The Guild (5 page)

Engines rumbled in the distance, first purring faintly, then growling louder and louder as something approached from the west. Rexei kept talking, because the crowd wasn’t quite calmed down yet. That was more important. None of these shift-clad women were her mother, would never be her mother, but each man and woman who had been drained
was
her mother, because they were fellow mages.

“Mekha is gone, and that means we
must
take over the leadership of this town—but
not
as a mindless beast. We are not a mob! We are guildmembers . . . and we have
laws
, and we have
rules
, and we have
responsibilities
that we will not set aside.” She panted a little, grateful that the heat of her speech was keeping her warm, though she knew it wouldn’t last. “Now . . . take these men and women home. Give them comfort.

“Get the Apothecaries to look at the women, for I promise you, each and every one has been raped repeatedly by the priesthood,
and they will need care and compassion—and have them look at the
men
, too. There are bastards in that temple who’d piston a man’s bottom as surely as any woman’s front,” she said bluntly. “As they would’ve pistoned
mine
, if they didn’t have to answer to the Servers Guild for it—as you all know well they still could try! Any one of us could have been one of these mages, save for the grace of distant Fate . . . and many of us have lost kin and friends. It is
our
responsibility to take care of them and make them feel whole once more. If we do not, then it is
we
who will be metaphorically pistoning their bottoms a
second
time. They don’t deserve that!”

Her crude words made a few people blink and eye her askance, but Rexei didn’t care. The dangerous energy in the crowd had ebbed too low to be easily stirred as they strained and listened, as they passed along in whispers to the rest what they heard. At least, until an odd stirring rippled across the crowd from the west, from where the rumbling of engines was. With the sharp winter sunlight angling in from that direction, it was hard to see what was causing the commotion until the whispers reached her.

“. . . militia . . .”

“Precinct men!”

“. . . the captain?”

“No, it’s th’ leftenant . . .”

“The guards are here?”

“I’ll not go without a fight . . .”

She had never met the leftenant of Heiastowne and had never wanted to meet him or anyone like him. Not even a mere private, let alone a sergeant or anyone ranked higher. For good reason, too; the military was ruthless, taking in lads of seventeen or older for five years of mandatory service. Not everyone was taken, but criminals were at the top of the conscription list, so staying out of the militia’s notice was a necessity. Escaping once one was inducted into the service was extremely difficult and extremely dangerous.
Runaways were hunted down and whipped the first time, flogged heavily the second, and hung on the third failed escape try.

Between her slight frame, beardless cheeks, and careful acting, Rexei had always passed herself off as fifteen to sixteen at most. She had also taken care to heed the laws and cause no trouble, for the Precinct guards were also the town guards, and they drafted the troublemakers first and foremost. Women could serve in the Precincts as auxiliary members—clerks, cleaners, cooks, even as mechanics, helping keep the various machines running—but it was the men who
had
to serve in combat positions.

That was the last thing she could let happen. Guardsmen bathed together, and she was no boy in truth. The one good thing about the approach of the militia was that it would give her a chance to vanish into the crowd. The one bad thing was that she would have to wait until everyone’s attention was elsewhere to successfully vanish.

The engines cut off, leaving an odd sort of near-silence in the square.

“By order of the Precinct captain,” a strong male baritone called out, “the citizens of Heiastowne are to disperse and return to your homes, shops, and guildhalls. There will be
no
rioting in the streets. No disorder. The Precinct will investigate the claims that the . . . God of Engineering . . . is indeed gone, and we
will
maintain order. Anyone who riots, strikes out in violence, or attempts to loot anything at this point in time will be clapped in irons and dragged off for quarry work at the rate of one month per hour you cause trouble . . .
rounded up
.”

The crowd quickly started dispersing. Rexei turned to follow the nearest clump out of the square, but a heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder. The burly man dragged her around, his deep voice calling out, “Here’s yer first troublemaker, Leftenant!”

“Oy!” Gaping in shock, Rexei glared at the man. “I’m not a troublemaker!”

“Shaddup!”

He felt harsh and dry to her senses, like an overbaked cracker, not slimy. Worse, his big hand had a firm grip on the flesh underneath her knitted sweater. He added to it a grab at the waistband of her trousers when she tried to squirm free anyway, hiking them up so that she was forced to walk on her toes while he hustled her west through the rapidly departing crowd. At least the others were taking the spell-shocked, shift-clad mages with them as they moved off. Unfortunately, she couldn’t vanish with them, for the burly troublemaker—the real troublemaker, not her, in this matter—marched her on toe-tip right up to the quintet of motorhorses and the pairs of men astride them.

Each man wore an overcoat of metal-plated leather, a metal helm with leather coverings, stiff bracers, and leg guards. Like their armored clothes, the flanks of their motorhorse steeds bore the symbol of the local Precinct militia, a war hammer on a shield. The operators of the motorhorses sat toward the front where their hands could guide the somewhat horse-shaped machines by their steering bars, feet ready to brace the bike when at a standstill like this or to stomp on the galloper pedals to go fast and the stopper pedals to slow down. Their riders sat on raised saddles behind the operators, where they could grip the flank-brown housing with their thighs and operate crossbows and hand-cannons, lariats and lances, whatever tool they needed when chasing down a criminal . . . or a mage who was trying to flee.

Rexei flinched when the muscular man dragged her up to face the second of the two men seated on the lead motorhorse. He was the only one wearing bits of metal at the collar of his overcoat and with studs banding his bracers, and he carried himself with an air of unquestioning command. That, and his slightly long, pointed nose were the only things distinguishing him from the rest, but this was clearly the Precinct leftenant. Swallowing, she quickly dropped
herself into the role of a brave, lawful youth who hadn’t done wrong—which she hadn’t—and was determined to be brave in the face of authority. Which she was.

“I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.” She asserted that much before wincing from the strength of the man’s fingers; they dug in hard on her shoulder, bruising to the point where she feared for her collarbone. “I’ve done nothin’ wrong! Leggo a’ me!”

“Oh yes, you have!” Burly Man asserted, dropping her to her knees with his grip as he tightened his fingers and pushed her down to hold her in place.

“
Enough
.” The order came from the leftenant. “Release him. You’ll not damage the youth any further, or
you
will be judged a troublemaker.”

The angry man released Rexei’s shoulder with a slight shove, making her gasp with the sudden flush of blood to the bruised region. She was grateful for the release but wished heartily she could run away. Unfortunately, running was a sure sign one had done something wrong, and it was not unknown—rare but not unknown—for Hunter Squads to use motorhorses. Usually, they used regular horses, as it was easier to guide a real horse through rough terrain than a mechanical one.

Not that the Hunter Squads are needed to chase down mages anymore,
she tried to reassure herself.
Mekha is no more, His hungers are gone . . . but they might not
believe
that . . .

“So,” the leftenant stated, shifting his light brown eyes between the two of them. “What are the lad’s supposed crimes? Inciting a riot?”

Rexei couldn’t let that one stand. “I
stopped
a riot.”

“Not
that
,” the other man growled. He grabbed at her throat, almost choking her as he pulled free both necklaces.
“
This!”

She quickly pushed to her feet and grabbed at the thong and the chain, not wanting either to break. “Leggo! You’ll snap ’em!”

“
This
boy claims t’ be a journey-level Gearman,” her accuser growled. “But th’ lad’s clearly not even militia aged, an’ yet he’s got nigh-on
twenty
Guild coins! He’s a
forger
, that’s what.
That’s
yer troublemakin’,” he added, aiming his last words at Rexei, grabbing the youth’s shoulder for another shake.

“I said, let go of him.” The words were delivered mildly, but they didn’t need to be forceful. Two of the other second riders were already dismounting and moving forward in matching martial menace.

The man quickly released Rexei’s shoulder. He even backed up a little. The leftenant swung his leg over the rump of the motorhorse, dismounting. Since the leg-shaped shanks connecting the machine to the wheels were shorter than a regular horse, more like a pony’s legs, the militia officer managed to do so gracefully. Rexei forced herself to hold her ground. What she wanted, desperately, was to flee. Being noticed by the authorities was nothing but trouble, and trouble could get her killed or . . .
Well, maybe not shackled to the temple, now that Mekha’s gone, but I can’t let them find out I’m a girl, either. And I don’t want to fight anyone!

It wasn’t easy to stand her ground when the leftenant walked right up to her and looked down into her eyes. Without a cap to help shield her gaze, all she could do was try not to flinch, and, keep humming in the back of her mind. Not that she suspected the leftenant of having magic, but it was by now a long-standing habit that kept her outwardly calm in the face of her inner terrors. She was afraid, but mentally humming the tunes her mum had taught her kept her brave.

The leftenant gently lifted the thong-strung medallions on Rexei’s flat-bound chest with one of his leather-gloved hands. She hadn’t worn all of them—a good dozen or so from her earliest years on the run weren’t registered with her current identity—but she had worn eighteen guild tokens. The others were hidden
among her things in the bolt-hole she currently called home. She tried not to flinch when he thumbed through them, but at least he didn’t pull or yank or say anything derogatory.

She didn’t trust the way he narrowed his eyes, studying the four larger coins strung on the thong, the ones representing her journeyman status. The first one was for the Actors Guild, the second for Engravers. The third for Messengers. The fourth was her journeyman Gearman status, gained when she’d earned the one for the Messengers. Shifting the thong aside, he stared at the Servers Guild pendant strung on the silver chain beneath it.

When he spoke, she shivered from more than just being cold. “Rexei Longshanks . . . isn’t it?”

Oh Gods . . . he knows my name.

“Y’know who th’ boy is?” the burly troublemaker asked.

He dropped her medallions back onto her chest and moved past her. “Walk with me, Longshanks. You,” he added to the broad-shouldered man, “you’re dismissed. Go about your business, and cause no more trouble.”

Taking that for what it was worth, the stout man quickly hurried off. Just like Rexei, he didn’t want the attention of the Precinct leftenant upon him, either. She wished she could join him.

Rexei did not want to go anywhere with the leftenant. She stayed where she was, silently amazed at her courage, and asked, “Why should I?”

Surprised, he turned to face her from a few paces away, brows raising. She lifted her chin, fingers balled into fists to keep them warm. It wasn’t working.

“I’ve done nothin’ wrong . . . and if you know my name, then you know I’m a Gearman. Sub-C-Consul.” She folded her arms quickly, trying to stave off more shivering. “I’d n-no more c-c-cause a problem than c-cut off my own arm. You got no c-cause t’ arrest me.”

Returning to her, the leftenant leaned in close. “I’m not
arresting you. I’m asking you questions. If you want to stay here and freeze, be my guest,
Sub
-Consul. If you want to be warm, I’d suggest walking and talking. Though I doubt your intelligence, standing here without coat or cap in the dead of winter.”

“’S in the bloody t-t-temple,” she muttered, shivering. “They sh-shoved us out th’ d-d-doors before I c-could g-g-get it.”

“Then start walking home. Or better yet, get on the motorhorse. We’ll give you a ride there.” He stared at her, then flicked his gloved hand impatiently. “The sooner you get home and get warmed up again, the sooner I’ll have my questions answered and go.”

He was being entirely too reasonable. Too polite for her to protest. Tucking her hands under her armpits, Rexei started walking. Behind her, she heard the leftenant give an order that sent most of the others off. She heard the creak of his leathers as he remounted behind his motorhorse operator, and the gruff rumble as the engine was restarted.

There was no way she was going to be sandwiched between two militiamen, where she could be all too easily subdued and hauled off for unwilling service. Or incarcerated for doing nothing wrong but catching the leftenant’s eye at the wrong moment in time. That and her bolt-hole was only a few blocks away.

As a member of the Messengers Guild—the longest guild she had spent time in so far, almost two full years—she had learned how to walk at a tireless, long-legged pace. It helped that the melodies constantly playing in the back of her mind, hiding all traces of her magical abilities, were usually set at a tempo well suited for walking.

For messages delivered between towns or to a recipient more than a couple miles away, she had learned how to ride a motorhorse, but those were loaned out by the Guild and had to be returned at the end of each ride. Unless it was an emergency, any messages delivered within a town were delivered on foot. The pace she set was brisk
enough that some of her chattering eased, though her muscles were still tight from the aching cold.