The August 5 (5 page)

Tamsin conjured up an image of a curly-headed boy that might be Navid, but she had no memory of the rest of the family. Before Michael Henry moved to Sevenna, scores of people used to come from all over the islands every summer. It was like a weeklong party where families slept in canvas tents on the ridge and played music until the sun rose. Her father always had a lot of friends even before he left Aeren and became the hero of the people.

Tamsin lost track of time then. In her weary and confused mind, the night sky became like the waves of the ocean, rolling across the heavens. It was past midnight when a rustic fishing boat left from the secluded bay several miles outside of Black Rock. This bay had no Zunft presence. This was a smuggler's bay, and it was not the captain's first time carrying human cargo. He laid the semiconscious Tamsin into the small compartment under the deck. It had a glass porthole, but Tamsin never saw it. She slept soundly, courtesy of her mother's root tea, and dreamed of fire spreading along the cobblestone streets of Sevenna.

5

GRAND CUSTOMS HOUSE UNDER SIEGE BY COTTAGER REBELS!

The last of the cottager rebels are holed up in the Grand Customs House at the mouth of the Lyone River. A group of fifty extremists cowardly invaded the Grand Customs House, terrorized the workers inside, took them hostage, and then blockaded the entrances. Steamer travel between the islands has been disrupted by the cottager violence, and Chief Administrator Toulson Hywel has not returned to the capital city from his home in Norde. The Chamber is holding an emergency session today to plan a response to these villains.

—
Zunft Chronicle,
August 7, Evening Edition

Dozens of noisy rovers skidded to a halt on the pier beside the Grand Customs House. Navid Leahy had never seen so many rovers at once and never ones with cannons bolted to their frames. He lay on his stomach on the roof across from the ornate customs house, which had weathered many storms as it kept watch over the port of Sevenna City. It was the focal point of the deep-water harbor, where modern schooners shared the water with old-fashioned mast ships. Michael Henry had told him that before the War for Aeren, the customs house had been the manor of a powerful local estate, but when the Zunft had won the war, they had transformed it into the headquarters for all Zunft shipping operations. For nearly fifty years, the city expanded around the Grand Customs House as the Zunft monitored everything that came in and went out of the harbor.

The customs house was the heart of the Zunft, or so Michael Henry had said in a speech a few weeks ago. He'd stood on a stone wall on the corner of East Ash, and the people kept coming until the streets were jammed with listeners. Navid had been perched on the wall near Michael Henry's feet, where he could hear every word from the great man's mouth. It was from the Grand Customs House that they collected the taxes that kept his family poor. It was from there that they regulated travel among the islands. Cottagers faced harsh fines and prison terms unless they submitted to the customs house the proper paperwork for everything from birth to death. But the rules were so complex that no one could ever do it right—and that was the point, said Michael Henry. The Grand Customs House, with its gilded windows and authoritarian air, was a symbol of everything that cottagers hated about the Zunft.

And now the customs house was about to be destroyed. Not by the small band of cottager rebels who were holed up inside of it, the last vestige of the cottager rebellion that had been easily suppressed on every island but here. It was about to be destroyed by the Zunft and their cannons mounted on rovers. Eleven-year-old Navid monitored the situation from the roof of one of the many unassuming warehouses that shared the waterfront. He didn't think he was close enough to be hit by an explosion from the volley cannons, but if the wind picked up and sparks shot across the sky, he would run. Running was his job. Running and watching. Born and raised in Sevenna City, Navid knew the avenues and alleys of the city better than anyone. He knew which roofs were close enough to jump between and he could make it for miles across the urban landscape without ever touching the muddy streets.

Another group of rovers sputtered to a stop along the pier. These were vehicles designed for transporting troops. Zunft soldiers, in their distinctive silver-and-black uniforms, jumped out and began preparing the volley cannons. Navid inched backward away from the edge of the roof until he was out of sight of the street. Then he hopped up, ran to the far side of the roof, and leaped across the gap. On the neighboring roof, two teenage boys were crouched near the heating pipe, arguing over a map printed on ragged paper. Navid skidded to a stop beside them.

“They brought cannons,” he gasped.

At this news, one of the older boys jumped up and ran to carry the message to his superiors. Navid knew the boy who remained by the heating pipe. Tilo Locke was seventeen and worked in the mill although he was really a musician. Navid's parents ran a pub, and when Tilo and his band played,
everybody
danced. Tilo was usually a carefree boy who liked to make people laugh, but there was not a trace of happiness on his face now.

“How many rovers?” Tilo asked Navid.

“Eight, at last count,” Navid told him. “One had loads of chatter-guns.”

“Okay, back to your post,” Tilo said.

“Who's still inside?” Navid asked.

“It's down to fifteen men,” Tilo told him. “They sent ten of the younger fellows out last night.”

“The
Chronicle
says they have hostages,” Navid said.

“Yeah, right,” Tilo scoffed. “Since when do you believe the
Chronicle
?”

“Is Mr. Henry still in there?” Navid asked. Michael Henry was close friends with Navid's father, Brian Leahy. He ate every Sunday dinner at the Leahys' house and Navid always liked his visits.

“Of course,” Tilo answered. “You know he'd be the last to leave.”

“They're gonna die,” Navid said.

Tilo squinted at Navid. “Return to your post.” But when Navid turned to go, Tilo called out: “Does Brian know you're here?”

Navid nodded, which was enough to convince the distracted Tilo. In truth, Brian Leahy thought Navid was helping at East Ash Garden. Brian Leahy had forbidden his son from going near the waterfront and the Grand Customs House, but Navid wanted to help Michael Henry. While he was glad his father wasn't down there facing the cannons, he didn't understand why Brian Leahy hadn't joined the fight with his friend.

Navid had just leaped across the gulf to the warehouse when the cannon fire began. He could see Tilo waving his arms and yelling at him to come back, but the noise was deafening. He flopped down on his belly and inched like a snake toward the roof's edge as the blast reverberated across the rooftops. He wanted to witness this. He had to see. He had to know what happened to Michael Henry.

As he reached the edge, the fa
ç
ade of the Grand Customs House crumbled to the ground in a heap of smoking rubble. As the volley cannons continued to pound the building, a group of cottagers charged out the side door. Bullets whizzed from the soldiers' chatter-guns and smoke blurred Navid's vision. A man was hit, blood bloomed across the back of his jacket, and he fell to the ground. Navid leaned over the edge to see who it was, but rough hands grabbed him from behind. He turned his head and saw a grim-faced Tilo. The older boy caught him by the back of his jacket and dragged him across the roof away from the violence. Below, Navid could hear the familiar voice of Michael Henry shouting: “For Aeren! For freedom!”

But the thud of cannons was the only answering call.

6

COTTAGER REBELLION OVER!

The last rebels were arrested outside the Grand Customs House, which was destroyed by the cottagers during the recent violence. The five cottager leaders are now in custody in the Zunft Compound. Those charged with treason are:

Brandon Cook of Sevenna City

Hector Linn of Port Catille, Catille

Michael Henry of Sevenna City

Kevin Smythe of Black Rock, Aeren Island

Jack Stevens of Sevenna City

They will be given a fair trial. If convicted of their crimes, they face execution by firing squad.

—
Zunft Chronicle,
August 8, Evening Edition

Even from the loft high above the floor, Gavin Baine could catch snippets of the urgent conversation among the men of the Chamber. The well-dressed lawmakers who sat below him ruled Seahaven not because of merit or even popularity, but because of birthright. They were all landed gentry and men of Zunft. People like Gavin, a cottager who had been born to a mason in South Sevenna, wouldn't be able to speak their mind inside these walls—washing the tiled floors would be as close as a cottager could get to the Chamber floor.

“Where is Mr. Hywel?” the men kept asking each other. “Why hasn't he returned?”

The Chamber was a long, narrow room with shiny mahogany pillars and a high ceiling, which had been painted with a scene from the War for Aeren. But the paint was chipped and faded, and even from his position high in the viewing loft, Gavin could barely make out the image. Below him, two tiers of wooden chairs faced each other over an empty expanse. The East Tier, which traditionally represented the more moderate wing of the Zunft, was mostly empty. This was Mr. Hywel's faction, and when the Chamber had last been in session in July, almost every seat had been filled.

The West Tier, which represented the more conservative sector of the Zunft, was Colston Shore's kingdom. In sharp contrast to the July session, every seat in the West Tier was filled, and there were junior members standing in the back and along the railings. After the cottager rebellion, many of Hywel's supporters had opted to join Colston Shore. Even some of Hywel's closest compatriots, such as Karl Anderson, had made the “short walk,” which meant they had switched allegiances in the wake of the cottager violence.

Gavin Baine was a cottager journalist who paid close attention to Zunft politics. Of course, being a cottager journalist was as illegal as the newspaper that Gavin had started with Michael Henry, an enterprise he intended to continue in Michael Henry's absence. After months of attending sessions of the Chamber, the fickleness of Hywel's supporters did not surprise him. Colston Shore was a fearmonger and skilled manipulator. The so called August Rising had ended only a few days earlier and Colston had already run an opinion piece in the
Chronicle
warning that there would be mass killings of Zunft unless the cottager rebels were dealt with swiftly.

From the cottagers' perspective, Hywel had been the most generous chief administrator in generations—and Colston Shore was now twisting that to his advantage. Especially since Chief Administrator Hywel was conspicuously absent. Gavin was disappointed. Hywel was a talented speaker and a charismatic man. Gavin hoped that if Hywel stood up in the Chamber and defended himself against Colston Shore, many of the men would return to his side.

Adjudicator Kaplan rapped the gavel against the wooden table. The adjudicator sat at a table between the two tiers and was supposed to be an impartial moderator between factions. A massive tome of Zunft statutes sat on the table in front of him. If there was disagreement in the Chamber, the adjudicator had the final word. Kaplan pounded the gavel harder and the din in the Chamber finally died away.

Colston Shore rose and waited to be acknowledged. Kaplan pointed at him with his gavel.

“The cottager violence has been stopped,” Colston said, and both sides erupted in applause. “But lives were lost. The cottagers destroyed the Grand Customs House, a great symbol of our Zunft heritage. Despite these tragedies, we must do our duty as Zunftmen. We must repair these islands for the sake of our children and their legacy. But I ask you, where is Mr. Hywel? Why is our chief administrator not here to do
his
duty?”

Richard Shieldman jumped to his feet. He was the highest-ranking member of Hywel's supporters who had not defected to the Carvers, and his chair clattered backward in his haste to interrupt. Baine felt sympathy for Shieldman, who was only in his late twenties and now thrust into a leadership role far beyond his experience.

“He was regrettably delayed on Norde,” Shieldman called. “Your insinuations are insulting to our chief administrator.”

“You must wait to be acknowledged!” Kaplan reprimanded Shieldman.

“Is that so, Mr. Shieldman?” Colston replied. “Karl Anderson arrived yesterday and I believe his estate is farther north than Mr. Hywel's. Is that true, Mr. Anderson?”

Mr. Anderson rose from his seat on the West Tier and waited until Kaplan jabbed the gavel in his direction.

“Yes, it's true,” Anderson said. “I came from Norde and I had no difficulty with overland travel or sea travel. Perhaps cottager violence isn't
important
enough to bring Hywel back from his holiday.”

Anderson looked pleased by the laughter of the men behind him in the West Tier. Shieldman flushed red and shook his head in disgust. Two months ago, Anderson had sat by Shieldman's side, voting in support of Hywel's policies.

“You know that's a falsehood,” Shieldman retorted, and the men in the East Tier shouted in agreement.

“I know that he isn't present today,” Anderson said. He studied the men around him with exaggerated deliberation. “These gentlemen have arrived with haste from the far corners of Seahaven. Everyone acknowledges the gravity of the situation—except for the man who should be here to answer for his actions.”

“What are you implying?” Shieldman asked.

“It was his misguided policies that caused the violence,” Anderson bellowed. “It was his lack of control that brought us here. His pro-cottager measures are to blame. And that is why I have switched sides. That is why you see us standing together with Colston Shore!”