“The shadowless will do it,” he said. “Eight of them.”
AFTER HOUSES AND FOOD CAME JOBS. AHMADI WAS ASSIGNED to join the wall guard with Davidia, which was fine with her. She began to teach them all archery. New Orleans had done an excellent job of hoarding bullets, but they were still a long way off from knowing how to manufacture more of them, and Gajarajan couldn’t justify the cost for them to be remembered. Arrows were a far easier option—and they didn’t erupt into thunder or lightning when loosed. Most of the soldiers were assigned to construction, to repair more abandoned buildings into houses for anyone who came after Zhang’s army, since they had all but filled up New Orleans’s remaining rooms. It was good—it gave them something to do. Not that Zhang had been expecting a riot, but he didn’t know how willing they would be to stop being soldiers. They’d been fighting for a long time and weren’t used to not having to. Imanuel’s ultimate goal had always been to reach a place or a time where they’d be safe, but Zhang didn’t think any of them had expected it to happen so abruptly. One day, they were killing the Reds and racing south, and the next, they were all in houses, learning directions to the communal garden.
But it turned out that almost all of them were happy to stop being soldiers. They’d dedicated their lives to it before, but not because it was their calling—it had just been the only job there was to be had in D.C.
As for Malik, the city gave him caretaker leave, to enjoy what little time Vienna had left before she forgot him.
Zhang received his task last. He was cutting through the grass behind House 33 on his way to the carriages, the way he did every day, to make sure they were still secure. He was always worried about the weather or someone curious trying to sneak into one. The morning sun was glaring over the roofs, blinding white as it climbed. His shadow skipped through the weeds, jagged. It bumped into another shape and dissolved, like two streams of water meeting. He stopped short. Another pair of boots was in front of his own in the grass.
“Good morning,” Yoshikawa said when Zhang looked up. The young sentry Davidia had ordered to run up to Gajarajan with news of the books when they’d first arrived.
“Sorry,” Zhang said. “I wasn’t looking, I didn’t see you.”
“It’s all right. I should’ve called out, maybe.” He grimaced into the warm glow for a moment. “I’ve come with good news. We’ve managed to find some space in one of the commercial buildings we’ve already renovated where you can store your books. A library again. It’s not fancy, but at least it’s got a roof and a door with a lock. We’d like to name it after the friend you mentioned—Paul. Gajarajan hopes you will be pleased.”
Zhang was. He was so pleased all he could do was blink back tears and nod until Yoshikawa laughed.
“Follow me then. I’ll show you the place.” He smiled and gestured past House 33, toward the small new downtown area.
They turned off Lafayette Street into a building that looked like it had once been a pharmacy. Inside, the left half was completely bare, save several rows of empty medicine shelves, and the right half was New Orleans’s only tailor, where people took turns in shifts to sew items the city badly needed: bedsheets, socks, underwear.
Zhang had never built a library before, but he had plenty of help. Volunteers poured in the way they did for the garden and the tailor. Some even brought a book or two that they’d managed to save in the early days.
The day Zhang started arranging the rebuilt bookcases into rows just like a real library, he gained two more helpers.
“Surprise!” Vienna cried as she poked her head through the door.
Zhang gasped, startled, and then started laughing. “Did you break out of jail?” he asked her.
“Nope, even better,” she said. Malik followed her in. “Parole.”
“I swear, you’d think she wasn’t—” He gestured at the empty ground behind her. “Teenagers.”
Zhang smiled at him. “It’s good to see you both,” he said. He’d hardly spoken to Vienna since the day they’d arrived—Malik had become even more protective than he already was, trying to prevent anything from startling her, scaring her, hurting her. Anything that could force a traumatic forgetting, no matter how small. But Zhang could tell that when she must have asked to see the library, there was no way Malik could refuse.
“Over here,” he said. He was more than happy to put her to work. “Can you . . .” He trailed off awkwardly.
“Yes, I can still read.” Vienna snorted, as if he was being silly. “Don’t give me the kid gloves, General. If you want to know something, just ask.”