Ashes of the Earth (14 page)

"Very
generous of him."

"He
demonstrated how his guarantees assured the ongoing construction of
public works, allow us to plan projects for the next five years."

"So
the government really doesn't know what is coming in from the
outside."

"Nonsense.
The guild files reports. We have the right to audit. Van Wyck is a
great supporter of my initiatives, a positive influence on the
Council."

"Sounds
more like he sold his vote to you in exchange for a monopoly."

Buchanan
gave an impatient sigh. "You know nothing anymore about the
workings of the Council. He is an active member, regularly makes
suggestions for improvements."

"Suggestions?"

"Streamlining
the government oversight of the guilds, so they can be more
autonomous. More self-policing in the fishery."

Hadrian
weighed what he was hearing. Fletcher, the head of the fishery guild,
had joined the Council as well. The fishery and merchant guilds were
responsible for well over half the commerce of Carthage's economy.
"You mean giving the guilds more ability to operate in secrecy."

"I
thought you opposed keeping all the power in the governor's office,"
Buchanan shot back.

"Maybe
you're not really controlling Van Wyck's vote. Maybe he and Fletcher
are controlling yours. Your house looks more and more like a palace.
You have the most exquisite collection of salvaged furniture in the
colony."

"It's
the governor's mansion," Buchanan said bluntly. "The guild
wants to show its appreciation to the people, and the government is
their representative."

"Meaning
Van Wyck offers gifts suitable to your status. I saw a grandfather
clock upstairs that would have been worth a fortune even in the old
world."

"Van
Wyck is a patriot. He has an instinct for what we need. An ally for
progress. Just last week he sent in a suggestion to privatize the
police launch."

"Sent
in?"

"He's
been ill. He stays on his horse farm in the far south now. He sends
correspondence sealed with his signet ring."

"A
medieval touch. For how long?"

Buchanan
hesitated a moment, lowering his voice. "A few months. Perhaps
six or seven."

Hadrian
did not miss the nervous glance the governor cast toward the little
window high on the cellar wall. "Who would have thought after
all this time you would start being afraid of tree jackals."

The
words shook Buchanan. He took a long swig of his precious brandy.

"On
the street there're rumblings that a killer may be roaming the
colony," Hadrian ventured.

The
alcohol quickly restored the familiar Buchanan, releasing the anger
simmering just below the surface. He had not intended to confide so
much in Hadrian. "But you have not found a killer," he
parried. "As usual you just complicate my problems. I have
persuaded the Council that there will be need for a public execution
when I present the killer. We will have to suspend construction of
your precious bridge. Instead a gallows will be built."

Hadrian's
mouth went dry. "We aren't even close to understanding the
killings."

"Killing,"
Buchanan corrected. "At the appropriate time we will have a
memorial service for the scout Hastings who like his father died a
distant, lonely death while performing his patriotic duties." He
paused. "I anticipate a double hanging."

Hadrian's
mind raced. "No!" he protested. "They came only to
honor Jonah."

"Two
slags infiltrated the colony. I am beginning to think they were on
the roof to celebrate the success of their assassination."

"You
told the world Jonah was a suicide!"

Buchanan
ignored him, taking another sip from his bottle.

"You
may as well declare open warfare on the exiles."

Buchanan
shrugged. Upstairs his new grandfather clock chimed the hour. "I
have a working firearm for almost every officer in the corps now.
I've been thinking about this the wrong way. Jonah's death isn't a
crisis. It is a window of opportunity."

"Killing
exiles brings you no closer to the truth, no closer to finding the
real murderer."

"Look
for tomorrow's paper. There will be an editorial bemoaning the
gradual breakdown in public order, suggesting that the Council give
me more power to deal with bad elements. On the front will be a
headline about how I have discovered our beloved Jonah Beck did not
die at his own hand after all. Our fellow citizens will read of the
murder charges I am filing against two illegals who sought to
undermine our government by killing a member of the Council. It's
time people saw an execution. Puts things in perspective. Our
citizens take too much for granted. They become lazy, losing the
vision of our greatness. They need a common cause to unite them, to
restore their backbone." The governor raised his bottle in
salute. "In strength we endure."

"I
remember sitting at campfires with you and Jonah in the early years.
We were going to plant fields of flowers and never talk of war. We
were all so scared of the guns from the early salvage that we threw
them into the lake." He slowly raised his head to meet the
governor's gaze. "Don't do this, Lucas, I beg you."

Buchanan
gave a humorless laugh. "It's been decided. For the good of the
colony those slags will have a fair trial. Then they will hang."

When
Hadrian appeared
at
her table in the coffee shop near Government House the next morning,
Sergeant Waller leapt up to flee. He grabbed her shoulder and forced
her down, then sat beside her.

"Those
two exiles took a great risk coming to town to mourn Jonah. They are
as innocent as you and me."

She
shrugged. "A few days in jail and then they will be escorted to
the border."

Hadrian
unfolded the paper he'd just ripped from a public board down the
street and shoved it across the table. Waller paled as she read the
headline.

"I
keep wondering why Emily wanted to tell me you came from a good
family. Perhaps she wanted me to forget that you've been lying to me,
Sergeant, that you are charged with special missions for the
governor, that he gave you at least two operatives to follow me. But
then you did warn me that you would only pretend to help me."

"I
can't just—"

Hadrian
raised a hand to interrupt her. "So I am going to pretend to
save you."

He
watched as her schoolgirl expression faded, replaced by a scowl.
"Good," he said. "First, I will pretend you know
Lieutenant Kenton can't be trusted. Next, that the truth meant
something to your father if not to you. And that you don't want to
live in a town that hangs innocent people. Finally I am going to
pretend you understand the only two people in the colony who can do
something about that are sitting at this table."

Waller
stared into her mug of brewed chicory. When she looked up she began
slowly shaking her head. "I was in class one of those times you
got removed by members of the Council. I could hear you arguing in
the hallway, pleading, almost weeping. It was embarrassing. You were
supposed to be this great wise founder and you turned out to be this
bitter ne'er-do-well who couldn't control his emotions. We could see
you in the window sometimes crying as you watched us play. We had
chants we used when we played jump rope.
Boone,
Boone, Boone, we sang,
he's
a loon, loon, loon.
You
want me to stop pretending? Fine. Buchanan means to be rid of you
once and for all. That's the evidence I am assembling, the file to
convince the Council to expel you permanently. I meant to ask you
about
hooligan.
Is that with a
u
or
two
o
's?"

"Listen
to me. There isn't a soul who survived from the old world who isn't a
lunatic in some way. It's the ones who don't show it you have to
worry about."

"He's
given me a whole sheaf of fresh paper to write up my report."

"Kenton,
Buchanan, and I pulled a body out of the sludge pit. It was the scout
Hastings, stabbed in the gut months ago. Jonah was tortured and hung
that night. The killings are connected somehow."

"You're
lying to save yourself."

"You're
becoming part of the lie, Sergeant. Which means you are helping to
protect murderers. Do yourself a favor. Try to find out where Kenton
was the night of the fire. Everyone else was pitching in to save the
library. He was off disposing of Hastings's body in the lake. He got
promoted the next day."

"A
loon, loon, loon,"
the
sergeant sang under her breath as she rose. She tossed several coins
on the table and headed for the street.

Hadrian
had not
set
out for the long-closed saw pit, had only been in desperate need to
clear his head in the chill morning air, but when he suddenly
realized he had walked past the fields at the edge of town he paused,
recognizing the overgrown path beside him. The little canyon had been
one of the most active venues of the early colony, chosen for the way
its low ledges eased the skidding of logs into place for sawing with
the long two-man blades. He and Jonah had spend many hours in the pit
dug between two of the ledges, pulling the long blades on the
downstroke, steadying them on the upstroke as they cut planks for the
first houses, then resting in shifts in the little log hut near the
pit. They had been long and happy days, spent in the special
camaraderie of those who share arduous labor.

He
followed the path for several minutes, then with a melancholy pang he
saw the faded chalk drawings on the long slate wall that lined one
side of the canyon. The children who had watched had entertained
themselves by sketching the workers and other scenes of colony life.
Jonah was going to explain the pictures, Dax had said. Hadrian had
thought it strange that Jonah had chosen the pit to meet the
children. He had misunderstood. He had assumed Jonah was going to
explain the plates in
Treasure
Island.
But
he knew now that Jonah was going to explain the chalk drawings, the
forgotten pictographs of the early colony.

He
walked along the wall, lost in a flood of memories. The drawings,
sheltered by an overhanging ledge, had aged surprisingly well. The
first crude rendering showed a team of horses pulling a log toward
stick men waiting with a jagged object that must have been a saw.
Next came a group of women who held up a net stuffed with fish. He
remembered the happy day when the first net, fashioned with thread
unraveled from sweaters, had harvested dozens of fish and provided
the biggest meal they had had in months. More drawings showed the
house built from the first planks with a proud family holding hands
in front of it, then soapmaking at a kettle, a moose chasing a woman,
a small structure with a bell tower that had been the first school,
run by Hadrian.

In
another, figures with uplifted heads watched the moonlit sky with a
dozen arcing lights. Jonah had referred to those months as the summer
of the satellites. Without their ground support, satellites had begun
falling from the sky, the biggest a space station that had become the
tomb for a dozen astronauts who had watched their world flicker out
below. Children had exclaimed with glee and made wishes on the
falling stars.

He
found himself at the sawman's shack, opening the flimsy door on its
rotting leather hinges. Jonah would have brought a surprise snack for
the children, would probably have invited them into the little
structure where so many original colonists had rested, making bold
plans for the future. The rough table used for meals was still there,
with a heavy chair beside it, as were all the initials and messages
carved into the wood of the posts and beams. He ran his fingers over
the names of old friends, many lost in the expulsions, then looked
back at the chair. It was a sturdy wooden armchair, not part of the
original furnishings. Near the chair the flotsam that littered the
table had been cleared away to make room for an assortment of tools.
Neither the chair nor the tools had any dust on them. They had been
placed there recently. Had Jonah made an advance trip, preparing for
the visit of the children? With new curiosity he stepped closer,
studying the objects by the chair. Four short lengths of rope. An old
soldering iron, the kind left to glow in coals before use. A rusty
pair of pliers. A sewing needle, the heavy kind used for sail making.
A carpenter's clamp.