City of Demons (18 page)

Now unable to sleep, he climbed onto the driver's box beside Salick, carefully avoiding the two blanket-wrapped bodies rocking back and forth on the floor of the cart. Salick moved over to let him up on the plank seat.

“Do you know how to drive a cart?” she asked.

Garet could see her eyes were red and puffy from her long efforts during the night. “No,” he replied. “We were too poor to have a cart.” He was too tired to be angered by her halfhearted snort of contempt.

“How did you run a farm without horses and a cart?” she asked.

“We mostly ran sheep,” he replied. “We plowed a few small fields with the milk cow and carried the sheep's wool and the yarn my mother spun to Three Roads on our backs.”

Salick shook her head. “I didn't know people could live like that.” She slapped the reins to keep the horses moving.

“Like what?”

“In such poverty!” she replied.

Garet thought for a minute. He had seen only bits and pieces of the lives of the people they had passed on this journey, so he had little to compare with his previous life except for his mother's songs of the North and the traders stories of the South. The hymns to the Dragon Heroes never mentioned something as ordinary as farming, and after seeing Old Torrick, he was beginning to think that the tales of gold covered buildings and legions of storytellers were just stories to impress ignorant hill farmers. Nothing he had seen so far had led him to believe that a Southerner's existence was as luxurious as he once thought. Although, he had to admit, even the ragged children who ran the back alleys of Old Torrick looked better fed than the poorer farmers of the foothills.

He looked out over the road ahead and was gathering his thoughts to answer Salick when she broke out into a tumble of words.

“Garet, I'm sorry. I know it was not your choice to live that way. It's just that I've never seen anyone in such want before. Your mother looked so thin, and the cabin you lived in was one good storm away from falling down.” She half turned towards him, her shadowed eyes open and apologetic. “The other Plains farmers looked so prosperous. I mean even the refugees were fat and healthy! And in Shirath, no one goes hungry. If there are those too old or ill to please their Ward Lord, the Banehall will give them our extra food. Everyone else is looked after by their Wards or the King.”

Not everything she said made sense to him, but he realized she was trying to understand him at last, not condemn him.

“Salick, why would the Banehall have extra food? Do they charge for killing demons?”

“No!” Salick drew back, her eyes wide. “No Banehall would dare! Though,” her voice dropped, “six-hundred years ago some of the first Banehalls tried to do just that.” She shrugged. “It didn't work. People were all working together to survive the coming of the demons, and those few Halls were finally forced to give up any claims to a special reward. They had to trust that if they did their job and looked after the people of their city, the people of the city would look after them.” She smiled. “Anyway, we're better off now. People really want to keep us healthy so we can catch the demons quickly. You can't patrol through a ward without old grannies and bakers putting food into your hands. We just drop off what we don't need on our night rounds.”

Garet felt better about the Banehall, hearing of this generosity. “No one is poor in Shirath then?”

“Not like you were,” she replied honestly. “But think of this, Garet, the demons are so great a threat that we only survive by working for each other, not for ourselves. The Banehall knows that; the King and his lords know that; every citizen of Shirath knows that.” She looked thoughtfully at the road ahead. “I hope the farmers of the Midlands know that too.”

Garet had his doubts. Isolated on their own farms, each man his own little king, it would take much to get them to cooperate in the way Salick described. But if the threat of claws in the night was enough to change Shirath, maybe it could do the same for the proud farmers of the Plains. He smiled to think of Pranix, the tavern keeper, giving away free food and drink from gratitude. He would probably rather face a demon bare-handed.

“What's so funny?” Salick asked suspiciously.

Garet told her and she grinned. “I remember him. Only the promise that Three Roads was going to become a protected outpost kept him from bursting when he found out he had to supply us.”

“What if he had refused?” Garet asked.

“Well, in Shirath, that could lead to some pretty severe punishments. Not cooperating for the city's good can get you hauled in front of your Ward Lord. Your family might have to live in a smaller set of rooms. You can lose a good work assignment or, if you have a trade, be kicked out of your guild. If you still resist, then you can be whipped or imprisoned, and if after all that you still refuse to work for the city's good, you can be banished.”

Garet shuddered at the thought of being alone and unprotected, outside the city walls, night after night.

Salick continued, “Pranix's wife saw the light before he did and screamed at him until he agreed.” She shook her head at the memory. “I'd rather fight another Basher than live near that woman.”

Garet nodded in agreement. “Until the demons came, Trallet was probably the most dangerous creature on the Plains!”

They both laughed, bringing Marick up to lean over their shoulders.

“What's this,” the boy asked, “laughing and pleasantries between such mortal enemies?”

Garet shoved him back onto the side bench. Salick looked daggers at the boy and then turned resolutely to the front, cheeks flaming under her blond braids.

Garet groaned inwardly. It seemed every time Salick began to ease towards him, something brought their friendship to a grinding halt. And he wanted Salick to like him. She was his best guide to this new world: not much older so they could talk easily, and diligent about preparing him for his duties. He had to admit that he already liked her. In many ways, she reminded him of his sister, Allia. Salick had that same fierceness of manner that he admired in his little “dragon.” And, like his sister, she was quick to attack whatever or whoever irritated her.

Dorict took the reins again to allow Salick another fitful nap. Garet stayed on the driver's bench and asked the younger boy to show him how to guide the horses. By the morning's end, he had the trick of steering the cart, a matter of convincing the horses to keep moving and not interfering too much with their own good sense. He found that he had so little to do that the hot sun and the swaying of the cart kept him on the verge of sleep himself.

He was jolted back to wakefulness when Dorict put a hand on his arm and said, “There, Garet, we're nearing the city!” He pointed to a forest that rose before them and grew to the very edges of the road.

Garet furrowed his brows and tried to see the city beyond the trees, but this new forest blocked everything beyond it. Then he noticed something odd about the trees; they were growing in regular rows, like a crop of grain planted in plowed furrows. He had grown up surrounded by trees but had never seen anything like this. There was no underbrush, giving the forest an almost naked look.
As if it was weeded
, Garet thought,
and someone was farming these trees like any other crop.
He looked questioningly at Dorict.

The younger Bane smiled back. “Not like the woods near your farm, eh? These are the tree plantations of Shirath. Each tree is planted like a rose, and cared for just as lovingly.”

“Ignore him, Garet,” Marick called from behind them. “His family are all loggers. He heard nothing but talk of trees and lumber until we rescued him for the Hall.”

“Does your family live near here?” Garet asked, and then he blushed at his obvious mistake.

“Well, no,” Dorict replied, ignoring Marick's chuckles. “They live in Shirath with everyone else. Sometimes, though, in the winter and spring, many loggers and their families live in the woods for weeks at a time, protected by Banes, of course.”

The woods surrounded them now, rank upon rank of grey trunks under a deep green canopy. Mandarack roused himself and called a halt for lunch. Leaving their grim cargo in the cart, they sat under the trees.

“There is no use in arriving at the Banehall too tired to talk,” Mandarack told them. “We will rest here for an hour or so to regain our strength.” He lay down beside them and only roused the party when the sun had moved three hands widths across the sky. He moved more easily and Garet was sure that for once, the old Bane had slept as long at they had.

“Come along, the city waits for us,” Mandarack said. They pushed themselves up from the dry ground, brushing leaves and ants from their tunics. With Salick at the reins, they urged the cart horses out from under the cool shade of the forest and back into the mid-afternoon sun.

The forests ended abruptly, not petering out as they did at the borders of the Plains, a lone tree here and there like stragglers following a crowd. The cart passed that border and broke out into broad fields of grains. Beyond those waving heads of wheat and oats lay more trees, this time trimmed orchards of apples, pears, and cherries. Driving on, they came to the first of these groves. The smell of apples was as strong as wine to the younger Banes, and they drank it in with great gulps. Stacked baskets of the fruit lay under the nearer trees, waiting to be picked up, but as yet, they had seen no other sign of the citizens of Shirath.

Now, beside the road, they passed the first sign of human habitation. It was an outpost, a kind of fort, surrounded by a timber and stone palisade. A call rang out, and they saw a figure with a black tunic and a green sash waving over the tops of the logs. Salick waved back, but at Mandarack's nod, kept driving towards the city.

The smell of green apples was replaced by the scent of pears, and then by no scent at all, only the long cool leaves of cherry trees. Now apples again, but a redder, bigger variety. They were ready to harvest as well, for ladders were placed between the rows, and here and there a fallen fruit lay under its tree.

Garet swayed on the cart's seat, overwhelmed by the sights and smells around him.
It's a farm
, he thought with wonder, a farm bigger than any he had ever imagined, a farm for a whole city. And it was also prettier than any thing he had ever seen. Even the Plains, with their golden grain and bright flowers, even the Falls, with all their power and song, were nothing to this ordered, beautiful garden. Salick cursed under her breath and pulled at the horses to keep them from snatching apples from the baskets set by the side of the road.

The fruit trees ended, and what they had only been given glimpses of became clear. The walls of Shirath rose in front of Garet, barely a mile away.

“Sit down! You'll fall off the cart!” Salick yelled and pulled Garet back down by his sleeve.

He landed off-centre and had to grab onto the side-rail to catch himself. Absently rubbing his elbow, he stared at the city.

Shirath rose beyond a complex pattern of vegetable and grazing plots. People moved among these plots, herding cattle, carrying loads, and working in the fields. Garet observed them eagerly. These were the men and women of Shirath, the people he would now help protect from the demons, his people. At a distance, they looked no different from the men and women of the Plains, save that their clothing was brighter than the simple blue and grey tunics of the people he had seen at Old Torrick. Bright oranges and reds vied with sky blues and vivid yellows on the backs of the workers, though many of the younger men had removed their tunics in this heat and worked bare-chested. They came alongside a tall, middle-aged woman stepping along the road with a basket of tomatoes on her head. The collar of her light blue tunic was embroidered in a pretty pattern of running deer and twining flowers. She dipped a curtsy without missing a step or endangering her load, and smiling, continued on her way towards the city.

With his black tunic and black hair, Garet felt like a shadow on a sunny day among these colourful, blond men and women.
Like a crow
, he thought, remembering the insults of the barge men. Marick noticed him slouch down in the seat and pull his arms across his chest. The small boy gave him a thump on his shoulder and a grin of encouragement. Garet forced himself to straighten up.

They passed more people, each one giving the group a short bow or curtsy, more in greeting than in deference, it seemed, and if Garet was stared at, it was no more or less than his friends and guardian. He took comfort in that as the cart rumbled along.

When they neared the city, Garet saw why it was called “the city on two banks” and “the city of the bridges.” The Ar River, which their road now rejoined, cut Shirath cleanly in two. The high, white walls curved in a great half-circle on each side of the river. They did not end at the river, however, for the walls followed the banks to seal off each half as if it were a separate city. These walls, each facing its twin across the Ar, were broken by Shirath's three arched bridges, the last barely visible in the distance. But even from so far away, Garet could see much movement and activity on the spans.

“There, Garet!” Marick yelled, pointing at a herd of sheep being driven back into the city from pasture. “If you ever get homesick, you can guard the shepherds.”

This speech was cut short when Dorict dragged the laughing Bane back into the cart's box, but Garet, looking at where Marick had pointed, did indeed see two horses pacing the sheep, and on each a Bane, one a Gold and the other a Green. Now that he had noticed them, he looked at the fields and saw more scattered among the workers, some on horseback and others on foot.

They passed a line of fishponds set between the road and the river, and Marick called out to a Green lounging against the frame of a water wheel. The young woman waved her hand in reply. She yelled something, but the clacking of the wheel and the noise of the water pouring from its buckets into the ponds drowned out her words.