32. Old Man Hussam (Patreon)

Update: Unlocked for all patrons. Also, two chapters will publish today. (2/2)

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They find Dana in the pantry behind one of the fifty-pound bags of flour. She’s brought out into the common room, dusted all in white. Her brother’s already there with his head hanging. Lady Barmaki considers them both as she sips her tea. Hallon gets ready to grab Milo and run.

The twins look at each other. “We have no excuse,” they say together.

Lady Barmaki puts down her tea cup, just as surprised as Hallon. “Excuse me?”

“We went beyond curious,” Dana says, “and endangered ourselves as well these fine people.”

“We’re very sorry,” they say, finishing together.

Lady Barmaki looks around the room to confirm the others are hearing what she’s hearing. “Where are the explanations? The excuses? Wait—what are you two hiding?”

“There are no excuses,” Rashid says.

“We made a mistake, is all,” Dana says.

Lady Barmaki narrows her eyes. “If you don’t tell me what’s going on, there will be no Barada for a month.”

The children don’t react.

“Two months.”

They wince, but still don’t say anything.

“Salima,” Rahima says, putting a hand on Lady Barmaki’s arm. “Enough. If there’s something they’re protecting, it must be important. They’ll tell you in time.”

“You don’t understand. The mischief these two can cause—I wouldn’t be surprised if they start a revolution one day. Unintended, of course. It’s always accidents with them, but the damage would still be done.”

The children look both abashed and pleased at the same time.

Hallon releases the breath she’d been holding. For whatever reason, she and Milo are safe for now. Although, how safe is an interesting question, given the way the children keep glancing in their direction.

###

They’d scared her. Truly scared her. Rashid can feel it through the way Mother clenches his hand. And from Dana’s grimace, the way Mother clenches her hand too. They’re forced to sit by her side and listen to the boring debate about how to best distribute supplies, while not thirty feet away, two bandits—real live bandits—wander freely. There’s something unjust about that.

Dana bites her lip, and Rashid scrunches his face in response. Until Mother calms down, the two are trapped by her side. If every servant and bodyguard wasn’t needed for the relief effort, they’d already have been escorted home. They’re lucky to still be here.

The bandits help with the supplies. The boy, Milo, has a silly smile on his face. He’s not threatening at all. In fact, it’s downright hard to imagine him as a desperate fugitive. The girl though—Hallon—she’d been strong. Cool, too. Her eyes had been so calm as she hung above him, talked to him like they were out for a stroll. His wrist is still sore from where she held him. A bandit. Definitely a bandit.

Dana smiles. He hates it when she gloats, but right is right, and he’ll give her credit for it. Now if only they can get away! How are they supposed to talk to the bandits if they’re stuck to Mother’s side?

A soldier walks through the front door. The tabs on his collar mark him as a private in the Civil Order Corps. No doubt he’s a messenger come to talk to Mother. Rashid smiles when the private stiffens at the sight of Lady Barmaki, but instead of approaching, he steps to the side to let a Gloop walk ahead. He’s the same age as the twins, with dark hair—no, fur on his head—as rich as sable. The tattoo on his forehead is as blue as his eyes. He approaches with a swagger.

Mother turns to the innkeeper. “Who’s this?”

“Karam. He’s a runner for the Scholar.”

Dana leans forward, as does Rashid. She flicks her eyes towards him. The Scholar! They’d heard so many stories. Father’s guests complain about him endlessly. And this boy works for him!

The older man—what was his name? Eitwali. He steps forward, like out of the background of a painting. “Is Noor well?”

“Yes, yes,” Karam says. “We dropped her off at the Scholar’s residence without any problems.”

The news doesn’t ease the older man’s worry.

Karam gestures to the soldier, who—clearly unhappy in his role—pulls a map from his pack and hands it to him. “The Scholar sent me as soon as he heard there were supplies to be distributed. This map lists where they’re needed most.”

The map is large enough to cover a table. In a neat hand is an inventory of all the No Town neighborhoods, along with the amounts of food and water required per day to support the Gloop living there. Diagrams and a schedule show the best routes for distribution.

Dr. Rugaam says, “He’s as thorough as ever.”

Mother nods. “This looks like a sound plan, although I’d love to know how he knew which of my people were here with me. Even my children are listed.”

And it’s true. Their names are written on the schedule, assigned to help at the inn. Meanwhile, various of their servants, the inn’s residents, and unrecognized names are given delivery routes. Dana sighs, and Rashid agrees. It’s like there’s a conspiracy to keep them trapped when there are so many interesting people and places to explore.

Eitwali rubs at his mustache. “We’ll need to organize additional transportation and get passes for the people.”

“Already done,” Karam says with a grin. “Just look outside.”

Everyone files outside. Five carts, each pulled by a pair of Reds, are lined up. Along with the Barmaki car and their two trucks, there should be enough vehicles to make the plan work.

“The Scholar thinks of everything,” Karam says.

“The timetable is tight,” Doctor Rugaam says. “We’ll need to get started right away.”

Everyone springs into action, except for Rashid and Dana. Sensing their desire to join in, Mother’s grip tightens. All they can do is watch with hungry eyes as events unfold.

###

Milo feels loose, his muscles unwound. Equations flow in and out of his vision, breaching the surface of reality. When he was in school, they’d called him Bad Luck Rabbit. But not today. Today, he’d helped save someone’s life. He’s a hero, and he’s not sure what to do with the feeling.

He would’ve liked time to talk about it with Hallon, but all the calculations got jumbled after meeting the Barmaki children. The inn went from relative quiet to sudden busyness and none of the models pointed to time alone with her. And now they’re apart, but only for as long as it takes his group to deliver their supplies. He and she will be back together soon, and then they’ll have lots of time to talk.

Eratosthenes walks beside Milo on his left. On his right are George and Georges, two Reds pulling a cart loaded with bread, vegetables, milk, and water. Georges is a head taller than George. When he was born, he was as big as two Georges and the name stuck.

The streets are otherwise empty. The crowds that would normally be present are missing. There’s only Milo’s lonely group, and the wind twirling up and down the street, the numbers so bright, they leave an imprint on Milo’s eyes. He’d like to ask Eratosthenes about the wind, but the dragon is grim, deep in thought.

“Is everything all right?” Milo asks.

George responds. “Sure. The cart’s heavy, but not so bad.”

We were interrupted at the worst possible time. The way the lines are tangling has me worried. I fear that events are being influenced against us. Eratosthenes peers into the distance, through the buildings. You’d better slow down until we know more.

“We can’t slow down,” Milo says. “People need these supplies.”

George says, “That’s right.”

Georges agrees and the two men pick up the pace. The cart creaks and sways behind them.

Eratosthenes begins to flicker in and out of existence. Milo catches a glimpse of a woman with a staff, her hair in disarray, but when he looks, there’s nothing there. The same thing happens with a hunchback across the street and a girl with short, stubby antlers riding on the cart. This continues for two blocks, and Milo wonders if Hallon is wrong after all—that he is seeing things—but then Eratosthenes reappears, his jacket askew.

We have to change our plans. If Eratosthenes was grim before, Milo doesn’t have a word for what he is now. And there’s no room for subtlety. You have a choice to make, Milo Nasser Rabbit. You can turn back or keep pressing ahead. I must be honest and tell you that you won’t like what we’ve come up with, but I can assure you that it’s necessary.

“We have to keep moving,” Milo says. “These supplies will save people.”

“Should we go faster?” George asks Georges.

“Let’s,” Georges says.

I understand, Eratosthenes says, bowing to Milo before disappearing.

The neighborhood around Groud’s Factory is their destination, and according to the Scholar’s map, there are two checkpoints along the way. The first is at the corner of The Apples and Little Boxcar. A half-track blocks the intersection, and its machine gun follows their approach. The Reds hardly breathe while a corporal with a handlebar mustache looks over their permit to travel while the lockdown is in place.

Corporal Handlebar waves them through, but not before snagging a loaf of bread and wheel of cheese from the back. There’s nothing Milo or the Georges can do about it, so they keep going.

People peek out from their windows and open doorways as the cart passes, but no one dares to step outside. There are snipers stationed on some of the rooftops, and Milo can see the barrels of the rifles. It’s an uncomfortable feeling and their angles and trajectories make his scalp itch.

Finally, with a sense of relief, the factory comes into view. There is just one more checkpoint to pass through before they arrive at the gate and can start their work. Eratosthenes returns and puts a hand on Milo’s shoulder. The feeling is hot, and there’s the smell of iron in the air. Is the factory open for business during the lockdown? Milo didn’t think Mr. Groud had that much influence.

We’re as ready as we can be, Eratosthenes says. Be careful. Be cunning. The shadows are as thick as flies.

Milo wants to ask Eratosthenes why he’s being so mysterious, but there is a line of soldiers ahead, aiming their rifles at a man on his knees. It’s Old Man Hussam but without his pushcart loaded with atayef. The machine gun on the half-track swings to point at Milo’s group. The corporal in charge strides towards Milo. He’s a plain-looking man, and his voice is as average as his looks.

“Who are you? What are you doing with these Reds?”

Milo hands over the permit. “It’s humanitarian assistance. We’re here to deliver supplies.”

The corporal sniffs at the permit and assigns one of his men to look over the cart.

Milo asks, “What’s going on?”

“We caught this Gloop outside,” the corporal says.

“But I did nothing wrong,” Old Man Hussam says. “My family needs water. There is a leak in our tank.”

“Shut up,” the corporal says. “I’ll deal with you in a moment.”

Old Man Hussam pleads with Milo. “You, you are a dear customer. Tell him. I am harmless.”

The corporal eyes Milo. “You know this Gloop?”

“Yes, he sells atayef, the best in No Town.”

“That’s right. That’s right.” Old Man Hussam smiles, hopeful. “We are friends.”

The corporal isn’t convinced. “So you can vouch for him? You know for certain that he isn’t Silent?”

“The probability is tiny,” Milo says, “but I can’t say for certain because the range of our interactions has been limited to the buying and selling of atayef.”

“So you don’t know him,” the corporal says, the equations around his eyes narrowing.

“I do, only somewhat. If it helps, I can tell you that being Silent doesn’t fit his model.”

“Please, young sir,” Old Man Hussam says. “You do know me. I would never do anything wrong. And never the things the soldiers claim. My family is thirsty. That’s all.”

“We’ve already wasted enough time,” the corporal says. “I know a way to tell if he’s a rat. Strip off his shirt.”

Old Man Hussam is confused. “What?”

A soldier slings his rifle and roughly pulls off Hussam’s shirt. The old man’s body is lanky. Two dull gray metal cards hang from a necklace; behind them the hairs on his chest all gone white. There’s an ugly bruise on his right shoulder.

“Hah,” the corporal says. “I knew it! You’ve been firing a rifle!”

“No, no. I would never do such a thing.”

“Then explain that bruise!”

“I am old and old men bruise. I was trying to repair the tank. Please, please, you must believe me.”

“I believe,” the corporal says. “I believe you’re a rat.”

“Young sir, you have to tell him. I’m—”

The corporal pulls a pistol from its holster. The revolver is beetle black and too large for his hand. Time slows down. The numbers shift as the muscles in his hand tighten, as the hammer cocks with a mechanical click, the gear moving with precision. A bang. A flash. And blood and brain matter splatter against the cobblestones. Old Man Hussam’s body jerks before falling. The body—the equations of his life gone out of it—lies on the ground, rocking slightly from the fall.

Too late, much too late, an image flashes in Milo’s memory of his first time meeting Old Man Hussam. “His eye,” he says, his voice croaking. “His right eye’s cloudy. He can’t see from it. There’s no way he fired a rifle from that shoulder.”

“Is that right?” The corporal looks blankly at Milo. “Oh. Oh well. Doesn’t matter, I suppose. He was just a Gloop.” The soldiers turn their rifles on George and Georges. “Be on your way,” he says.

How had things gone wrong so quickly? Milo had saved a life earlier. And now he’s lost one. The math is simple, but he can’t seem to understand it.

I have him, Eratosthenes says, kneeling in the pooling blood. He won’t be alone, and neither will you. No one’s ever alone. Just remember that.

“I said be on your way.” The corporal gestures with the revolver still in his hand.

George says, “Sir? Sir? We’d best go.”

“Yes. Yes,” Milo says, dazed. “Of course. There are people who need us.” He walks past Old Man Hussam’s body, past the soldiers and their checkpoint, his eyes locked on the factory gate. The Georges go back for the cart, while Milo hurries ahead. The factory is safe. He understands the factory.

A familiar face appears at the gate. “Oh, it’s you, boss. I heard a gunshot.”

“Abdullah. Old Man Hussam’s just been murdered. The soldiers—they killed him.” Milo shakes his head and realizes that Abdullah’s model is strange. “Wait, why are you—”

“Mr. Groud pulled some strings,” Abdullah says, “and the Scholar helped with the arrangements. Didn’t you get the message? The team’s able to work during the lockdown. Come with me, I’ll bring you in. It’s not safe outside.”

“I didn’t get any messages, and I can’t stay,” Milo says. “I have supplies to deliver. There are lives to be saved—”

“But the team’s waiting for you, boss. At least talk to them, won’t you? They’ve been worried about you.”

Milo hesitates. The Georges are being careful in retrieving the cart, not wanting to startle the soldiers. “A few minutes won’t—”

A flash of light bursts the factory windows, glass sparkling in the afternoon sun. A shard catches Abdullah through the neck. A second explosion ripples through the building. A third shakes the world and knocks Milo down. He disappears amid the smoke and dark.

###

Mary appears, her staff glowing green in the dusky light. It’s begun in earnest now, she thinks as smoke billows from what’s left of Groud’s Factory. She glances at Eratosthenes, worried. “Is this really the best we could do?”

Eratosthenes nods, holding the dead man’s hand. The prayer he whispers is for them all.