Ashes of the Earth (29 page)

As
the room began to empty, Hadrian clung to the woman with a drunk's
ardor until, with Wheeler nursing a mug in a corner and Sebastian
asleep at his table, Sauger whispered to her. She led Hadrian to the
side door where all the other women had gone. Slurring his words,
Hadrian reminded the woman to bring his precious soup, then followed
her into the dim corridor.

He
had counted six different women who had gone through the door. As his
companion led him into the seventh doorway, Hadrian saw three more
rooms before the end of the hall.

His
companion disrobed in a quick, professional manner. When she wore
nothing but her linen smallclothes, she turned and stripped Hadrian
to the waist, hesitating a moment over the soiled bandage on his arm.
As she touched his belt he tottered backward, twisting so he landed
belly down, face to the wall. She laughed, then hearing his
exaggerated snores, poked him several times to no avail.

"You
old fool," she groused, then sat on the bed and began to dress.
His intemperate habits had left him with a remarkable tolerance for
alcohol. He waited several minutes after she left, then rose and
began doing push-ups to burn off the liquor in his system.

He
estimated it was past midnight when he cracked open the door and
peered into the corridor. It was empty. He picked up his leather
pouch and stepped to the end of the hall. The last door swung open,
releasing a musty smell. The room was stacked with crates. As he
touched the handle of the next door, a frightened moan came from
inside, followed by the sound of furniture toppling over. The door
would not move. He stepped back and saw now the padlock holding the
door fast.

Retrieving
a lantern from the wall, he went back into the storage room. A quick
search revealed an iron bar. Moments later he'd wedged it inside the
hasp of the lock, then, with a nervous glance down the hall, he gave
a violent shove. The screws popped out of the aged dry wood of the
doorframe.

As
he stepped inside, a figure scrambled away, dragging a table with
her. Hadrian leapt to her, clamping a hand over her mouth. When she
fought him he slapped her, then covered her mouth again. "It's
me, Jori. Do you hear me?"

The
sergeant's chest heaved up and down but she stopped resisting as he
held her. Hadrian saw that her hands were tightly bound with a rope
tied to an iron ring fixed to the table. He quickly cut the bindings,
then, with a sinking heart, saw that the room's window was blocked
with bars.

"Can
you walk?" he asked.

Her
voice was tremulous. "At first they just asked questions, gave
me food and drink. But when I didn't give them answers, they came
back. They caned me, hit me with switches on my legs and arms."

"You
have to be able to walk. Now. I know where the horses are kept. We
can be twenty miles away by dawn."

Jori
bit her lip, scrubbed the tears from her cheeks, and nodded.

They
inched down the hall silently, Hadrian fearing what they would
encounter when they reached the tavern. He held a finger to his lips
as they reached it, then raised the pouch of cans he still carried
like a weapon and pushed the door.

Only
three candles burnt now, their light so dim that they were halfway
across the room before he saw Wheeler still at the corner table, his
head cradled in his folded arms. Jori pointed to another dark shape,
on the floor by the stove. Sebastian was curled up near the warmth of
the fire.

The
sky was brilliantly clear, with the light of a half-moon and the
aurora enough for them to navigate through the village. They had
perhaps six hours until dawn, but before Hadrian went to the stables
he had one stop to make.

The
paper maker's shop had no lock on its front entrance, only a padlock
on the inner door he'd noted that afternoon. He quickly ripped it
away with the iron bar, found a candle, and stepped inside.

The
secret workroom was well kept, an unusual levering device anchored to
its solitary workbench. His first touch of its handle roused memories
of visits to a great-uncle's house as a boy. The uncle had been an
avid hunter and Hadrian had helped him reload his shotgun shells with
just such an instrument.

He
pushed the handle down, seeing now the wooden box with the brass
bases, a second box with waxed cylinders of the thick grey paper
fabricated in the workshop, a third with one of the racks he'd seen
in the cache in Carthage, packed with over a dozen loaded shells. He
dropped one of the shells into his pocket and quickly examined the
rest of the room. There were no pellets, no sign of gunpowder, only
one of the small kegs he had seen in the Anna, still tightly sealed.
He took a step toward it.

"Hadrian,
please!" Jori's call was desperate.

He
reluctantly stepped away, blowing out the candle as he reached the
front entry. Wending their way through the alleys, they soon reached
the small paddock adjoining the stable. He paused, watching the
stable, seeing no sign of activity.

"We
don't need horses," Jori said. Her voice was overlaid with fear.

"And
what? Walk for two, maybe three hundred miles? Ten more minutes and
we're gone. An hour south of here the heavy forest starts. They won't
find us there."

She
took a deep breath and nodded.

Jori
was surprisingly adept with the animals, calming the two Hadrian led
out of their stalls with soft whispers. His heart lifted as he
tightened the girth of the last saddle and began tying a blanket
behind it. Then suddenly pigeons were startled from their roost at
the far end of the building. He tossed Jori a set of reins.

"Go!"
he cried. Soft creaks on the floorboards became the pounding of
running boots. Standing in the shadows behind the second horse, he
swung his pouch of cans. His timing was perfect, hitting the first
man squarely in the temple, knocking him to the floor. He jerked the
head of the horse around and slapped its hindquarters, sending it
toward the other shadowy figures. They would have to make do with one
horse.

He
began to race out the front doors, leading the horse with Jori
already mounted. But half a dozen men leapt in front of them. The
horse reared back, throwing Jori off. Strong hands seized his arms. A
sack was thrown over his head.

His
head lay against the surface of a table, facing a window six feet
away. His eyes fluttered open and shut. He smelled eggs and bacon and
cigar smoke. The sky was showing a hint of dawn. He did not stir, did
not know if he could stir, just watched the stars fade into the
greyness. His own light was fading. He was being pulled into a hole
in the sky and didn't want to come back.

"No!"
he moaned as frigid water suddenly drenched his head. He jerked up,
his skull exploding in pain. Slowly he turned, taking in his
surroundings. Jori was tied to a chair in the corner just behind him,
her mouth gagged. Four men sat at the opposite end of the table,
empty breakfast plates in front of them. Sauger, Sebastian, Fletcher,
and Wade. Their faces were impatient.

"Last
night when I went to sleep, I felt such hope, Boone," Sauger
began. "But then I had to start my day with such
disappointment."

"Am
I to take it you are the leader of this town that needs no
government?" Hadrian asked. His head throbbed terribly.

"Like
I said, we all must accept the role allotted to us," Sauger
said. "You might call me abbot of the order of St. Gabriel."

"Or
boss of the criminal enterprise that is St. Gabriel."

Wade
glared at Hadrian, then muttered something into Sauger's ear, who
held up a restraining hand.

"There
you go," he said to Hadrian, "using old world concepts
again. Crime is a political construct. When the great khans rolled
over Asia, wiping out entire cities, that was not crime to their
culture. That was glory, that was destiny being fulfilled. I remember
once being hauled in front of a magistrate and fined for not
shoveling the snow in front of my house. I said my father had never
shoveled that snow for thirty years, and it wasn't a crime then, so
why would it be now? He said because the government changed its mind,
that's why. That was the disease of the old world. Some crusty
bastards sat behind closed doors and decided how I should live my
life. Forget the old world. It's gone. Get over it."

"I
know a crime when I see one," Hadrian insisted.

"So
you declare yourself judge and jury?" Sauger asked in a
contemplative tone. "Based on what? Some law no one acknowledges
but you? Bullshit. There is only action and reaction. That's the way
of nature. When the cougar tries to bring down the stag and gets an
antler in his heart, that's not justice, that's the penalty the
cougar gambles against for his every meal."

"In
other words, if you think you can get away with something, it's worth
trying."

"Exactly!
If the shifting of the world taught us anything, it was that life is
all about the odds, and improving the odds. What were the chances any
of us would survive? What were the odds we'd be sitting here today?
Where but here could you find such opportunity to improve your life?
We offer you fulfillment." Sauger's smile remained but his eyes
grew icy cold. "So intimate with the inner workings of Carthage
but no reason to be loyal to her. A man interested in reform, much as
myself. But last night you jumped the stag and lost. In another month
you could have been sitting here, on the most powerful committee in
the known world."

"Looks
more like a breakfast club that forgot to bathe."

The
words brought Wade out of his chair. For the first time, Hadrian saw
a gun in front of Sauger. Jori's pistol. The abbot of St. Gabriel
touched it. "I'm not going to tell you again, Wade."

"The
bastard killed my nephew!"

Hadrian
stared at him, confused. "I had nothing to do with the boy
brought to the hospital," he said.

Wade
fixed him with a venomous gaze.

"I
believe," Sauger explained in a level tone, "our friend is
referring to the one you killed at my table during your escape last
night."

Something
icy gripped Hadrian's spine as he recalled the salvager, the one he'd
recognized as an original crew member from the Anna. "Wheeler
was asleep with his head on the table when we passed through,"
he said hoarsely.

Sauger
wiped his mouth with a napkin and gestured Hadrian up. Hadrian rose,
steadying himself against his dizziness for a moment, then followed
him out the door. They stepped directly into the tavern, where a
blanket had been thrown over a figure at the corner table. As Sauger
pulled the blanket away from Wheeler, Hadrian nearly retched. One of
the silver forks he'd seen the night before had been driven into the
back of Wheeler's neck, up into his brain.

"A
careful piece of work," Sauger said in an admiring tone. "But
the wrong fellow to kill. Wade is Fletcher's man, and this one was
Wade's nephew. We promise his men our protection when they come here.
This one was in training, so to speak. Fisherman. Death Digger.
Familiar with the streets of Carthage. Proven reliable for special
tasks, lots of potential. When Wade first arrived at our little
breakfast, I had to restrain him from driving a fork into your head
as you lay there."

"Someone
didn't want me to speak with him. He was from the Anna."

"Fletcher
claims you're trying to topple his operation in Carthage."

"His
operation is your operation."

Sauger
shrugged. "Our alliance is only recent. He has a lot invested in
Carthage, over many years. We've just broadened his ambition, so to
speak. Merged our business plans. Adjusted expectations."

"I
wondered why fishermen would use jackals as their symbol." He
gestured to the stuffed martens on the walls. "It was your gang.
You just gave Fletcher a franchise."

"You
grieve me, Hadrian. You are deep, you are educated. I can speak with
you like I can't with the others. We could decide together what to do
with your governor. Perhaps make you his successor. You could have
had such influence at my side."

"I
don't do well at anyone's side."

Sauger
ignored him. "I think events may persuade you to reconsider. It
will cost me dear to save you. Otherwise, Fletcher will have to kill
you, to keep his men in line. If not here, then in Carthage. It won't
go easy for you. Wade would like nothing more than to find you some
night and have you held down while he hammers a fork into your head.
Most likely through an eye, slowly twisting it, to hear you scream.
Cruel sons of bitches, those fishermen. Even when I fix things, they
won't accept you at our table now."