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would eliminate me as a danger. And they could."
The ConFed who might be my friend looked only slightly relieved.
I tried one more time. "Look, Eitar. I got caught by Odin Thor's men because
there was no place else to go. Now it's going to get worse."
"What?"
"The farmers those that are left aren't farming enough to feed everyone. The
townies are close to starvation, and everyone hates the ConFeds. There's
enough food to go around now. What about next year?''
"Can't you, and the other divers..."
I sighed, loudly. "Eitar, this is about as much weight as I can carry, and I'm
one of the stronger divers. Second, I'd have to find spare food to carry, and
the situation here is the same all over Query."
"Oh..." Eitar looked pale again. I was doing great violence to his mental
well-being.
I shrugged. "That's why I'm still supporting Odin Thor. He seems to be the
only chance. Verlyt knows it's a slim one.
And who knows if we'll ever get around to the Frost Giant problem?"
Nodding, Eitar turned to the workbench. "Let's see that last tape pack. Are
you going out again soon?"
"Not until after noon meal." I handed over the tape pack I had extracted from
the recorder.
"When are the elections?"
"Two days."
He laughed mirthlessly. "Then we'll see."
I nodded. We would indeed, but what we might see was another question.
XLII.
On the day of the referendum in Llordian, the ragged and dirty peddler was
back in harness, recording the happy
Llordian townies as they cast their ballots.
My site was in the market, behind a pottery stand run by an old woman who
never seemed to sell anything. I had set out various small carvings and
trinkets in front of me, on the stone ledge next to the empty fountain it had
been empty the first time I saw Llordian and still was.
While I waited, I carved mostly things like napkin rings and awkward
grossjays. Terrible carvings, but sometimes people actually offered me
something for them, usually a piece of fruit, a roll, or cast-off clothing. I
took the food, but not the clothing.
I never spoke, just shook my head and pointed to my throat. By election day,
the pottery woman just told people not to bother the mute peddler.
The townies all crowed as they stuffed paper ballot after paper ballot into
the big boxes. A pair of armed ConFeds watched each box, but only to make sure
no one walked off with it. They ignored the people stuffing in two or three
ballots, all marked with big black crosses in the space indicating the ConFeds
should leave.
"That one..." grunted a bearded man.
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He pointed at a carved wooden ring, a crude copy of a silver napkin ring I had
remembered from childhood.
I nodded as he held up a small copper one of the few coins I had been offered.
Then again, the napkin ring was one of my better efforts.
As he took the ring, the sound of a steamer hissing whispered into the square.
Two large farmers, flanked with guards of their own, scanned the ballot box,
but did not leave the steamer.
I risked getting caught and trained the recorder hidden in my pack at the
disgusted look on the white-haired man's face. The younger farmer, as big as
Odin Thor, but with skin like cream toffee, shook his head.
The steamer hissed again and picked up speed.
The bearded man, now walking from the dry fountain toward the steamer, spat on
the stones in the direction of the farmers. An urchin one who had tried to
steal one of my wooden grossjays made an obscene gesture. Two women hurried
from the steamer's path, covering their faces with scarves. Another boy picked
up a stone, only to have it knocked from his hand by his mother.
Not a single other farmer did I see, and, after I crept away in the late
afternoon, I back-checked all of the other soiling locations. No farmers to
speak of.
Under the cover of darkness, Henriod implemented his pullout, and when the
townies arrived the next morning brandishing the polling results, the old
postal station that had been the ConFed fort was empty, the gate wide open.
I was hidden behind the low parapet on the roof, recording the faces, the
dust, and the townies' indignation.
"Swine..."
"... knew before we finished ..."
"... last of them..."
Crack. . .
One desultory stone clacked against the open gate.
"...anything left?"
A handful of older men, including the ubiquitous one-armed man, entered the
main building, rummaged through every room. I could hear crashes and slams and
other sounds.
In time, they left, empty-handed, grumbling, swearing, with the old postal
station a shambles. So did I, bringing the footage back to Eitar.
Then I had noon meal, by myself, and took a nap.
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