People became part of the background noise of the world, like birdsong or clouds. Enid tried to name everyone she saw on her way out of Haven two days ago, and wasn’t sure she could. So yes, she understood.
“Do you remember how you heard that he’d died?” Enid asked. “Where you were, what you were doing, who told you?”
The woman swallowed—she didn’t want to say. Worried, perhaps, that she would implicate someone. Her dark eyes were large, blinking. “I think everyone must have heard the news all at once—that’s how fast word traveled. It was so strange, so sudden. Philos, maybe? Or Ariana? Maybe both of them together. I know they came around to all the households here in the village to say that he was dead and that he’d be burned soon. As if any of us would go watch—”
“They encouraged people to come watch the pyre?” Enid asked. Other people; the committee members clearly hadn’t felt that request applied to them.
“I think . . . they hoped someone would. They knew it would look strange if there was no one there. But they must have known that no one would watch; it isn’t like Sero was friends with anyone.”
“So you heard the news from Philos or Ariana, when they came around to make the announcement.”
“But we all already knew. We just . . . knew.”
That instant wave of rumor. And the memories had already blurred, because people had gossiped and shared their own impressions and decided that yes, this must have been how it had happened; Sero must have just fallen, an accident. Of course.
Enid and Tomas might have to talk to everyone in town. The prospect daunted her. Well, she reminded herself, someone had to do the worst jobs.
“Who was with you back there, watching the pyre?”
Miran swallowed, as if trying to keep back the word. Enid left the question hanging until the girl said, “Kirk. It was Kirk. He’s . . . he’s just a friend; we just happened to be there.”
“What’s his household?”
She studiously folded the next sheet. “Bounty.”
“Thank you, Miran. I may have more questions later, all right?”
She nodded, not lifting her gaze. Enid left her alone to her laundry and her anxiety.
Enid had gotten the sequence of events of how and when the body was discovered and what happened after. She hadn’t learned anything about what happened before, except that at some point some people must have visited Sero about jobs around town. She started looking for brand-new fence posts, unfinished construction, or freshly painted anything. All those extra household jobs that folk sometimes needed help with, so they’d ask their neighbors. While it seemed that nobody spent any social effort on Sero, they were happy to ask him to work. And was he happy to do it? Did he ever argue about it? Did anyone hold a grudge against him?
No need to go spinning stories. She just had to find the person who’d rushed around the back of the work shed. Who’d gotten blood on their hands. Ask them what had happened. Then it would all be clear. She could hope.
She spoke to a half-dozen folk around Pasadan about obvious recent repairs at their households. All of them looked back at her, wide-eyed and startled, taking in her uniform and her serious expression. She tried to appear neutral—merely a sponge for information, nothing to worry about. Didn’t seem to help. They shouldn’t have been surprised; surely they’d heard about her and Tomas’s arrival just as quickly and thoroughly as they’d all heard of Sero’s death. But still, they all seemed just that tiny bit guilty at her presence.
Everyone she talked to who’d had a fence built in the last ten years had gotten Sero to build it for them, because of his auger. Most said they had spoken with him more than a week ago. The jobs had all been finished days before his death. Did anyone know who else might have been talking with him about new jobs? Who they might have seen going to his house? Anyone at all? No one knew or could recall.
The households here were all neat, well cared for. Nothing too big or unreasonable. No one exceeding what they needed, no one going hungry. By outward appearances, Pasadan was ideal. Except for Sero, the outcast.
Enid went to examine Sero’s house next. Maybe he kept records.
It was as simple as a house could get. A front room with a small wood stove, water pump and basin for a kitchen, a table and chair for sitting. A single chair—none for guests. A back room that held a canvas cot with a faded quilt spread over it, a closet with a few changes of clothes, a couple of towels, and a spare blanket. A door led to a water closet and shower. A solar cistern on the roof meant hot water. Or at least comfortably warm water. It was simple, but it was enough. A person could be happy here, she imagined.
A set of shelves in the front room held tools and buckets of spare parts. He might have brought some work here instead of keeping it all in the shed. The solar-powered auger Ariana had mentioned had pride of place, hanging on a rack in the corner, the battery and power cords tucked up underneath it. Sero had kept it in amazing shape. The steel bit was as long as her arm, polished to a shine and sharp. The housing for the motor wasn’t as pretty; a faded green, it had layers of scratches and dings on it. In places the plastic had grown brittle and chipped. Strips of canvas held parts of it together.
On one side, a series of four names had been painted in black ink. The older names were faded: Ray Macintyre. Carter Macintyre. Aldus of Bansai. And then last: Sero. Just Sero, as if he didn’t identify with anyone or anyplace. Not Sero of Bansai, Pasadan, or any household. The auger had been passed down, and it was clearly a legacy Sero had cherished. She wondered: Did he have an heir in mind? Had he ever intended to try for a banner, to pass the ancient machine on to someone else? Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe this had been enough for him.
Making a cursory search through the bedroom, Enid looked in the shallow closet, pushed aside the few tunics and clothing hanging on pegs, and found a banner on a hook in the back. A red-and-green section of woven cloth, a foot and some on each side. Embroidered along one side in bright yellow thread: SERO.
Some households did that, sewed in the name of the baby represented by the banner. Olive and the others at Serenity planned on doing so with theirs.
Sero had been born with a banner. A parent or someone of the household he’d been born into had stitched his name on the cloth that the household had earned to have him. Whatever had happened to that household, whatever reason Sero had had for going off on his own, he’d taken the banner with him. A mark. A declaration.
He must have known of the rumors about him. That was half the point of such rumors, holding them against their object. Sero could have nailed that banner to the outside of his house, told everyone the truth. But he hadn’t. He’d just wanted to be left alone.
Sadly, Enid brushed a bit of dust from the cloth and let it be.
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