Ashes of the Earth (21 page)

The
night trawlers had emptied their holds and were cruising back toward
the fishing grounds, a line of four steamers with two sail skipjacks
staggered behind. Four tall brick chimneys coughed up smoke from the
factory boilers. He could hear the low, heavy wheeze as the steam
pipes leading to the meal plant began to build pressure for the next
processing run. A wagon appeared below him, bearing a delivery from
the icehouse. Another dropped lumber near the ship works, where the
wrights were crafting a long, narrow hull for one of the iceboat
freighters that brought salt from up the coast in the winter.

The
big wooden pier was alive with activity. Mates yelled orders as a net
was arranged on the deck of one trawler, firewood unloaded onto
another. Hadrian picked up one of the empty baskets used to haul fish
and walked with a deliberate air, reading the nameplates on the
berths. He balanced the basket on his shoulder and kept his head
down.

The
slip where he finally stopped was at the end of the wharf reserved
for the skipjacks, the sailing trawlers. The name he stared at was
the one he'd seen inscribed on the wooden fish at the dead sailor's
apartment.
Zeus.
He glanced back toward
the other berths he had passed.
Perseus.
Prometheus. Jupiter. Poseidon.
Carthage's
first generation had a classical education second to none.

"They're
gone," came a voice behind him. "Out with the first run
this morning. Poor swabs are working almost round the clock these
days, trying to beat the cold. Double shifts."

Hadrian
turned to face a man with an unkempt beard, a leather bag of
shipwright's tools slung over his shoulder, clutching a large hand
auger. He'd been replacing one of the wharf boards.

Another
man with tools paused behind the first, eyeing Hadrian suspiciously.

"I
thought they might be having some sort of service for the boy who
died."

The
bystander spat tobacco juice toward Hadrian's foot and moved on.

"Too
late, friend. Young Jamie was put to his rest the very eve they
brought his body up from that damned abattoir of a hospital."

"The
only fresh grave at the cemetery is the one for the old professor,"
Hadrian observed.

The
carpenter rubbed his hand over his brow. "Wrapped in an old sail
and taken a mile offshore. His mother said he always enjoyed the view
of the ruined lighthouse out there."

"Is
she here then, his mother?"

The
wright seemed not to hear. "The boy used to come into the shops,
when he was no more than knee-high, just to sit and watch. He was
there the day we laid the keel for the
Zeus.
After a few weeks he'd
memorized the sequence of the tools I needed, would just hand them to
me without my asking. I told his ma he should apprentice to me, that
he had an instinct for working with wood. But she said she had to
have him on the boat. And there's no denying Captain Reese." A
steam whistle sounded. The man paused. "She's the skipper of the
Zeus,"
he
explained, "took over when her husband died years ago. Steer
clear of her," he added before moving away. "She chews fish
heads for breakfast."

Hadrian
lingered at the vacant slip, feeling adrift, not even certain why he
felt the need to speak with Reese's mother. He returned the empty
gaze of a seagull on a piling, then wandered to the main wharf and
sat on a piling himself to watch the workers passing by. A
middle-aged man carrying a basket of fish offal walked past, followed
by a youth wearing the heavy gloves of the ice handlers. Then a young
woman in sunglasses caught his eye. A familiar medallion hung around
her neck. He eased off the piling and followed her into a large stone
and timber building at the center of the complex.

Stacks
of empty wooden barrels lined the passage, waiting to be filled. One
of the youths heaving a barrel onto a hand truck wore sunglasses too.
The woman made for the central hall where workers relaxed between
shifts. Hadrian watched as she spoke with two rough-looking bearded
men wearing the canvas tunics of fishermen, then she stepped into
another passage marked with a sign,
warehouses.

He
followed her down a narrow corridor connecting the structure to a
building filled to the walls with barrels, then, as she slowed down,
slipped behind a stack of barrels and waited. The air was pungent
with the scent of hickory and oak, salt brine, and the onions mixed
with pickled fish. Suddenly there were other scents, close by. Beer
and unwashed bodies.

Hadrian
spun around to face the pair of bearded men he'd seen chatting with
the woman.

"You
were asking about the Reese boy as if you had unfinished business
with him," said the taller of the two, a thin, sour-looking man.

Hadrian
backed along the barrels as the two men closed in. Each wore a brass
medallion with a jackal etched on it.

"It
was personal." Hadrian kept an eye on the woman, who watched
with amusement as the second man picked up an iron crowbar.

"What
business do you have with a dead fisherman?"

"We
were friends."

A
new voice rose from the shadows. "There's a lie." The man
who stepped into the light had a face that seemed all scar and bone.
"The boy wouldn't have gone anywhere near you, Hadrian Boone.
You expelled him from school when he was fourteen."

Hadrian's
heart sank as he recognized the man. Fletcher was the head of the
fishery guild, and a member of the Council, but the eye patch he wore
made him look like a pirate. "If that's true, it would have been
for good reason." In truth, he'd only expelled students who
committed repeated assaults on other students. "And it would
have been a long time ago."

"Not
to him. When his friends were still in school he was out on the water
because of you, his hands raw and bleeding from pulling in nets in
freezing rain. He was a good lad. A hero. Saved me when the Anna
went down."
Fletcher turned toward the woman a moment, then pointed down the
passage. Hadrian inched closer to her as she whispered a protest,
apparently disappointed at missing the coming entertainment. As
Fletcher gestured again, more insistently, Hadrian ducked and darted
toward her, brushing her head with his hand so that her glasses fell
off. She did not move, only sneered at him.

Her
eyes were nearly entirely white, the irises washed out. Fletcher spat
a curse and with remarkable speed slapped the woman. Biting her lip,
she retrieved her glasses and retreated. As she left, a teenage boy
ran up to Fletcher, whispering close to his ear before speeding back
down the passage.

Fletcher's
smile was cold as ice as he turned back to Hadrian. "You've been
up on Suicide Ridge. The chapel is burning."

"I
have a thing about organized religion."

Fletcher's
laugh echoed off the stone floor. "You're a homeless drunk who
stays alive by spying for the governor. How the mighty have fallen,
eh?" As he stepped closer, Hadrian saw that Fletcher had a
tattoo of a snake on his neck, arranged like a necklace.

"I've
heard the best tattoo artists are in the camps on the north coast,"
Hadrian observed, ignoring the taunt.

Fletcher
aimed the back of his hand at Hadrian's cheek. He ducked too slowly,
so that it connected with his forehead, the captain's heavy ring
opening the skin. Blood trickled down his temple. "Hold him
down, Scanlon!" Fletcher ordered the tall, thin man.

Scanlon
grabbed Hadrian's arm and gestured for his companion to seize the
other. The pair pinned him against a stack of barrels as Fletcher
produced a long filet knife. "You will stay out my fishery,
Boone." He sliced open Hadrian's shirt at the shoulder, then
ripped off the sleeve. "You never heard of Jamie Reese or the
Zeus.
Come back and we'll
drop you in the fish chopper. You'll end your days as fertilizer for
next year's crops."

The
tip of the blade pierced the skin over his bicep. Fletcher expertly
slid the knife over his skin, making a slit around his entire arm.
"Stay the fuck out of other people's business, schoolteacher!
Buchanan may have let you take your armband off but you need a
reminder that no one wants you, no one trusts you. Let's make it
permanent." A second, parallel cut was made three inches below
the first.

Hadrian
struggled not to scream. "Their eyes!" he shouted above the
searing pain. "What are you doing to their eyes!" The blood
was flowing freely now, down his arm as another incision was made
connecting the two cuts.

Fletcher
paused, flattening the blade over the skin between the two cuts. With
sudden horror Hadrian realized he was going to slice away the skin,
make an armband of scar. As Hadrian squirmed the captain gave another
raspy laugh.

"What
the—" Scanlon growled as his companion buckled at the
knees and fell to the floor. With a blur of movement a crowbar
pounded into Scanlon's ribs. When he did not drop an elbow cracked
into his chin, throwing him back against the barrels.

Fletcher
spun about with the knife still raised and froze. Jori Waller stood
four feet away, holding the bar at arm's length, ready to swing
again.

"You
bitch!" he spat. "You're another who has a hard time
learning her lessons."

She
raised her other hand, holding something small and dark.

"It's
a goddamned pistol!" Scanlon gasped as he struggled to his feet.

"The
governor is getting desperate," Fletcher said with a lightless
smile. "But he has more guns than ammunition. He's not going to
trust you with any of his precious bullets."

"This
man is my prisoner," Waller declared, gesturing Hadrian behind
her.

Fletcher
glanced at the knife in his hand, dripping with Hadrian's blood.
"Boone has no idea of the dangerous ground he treads on. I will
gladly save the colony the cost of his prison upkeep."

Suddenly
another knife appeared, in Scanlon's hand. There was a click as the
hammer of the gun hit an empty chamber. Fletcher grinned and
advanced, then the gun gave a short, sharp crack. The knife in
Scanlon's hand flew through the air.

"Fuck
me!" he groaned, and held up his hand. Waller had shot off his
little finger.

The
fishermen stood in stunned silence as the sergeant shoved Hadrian
toward the passage and began backing away. By the time they were
outside her hand was shaking so violently Hadrian had to take the gun
from her to get it back in its holster.

They
found Emily
rocking
on the back veranda of the hospital smoking her pipe, a tall bottle
beside her. She raised a hand in warning before Hadrian even put a
foot on the steps. "You can't come in, Hadrian. If I help you
again he says he will assign half a dozen policemen to the hospital,
hovering over everything we do. In last night's Council meeting he
had us ratify his choice for Jonah's replacement on the Council.

The
head of the shipwrights' guild, who's probably wrapped around his
little finger. Then he announced the Dutchman has died at his farm,
so he named another replacement, the new head of the millers' guild.
But he needs us to ratify if the man is to sit for more than an
interim period. I said things are moving too fast, that most of the
guild heads are now men we don't know well. When I even hinted at
resistance he proposed a new licensing body. Every doctor and nurse
to be reviewed by a politically appointed panel to adjudge their
fitness for the colony payroll. Then Kenton came by this morning
looking for you."

Jori
Waller spoke over his shoulder. "The Dutchman didn't die at his
farm. He was murdered. At least six months ago."

Emily
looked up with a shocked expression. "No. Impossible!" She
thought a moment. "He's been on the Council, casting his vote."

"And
he hasn't attended meetings for all these months," Waller said.
"Buchanan saw his body. There's no mistaking what happened. But
he somehow forgot to inform the rest of the Council about that
detail."

Emily
opened her mouth as if to speak again but said nothing and finally
just lifted the bottle to her lips. Hadrian caught its sweet scent.

"It's
not even noon, Emily," he observed, "a little early for
corn whiskey."

She
turned the bottle toward Hadrian, displaying its medical label. "We
put in some tincture of hellebore and call it anesthetic. And it's
not early for me. I haven't been to bed. In surgery all night. Some
fool announced he could fly and jumped off a barn." She took
another drink. "You need to get out, Hadrian. The paper has
begun to criticize the governor, blaming him for Nelly's escape. Now
he has to deal with a dead policeman. And Buchanan has the notion
that all his troubles are somehow your fault. Find one of your holes
and disappear for a month or two, let things cool off. Go to those
friends of yours in the mountains."