They slowly gathered around Salbor Square. It took them all morning, though they were not to be blamed for that. They were the maimed, the feverish, the burnt and the broken. Victims all, who saw that their own tragedies were not yet done, and that their tragedies might yet become tragedies for others. They were unwilling to become the enemies’ weapon against the Throng. So they slowly dragged themselves to Salbor Square, the burned leading the blind, the spiritually broken carrying the physically maimed.
Some, the fittest of them, brought wide braziers, others, bundles of herbs and sachets of powder. Others brought instruments. Drums, mostly, or cowbells, or whistles. Simple things that a child could play untrained. The not-yet-dead brought everything they needed to Salbor Square.
The air around the breakfast table was a little delicate. ’Tok had sworn a blue streak when he heard what ’Ja had done. It was the first time Gentian had seen him lose his composure so completely. That more than any amount of description convinced her. The modestly dressed, quiet woman behind her chair was terribly, terribly dangerous. She looked like anyone else in the city. Gentian couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it… until she looked in the maid’s eyes and saw nothing. Like staring into a mirror and not seeing your reflection.
Not that ’Tok sent the maid away. He was mad, not insane. He just added a few pages to her already lengthy list of instructions, and clarified a few more things in person. Things like how tea was to be presented at home with family, at home with guests, in public with family, in public with guests, and the ways the rank of the drinkers should be subtly reflected in the ritual service. When violence is appropriate, and the many, many, many times it is not. It wasn’t that The Maid knew how to fight. She didn’t. She did, however, understand the biomechanics of movement to an inhuman degree, so once she saw something done, she could repeat it perfectly.
The Maid never bothered to block or parry. She either dodged and countered, or let it pierce her and countered. Everything was reduced to the most ruthless offense. ’Tok had sighed, and asked ‘Mbeki to assemble a manual on bodyguarding. It probably existed somewhere already. The Maid had just shrugged and went back to memorizing the proper modes of address for various officials.
The Maid prettily poured the tea, then stepped back from the table and faded into immobility. A sort of humanoid houseplant.
“So… what is her name?” Gentian finally felt compelled to ask. “She can’t simply be called The Maid, right?”
“She could.” ’Tok said. ’Ja nodded in agreement.
“That’s not a name, that’s a job description.”
“Loads of people called Smith or Fisher or Shepard. In almost every language too.” ’Ja disagreed.
“Mistress, did she really introduce herself as “The Maid?””
“Nope. She didn’t introduce herself at all. Her daughter’s name is Allie, I know that much. I think her father is still struggling to decide on a name.” ’Ja’s lips twisted with wry amusement.
“What’s he thinking?” ’Tok asked idly as he added a dollop of sharp marmalade to his toast.
“Hugo Runcible Trismegistus Saturnicus Pontifex Rune.”
“No!”
“Oh yes. Or Gert. Gert the Gardner.” ’Ja snorted as she dug into her grapefruit. “I thought it was that deadpan Bo humor until I saw him practicing both signatures.”
“Suddenly “The Maid” seems like a pretty fine name.” Gentian murmured. “Although there is an easy solution we are all missing here.” She looked over at The Maid, who was doing an excellent impression of a wax mannequin. “Maid? What is your name?”
The Maid became suddenly animated and looked over at Gentian. She made a perfect polite little curtsey, and said. “My name is-” and then made a sound like wind through mountain pine. A strong scent of a stream running over a pebble bed, cutting through the sodden loam of spring. The electric tingle of thinking you see a deer or rabbit out of the corner of your eye, and the anticipation of watching a flower bud and bloom. The taste, traveling down their nose and into their mouth, of sour red berries. All coming together to tell the story of young love in the mountains.
The moment passed. The family at the table needed a minute to collect themselves. ’Tok coughed. “The last time I argued with a Bo about their name, they gave me something plainly made up. When I insisted on their Clan name, they said “Bo something or other” and said they never used it. I suddenly understand why.”
Gentian and ’Ja nodded.
“Roberta is a fine old name for maids.” ’Ja offered.
“Sounds a bit foreign.” Gentian worried.
“It is. Or rather, the name existed before the City did.”
Gentian shrugged helplessly. She liked Berloitz as a maid name, but Mistress was rarely wrong on these matters.
“Maid? How would you feel about using the name Roberta?”
“Indifferent, Concubine.”
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’Ja shot Roberta a hard look. Which passed directly through her. ’Ja sighed and recalibrated for the thirtieth time in her brief acquaintance with The Maid. “Roberta, giving you a name can be interpreted as a gift or a sign of inclusion in the household. The correct response is either a rejection with an explanation and alternative, or more properly, a smile and an enthusiastic thanks.”
“Oh.”
There was a long beat.
“Why don’t you try it now?”
“Because nobody told me to?”
“Roberta, thank us for giving you a name in the manner I previously described!” ’Ja was hanging onto her patience with her fingernails.
Roberta smiled brightly, her face alive with innocent happiness. She curtseyed deeply and in a higher than normal pitched voice said- “Oh thank you! Roberta is such a lovely name. I will be very happy to be called Roberta! Thank you, thank you!” She beamed at the table. The beaming didn’t reach her eyes at all. The results were unsettling. ’Ja just closed her eyes and groaned.
They gathered in Salbor Square, where Xia Gentian had smashed through the murderers and rapists. Waving her spear, leading the Throng and Xia alike, leading the children, the sick, the lost. Leading them to safety. Not by retreating, but boldly charging forward. Forward! Forward! For Cold Garden, Xia and the Throng!
Well, they weren’t Xia, mostly. But they were the other things. And they would be pressing forward, without fear. Without regret. One last gift for the City and the people they loved.
Wrists missing hands loaded firewood into the braziers, as those with fingers untied bundles of herbs and loaded them in after. Those who could see mixed certain potions and drugs, then added them to the braziers as well. Drums were set around the square, the whistles distributed, the cowbells given to those who wanted them. Everyone had a last drink of water, and made sure their words were written down right on one of the loose sheets of paper passing around. The papers were collected and set aside. The crowd stilled. The moment gathered weight.
The drums began a slow beat, as the crowd started shuffling around. The burnt skin couldn’t handle it. It broke, tore, flaked away in the freezing winter air. Those brave enough to handle fire lit the braziers. Salbor Square quickly filled with dense, heady smoke. It smelled of sweet thyme, of small flowers in mountain valleys, of attar.
The drums picked up the beat, the whistles sporadically joined in, as the crowd picked up a song. Each celebrant had their own song, some with words, some without, some just howling notes that felt right. It was a cacophony, but these were the wounded and near dead of Cold Garden. Those who lived their lives in the days before the war. They each sang their own song, and let themselves fall into harmony. The Vault of Tears had opened, but they were unwilling to become the Furious Throng. So- one last gift. All they could give.
They breathed in the smoke, the holy narcotics easing their pain and firing their blood. They were dancing faster now, on broken legs and bloody stumps. Dancing and ignoring their tearing skin, infected wounds, charred eyes and ruined noses. Letting themselves be swept up in ecstasy one last time. Singing, playing music, being joyful together, one last time.
They danced, and sang, and shook. And fell. One by one, the dancers drove themselves to exhaustion, the drugged fumes and religious ecstasy pushing them far past what their ruined bodies could bear. Broken hearts could beat no more. The light in their souls burned brilliantly, briefly, and went out. The dancers fell. The chorus became silent. The few rasping breaths stilled. Salbor Square was silent once again. The icy winter wind blew away the last of the smoke and put out the braziers. All was still, the thousands of bodies freezing fast.
From the alleys came another procession. Their faces were numb with horror. Tears froze in beards and on eyelashes. Terrible grief. Terrible resolve. The Dusties came with wagons. The Humbles directed the pick up, and with nightmare rapidity, wagon after wagon filled. The corpses were taken to the warehouse to await partition. Then the wagons returned for the next load. Again and again.
Corpse after corpse, each defiled before death by this brutal world, taken with such reverence as could be managed to an abattoir of human flesh. Blood would be drained, organs removed and sorted, flesh, skin, hair, teeth, bone, all partitioned out. Ground, burned, dried, mixed with dirt or fungus or bacteria rich water. Stuffed into pillows. Turned into dentures. Turned into ink, or mortar, or to cool the soil when it was too acidic. Turned into fertilizer for trees. A forest of the dead.
There weren’t that many Humbles. Nowhere near enough. They begged their covens for help, and they got it. It would be long, horrible work. But they would do it. For a better world. And because they promised.
Gentian was poring over her papers in her room, trying to sort out which of the dozens of invitations she should answer. She had a secretary to assist her, of course, but they almost all seemed like important connections to make or maintain. It was so important, now of all times, to be seen. To be present. To be pushing forward those things domestically that would support them militarily. Each school under construction had come to weigh on her. They were the hope for the future, that the Throng wouldn’t merely survive, but flourish.
That one day, she might be forgiven for opening the Vault of Tears. That one day, far, far in the future, in her great-great-great grandchildren’s time, she would be remembered as an educator, not a murderer.
There was a polite knock on the door, and Roberta entered with a letter on a silver tray. “Letter for you, Concubine.”
“Thank you Roberta. Who is it from?”
“I don’t know. It was delivered by a young Dusty gentleman, who fled as soon as it was in my hands.”
Gentian looked oddly at Roberta, who just looked right back at her. Gentian shrugged. “Darce, open it please.” One reason to have a secretary was that all kinds of unpleasant things could come in letters. Best to let someone else open them first. Darce cut open the seal. It was just a dab of wax, holding together a single sheet of coarse paper. Many, many more loose leaves were folded inside it. Darce read the top page quickly and went pale. Read it a second time and dropped it in horror.
“Darce? What is it?”
“A final testament, Concubine. I am so, so sorry. It's… not fair. I’m so sorry. It’s not fair. You are already doing so much.”
“Pardon? Someone is bequeathing something to me and it’s a bad thing?”
“Yes Concubine, I’m afraid it is.” Darce drew a deep breath. “It seems that many of those badly injured in the Night of Burning Tears gathered in Salbor Square. They made a sacrificial offering. The-” Her voice choked. “The Revels. But they were all terminally ill. They physically couldn’t endure it. They knew it too. They didn’t want to be a burden, now especially. So they left their bodies to the Dusties, to become a new memorial park, somewhere outside the City. And they left their final words to you. That you might-”
Darcy’s voice broke, tears running down her face. She was a local girl, the same as Gentian. “That you might bring the light of their spirit forward. For Cold Garden, the Xia, and the Throng.”