Ashes of the Earth (33 page)

"The
area's stripped bare for a hundred miles to the south. I followed
their trail once for a few hours. They circled to the west, far
enough south to avoid the exile camps. And they never return this
way. They start in Carthage, to get supplies, then they must take a
circuit that comes back up to the lake to the west, to minimize their
being seen. Like they fear having their secret work discovered."

"I
want to see them, Morgan," Hadrian told him.

"Leave
them be, Hadrian. You're in no shape to deal with men like that. You
need two or three weeks more rest at least. Helen's been smiling like
a schoolgirl because she thinks she has the two of you for the
winter."

"Just
a look."

"You're
the one who gave up on saving worlds," Morgan pointed out. His
tone was suddenly sharp. "Gave up on everything else as far as I
can tell."

His
words brought a long, troubled silence.

"There
is one thing I never gave up on," Hadrian said at last. "Jonah.
In life or death. I intend to find his killer if I have to die doing
so."

They
gathered the rest of the harvest without speaking. Before they
slipped down the ladder that led into the caves, Morgan stopped
Hadrian with a hand on his shoulder. "Just don't forget that
Jonah never gave up on you."

"What
are you saying?"

"The
only thing worse than dying in pursuit of his killer would be using
his murder as an excuse to die."

As
Hadrian gained
strength, Jori lost it.
His recovery had released something inside her, Helen insisted, had
allowed her to surrender to the fatigue that had wracked her body
while she kept vigil over him. For reasons he could not fathom, Helen
had taken the sergeant into the bedroom, tossing out extra fur
blankets for Morgan to sleep by Hadrian at the hearth. She stayed
beside Jori for hours, wiping her fevered brow, feeding her thin
broth while speaking her healing words.

Hadrian
lost himself in Morgan's collection of books, sitting by the fire for
hours at a time as winter storms swept over the mountains, soaking up
histories of ancient empires. When he wasn't reading, he was playing
chess and cribbage with his friend or helping him recondition his old
machines. As they set the board for a new chess game one afternoon,
Morgan pressed him for further details of Hadrian's discoveries since
Jonah's murder.

"It
doesn't matter how many shotguns they have," his friend observed
as he raised a pawn. "They are so far outnumbered they could
never take Carthage by force. It's a sham, a red herring. Like that
robbery."

"Robbery?"

"A
spice and herb shop was held up by two men with shotguns. They took
all the spice, all the money. The owner is in the hospital with a
wound on his arm." His friend rose and retrieved a newspaper
dated nearly three weeks earlier. "A farmer gave this to me when
I was trading for some of his honey."

Hadrian
scanned the article. Its tone was alarmist, speaking of firearms
being used in crime for the first time ever, calling for the police
to be armed now.

"They
wrecked the shop with clubs, fired their guns only once, at the front
window," Morgan explained. "The owner got hurt because he
ran in front of his window trying to save it. The editors want the
police turning the city upside down for an armed criminal gang. Hell,
those masked men were on the way out of Carthage five minutes after
the crime."

"Masked?"

Morgan
turned the paper around so he could read it and pointed to it. "A
witness's account. They wore masks over the top of their heads,
covering everything from the nose up. The witness said at first he
thought they were actors going to a rehearsal of some new drama."

Hadrian
frowned. "It
is
theater. A well
thought-out script penned by a man named Sauger. He understands all
the elements of drama. Build from one crisis to the next. Throw in
some distracting characters. Keep up the tension so no one has time
to anticipate the plot. What Buchanan doesn't realize is that they
know what he'll do at every step. He manipulates the newspaper, but
Sauger manipulates him." He looked up at his old friend. "They
had plenty of ammunition but didn't use it. If the guns are just
props in their play, why go to all the trouble of smuggling in so
much ammunition?"

"If
it's a play, maybe the ammunition is a prop too."

Hadrian's
expression changed from uncertainty to worry as he recalled how he
had seen no gunpowder in the shop where the shells were produced.

"If
I wanted the police to spend their time looking for an arsenal while
I was actually up to something else," Morgan observed, "I
just might want to make a public display of that arsenal. Hell, half
the force would be too scared to look if they think the criminals are
the ones who stole all their shotguns. I suspect the people who
conceived this drama like surprise endings."

Hadrian
rose and stepped to a small pile of clothes, the ones he had been
wearing on the
Anna,
now folded on a shelf.
Helen had stacked all his belongings along the wall. Pencil stubs.
His knife. Pen nibs. Under his bandana, now neatly washed and folded,
was the shell he had taken in St. Gabriel, its waxed paper casing
worn but still stiff. He handed it to Morgan, who balanced it on his
palm, then pressed at its sides before producing a long blade and
prying up one of the flaps compressed on the top.

Hadrian's
heart skipped a beat as his friend tapped the opened shell over his
palm. The powder that poured out was white. It glowed ominously in
the firelight. They stared at it in silence.

"If
this is as powerful as you say," Morgan said, "it's a whole
lot more effective than bullets at subduing a population. Not only
does anyone who uses it become your slave, they pay you for the
privilege."

Hadrian
rubbed some of the powder between his fingers. Jansen's fingers had
been coated with such powder. He had assumed the policeman had been
investigating the smuggled spices before he died.

"There
must be easier ways to transport it," Hadrian said at last. "Why
go to the trouble of making the shells?"

Morgan
carefully pressed the top flap back into place and set the shell on
the table. "You say this Sauger likes to play with people. He
needs the fisherman to do his bidding. They're renegades and
ruffians, who despise the government. Smuggling weapons to use
against the authorities would appeal to them. Smuggling in drugs that
paralyze their children, there's nothing of Robin Hood in that. And
what better way to keep the police at bay than feeding the rumors
that they will face a barrage of shotguns if they try anything."

Hadrian
desperately wanted his friend to be wrong. But he knew in his heart
that Morgan had stumbled onto the truth about the shotgun shells and
Kinzler's mysterious shipments. "Why couldn't I see it?" he
asked in a bitter tone.

"Because
part of you wants a rebellion against Buchanan to succeed."

The
words scorched a place deep inside Hadrian. Not simply because he
knew they were true, but because they meant he too had become a pawn
in the conspiracy.

The
five riders
appeared
an hour after dawn, three leading heavy-laden packhorses and two
with rifles slung across their backs, looking like guards. Hadrian,
terrified he'd be spotted in his hiding place on the ridge above,
cautiously raised Morgan's binoculars. The pair with the guns were
large, dark-skinned men who had the feral look of St. Gabriel. He
studied them, watching the biggest man, the one in the lead, as he
turned in the saddle. It was Sebastian, his escort at St. Gabriel.

He
stared in the direction of the party long after they'd disappeared
into the forest. At every step there wound up being no answers, only
more questions. The secret parties were carrying supplies somewhere,
had been doing so for months, with men from St. Gabriel freely moving
in and out of Carthage. He thought of his conversations with Sauger,
who had seemed to know everything about Carthage, even about the
circles of government. And when Buchanan had sent a secret scout to
the south, he had been murdered before he even left town.

The
evening was
cold,
the air thin and clear. In the distance the lake was shimmering with
every color of the spectrum. Hadrian watched from his high rock
perch, mesmerized as streaks of sunset combined with a budding aurora
to reflect off the newly formed ice.

"You're
not staying, are you?" The voice came unexpectedly from the
shadows of the trail below, from the short path that led to the cave.
Jori didn't wait for an answer. "Helen will be so disappointed."

It
was the first time she had ventured out since surrendering to Helen's
care. It explained why their hostess had decided to prepare what
promised to be a veritable banquet.

"She
says to be ready to eat in a quarter hour."

"Come
see the sunset," he said awkwardly, and gazed into the shadows a
long time before realizing she had gone. "I'm leaving before
dawn," he declared toward the empty path. "If I tell them
they would only argue and ask why, how I will stay alive. It would
spoil our dinner."

But
the police sergeant was not at dinner. At the table was a woman
Hadrian had not met before. She wore a bright blue dress tied with a
yellow sash, her long russet hair hanging loose to her shoulders.
There was a golden chain around her neck, and she was wearing elegant
shoes made in a different world. They sat across from each other,
Jori shy about looking at him. For a moment, as she passed a bowl of
potatoes, her face in the candlelight had the glow of the shimmering
ice. He found himself blushing for staring at her, then remembered
the little tin Sauger had given her. She had applied Angel Polish to
her face.

As
the venison pie was served, Morgan produced a bottle of elderberry
wine, bartered from a farmer, and the atmosphere softened, punctuated
by laughter as Morgan spoke of being treed by a bull moose and other
misadventures in the forest. When they finished eating, Morgan asked
Jori and Hadrian to move the table along the wall. Disappearing for
an instant, he returned carrying a large polished wooden box. He
carefully set his treasure on the table, then opened the lid,
producing a winding handle that he inserted into a hole in the side
and turned. A moment later the box burst into music. Jori gave a gasp
of joy and ran to the device, round-eyed.

The
old gramophone had only half a dozen original records, all big band
music, but Morgan had jury-rigged it to accept the smaller 45 records
that he now brought from his secret room, most of them nearly a
hundred years old. The mainspring was weak, so someone had to sit
beside the machine to wind it every three or four minutes. What
poured forth from it was real music, music of a kind Jori had never
heard. Morgan began to snap his fingers in time and Jori laughed as
Helen raised her arms like wings and fluttered around the room.

Hadrian
took over when they changed the record and gestured Morgan to the
open floor. He gracefully took Helen's arm and they began a slow
dance to a tune from the 1920s.

An
enchantment settled over the room. The fire crackled, the aging blind
woman and her mate floated across the floor without a care, the notes
reaching not just across time but across worlds. Once, in the silence
between records, they heard the deep hibernating exhalation of
Aphrodite, sounding as if the mountain itself were breathing.

Morgan
and Helen at last retreated to the chairs. But not before Morgan
pushed Hadrian to his feet. Uncertainly, he approached Jori. With a
shy smile she accepted his hand and stiffly began to move in time to
the melody. They danced through half a dozen songs before she began
to relax, dropping her head on his shoulder. Then Morgan inserted
another record, gave the handle an extra wind, and pulled Helen back
onto the floor.

As
the new music filled the chamber, something within Hadrian cracked
open. The notes were cutting through long-hardened calluses inside.
It was a song not of his youth but of his mother's youth, a tune
she'd played again and again, sometimes dancing alone in the kitchen,
sometimes dreamingly grabbing her young son for a partner.

Somewhere
beyond the sea,
the
mellow voice sang.

The
voice was not just mellow, it had a confident, unshakable joy, of a
sort that had been lost to tongues all these years.