Neighborhood after neighborhood was mobilized and pushed to the east of the city. First the militia cleared the bandits out, and sent the refugees back towards the city center. Then came the volunteer firefighters with their painted pump wagons and heavy buckets. “The Jeung Family Firefighters,” “Warre Mill Fire Brigade,” “Black Rock Smokeys.” They came swarming in, faces rigid, the blessed irons lifted with irreverent haste for the twentieth time today. They couldn’t weep anymore. The fires had burnt out their tears. They cut away and tore down and pried open, always desperate to save one more life, to stop the fire spreading, to just bring an end to this hell. They cut and hacked and tore and sprayed water until they ran out of fire to fight, then they collapsed like the dead they had stepped over all night. They were pulled into warm tents, wrapped in blankets, given hot tea and thick vegetable stew with a big piece of crusty bread to sop it with. When the bowls were scraped clean and they just stared into the emptiness between their hands, then they could cry.
After the firefighters came the relief committees. Every neighborhood, every living chanticleer, every Xia Clan apartment building moved. Everyone could help with something, so everyone must help with something. This was Cold Garden. They didn’t have to be told. Every extra blanket that could be rounded up, was. Every extra bit of food that could be spared. Guest bedrooms were cleared out, then living rooms, then hallways, kitchens, attics and basements. Ready to receive those in need. Restaurants and bakeries opened, churning out food as fast as they could make it. Kitchens spread out into the streets, as sandwiches were formed on assembly lines and tea boiled in ten gallon pots. And everywhere, everywhere, was the Xia symbol.
Xiatoktok looked at the assembled chanticleers, many of whom had taken real pleasure in humbling him just a few months ago. Later, he would gloat. He was too damn busy to indulge now.
“This is what we are for. Picking up the pieces after an apocalypse, and making sure humanity does not just survive the long night, they live. I have received permission to throw open our storehouses for the City.” He held up a sheet of vellum weighted with wax seals. “So what I need to know, as precisely as possible, is who needs what, where. The Clan is mobilizing around the apartments and major employers. If we can consolidate the refugees into a few centers, it will be easier to get them supplies.”
The chanticleers nodded at that. “So how do we connect refugees and supplies? Right now they are scattered all over.” One asked.
“Round ‘em up. Pack ‘em into the nearest square, the nearest warehouse, the nearest place that can hold a couple of hundred or couple of thousand people. We have runners set up in most neighborhoods now, so just tell ‘em numbers and any special needs. Like, are there a lot of babies, elderly, sick, no public latrines nearby, that kind of thing. We know roughly what people need for food, water, warmth, all that, so we can get the most urgent supplies to them as fast as we can carry them. Help shifting supplies is going to be needed, obviously.” They nodded at that. Then got to work.
The battle for Cold Garden didn’t have a neat ending. It just petered out as the raiders were cleared out, fires were put out and refugees were sheltered piece by piece, place by place. The urgent crisis of battle was replaced by the urgent crisis of thousands of dead and tens of thousands of homeless people. Almost a quarter of the city’s housing stock was burned, and winter was a long way from turning the corner into spring.
Spring always came late, this far north. The starving season, when the winter stores had run out but the first crops hadn’t come in yet. The community supplies, usually saved for the needy in spring, were being eaten now. The City Council saw the disaster that would come, of course. So did the Xia, and every other major force in the city. They just couldn’t do anything about it, this terrible night.
No night lasted forever. Dawn rose in its pale winter glory. Clear blue skies promised bitter, murderous cold. Many who survived the fire would die frozen today. As the dawn rose, so did the exhausted Chanticleers. They gathered their people, their families, their courage, and across the city, lifted their voices in worship.
We danced in the morning
When the world was begun,
And we danced in the moon
And the stars and the sun,
And we came down from heaven
And we danced on the earth,
In each other
We saw our worth.
The refugees, the volunteers, the militia, the Clans took up the chorus. Tears falling, they professed their faith.
Dance, then, wherever you may be,
We are the souls of the dance, joyous we,
And we'll join you all, wherever you may be,
And we'll join you all in the Dance, say we.
The people of Cold Garden were not beaten. This would not end the Throng. They sang, shouting, through the hymn. The mad and the desperate danced, grabbing one another, spinning between the soup pots and rubble.
They cut us down
And we leapt up high;
We are the joy
That'll never, never die;
I'll live in you
If you'll live in me -
We are the souls
Of the Dance, say we.
It was a promise to each other. A promise to the dead, to those who would die, and those not yet born. They finished the song with a roar and a scream. They hugged one another, crying, scared. Unbroken.
Xiatoktok had set up a field headquarters in Resolve Square. It wasn’t particularly convenient, but the name fit and by the Gods he was going to use it. Streams of people came in and out, sorted, filtered and directed by his exhausted secretarial pool and every member of staff he could reach. It was chaos, but one that was rapidly becoming organized. A small troop of soldiers marched in, a mix of militia and Xia guards. They ignored the line and marched directly up to Xiatoktok’s table. At their head was a woman carrying a spear. Covered in soot and black blood clumped her brilliant red hair. Her dress and coat had been sliced open at some point, and were now held together with rough twine stitches. The guards looked ready to murder anyone who came within twenty feet of her.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“Concubine Xia Gentian reports for whatever duties her Master commands, and apologizes for her unexpected absence.” She bowed prettily, momentarily hiding the exhaustion on her face.
“I’m setting you a curfew. I don’t want your bad example leading ’Ja astray. Heaven knows you are leading me astray.” Then, propriety and reserve be damned, he vaulted the table and kissed her where she stood.
They stole a moment together, behind a tent. Xiatoktok rested his head on Gentian’s forehead, unwilling to let go of her.
“I wasn’t worried at all. Irritated more than anything else, really. ’Ja’s a mess. Last I heard, she was figuring out ways to reduce bandits into a soup capable of knowing fear and pain. Progress is good, apparently.” He said.
“Mistress is brilliant. I knew that the two of you would be safe. I was scared. And then, when people stopped trying to kill me, people expected me to tell them what to do. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do! I had to make stuff up and yell at people to move. I waved the spear a lot. Good spear.”
“I heard the reports. You did amazing. ’Ja and I stand behind you one hundred percent, and if anyone so much as gives you a dirty look, tell me. I’m in a mood to either exterminate the nine generations of someone’s family or buy you another tiara.”
“Thank you, but a bath and sleep sound even better than tiaras at the moment.”
“Truth.” He gently rubbed his nose against hers. They lost themselves in the quiet moment, but it couldn’t last.
“Master. The Council has asked me to do something.”
“I know. They asked me for permission first, surprisingly. Do you want to say yes?”
“No. To the absolute core of my being I do not want to do this. I hate it. I hate the thought of it. I hate what it will mean for the city, for my people, for me! Just thinking about it makes me want to throw up, and I stabbed someone in the face tonight. I stabbed them over and over again, I felt their face shatter, and I can’t even feel bad about it. I should feel bad about it. Why don’t I feel bad about it?”
She started shaking, her voice fading into a sob. Xiatoktok hugged her hard. She was so young. This wasn’t fair. But fair never had anything to do with it. He petted her blood clumped hair, soothing her.
“You did what you must. Necessity needs no apologies nor makes any excuses. You did what you must. You came home to us, and you made sure that hundreds, maybe thousands, of others made it home to their loved ones too. You did very well. I am proud of you.”
He held her as she sobbed. Eventually she pulled herself together.
“I’ll do it.”
Xiatoktok just nodded.
The city gathered in front of the Cathedral of Joy, filling the square. They packed in, thousands upon thousands squeezing into the square, to watch what was going to happen. There was a clear path between the steps of the Cathedral, and a stone disk in the middle of the square. Nobody seemed willing to stand too close to the disk. Every other centimeter of the square was packed with the Throng.
It was just before noon, when the bloody, filthy, Xia Gentian strode out of the crowd, spear in hand. She stood at the bottom of the steps, and called upwards, her voice amplified by careful architecture.
“I cannot sing. I cannot dance. My joy is stolen from me. My city burns, and my heart burns with it. I call upon the Throng to set aside joy, and open the Vault of Tears.”
The Chorus of Chanticleers walked out of the Cathedral and stood at the top of the stairs. “The joy lives in you always.” They spoke as one. “The dance lives in you always. We will not open the vault for you.”
A little boy walked out of the crowd. As loudly as he could, he yelled. “I cannot sing. I cannot dance. My joy is stolen from me. MY SISTER WAS STOLEN FROM ME!” He screamed. “My Mom, my Dad were stolen from me! I call upon the Throng, open the Vault of Tears!”
An old man stepped out, then a mother. A daughter. Generation after generation raised their voice, begging the Throng to open the vault of tears. Xia Gentian stood at their head. Spear in hand. The crowd started joining in, each sharing their grief, begging the Throng to open the Vault of Tears. When the whole square was roaring, the Chorus raised their hands for quiet.
“We have heard the will of the Throng. We shall open the Vault of Tears, in full faith that one day, we shall close it again.” They began to sing a long, mournful dirge. From inside the Cathedral, the Dancing Throng was carried out by the members of the City Council.
Every spring, each neighborhood would weave a dancer from straw and wicker, and on the night of the spring equinox, they would parade it to the Cathedral of Joy. Last year’s dancers were burned in a huge bonfire in the middle of the square, returning their light to the stars. The new dancers were arranged in the Cathedral, to bring the blessings of joy to the people for another year. Now they were being carried out of the temple, at the turn of noon.
The stone disk was lifted by many hands and dragged to the side. A hole with a sloped path leading down into the dark was revealed. The dancers were carried into that darkness, fading from the eyes of the Throng.
Gentian didn’t realize she was weeping. But the next line was hers. She raised her spear high. “WAR! WAR! WAR!” The Throng picked it up. “WAR! WAR! WAR!” The whole square, then the whole city seemed to vibrate with the call for war.
From out of the hole, a terrible grinding noise. The Councilors slowly emerged into the light pulling wrist thick hemp ropes. Painfully slowly, they dragged up a stone statue. It had only one head but dozens of arms, each holding a weapon or symbolic curse. Sweating and straining, they pulled it passed the orphan, the old man, Gentian and the others, and brought it to the steps of the Cathedral. The stone disk was slid back into place.
“We accept that this tragedy must happen. We are Joyful no longer. The Furious Throng now goes to war.” The Chorus proclaimed. The city roared in agreement.
The street had been burnt down to nothing. Rubble barricades blocked it, corpses littered it, the stench of smoke and cooked meat choked the air above it. Nobody was there, or wanted to be there. Not for a good long while to come. A creature scurried from ash pile to rubble pile. Horribly burnt, chunks of charcoal “skin” sloughed off occasionally, revealing the pink flesh below. It picked through the corpses, the humanoid form chose the most intact of them- the least burnt or maimed. It found three that it seemed to fancy, and dragged them over to a shallow gutter by the side of the road.
The creature found a pile of bodies it didn’t much like the look of. The top corpse, at the very least, looked almost fleshless. Like someone had dug out a mummy and then set it on fire. It shook his head, then in a raspy monotone-
“Up and at ‘em Rhea. I brought breakfast.”
The top corpse was flung to the side, seemingly weighing only a few pounds. The first corpse was tossed over and a sticklike hand rose from the ditch and pierced its chest. The corpse withered, swiftly reduced to skin and bone. It too was disposed of.
“Need more?”
“No.”
“How’s Allie?”
“Sleeping. Fine. I was able to maintain her vital functions in a near death state.” The female voice was monotone. “I don’t understand why I did this. I can remember thinking it was important that she live, that her living was the most important thing. I remember being sad I killed Mat, even though it was necessary. But I can’t seem to understand why I thought all this was so important.”
The creature shook its head and plunged its own fist into an intact corpse. “I expect nothing much feels very important, right now. Hard to feel much of anything. It’s the quietus.”
“What happened to you when I was a child.”
“Yes.”
“You recovered your emotions.”
“Somewhat. I was well on the way, at any rate.”
“You relapsed?”
“Somewhat. I won’t be starting over from scratch.”
They fell into a period of quiet. The burnt skin sloughed off, and new skin grew in its place. The creature looked much like the late Doctor Tubu Vintle, though the distribution of fat on the face and the subtle tweaking of cartilage suggested that you would not confuse the two men when the process was done.
“I just keep thinking that I have to be a good mom for Allie. I have to pretend to love her, and try to demonstrate that pretend emotion. Maintaining her life and ensuring that she survives seem intuitively obvious, but that one intrusive thought confuses me.”
“That’s your thread. The little bit of string you left for yourself, to lead you out of the forest and back to being a human. That… unselfish emotional connection. I have it for you. You have it for her.”
There was another pause. “I think that is probably good.”
“It is.”
“Will I care about killing Mat one day?”
“Yes. You will be sad.”
“Oh. Good.”
The creature once known as Doc Vintle nodded.
“I’m going to establish a new identity, get myself a job at one of the Xia greenhouses. Might be a good idea for you to do the same.”
“I think I will. I certainly don’t want to pretend to be a doctor.”
The creature chuckled. The woman continued speaking.
“Will Allie ever forgive me?”
“Did you forgive me?”
“Yes.”
“Then yes.”
The creature stood, unbothered by his nudity. He would strip a corpse soon enough. Not like the cold or the debris filled streets bothered him any.
“Father?”
“Yes Dear?”
“I’m not sure I should be forgiven.”
“Oh, that. Don’t worry about that. Forgiveness is for the person forgiving. Lets them put down the emotional weight. Feel free to carry your own weight all you want.”
He squinted up at the noon sun. “Now for the hard bit. Coming up with a new name.”