The Pain Merchants

“I will, I promise.” Tears blurred her eyes and left streaks on her cheeks.” Do you think he took Vada? And the others?”

“I don’t know.”

Tali hugged me, her head tucked between my shoulder and chin. “Like Trackers took Mama.”

No, she’d gone willingly, like Papa, to fight, but by the end of the war the Trackers hadn’t just grabbed unimportant Takers any more. They took Elders from the League, personal healers from the aristocrats—no Taker had been safe.

Honeysuckle and rain scented the air. In the empty space under the fig tree, I imagined a blue blanket held down against the wind by bowls of spiced potatoes and roasted perch, and Mama spooning out her special bean salad while Papa buttered the bread.

Another war. Another need for Takers. What about Takers who could do more than heal? If they came for me this time, would I wind up on the front lines healing or get stuck in the dark doing something far worse?

The storm drove the boats back in early. Wind-blown drops stung my cheeks and soaked my clothes. That didn’t keep me from the docks, and a chance to get my room back, any more than the fancy man who wanted to turn me into an assassin did. Sadly, the rain didn’t keep anyone else away either. Dozens of folks stood in line by every unloading berth, some with baskets in their arms. A few even had children clinging to their legs or cowering in their arms. No one complained when parents were chosen first, but more than one scowled. At least here a Tracker couldn’t snatch me without someone seeing. Whether they’d care or not was anyone’s guess.

The jobs filled up fast. By sunset only one boat was out, but at least forty people jostled each other to catch the berth foreman’s eye. I’d kicked the foreman once after he’d pinched me nowhere proper, so I walked away, shivering in the rain as the last of the sun’s warmth faded.

Where could I go? I retrieved my hidden basket and sat in the dry lee of the ferry office, half hidden behind a drooping hibiscus bush. On the lake, now empty fishing boats packed the canals leading to the docks, and two ferries with more people looking for work and rooms waited for the dock master’s signal to come in. One was an overloaded river ferry from Verlatta, its flag whipping around on its stern. The other was a small lake ferry that took folks from the docks to Coffee Isle, the largest of the farm islands. Every few seconds a sharp crack echoed across the lake as waves knocked the ferries into each other. The urge to scream “Go away!” at the refugees stuck in my throat. A lot of good screaming would do me.

A screech ripped across the lake and for a confused heartbeat I thought maybe I had screamed. I dropped my basket and it rolled into the rain, gaining speed down the sloped bank towards the lake’s edge. Thunder rumbled as I scrambled away from my dry spot under the awning. My feet slipped in the mud and I fell to my knees, but I caught the basket before it rolled into the water.

Another grinding squeal, like pigs gone to slaughter. The smaller ferry dipped hard to starboard, its side crushed against the bigger ferry. Muffled screams mingled with the splattering rain. The wind howled and another crack rang out.

I clutched my basket to my chest as a chunk of deck broke off and plunged into the churning waves. Crates followed. Lightning flashed, illuminating people falling into the water. Saints be merciful! I turned, scanning the shore, though I couldn’t say what I hoped to find. Rescue boats? Lifelines?

The crowds on the docks surged forward, but no one did more than gawk and point.

“Do something!” I shouted. Wind swallowed my words, not that anyone was listening anyway. The ferries chewed at each other. Passengers staggered across the decks, slipping on the wet wood. Waves and wind slammed the smaller ferry further under the water. It hit the channel lakewall and bounced off the canal marker. Waves sloshed against the walls, the ferries, the shore, getting higher and higher.

And still people did nothing.

Dropping my basket, I raced to the ferry office and banged on the door.

“Help! People need help out here!”

No one answered. Had they left already to do whatever they did in this situation? They had to have a plan; they just had to.

I raced along the bank back to the shoreline, slipping on grass and trampling reeds. Lightning lit the sky, silhouetting three people as they fell overboard and slipped into the black, swirling water. Before their heads reappeared, the ferry swung back, blocking the surface. Wood ground against rock. I tried not to picture bodies crushed between them, but I couldn’t think about anything else.

Off to my left, a smaller fishing boat crashed through the waves, fighting its way towards the sinking ferries. The crew struggled with oars never meant to propel the boat through such rough water. Waves hit the side and the boat listed heavily to port, and kept tilting. I held my breath, drawn a few steps closer as if I could pull the boat upright from the shore.

Wind ripped along the docks and the boat righted itself, but its angle said it had taken on too much water to stay afloat. Half the crew was already swimming, fighting against the current dragging them deeper into the lake. Swells chose victims randomly, lifting one man towards shore, sucking another under the darkness.

“Hang on!” I hollered, squishing through the reeds. Pale hands shot above the water beyond my reach and were swept away. Red flashed amid white foamy waves, but the bloody arms weren’t close enough to grab. Screaming. More screaming. So much screaming.

I had to get closer! Water swirled around my waist, tugging at my legs, trying to drag me out where the screams were. My heart made it further than my hands ever could.

A splash to my right.

I turned, searched the water. Orange flickered for an instant and I lunged for it. My fingers found softness and warmth, cloth and skin. Please, Saint Saea, let them be alive. I grabbed, held on with both hands and yanked.

A crewman rolled out of the waves, coughing and sputtering. So much blood on his forehead. A deep wound for sure, maybe even a brain bruise. I dragged him out of the water, through the reeds and up the bank. My hand covered the gash in his head and I drew, not a lot, but enough to close the wound and stop the bleeding. My head throbbed above my left eye.

Fishermen and dockhands appeared on the bank beside me, forming a chain with a thick rope wound around their middles. The largest man planted his feet in the muddy bank near where I had huddled behind the bush. I darted over and grabbed the rope a foot in front of him.

“Stay back.” He pushed me away and I nearly went down.

“I can help!”

“Help the injured.”

Burly men, their bodies thickened by hard labour, jostled me aside

and extended the chain out into the water. I moved away, scanning the shore for survivors, but the men hadn’t brought any back.

More flashes of colour and snippets of screams caught me. I ran down the bank, away from the men and their rope chain. Ferry passengers neared the shore, fighting to keep their heads above water.

I went back in, bits of wood and debris banging against my hips as wreckage started washing up. A dark shape loomed ahead and I lunged sideways, swallowing a mouthful of water. A crate swept by and slammed into a barrel behind me. Coughing water from my lungs, I found a woman whose arm would never bend again and dragged her to shore. My fingers were stiff as I pulled out a man who would limp. My heart went numb when I touched a boy too still, too cold to heal.

Rain fell harder, as if trying to flatten the waves so we could save more, but it hindered more than helped. A horrible snap, louder than the thunder, caused heads to turn. The smaller ferry broke in half and disappeared under the water. Seconds later the larger ferry ground itself over the wreckage. The hull cracked; wood tore away from beams. People clinging to rails toppled to the angled deck and slid into the lake.

I kept going, pulling them out, dragging them in.

Even after the screams stopped and the crying began.

I walked slowly, achingly, unsure where my own hurts began and the ones I’d taken ended. League Healers were rushing past me with stretchers slung between them, splashing through puddles and muddying their uniforms. Most were apprentices and low cords. I looked for Tali, but didn’t see her. My basket had disappeared. Stolen, kicked away, I didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. I had nothing left but pain.

Tali would be busy tonight and exhausted tomorrow. With so many injured, the Slab might even fill before the night ended. Did they keep extras for emergencies? Two haybale-sized pynvium Slabs was more wealth than I could imagine, but would even that be enough for so much pain?

Music and laughter drew me to Aylin’s show house, but she wasn’t there. Happy, dry faces shone through the windows, oblivious to the suffering at the docks. The blacksmith was closed, but heat radiated off the chimney at the back. I stood against it under a roof that kept most of the rain off me.

“I have nowhere to go.” The words slipped out, startling me. Could I go to the League? Maybe they’d take my pain before realising I couldn’t pay for it. Or at least give me a dry place to sleep. I pressed closer against the bricks. Foolish thoughts. If I went to the League, those wards or even the Elder might see me. Too big a risk just to stay dry for one night.

I watched for Aylin, but she never appeared, not even when the rain stopped and the moon came out. So I walked. Almost dry, I listened to cicadas and music. Tomorrow I’d go to the pain merchants. I had pain to sell, lots of it. If they sensed what I was, I could run. I was getting good at it.

And if they told the League?

Then I’d run faster. Or let them catch me and force them to tell me why they were following—

Hands shot out and dragged me into the darkness between the buildings. One hand clamped over my mouth while an arm wrapped around my chest and pinned my arms at my sides.

“Don’t scream.”

I couldn’t think of doing anything else.

Chapter Four (#ulink_7027ea2e-6f59-5c74-bcb9-f6ece4d9d4ce)

“Don’t hurt me,” a low voice said matter-of-factly, as if he knew me and what I could do to him. He sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite match a face to the voice. Then hesitantly he added, “And I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”

My fingers couldn’t reach his arm, but they tingled, ready to push every hurt into him the moment I could get my hands on his skin. Yet his fear seemed real and no one had ever been afraid of me before.