Malachite Page 2

  “Nerves?” Yves asked. He was a lean man with doe-brown eyes, short-cropped hair and an exceedingly kind face, a few years younger than Marion. He was also westwarden of the Martello, and one of the most competent wardens in the city.

  “Nowt to fret about,” Yves said. “We have enough men.”

  Marion frowned and shook his head, not in the mood to chat. Malakhan ships were forbidden to enter the western lagoon during the tenth month, and tonight it fell to Marion to act as priest, to speak the hallowed words in the Ceremony of the Waters. Many of the old ways had been lost during the bad years, but Aequora endured.

  The lights glided closer. The ship was a small steamer, one of the ancient vessels used to haul garbage away from the mainland. It served a nobler purpose now, but to the Cwen, the same essential chore of dumping refuse was accomplished.

  Though he could not see them, Marion knew there were other lights on the water, much further out, where the Starless Men cruised the strong currents but took exquisite care to avoid Malachite's shores. It was death for a Starless Man to land here. In the old days, just the whisper of the ruthless pirate Lord Nera would steer ships bound for Malachite far out of reach of trade. But Kal Nera had been dead for more than thirty years, his two sons drowned, his black banners rotting in the sea.

  The steamer slowed and turned. Marion signaled.

  Yves pulled up his cowl to cover his hair and hefted a torch from its niche. He descended the steps and waved the torch in a wide arc.

  “Refugio!” Yves cried, stretching out the word to an echoing call that carried over the waves. “Refugioooo!”

  Insects buzzed in the fog and shallow waves lapped the seawall north and south for miles. Yves swung the torch high and low, calling, until the steamer was near enough for Marion to see shadowy figures on the deck milling beneath the eerie green light of the wheelhouse. Yves placed his torch in an iron bracket in the wall and waited.

  Marion descended the steps, his wardens following. He saw round faces both pale and dark staring at him from the main deck. Flying from the mainmast was the flag of Cwen: a silver evening star shining from the gem of a mural crown, wreathed by olive leaves. The boat bore identical standards on its hull.

  Cork buttresses lashed to the hull of the steamer squealed as they rubbed against stone caressed to silk by ten centuries of waves, and the vessel jerked to a stop.

  One of the exiles on deck—Marion couldn't make out his face—took charge and threw a rope over the side, catching a post. A ramp swung down and banged shockingly loud, breaching the distance between land and ship. A child began to cry, and a tall exile reached down for the boy and set his feet on the ramp.

  His wardens were hooded with their features in shadow, but Marion left his black cowl down, letting the exiles see him.

  Yves greeted the passengers with his hand splayed over his throat and then extended in friendship. All men were in the same boat here, as it were: men without countries.

  The exile hesitated before he copied Yves's greeting. Yves shook the stranger's hand and together they helped the children disembark first. Marion noted the exile had not needed to be asked to help, and vowed to ask that man's name later. He did not allow himself to hope for much. Only time would prove if the exile could adapt.

  Yves carried a small boy to Piero, who began herding the children to the canal and the waiting sandoli. Two of the narrow boats were roped to the waterway that led to the Rio Avorio, the dividing canal between the upper and lower parts of the city. Each sandolo could hold half a dozen children, plus a single oarsman, or sandolier. Marion hadn’t expected so many children with this arrival. Children were too young for the oath, or to promise to obey laws they didn't understand. For good or ill, they were in the city's care until they could survive on their own.

  The men could walk northward into the Citta Alta, escorted by the wardens, but the boys were a sacred trust. They would never be out of sight of the wardens until they were turned over to the care of the masked fathers of the Villa Merlo.

  A Solari child pulled back at the steps of the canal, tearful eyes fixed on the hooded men. Yves knelt and smiled gently at the boy.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Yves said. “We’re going to visit some very funny men. Have you ever seen the Fat Fathers?” He blew his cheeks out like a puffer fish. The child giggled and allowed himself to be led to the water.

  When the steamer had disgorged its last passenger, the ramp was drawn up. A lantern inside the wheelhouse allowed Marion to see the Cwen captain sheltered behind thick green glass at the helm. The captain was garbed in weather gear unsuited to the hot night, with a woolen cap and goggles, features swathed in a scarf. Marion couldn't glean a single detail of his face, and by custom the captains never communicated with the exiles or the Malakhan.

  From beginning to end, Aequora was a singularly impersonal kind of exile. Marion would have called it heartless.

  If the captain were a woman, Marion wasn't sure he'd know the difference. He couldn't remember ever seeing a female with his own eyes, although the felons who arrived in chains had stories of them. Some exiles drew pictures of women on parchment or canvas, or on the walls of privies, but these things were forbidden. When discovered, such works were destroyed. One heard that female statues had survived in the library of the Gran Consiglio, which only consulentes were permitted to see. Marion was hesitant to credit those replicas. There were statues of dragons in the city, too. That didn't make them accurate.

  A horn-blast sounded from the steamer's roof, searing air billowing like a thunderhead. It was a parting shot to the boys, who jumped and cried at the sound. Marion turned away from the vessel, his interest gone. His new arrivals were seventeen children—some just out of diapers—a beardless boy on the cusp of manhood, and eleven grown men.

  The boys were grimy and stuffed into cheap clothing too big for them, solemn and wide-eyed. The Cwen had washed them and cut their hair before departure from the mainland, but the boat was slow and old, prolonging the crossing. The little ones could not have possibly have done anything to merit exile. Their sole crime was being born azure. A few of the older boys were Solari, too, with the silver hair and blue-tinged skin of that race. Their country was ruled by a queen who had declared herself an enemy to the Cwen decades ago. The rest would prove to have weak limbs or poor eyesight, or else to possess some temperament that made them undesirable to the Cwen. It was always so.

  Tris had worked out the math for him, using the figures he'd taken from Kon's office. To keep their dwindling population at present levels alone, they needed three hundred new citizens every year. This haul was a good one, but it was early in the month. Soon, the numbers would dwindle, until there were only a few arrivals with each boat.

  Marion realized he was frowning at the children, making them sniffle. He stopped.

  With the steamer chugging away, the littlest ones began to whine. A Solari toddler blubbered baby-words in Cwendi and was working himself up to making some serious noise. Marion decided to get it over with quickly.

  “Do you speak Malakhan?”

  All the men and the older boy nodded. A bearded man with the dark eyes and olive skin of the Gathi raised callused hands to display the iron manacles binding them.

  “What’s your name?” Marion asked.

  The man spat at him.

  Marion wiped his cheek. “Charming. Did they teach you that in Cwen, Gathian?”

  The exile snarled with teeth bared, growling deep in his throat. “I am not Cwendi! You have a woman's face.”

  Marion had heard that before from exiles, and he still didn't know if he should take it as a compliment. His hair was golden and he was blessed with a fine nose and strong chin. It was no conceit to know these things about himself, but some exiles seemed to have a particular fascination for his face, bordering on fear.

  “Bello bello,” Yves mocked as he coiled a rope and tossed it into the sandolo. “Another worshipper for our blue-eyed god.” He grinned. “They'll
be putting up statues of you next.”

  Marion reached for the Gathian’s manacles to free him, but the man jerked violently away.

  “If you touch me, filthy unnatural, I will rip your balls!”

  Marion smiled. “Oh, I'm touching you as little as possible, friend.” He stepped back. “Take him to the tower,” he said aside to Yves.

  Yves understood. This exile would not agree to stay.

  There were no prisons; only the open courts of the Bailey and the barred cells of the Gaol tower, neither of which were intended for long-term incarceration. The cells had beds and hot meals and locks on the doors, but all prisoners were eventually either released or exiled. In some rare cases, they were hanged. The city did not have resources to waste on keeping men forcibly idle under guard, and prison went against the very spirit of Malachite.

  Still, Marion hated to sentence any man to a second exile. It was such an unknown fate. The Starless Men were known to bolster their ranks from the prison camps of the Solari, and he didn't want to be feeding them new meat.

  Marion shooed a moth from his face as the cursing exile was prodded away by a warden on either side of him.

  Yves passed Marion a heavy cup cut from a solid block of blue-veined malachite, its sides decorated with a pattern of common moonstones in the constellation of the Stag. Marion pulled his cowl up as he approached the adult exiles and lifted the cup high for them to see.

  “You men shall be few in number, when you were once as numerous as the stars, because you refused to obey,” he recited from the Biblion, the sacred book of Paladin. “You will be scattered among men from every corner of the earth, and you shall serve new gods which your fathers have not known. Here, you will find rest and brotherhood for your heavy heart, and you will know no dread no more.”

  Kon Sessane could make the passages of the Biblion come alive, could awe listeners into silence with the power of his voice, but tonight Marion felt like a mummer in a play.

  “There is neither slave nor master, there is no prisoner, nor felon, no greater and no lesser, for we are all one under Paladin's wings,” Marion intoned. The cup held bitter red wine, honey, and a few drops of boiled seawater. He took a drink before offering the cup to the first man, a waif-thin azure with a V-shaped brand on his cheek.

  “This is the oath,” Marion said. “If you would swear by Andreja Paladin to dwell here peacefully and abide by our laws, drink and enter as a guest of Malachite.”

  The Solari stared for a charged moment, then took the stag cup and sipped. The others copied him. None hesitated.

  When the cup was empty, Marion splayed his hand over his throat and then offered his open palm to the newcomers in a wide, welcoming gesture. “Benvenuti in Malachite, Città dei Maschi.”

  Welcome to Malachite, City of Men.

  Exiles no longer, the men would be taken to the Refugio near the Bailey, to stay the winter and become accustomed to the city. New arrivals were never simply released into the streets to find their own way. Every new man was sent to the Refugio, and all must pass the judgment of the Highwarden. Occasionally, Marion would consult the higher offices of the Consolari on difficult cases, but in general, all prospective citizens were judged by the highwarden, and his decisions were final.

  If the men were able to adjust, they could take a second oath and become citizens. If they couldn't, they'd be taken to the Arsenale docks and regretfully put on a boat bound east for Solari. Queen Cathal loved her three sons, one heard, and Solari males lived more freely than those in Cwen, but Solari laws were harsh and unbending, even barbaric by Malakhan standards. The Solari arrivals were already refugees from that land, and Marion dreaded the knowledge that he may have to send some of them back there. As returning any males—azure or otherwise—back to the Cwen was forbidden, there was little choice. That stipulation had been part of the Peace: for good or ill, once the exiles reached the seawall, they were a Malakhan problem.

  A second option was to offer the exiles to Gathi, but the Consolari’s relationship with the Gathian empress was strained to the breaking point. All of Empress Orsula’s former treaties had been with the Teschio. To date, no agreement proposed by Kon Sessane had suited her.

  Marion fished in his pocket for a match as Silvere—northwarden of the Citta Alta and Solari-born himself—helped Piero led the new group away. The children would be raised as Malakhans, but among the adults perhaps half would prove to be suitable. Men who had grown up obeying a matriarch often could not adjust to a society where men married other men, raised children without women, and made their own decisions, doing everything for themselves. Misfit exiles tended to be disruptive and antagonistic for no cause and to no true purpose, finding fault with everything and spreading trouble. If they took a mate—and many did—they could not find contentment with him, and often abused him. Marion was a firm believer in weeding out those fellows as early as possible.

  He lit a brown cigarette and inhaled. That went well enough, he thought. Kon had assured him that it would get easier with time, that even Paladin had doubts in the beginning.

  Marion watched the silver skirl and ripple of black waves, his eyes narrowed against the smoke. He was no Paladin. He would never live to see his city restored to full glory, but at least his life was serving some purpose here. He had so much to atone for.

  He checked the tilt of the stars and glanced to Yves. “Jean?” he asked.

  Yves shook his head and shrugged, giving Marion a pitying look.

  Damn you, Jean, Marion thought. As southwarden of the Zanzare, Jean was required to attend Aequora. He’d been ordered to.

  And that’s precisely why he didn’t come.

  Marion said his farewell to Yves and returned to his waiting lowcoach and the journal he had left on the seat. He climbed into the comfort of the coach's rich upholstery and eased his shoulders. He considered taking a sandolo back to the Myrtles, but mosquitoes were vicious this time of year. A battery-powered lowcoach with velvet seats and doors that could be closed against the humid night was faster and much more comfortable, and now he could afford it.

  Janvier, the driver—a short, canny man attached to Kon’s household—rode on top of the carriage. The haughty Guardiers scorned the coachmen and sandoliers for their low profession, but Marion knew that every man needed to feel useful. If he and Jean hadn't discovered a talent for breaking skulls, they might have wound up the same.

  Jean. Marion frowned and knocked on the panel. It slid back and Janvier’s bright eyes came into view. “Messere?”

  “Colibri,” Marion murmured, and closed the panel before Janvier’s gaze turned knowing.

  He clicked a small switch and dim light flooded the carriage interior. Taking up the journal, he began to write a record of what he had seen as the coach rattled over short, humped bridges and down streets that became sturdier and wider with every turn of the wheels away from the Mire.

  In less than an hour, they crossed the Heron Bridge spanning the Canal Catena, and he was again in the Citta Alta.

  Home, Marion thought. But he was thinking of the shabby, raucous Colibri district and the narrow loft at the end of the Alley of Sparrows. He had shared that loft with Jean for years. Perhaps the elegant manse in the Myrtles would feel like home one day, too. He was going to try very hard to make it so. Tris deserved no less.

  When the lowcoach neared the Colibri, Marion pushed the round carriage window open to have a look. The Alley of Sparrows was not an alley at all, but a wide, square court enclosed by buildings and insulae in the middle of the district. The Falena tavern was as crowded and energetic as ever, brightly-colored flags flapping from the high brick towers and candles in every window.

  Marion gazed wistfully at the lively throng of men in the court, some drinking and dancing, some embracing in the flickering torchlight beneath the statue of winged Paladin, first magestros of Malachite. Delicate, painted cortigiano wrapped in silk robes played a game of fans under a striped awning, clients who could possibly afford
them hovering near. A few men were huddled near the ornate fountain, obviously having sex and with the participation of happy onlookers, while on the far side of the court, a fight was underway.

  Marion spared a few seconds to assess the brawl. The fighters seemed vicious enough, but although other men were watching and shouting encouragement, none were trying to interfere. If one man had enough, was outnumbered, or felt he was in mortal danger, he could always yield, and by law his opponent must cease. If the other fighter didn’t stop at once, some other man carrying an ordinary wooden bastone would break them up, or a warden would step in. With the Teschio defeated and dispersed, there were fewer murders these days, especially in the Citta Alta.

  Satisfied that the fight was lawful, Marion leaned back, leaving the window open so he could inhale the scents of home.

  The white wings of sea birds circled endlessly in the warm night air above the city, adding their cries to the music of forty thousand voices in a dwindling space. The sea took back a little bit more of the island chain every year, and at high tide many streets and palazzos flooded. A great deal of the knowledge needed to maintain the ancient foundations keeping the city dry and afloat had been lost to time. Tris Sessane’s small army of conservators and scholars were trying to recover it, but progress was slow.

  With the land shrinking faster than the populace, the lost knowledge was probably irrelevant, but Marion wasn’t a quitter. He hadn’t been appointed highwarden to quit. The number of exiles would increase, Tris would translate the data they needed, and his city would endure another thousand years.

  As the lowcoach rattled down a narrow cobblestone street adjacent to the Colibri, Marion spotted the shop he was looking for and rapped his knuckles on the roof.

  The coach rolled past a heliograph tower and stopped in front of a squat building wedged between two taller insulae. A new brick facade gave this shop an air of prosperity, as did the windows artfully draped in red velvet and the iron lock on the door.

  F. Cervo was engraved on a copper plaque above the lintel, affixed below a wooden carving of a stag. The door was closed to the night, but Marion saw lights within.