The Rebellion by Isobelle Carmody

can do th’ talkin’, same as ye did when we was caught by Henry Druid that time.”
    Henry Druid was a rebel Herder who had disappeared after being driven from the Faction for refusing to destroy his collection of Beforetime books. On a previous expedition, we had stumbled onto his secret camp, but it had since been destroyed by a firestorm, the Druid and his people killed or scattered.
    “My talking didn’t stop them taking us prisoners,” I pointed out. Gahltha twitched, as if reproaching my inattention. The soldierguards had finished with the jack and were waving him through the gates. I noticed a man staring at Gahltha and realized the rain had washed away the dirt I had rubbed into his coat. Even at his most unkempt, the black horse had always been magnificent to look at. More than once, there had been trouble on expeditions because someone had coveted him. I had gotten into the habit of daubing his coat with filth as a safeguard.
    I sent a swift message to him as the soldierguard gestured for us to come forward. Gahltha’s smooth gait became an uneven, lopsided lurch, his head drooped low, and I was amused to hear him wheezing loudly as if his wind were gone.
    My amusement faded as the soldierguard reached up for my papers, for the other with the highland accent had turned to the wagon and bade Matthew pull the curtains open. We had decided to pretend there were only two of us, just in case the Guanette incident had been reported and they were looking for an injured gypsy. If either moved to examine the rig, I would have to coerce them.
    My heart leapt into my throat as the highland soldierguard climbed onto the running board and peered inside the cabin.
    “Nothing to trade?” the other soldierguard asked me.
    “Some beads and braiding,” I said, trying to pay attention.
    The soldierguard sneered. “No market for low-quality halfbreed work.”
    I shrugged, riveted to the wagon. One step farther and the other soldierguard could not help but see the gypsy. But there was a loud hiss and the man fell back in fright.
    “What’s that? Some sort of fangcat?” he demanded of Matthew.
    “It … it’s injured,” the farseeker stammered.
    “Looks like it needs knockin’ on th’ head,” the highlander growled, drawing out a short-sword.
    “Perhaps, but it is said Lud curses them who hurt cats,” Matthew said in a desperately sinister voice.
    He had gauged it well. The soldierguard was a highlander and fortunately was as superstitious as the best of them. He backed away hastily, letting his sword drop.
    At that moment, the light rain became a drenching torrent, and with a curse, the soldierguard examining my papers thrust them unceremoniously into my hand and reminded me that gypsies had to report to the Councilcourt for an extension of permit if we stayed more than a sevenday.
    “We won’t be here more,” I said, hoping that was true.
    “You did well,” I told Matthew when we had been passed through the gate. “Maruman says to thank you for preventing the man from knocking him on the head.”
    “Thank Lud for Maruman,” he said fervently. “Another step an’ that soldierguard would’ve seen th’ gypsy.”
    In a few minutes, we had reached the outer rim of the labyrinth of narrow streets that was the city center of Sutrium. Dwellings here were built right up against one another, often with no more than a single dividing wall to separate them, and had steeply thatched roofs that hung in shaggy fringes over doors and windows. Most were several floors high, which meant the streets weaving through them were shadowy and cold, seldom touched by the sun’s rays. But there were gaps, too, where nothing stood. I saw several before their significance struck me: They marked where dwellings had been burned. In some places a whole row of houses had been burned, while in others a single house had been razed and those on either side left untouched.
    “ ’Tis ice-cold out.” Matthew shivered. “Feels like