Reclamation(156)

“The stones,” breathed Arla. “Nameless Powers preserve me, they must want the stones.”

“I don’t think so,” said Eric. “I think they want your genes.”

“Either way”—Arla gripped her son’s hand and raised him to his feet—“we need to show them our retreating backsides. There’s places in the Lif that the upper ranks couldn’t find, even if someone showed them where to look. We can wait this out.”

“You’d just run?” Eric was genuinely shocked.

“We fight, Eric, and all of our own will pay for it.” Arla squeezed Storm Water’s hand. “It’ll be bad enough as it is. And it’s my fault.”

“Yes, it is,” snapped Iron Shaper. “And you’ll be hearing plenty about it from me later. But now we must get ready. Keeper,” he called as he stalked off toward the forge with his son.

“Arla,” said Eric urgently in the Skyman tongue, “we can’t just run from this. We need to find out what these soldiers know about what’s going on in the cities:”

She bit her lip and forced herself to think. The part of her that was still a Notouch and would never be anything else said run, get away, get out of here. The part of her that formulated enough rebellion and heresy to take her over the World’s Wall shouted against a retreat, especially now that they had drawn her family’s blood, first her sister’s, now her son’s. Storm Water was watching her with a young man’s anger in his eyes. She wasn’t sure how to answer that.

“We need to find out who’s hounding us, at the very least, and what side they’re on,” she said at last. “Maybe we can talk some sense to them. They won’t listen to Notouch.” Her gaze strayed to Eric’s hands. “As a Teacher, you could …”

Eric snorted. “A Teacher and a Seablade talk down soldiers from the Heretic city? Not likely.”

She curled her free hand around her pouch of stones. “We cannot fight them. It’s been tried. The costs are … too much.”

“This is not some harvest rebellion we’re talking about here,” he reminded her needlessly. “This is the Vitae, or the Unifiers, and it’s for the entire world. If we lose, it doesn’t matter. If we win, then it will be remembered that the Notouch helped, and no one will blame you for anything.”

Arla gave him a pained look. “Which shows what you know.” She sighed. “But you’re right. I’ll talk to my mother. She’ll go along with it.” Just don’t ask me why I’m so sure, Arla pleaded silently. “That will take care of the Seniors,” she went on. “I know all the clan malcontents. We should be able to put together something. It might even be something useful.” She let go of Storm Water’s hand.

“Especially since whoever’s coming from Narroways doesn’t expect a fight,” Eric added.

“Would you expect one?” she arched her eyebrows.

“I can’t say. After all, what do I know?” He turned his face away.

Arla reached one hand toward him. “We can’t be self-pitying now, Eric. We’re about to start a war.”

“I don’t think so, Arla,” he said, turning around so she could see the tired smile on his face. “If anything, I think we’re about to finish one.”

A hole broke between the clouds, dropping a broad beam of sunshine onto the huts. Arla dipped her eyes automatically and had to forcibly stop herself from beginning the Chant of Thanks for Another Day.

The oldest and the youngest of the clan were loading themselves onto the rafts and pushing off for the deeper marsh. Everyone else had set to work with a speed and decision that, she could tell, disconcerted Eric. He had expected a few knives to be sharpened, not kettles of boiling water and fat set out on fires. He hadn’t expected to see the men tightening up slings that could take down a wild dog or do serious damage to a human being, or to see the women running whetstones over sickles for harvesting rice.

He hadn’t expected the Notouch to know exactly how much damage they could do.

“We’ve had to fight before,” Arla told him. “Every now and again, you get a band of rovers that decides it’s tired and knows no one cares what goes on out here. We don’t keep the land we tame by running away from that kind.”

A shrill whistle sounded over the noise of the wind and the babble of voices. The soldiers were coming. Arla took her place, busily stirring the kettle of fat.

See, she thought toward the coming band. There’s nothing unusual here. Just tallow we need to waterproof door blankets and ponchos.