A Chapter
4765 Book One: Chapter Fifteen
5 – 4 Days to Ashmuta 2, 4765
Nenja lay curled in her bed, staring at the wall. She could hear the sounds of the other assistants downstairs still, talking, and somewhere in the children’s dormitories, children slumbering peacefully. Despite the time of year, Nenja felt a deep cold surrounding her, and pulled her blanket tightly around her shoulders, her hands clenched below her chin. There was no sleep for her still; she listened to the darkness, the tiny sounds that filled it up that during the day disappeared under the cacophony of children’s voices, running feet, and shouting assistants. Her hands were chapped from doing the laundry all day every day, and she could feel the callouses scraping against her skin.
There was a faint smell in the air, one that tickled the inside of her nostrils uncomfortably. It was the odour of smoke, a smell that always sent shudders down her spine. She had been six when the Gadasim, the people her parents said used to take care of the orphans in the city had been taken out of the city. Her Papa had said they were just taken out of the city for their safety, but then she hadn’t been allowed out of the house for days. At night, the city filled up with the sound of shouting voices, a mob tearing through down the roads, carrying torches in their hands and screaming for blood. A stink so powerful, so all-consuming, had hung over the canyon for days. Some of the older children said the Gadasim had been burned alive.
She wondered if she was dreaming the smell, and tried to tell herself it wasn’t there. But it grew stronger with every inhalation, every staggered breath brought it closer, made it more intense. The voices downstairs were getting louder; now there were voices outside. She could hear the sound of drums, of screaming like the screams she had heard when she was young. Pinching her arm, she once again tried to tell herself she was dreaming, but it was real. Sitting up, she slid out of bed and walked out of the dormitory, heading for the nursery at the front of the orphanage, where the windows were.
Even from the corridor, she could see the reflection of orange fire on the glass, flames dancing across their surface in harsh, burnished gold. It fluttered over the cots and up the walls, spilling into their protected haven from outside. Nenja padded across the floor of the nursery, hands clutched to her throat, trembling as she reached the windows themselves and let the orange glow light up her own face at last. The shouting was nearer now and incandescent, filling up her ears and the canyon alike. Every sound tore through her as she looked down and saw the bonfire being lit, the people gathering around it, shouting and yelling, fists raised into the air, punching. Their faces ignited in the darkness, twisted with fury and vengeance.
Guards moved between them, their swords in their hands. The man who had read the proclamation the day before was there, standing before the fire on one side, leading the crowd in chants and choruses, bellowing out the names of the accused. They had been quick to root out the traitors, she thought. Old scores settled, petty vengeances and jealousies exorcised in a ball of flame. The mob shouted and jeered, pointing their fists at their first victim. He was a man, and she was surprised, since men didn’t work in the orphanages. He wrestled with his captors – the people with whom he had once shared a home – fighting so hard against the grip of his neighbours as they dragged him out to stand before the judge that she thought he would pull his arms out of their sockets.
“You are accused of helping the Amnari to hunt down and destroy our children!” shouted the man on his box: judge and jury, executioner for the baying crowd before him. “Do you have anything to say?”
“This is no kind of justice!” the man screamed. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“Do you deny that you have been a collaborator with the Amnari in their attempts to destroy our regime?” the judge shouted, raising his fist into the air as the crowd’s voices rose in waves to drown the man’s protestations of innocence.
“Yes!” the man shouted in response.
Nenja suddenly found herself distracted by movement on the other side of the bonfire. Men were carrying a fire drum around, already alight with excited flames leaping out of the rim, to where the judge stood on his box. The guards didn’t have to do anything; the mob would do their job for them.
“You are accused!” the judge screamed, the whites of his eyes lit up in gold flame by the light of the bonfire, pointing at the man on his knees before him.
“No!” his victim begged. “No! Please!” He dropped to his knees, his face wet with tears. “No! I swear I’ve done nothing wrong! I’m not a traitor!”
Nenja felt her head start to spin. The oil drum was set down at the man’s side and he was hauled back onto his feet.
“Confess!” the judge screamed: he was torturer as well. “Put his hands in the flame!”
The man, who had lived and worked with those around him all his life looked in one silent, panic-stricken moment, into all their cold and angry faces. There was not a friend amongst them. He seemed to turn to stone, rigid as they took one of his arms and lowered it into the fire.
Nenja dropped onto the floor, her legs giving way as she hid herself under the windowsill. Her back pressed against the cold rock, her ribs ached from the pressure of her breathing. Her heart seemed about to break out of her chest. Her hands shook as she pressed her legs against her torso, curling up against the pain of her fear. They would come for her, she knew it. She didn’t have much time. Where were the Amnari? Would they save her? Was it too late?
The screaming, the terrible pained screaming outside her tore through her, through her heart and deep into her soul. She pressed her hand into her mouth and listened as the raging mob let loose their fury on their own kind, desperately searching for their next victim. In the silence of the nursery, she suddenly heard the sound she had dreaded: the thumping on the orphanage door. Somebody had given her name to the guards, and she had been given away to the justice of the raging crowd. She stayed where she was, unable to move, her breath rasping in her chest as she listened to the sound of the Madam talking, the guards demanding to see her.
She closed her eyes. If they have a god, or some kind of guiding force, let it look after me, she thought. If there is something out there that looks down on people in peril, that cares for those who try to do good in the world, let it look down on me now.
*
Irad and Sholan ran at full tilt down the damp, cold corridors of the secret tunnels. They were still high up in the city walls, running behind the old complexes and chambers of the High City. Sometimes they drew so close to the inhabited caves that they could hear the sounds of families having their dinners or sharing stories. In the blackness that surrounded the two warriors, the mundane sounds of life so close by at such a time felt eerie and out of place.
Irad had already silently planned go straight to Nenja’s orphanage first, regardless of whether it was the closest or not. He doubted that Sholan would be impressed by the decision, or believe him if he told him that he had a feeling that they had to go their first, that she was in danger. He was, however, the more senior of the two warriors and he could pull rank if necessary. As they splashed through the puddles and streams that ran behind the city’s interior streets, channelling rainwater down from the plains above, he could feel the tension in his chest rising, as it often did when he was on duty and could tell that they were about to be called down onto the line.
“Which one first?” Sholan asked inevitably, slowing his pace to a jog. “We’re not far from the lower city boundary now.”
“The one on the south edge,” Irad replied quickly. “We only work the lower city ones so if we start with that one and work our way back we won’t be slowed down by anybody who doesn’t know the tunnels.”
“Fine,” Sholan agreed. “That wouldn’t mean you’re going straight to see Nenja, would it?”
“Yes, that’s her orphanage,” Irad confessed, still jogging as he let his fingers lightly guide him along the wall. “Why?”
“Well, it’s obvious you want to get her out first,” Sholan said. “You’ve been dying for the go-ahead since you first met her.”
Irad sighed. “Whatever,” he muttered. “She was new to this, and probably much more likely to crack if they torture her.”
“You don’t have to justify it to me, Irad, really,” Sholan said, his presence nothing more than a voice in the dark.
“I have a bad feeling,” Irad said before he could stop himself. “Like I get right before I’m due on the line.” He paused at a junction. Soft cold air blew across his face from one route, and warmer air from another. “This way,” he said, and ran across the junction and turned, heading for the gap in the roof of the children’s dormitory. As they reached the far end of the tunnel, the smell of smoke suddenly wafted through the channel and tickled his nostrils, and he felt his chest tighten in response.
*
The guards were coming up the stairs. Nenja could hear their boots treading heavily on the stone steps at the far end of the corridor. She pressed herself against the back wall of the nursery, the windowsill pressing into the nape of her neck, hoping to hear the sound of the Madam’s voice protecting her, but she could only hear one of the other assistants babbling away at the guards. She shut her eyes, the screaming crowd outside and the oncoming guards suddenly just a distant dream in the seclusion of her own mind.
Giddily, she found herself slowly standing up, leaning against the cold glass as she straightened. The guards were at the top of the stairs now and striding down the corridor, pushing the assistant out of the way. Nenja heard the first uncertain cry of one of the babies waking up as the men in the corridor shouted for her. Her legs quaking beneath her, she stared at the floor, her head spinning wildly. Without knowing what she was doing, she gritted her teeth and straightened herself to her full height, facing the door. Yellow light from the corridor spilled in on the cots in their neat little rows. A huge shape moved up and filled the gap, stopping in the doorway itself.
“Nenja?” a heavy gravely voice intoned.
Nenja pressed herself back against the wall, her hands trembling. “Yes,” she whispered.
“You have been accused of aiding and abetting Amnari in the capture of innocent children from this orphanage,” the guard growled. “Come with us. You are to be tried tonight.”
Out beyond the massive shape of the guard, Nenja could see the assistants bobbing up and down, chattering to each other. She took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, walking forward through the nursery towards the door. Finally, she stood before the guard, breathing slowly and steadily and looked up into his face, her jaw clenched.
*
Irad felt the rush of air from the gap before he saw a tiny sliver of light in the darkness and plunged towards it. The smell of smoke was stronger now, filling his nostrils as he slithered down through the slit in the ceiling of the children’s dormitory and dropped soundlessly to the floor. The room was swathed in deep shadows, the only light slipping in through the gap under the door. He heard Sholan drop down behind him as he ran forward, dodging effortlessly between the children’s beds as he headed for the door, only to skid to a halt at it as he heard the sound of voices outside.
He pressed his ear to the wood and listened to the unmistakeable growl of a guard’s voice on the other side. His heart jumped: they were too late. He could hear them calling for Nenja, while a chorus of young women’s voices eagerly berated their fellow assistants for her crimes against the Tiomite State.
Sholan reached the door and frowned at him. “What is it?” he mouthed, his face lit up by the light from the corridor.
“They’re already here!” Irad exclaimed, and reached out for the door handle. “I’ll get her.”
Sholan, his face suddenly cold and his eyes icy, grabbed Irad’s hand and stopped him. He shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “You can’t do anything now.”
Irad stared at his comrade, furious. “But they’ll kill her!” he hissed. “We can’t abandon her now!”
Sholan shook his head again. “We have to let her go,” he reasoned quietly. “If we go outside now every single person who’s accused of helping us will be killed, not just tortured.”
Irad gazed at him desperately, his heart tightening with fury. He could hear the guards moving back along the corridor now, but there was no sound from Nenja: her voice could not be heard as she left. He pressed his back against the door, breathing deeply. He had lost her already.
*
The guard reached out for her, grabbing her by the shoulder of her dress and hauling her out into the corridor as he turned. Nenja kept herself on her feet, and tightened her jaw against the pain in her shoulder as she was dragged forward. She did not look at the assistants she passed, keeping her head up and her gaze fixed on the stairs. She wondered if the Amnari knew what was happening here, if they were going to do anything about it. With intense effort, she fought back the urge to struggle or protest, moving silently forward between the two guards who had come for her.
They walked down the stairs at a funereal pace, Nenja’s eyes pricking as she reached the bottom and saw the Madam looking up at her. She could only glance at her before directing her attention back on the corridor ahead of her. The children were all in bed, fast asleep. She suddenly wondered if they would miss her.
“I’m sorry Nenja!” the Madam suddenly cried out, grabbing her arm.
Nenja stared at her in amazement. She had never seen such spontaneous, pleading emotion in the woman before. For a second they looked into each other’s eyes, the Madam silently begging Nenja not to say anything about her own involvement. Finally, Nenja turned and looked away, shaking her head as she walked on, keeping ahead of the guards until they reached the front door. She ignored the smirks of the other assistants gathering their, waiting to see what would happen to her next.
Outside, the air was hot and dry, the smoke from the bonfires filling up the canyon and staining the walls. The crowd was still shouting and jeering over the man whose hand had been burned, but there was no sign of their victim himself. Nenja felt her heart race as the guards grabbed her wrists and between them pulled her towards the fire and the crowd. The judge turned to look at her, his eyes burning with a brilliant, sadistic light from the bonfire, his face seemingly twisted into a hideous mask of hate.
“We have another traitor!” he screamed from atop his box, pointing a shaking finger at her. “Bring her forward!”
Nenja found herself dragged over to stand between the crowd and her judge, towering over her on his box, her wrists burning from the guards’ fearsome grip. She tried not to struggle, determined to keep herself upright and proud. She found herself thinking of the statue in the Taijis Nil, of the great Ashad Amin staring down at all those who came to view Amnar’s ancient history. She wondered, suddenly, what he would think of this travesty of justice being played out in the city he had once ruled. She stared up the judge before her, hardly aware of the jeering mob frothing and leering behind her.
“You are the assistant Nenja of the lower city east four orphanage?” the judge asked, his manner calming slightly as he returned to his scroll.
“Yes,” she replied icily. The fire was close enough to prickle her cheeks and her eyes, but she kept up her stare, refusing to take her eyes off the man. “I am Nenja.”
“You have been accused by your fellow assistants of aiding the Amnari in the abduction and killing of our children,” the judge went on, his voice rising with each word. The crowd screamed and clapped with excitement. “How do you plead?”
Nenja paused and waited for their audience to settle down as they realised she had not yet protested her innocence or screamed like the others. “Not guilty,” she said, raising her voice to ensure that she was heard. “What proof do you have?”
“Proof?” the judge squealed. “We have the evidence of your very own friends!” He pointed back towards the orphanage. “They have told us everything we want to know!”
“And what if they’re lying?” Nenja asked calmly, and the crowd let out a loud shout of excitement; this was something new they hadn’t expected, but it was interesting. They hadn’t bargained on a woman who would stand up for herself.
“Why would they lie to us?” the judge asked, waving his scroll at her. “What reason have they to do that? They want to protect the children they care for – the children you’re sending off for slaughter!”
Nenja once again paused, waiting for the crowd to stop cheering the judge’s reaction. Finally, she looked up at him again. “You offered enough money to keep them in food for a month,” she said; “if not buy themselves the best dress they’ll ever wear. Don’t you think that would tempt them into lying?”
“So you accuse your own friends of lying for the sake of money?” the judge screamed and turned to the crowd. “This is what the Amnari do with their people! They turn them into cheats who would turn on their friends to save their own skins!”
“Better that than turning them into people who would turn on their friends for the sake of a few desus!” Nenja shouted. “How can you call this justice?” she demanded, suddenly straining against the guards holding her wrists as the judge focused on the crowd. “This is a mockery! It’s nonsense! It’s barbarism!”
“Look how she has been turned against her very own State by them!” the judge bellowed in response, refusing to return her stare but leaping up and down on his box as he excited his audience. The mob was screaming and crowing, circling the fire so they could get a better view. The judge suddenly turned to look down at the guards, narrowing his eyes into tiny black slits. “Punish her!” he hissed.
Nenja felt the guards drag her forward, and this time she could not help struggling and crying out as she saw the fire drum being placed in front of her. The mob screamed in excitement, clapping and cheering as one of the guards grabbed her around her waist, holding her neck with one hand to stop her struggling. The other clenched his fist around her wrist and pulled her arm forward so hard she thought he would rip it out of her sockets. She stared down into the flames, and then at the faces beyond it, twisted into dramatic, inhuman shapes in the darkness. They glowed like demons dancing in the black, leering at her as she stood ready to face her torture.
The guard held her hand over the flames and she could feel the heat drying out her palms, prickling under the tips of her fingernails. She exhaled, and closed her eyes, waiting for the pain to start, reminding herself that whatever they did to her, she would survive. Opening her eyes again, she watched as the guard pushed her hand down towards the flames, and the heat around her palm expanded into a tense bubble, about to burst. Tears flooded down her cheeks, drying on her face in the fire. She could feel the air burning on her skin already, the first tickle of fire reaching up to consume her.
She looked up again, across the fire, desperate to find something to stare at. Think of something else, she suddenly thought. Think of anything else… She was gazing into the constantly moving sea of orange and black bodies and faces gazing on in eager excitement.
And then she saw him.
