Coyote Rising (7 page)

The new flute had a nice sound: neither too shrill nor too low, and she was able to run up and down the scales without any effort. Now that she knew how to make one, it shouldn’t be hard to duplicate others like it. On impulse, she shifted to a piece she’d written for the Connecticut River Ensemble. She was about halfway through the first stanza when a nearby voice began humming the melody, and she turned to see Sissy Levin standing next to her.

Allegra was so startled, she nearly dropped the flute. Sissy didn’t notice. She leaned against the awning post, her eyes closed, a soft smile upon her face. In the wan lamplight, Allegra could clearly see the deep wrinkles around her mouth, the crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes; as always, her hair was an uncombed mass that formed a ragged halo around her head. Even so, at that moment she seemed at peace.

Her fingers trembling upon the flute, Allegra managed to finish the composition, with Sissy humming along with it. When she followed a melody, Allegra realized, Sissy had a beautiful voice; she repeated the first stanza just so she could hear more of it. When she was done, she lowered her instrument, but was careful not to speak. Let the moment take its own course. . . .

“That’s a nice song,” Sissy said quietly, not opening her eyes. “What’s it called?”

“ ‘Deerfield River,’ ” Allegra replied. “Do you like it?”

A nod, ever so slight. “I think I remember it. Wasn’t it once in a movie?”

“No . . . no, not that I know of.” Although there were probably other pieces that sounded a bit like it; Allegra’s style had been influenced by earlier composers. “It’s my own. I wrote it for—”

“I think I once heard it in a movie. The one where there’s a man who meets this woman in Vienna, and they fall in love even though she’s
dying, and then they—” She stopped abruptly, and opened her eyes to gaze off into some private memory. “It’s a great movie. I really liked it. Jim and I saw it . . . oh, I don’t know how many times. I’m sorry about the chicken. It was meant to be a joke, but I don’t think you thought it was very funny.”

The abrupt change of subject caught Allegra off guard. For a moment, she didn’t know what Sissy was talking about. “Well . . . no, it wasn’t, but . . .”

“That was Beatrice. She was very old and couldn’t lay eggs anymore, and she’d bully the other hens, so I had to . . .” Her hands came together, made a throttling motion. “Very sad, very sad . . . I hope at least that you did something good with her.”

“I took her to work,” Allegra said. “At the community kitchen. We . . .”

“The grange.”

“Yes, the grange hall. A friend of mine cleaned her and we had it—I mean, we had her—for lunch.” She wondered if she should be saying this; Beatrice had apparently meant something to Sissy.

“Good. At least you didn’t throw her away. That would’ve been . . . cruel. She laid good eggs, and it would have been disrespectful. You haven’t thrown those away, I hope.”

“Oh, no!” Allegra shook her head. “I’ve eaten every one. They’re delicious. Thank you very much for—”

“Did you make this?” Sissy darted forward, snatched the flute from her hands. Afraid that she’d damage it, Allegra started to reach for her instrument, but stopped herself when she saw how carefully Sissy handled it. She closely studied the patterns carved along the shaft, then before Allegra could object she blew into the mouthpiece. A harsh piping note came out, and she winced. “You do this much better. Can you make me one?”

“I . . . I’d be happy to.” Allegra thought of the half dozen inferior flutes in her shack, and briefly considered giving one to her neighbor. But no . . . she’d want one that sounded just like Allegra’s. “I’m already planning to make more, so I’ll give you the first one I . . .”

“You’re going to make more? Why?”

“Well, I was thinking about selling them. To earn a little more . . .”

“No.” Sissy didn’t raise her voice, yet her tone was uncompromising. “No no no no. I won’t allow you to sell anything out here. It’ll bring the others, the . . .” She glanced in the direction of the ale-soaked laughter that brayed from the bonfires. “I don’t want them around. If they come, they’ll bring Rigil Kent.”

“Oh, no. I don’t intend to sell them here.” Allegra had recently struck up tentative friendships with various kiosk owners in Shuttlefield, and there was even a shop owner in Liberty who’d expressed interest in her work. Like Sissy, she had no wish to have strangers appearing at her front door. Yet something else she said raised her attention. “Who . . . who’s Rigil Kent?”

Sissy’s face darkened, and for a moment Allegra was afraid that she’d said the wrong thing. But Sissy simply handed the flute back to her, then thrust her hands into the pocket of her threadbare apron.

“If he comes back,” she said quietly, “you’ll know.”

She started to turn away, heading back toward her shack. Then she stopped and looked back at Allegra. “I’ll give you more eggs if you teach me how to play. Can you do that?”

“I’d be delighted, Sissy.”

Her brow raised in astonishment. “How do you know my name?”

“Chris told me.”

“Chris.” She scowled. “My son. Fat worthless . . .” She stopped herself, rubbed her eyes. “What did you say your name was?”

“Allegra. Allegra DiSilvio.”

She considered this. “Nice name. Sounds like music. The movie I saw, it was called . . .” She shook her head. “Never mind. I’m Cecelia . . . my friends call me Sissy.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sissy,” Allegra said. “Drop by anytime.”

“No more chickens. I promise.” And then she walked away. Allegra watched until she disappeared inside her shack, and only then she let out her breath.

At least Sissy was speaking to her.

Three nights later, she met Rigil Kent.

Allegra had no desire to participate in the First Landing Day festivities, but it was hard to avoid them; when she reported to work that morning, the kitchen staff was already busy preparing for the evening fiesta. Several hogs had been slaughtered the night before and were being slow-roasted in the smokehouse behind the hall, while huge cauldrons of potatoes and beans simmered on the kitchen stoves; out back, kegs of sourgrass ale were being unloaded from a cart. After breakfast was over, while the cooks began baking bread and strawberry pie, she helped cover the table with fresh white linen, upon which were placed centerpieces of fresh-cut wildflowers.

Matriarch Luisa Hernandez stopped by shortly after noon. A thickset woman with short auburn hair beneath the raised hood of her blue robe, the colonial governor was seldom seen in public; this was only the third time Allegra had laid eyes upon her. She hovered near the door, silently observing the preparations, Savant Castro at her side speaking to her in a low voice. At one point, Allegra glanced over to see the Matriarch studying her from across the room. Their eyes met, and a faint smile touched the other woman’s lips. She briefly nodded to Allegra. Feeling a chill, Allegra went back to setting tables; when she looked again, the Matriarch had disappeared, as had Manuel Castro.

Did the Matriarch know who she was? She had to assume that she did. With any luck, though, she would leave her alone.

What surprised her the most, though, was one of the decorations: a flag of the United Republic of America, carefully unwrapped from a plastic bag and suspended from the rafters high above the hall. When Allegra asked where it had come from, one of the cooks told her that it had been presented to Captain Robert E. Lee shortly before the
Alabama
escaped from Earth. The original settlers had left it behind, and now it was kept by Matriarch Hernandez in trust for the colony, to be publicly displayed only on this day.

Only on this day.
For most of the Coyote year—1,096 days, or three Earth-years—the colony carefully doled out its meager resources in only dribs and drabs. There were few other holidays, and none as important or elaborate as this; on this day, the residents of Shuttlefield gathered
together at the community hall for a great feast commemorating the arrival of the
Alabama
. Yet as she headed home, she saw shopkeepers closing storm shutters and nailing boards across their doors, noted the absence of children, the increased visibility of Proctors and Union Guard soldiers.

Suddenly she understood. This was the day the proletariat would be allowed to gorge themselves on rich food, get drunk on ale, celebrate a ghastly replication of freedom under the indulgent yet watchful eye of Union authority. A brief loosening of the leash to keep the commoners happy and content, while tactfully reminding them that it was only a temporary condition. Walking through Shuttlefield, though, she saw that the subtlety had been lost on everyone. No one was working, and by early afternoon the First Landing celebration was already in full swing. Out in the streets, the various guilds and groups that ruled Shuttlefield were carousing beneath the autumn sun: handmade banners flew above tents and shacks, while drunks staggered about with beads around their necks and wildness in their eyes, proclaiming everyone they saw to be their best friend. The paths between the camps were jagged with broken ale jugs, the air rank with smoke, alcohol, and piss. She came upon crowd cheering at something in their midst; stepping closer, Allegra saw two naked men, their bodies caked with mud, wrestling in the middle of a drainage ditch.

Disgusted, she quickly moved away, only to have her arm grabbed by someone who thought she needed a kiss. She managed to pull herself free, but he wasn’t giving up so easily. “C’mon, sweets, y’know you wan’ it,” he slurred as he followed her down the street. “Jus’ a lil’ sugar, tha’s all I . . .”

“Get lost, Will,” a familiar voice said. “Leave her alone, or you’ll spend the night in the stockade.”

Allegra looked around, found Chris Levin behind her. Two other Proctors were with him; one had already twisted the drunk’s arm behind his back, and the other booted him in the ass. He fell facedown into the mud, muttered an obscenity, then hauled himself to his feet and wandered away.

“Sorry about that.” Chris paid little attention to what was going on behind them. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

An odd question, considering what his men had just done to the drunk. “You didn’t need to . . .”

“Sorry, but I think I did.” He turned to his officers. “You guys continue patrol. I’ll walk her home.” They nodded and headed away. “And keep an eye on the creek,” he called after them. “If you see anything, let me know.”

That piqued her curiosity; he obviously meant Sand Creek, the narrow river that bordered the two settlements to the east. Chris saw the puzzled look on her face. “Nothing for you to worry about,” he said quietly. “Look, if you don’t mind, I’d like for you to stay with my mother tonight. You may have to skip the fiesta, but . . .”

“That’s all right. I wasn’t planning to attend anyway.” From what she’d already seen, the last place she wanted to be was at the community hall.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” He seemed genuinely relieved. “If you want, I can have dinner brought over to you. . . .”

“I’d appreciate that.” They sidestepped a couple of more drunks swaggering down the street, their arms around each other. One of them bumped shoulders with Chris; he turned and started to swear at the Chief Proctor, then realized who he was and thought better of it. Chris stared them down, then ushered Allegra away. “One more thing,” he murmured, reaching beneath his jacket. “I think you should keep this with you.”

She stared at the small pistol he offered her. A Peacekeeper Mark III flechette gun, the type carried by the Union Guard. “No, sorry . . . that’s where I draw the line.”

Chris hesitated, then saw that arguing with her was pointless. “Suit yourself,” he said. He reholstered the pistol, then unclipped a com unit from his belt. “But carry this, at least. If you run into any trouble, give us a call. We’ll have someone out there as quick as we can.”

Allegra accepted the com, slipped it in a pocket of her catskin vest. “Are you really expecting much trouble tonight?”

“Not really. Things might get a little out of control once people start drinking hard, but . . .” He shrugged. “Nothing we can’t handle.” Then he paused. “But there’s a small chance that Mama might . . . well, someone might come to see her that she doesn’t want to see.”

“Rigil Kent?”

She smiled when she said that, meaning it as a joke, yet Chris gave her a sharp look. “What has she told you?” he asked, his voice low.

His question surprised her, although she was quick enough to hide her expression. Until that moment, she’d assumed that “Rigil Kent” was a manifestation of Sissy’s madness, an imaginary person she’d created as a stand-in for everyone she distrusted. Certainly there was no one in the colony who went by that name; she’d already checked the roll to make sure. But Chris apparently accepted him as being real.

“A little.” Which wasn’t entirely untruthful. “Enough to know that she hates him.”

Chris was quiet for a moment. “He may come into town tonight,” he said. “This time last year, he led a small raiding party up Sand Creek. They broke into the armory in Liberty and made off with some guns, then left a note on the door signed as Rigil Kent.” He shook his head. “You don’t need to know what it said. But before they did all that, he stopped by to see Mama. He wanted her to come with them. She refused, of course . . . she despises him almost as much as I do.”