Last First Snow (21 page)

Left his family.

Temoc turned away. He wanted to throw up. He forced himself downstream. Glanced back, once, allowed himself that, saw Mina carry Caleb into the tent, saw Chel and her squad stand guard. A last meeting of eyes. Her lips moved. He wished he could hear what she said.

He waded west through the human flood toward the mother of the fallen boy. Red-arms followed him, confused. He found a clearing: people stood around the woman and her child's body, insulating them from the riot. Kapania and Bill knelt beside her, not speaking. They had a child, too. A daughter. Far away, he hoped.

Bill's eyes widened when he saw Temoc. “What's happening? I ran here right off.”

Like he should have. “The Major is leading a charge,” Temoc said. “These red-arms will help you.”

“What should we do?”

“Take care of her. I'll stop this.”

“How?”

“I'll think of something.”

Not that there was time to think. Only time to force through the crowd, to call upon reserves of faith to lend him majesty. Robed in shadows he advanced, and this time there was no need to move people out of his way. They bowed to let him pass, shouted his name. Their awe augmented his power: it was blasphemy to offer such a gift to any but the gods, and blasphemy to accept, but he would atone later. He needed the might they offered. He strode through them as in times past he'd strode through the ranks of his army.

Flashes of light from the Bloodletter's Street barricade, and screams. Stun nets—wire webs threaded with lightning which tangled those they caught, rendering them an obstacle to their fellows in a charge. Temoc saw no lethal weapons yet; no Couatl descended to strike. Perhaps they would not. Couatl were vulnerable near the ground. The Wardens would not risk their aerial trumps so early, not when they might serve other uses later: reconnaissance, or bombing.

Old wartime instincts returned so readily. As if he had spent four decades fighting this battle in his head unawares, and now the plans bubbled up like tar pit gas.

He found the Major near the barricade. Armored minions surrounded him, and flocks of angry people watched and listened and obeyed. “Press Bloodletter's Street, but send parties east and west down Crow and Coyote. We're boxed in to the north, but if we flank them they'll retreat. Go!” With an imperious gesture as if parting an ocean.

They went. Gods help them.

Temoc approached. Eyes widened. Men lowered sharpened sticks and lengths of pipe. Some fell to their knees.

“Temoc,” said the Major. “Welcome.”

“You might not think so when I say what I have come to say.”

“Peace has failed.”

“It will, if you cut off the Wardens' retreat. They're not trying to hurt our people yet. They will lose restraint if you make them desperate.”

“We want justice.”

“You want to kill that Warden.”

“Don't you?”

“I want to stop this riot before it becomes a war.”

“So we let them murder a child and get away with it.”

“He will be punished.”

“No.” So much anger in that last word. “The Wardens will claim it was a mistake. Their man responded on instinct. A fine, perhaps a brief prison sentence. If one of our people did the same to them, they'd be gutted in Sansilva at high noon.” Playing to the crowd. This was a performance, not an argument.

“Hold your assault. I will go to the barricade. I will bring us the Warden.”

“Talk costs time. They'll cut us off and kill the revolution before it begins.”

“Will you throw us into war without even trying for peace?”

The Major raised one gauntleted hand, revealed a wristwatch strapped between his makeshift steel plates. “Half an hour. Convince them if you can.”

A chance. Not much, but still.

“Half an hour,” he said, and marched toward the barricade.

 

32

“It's been too long since my last siege,” said the King in Red atop the rampart. Elayne stood beside him, looking out and down.

“This isn't a siege.”

The skeleton laughed. “What would you call it, then?”

Protesters climbed the sandbag wall, boosting one another, pressing toward the heights. A bulky bearded man dragged himself up with sheer muscle, two feet from the top, one. As his hand cleared the rampart, a Warden grabbed him and pushed. The man fell, screaming. Elayne cushioned his fall with Craft.

Wardens dropped another stun net over the side, and where silver threads struck climbers the climbers fell. Cries rose from those whose jaws the current did not clench.

“A day at the beach,” she said.

“Unfortunate metaphor. The ocean wears beaches down.”

“We don't have infinite nets.”

“A small oversight, easily corrected. At any rate, we don't need them. I could join the battle. Or you could.”

“I won't. And as your counsel, I urge you not to, either.”

“You're no fun.”

“First, this isn't fun. And second, you don't pay me for fun.”

“I suppose I do pay you.”

“Trust me,” she said. “When this is done, you won't have to wonder.”

“They attacked us.”

“You don't get a free pass on atrocities just because they hit first.”

“We have the deal.”

“People are dead, and more are dying. Those nets aren't toys. We have to stop this before it gets worse.”

“If they send someone to talk, then I will talk. What's wrong with enjoying a little skirmish in the meantime?”

She pointed to a burst of green light approaching through the sea of limbs and angry faces. “There's your someone. Vacation's over.”

He sighed. “Very well.”

*   *   *

Temoc crossed Crow toward Bloodletter's Street and the Wardens' wall. A knot of red-arms near the barricade urged the attackers on. Their leader kept shouting even after her fellow red-arms noticed Temoc and fell silent. She did not stop until Temoc tapped her on the shoulder.

“We are changing plans,” he said. I must speak, he prayed, and the gods answered, yes. “Fall back,” he cried, and his voice echoed. “I will speak with the King in Red.”

*   *   *

Stillness rippled out from Temoc. Those among the crowd that could, turned to watch him. Fallen protesters writhed on the pavement, quivering as stun nets sparked.

Kopil spoke. “What do you want?”

“To stop the fighting.”

“Your people attacked us. We defended ourselves.”

“Murdering a child is an interesting form of self-defense.”

Their eyes met across space. They had fought, in the God Wars: wrestled in midair above the obsidian pyramid at 667 Sansilva while gods writhed broken below.

Elayne liked most parts of a Craftswoman's life—liked carving dead things up and waking them, liked manipulating the hidden forces of the world. She did not like waiting beside a client, hoping he would not say something stupid. She knew the King in Red, and knowing him knew he was pondering responses that ranged from sarcastic (But you have so many, surely you can't miss one!) to professionally inhuman (These things happen.). Unfortunately she could not call for a recess in this court.

“I am sorry,” he said, and she let out a breath she hadn't realized she held.

“Sorry is not enough. We want justice. We want the murderer.”

“He will stand trial.”

“Will he stand masked?”

“Masked as a Warden,” Kopil said. “He did what he did—if he did anything at all, a claim of which we have no proof—in uniform. His family deserves protection.”

“Who will hold him until the trial?”

“We will,” the King in Red replied, too fast.

She hoped Temoc would accept that. Hoped he would realize how little ground the King in Red could give. Temoc had to see that, standing atop a barricade manned by Wardens, with Wardens at their back and a mob in front, they could not offer a Warden up as sacrifice. If they had time to convince the captain, then maybe, but there was no time. Temoc was barely holding the battle in check.

“Not enough,” Temoc said.

*   *   *

How could it be enough? Temoc could read a crowd. These people wanted blood, and failing that, victory. Blood he could not, would not, give them. As for victory, how might they accept something so intangible as a guarantee the right Warden would be punished?

I need more than that. He glanced from the King in Red, imperious atop the ramparts, to Elayne—could not implore them without losing the crowd, but he wished he could, so much his bones ached.

“How do we know the right Warden will stand trial? He hides behind a mask. Strip the mask and give him to us. We will hold him safely while you prepare the trial.”

The skeleton laughed. “You expect me to surrender one of my people? We have seen the dangers of Chakal Square. Tan Batac would attest to them, if he were conscious.”

Unconscious, not dead. One point in their favor, at least.

“One madman's actions do not taint us all. I say your Warden will be safe.”

*   *   *

“Let me go with him,” Elayne said under her breath. “This will work.”

“No.” The King in Red could talk without moving his jaw.

“You're trying to protect me.”

“I will not give them a bargaining chip.”

“You just don't want to lose.”

“What happens when you sleep? When Temoc or some gutter witch defeats your wards and you and Zoh wake up to find yourself splayed on an altar?”

“You are being irrational.”

“We cannot trust you,” Kopil said, loud enough for all to hear.

*   *   *

Godsdamn it to all hells. So close. The refusal with a pause was even worse than one without. The pause showed reflection, consideration, rejection. “Show him to us at least. Give us his face, his name, so we will know him when he stands trial.”

“And expose his family.”

“You can protect his family. Let the man choose, at least. Let him refuse us.”

*   *   *

“That's it,” she said. “He can't back down more. Ask Zoh.”

“Not without a concession.”

“Ask for one.”

“He can't concede anything.”

“He has control for the moment. Don't waste it.”

*   *   *

“I will not show you his face without his permission,” Kopil said. “But. Before I ask him—if he agrees, you must allow Wardens to enter the Square. They will search for Tan Batac's assailant. Interview those who saw the crime. Wring the truth from them.”

The red-arms shifted, wary. What would the Major say? Where was the Major, for that matter? Temoc should have dragged him along for support. “Show us the man,” he said. “Name him. And I will help your Wardens search.”

*   *   *

“I'll get Zoh,” Elayne said. “Keep talking. If you disappear, Temoc loses his anchor on the crowd.”

Kopil nodded. As Elayne climbed down the sandbags he played for time, describing the Wardens' investigation, giving Temoc a target.

Wardens turned to her, and she ignored them. The Wardens relied on masks to present a unified front, to stop corruption and the dangers that followed officers home. Exposure would end Zoh's career. The crowd's cries seemed louder as Elayne left the wall: the narrow street channeling the mob.

She found Zoh in the rear of the camp, near the Couatls' nest. The big man paced, head down. Three steps right, parade-sharp turn, three steps left, and back again.

“Lieutenant,” she said, and he stopped, saluted. She did not salute back. “The crowd wants your head.”

“And the king will give it to them.”

“He's talked them down.”

“To what?”

“Your face.”

“I don't understand.”

“If we unmask you, they'll let us send a team to learn who shot Batac.”

“I was trying to find out. They stopped me.”

He wanted reassurance. She offered none.

“I guess this is one of those things,” he said, and stopped without saying what kind of thing he guessed it was. “You're here to tell me, do it or pack.”

“I'm here to ask. You know the costs. This could help a lot of people.”

“I guess,” he said, and paused, head cocked to one side.

She waited for him to speak again, but he did not. Nor, she realized, did anyone else. The background hum of the Wardens' chatter fell silent. They stood around her, arrested in mid-stride, listening to a sound she could not hear.

Listening, as the riot's noise grew louder. Nearer.

The sound came not from the barricade, but from the east.

She ran past Zoh to the intersection of Bloodletter's and Falcon, and saw Warden pickets brace against charging Chakal Square protesters, two hundred at least already around the corner and more behind. They'd been flanked.

Other Wardens sprinted past her to reinforce the pickets, Zoh and his fellows moving as one. The protesters charged, the Wardens crouched, the charge accelerated, feet pounding the cobblestones, leaping—

To slam against a wall of empty air.

The force of their impact knocked Elayne to her knees. She hadn't time for elegant solutions, just enough to convince a few cubic yards of air it was hard as steel.

Shouts behind her. More red-arms must have circled west down Coyote. She blocked that intersection too, straining to argue with two separate gaps of air at once. In haste, she'd anchored both barriers to her body, which meant she couldn't move without moving them.

Wardens ran past her to the lines. Word spread from mask to mask—Kopil must know by now that Temoc's truce was broken. Which meant—

Red light bloomed behind her, a fiery tower rising to the sky.

Damn and triple damn. She drew her knife, pushed up her shirt cuff, and drew blood from her forearm. Blood splashed against pavement—blood that was arguably a part of her. Kneeling, she strengthened the connection with a a few glyphs of her true name etched in stone around the drying drop. Cheap trick, but it would do.