He smiled and slid the empty glass across to Marley who picked it up and began washing it, a deep, seismic grumble emanating from his throat. He glared at Dale.
“For all the free beer I’ve given you, I might as well add you to the payroll.”
Dale held up his left arm, it bent dramatically at the wrist, the fingers crooked. “I’d love to help.”
Marley mumbled something as his scar turned white against his flushed head. He looked away from the man as he focused on polishing the glass, tiny in his enormous hand.
“I
ain’t
running a charity,” he growled. “Go sweep.”
“Too drunk.”
“Go push in a chair.”
“Too easy. As if you couldn’t do that yourself.”
“Then pick up a dammed rag and rub it on something, you sad sack. Go find something to make yourself useful.”
Dale gave him a tired grin. “If you’re just going to scream again, I’ll just take my business elsewhere.” He stumbled to the door, blinking in surprise to see someone already there when he opened it.
“You’ve got early customers,” he said over his shoulder. Both men fell silent, taken aback their argument had been overheard.