The August 5 (26 page)

“‘When a man comes into power, his true nature reveals itself,'” Ellie recited from memory.

“Like Professor Rannigan,” Kristin said. “He had his own little kingdom and used his power to bully Charlotte.”

“I hope I'm never like that,” Ellie said. “Do you think your father knows what a bastard he is?”

“I think he's justified it all in his mind,” Tommy said. “I think he firmly believes he's doing this for the greater good.”

“That's so scary,” Ellie said. “There could be things that I do that are like that. What if I'm hurting people and can't even see it?”

Kristin patted her friend's arm. “I don't think so, Ellie,” she said. “You think too much to be unconsciously cruel.”

They sat in silence for a long while on the bench at the end of the pier and watched the rolling waves. It felt like they were alone in the middle of the ocean. Tommy felt a strange mixture of hope and fear. Maybe this would force his father to change—make him reveal what had happened to the missing cottagers. But there was a sense of dread, too. Like when he'd done something wrong as a child and knew his punishment was coming. He tried to tell himself that this was different. This wasn't one little boy hiding in his closet against the wrath of his father. This was thousands of people working together to send a message to Colston Shore.

“It feels like another world,” Tommy said.

“Maybe it will be,” Ellie replied. She took Tommy's hand with her left and Kristin's hand with her right, and the three of them held hands for a long time. While they sat there, Tommy felt safe and strong, as if they formed a bulwark against a coming storm.

25

SHORE PROMISES QUICK END TO COTTAGER WORK STOPPAGE

Chief Administrator Shore says the cottager work stoppage is an act of hostility against the Zunft government and people. He promises a quick and decisive resolution.

—
Zunft Chronicle,
Evening Edition, November 1

The demonstration was planned for Friday and it had the potential to be the largest protest in the history of Seahaven. By embracing the Cessation, thousands of cottagers were promising to join together and march north to Seminary Square. Tamsin had written about the need for such a march in
The Right to Rule
, but she had provided no details. Now, to make make it happen, they had to decide the time and location. And they needed to do it soon before cracks started occurring in the cottagers' resolve.

Tamsin wanted to find Gavin and get his opinion on the march. She tried to find him at the
Bulletin
offices, but he wasn't there. Then she got involved in a long discussion with Shauna, the typesetter, who was working on the announcement. Shauna needed a decision on when and where people were supposed to assemble. Tamsin knew she couldn't wait anymore if they wanted to get the news out in time.

“Eight a.m. at Shadow Bridge,” Tamsin decided.

“Should we call it the Michael Henry March?” Shauna said.

“No,” Tamsin said vehemently. “Five people were murdered this week. Call it the Martyrs' March.”

“Sure, all right,” Shauna said. “Tamsin, if you need anything—”

“Thank you,” Tamsin said. She'd heard that same offer dozens of times in the past few days. The Leahys' row house was overflowing with food given by people who didn't have much to give. Tamsin appreciated people's concern for her and she knew they were grieving for Michael Henry, too. But she wished she could turn invisible for a few weeks. With the timing of
The Right to Rule
and the immediate Cessation, she hadn't had time to process what had happened to her father. They hadn't even held a wake yet. She'd sent her mother a message by courier, but had heard nothing back. Brian Leahy offered to pay for her ferry home, and Tamsin planned to accept—as soon as Friday's march was over.

Amidst all the hustle and planning, Gavin was the one person she wanted to talk to, but he was nowhere to be found. She tracked Navid down at the Ash Street Garden and asked him to see if he could find him. After that, she headed to the pub, which was officially closed, but it was packed with people anyway. Tamsin had appointed a task force to set up a food depository and another to see about a citizens' militia, and both groups were meeting at the pub.

“Has there been any violence south of the river?” Tamsin asked Mr. Leahy, who was leading the militia task force.

“Nothing,” Mr. Leahy said. “And the Cessation seems to be absolute. No one is going to their jobs. I have to say I'm shocked that it took effect this quickly.”

Tamsin nodded in agreement. “It's the timing with the executions. I don't think anyone would have paid attention to Angry Em if not for that.”

They walked to the back of the pub and sat in one of the alcoves where no one could overhear them.

“We're not going to be able to hold out for long, Tamsin,” Mr. Leahy said. “There are already rumors of hoarding. Right now, there are enough supplies to go around and people are still willing to share, but…”

“I know,” Tamsin said. “We don't have longer than a week before we'll start losing people.”

“A week is optimistic, in my opinion,” Mr. Leahy said.

“It depends on Friday's march,” Tamsin said. “If people turn out—
thousands
of people—then the Zunft will have to listen to us.”

Mr. Leahy nodded grimly. “You have my full support. Let me know what you want me to do.”

“We need to get some kind of watch in the neighborhoods. The first news of violence among ourselves, and I think this dream comes to a very bitter end.”

When she heard the door to the kitchen open, she slid out of the booth hoping to see Gavin, but it was Navid. The boy saw her worried face, frowned, and shook his head. There was still no sign of the young journalist.

“He's expected at the
Bulletin
tonight,” Navid said. “Do you want me to stop by and talk to him then?”

“No, it's okay,” Tamsin said, trying to hide her concern. “I'll take care of it.”

“Did you check his house?” Mr. Leahy asked.

“I did,” Navid replied. “He's not there.”

“Well, don't worry. He'll show up.” Mr. Leahy said, patting Tamsin's hand.

After Navid left, Mr. Leahy turned back to Tamsin and studied her somberly. “We have to talk about Michael's funeral arrangements.”

“Not now,” Tamsin said. “Have they even released the bodies?”

“You could include that in your list of grievances,” Mr. Leahy said.

“Let's worry about the living now,” Tamsin said. “I want every political prisoner released from that compound. I want to see all of our missing friends free tomorrow after we take the streets of Sevenna.”

 

 

Because of the Cessation, Gavin had run out of paper to print the notices for Friday's big march. He spent the day in Verner's wagon, scouring the cottager districts for a supply of paper he could buy. Finally, after several hours and no success, Verner suggested they visit someone he knew on the coast, south of Sevenna. Gavin had heard of Mr. Ollav before. By reputation, he was more criminal than cottager or Zunft. Mr. Ollav was far too interested in Gavin's reasons for wanting so much paper, but after dodging his questions, Gavin paid the exorbitant price and headed back to the city with his precious supply.

By the time Verner dropped Gavin off in an alley near the
Bulletin
offices, it was early Thursday morning. Verner offered to help Gavin carry the heavy reams inside, but Gavin knew the old man was tired and sent him on his way. Struggling under the heavy load, Gavin carried two bundles down the stairs on his first trip. With his shoulder aching, he decided that one bundle at a time was more realistic. He was about to head back up to the alley when he noticed two notes on the workbench. The first was from Shauna:
The notice is ready to print, but we have no paper!
The second was Tamsin's handwriting:
Are you all right? Come and find me. Please.—TH.

Gavin checked his chronometer. He had enough time to get the notices printed and on the streets by the end of the workday. He really wanted to take a break, find Tamsin, and have a long talk, but there was too much work. His staff had prepped the press except for the paper. Gavin heaved one ream into place. As he turned the crank to feed the paper along the spools, he heard a noise outside in the corridor. Thinking that maybe Verner had followed him down, he opened the door—and saw a Zunft soldier. Gavin didn't have time to react before the soldier slammed him in the head with a truncheon. He fell backward, like a tree falls after a logger finishes his cut. But after that, his mind was blank. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

When Gavin woke up, he was still in the
Bulletin
offices, propped awkwardly against the wall near the entrance. His hands were tied behind his back, and his body felt bruised as if he had been tossed around. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out. Soldiers milled around the room and inspected crates and stacks of papers. Two of the officers seemed to be discussing the handwritten bulletin about the march. He tried to remember where he'd put Tamsin's note, and if she'd written her name on it. No, he didn't think so. He'd recognized her handwriting, and that was how he knew it was from her.

“Get the mallets,” someone said, and Gavin felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. There would be no march now. No reunion with Tamsin. A soldier left to retrieve the sledgehammer. Another flipped the workbenches over. The soldier took his truncheon and smashed the glass on the compartments of metal letters for the press. Another lifted the rosewood case and hurled it across the room in Gavin's direction, who couldn't even raise his arms to defend himself. The case slammed against his shoulder and tore a gash. The metal letters scattered across the room.
The rosewood case held letters
A–G, Gavin thought.
Think how many words are lost to me without
A–G.

“You want him now?” a soldier asked an officer.

“No, they'll do that at the compound,” the officer said. “Get him into the rover, and we'll finish up here.”

The guard grabbed the ropes around Gavin's wrists and dragged him roughly into the corridor. His arms were twisted unnaturally as he struggled to find his feet. He made it upright, but the guard kicked his knee so it bent sideways. Gavin fell to the ground, the pain nearly making him sick to his stomach. Two guards each grabbed one of Gavin's arms and hauled him along like a sack of flour. Gavin felt the muscles in his shoulders tear with the pressure from the strange angle. Through the fog of pain and humiliation, he was vaguely aware of the soldier returning with a heavy sledgehammer. As they reached the alley, Gavin could hear the steady thud of the sledge hammer as they destroyed his printing press.

Gavin didn't lift his head when they threw him into the metal box mounted on the back of the rover so he didn't see Navid on the rooftop, staring down in horror as the door slammed shut with a metallic clang.

 

 

Struggling to open his eyes, Gavin reached for his throbbing forehead. His fingertips brushed a cotton bandage that had been plastered over the wound.
Why beat a man only to patch him up?
Gavin wondered as he pushed himself up on his elbows and assessed his surroundings with blurry eyes. The door to the cell was partially open and Gavin could see indistinct figures moving around in the corridor outside. He sat up painfully and swung his feet to the floor. His spectacles were missing and his knee was so swollen he couldn't bend it.

He was in a windowless prison cell. But instead of being alone, a uniformed man sat next to his cot. Judging by the stripes on the man's uniform, this was a high-ranking officer. Expressionless, the two men considered each other. The Zunft officer was a tall man with a lean build who seemed familiar. He was middle-aged with gray hair. From his neatly trimmed beard to his golden cuff links, he exuded an air of prosperity. Suddenly, Gavin realized who was in the cell with him: Colston Shore. Gavin blinked his eyes, trying to get used to the world without his glasses.

Mr. Shore tossed Gavin's bent frames onto his lap. One of the lenses was cracked, but at least now he could see clearly. The chief administrator held up the handwritten notice about Friday's march that had been taken from the
Bulletin
offices. For all Gavin knew, Friday had come and gone.

“I'm told you are the publisher of the illegal press known as the
JFA Bulletin
,” Shore said. “Is this true?”

Gavin said nothing. There wasn't much use denying it, considering he'd been found inside the press office.

“Either you are, or you aren't,” Shore said impatiently. “If you don't admit to it, I will continue making arrests until I find the correct man.”

“It's me,” Gavin said.

“You are a rabble-rouser, Mr. Baine,” Shore said. “A propagandist. You rile the common man over matters that don't concern him.”

“How can our freedom not concern us?” Gavin asked quietly.

“Freedom?” the Zunftman scoffed. “You couldn't comprehend the word.”

Zunftmen like Shore often used the argument that cottagers weren't intelligent enough for political thought. Gavin took a deep breath, but he felt strangely calm. He had little to gain by arguing with Colston Shore. He wasn't going to sway the man's opinions. He was now in the compound, the place where cottager rebels went to die.

“I read the treatise you published,” Mr. Shore said. “
The Right to Rule
. It's the origin of this work stoppage, which threatens the health and safety of every man, woman, and child in this city.”

Gavin thought about pointing out that the origin of the Cessation was as much the martyrdom of the rebel leaders as it was the treatise, but he stayed quiet. He was beginning to understand his purpose here and why Colston Shore himself was dealing with a lowly journalist.