Chasing Fire by Michelle M. Welch

Author:Michelle M. Welch
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780553901948
Publisher: Random House Worlds
Published: 2005-09-27T00:00:00+00:00

20

RINDELL JORREN

Autumn 791 C.C.

YOU'RE ON YOUR FEET!”

The cavalier squinted over his shoulder at Rindell, unwilling to slow his pace to let the young man catch up. He was wearing his boots, tall black leather and impressive despite being worn and mud-splattered. His threadbare cloak was slung over his shoulders and his hat perched atop his head, both garments a tired shade of dark red. He was walking at a fair clip and Rindell was starting to grow short of breath trying to keep up with him. “I am on my feet,” he uttered, his voice showing the toll that his pace was taking on his own breath. “Your powers of observation are astounding.”

Not that this positive turn in his health had done much for his temper, Rindell observed. “You've got to be careful,” he said instead. “The rebels have regrouped—”

“On the west end, half a mile away from the camp,” Cal interrupted. “I've seen them. I've circled the camp three times already. And what have you done this morning? Just gotten up?”

Rindell blinked, trying to come up with a quick retort but failing completely.

“I'm not lying in bed waiting for the guns to come again,” the old man went on. “I may not be armed but at least I'm going to be on my feet.”

“Did Amipal tell you to do that?”

Cal stopped then, midstride, and narrowed his eyes at Rindell. “No,” he finally said. “No, he didn't tell me a bloody thing.” Then he reached an impatient hand toward Rindell and ordered, “Come on, let's see what the rebels are doing now.”

There was little happening west of the camp, which was somehow more disturbing than if they had been shooting at things. It was a weighty silence, almost as heavy as when Amipal had frozen them. Rindell looked around, feeling cold and wobbly in his stomach, but the wanderer was nowhere to be seen. That was a relief—he didn't think he could live through that again. Without Amipal, though, there was no good explanation for the rebels' silence. Something even worse than time stopping must have happened to quiet them.

“There you are,” an unpleasant voice said behind Rindell. The explanation was immediately clear. Aron Jannes, walking up fast to take Rindell by the other arm, was wearing his wig. He never wore his wig. Rindell knew even before Jannes said it. “Hurry up, then. Your father's come to visit.”

The rebels weren't doing anything because they were sitting on the ground, their feet folded beneath them. Rindell had thought they looked awfully short from a distance. They were arranged in a geometric pattern of rank and file, they had their hands on their heads, and a troop of men in gray Public Force uniforms were walking up and down the aisles to collect their weapons and pile them into a large wagon while two of his father's clerks followed with ledgers, counting everything. One of the rebels complained about his folded legs going numb and tried to stand to relieve them; a guard stepped up at once and clubbed him on the side of the head with the barrel of his musket.

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