8
Into The Night
The deafening sound of rifle fire, the stinging impact on the pond's surface, and the chill of frigid water all greeted Emery's senses in the same second. His body collided softly with the muddy bed of the pond, and for a moment he drifted stunned in the water. Then he shook off his paralysis, broke the surface to gasp for breath, and half-swam, half-stumbled to the water's edge. Timothy had landed short of Emery, so it took him longer to reach land; each of them in turn threw himself onto the ground, shuddering and heaving.
“What was that sound?” Timothy managed.
“A rifle.” Emery raised his arms to wring the water from his hair. “They know we're here, but I'd be shocked if they try to pursue us beyond the fence—”
“Shh.” Timothy held a finger to his lips. “Listen.”
Emery heard the moaning of the train's brakes as it came to a halt inside Fairmount, but as the noise subsided, voices could be heard amidst it. When the train had stopped completely, it was clear that orders were being shouted. Emery slowly climbed to his feet for a better look, and he swallowed back the shock of what he saw.
“The gate didn't close behind the train,” he said. Where the gate into Rittenhouse had closed the moment the train had passed through, this one was still ajar. “I can't be sure, but I think they're going to come looking for us. We need to move now.”
Timothy rose, and the two of them, still shivering violently, began to creep as quietly as possible away from the glow cast by Fairmount's floodlights. “You know,” Emery offered through clattering teeth, “if we just let them shoot us, it would be a hell of a lot faster than freezing to death.”
Looking bewildered, Timothy offered no response.
“It was a joke,” Emery said. “I guess I'll take it under advisement that it wasn't a very funny one.”
Timothy had started to offer a polite response when another gunshot rang out behind them.
The sudden noise caused Emery to stumble; as he regained his footing he broke into a sprint, seizing Timothy's hand and dragging the boy behind him. “You're right,” he gasped, “not very funny. We need to run.”
Shouts and footfalls chased them through the forest as they ran. Emery and Timothy had something of a head start, but they were drenched to the bone and their pursuers had numbers and firearms at their disposal. Emery felt a stabbing pain in his side as he reached the limit of his stamina, but fear and adrenaline carried his feet. The farther they ran, the darker the woods became, and soon their only light source was the starlight half-obscured by the trees overhead. Emery continued blindly forward until suddenly an unexpected barrier met his shin and he tripped. Emery spun and landed back and shoulders first on the ground; he felt something in the backpack break under the force of the collision. He lay immobile, disoriented, until he felt Timothy's hand tugging on his.
“What the hell just happened?” Emery whispered.
“Brick wall,” Timothy replied softly. “You have to look out for those. In the old days, this whole forest was part of the same city that Rittenhouse was rebuilt on. Come on, we have to keep going.”
The sounds of Fairmount's guards were indeed growing louder behind them; Emery pulled himself to his feet again and they began more cautiously. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he could see that they were standing on the crumbled cornerstone of what had once been a house. The crumbling foundation and the wall over which he had tripped were all that were left of it, but some of the surrounding buildings had fared better over the centuries of neglect. Many walls still stood taller than Emery himself; a few houses were standing almost entirely, with trees peeking out where their roofs had collapsed. “We could hide in one of those,” he suggested.
“We shouldn't stay in one place,” Timothy said, “but we can move a bit more slowly now. They won't see us in the dark until they're almost on top us, but if we run, we'll give ourselves away.”
Emery nodded; it seemed like good sense. As they crept in relative silence through the labyrinth of flora and abandoned homes, Emery's heart slowed, and his outright panic ebbed. The hunters were close enough that he could make out fragments of their communication; they were shouting less enthusiastically now, each reporting that he had found nothing yet. As Emery and Timothy pressed forward, the terrain seemed to grow denser with houses and fragments of houses, and soon they were all but sure they would not be discovered. “They have to turn back soon,” Emery whispered. “They can't afford to weaken Fairmount's defenses for much longer. Whoever took the first shot is probably wondering right now whether he actually saw anyone on the train.”
“Do you think they know we came from inside the city?” Timothy asked.
Emery shook his head. “They probably can't fathom why anyone from Rittenhouse would be dumb enough to do what we just did. I'm sure people who leave the city regularly to smuggle poppy gum and other goods have a more sensible way of coming and going. They probably think we're some thieves from the wastes who magicked ourselves onto the train.”
“I don't even think that's possible,” Timothy shivered. “Transportation magic is slow and not very precise; you'd probably kill yourself trying to land on a moving train.”
“But they don't know that,” Emery replied, “and until you told me just now, neither did I.”
For a few minutes, was calm. But as his fear of the guards dissipated, it gave way to a deeper terror. It was a fear that had hung for years at the edges of everything, never quite presenting itself but never remitting entirely. There was no true night in Rittenhouse, with its streetlights and eternal procession of familiar sounds. But in the darkness of the wastes, memories of his last venture outside the city returned. The years peeled back and he saw himself sitting in the warm backseat of a sleek black automobile, its headlights cutting through the night. He remembered watching lazily as the car carried him from Ambler on the road to Rittenhouse, never suspecting the disaster a moment away. He yawned, asked the time. Then an explosion, a crash, the chauffeur's last cry, and rough hands dragging him into deeper dark.
Even as Emery tried to force the memory from his mind, his vision began to distort. Each dim-lit shape that met his eyes twisted into an ominous face or figure; the hallucinations had come in Rittenhouse during the moments when he was most afraid, but never so vividly. His lips trembled as he tried to distract himself, to think the apparitions away, but they would not relent.
“Do you have the map?” Timothy asked; Emery jumped at the sound of the boy's voice. “What?”
“The map,” Timothy repeated. “The one you took out of your book. It would be good to figure out where we're going before we wander much further.”
“Right.” Glad to be distracted from his thoughts, Emery knelt and swung the backpack off. “Hopefully I didn't break too much when I fell back there.” He unzipped the main compartment. He couldn't see what was broken, but the contents of the backpack were damp. Its water-resistant fabric had fared somewhat better than his clothes, but when Emery found the map, he saw that the paper was damp. “It's still legible,” he announced as he slowly unfolded the sheet, “but we'll have to be careful with it.”
Timothy leaned in to get a better look, pointing a flashlight at the paper. “Here are the tracks,” Emery said, pointing with his free hand. “I think we've been heading southwest, but we might have gotten a little turned around in the chase.”
“The palace is moved every few hours,” Timothy said, “but I don't think it goes too far west. There are specific places it usually comes to a stop, and the king leaves gatemen behind at those places in case the palace itself isn't there when someone comes looking.”
Emery nodded. “So we're going the right way, right?”
“This map is hard to read.” Timothy glared at it for a moment. “But I think we should be about halfway there already, if you're sure we're going southwest.”
“Well, that's good news,” Emery replied. “If our success is predicated on my certainty, w
e can't fail.” Another blank look from Timothy; Emery sighed inwardly. “Let's keep going.”
Emery's fear and the accompanying images had receded while they spoke, but as they resumed their trek in silence, he was assailed again. He drew several deep, shaky breaths, trying to calm himself, but his efforts were to no avail. They were using their flashlights now, and the lights' narrow beams only made things worse, as figures danced at their edges. Emery fixed his gaze on the ground directly before him; this allowed his eyes fewer liberties and, he hoped, would have the added benefit of keeping him from tripping over another wall.
“You seem anxious,” Timothy said after a while.
This time Emery managed to keep himself from jumping at the sound of Timothy's voice. “What makes you say that?”
“You're tense.” Emery looked up and saw concern, or perhaps just curiosity, on the younger boy's alert face. “Does being out here make you nervous?” Timothy asked.
“A bit, I guess.” That's an understatement, Emery told himself. “I had a bit of a bad experience last time I was out here. What Oliver said before we left, about getting harvested for our organs, that was very nearly my first visit to New Providence. I managed to escape, and one of the king's gatemen found me, but it wasn't a pleasant twenty-four hours. Being out here again is stirring up a lot of memories.” He paused before deciding to entrust Timothy with more personal information. “Ever since that incident, I…I see things sometimes when I'm in the dark. I guess it's a bit crazy.”
“What kind of things?” Timothy asked.
“People, mostly,” Emery managed. “Nothing too specific, just vague figures, looming…” he trailed off, unsure of what else to say, and waited for Timothy's response.
“Yeah,” Timothy said after a moment, “that is a bit crazy.” It was too dark to be certain, but Emery didn't think he saw any trace of humor in Timothy's expression. A mutual decision passed between them to reinstate the silence.
Embarrassment provided another distraction from paranoia, and Emery enjoyed a half-hour of silent walking without another descent into terror. There was a strange majesty to this endless expanse of forest, bejeweled as it was with its countless relics of past human life. Emery could only imagine what such a place would look like in daylight, observed from a good vantage; while he rarely painted landscapes, he would love to capture this one. He couldn't help imagining who might have lived in each of the ruined houses upon whose cornerstones he presently trod, and countless speculations sprang to life in his mind. He would have been content to walk for hours, lost in thought, but at last Timothy announced, “This isn't right.”
“What's that?”
Timothy stopped walking. “If the map is right, we should be in a more populous area by now. We should have passed by a village or two, at the very least. I haven't even seen a campfire yet. I think we're walking the wrong way.”
“Well,” Emery said, “that's going to be a real problem. Because if we are walking the wrong way, I have no clue what the right way is. You haven't seen anything you recognize yet?”
Timothy shook his head. “Everything looks the same in the forest,” he said. “As soon as we get anywhere where people are, I'll be able to get us where we're going. The problem is, I don't even know how long that will take us.”
Emery took a moment to consider this. “I guess we can either hope the map is wrong and keep going, or pick a random direction and strike off that way. At this point, I think it might just be better to just press forward and hope we get somewhere soon. Maybe we just misread the scale on the map.”
Timothy agreed only reluctantly, and he felt it necessary to voice a series of protests as they ventured in the same direction. The two continued for twenty more minutes, Timothy becoming more and more insistent that they turn around, before Emery spotted firelight visible in the distance. “Told you so,” he said aloud, but Timothy hushed him.
“We don't want to let them know we're here until we get a good look at them,” Timothy whispered. “I don't want to be sold for my organs either. We should turn our lights out.”
Again they began silently on their trajectory, but whereas an hour before they had been fleeing danger, this time they were possibly heading into it. They drew closer until they could see the fire distinctly, but no one was visible in its vicinity. “Maybe they're stretching their legs,” Emery suggested. “We could look around and see if anyone's home.”
“It could be a trick of some kind,” Timothy said. “We probably shouldn't get any closer. If these people are hiding from us, I'm not sure we want—”
It happened so suddenly Emery could scarcely believe his senses. One moment the campfire was blazing. The next, it was extinguished entirely; the flames vanished into ink-black night. It was as if several gallons of water had been poured over the flames, but no source was present. Emery's eyes had adjusted to the light, and presently he was blinded. Timothy breathed a curse beside him. Neither dared talk to the other, but their silence was moot: they had been discovered. The beams from three flashlights, their bearers invisible in the night, were trained on Emery and Timothy's faces; forcing Emery to shut his eyes. His hand dived into the pocket of his overcoat and he thanked Jehovah for Oliver's insistence that he not travel unarmed.
“No way in 'ell,” came a voice from behind one of the flashlights. “Two purebloods right on our doorstep. Spirit Above, we'll have enough to eat this winter.”
“I'm not a—” Timothy began.
“Shh.” The lights all fixed on his face. “True, he ain't no pureblood, but look at those rags. And the other one sure is.”
“Hand us that coat,” the first voice said to Timothy, and “and ye' can go. But ye'—” the lights shone on Emery again—“What's the going price for a pureblood ransom in Ridden'ouse right now?”
The others' responding laughter sounded nervous, not malicious. These three wouldn't take any pleasure in robbery or kidnapping, Emery knew, but he was just as sure guilt wouldn't stop them, not when it made the difference between food and starvation. “I'm on important business,” Emery said, his chest shaking. “You can have both our coats…take my bag, too. But I'm not going to let you detain us.”
“Sorry, friend, but ye's the one who stumbling into our home. In a few days, ye'll be home safe. But if ye' want it to come to blows, we can oblige.” The lights began closing in; Emery knew he would only have one chance. He slowly withdrew his hand from his pocket, and as the flashlight before him entered arm's reach, he lunged forward, pressed the button on the baton, and swung. The impact sent a sickening jolt up his arm; there was a scream, and the flashlight fell to the ground. Emery leapt past the fallen man and turned to face the other two. “I told you,” he managed, “I can't let you detain us.”
The man on the ground moaned. “Well,” one of his companions replied, venom in his tone, “we need ye' alive for the ransom. But we'll send a finger or three with the note.”
Emery drew the machete without thinking. Damnit, he told himself frantically, this is going wrong. Timothy had managed to get to Emery; they stood glaring into the two flashlight beams. “Please,” Emery said, “just let us go.”
“Not an option,” his assailant spat. Emery saw the glint of weapons as the flashlights drew closer, followed by the glimmer of furious eyes. Emery clutched the machete in his left hand and the baton in his right, trying not to imagine how the former would feel in his fist as it collided with its target. “Last chance,” he said, trying to sound imposing.
“Ye' already had yours,” the man responded. He shifted his weight, and Emery knew that whatever he held in his other hand was raised overhead, ready to strike. And then, a moment before the blow, a spire of ash descended in their mist.
Emery was too bewildered to be glad that the conflict had been disrupted. The pillar swirled, touched the ground, and with a flash of light from somewhere deep within, the dark mass began to solidify. Cinder and dust rolled off whatever was taking shape at the center, and Emery
saw that it appeared to be a man. When the cloud about him dissipated, Emery could make out his features in the glow of the flashlights: he was very tall, clad in a filthy trench coat and wearing an enormous backpack. His face was hard, and with eyes like razors he regarded the light.
“By order of the king,” the gateman declared, “you dogs will let these two go free.”