Blightcross: A Novel (16 page)

“My name is Laik and I sure as hell am not ‘Sir'.” He smiled and let go of her. “I'm a foreman here.”

“How nice. I really must get going.”

But he blocked her again. “You aren't from here. That much is clear.”

She said nothing.

“I'll be honest. There aren't enough people on my shift working. I need cleaners.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I need cleaners. If I can't find any good workers, the management is talking about allowing Ehzeri into this factory.” He grimaced as if he'd swallowed a mouthful of glass.

“And you think I want to work as a cleaner in a factory?” She almost laughed.

Laik pointed into the hall. “Let me show you the place.”

“I'll save you the trouble by saying no thanks.”

He clenched his fists and breathed heavily. “Look, Valoii. I know things are different in Mizkov, but here, you treat a man with respect. Do I make myself clear?”

“Get out of my way. I can't think of any way to have an intelligent conversation with someone like you.” She shoved him aside and strode into the hall. The floor was shiny and reeked of cleaner, and she passed many a bewildered man along the way.

Who did that guy think he was? She could hear his heavy steps thump behind her. He didn't know how damned lucky he was. These Naartlanders clearly didn't know much about their allies if they would toss around a Valoii soldier based on her gender. Hell, a single platoon of
Kommzad
could probably find a way to lay waste to the Blightcross armoury without much trouble.

She passed through a glass corridor, and below was the factory floor. Giant vats of glowing orange, like the Blightcross sky melted into a pot. Chains everywhere, men with blackened faces. Sparks showered the concrete floor. And unlike the rest of the city, she saw no Ehzeri workers.

Now she had to find the way out of this damned place. But she slowed when she tried to think of what to do after leaving. She had a few days to lie low, to keep out of the public and wait for Sevari's attention to drift to some other injustice.

Before she could work it out, a hand grabbed onto her collar and jerked her to a stop. She whirled and let fly an open-handed strike. The attacker caught her hand.

Of course, it was Laik. “Calm down.”

“You just don't get it, do you? I don't belong here.” But, on the other hand...

“That's right, Valoii. Which makes my offer all the more generous. Only Naartlanders are given work in the factories. If I weren't so nice, you'd be sent back to the city to work in the refinery with all the other immigrants. And nobody wants that.”

He let go of her, and she began to catch his subtext, which was the only reason she didn't snap his neck. “So you're desperate enough to keep Ehzeri out of your cleaning crews that you'd let a Valoii in, is that right?”

There was an odd flash in his eyes; a smugness. “It's a premium job. You could do much worse.” He grinned. “And I think you have.”

The comment snatched her breath. She glanced around and stepped closer to him. “Cut the nonsense. What do you know?”

“Me? I know that I'm short on cleaning staff and you're right here, probably jobless, and in need of a place to stay. Got me?”

A minute of silence, an appraising stare. Laik's expression held fast. Did he know who she was? Or was he just desperate for workers and bluffing?

No matter how much she hated the backwards men of Naartland and Tamarck, Capra reminded herself that these cultural problems didn't necessarily make the individuals who perpetuated them untrustworthy. At the worst, most were probably just ignorant clods. The facts were that the authorities were after her, and Redsands was a nice distance from the heart of the city, and the exclusive status given to these factory workers meant that the authorities probably wouldn't think to look for her here.

It was only for a few days.

She winced once more, then said, “I think I get you, Laik.”

Dannac told himself to stop worrying about Capra—she was capable of keeping her mouth shut in dire enough circumstances. She did possess basic reasoning skills, and knew when her opinions needed to be silenced. Sometimes, anyway.

After they had split, he had taken the opposite direction and eventually came back to Corwood Park. He remembered the address from the eviction days earlier, and was pleased to find it still vacant.

He stood in the townhome's living room now, partly hidden by the wall and gazing out the front window for signs of Alim and his men. He fought hard not to be lulled by the halcyon air of Corwood Park, the peaceful order of these apartment blocks. The order had come at a cost—it had to. It always did, like the rows of Valoii houses in the foothills, where the cost had been a thousand Ehzeri lives.

He could see into the homes across the way—the glow of their ovens and furnaces, blobs of colour spread into vaguely human forms, as if his vision saw into a world made by Helverliss' perverted paintings. Ever since the Valoii attack that had left him blind, it was as though it had bounced him into a different reality.

Maybe the world really was completely different. Did the human senses lie?

He stopped himself from descending into a philosophical mania. There were soldiers after them, and he could not enjoy the comfort of squatting in the townhome forever. In fact, just down the road he noticed three forms heading purposefully towards the place.

He slipped away from the window and gathered his pack on the way to the rear of the house. Best not to take chances—places to live were in short supply here, and one night's vacancy was probably pushing it.

He went into the small back yard and hopped over the fence, into the gravelly square of the neighbour's yard. He did the same three more times until he emerged on a main road continuing east.

Ahead were the cranes he had glimpsed from the flying boat. They were shorter cranes than the ones at construction sites. Cranes for cargo. He sped to a jog, headed towards the harbour. It would be as good a place as any to hide. Lots of cargo, transient workers, slackened enforcement.

When he looked to the river, it barely stood out against the sand on the other side; the water was warm. Far warmer than a river ought to be. It must have been the way the refinery straddled the river, likely using the water in its processes.

He went to the water's edge and walked along the quays. Minutes later, he found his tentative goal: a group of depleted Ehzeri huddled near the ground, tossing around a pair of dice.

They stopped as soon as they caught sight of him. Gambling bastards. Gambling and charging interest—two things expressly forbidden by the Blacksmith. Perhaps his people were better off with these weaklings rotting away across the ocean.

“Good day,” Dannac said.

A short man whose cap was askew and smothered his small head approached. “I'll be damned, the cursed one with three eyes. I had thought you to be a myth.”

“Who did you have to betray to get back your sight, anyway?” asked another man.

Dannac reached for his hand-cannon, but stopped short of the concealed holster—it might be best not to advertise the weapon at this point. “I need a place to stay. Perhaps a very small loan to cover provisions for a few days as well.”

“Loan?” The short one snickered. “Yes, let me just confer with the other board members of this fine financial establishment.”

The man's companions guffawed.

He began to circle the short man, cutting him off from the rest. “I remember you.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. The raid about three years ago. Ilagam, near the foothills.”

“I see, I see. You must have read about it in the news, because I doubt the son of a coward who squandered his family's power in Tamarck to entertain our oppressors would have the courage to fight with us.”

Dannac stepped closer, pushing the man further away from his friends. The others looked on, expressions unchanged. “I was there when a certain group of fighters were directed to join the
vihssat
at the head of the attack and defend him so that we could at least take out their command. I was there when that group saw the numbers of Valoii, and realized how utterly useless they were despite their big talk and love of violence and collection of blades and pathetic bombs that never work. I saw you all surrender. I know you, and I know what pathetic, unworthy trash you all are, and I need your help.”

The little man blinked and Dannac saw a shift in the man's complexion. “It was a stupid attack. It never would have worked.”

“It did, in the end. We did win, no thanks to you.”

“And two days later, the Valoii came with more men and maybe a new war engine and squashed hundreds and took the land as if nothing had ever happened.”

Dannac said nothing.

“In a way, maybe your father was smart. He did what he wanted with
vihs
, he followed his heart. He did not risk his life fighting for nothing.”

“Like you.”

“Yes, if you like. What do you want?”

Dannac smirked. “I told you.”

“I can give you no loan. I know some businessmen who are always needing help, though.”

“What kind of work?”

“Smuggling.”

He shook his head. “I don't need any more attention from Sevari's people. I need something legitimate and safe.”

“Legitimate? Smuggling is the most legitimate thing going on in this town. Everyone knows it happens, everyone agrees with it. If you contract yourself out as private security, you will deal with more papers and officials than if you just do what everyone expects and deliver a few packages of contraband to the armoury.”

The armoury—they had to be joking. He said nothing to the man, instead letting the silence speak for him.

“Yes, the armoury. That is all you need to do. It is not nearly as hard as it sounds.”

“If this is so accepted, why is it illegal?”

“Why must you ask so many questions?”

Dannac thought about it and gazed at the freighters bobbing in the river. Perhaps the man was right. His stomach growled, and he was thirsty. He had grown used to comfortable conditions, thanks to Capra, and besides did not trust that he could fall asleep in an alley here without being robbed or murdered.

“Fine.”

For now, at least, it was fine. But what would he do if Capra failed to show at their planned meeting? What if they never reconnected?

Could he find the painting without her? Or would he be stuck with these other Ehzeri? He could smuggle himself off the island, but then he would be back where he started: on the continent, a wanted terrorist, and utterly alone. His own people had become careless and apathetic concerning matters outside fighting the Valoii, and the rest of the world was convinced that he wanted to destroy everything of value to everyone.

The little man led him around the quays to a yacht. Its sail showed a Tamarck folk-art depiction of a fire giant, all orange and red, with a long tail ending in spikes.

For the first time in a year or more, he felt the isolation. The sense of being cut from the rest of humanity because he could not see them. Had he really grown that dependent on Capra? She had made him feel normal, and even made him laugh at his own misfortune once or twice. Now he began to sink into a hard coldness that he hadn't realized he had overcome.

He focused back on the yacht and forced himself to forget about the issue. This was reality—everyone was alone, including himself.

CHAPTER EIGHT

In one day, Capra had graduated from apprentice to journeyman by pure virtue of sleeping on a rusted cot rather than a ditch. Laik had put her to work right away. It was a first for her, this sweeping of metal shavings and scrubbing lavatories.

Most of the women on her crew lived at the company hostel. Even with the broken spring that had jabbed her skin and the rank smell of the place, it was an improvement over the previous night.

She stood at the communal sink, scrubbing the grit from her fingernails, when Tey, one of the cleaning ladies, came in.

After a while of just watching Capra, Tey said, “There is something different about you.”

She dismissed it with a limp wave. “Like what?”

“It's not your accent, or the strange words you choose. We get the occasional foreigner marries one of the men. A lot lately, now that this oil business has taken off. The men can't find a woman who will put up with their drinking, so they bring them over from the continent or the islands.” Tey squinted. “But you have the walk of a single woman. So what are you doing here?”

“The walk of a single woman?” She shook her head and chuckled. “Are you kidding?”

“I kid you not.” Tey's tone grated against Capra's good humour. So maybe making fun of these people's superstitions wasn't the best idea.

She looked over her shoulder. “It's complicated. The work isn't terrible, and... it suits my needs for now.”

Tey nodded. “We do have it better than everyone who comes in from outside. But do you know how many times I have considered going down to the quays for quick, easy money? And this work is so boring. The rules...”

“I really have no problem with it. The work, anyway. It's dirty but better than other jobs...” What she had a problem with was the way the men behaved, their boorishness, the way they walked around in their coveralls like they owned the place just because they knew how to arrange the equipment in a way that produced more machines. “I mean, compared to what I am used to, it's nothing.” Capra shut off the water and dried her hands.

Tey's eyes widened. “I knew it. You are not just a lucky Valoii who was able to grab a job at a place that hires no immigrants. You are a pirate or a princess or something, aren't you?”

Capra rolled her eyes. “That's ridiculous. I was just tired of the continent and wanted to live here for a while.”