September 24th, 1795 aex
Mak Garde
Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben
Picklewood was not a bustling place by any means. Especially when compared to the big cities in the North. Nevertheless, the town disquieted Mak. The smithy hissed and clanked and stank nearly as much as the tannery behind the leatherworker’s shop. The road often teemed with more people than the town housed. Merchants, business men, farmers, traveling priests who thought the South needed saving despite local priests being just as adequate, and other unwanted types entered and exited the town as quick as an outhouse. What bothered him most, however, was the train station. He hadn’t hated it until the northerners’ visit that morning, but now just the sight of it, notably the Westen Freight logo, caused him to grip Butterhoof’s reins with white-knuckled fists.
A great cylindrical train, its steel dark as soot, roared down the track. Fizzore reacted with water in the boiler, creating thick red steam that howled from the whistle, dwarfing nearby conversations with its shriek. Its chugging weakened, and its speed died down as it approached the busy station. A bell rang, and dozens of men and women scurried about, tending to some business Mak could never understand, nor would he want to.
Sheriff Meadows resided in the cozy, slender structure to Mak’s left. The man and his family were kind folk. His four children, all girls, sat on the front porch with their mother, cleaning muskets. They used to knit, but the sheriff didn’t want every lawbreaker in the vicinity to have such easy access to his family once he took office. His wife had refused to spend her days indoors, so the sheriff compromised and allowed them to sit outside if they cleaned the deputies’ guns. To date, it had been enough to dissuade any wrongdoers. The only downside was the running joke it spread through town. An image of idle deputies knitting quilts and baby clothes in the sheriff’s office.
Missus Meadows tipped the brim of her white, woolen hat and poured water into musket’s long barrel through a tin funnel. Mak returned the greeting.
“And keep that boy of yours away from my daughter,” she bellowed.
Mak faced her but continued his slow pace up the street. “You must be mistaken, ma’am.” He couldn’t even convince himself.
“No mistakes here.” Missus Meadows poured a dirty mix of water and gunpowder from the barrel back into the bucket beside her chair for later use. “Only your boy can be so persistent. Check his backside for broom marks and tell me if you still doubt it.”
Mak laughed and shifted his eyes to the woman’s daughter—an average-looking girl of Sherik’s age. She did not react and simply focused on disassembling a gun. Her sister, the sheriff’s eldest, sat to her right. She had a couple years on Sherik, must’ve been close to eighteen. Her face, however, was red as fizzore steam, and Mak thought he could see a bit of it whistling from her ears she was so embarrassed. He rode on. He’d give the boy a good talking to, but he couldn’t keep the grin off his face.
Butterhoof flinched to another steam whistle’s cry. The steed was more relaxed with Sherik. Mak patted her neck and clicked his tongue in a calming manner. The horse maintained composure and continued for the mayor’s office.
The mayor’s door was indeed free and uncluttered. The mass of northerners had not only dispersed but disappeared entirely. Mak swiveled his head, wary for black coats or colourful dresses, but found none. They must’ve retreated to the bakery with Aldren and Androck. There was no sign of them. No horses, no carriages, though it was nothing for them to purchase expensive train passage at will.
A line of centaur slaves stood still, quiet, and forlorn not far from the bakery, chained to wooden poles barely strong enough to contain them. Their bison-like bodies, gorilla-like torsos, and massive bull-like heads granted more strength than ten men combined. Shaggy fur flowed in the warm, southern breeze. Northern centaurs were more docile and easily domesticated, which made them better slaves than their short-furred counterparts in the South.
The nearest centaur puffed a cloud of dust from large nostrils. Its eyes were human, a small, dark circle amidst a field of white. It shifted its weight and rolled its head to work out kinks in a massive, muscular neck. Wooden beads that bore some sort of spiritual meaning in whichever tribe the slave had been taken from hung from white horns, shaved down to a dull stump only half their natural length. The centaur waved a hand in a slow circle. A tiny shape was branded into the skin of its palm. Mak narrowed his eyes and leaned forward on Butterhoof’s back. It was the silhouette of a lizard.
Mak returned the greeting with a slight raise of his chin. Centaur slaves made him sick. He didn’t like the idea of someone doing his work for him, and he liked the idea of someone doing it against their will even less. The common argument was that no one had any problems letting oxen and horses work for them, and he supposed that was true, but the centaur had a language, culture… He shrugged the idea away as another train chugged northward from the station.
He hitched Butterhoof to a pole before the mayor’s office and fed her a compact bundle of hay from the saddlebags. A wooden trough filled with old, stagnant water spanned the row of hitching poles. Mak winced at the thought of Butterhoof drinking such filth when she was used to the river at home. He patted her neck sympathetically and started for the door.
Sheriff Meadows was smoking a pipe on his porch. “G’day, Mak. Your boy staying out of trouble?”
Mak smirked. “You tell me.”
The sheriff had brought Sherik home many late nights. The boy may have been lazy on the farm, but his ambitions elsewhere were unmatched.
“Haven’t seen him in a while,” Meadows said. “Either he’s smartened up a little, or he’s a better sneak than most.”
A scrawny woman garbed in the over-large dresses of the North exited the mayor’s office. Her hair was tall and filled with jewels and dozens of intricate braids. He imagined Konni having to style her hair like that every morning. There’d be no time left for chores. The woman’s neck and wrists were exposed and showed barely any meat on her bones. It was rare to see such a skinny northerner, especially one of obvious wealth, but, despite what her dress-exaggerated hips would have one believe, she had the appearance of a starving vagabond.
“Excuse me, good man,” she said when Mak wouldn’t move out of her way. It was generally accepted that both participants in the event of oncoming traffic, would move to the right and concede the left to the on-comer. Perhaps there were no such civilities in the North. She cocked a brow. Her eye-lids were slathered with green powder, her brow slicked with a green paste—a custom the northerners had taken from the natives that had, unfortunately, worked its way south. He winced at the thought of Jerri or Skylde partaking. “Will you move, good man?”
“I’m on the right side, ma’am,” Mak spoke with respect. “I don’t know how things are where you’re from, but down here, we just move to the right for our peers.”
The word “peers” seemed to send a shudder down her stiff spine. “I am niece to the owner of the Westen Freight Railing Company.” She said it as if it had anything to do with a simple, wordless custom that worked for generations to avoid daily pile ups in the streets.
“That so?” Mak said. “What a coincidence.”
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“Whatever do you mean?”
“Nothing.” He gave up. Mak moved aside and let the woman pass.
Her chin rose triumphantly and she tip-toed by with the speed of a lame horse. She moved across the street and sauntered into Missus Brelda’s bakery.
Mak exchanged a grin with the sheriff. Meadows shook his head. “Too many of ‘em.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Mak said. “Bass in?”
Meadows nodded. “Don’t expect him to be in a good mood.”
Mak tipped his hat and entered. He remembered the pack of northerners clustered before the mayor’s door. No man could keep a good mood after that.
The mayor’s office was a squat building, flat-faced like the rest and conjoined with the sheriff’s office. They shared a porch but had individual doors. The sheriff and deputies hitched their horses and parked their carriage behind the building to keep the streets uncluttered.
Inside, was a common room where the mayor spent time with important guests or talked business with the sheriff. A large wooden table occupied the centre with a dozen chairs neatly tucked beneath it. A charred hearth of brick sat extinguished on one wall, its mantle decorated with a row of bronze tankards, arranged in order of height. A yellow upholstered chair was not far from the hearth. Its cushion was flat and the material where backs rested faded. Deep scars in the wood-panelled floor stretched from the chair’s legs to a comfortable spot before the hearth.
A clock hung on the opposite wall, ticking ceaselessly over a bronze likeness of the golden spear of God, a representation of God’s ascension to Akwarea. Mak studied the clock. Jerri had tried to teach him how it worked once, but he’d given up and tended to a pile of manure that needed spreading instead, claiming that such novelties were a waste of time when one could simply reference the position of the Sun.
Mak moved to the open door of the mayor’s office. He knocked before entering. Mayor Henray Bass looked up from a document he’d been reading and smiled. “Hello, Mister Garde,” he said. The mayor was a handsome man even a year or two over fifty. He had a clean-shaven face with bushy brows sprinkled with grey. He wore a brown leather vest lined with fur, a white shirt beneath it with a high collar. Plain tan hose hugged muscular legs, and heavy, black work boots enveloped his feet, as was the style among the richer folk so far from the city. At least our rich folk know how to work, Mak thought.
“What can I do for you?” the mayor asked in a commanding but friendly tone. He got up, moved past his desk, and shook Mak’s hand—a firm, respectful shake. The Picklewood sabre hung at the mayor’s belt. A beautiful, slender blade with an overly ornate hilt and hand guard. Every district in the colony had one, but only in Picklewood did the mayor wear it with pride, while others hung on walls, useless.
“Good afternoon, Mayor Bass.” Mak removed his hat. “I was wondering if you knew anything about the Westen Freight Railing Company and their business in and around Picklewood.”
The mayor’s smile melted, and he returned to his chair behind the desk. He reached into a drawer and fished out a bottle of Larryk’s whiskey with two cups, all in one swift motion as if he’d done so a thousand times. The handful of hardware clinked onto the table and he popped the cork. “You want one?”
“No, thank you, sir.”
“Take a seat,” the mayor signalled to the chair across his desk. He poured two glasses despite Mak’s answer and pushed one in front of his guest, replaced the cork, and sat back, inhaling the aroma before sipping.
Mak sat and pulled the half-filled cup closer but did not drink. He watched the mayor, eager for the man to speak. Henray Bass simply swirled the whiskey in his cup and sipped at it, avoiding Mak’s eyes.
“Mayor Bass?”
The mayor cleared his throat, drained his cup, and smacked it onto his desk, a bit harder than he had probably intended. He took a deep breath, looked as though he was about to speak, but then poured himself another and began to sip.
“With all do respect, sir,” Mak said, “my horse is hitched out front and I’ve got some valuables in the saddlebags. My girl’s fiddle. I’ve been meaning to get it fixed for a while now.”
“Don’t worry about that.” The mayor’s voice was suddenly hoarse. “The deputies keep an eye on whatever’s hitched out front. Only the biggest fools attempt to steal from guests of the law.”
“About Westen Freight, sir…”
The mayor put up a hand. “They’re asking for your land?”
He was going to say “yes” but realized that was a lie. “No, sir. They’re outright claiming it. Found them on my property this morning. Confronted them about it and they waved a few pieces of paper in my face claiming they had every right to do what they were doing. I never signed off on it, sir.”
The mayor drained a massive gulp of whiskey and grimaced while forming a fist over the empty glass. He took a few breaths before his face returned to normal. He set the glass down, brushed his fingers through thick brown hair, and coughed. Again, he refused to speak.
“Mayor Bass, I just want to know if you can tell me anything about this?” Mak kept his voice calm with growing difficulty. “Do you have any advice on what I can do to fight them? Jerri, my oldest daughter, tells me that no document can be official unless they have my signature, and I know I didn’t sign anything of the sort.”
The mayor was about to pour another glass but decided against it, plugged the bottle and returned it to the drawer whence it came. Mak expected another bout of silence, but the mayor spoke. “The document is useless without your signature unless it is signed by a governing official.” His thick brows came close together, the skin around his blue eyes wrinkled. “A governing official, like a mayor.”
Betrayal. “Why would you sign such an order?” Mak eyed his whiskey much more considerately.
The mayor watched Mak’s cup as well and said nothing.
“Who in hell came up with a rule like that?” Mak asked, clinging desperately to his temper.
“The new governor.” Disgust raised Bass’ lip. “Gallon Water.”
Mak blinked, perplexed. “What do you mean, gallon water?”
The mayor tilted his head, then realized the misunderstanding. “It’s the governor’s name. Gallon Water.”
“That’s an odd name,” Mak said with a furrowed brow.
“It only sounds odd.” Bass reached for a sheet of paper and a beautiful violet quill, dipped the tip into a small bottle of black ink, and scribbled something on the blank sheet. Mak sighed as the paper was turned around for him to read.
Gallan Wadder was written on the page, but the symbols meant nothing to Mak. He never learned his letters. He nodded, pretending to understand. “Governor or not, no official should be able to infringe on a man’s freedom like that.”
“I agree,” Bass said, returning the paper and quill to their initial positions.
“Then why’d you sign?” Mak hoped he didn’t sound too confrontational. Anger was not the proper tool for the job.
“I was… threatened,” Bass avoided Mak’s eyes.
“Threatened?” Mak was dumbfounded. “You’re the mayor. Who could’ve possibly threatened you?”
“Westen Freight is a big company,” Bass said. “Governor Water has bought out every other rail business in the colony and shut them down. He gave Westen Freight their business, then forcefully bought half the company. This might partially explain why your taxes have gone up as much as they have. This new governor is making moves. Expensive moves. I’m sure he’s doing what he thinks is best for the colony, though.”
The word “taxes” caused Mak’s jaw to clench. He’d meant to come visit the mayor about that eventually, but the intruders were the higher priority that afternoon. “I still don’t understand who threatened you. Or why you signed off on one of your citizen’s right to own land.”
“I can’t tell you much,” Bass said.
“Why not?” Mak’s voice rose slightly. “I think I deserve a bit of information after everything that’s happened.”
“Of course, you do,” Bass shifted in his chair, pulling at the front of his vest as if he was too hot. “It’s just… I…” He couldn’t find the words.
Mak was frustrated. For all he knew, the strangers could have been on his land as they spoke, laying rail. “Mayor Bass, please.”
“I refuse to tell you of my cowardice,” he blurted. He did not avoid Mak’s eyes. They locked for a long, silent moment. “I was a coward, Mister Garde.”
“I don’t understand,” Mak leaned in closer. “Can’t you just tell me what happened?”
“I wish I could,” the mayor’s face darkened. “It’s the lad.”
“Which lad?”
“I’m not fully sure who he is.” Bass leaned back in his chair as if a heavy weight was lifted from him. “But he is no doubt in charge of everything concerning Westen Freight and Picklewood. I think he’s the owner’s son. A young man, maybe twenty. Real northern stench to him. Thinks he’s king of the new world. Guvson. His name is Guvson.”
“Is he who threatened you?”
“Accept his deal,” the mayor ignored the question. “I beg you. Accept his deal.”
Mak’s brow dropped. “What deal? Nothing was offered to me.”
“You won’t be compensated?”
Mak remembered Aldren Knester saying something of the sort. “Nothing they offer would even make me consider selling my land, even such a small portion of it.”
“You farmer types are all the same.” The Mayor rubbed a hand over his tired face. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do about this.” His face was still buried in his palms. “I signed that damn paper and that makes it official under Governor Water’s new law. I will give you one last piece of advice, though.” He let his hands fall flat to the surface of his desk and looked into Mak’s eyes. “Take the deal. If you trust your mayor, you will take the deal.”
“Trust flew the coop when you signed that paper.” Mak couldn’t look him in the eyes. He’d respected the mayor for so many years. The visit had not helped him like he expected it would. In fact, the situation was worse than he could have imagined. Mak stood after draining the whiskey and turned for the door.
The ride home would feel longer with no one on his side.