Part 8 (2/2)
The crowd growled and the Grewzian soldiers tensed visibly.
They beat that old man, those Grewzian pigs. Did they have to gag him as well? What do they think he could say? Then she remembered a sc.r.a.p of information culled from some long-ago text; the magical Cognition of Lanthi Ume's savants was verbal in nature, dependent upon the spoken word. The gag suppressed Preeminence Cezineen's arcane powers, such as they were. Then she remembered a sc.r.a.p of information culled from some long-ago text; the magical Cognition of Lanthi Ume's savants was verbal in nature, dependent upon the spoken word. The gag suppressed Preeminence Cezineen's arcane powers, such as they were.
The ranking Grewzian officer, grey uniform blazoned with the insignia of an undercommander second cla.s.s, was reading the order of execution aloud in halting Lanthian. The crowd was preternaturally intent, and Luzelle told herself that she should leave this place, but found herself paralyzed, unable to tear her eyes from the condemned savant's face. All but impossible at such a distance to read Cezineen's expression above the gag, but the old man held his head high.
The undercommander concluded. Without further ado a couple of his subordinates stepped forward, seized the prisoner, and unceremoniously slung him forward into the hole in the dock. Preeminence Perif Neen Cezineen hit water with a splash easily audible in the midst of that appalled silence, and the weight of his chains dragged him under at once.
His struggles, if any, were invisible. The bright morning sunlight danced on calm waters. It looked as if nothing had happened at all.
Such casually professional efficiency seemed to gall the watching Lanthians, and a mutter of bitter indignation arose. The mutter sharpened to a snarl, hostile agitation stirred the crowd, and somebody threw a reckless insult: ”Grewzian pustules!”
A flying rock underscored the sentiment. The missile missed the undercommander second cla.s.s by a hair. Instantly closing ranks, the Grewzians raised and leveled their rifles. The intensity of noise and popular fury mounted. Stones flew, along with empty bottles and bits of stink scooped up from the dock. The undercommander spoke, and his men fired into the heart of the crowd.
Luzelle felt the air sing. Her nearest neighbor-a poorly clad, pink-faced adolescent, no more than thirteen or fourteen years of age-squealed, clutched at his chest, and toppled from his place, slack body rolling down successive tiers of crates to land with a conclusive thud on the wharf below. Four or five others in her immediate vicinity likewise shrilled or grunted, grabbed at themselves, and fell.
She looked down at herself almost disbelievingly, scanning her own garments in search of spreading red stains. Nothing. She remained untouched. But for how much longer? The Grewzian soldiers, notoriously intolerant of foreign petulance, were already reloading. The crowd around her was boiling, half its members screaming for blood, the other half desperate to flee the docks. She herself belonged to the latter category.
But where to go? Her mind seemed to have slowed to a crawl.
Ticketing booths. Book pa.s.sage to Aennorve. That had been her original intention. That had been her original intention.
How to get there?
The wharf swarmed with howling humanity, she could never force her way through that throng. Moreover, the Lanthians-some of them, at least-had gone quite mad, and now, instead of beating a prudent retreat while they could, were deliberately provoking the Grewzian troops, pelting them with filth and refuse, screaming obscenities, waving their furiously impotent fists in the air.
The Grewzian undercommander spoke, his soldiers fired, and fresh shrieks arose. Luzelle scrambled down from her perch, vanis.h.i.+ng into the mob as Preeminence Neen Cezineen had vanished beneath the harbor waters. She was less of a conspicuous target now but, having abandoned her elevated vantage point, found herself packed tightly amid countless bodies, unable to move, unable to see, and all but unable to breathe. Anonymous humanity pressed her on all sides, someone's elbow was digging into her ribs, and the clamor of frantic voices was unendurable.
She heard the crack of gunfire, and then something like a whistle or a siren followed by another volley. For a few endless moments all was lunacy, pressure, and noise. At last, when she felt herself in real danger of suffocation, the dense surrounding ma.s.s rippled. The pressure eased a little, she sensed movement around her, and then she, too, was moving. A human current was carrying her along, and she could not have resisted if she had tried. She had no idea where she was going; she had lost all sense of direction, and the howling uproar had not diminished in the least.
The current quickened, the tight-packed throng loosened, and she could breathe-and even see-again. The wharf was littered with fallen Lanthians; wounded or dead, she couldn't judge their condition or their number, for the press of the crowd swept her along irresistibly. Gunfire popped, panic flared, and the mob convulsed. A violent shove from behind sent Luzelle cras.h.i.+ng against her nearest neighbor, who thrust her violently aside. She staggered, but stayed on her feet. Should she fall in the midst of that stampede, she would not rise again.
The retreat accelerated. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw a grey-clad squadron ranged across the wharf, advancing steadily to drive the mob from the site of the execution. Those citizens unwisely attempting resistance were being shot or bayoneted by the dozen. Those so unfortunate as to lose their footing were simply trampled.
Murderers. Barbarians. Even in the thick of that chaos she did not dare so much as whisper the words aloud. How easy it was to learn fear, but then, how proficient the teachers. Even in the thick of that chaos she did not dare so much as whisper the words aloud. How easy it was to learn fear, but then, how proficient the teachers.
The crowd was streaming along the dock, driven on by the bullets speeding inches overhead and by the staccato commands of the Grewzian shepherds. To the right, an alleyway running between two warehouses beckoned, and a human torrent poured into the opening.
She was off the wharf and running along some nameless little avenue. As she went, the way widened, divided, turned itself into a little market square, broke into crossroads, greened into a public garden, then narrowed and re-formed as a path edging one of the countless ca.n.a.ls. At each intersection the fleeing mob split and thinned until at last there was no more mob, no more rage and terror boiling through the streets, and she found herself walking alongside the water through a world miraculously tranquil.
Luzelle paused. A few feet away a stand of flowering trees shaded a public bench, currently unoccupied. She went to the bench and let herself sink down upon it, noticing for the first time that she somehow retained her death grip upon the valise containing her pa.s.sport, clothing, and money. Throughout the upheaval some unnoticed corner of her brain had apparently retained practicality. She set the valise beside her on the bench, and saw that her hands were trembling. Her heart raced and her lungs screamed, but she could hardly draw breath, for the steel stays of her corset compressed her mercilessly. Ridiculous that women should submit themselves to such torture, ridiculous and not to be borne. She herself would certainly rebel, should have done so years ago, but now was not the time to be planning sartorial revolt, not now when her head swam, her vision dimmed, and she felt herself on the verge of fainting. Absurd, she never fainted, she wasn't the type, and yet the world around her was oddly fogged and distant, and it might not be a bad idea to shut her eyes for a moment or two.
Elbow propped on the arm of the bench, she rested her head on her hand, allowed her lids to fall, and drank deeply of the springtime air. Soon her giddiness subsided, but the closed eyes were a mistake, for the images blazing through her mind sharpened. She saw the old man sink beneath the harbor waters, saw the grey soldiers firing upon the crowd, heard the Grewzian guns speak, heard the screams of pain and terror, saw the dead and wounded fall, smelled the blood and fear.
There was moisture upon her face, cold sweat and hot tears. Her shoulders shook. She would break down completely in a moment, another weakness she could not afford, so she sought refuge in anger.
Those Grewzians-the filthiest sc.u.m of the world, guilty of atrocities beside which the innocent savageries of the Bhomiri Islanders paled to insignificance. Cruel, murderous, pitiless, relentless-the very worst of humankind. Today she had learned how to hate them.
”Miss Devaire? You are ill?”
The words were spoken in Vonahrish. The voice was concerned, foreign, and familiar. She looked up and blinked, momentarily dazzled by the sunlight lancing through her tears, to behold the wavery outline of a tall figure topped with gold. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she muttered in disbelief, ”Karsler?”
His face changed a little, and she wondered if her free use of his first name surprised or offended him. Certainly the Judge would have deplored such impropriety, but it had slipped out and she couldn't apologize without looking worse than ever.
Perhaps the presumption failed to annoy him, for his look of concern deepened and his query trans.m.u.ted to a statement. ”You are ill. Allow me to a.s.sist you.”
”No. Thank you,” she returned, torn between grat.i.tude at his kindness and anger at the sight of his grey uniform. ”I am quite well, truly.”
”I think not.” He studied her. ”You will recover presently, but for now you should not be alone.”
She had nothing to say to that. She did not really want to be alone, sick and faint on a park bench in a foreign city. On the other hand, she hardly relished the society of a Grewzian officer, although she found herself tempted to make an exception in his case. But the point was academic, for he clearly did not intend to leave her.
”There are smelling salts in your valise?” Karsler inquired.
”No. I never thought I'd need any. I'm not usually so wobbly.”
”Wobbly? My Vonahrish is imperfect, but I believe I understand you. Today, however, you are wobbly, and surely not without cause.” He was eyeing her very intently, as if to read the mind behind the face. ”There was a riot breaking out upon the dock, just as the Grandlandsman and I departed. Were you caught in the midst of that disturbance? Roughly handled and alarmed, perhaps?”
”Yes.” Raising her head, she met his gaze squarely. ”Your countrymen were there, drowning an elderly civilian.”
”A convicted saboteur, I have heard. Such terrorists murder indiscriminately, and their suppression-harsh though it may seem-ultimately saves lives.”
”Perhaps. But many present believed this particular sacrificial victim innocent. When they ventured to object, the soldiers fired on the crowd.”
”As I understand it, my compatriots were attacked by an armed mob. This being so, they were obliged to defend themselves. I do not mean to discount the importance of this matter, nor do I deny its tragic nature. But it is certain that the troops had no choice.”
”The Lanthians were armed with pebbles and refuse, nothing more.”
”It is reported that many carried firearms.”
”Reported?”
”The news has spread through the city in a matter of minutes.”
”But you were not there to see for yourself?”
”No. I did not see for myself.”
”How did that happen, Overcommander?”
”You knew my name, a minute ago.”
She repressed a smile at that. And what sort of woman would even think of smiling at such a time? No doubt the Judge could have told her. Without acknowledging his remark she continued, ”I don't understand how you got away so quickly. I know I was one of the first off the Karavise Karavise to reach the customs office, and I didn't see you there, but you're saying that you pa.s.sed through before me, and were already leaving the wharf, when-” to reach the customs office, and I didn't see you there, but you're saying that you pa.s.sed through before me, and were already leaving the wharf, when-”
”No,” he told her calmly, but a shadow of constraint darkened his eyes. ”I was not obliged to pa.s.s through customs. In view of our nationality, the grandlandsman's t.i.tle, and my own commission, the requirement was waived in our case.”
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