The scent of charred wood still clung to Liska’s coat from the morning’s fire, but a different kind of ash now settled over Oporov. She was halfway home, the rail line map tucked against her ribs, when the square went dead. It was not the usual lull of noon, but a stifling stillness. Then came the rhythm of heavy boots, too many for a patrol, too precise for villagers. A black State Security van, its polished chrome glinting cruelly, rumbled into the muddy square, followed by a squad of six grey-clad guards. Their rifles were slung low, ready.
At their head marched a man whose presence stole the air. A State Inquisitor. His uniform was dark, perfectly pressed, a stark contrast to the threadbare drab of Oporov. His face was a chiseled mask, cold and unmoving, with eyes like chips of river stone. He stopped dead in the square, his gaze sweeping the terrified faces of the villagers who had frozen mid-chore, mid-gossip. Liska, quick as thought, dropped her eyes to her basket, feigning preoccupation with a tangled skein of flax.
“Borislav!” the Inquisitor barked. Old Man Borislav, the baker, a man whose hands always smelled of yeast and desperation, was instantly seized from his doorway. He whimpered, clutching a flour-dusted rag, as two guards dragged him into the square. A small wooden box, clearly hidden beneath a pile of discarded sacks, was thrust before the Inquisitor. It held three dull ingots of stolen copper. He offered no words. He simply gestured. A single shot cracked, startling a flock of pigeons into the grey sky. Borislav crumpled, a dark stain blossoming on the front of his smock. Quiet settled again, broken only by the drip of clay off a cartwheel.
The officer’s eyes drifted past the baker’s smock, scanning the row of sod roofs before fixing on the whitewashed timber of her dwelling. Liska felt a sudden, icy grip in her gut. No. Not here. Not now. This was the one place she needed to be safe, unremarkable. Vane raised a gloved hand. “This house,” he announced, voice flat and dry. “It will serve as our temporary command post. Clear it out. Now.”
Liska pulled her woven hamper tighter to her hip. Liska forced her face into a mask of abject, tearful fear, a performance she’d perfected for countless State officials. She scrambled inside, nearly tripping over her own clogs, collapsing onto a stool beside the hearth. Daris, who had been chopping wood by the back wall, his movements slow and deliberate, paused. He watched the troopers stride through their gate, expression flat. When they reached him, he simply lowered his axe, a picture of weary resignation.
Inside, the troopers tore through their meager possessions. The cot was overturned, the blanket ripped. A pail of fresh water, drawn just moments ago, was kicked over, sending a cold rush across the packed earth floor. Liska kept her head down, her hands fumbling with her weaving basket, trying to appear utterly helpless. Her fingers pressed the false bottom, shielding the rebel ciphers. A trooper with a scarred cheek stepped closer, scowling down at the wicker.
“What’s in there, girl?” he grunted, hand outstretched. “More wool?”
“Just my yarn, sir!” Liska stammered, pitching her voice into a tremulous whine. She clutched the rim until her nails bit bark. Then, as if her hands were suddenly made of butter, she let out a theatrical gasp and jostled the enamel pot of hot water she’d just taken from the embers. It sloshed over, scalding her fingers, and a shriek tore from her throat. The hot water splashed across the Enforcer’s boot. He recoiled with a curse, his attention momentarily diverted by the sudden heat and the loud, panicked display. “Clumsy fool!” he snapped, shaking his foot, as Liska dissolved into exaggerated sobs.
A second trooper shoved her aside. “Move, idiot.” They bypassed the wicker. Liska bit her lip, steadying her hands against her apron. The coast was clear. For now.
The Inquisitor entered, taking in the small room with measured scrutiny. He ignored the mess, the spilled water, Liska’s sniveling. He moved with an unhurried grace, his gaze sweeping over the worn floorboards, the rough-hewn table, the single window. He knelt beside the hearth, his dark uniform a stark silhouette against the weak light. Liska watched, her muscles locking. There was a loose board there, she knew, near the edge of the hearth where the heat often expanded the wood.
The officer’s gloved fingers found the seam. He inserted a small, flat pry tool, almost invisible in his hand, and with a soft *thunk*, the board lifted. Beneath it, nestled in the dark earth, was a single, gleaming object. The officer lifted it clear. It was a heavy brass casing, clean and unpitted, identical to the ones stacked in Daris’s tool crib.
He rose slowly, casing held between thumb and forefinger, and looked straight at Daris, who had just been shoved over the threshold. Daris met his gaze, his face still a mask of weary indifference. The Inquisitor cracked the metal down against the pine table. “Well, farmer,” he said softly. “Explain why State brass is resting under your floorboards.”