Uprising, page 38
By contrast, the jacket was an exuberant explosion of producer green and the three colors of the crafters, running rampant in jagged and geometric shapes that were as good as a signpost stating their origin. Only the crafters of Last Port had the right to use those culturally protected patterns.
Trouser design from the north, jacket design from the south—the combat uniform was a statement of Alsean artistry, worn by an erstwhile enemy.
“I asked for their help personally,” Salomen continued, stunning Tal yet again. “They agreed, in exchange for a few things I hope we can give them. Rax?”
“We came here in hatred,” Rax said. “We hated because we were told to. Our officers said you were primitive and violent. But we’ve lived among you for more than two cycles, and we know now—they lied to us. Our government lied. They are the primitive ones. We love Alsea, and we’ll do anything to protect it. All we ask is that you give us a chance. We ask your forgiveness for our part in the invasion. We ask Fahla’s forgiveness. And we ask that you understand, we are not Voloth. We are Gaians who were raised in the Voloth Empire. Even if the Empire promised us riches and citizenship, we’d never go back.”
He turned to Salomen. “Bondlancer Opah, one hundred and twenty-one Gaian settlers pledge their loyalty and assistance to you.”
“I accept your loyalty and assistance, and thank you for it.”
As they sealed their pact with a palm touch, Micah leaned toward Tal and said, “If Shantu were alive, his head would have exploded just now.”
Tal thought her head wasn’t far from that fate. Then her heart jumped as Salomen said, “Lancer Tal.”
The vidcam moved in, focusing on her face. She smiled and spoke in a warmer voice. “Tyrina. I’m sorry I had to be away for a few days, but I’m coming home now. I’m bringing a few guests. About six hundred thousand of them, though I’m told it will probably be closer to seven hundred thousand by the time I get there. Will you please bring Prime Warrior Ehron and Prime Scholar Yaserka out to the front steps of the State House? We’d like to talk to you about your votes on the high empath proposal. I’ll see you soon.”
The vidcam rose above her to give an aerial view of the crowd. It was the largest gathering Tal had ever seen.
Two new voices came on, instantly recognizable as the most popular news personalities on the government channel. They began spouting numbers and facts as the view changed to an equally enormous crowd outside Whitesun, then Redmoon, then Whitemoon.
“Altogether, it’s one point six million so far,” said one. “And growing every tick.”
“And did you see the entertainment?” the other asked. “Look who’s performing in Whitemoon while they wait to start their march!”
The scene shifted from the crowd to a tall figure in white standing on a platform. It was Kyrie Razinfin, backed by a seven-piece band and singing a rollicking tune that had half the crowd dancing.
Miltorin turned to Tal. “This is genius. They’ve taken it from a political statement to a party. And the Bondlancer’s message for you—she made it personal. She’s defused the tension and made it sound like you’ll be discussing this over dinner with the Prime Scholar and Prime Warrior.”
“She also put a big target on her chest,” Micah said. “Making it personal makes her the leader. Anyone who thinks twelve dead producers weren’t enough knows exactly how to kill this movement.”
“Lancer Tal, I’ll gather my Guards immediately and—”
“No,” Tal said.
Ronlin gaped at her. “She needs protection!”
“I know she does. And she specifically asked me to keep you here.” Tal held up a hand, forestalling another protest. “I know. Everything you’re thinking, I’m thinking too. But you saw what she’s trying to do. She cannot lead from behind a wall of Guards.”
“We’ll change into civilian clothes.”
“And wear what capes? Not your own. If you go without capes, you might as well be in uniform.”
“Lancer Tal,” Vellmar said crisply. “I request a day’s leave, effective immediately. I’d like to join Salomen’s march. As her friend.”
Since accepting Tal’s apology, Vellmar had found a new confidence in their interactions. She met Tal’s eyes with a steady gaze that transmitted her intent.
It was the best option available. “Leave granted. Go change out of that uniform.”
Vellmar thumped her fists to her chest and was out the door a piptick later.
“Lancer Tal, I request a day’s leave—”
“No,” Tal interrupted. “I just lost my Lead Guard. I need you to substitute for her today.”
“Yes, Lancer.” She had given him a promotion, if only for a day. His chest visibly swelled as he stood straighter.
Warriors. Tal heard Salomen’s voice in her head, amused and knowing. In a few hanticks, she would be hearing it for real.
A few desperately nerve-racking hanticks that would probably shorten her life by ten cycles.
50
I will not ask
Lanaril turned off her vidscreen and opened up the rarely used address system for the temple.
“This is Lead Templar Satran. Emergency meeting in the refectory in five ticks,” she said. “I repeat, emergency meeting in the refectory in five ticks.”
Templars and support staff were still trickling into the packed room when she began giving a brief synopsis of the situation for those who had missed the broadcast.
“I’m marching with our Bondlancer,” she said. “I’ve seen the damage this law causes. I’ve counseled families who lost their children from their castes. I’ve counseled high empaths who still carry the trauma of having their choice taken from them. But this is a personal choice. I will not ask you to march. If you choose to join me, I’ll be on the front steps in ten ticks. Don’t forget your capes.”
In her personal quarters, she quickly donned her ceremonial clothing and thanked Fahla for the sensible rule that all templars should wear low-heeled boots for comfort while standing in and walking through the temple. Then she hurried back through the corridors, across the courtyard, through another maze of corridors, and into the temple itself, where she stepped onto the central deck and laid her palms on the smooth black bark of the molwyn tree.
“Fahla, my goddess,” she prayed, “keep them safe today. This is a day that may change the course of our history. Please, help us make this change peacefully. We have seen too much violence, but today we turn our faces to you.”
She rested her forehead against the tree for a few breaths, then pushed off and walked to the massive double doors that opened onto the park. Four templars joined her on the way, their capes swaying gently as they walked.
“How many do you think will come?” she asked.
“All the support staff are already gone,” one answered.
“And the templars?”
“I don’t know. Everyone I talked to was going, but . . .”
“But it’s personal. I know.”
When they reached the doors, the others stood back, giving her precedence. She stepped through, preparing herself for disappointment—and stopped so abruptly that one of the templars following behind bumped into her.
All she could see were dark blue capes, their bottom edges swirling and snapping in the cool autumn breeze. The wide stairs were packed, with more templars spilling out onto the grassy areas of the park.
There must have been six hundred of them. Not only her own templars, but all those who were staying in the retreat quarters or were visiting to study in the archives.
Her vision blurred. Then she shook her head and called out, “Is there anyone left inside? Do we need to lock the doors?”
A rumble of laughter swept the crowd. “There are a few,” someone called out. “Enough to guard tonight’s dessert.”
“Since that’s the most valuable thing in the temple, we’re free to go,” Lanaril said. “Let’s meet our Bondlancer.”
A sea of dark blue parted for her as she walked down the steps, and she set off along the path, her heart soaring with gratitude. She had thought she might lead a hundred templars. Six hundred was beyond her highest hopes.
“Thank you, Fahla,” she murmured. “You have blessed me. And I hope you don’t think me greedy, but I’m asking for more. Please, keep all the marchers safe.”
51
March
The march began with six hundred and seventy-two thousand participants. More were streaming in, but they could delay no longer for fear of giving the opposition too much time to organize.
Musicians from the Blacksun Symphony were the first to move, headed up by the famed long-bell player, Chrysaltin. A slender, light-haired woman, Chrysaltin rode on a platform driven by a builder and loaded with her gigantic hanging tubular bells, the smallest of which was nearly as tall as she was. Choosing a cloth-covered mallet from the rack, she reared back and struck the largest bell.
It was the equivalent of Blacksun Temple tolling its great bell. The reverberations swept across the floodplain and were surely heard all the way to the State Park. Chrysaltin struck it twice more before stepping back to choose a smaller mallet.
Twenty percussionists cracked their drumsticks against the sides of their drums in perfect unison, three times and three times again, then launched into a toe-tapping marching rhythm as Chrysaltin began to play a melody. The wind instruments stepped up behind as the drummers moved out.
Salomen and Arabisar gave the musicians space, then stepped forward, flanked by Rax Sestak on Arabisar’s left and Rahel on Salomen’s right. Rahel had extended her stave and held it loosely against her shoulder, ready to swing into action. When one of the hovering vidcams got too close, she gave it a warning tap with her stave and held up a finger. The vidcam operator backed off, no doubt fearing for the integrity of the equipment.
A shrieking whistle alerted everyone to the first of the fireworks launching off the river raft. It exploded with a thunderous boom, notifying the city that the march had begun.
Salomen craned her neck to watch as she walked. More fireworks whistled up, painting the sky with images. The most common were the flowers, always with black centers, but varying in the colors of their petals: orange, blue, purple, red, even green. There was a molwyn tree, with a black trunk sprouting green branches that ended in sparks of light. There was even a winden, caught in mid-leap, sparks flying from its feet. Each smoke illustration hung for several pipticks before fading to white, leaving a clear background for the next colored image. Interspersed between the images were the charges designed solely for maximum sound, their booms reverberating through her chest.
She stumbled over the step from the meadow to the brick-paved road that would lead them to Fahlinor Way.
“Hoi.” Rahel caught her by the upper arm. “Won’t do to have you go face down before you even get to the city proper.”
“Thank you. It’s hard to look away from that.” She indicated the sky.
“They were a brilliant idea, weren’t they?” Arabisar asked. “The more we can give the impression of a party, the better this will go.”
“It’s the biggest party I’ve ever seen.” Salomen turned around and walked backward.
Behind them came an unending river of Alseans, most smiling as they watched either the fireworks or the entertainment on offer all around. Performing crafters had jumped at the opportunity to show off their skills to such an enormous audience. There were jugglers and stilt walkers, and smokebreathers blowing out impossible shapes of colored smoke. There were people costumed as windens or vallcats leaping about on spring-loaded shoes, soaring a body length into the air before landing and bouncing off again. There were crafters in outrageous bird costumes, waving wings that reached three times their height on either side. Far out in the field, Salomen saw a multi-legged blindworm that must have been made up of ten people, weaving its way through the crowd and occasionally shooting puffs of green smoke from its rear end.
Many more musicians and visual performers were interspersed among the marchers, helping them feel that even if they were a length behind the head of the march, they were still very much a part of it. At the far end of the field, distinctive in their identical costumes, were the Voices of the Deep. Salomen thought they were the best choir on Alsea, though Prime Crafter Bylwytin declared she had the better performers in the Whitemoon Temple Singers. From this distance and with the din of the fireworks overhead, the Voices were impossible to hear. But for the people nearer them, who would have to wait quite some time before they could move out, they were providing a free concert on a remarkable day.
Here at the head of the march, the Gaian settlers walked on either side of the river of Alseans, distinctive in their colorful uniforms and lack of capes. When Salomen and Arabisar had called for the marchers to line up and prepare to move, many had hung back at first, eyeing the settlers with expressions ranging from fear and loathing to disdain to an unsettled curiosity. Others moved in gladly, eager to be at the front and laughing at those who gave up their chance. Salomen had not anticipated that reaction, but the end result was ideal: the marchers walking closest to the Gaians were those who neither hated nor feared them.
They made their way up the quiet road, watched only by the few residents who lived on this outskirt of the city. Up ahead, Chrysaltin’s platform turned the corner onto Fahlinor Way, followed by the drummers and then the wind players. As Salomen neared the intersection, she saw a familiar figure running toward her, crimson cape billowing behind.
“Salomen!”
“Fianna!” Salomen trotted a few steps ahead and met her friend in a happy palm touch. “How are you here?”
The others caught up, and Fianna walked backward in front of her. “Took a day of leave. I told Lancer Tal I wanted to march with you.”
“As my friend or my security?”
“Your friend, of course.” She attempted to look innocent.
“You are full of dokshin. And you’re still wearing your earcuff.”
“It’s not active.”
“At the moment.”
“Only for emergencies,” she said, touching a fist to her chest. “On my honor.”
Salomen accepted the promise with a nod. “All right, as long as you’re the only Guard coming. Are you?”
“Ronlin said he tried, but Lancer Tal shut him down.”
“Good. In that case, I think it’s time you met First Guard Rahel Sayana. Rahel, this is Fianna Vellmar, Lead Guard for the Lancer and my good friend.”
The two warriors warily looked each other over, reminding Salomen of dominant male dokkers meeting in a field. She hid her smile and resolved never to share that thought.
They were an impressive pair, both tall and powerfully built, though Fianna had the edge in height while Rahel’s shoulders were more broad. Fianna’s black hair and blue eyes were a vivid contrast to Rahel’s red hair and amber eyes, but they wore identical expressions of cool calculation.
“You’re the one who put a knife through my hand,” Rahel said.
Salomen nearly stumbled in her surprise. “How did you know that? The records were sealed!” And Rahel had never remembered exactly how she ended up with a knife impaling her palm. Her brain had been too overwhelmed with the empathic force.
Rahel shrugged. “Not much to do in a healing center besides think. I thought a lot. After Lanaril gave me a reader card, I researched. The only blade-handler on your security team is Guard Demerah, and she wasn’t anywhere near me. Then I asked to see my medical records. The wound in my palm was wider than a standard blade. It didn’t come from a Guard’s kit.”
Fianna looked impressed in spite of herself. “But you didn’t know I was there.”
“No, but Salomen just called you her good friend. And you won four medals at the Global Games for blade handling.” Rahel’s gaze flicked down. “You carry them in your boots, don’t you?” At the reluctant nod, she asked, “May I see?”
Salomen had rarely seen Fianna so flummoxed. Still walking backward, she lifted one knee higher and swiped the blade from her boot in one smooth motion. Then she flipped it in her hand and offered it hilt first.
“They really are a caste apart, aren’t they?” Arabisar said in Salomen’s ear.
“Fahla, yes. I’m bonded to one; I should know.”
Rahel examined the knife carefully, flipped it again, and handed it back. “It’s a beautiful piece.”
“It is.” Fianna replaced it with the same balanced maneuver.
“I appreciate your accuracy. No grudge held?” Rahel switched her stave to her left hand and held out her right forearm.
Fianna looked from Rahel to Salomen, saw her raised eyebrow, and heaved a visible sigh. Clasping Rahel’s forearm, she said, “No grudge held.”
“Good,” Salomen said decisively. “Now that we have the dirt-kicking part over with, will you turn around so you don’t miss the corner?”
They had reached the wide boulevard that ran beside the Fahlinor River. Overhead, the elevated magtran line balanced its transparent tube atop great arches that strode across the city. Down the boulevard, Salomen could see that every cross street was blocked by construction barricades, building equipment, large delivery vehicles turned sideways—everything the builders could get their hands on to swiftly block off a route that spanned half the width of Blacksun.
The first onlookers waited here, smiling after the passage of Chrysaltin’s bells and the drummers with their irresistible rhythms. Many still smiled upon seeing Salomen and Arabisar.
Most stopped as soon as they saw Rax and the other settlers.
Fianna stayed in front, walking with a deceptively loose stride as she scanned the crowds. From her place at Salomen’s right shoulder, Rahel did the same.
