Ninth City Burning (56 page)

He was engaged in animated conversation with Imway, but the two broke off as I walked up. In place of the cool enumeration of my disciplinary failings Imway usually offered by way of debriefing, he said only,
“0600 tomorrow, Eques,” and departed. For Vinneas he had what appeared to be a consoling pat on the shoulder, albeit delivered with a sly, sideways smirk.

Vinneas, meanwhile, was grinning heartily. “Rae,” he said, in a voice from long ago, “walk with me?”

Silently, I counted up the days since we'd last spoken face-to-face: nearly a month. Naomi and Jax were not the only ones to emerge from the battle with a gleam of newly burnished heroism. Vinneas had won his share of renown as well, albeit for strategy rather than daring. While our ranks of commanders were planning how they would mow the enemy down, Vinneas had spied how the fight might go wrong and devised a scheme to win back our advantage. He laid a trap of magical ordnance, fired alongside the signal rockets that would summon the reserve, and when rescue came—in the form of young Jax—there was a sky of sleeping thunder waiting to clear his path to our fortress. It was all done so deftly—the enemy's movements predicted so perfectly, its advantage so thoroughly undone—that you'd almost think nearly losing the battle was part of the plan all along. The success of his gambit made Vinneas quite a favorite at Command, but it seemed glory did not particularly agree with him. From a distance, he had seemed taller than I remembered, but I saw now he had grown inward instead of upward. I realized I had never properly thanked him for his attempts to ease my mind over Naomi, though I sensed mentioning this now would disappoint him, so I said, “Of course I will. Lead the way.”

The route he had in mind took us away from the Stabulum toward the outermost avenues of the School of Philosophy. Most of Ninth City's Academy had been requisitioned as housing for the IMEC's overpopulation of soldiers, but Philosophy was fully returned to its former function and consequently one of the city's few quiet places in our present state of upheaval. Later, I decided Vinneas must have brought me there specifically because he expected I would lose my temper at him and hoped to limit the number of witnesses.

We talked idly over our activities of the past weeks. He asked after my health, and I was pleased to report a complete recovery, particularly of my subconjunctival hemorrhage, which, I had discovered, referred to a burst blood vessel in the eye, painless but grisly to look at. It was plain, however, we were simply passing time, and so it came as no surprise when Vinneas
said, “I have something to tell you. Something important. It won't be general knowledge for another day or two, but I wanted you to hear before they made the announcement.”

Whatever news he had, it seemed to cause him physical pain. “The Consulate has finished making its assignments for the MapleWhite Campaign,” he said. “They've decided to include the entire Ninth Legion.”

I was quiet for a minute, thinking this over. The MapleWhite Campaign was the official name for the Legion's upcoming expedition against the Valentines. MapleWhite was the fifth Realm along the Corridor, the last we would have to seize in order to delay the invasion the necessary twenty years, and thusly both the objective of our mission and a natural title for the overall affair, though in informal moments I had also heard our voyage referred to as Operation Hairball and the Doorstop Maneuver, generally by toiling legionaries debating whether or not to join up. The Legion had put out a call for volunteers shortly after our return to Earth, but if what Vinneas said was true, it had not been entirely satisfied with the results.

“I suppose we'll be going on a journey together, then,” I said. It was a notion I'd pondered in some detail, having signed up along with the rest of the 126th the same day recruitment for the expedition opened. I had no doubt Vinneas would as well, and could remember thinking there were worse fates than sharing an island with him.

“Yes, all of us,” Vinneas replied carefully. “All of Ninth Legion, including Naomi.”

Here was what had been weighing on him. I was glad I could at least answer calmly. “I know.”

“How?” he asked, his face startled and relieved in about equal measure. “It's still classified information. Even the unit commanders won't know until tomorrow.”

“Maybe some young officer went and blabbed to one of his friends. It's been known to happen.” I let him work that over a bit before I said, “No one told me. I only knew Naomi had volunteered. She expects I'll try and stop her, so she's been avoiding me, getting ready for a fight.” I'd been halfway to a smile, but it soured the second I felt it coming.

“It's still possible she'll have to stay behind,” Vinneas said. “There's a motion under consideration before the Consulate to make an exception for Naomi and Jax. A lot of people think twelve is too young for MapleWhite.”

“It won't work. If Naomi's set on going, she'll be riding this island as sure as you or me.”

“There's a chance she won't,” he persisted. “A significant chance, in fact. Curator Ellmore made a hard push to set an age limit on MapleWhite, and even though the Consulate voted her down, it was obvious she got to them. No one wants to send children on a mission like this, Rae,” he added plaintively. “This really could go our way.”

His voice touched something off in me, and before I knew what was happening I'd bitten down on him, hard as a steel trap. “It won't,” I said, all sharp and cold. “It won't ever go our way. I don't care if you have everything laid out fair and fine from here until Judgment Day. There'll always be something waiting out there to cut you down. So don't tell me about
significant chances
, and don't come to me with your stories.”

It was not what I said as much as how I said it, though once I had time to think it over, it seemed to me the words carried a deeper meaning of their own. But just then neither of us could miss the violence in my voice. For one blood-blind moment, I was sure I hated him, and if anyone had asked me why, I would have hated them, too.

“Rae.” The injured look that crossed his face in the second before he gathered himself up was enough to bring me back to my senses, or partly anyway. Vinneas only meant to help, to deliver a little good news with the bad. It was brave of him, especially considering how he must have thought I'd take the bad part. He couldn't have guessed the good news would cause all the trouble.

I badly wanted to take it all back, but the very thought of touching him or saying a single kind thing set glowing the same pain that made me strike out to begin with. So I put on the calmest voice I could and a smile that wouldn't have fooled anyone, and said, “It was good to see you, Vinneas. And don't worry, I won't say a word about anyone's giving away secret military intelligence,” and left him there in the lonely alleys of Philosophy.

I
was upset with myself for a long while afterward, doubly so because I couldn't puzzle out where all that anger and hurt had been sitting, or why, days later, it wouldn't seem to go away. All I had done was read Vinneas out, a feat I had accomplished often enough before without any serious regrets, but the ache now was nearly as bad as what I'd felt by Naomi's bedside. It was this last notion that helped me locate the trouble. When I finally sat down, gritted my teeth, and set to probing those two wounds, I discovered both had landed in nearly the same place.

It started with the battle for Dis, as the skies cleared of magical fire and the swarms of enemies thinned to wisps. The thrum of combat began to fade, and all at once it hit that we had done it. We had won. For a few glorious minutes, out there among the stars, it seemed absolutely anything was possible. I allowed my imagination to run away with me, and it turned out to be a dangerous mistake.

For nearly half my life, and surely since I became a scout, I have known my future in all but a few particulars. I was Reaper Thom's best student, and if I managed to outlive him, I planned to be his successor, his likeness in female form, a bullwhip maid with knives for hands and bullets for eyes. Protecting my coda was to be my sole purpose. I would have no family aside from Mama and what I watched Naomi and Adam build for themselves. The only true uncertainty was how long I could go before something put an end to me. Given my record to date, I allowed myself even odds of making it to twenty-five.

I did have one grand ambition, a dream so fragile and tenuous I never spoke it aloud, not even to Thom, for fear it would break at its first taste of open air. It was this: that Naomi and Adam would never know Death on
the same close, personal terms I did, would never require expertise in bloodshed, never make violence their profession. I nurtured this fantasy secretly, planning and plotting but never letting myself believe it might truly come to pass. When Naomi accepted a place in the Legion, I resigned myself to giving it up completely, at least where she was concerned.

And then we had won. The battle was over, our enemy put to flight. The danger had not passed, it was true, but whatever happened now, for a while this war would leave Earth behind. And it would leave Naomi, too. Lunar Veil would close her in, and she might not see war again for years and years and years. Maybe ever. She could have a real life.

That was the headiest of the fantasies I'd entertained, but it wasn't the only one. For all the grim prospects I'd foreseen as a scout, my scouting days were over. It seemed now as never before there might be more I could give than my last breath. I had an idea or two about where I'd go making offers, too.

I think of Vinneas more than I would care to say. In idle moments, he often appears unbidden, strolling from a crowd of unconnected thoughts. I have convinced myself, too, that it would not be overly vain or confident to imagine he regards me differently than your average soldier of the Legion. When I stop and consider the matter, I feel sure there has always been something between us beyond what the circumstances called for, something unique to us. I thought I might like to find out what that was. But not anymore. I see now that to attempt any such thing would be unwise at best. At worst it would be horribly cruel to everyone involved.

For this reckless wishing of mine, I received a pair of solid knocks, blows I might have withstood were I better prepared. When I saw Naomi in that infirmary, it seemed the entire world had broken in two. I knew well the thrill running through her, the sense of invincibility after a brush with Death. It was how I felt after my first battle. My sister was a soldier now, and all the things I'd wanted for her were so many ashes. And then later Vinneas came and tried to revive that old hope, with all the hope I had for him bound up in it. It was more than I could stand.

It wasn't Vinneas I hated; it was the world. I hated it for being a place where hope was something dangerous and cruel, where anything sweet and bright and good lasts only for a beguiling flash, just long enough to make you want more.

These are not happy thoughts, but now I've had them, at least I can
patch myself up and avoid wandering into further danger. I can't stop loving Naomi, or dodge the pain of seeing her grow up too fast, but I can cast off my fantasies of coming home one long-distant day to find her the head of some great household, a grandmother several times over. I can stop wanting things I'll never have and chasing things I'll never get to keep. I can try to forget I ever met anyone like Vinneas.

It all turns out to be easier than I would have thought, for a while anyway. IMEC-1 remains in dire condition, and there is little time to spare for self-pity. Alongside my fellow equites, I work twenty and thirty hours at a stretch. Our island's faculty for altering the laws of nature has been employed to provide a constant supply of daylight, and in that insomniac blur, I can scarcely tell one hour from the next, let alone recall any notions I'd once held out for the future—until one day after a long shift I return to my bunk and find a letter waiting, addressed to me.

I share a room with three other equites of the 126th, but all are so fixed on sleep that the thick envelope sitting atop my pillow goes largely unnoticed. I take it outside to read, prying the seal open with my fingers. It is from Mama. Communication over legionary channels is still restricted to official wartime functions, but somehow she has found a way to get this message to me, sending her love and news from all our friends, written out cleanly in her careful hand.

Much has transpired since I last had word of my coda. Jenny Sullivan has had her baby, a boy she named for his grandfather. The decision raised some eyebrows, as Marcus Sullivan was a lifelong reprobate and in the opinion of many should not be leaving namesakes. Meanwhile, Chloe Hollis, cousin to Naomi and me, has finally decided to marry and brought a hefty slice of her new husband's family with him into our coda, which has required adjustment in certain quarters. I am assured any brawls that have broken out were civil, restricted to fisticuffs only, with guns and knives never coming into play. Most significant of all, we have left the township of Granite Shore and are presently engaged in establishing a permanent settlement of our own. The site is none other than the Valley of Endless Summer. As yet we have hardly more than a few foundations, but Mama reports swift progress, as well as sightings of wild horses in the countryside that could provide us a new riding stock. The letter concludes with an invitation to come and visit, once I and the other Walkers of the Legion are allowed enough leave from our duties to make the journey.

I read the letter twice through, then stand there, holding it and thinking of all these people I used to know, off in their new home. I try to picture myself among those young families and fresh houses, or out chasing mustangs through the valley. What comes instead is a view of the Great Ridge and the spine of snow-covered mountains, and one thought: A coda that has ceased wandering has no need for scouts. I shut my eyes and try again, bearing down hard on my imagination, and suddenly I hear a burst of air and look to see the letter has caught fire in my hands.

In half a second all that remains is a shower of ashes and a single scrap of paper pinched between my fingers, which likewise vanishes in a puff of flame as soon as I let it loose. The bits of ash float away, borne off by a small current of air, and I watch them, thinking,
Good
.
That's the end of that
. I wipe my smudged hands on my uniform and go to get ready for bed.

The incineration of Mama's letter seems to me a definitive conclusion of the matter, and I put it out of my mind. It does not occur to me that this might be premature until some days later, and by then, Reaper Thom Mancebo is at my door.

He comes knocking in what, for me at least, amounts to the middle of the night. I am awakened by a startled shriek to find Haiyalaiya, who usually occupies the bunk above mine, standing at our open door with the sinister apparition of Thom before her. Though the room is dark, and it seems impossible Thom could see anything inside from his place in the hallway, I have the impression he has already picked me out.

Haiyalaiya has gotten over the shock of Thom's arrival and begun demanding his name and rank and intentions banging on the doors of tired legionaries attempting to get some much-needed shut-eye.

“It's all right, Endie,” I say, joining Haiyalaiya at the door and using her equus-derived nickname as a gesture of informality. “He's a friend.”

Haiyalaiya appears dubious but doesn't argue, preferring to get back to the business of sleeping. I join Thom in the hall, which is busy with groggy-eyed legionaries on the way to and from long, laborious shifts. “What is it, Thom?” I ask tiredly.

As an answer, Thom fixes me with his steady marksman's stare. Thom and I do not need to speak to make ourselves understood, and I know right then he's found out about the letter; what I can't puzzle out is how. I get my answer, or part of it, a moment later, when Thom produces the letter itself, the ashes reassembled and held together by some manner of
artifice. It looks like a reverse of itself, the paper ash-black and the written words white, but it's Mama's letter all right.

“Where'd you get that?” I ask. Thom only goes on watching me, not accusing, but full of reproof. “Look,” I say irritably, “it was an accident. I didn't mean to torch the damn thing. It just happened.”

Thom does nothing to indicate he believes or disbelieves, or has even heard what I've said. His gaze doesn't waver, and its steadiness keeps pulling words out of me. “No, I wasn't going to tell you about it,” I grumble. Now that I've been caught, I'm turning cranky and sullen. “I'm sorry I burned it, all right? But it's done, and Mama would have sent another eventually.” And then I add, “Anyway, I'm not going.”

At this Thom folds the magically reconstituted letter and places it in his jacket, then returns to staring, still manifestly unsatisfied with my accounting of things.

“You do what you want,” I snap. “I won't be flying all the way to that valley just to see a few half-built houses.”

Again no answer from Thom. It seems I am speaking to a statue set in a pose of eternal questioning. I've had about enough of it. “Because, Thom,” I say hotly, “it'd be a great big waste of time. Mama and Baby and everyone will want to see this place, too, right? So let them all come here if they want to say good-bye. I don't need to get settled in with everyone, then just turn around and leave again. There's no goddamn point.”

My voice breaks then, and I have to shut myself up. The last time Reaper Thom saw me cry, he was pulling a bullet from my gut with a pair of pliers, and I don't want to soil my record.

Thom, for his part, seems finally to have heard me. He frowns and slowly nods, like he's been listening to a story he already knows by heart and only needed to remind himself of the last few details. “Follow me,” he says, and sets off down the hall without further explanation.

I would much rather go back to bed, but I feel now I need to prove something, to myself if not Thom, who is generally immune to rhetorical displays. So I follow. It turns out we don't have far to go.

The place Thom has in mind is the School of Rhetoric, a short walk from my quarters, since like most cadets newly enlisted in the Legion, I have been billeted in the Academy itself. I make an unusual sight traversing the halls in my standard-issue sleeping gear, however, and soon the odd looks begin to wear on me. I am on the verge of mutiny, of demanding to
know why we're here and what could be so important that it was worth depriving me of sleep, when Thom stops in his tracks, a hand raised for silence. At first all I hear is the babble of voices and shuffle of footsteps, but then something else comes lacing toward me. Music.

Music is perhaps a generous description; more accurately it is a feral screeching fit to wake the dead. But it is also a sound I will forever associate with melody: the sound of a fiddle. Thom waits until he is sure I've heard, then continues onward. I go with him, curious to learn the player's identity, but also drawn by something deeper and older.

The perpetrator of this particular racket is Fontanus Jaxten, as I discover when the noise ceases with a screech, and from a classroom up ahead, his voice emerges. “I suck at this,” Jax declares. “I totally, completely suck.”

The next voice kicks my heart into a clumsy lurch. Naomi. “You've barely even tried,” she says.

“Well, it's obvious how much I suck,” Jax insists. “You heard it, too, right?”

“You were the one who wanted to learn.” Naomi's tones are heavy with exasperation. “And first you've got to hold it right. Give it here. I'll show you.”

The tune that begins then is one I've heard a thousand times, and I can truthfully say I have never known anything so beautiful. Thom has halted a little past the classroom door, the light from inside falling just short of his face. He motions for me to join him, the way he would out in the woods if he'd spotted some spectacular bird and wanted me to see without startling it off.