Page 6 of The Book That Wouldn't Burn

“And yet again the gods shit on me.” The man threw down his sword and whetstone then got to his feet with a groan. “You don’t shut up after this and you’re going to taste the back of my fucking hand.” He limped to his horse and weighed the water-skin across its back. “Line them up,” he growled. “A mouthful each.”

It was the most precious mouthful ever, filling Livira’s mind with thoughts of the well and its wet breath. She remembered the full bucket that she’d dropped at the sight of the first sabber—how she wanted its contents now, the whole lot. Even so, as she swallowed her single mouthful, she felt something uncoil within her as if she were her namesake, coming alive at the scent of water and seeking more. The others crowded in behind her and Livira went to stand by the soldier’s horse while Katrin and then Acmar took their turns to drink. She liked the horse—it had a rich, pungent smell to it, and made slow movements of its heavy body, occasionally swishing its tail. When from time to time it snorted and rumbled it was a deeper and more resonant sound than even the sabbers made.

“What does ‘allocation’ mean? Will my aunt be there? How far is the city?”

“Kerod eat my fucking soul!” the soldier snarled, but Livira heard no malice in it and behind her Neera even sniggered. Where another might um and ah, or simply pause, this man filled the space with an obscenity. Even so, he shrugged off further questions as if they were grit in the wind. “All of you, lie the fuck down and sleep. Got a long fucking walk tomorrow.”

And so they did; with dry mouths and rumbling bellies they shivered on the stony ground, whispering together beneath the stars, though less than children are wont to despite having more to discuss than on any day of their lives thus far. Some talked about the soldiers and some about the sabbers, both unheard-of developments. Livira guessed that one had brought the other rather than that lightning had struck her twice in one day. Her aunt always said that the city owned the Dust, even though nobody ever came from it to inspect their property. Perhaps they only wanted it when someone else did. Like small children quarrelling over a toy.

Livira huddled with Neera to one side and Katrin to the other. A hundred pieces of grit dug into her body, her wrists hurt, and her nose still ached where Acmar had hit her seemingly a thousand years ago. She watched the cold twinkle of the stars and thought that dawn would find her still awake. She wondered about her aunt and about the sabber that had walked into the settlement so unafraid. Was he scared when the soldiers attacked? Was he afraid now that they were hunting him in the dark? She hoped so. The anger that had been smouldering around the edges of her fears now kindled into flame and she wished the sabbers dead. All of them. And finally, she thought of Selly still lying in the dust a few yards from where the arrow had first struck the little girl and ended her story, and at last, dry as Livira was, a tear fell from her.

—

“Get up!”

There wasn’t any food, just a smaller mouthful of water than the night before. The three soldiers were the man with the clawed face, the man with the broken arm, and a man bound about his middle with crimson-stained bandages. Unlike their commander, they sported stubble rather than beards, though they had the same pale skin and light eyes. The clawed man’s limp seemed better, but it turned out that his horse also had a limp and so he walked, leading it and the column, while his two comrades brought up the rear, the bandaged man swaying in his saddle as if considering simply sliding to the ground when nobody was watching.

The soldiers turned their backs on the hills, leaving behind the first incline most of the children had faced, and set back out across the Dust. They headed west, in the direction of the distant city that Livira had once glimpsed from the ridges at the opposite shore of the long-vanished lake.

Watching the three men, it struck Livira that they were physically different from the people she had shared her life with: they had rounder heads, flatter faces, and were shorter than the settlement men, though better fed and sturdier. All of the horsemen from the night before had shared these same traits, though they varied one from the other in many other aspects.

“Why did all the soldiers cheer you before they left?” Livira had positioned herself behind the clawed man at the front of the group.

“Because they’re fucking idiots.” The man made to spit and then thought better of it, perhaps remembering how little water they had.

“But why—”

“Enough!” And he picked up the pace.

The walk back across the lakebed proved to be more wearying and almost as worrying as the previous day’s expedition. All of them were parched. Even the soldiers complained. The bandaged man in particular muttered about his thirst and consumed more water on his own than all the children collectively. He fell off his horse around noon, hitting the ground like a sack of beans. The other two hefted him back on and tied him belly-first across the saddle, though that was where his wound was. Livira learned their names during these exchanges. Malar with the foul tongue and scarred face, Jons with the arm, Henton who might or might not now be dead.

Progress grew slower as the day wore on. Malar’s limp returned and he looked flushed, dark eyes fever-bright. Jons hugged his broken arm. Some of the younger children began to stagger. Benth scooped up Breta who wasn’t more than three and stumbled on grim-faced beneath the girl’s weight. Katrin took hold of little Gevin’s hand and made sure he kept up.

Once, in the distance, Livira saw a tree. She recognised it only from an image Ella had etched onto a piece of slate. Tall, staggeringly tall, and branching as it reached for the sky, a fluttering of dusty green at the very top of those stretching fingers. It stood alone and improbable in the vast flatness.

Ella had told her that the lakebed had once been home to a forest, but Livira hadn’t been able to believe her. Her imagination scaled many heights but painting the Dust green had been a climb too far.

“Tapwood,” she muttered.

Malar grunted.

Only a handful of the most ancient trees survived. As the water level sank, the younger trees had died, dried, and fallen apart before the wind’s relentless assaults. But the thousand-year tapwoods had roots that reached down as far as the settlement’s well and found water even now. The elders of a vanished tribe, standing sentinel over the desolation of all they had known. Livira felt a kind of kinship with them.

They drew no closer to the tree and soon it was lost in the haze behind them.

They approached the western ridges as the sun was sinking. The children were a uniform dusty shamble. Livira almost missed the rope. At least she could have lain down and let them drag her. Her feet were sore and cut and she eyed the soldiers’ black boots with envy. She looked at her tattered leggings and the scabbed shins they exposed. Perhaps dragging wasn’t a good long-term solution. Maybe she could ride with Henton. He hadn’t complained about being thirsty since he fell off, not even once, and Livira was pretty sure he was dead.

It surprised Livira to find herself still at the head of the column just behind Malar despite her exhaustion. Anyone who felt as used up as her, she reasoned, should be stumbling at the rear, but here she was stumbling at the front. Perhaps the others were even more tired. Pride should have Acmar take the lead from her, but since his brother had gone down before the sabber he’d had nothing to say. In truth, though, Livira suspected that the difference was that while the rest of them felt they were being forced to go, she actually wanted to see this city, and had wanted to ever since she’d first learned that there was something in the world other than dust and beans.

Every mile or so Livira would find enough saliva to ask a question. She asked about the city, she asked how far it was, she asked what they did there, did they grow beans, was it true they didn’t let the dust in? Malar, limping worse than his horse now, answered none of these questions, unless it was with a grunt that might mean yes or might mean no. But slowly it seemed that his fever was loosening his tongue, setting him to mumbling into the spaces between her questions.

“You should have had a helmet, like the captain,” Livira said.

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll find a helmet and make you eat it.”

Livira shrugged. Malar wouldn’t have got his face clawed if he’d had a brass hat with a front brim like the man who led him. His cuts must hurt like all the hells. And those jackets they wore—not a gleaming breastplate like the captain but thick cloth with a padded shirt—looked too hot and heavy for the Dust. It hadn’t even saved Henton’s belly, just allowed him to swap a quick death for a slow one.

“Why did they cheer you?” Livira returned to the first of her many unanswered questions.

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