Last First Snow (12 page)

At least he'd said “we,” not “I.” But all the rest was so adroitly wrong, words and delivery alike. To Elayne, the wind-speaking and the cloud-face were cheap tricks barely worth the effort. But as far as the crowd was concerned, the King in Red had seized the very power they wanted to deny him: the ability to awe them.

“Thank you,” Kopil said, and the wind ceased. The image in the sky did not so much fade as break. Black hollows of eye sockets became perturbations in the underbelly of a cloud, cheekbones a distortion of wind through smog. Sunlight returned, meager and emaciated by Kopil's Craft. The King in Red clacked his teeth together twice, and said, “That's better.”

Elayne almost punched the skeleton in his absent nose. She clenched her jaw instead, and recalled advice Belladonna Albrecht had given her decades ago when she had been the fiercest fledgling at Kelethras, Albrecht, and Ao: We cannot save our clients from themselves. Someday in your career, Elayne, you will represent a man—almost certainly a man—who wants you to help him barter his soul to a demon for three wishes. When that day comes you may refuse his business, you may try to change his mind, but in the end if hell he wants, hell he will achieve.

Chel marched toward the King in Red, furious, ready to run into a hell of her own. Zoh blocked her path. She tried to shove past him, and he grabbed her. Around them, the crowd stood from the flagstones to which they'd fallen. Fearful groans became cries of rage.

How could she stop this? She could take to the skies herself, but the crowd wouldn't listen to her.

Chel tore free of Zoh. Temoc turned.

The cordon almost broke.

An accident might have started it, a stumble cascading through the crowd. Red-arms tripped and almost fell. Wardens raised their truncheons. Tan Batac glanced around, eyes wide as a starting horse's; his face twisted into a weird smile.

Temoc reached for the King in Red, and closed his eyes.

So did Elayne: the remnants of Kopil's speech-Craft hung about them like an untied knot. Temoc grabbed those loops and pulled.

The wind returned—but this was no cold northern gale. Temoc's was a desert wind, the wind of the Badlands before the God Wars, the wind that spoke to vision-questing shamans. The crowd fell silent. Anger stilled to expectation. Eyes turned skyward.

This time there were no shadows, for Temoc was no Craftsman. His scars were divine gifts, and through them he held power gently. His face took shape over Chakal Square, constructed from sunlight and smog and faith.

“Thank you,” he said. “I thank the King in Red. We are happy—” Some shouts of protest there, but Temoc ignored them. A tense silence fell. “We are happy you have come. Many Craftsmen would trust magic and Wardens to guard them from dissent. But you come in person to hear our voice. You led a revolution, in your time. You know what it is to be cast out by those in power.” The first cries of assent rose. “You will listen to us. You will deal with us.” More shouts, these of support. Up Temoc! Preach! “We are not mad, or shortsighted, or desperate. We are not weak. We are the people, and we are wise. We are the people, and we know the future. We are the people, and we are patient. We are the people, and we are strong.” Cheers now. And stillness, too, rapture as the river of Temoc's words flowed on. “Let us build a better future. Let us make peace.”

Peace
echoed across Dresediel Lex. Temoc's face merged with the sky, and the man below opened his eyes. All light had left his scars, spent in seizing Kopil's Craft, but he stood strong and straight opposite his adversary.

The silence of crowds differs from that of an empty room. In Chakal Square after Temoc's speech, thousands breathed. A child cried. Feet shuffled on stone. Banners flapped. Whispers were a breeze through willows. Did you hear?

Yet for all this sound there was still silence between Temoc and the King in Red.

“Good speech,” Kopil said.

Zoh released Chel; she brushed off the sleeves of her jacket as if filth, not silver, covered the Warden's hands.

“We needed one.” Temoc gestured to the group. “Allow me to introduce the Chakal Square Select Committee. In the coming days you'll grow to know them better.”

“Them?” Tan Batac's first word to Temoc.

“I am not a member,” Temoc said. “I facilitate. I hope to be a calm counselor to these people, as Ms. Kevarian is to you.” Elayne listened for the contempt she'd heard in Temoc's voice when he spoke of Batac before, but she heard none today.

She allowed herself a glimmer of hope. This might work.

“Very well.” Kopil hooked his thumb bones through the belt of his robe, and advanced on the Select Committee. “Shall we get to business?”

 

17

Business was boring. Which, of course, had been the plan and the hope. Scintillating and dramatic negotiations rarely produced good results. Within the green tent and Elayne's ward, the crowd outside might as well have never existed. Here they could sit and talk. And talk.

They sat around a rickety table in camp chairs better suited to the hosts' rumpled practical clothing than to Tan Batac's silks. A water pitcher occupied the table's center, flanked by glasses. No pastries this time. No food at all. Light through the tent's oculus formed an eccentric ellipse on the table as the meeting opened, slowly compressing to a circle. Fitting symbol, she hoped, for their meeting—at least until noon. After that, the circle would distort once more.

The hosts introduced themselves. Kapania and Bill Kemal she had seen in the fight that first day, though she did not realize they were married then; they led Chakal Square's Food Com, and in their private lives ran—had run—a small restaurant with a charity attached. The Major gave his war name, and crossed his arms. Hal Techita, of the cane and the grim countenance, was a community organizer. The large woman was Red Bel. And so on.

After introductions, Elayne poured herself a glass of water, and said, “Let's each present our proposals in clean language. There's no audience to win here; we want to forge a compromise.”

“We want to forge a compromise,” said Kapania Kemal, “if there is one to forge. From what I've heard of your plan, I don't think there's much chance of that.”

“We'll go first,” Elayne continued. “Then you can explain your goals. I think we have a good deal of common ground.”

Kapania frowned, but leaned back anyway into her chair.

Elayne summoned the Skittersill in ghostlit outline above the table. Not as convenient as pulling them all into a shared dream, but these people were uncomfortable with Craft. Also she hoped that with the Skittersill in miniature, their problems would seem small, too.

“When the first settlers reached Dresediel Lex from Quechal-Under-Sea, they found a natural bay separated from the desert by mountains. Patterns emerged as the settlement grew: social categories and custom divided the land, and gods reinforced those patterns. The Skittersill was reserved for temple slaves. As far as the local wards are concerned, it still is. But Dresediel Lex has no gods anymore. Their death left holes in the protection they offered this community. If we don't patch these holes, disaster isn't just possible—it's certain.”

Steel plates clacked against one another and steel wires twanged as the Major shook his head. “You preach disasters that have not occurred.”

“Imagine an enormous sand castle. On the first day the tide washes in, and the walls hold—but they're weakened. The next day, they hold, too. And the third day, and the fourth. But over time the battlements grow so weak a breeze tumbles them into the sea.”

“Typical Craftsman response,” said Bel. “Don't fix a broken system. Don't understand it. Just replace it with something you think works better.”

“We understand this system,” Elayne replied. “The old wards need gods to work, and the gods are gone. The traditions have failed, too—no one from the Skittersill attends high temple sacrifices these days, for instance, since there are no sacrifices. No one works in the blood vats, because there are no blood vats. Families are no longer dedicated to holy slavery, because the Craft does not permit the purchase or sale of sentient beings.”

The Major shifted in his chair, but said nothing.

“The existing wards require such activity of Skittersill residents. The traditions' failure leaves loopholes, ratholes. We need to start anew, and replace wards woven by gods with ones made by and for human beings. In a way, we face the critical question of our post-God Wars century. Can we build a world for ourselves?”

She paused for effect, and to listen. No replies. No questions. They waited for her to continue. The hook was in.

In two states is the mind most vulnerable, she remembered Alexander Denovo saying, in the dark days when they worked together: in sleep, and in rapt attention to a story. She'd used no Craft to bind their will. Her own ward would block such tricks. But rhetoric was a Craft all its own. Elayne's words invited the Chakal Square protesters to share her vision, to join a group of heroes struggling against all odds to save the world.

“So,” she continued. “This is what we propose.”

And their work began.

*   *   *

“We cannot agree, we will not agree,” Bel said two hours later, leaning over the table with her eyes fixed on Tan Batac as if a gaze could skewer him, “to any plan that lets you and your cronies sell our homes wholesale to Shining Empire brokers, or bulldoze them and build casinos.”

Batac inflated with outrage and offense. “Is it theft to enrich a poor community? To replace rotting tenements with palaces? Is it theft to improve the lot of my people? I was born here. I played in the same streets you did, Bel. I can talk any slang you talk. The difference between us is that I am trying to give something back.”

“Give back?” Bel's voice sharpened. “You can only give back if you've taken first. You take our homes and give back a gutted community. You take our livelihoods and give back vague promises of jobs that never come. You take a place that doesn't belong to you, and give back one that does.”

“Volumes of facts. Tables of figures. The opinions of a host of experts from the Hidden Schools and the Floating Collegium and even Seven Islands. Liberal and conservative prophet projections for five decades of development. They all support me. This proposal you rail against, these innovations you call desecrations, will be good for the Skittersill. Our plan brings jobs. Construction. Tourism. Soulstuff will flow to local pockets. The docks won't be the only paying work anymore. What else do you need to see?”

“I can tell you what I'd like to see.” She cracked her knuckles against the table.

“Why don't you?” They'd leaned so far toward each other that Elayne half expected them to forego words and simply slam their skulls together. Unlikely, alas. Skull-slamming might have offered more chance of compromise.

“I'm sorry,” Elayne said, and Bel and Batac turned to her. She showed them her watch with an expression of regret she hoped was not obviously feigned. “It is time for our break. Sunlight will do us all good.”

Batac held Bel's gaze for an elegantly timed heartbeat, then straightened, ardor and anger set aside like children's toys. He smiled an easy, self-effacing smile, the smile of a man caught in an embarrassing situation. “Of course. I'm sorry. I appreciate your candor and your passion, Bel.” And he left. Bel stared at his retreating back with a stunned expression Elayne recognized from pankriatists flipped onto the mat.

Elayne started to follow Batac out, hoping to corner the man and talk sense into him, but Kopil's cold hand grabbed her arm. “I'll take care of it.”

“We need him in line,” she said.

“I said I'll take care of it.” A voice of sand-scraped bone. His robes flared as he strode from the tent.

Elayne sorted through her briefcase as, across the table, the Chakal Square Select Committee spoke among themselves. She didn't eavesdrop, exactly, but she was pleased when she saw the Kemals approach Bel and speak in low, conciliatory tones. They glanced over to Elayne, who took the hint and left.

Noon sun burned the sky blue, blinding after the dim tent. Soft dry breezes bore smells of crowd and incense and leather and cloth, and beneath all that the city's brick, adobe, and oiled stone. No sea salt here. A few scant miles from the ocean and they might as well have stood in central Kathic corn country.

Light streamed through her closed eyelids, painted the spiderweb space a rich orange, webs of blood and skin and sun rather than Craft. Elayne's muscles had knotted in their long sit. She reached on tiptoes for the sky, and arched her back. Cracks and pops cascaded down her spine.

“Sounds tense.”

Chel's voice. Elayne opened her eyes. The woman stood beside her, hands in her pockets. “It is,” she said. “The crowd seems calmer.”

“A bit.” Chel picked at her red armband. “That thing in the sky pissed people off. Got me thinking.”

“What about?”

“You remember that first day? When I tackled you.”

“I still have the bruises.”

“I thought you wanted to kill Temoc.”

Elayne waited.

“If you wanted to kill him, I couldn't have stopped it. At most I would have got myself killed first.”

“It was a brave thing you did.”

“And that I'm asking my friends to do.”

“You mean the red-arms,” she said.

“Me and my friends, we're second-, third-generation dockhands. Whatever game Batac's playing in the Skittersill, we aren't winning. Wages are down, and if the rents go up like they will if Batac gets his way I don't know what we'll do. Scatter, most like. Work in the factories, butcher for Rakesblight, sign our bodies to zombie in the almond groves. So we do what we can to keep order here. But, hells, that face in the sky. We must seem like ants to him. And I've put my friends under the magnifying glass.”