The Refuge Song (5 page)

“Perhaps our goals diverge eventually, but right now, we both want to stop what's happening with the tanks. So the question is, how important is that to you?”

“I won't help you.”

Piper talked over me. “If we were to help you, what could you offer us in exchange?”

“Information. The kind of insider details that could help the resistance to stop the tankings. The General and the Reformer might be freezing me out, but I still have access that you could only dream of.”

“Information alone's no good to us, if we can't even act on it,” I said. “There might have been a time when secret information gathering and hiding away was enough. But our people have bled and died on the island. If you want to stop the tankings, you need to rally those soldiers loyal to you, and help us.”

“You ask too much,” he said. “If I take arms against your brother and the General, it's open war. People will die—yours as well as mine.”

“People have already died,” I said. “And more are going to be tanked—all Omegas, eventually. It's worse than death.”

“I'm willing to help you stop it. Why won't you do the same?” His voice was persuasive—I could imagine him holding forth in the Council Halls. “These machines are powerful in ways we can't even understand. Who knows what the tanking could do to us?”

He was looking me in the eyes and I knew his concern was real. But I also knew that he only feared for the Alphas. His “us” didn't include the Omegas in the tanks. We were nothing more than the background noise. And I reminded myself, too, that he controlled much of the army. I thought of the soldiers I'd seen in New Hobart, whipping an Omega prisoner until the flesh of his back split like overripe fruit. I thought of the soldiers who had attacked the island. Had they reported to him, followed his orders?

“You should be against the tanks because it's wrong to torture people by keeping them underwater and half-dead,” I said. “Because it's an unspeakable crime. Not because of your fear of what the machines could do. Not because of the taboo.”

“I'm not without compassion,” he said. “Stopping the machines benefits Omegas, too. Your people, more than anyone else, are victims of what the machines wrought.” He looked pointedly at Piper's left shoulder. “I'm not one of the idiots who swallows the Council line about Omegas as evil deviants. I understand that you're more to be pitied than hated.”

“We don't want your pity, or need it,” said Piper. “We need your help. Your swords, and your soldiers.”

“We both know that can't happen.”

“Then we have nothing further to talk about,” I said.

He scanned my face. I didn't look away.

“You'll change your mind,” he said. “When you do, come to me.”

He made to turn away, but I called after him.

“You want us to trust you,” I said, “but you haven't even told us your real name.”

“You know my name,” he said.

“Not your Council name. Your real name.”

“I already told you.” His voice was granite—it yielded nothing.
“What would it change, if I told you the name my parents gave to me? Why would that be any truer than the name I chose for myself?”

I refused to be dismissed by him. “Why choose the Ringmaster then?” I said.

He raised his chin slightly, appraising me.

“When I was a child,” he said, “a minstrel show came though our town. They put on a hell of a show: not just bards, but jugglers and acrobats, too. A horse that danced on its hind legs to the music, and a man who'd trained snakes to crawl all over his body. It felt like half the town turned out to watch. It was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen. But when everyone else was oohing and aahing at the dancing horse, and the man who walked on stilts, I was watching the man who introduced them. I saw how he got us hyped up for each act, and how he jumped in to cut an act short if it wasn't grabbing us. He orchestrated the whole thing. The performers were impressive enough, in their own way, but the Ringmaster was the one who was running the show. He had the audience performing like that dancing horse, by the end, and they filled his hat with coins without thinking twice.”

He bent closer, as if he were telling me a secret. “I never wanted to be the man on stilts, or the snake charmer. I wanted to be the Ringmaster: the one who makes things happen. That's what I am now. You'd do well to remember it.”

He stepped back, and began to walk away to where his soldiers waited, barely visible in the darkness.

“Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now,” Zoe shouted at his back.

“That's what your twin would do,” he said, turning to me. “The Reformer would have a knife in my back before I got three paces away.” He gave a grin—the quick twist of the mouth, a flash of teeth like the glint of a blade. “I suppose it's a question of how alike you are.”

And it was a kind of courage, to turn his back on us and take those
steps. His soldiers were too far away to help him. His death would be a matter of moments. I knew exactly how Piper would draw back his arm. The precise movement with which he would throw the knife: his arm straightening; the knife not tossed but released, unwavering, to bury itself in the back of the Ringmaster's neck.

“Don't do it.” I grabbed Piper's raised arm, his muscles taut beneath my fingertips. He didn't shift when I wrapped my hands around his forearm. His knife was poised, his eyes following the Ringmaster's path among the broken ghosts of poles. Next to him, Zoe had a knife raised too, assessing the soldiers waiting beyond the Ringmaster.

“Give me one good reason why he should live,” said Piper.

“No.”

He looked down at me, as if hearing me for the first time.

“I'm not going to play that game,” I went on. “It's the same thing you asked me on the island, when the others wanted me dead. I won't do it—trading lives, weighing lives against others.”

“He's a risk to us now,” Piper said. “It's not safe to let him live. And he's a Councilor, for crying out loud. A terrible man.”

All of that was true, but I still didn't release Piper's arm.

“The world's full of terrible people. But he came to talk, not to harm us. What gives us the right to kill him, and his twin?”

In the silence that followed, the Ringmaster's words rang in my head:
I suppose it's a question of how alike you are.

The Ringmaster had almost reached his soldiers when Piper shook free of my arm and strode after him.

“Wait,” Piper commanded.

The soldiers rushed to surround the Ringmaster, who had turned back to face Piper. The swordsmen had their weapons raised. Even the archer, his right hand still clutching the knife hilt buried in his shoulder,
had drawn a dagger from his belt and raised it toward Piper with his shaking left hand.

“You have something of ours,” Piper said, leaning forward and calmly pulling Zoe's blade from the archer's flesh. The man inhaled sharply and gave a strangled curse, but under the Ringmaster's impassive gaze he didn't retaliate, just pressed his hand tighter against the wound. Fresh blood surged between his fingers and spilled down his knuckles.

The Ringmaster nodded once at Piper, then looked beyond him to me.

“When you change your mind, come to me,” he said. Then he turned and walked away, calling his soldiers to follow him.

chapter 6

“You need to learn to fight,” Zoe said the next morning. Piper was on lookout, and Zoe and I were supposed to be resting, but our encounter with the Ringmaster had left us both edgy.

“I can't,” I said.

“Nobody's suggesting that you're going to become some kind of super-assassin,” she said. “But Piper and I haven't got time to save you every five minutes.”

“I don't want to kill.” I remembered the blood smell from the battle of the island, and how each death had been doubled for me, my visions showing me not just those slain in the battle, but also their twins, ambushed by their own deaths.

“You don't have a choice,” she said. “People like the Ringmaster—they're going to keep coming for you. You need to be able to defend yourself. And I can't always be here. Piper either.”

“I hate the idea of it,” I said. “I don't want to kill. Not even Council soldiers. What about their twins?”

“You think I enjoy it?” said Zoe quietly.

I was silent for a few moments. Finally, I said, “I won't fight unless I'm being attacked.”

“Only a few times a week, then, the way you're going lately.”

When she raised one eyebrow like that, she reminded me of Kip.

“Get out your knife,” she said.

From its sheath at my belt, I pulled the dagger that Piper had given to me on the island. It was about as long as my forearm, the blade sharp on both sides, and narrowing to a vicious point. The hilt was wrapped in leather, wound tightly and sweat-darkened to almost black.

“Could I learn to throw it, like you and Piper?”

She laughed, taking the dagger from me. “You'd be more likely to take your own ear off. This isn't a throwing knife, anyway—not balanced right.” She spun it casually between her forefinger and thumb. “And I'm not giving you any of my knives. But you can learn some basics, so you won't be completely useless if we're not around to save you.”

I looked up at her. Despite our arguments, it was hard to imagine her not being around. Her sarcastic asides were as familiar to me now as her wide shoulders, her restless hands. When we sat around the fire at night, the flick of her blade on her fingernails was as normal as the cicadas' rasping.

“Are you thinking of leaving?”

She shook her head but dodged my eyes.

“Tell me the truth,” I said.

“Just concentrate,” she said. “You need to learn this stuff.” She tossed my dagger on the ground. “You won't need that for now. And forget about high kicks or backflips or any of that dramatic-looking stuff. Most
of the time it's grappling, close and ugly. There's nothing pretty about fighting.”

“I know that,” I said. I'd seen it on the island: the clumsiness of desperation. Swords slipping in bloodied hands. Bodies that became slashed sacks, emptied of blood.

“Good,” she said. “Then we can get started.”

For the first few hours, she wouldn't let me use my blade at all. Instead, she showed me how to use my elbows and knees to strike in close quarters. She showed me how to drive my elbow backward into the guts of an attacker holding me from behind, and how to throw my head back and upwards to connect with his nose. She taught me how to bring my knee up to bury it sharply in an assailant's groin, and how to throw my whole body weight behind the sideways jab of an elbow to the jaw.

“Don't hit
at
somebody,” she said, “or you'll make no impact. Hit
through
them. You have to follow through. Aim for a spot six inches under the skin.”

I was sweaty and tired by the time she let me try with the knife. Even then, at first she didn't teach me anything but defense: how to block a strike with my blade, shielding my hand with the hilt. How to stand side-on so that I presented a smaller target, and to keep my knees bent, legs wide, so that I couldn't easily be knocked over.

Then she got to the blade itself. How to strike without signaling it beforehand. How to go for the arteries between groin and thigh. How to make a low slash at the stomach, and how to twist the blade on the way out.

“I don't want to know this,” I said, grimacing.

“You're enjoying it,” she said. “For once you're not slouching around. You've haven't looked this animated in weeks.”

I wondered if it were true. There was a satisfaction in the mastery of each move, in feeling the actions become familiar. But at the same time
I was repulsed by the idea of gutting anyone. Could actions and their consequences be so neatly separated? The movements permitted no uncertainty, and no ambiguity: you did them. That was it. All morning we'd repeated them, again and again. It was comforting, in the same way that biting my nails was comforting: a mindless action that gave some respite from thought. But when I bit my nails, all I ended up with was my own fingers raw-tipped and sore. The routines Zoe was teaching me would leave a body sundered, robbed of blood. Somewhere a twin, too, would bleed out, and it would be my hand dealing that double death.

Zoe resumed the fighting stance, waiting for me to mirror her.

“There's no point if you don't practice,” she said. “It needs to be so that your knife's in your hand before you realize you need it. It needs to feel seamless—so it comes to you without thinking.”

I'd seen how she and Piper moved, and fought—their bodies fluid, not responding to their thoughts but becoming their thoughts. It was true what she'd said—
There
's nothing pretty about
fighting
—and I knew that however striking Zoe's and Piper's movements, the results were the same: blood, death. Flies swarming on sticky bodies. But I still found myself admiring the certainty of their bodies as they inscribed their answers on the world with a blade.

It was past noon when we stopped.

“Enough,” she said, when I clumsily blocked her final parry. “You're tired. That's how stupid mistakes happen.”

“Thank you,” I said, as I slipped my knife back into my belt. I smiled at her.

She shrugged. “It's in my interests to give you a better chance of getting yourself out of trouble, for a change.” She was already walking away. She was a door, forever slamming shut in my face.

“Why are you like this?” I called after her. “Why do you always have to cut me down and stalk off?”

She looked back at me.

“What do you want from me?” she said. “You want me to hold your hand and braid your hair? Have we not given you enough, me and Piper?”

I couldn't answer. More than once, she'd proved that she was willing to risk her life to protect me. It seemed petty to complain that she didn't also give me her friendship.

“I didn't mean to see your dreams,” I said. “I couldn't help it. You don't know what it's like, being a seer.”

“You're not the first seer,” she said as she walked away. “I doubt you will be the last.”

Ω

It was dawn, two days later, when the bards came. We'd made camp just a few hours before, at a spot Zoe and Piper knew. It was a forested hill overlooking the road, with a spring nearby. Since the Ringmaster's ambush we'd been edgy, flinching at every sound. To make it worse, for two days it hadn't stopped raining. My blanket was a sodden load, dragging my rucksack until the straps chafed at my shoulders. The rain had thinned to a drizzle when we arrived, but everything was soaked and there was no chance of a fire. Piper took the first lookout shift. He spotted them in the tentative dawn light—two travelers making their way along the main road, in the opposite direction from where we'd come. He called us over. I'd been wrapped in a blanket in the shelter of the trees, and Zoe had just returned from a hunt, two freshly dead rabbits swinging from her belt.

The newcomers were still only small figures on the road when we heard the music. As they drew closer, through the thinning fog we could see that one of them was thrumming her fingers on the drum hanging by her side, sounding out the rhythm of their steps. The other one, a bearded man with a staff, held a mouth organ to his lips with one hand, exploring fragments of a tune as they walked.

When they reached the point where the road curved away, they broke with it, instead heading up the hill through the longer grass, toward the woods where we sheltered.

“We need to leave,” said Zoe, already shoving her flask back into her bag.

“How do they know the spot?” I asked.

“The same way that I do,” Piper said. “From traveling this road many times before. They're bards—they're always on the road. This is the only spring for miles—they're heading right for it.”

“Pack your things,” Zoe said to me.

“Wait,” I said. “We could talk to them, at least. Tell them what we know.”

“When are you going to learn that we need to be more cautious?” Zoe said.

“In case word gets out?” I said. “Isn't that what we've been trying to do? We've been trying to spread the word ever since we left the deadlands, and we're getting nowhere.”

“It's one thing for word to get out about the refuges,” Piper said. “Another for word to get out about us, and where we are. If it had been Zach, and not the Ringmaster, who found us the other day, we'd all be in cells by now, or worse. I'm trying to protect you, and keep us all alive. We don't know who we can trust.”

“You saw what happened at the refuge,” I said. “And there are more people turning themselves in every day, thinking it's a haven. We could stop them, if we could spread the word about what really happens there.”

“And you think two strangers can do it better than us?” Piper said.

“Yes,” I said. “We need people who travel without raising suspicion. Who draw a crowd to hear them wherever they go. People who can make the news catch on, so it starts to spread by itself.” An Omega bard could count on a welcome at any Omega settlement, and an Alpha bard
could expect to be hosted at any Alpha village. Bards were the roaming memory of the world. They sang the stories that would otherwise be buried along with their subjects. Their songs traced the love stories of individuals, and the bloodlines of families, and the history of whole villages, towns, or regions. And they sang imaginary tales as well: great battles and fantastical happenings. They played on feast days, and at burials, and their songs were a currency accepted all over the land.

“Nobody's listening to us,” I said. “They listen to bards. And you know how it works. Songs spread like fire, or plague.”

“They're not exactly positive things,” Zoe pointed out.

“They're powerful things,” I said.

Piper was watching me carefully.

“Even if we can trust the bards, it would be a lot to ask of them,” he said.

“Give them the choice,” I said.

Neither Zoe nor Piper spoke, but they'd stopped their packing. The music was drawing nearer. I looked back down the hill to the pair approaching. The bearded man wasn't leaning on his staff; instead, he swung it loosely in front of him, back and forth, sweeping the air for obstacles. He was blind.

When they reached the edge of the woods, Piper called a greeting to them. The music stopped, the sounds of the forest suddenly loud in the new silence.

“Who's there?” called the woman.

“Fellow travelers,” said Piper.

They stepped into the clearing. She was younger than us, her red hair plaited and reaching all the way down her back. I couldn't see her mutation, though she was branded.

“You heading north, to Pullman market?” the man asked. He still held the mouth organ in one hand, the staff in the other. His eyes weren't
closed—they were missing altogether. Below the brand on his forehead, the skin stretched uninterrupted across his eye sockets. His hands had extra fingers, unruly offshoots from every knuckle, like a sprouting potato. Seven fingers, at least, on each hand.

Piper avoided his question. “We're leaving tonight, when it's dark. You'll have the clearing to yourselves.”

The man shrugged. “If you're traveling at night, then I shouldn't be surprised you don't want to tell us where you're headed.”

“You're traveling at night, too,” I pointed out.

“Night and day, at the moment,” the woman said. “The market starts in two days. We were delayed at Abberley when the flooding swept the bridge.”

“And I always travel in the dark, even if the sun's shining.” The man gestured to his sealed eye sockets. “So who am I to judge you for it?”

“Our travel's not your business,” said Zoe. The woman stared at her, and kept staring, taking in Zoe's unbranded face, her Alpha body. I wondered whether my scrutiny of the bards had been so obvious.

“True enough,” the man said, unflustered by Zoe's tone.

He and the woman moved to the center of the clearing. He didn't take her arm but guided himself with his staff. Watching him negotiate the unseen world reminded me of how it felt to be a seer. When I'd navigated the reef, or the caves under Wyndham, my mind had been groping the air for directions, reaching out before me just as the bard's staff did.

He settled on a fallen log. “One thing I don't understand,” he said. “If you're traveling at night, you're avoiding the Council patrols. But you don't move like Omegas.”

“One of them's not an Omega,” said the woman, shooting another look at Zoe.

“She's with us,” said Piper quickly.

“It's not just her.” The blind man turned to face Piper. “It's you, too.”

“I'm an Omega.” Piper said. “Our companion here is, too—your friend will tell you that. The other lady may not be an Omega, but she's with us, and isn't looking for any trouble.”

“What did you mean, they don't move like Omegas?” I asked the man.

He swung his head to face me. “Without eyes, you get good at listening. I'm not talking about hearing the sound of a limp, or crutches. That's the obvious stuff. But it's more than that. It's the way Omegas walk. Most of us sound a little slumped. We've all copped enough blows, missed enough meals, to keep our heads low. Most of us, you can hear it in our steps: we don't step high, or wide. We drag our feet: a little bit of shuffling. A little bit of flinching. The two of them”—he gestured toward Piper and Zoe—“they don't sound like that.”