NOT LONG AFTER Loriane and Ontane’s family passed the barrier, the road grew wider and rutted with tracks. Pools of muddy water covered the road in places, making passage difficult and messy.
Tandor sat unmoving and rigid, atop his camel, and Ruko lay, still unconscious, over the luggage in the cart. Neither had shown any sign of waking up, although Tandor’s face twisted in awful grimaces at times, as if he was trying to say something. Loriane hated seeing it, but after a few times, she ignored the horrible faces; they were probably just caused by muscle spasms.
Ontane led the camel. Dara and Myra walked behind, with Loriane following.
The going was slow.
The camel could not be shooed to go any faster. Loriane suspected that the animal was tired. On top of that, the tracks were deep and broad, much further apart than the wheels on their cart, which meant that the cart moved on an angle a lot of the time. Loriane wondered what sort of vehicles the Chevakians used that churned the road up so much.
They passed the occasional house, and a few times Loriane saw vehicles. They were nothing like Ontane’s cart. Much bigger, most with four instead of two wheels. Some had harnesses like they were meant to be drawn by animals, but some carts were huge and bulky, with barrels of dark metal, with chimney-like protuberances on top. There would be a covered cabin for people to sit, with chairs covered in fabric. Ontane said that those carts moved by themselves, through fire in their metal bellies and steam.
Tandor had often spoken of the Chevakian engines, but somehow she had never taken him seriously. Back then, his talk hadn’t mattered to her. Chevakia was far away and not a place she’d ever visit.
At one house they passed, a woman stood on the doorstep staring after the group. She held a broom and wore a neat and crisp dress, and a clean apron. She had dark hair, and didn’t look as Chevakian as Loriane had expected—didn’t they have sandy-coloured hair?—but this was clearly a woman from a much more civilised family than anyone except nobles in the city of glass could ever hope to be.
Loriane imagined what they must look like to her: a bedraggled group of travellers, their filthy clothes and their shaggy camel. The camels in the fields were much leaner. Their fur was short and neatly brushed. Most wore colourful harnesses with bells that tinkled as they walked.
Loriane had never felt ashamed of herself, not even in the Outer City, but now she did. Her clothes were dirty and she hadn’t washed in days. The machines frightened her, as did the strange animals, and the smells and the colours. There was so much light here. More than that, she felt so backward and stupid, and the people’s expressions only confirmed that.
“People here don’t like us much,” Myra said when Loriane mentioned it to her. “The Knights used to come and raid this area. They’d kidnap the older girls and take them to the City of Glass to serve as breeders.”
Loriane knew. There’d been that year, shortly after she started work as healer, that the birth rate at the palace almost doubled. Many of the Chevakian girls brought in by their masters were closer to death than living. Many had died in childbirth. Others had birthed malformed children before dying soon afterwards. And those were just the ones who had made it to the end of their pregnancy and hadn’t died horribly before that time. Chevakians didn’t survive long in the City of Glass. Even those who did developed horrible skin sores which eventually crept into their bones. The kidnappings had been nothing but a sad waste of young lives. Not even the surviving half-Chevakian children were entirely comfortable. Many, now Isandor’s age, had left, and lived, if not in Chevakia or Arania, on the edges of the southern plateau.
They came among more closely set houses, blocky and painted white. Yards had high walls, and in each grew at least one spreading tree. Children came out of gates to stare, bare-footed in the sand. It was so much warmer here that Loriane sweated under her dress and cloak. She hated the smell of herself. In the City of Glass, there were no smells, but here the earth breathed filth with every breeze. Everything stank, even the flowers on trailing vines by the side of the road.
The road was no longer a dirt track, but paved with smooth stones. Flowers grew in planter boxes, a riot of colour that hurt Loriane’s eyes.
Ontane and Dara, ahead, argued as usual.
Dara was suggesting that they set up camp in the field before going into town to get food.
“That’s just disgraceful,” muttered Myra, glaring at her mother. “You can’t expect mistress Loriane to sleep in a tent when there are guesthouses. Even Tandor never wanted me to sleep in a tent once we arrived in the City of Glass. You should say something, mistress Loriane.”
Loriane shook her head. “Soon, I’ll be taking Ruko and Tandor off your hands and let your parents be.”
“What? You’re not going to travel like this?” Myra’s eyes were wide.
“I don’t see what else I can do. I’ll sell something from Tandor’s chest to buy another camel. Ruko knows how to look after it. Tandor has family in Chevakia.”
“But they live in Tiverius.”
“Yes.”
“But . . . mistress Loriane, do you know how big Chevakia is? We’re only in the very southern province. This is the border town of Fairlight. Tiverius is days away from here. Days and days.”
Loriane shrugged. “It really can’t be helped. I have to go, and your parents have their own concerns. They don’t want to come with me.”
“Then I will.” Myra’s face was set. The baby in the sling was starting to stir and make noises, and she patted it. “I’m not going to leave you alone.”
Loriane didn’t know what to say. It was a nice gesture, but she really preferred to be alone, and people referring to her state as if it were a great illness made her angry. She had given birth alone, twice before. Once in a night with weather so foul she couldn’t possibly travel to the palace. Once in her practice rooms when she’d left going to the birthing rooms much too late. Once, too, she had to instruct the sled driver to assist her when the child refused to wait until they were at the palace. She wasn’t afraid. Her body was used to it.
They were still bickering by the time they entered the village and had come to what looked like a central town square. Under a collection of trees some sort of market was in progress, a handful of stalls where vendors sold fruit and brown things in baskets. Another sold fabrics. There was also a woman stirring a large pot over a fire. To the right, a makeshift pen held a handful of young camels. The scents of dung, cooking and people made Loriane’s stomach churn.
The people noticed the group of travellers. Merchants stopped doing whatever they were doing and watched. Children came around and asked questions. Loriane didn’t understand them. Tandor sat high on the camel in the bright sunlight. His head lolled to one side and he was drooling over the front of his cloak. Ruko lay like a deadweight on his stomach on top of the bags. Ontane had him lashed down so he wouldn’t fall off. The skin on his hands looked blue.
Villagers blocked their path until they were surrounded.
“Get out of the way, ye lot,” Ontane called. “We’ll not be doing ye any harm.”
The people chattered in Chevakian.
Ontane pushed Myra forward. “Ye talk to them.”
“What do I ask?”
“Ask them where we can find an inn—”
Dara interrupted. “I said we shouldn’t stay in this town. These bain’t our friends. If we go in an inn, they’ll rob us.”
“Please, Ma, stop it. It’s not as if we have anything worth stealing.”
“Myra! Don’t you dare be rude to your mother.”
Myra faced her father, eyes blazing. “I’m a mother, too. I need rest. We all need rest.”
“We do,” Dara said. “And if I’m to cook a meal, I’ll need time to buy some things, and I need hands to help me carry things.”
“Then what do ye want me to do, woman? Why are ye always bossing me around? I be doing the best I can and you—”
“Stop it, I said! Both of you! I’m sick to death of having such stupid, selfish, bickering parents.”
Loriane touched Myra’s arm. “Please, Myra, it’s all right.” She just wanted to be gone.
“No, it’s not all right. You need rest.”
They continued walking, because arguing was not going to bring a solution.
Their progress across the markets was slow. There were too many curious onlookers.
A couple of women were feeling the fur on Myra’s worn cloak. Ontane was shouting at the villagers to leave his daughter alone. Dara glared at them, her arms crossed over her chest. Loriane suspected that her defensive stance didn’t help the locals’ mood, but at least the villagers left him and the camel with Tandor alone.
Then a couple of men in brown uniforms pushed themselves through the crowd and came in their direction.
By the skylights.
“Tandor!” Loriane clutched his leg, hoping for him to wake up. He spoke fluent Chevakian and would know his way around.
But he didn’t wake. Everyone was arguing and yelling around them. Loriane understood none of it, and panic rose in her. It was a bad idea to come here. They were going to be locked up. They would be punished for something they didn’t understand they’d done—a sharp pain lanced through her belly.
She gasped.
Oh, little one, not now.
But the pain built, and burned. She had to stop walking. The yelling voices of people around her faded into meaningless noise.
“Loriane!” Myra put an arm around her shoulder, and then there were women all around her, touching her. She panted, chest heaving with deep breaths. Oh, this hurt.
One of the brown-uniformed men called out. The crowd parted at his words. Two other men formed a chair linking their hands and heaved Loriane off the ground. In the throng and smell of bodies, she fought not to scream. It was like someone was trying to poke through the skin from the inside. She put her hand on the spot and felt a sharp bump. By the skylights, what was that?
“Put me down! Stop!”
The men kept walking, jostling her and yelling at the people ahead, presumably for them to get out of the way. A woman came to walk next to her, holding her shoulders and gibbering words which she took as soothing.
“Stop! Where are you taking me—aaahhh!” Another stab of white-hot pain. Loriane grabbed instinctively for the spot. By the skylights, what was this? The bump had moved to the side.
“Loriane!” Myra came running from behind.
“Tell . . . them . . . to . . . put . . . me down.” A surge of bile burned in the back of her throat.
In between fighting to get the words out and struggling not to throw up, Loriane realised she’d screamed, something she’d sworn was for first-timers.
Myra spoke in halting Chevakian; the men put Loriane on her feet, and scrambled out of the way as she threw up her lumpy jelly, and a second time more jelly, bile and blood.
By the skylights.
Cold with sweat, shivering and very afraid, Loriane stared at puddle of vomit. Blood. This babe was eating her from the inside.
“I told you that you needed to see a healer,” Myra said, behind her.
“I don’t know what a healer can do. I’ve tried all the things a healer can to make this child move, but it’s bewitched. This is going to kill me.”
Myra went white in the face.
Loriane swallowed a further surge of bile. “Myra, we need some place away from people. Not a guesthouse, a barn or some such. I’m going to have to ask you to do something very unpleasant.”
She retched and coughed. By the skylights, the vomit went up her nose. She coughed, but that only made it worse. Her stomach cramped.
Myra nodded, her face white. It seemed she understood.
Loriane bent over and retched. More blood. Retched again, and again, until it felt her head would explode. She grew dizzy and fell to her knees.
Oh, by the skylights! She leaned over, panting. For a moment her vision went white.
It was a number of heartbeats before she realised the world had stopped.
No one moved to pick her up.
No one moved at all.
No one spoke.
Everyone stood still, eyes wide, staring at the sky.
There was only one sound: the same mournful keening she had heard when they passed the barrier, and it was increasing in volume. A woman screamed.
One of the brown-uniformed men shouted something and all around people started running, hurling themselves at doors.
The volume of the keening increased.
People screamed, crowding before doorways, pushing each other in, scrambling over the fallen, punching others out of the way.
Loriane scrambled up, clamping her hands over her ears, looking at Myra for a clue what to do, but Myra’s face was just as bewildered.
Windows shattered, showering glass into the street.
Then there was bright flash of light, a moment of intense silence, a gust of wind and an enormous bang that shook the ground. Roof tiles flew into the street. The entire facade of a house collapsed. A cold wind tore through the street, ripping washing off lines, overturning market stalls and rubbish bins.
And there was silence.