‘Next door?’ Sharr sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘Which side?’ He yawned.
‘Um, to the east,’ Markus said. The noise outside grew as more locals and a few of Gita’s Resistance soldiers hurried to fight the blaze.
‘East? That’s the fish market.’ Sharr poured a goblet of water from the bedside pitcher. He swallowed and said, ‘That’s odd.’
‘What’s odd?’
‘What’s to burn at the fish market?’
Markus shrugged. ‘Probably some drunk kicked a brazier over. You want to go help?’
‘No.’ Sharr fell back into the blankets. ‘The locals can handle it. We’ve got to be up and on our way before the-’
‘Wait,’ Markus said suddenly, ‘oh no, Sharr, this isn’t good!’
The first fire was joined by another as the old occupation barracks near the town livery went up in flames. The sound of horses whinnying wildly joined the cries for help as smoke billowed through one of the corrals. From the window, Markus watched as stable hands ran here and there, herding the animals to safety. Then another fire, still just a flicker of colour against the whitening dawn, glowed near the waterfront. It diffused into another and then another; flames burned rooftops across the town, making Capehill look like a monstrous pyre at a holiday festival.
‘That’s the harbourmaster’s office,’ Sharr said quietly. ‘And that- ’ he pointed south, ‘is an assay office. There’s a mining equipment shop, a glassworks, and a grain and feed store on that block.’
‘Whoring Pragans.’ Markus tallied the devastation as he looked across the false dawn rising over Capehill. ‘That’s six – no, seven fires we can see from here. What’s happening?’
‘It’s them.’ Sharr was up and on his way across to Stalwick’s room when Gita appeared, fully dressed, in the corridor.
‘You’ve seen outside?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Sharr replied. ‘I want to look up north. There are more offices, some critical supply businesses there.’
‘I think we’ve answered any lingering question about the soldiers they left behind.’
‘Strike quickly. Burn what you can, and fade back into the populace,’ Markus summed up. ‘A cunning tactic.’
Before Sharr could knock, Barrold opened the door. He wasn’t wearing his eye-patch and Markus winced at the sight of the ragged, hollow socket.
‘There’s ten, maybe twelve fires burning out here.’ He didn’t seem surprised to find the rest of them gathered, fully dressed, in the hallway.
Sharr nodded. ‘It was probably all planned, or if it wasn’t, they decided to move after the attempt on Gita’s life failed.’
‘They’re using slow fuses, I’d bet,’ Barrold added, ‘rolled tobacco leaves will burn slowly before igniting whatever tinder they’re using. It gives them time to get away.’
‘On to the next target,’ Markus said. ‘We’ll be three streets behind them all day.’
Stalwick emerged from behind Barrold. Still groggy, he didn’t say anything.
‘Mother of an open-sored slut!’ Gita kicked at the wall, shouted an unintelligible curse, then regained her composure. ‘Stalwick, go get the others, all the company commanders, even the ones from Gorsk. I want them downstairs in the front room before my tecan gets cold. Sharr, you’ve got to think. What else will they hit? Come up with five or six likely places that aren’t in flames yet, and let’s dispatch platoons – no, squads – to those locations. Be ready to brief the others when they arrive. Stalwick?’
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘What are you still doing here?’
‘Sorry, ma’am.’ Stalwick hurried for the stairs, tightening his cloak. ‘I’ll just… well, I’ll just go.’
Markus smirked. ‘Good show, Stalwick. Hurry back.’
‘They’re trying to hurt us from within,’ Sharr said. ‘They’re a handful of soldiers, not enough to fight us. So they’re attacking our food, horses, supplies, even the water won’t be safe.’
‘We need to catch one of these motherless bastards!’ Gita was fuming. ‘We’ll dunk him in the harbour until he talks, make him eat broken glass!’
‘I don’t understand why they abandoned the town,’ Barrold said. ‘Why give up Capehill, flee around the Gorsk Peninsula, and then leave a squad of spies to terrorise us? What do they have to gain by making our Twinmoon here miserable? Do they really think we’ll just sit around and starve, that we won’t boil water or buy grain on the Central Plain? Why are they doing this?’
‘I’ll tell you why,’ a strange voice said and someone clomped up the wooden staircase. He had the road-weary look of one who’d competed a forced march, and the soiled cloak and tattered boots to prove it. In the candlelight, his face was drawn and tired and angry. Markus knew he had seen this man before, but couldn’t place him until Gita jumped up and screamed in delight.
‘Brand! Thank the gods!’ She ran to the stranger and threw her arms around him.
Capehill burned all day, the flames reaching skyward as vast swathes of the city, both business and residential property, were reduced to ash. Resistance squads worked with local citizens to fight the fires, but the old wooden structures, many with thatched or wooden-shingled roofs, ignited and burned so quickly that little was salvaged. Sparks blew into neighbouring homes and whole blocks were quickly lost in a fiery haemorrhage.
By midday, it was impossible to know which burning buildings were the terrorists’ targets and which were collateral damage. The partisans gave up trying to predict what might burn next and directed their attention to saving what they could of the waterfront businesses, fishing boats and warehouses. Sharr ordered two apartments near the centre of the wharf torn down: the weatherbeaten wood would go up like tinder, putting the pier, the packing warehouse and the waterfront stables at risk. As the fires crept south, the burgeoning heat a harbinger of death, Sharr’s soldiers fixed lines to support beams and cross-braces, chopped through key trusses and, once everything was in place, on Sharr’s call, collapsed two two-storey buildings into splinter, which they then hauled away, leaving behind a breach for the fire slowly consuming the Capehill waterfront.
Sharr stole a moment to see his family safely onto his trawler, then sent them to a mooring buoy in the harbour until the conflagration was under control. His wife and sons wanted to stay and help, but Sharr had his way, arguing that they were doing their part by saving his boat, nets and traps.
By the dinner aven, most of the burning had been contained or left to consume itself. Capehill was a roadmap of hastily dug trenches and fire lines. Ponderous clouds of acrid smoke swirled over the harbour like a rogue storm. Three strangers, caught outside a textile shop, had been beaten and hanged by angry Falkans bent on revenge. With thirty-one dead, hundreds burned and nearly seventy homes and businesses lost, the people of Capehill found that their reputation for hospitality was wearing thin. No one knew if the three men dangling from a linden tree on what remained of the town green were actually Malakasians in disguise – it was too late to interrogate them – but their dangling bodies were a stark message to the Falkan leaders: life in Capehill has not improved. Gita and her Falkan Resistance soldiers would not be welcome much longer.
At the boarding house, Gita gave orders for half the companies to assist with damage control and clean-up, while the other half broke for an evening meal. They were to switch at the middlenight aven, and then resume their previous assignments, patrolling the town. The search for the Malakasians was broken off.
Sharr watched Gita climb the stairs. She had been dealt a damaging blow by a handful of Malakasians. She, like the rest of them, stank of smoke and burned pitch, and she had a blistering burn on one hand and a bloody gash across her forearm. She permitted Barrold to clean and bind her wounds while she prepared to address the officers. Sharr collapsed into a chair beside Markus; he was glad to see the young man had survived the day.
‘Lose anyone?’ Markus whispered.
‘No,’ Sharr said, ‘thank the gods. You?’