75. After the Flood (Jovadão)¶
The children were old enough to carry weapons—probably thirteen or fourteen—but to Jovadão, they were just kids. He didn’t have any of his own, but he was fond of his nephew Tiago, a gangly boy who fancied himself a future javelin champion. Tiago was the same age as the three boys and one girl cowering before a group of thuggish Tementeira in front of a burned-out bookstore. Jovadão had been drunk for days, but he wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t know right from wrong.
He shouted and ran toward the bookstore, but, once again, he was too late. Weapons sang and the dark stones grew darker. He stumbled to a halt, sick and panting, his hands on his knees. The thugs laughed as they sauntered away, not even bothering to kick the bodies into the gutter.
Jovadão had always thought of Thelenza as a massive, swirling prison. He’d hated the cold, and the perpetual rumbling of the Eyewall had made it hard to hear and impossible to relax. But, to his extreme disappointment, he liked it even less now that the Eyewall was gone, the sun blazing down on the retreating floodwaters in humid silence.
After the battle in Oblashada, the Tementeira had massacred the defeated Sarmalans. Jovadão had tried to be a voice of reason, insisting that the prisoners be treated with the respect every soldier deserved, but he’d been no match for the juggernaut of pent-up rage and holy zeal.
But the savagery of the army had paled in comparison to what he’d witnessed in Thelenza. The slaughter had begun long before they’d arrived. They’d expected a fierce battle through the tunnels, but had found the city undefended, thanks to the final blow struck by Teira and her cell. The Eyewall had fallen, the tunnels had flooded, and the displaced Cantereians had come boiling up like enraged ants, avenging generations of insult. By the time the Tementeira arrived, there had been no one left for them to fight.
Once again, Jovadão had attempted to calm the bloodlust, and once again, he had failed. His reflected fame was no longer an asset to Ravásie, who’d dismissed him from service, discarding him like an empty aurunda peel. His leadership had earned him just enough respect to keep anyone from shoving a spear through his belly.
Within the first three days of the occupation, Jovadão had counted seven rapes—just the ones he saw directly, not ones that he heard or suspected—and lost count of the murders and beatings. Most of the victims were clearly no threat to anyone. He’d watched an elderly Sarmalan man wave some kind of musical instrument at his attackers, trying to convince them that he, like them, was a lover of harmony. The man had died with the strings wrapped around his throat.
The city was in shambles now, the spacious houses of the wealthy filled with Cantereian families, the former occupants huddled on the streets or dead in the gutters. Some—either more or less fortunate, depending on who you asked—remained in their residences, forced to serve their ex-servants. But, inevitably, the local Cantereians had begun turning on each other, accusing their neighbors of collaboration with the Helix. Those who tried to protect their Sarmalan friends were beaten or killed. It was the Discord all over again.
When Belosveka had first recruited him to help overthrow the Helix so many years ago, it had never crossed his mind that they might end up replacing it with something worse. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. He felt like a ghost, damned to wander the city and watch the devastation repeat itself, unable to do a damned thing about it.
One of many ghosts, he was sure.
And now he found himself swimming in wine, never quite numb enough. He wandered over to the bodies slumped on the pavement and stared down at them, swaying. Next to one of the boys was a sling, probably the justification for the killing. Wearily, he uncorked his wineskin and took another long drink. As he tipped it back, a familiar shadow darkened the bloody pavement in front of him. Blearily, he turned, then smiled. “I was just thinking about you,” he said, his words slurred.
Belosveka sighed, holding him up as he leaned heavily into her. “Come on, old man,” she said. “Let’s get you cleaned up. We have a long journey ahead of us.”
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