The Birth of People's Republic of Antartica, стр. 30
One man leaped down before the carriage stopped rolling. He was medium-sized, with tight, copper skin and wire-like reddish hair; he was dressed in common, nondescript clothes, but his steel-frame eyeglasses made him appear an arch intellectual. He jumped to my door and pounded, calling in American English, “Grim Fiddle! We have messages from friends!”
I called, “Get back!”
I had my dogs snarl. He dropped his hands, stepped back defensively to the window of the carriage. I noticed the door of the carriage was ornamented with a coat of arms—an aristocrat’s coach. I would learn that it had been stolen by some of Thord’s colleagues, and had been provided at the roadblock north of Vexbeggar. It had served to convince the troops that its passengers belonged in the area.
Another man swung down to confer with the first man. This one was large, all black, with long dreadlocks and a full beard. A cloaked female figure then appeared from the coach, tall, nimble, and with an aggressive bearing. She slapped the carriage door shut, looked up toward me, shielded her eyes from the drifting smoke, and called in sharp American English, “Come down, Grim Fiddle. We come direct from Israel Elfers and Thord Horshead.” I had the Turks stay hidden in the attic with the pups. I went down with Goldberg and Iceberg. I lit the lamp and let them in, first the copper, then the black, finally the woman. The driver stayed atop the carriage, being watched by a third man, a squat, South American type with an automatic firearm cradled in his arms. The woman strode up to me and stood with an ostentatious curiosity. I recognized the swanlike neck immediately, even though she was older now, full grown and unqualified—broad shoulders, short waist, very long legs, with black, rich hair.
“That is a war out there,” said Cleopatra Furore.
“You mean the fires?” I tried.
“Are you ready? Where’s the ship?”
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s not time for this. The King collapsed to their demands. They’re marching on the prison in the morning.”
“Father?”
“We have to move. Where’s our crew? We’ll need provisions for thirty days for a dozen.”
“What? I have some food. But my crew,” I paused, calling the Turks. They crept downstairs, crouching in peasant fashion as the pups licked their faces. Cleopatra sighed. She did not have to reprimand me. I felt my failure and tried to explain.
Cleopatra listened to me patiently, nodded, then stooped to stroke Iceberg, saying, “They’re what we have. We have all been caught short. Thord Horshead is our last hope. We must be there by morning.”
She did not invite debate. The squat one tapped the doorjamb, pointed up the pier. He used his right hand to make sign language. The black drew a pistol. The four of them moved together fluidly, and I reconsidered my assumption that they were mistress and hirelings. I would learn that the three men were Cleopatra’s foster-brothers: wiry, copper-skinned Lazarus; mountainous Orlando the Black; deaf-and-dumb Babe—all half-bred bastards like me, sharing the Furore patronym and the fact that at some point in their lineage they had Cuban progenitors.
I walked over to the door to look up the pier. A dark mass of people moved along the main street toward the camp. It was another refugee column. I assumed the troops had cut the south road, had started closing a pincer on both rioters and refugees. This was a roundup. The refugees were in a panic to escape. And I had one of the last ways out of Vexbeggar—the ketch.
Cleopatra touched my arm. “We have to go.”
I barked to the Turks to get to the ketch and make ready. I got upstairs to collect my best fatigues, to toss Israel’s letters into the sea, to gather the pups. One bolted and fled. I left Goldberg in charge of the other two and chased him with his mother, Iceberg. Orlando the Black stopped me at the door.
“Have you got weapons?”
“I have to get my dog.”
“Forget it. We have to fight.”
“I’ve got this,” I said, snapping the two-handed, double-edged war-ax that Thord had given me from the wall.
“He is a bloody Viking,” said Lazarus.
“I’m going to get my dog,” I said to Cleopatra. “You get your people and that stuff there to the ketch.” I was out the door and up the pier, Iceberg beside me. Babe was positioned behind a dead horse, his automatic weapon fixed. He had turned loose the team to slow the mob, and though it had helped, the mob had shot down three. The driver had run off or perhaps been killed. I prepared to vault the carcass to pursue the pup, when Babe took me down with a leg hook. I cursed him just as he opened fire, short burst, long burst, short burst.
“Those are families!” I cried. Orlando the Black pounced on me, pinning me down.
“We need you,” he screamed. “Those aren’t people anymore.”
“No! Get off!” He slammed my head.
“Hear what I say. We have to get out,” he said. The air was acrid. I sagged. The mob readied to charge. My pup was gone. I thought of Father. I kept Father in mind as I agreed to a retreat, Babe as the rearguard, Orlando the Black and I gathering Lazarus and Cleopatra in the shack. I took up my war-ax and hacked through the back window. I dropped to the floating deck. Iceberg and Goldberg and the two pups followed me. Orlando the Black passed down Cleopatra, then he and Lazarus swung free. Cleopatra started for the ketch.
“There isn’t time!” I cried.
“We have