Free Under the Empyrean Sky by Chuck Wendig Page B

key that unlocks our endless happiness here in this dead dog of a town.”
    “It’s true. Ace notes make the world go round—”
    “No—the Empyrean make the world go around. Being one of
them
is all that matters, and there’s no way to ever be one of them. Not through money, not through the Lottery. The only way it gets better is if we tear it all to the ground. Like the Sleeping Dogs want.”
    “You’re drunk.” Cael takes another swig because he wants to be drunk, too.
    “Ayup.” Lane snorts. “Nobody from town will win anyway. Last year it was someone from… where?”
    Cael thinks back. “Tremayne, I think.”
    “Yeah! Tremayne. Third time in ten years. I smell something fishy.”
    “You and fish,” Cael starts to say, but just then a still-wet Pally Varrin comes up from behind Lane and shoves a finger in Cael’s face.
    “You little snot,” he says. “You dunked me.”
    Cael tries not to laugh. Lane doesn’t even seem to bother: he just brays like a mule.
    Pally’s not having any of it. He grabs a fistful of Cael’s shirt and shakes him. “You laughing at me, boy? I notice your sister’s gone.
Again
. How convenient that the proctor’s here in town—guess I’ll just have to tell her your sister’s gone hobo again. They’ll dock your provisions. Maybe more this time. Maybe they’ll throw you in the hoosegow. Or drag you and your damn daddy away from Boxelder once and for—”
    Suddenly, a man steps between them. Grey Franklin, once more. He plants big, broad hands against Cael’s and Pally’s chests, separates them like a wedge.
    “Merelda’s taken ill,” Franklin says, giving Cael a look.
    “Horseshit,” Pally barks.
    Gray shakes his head. “You’re just mad ’cause someone sunk your butt. Now go on and get some dry clothes. The pollen’ll stick to you like burrs on a dog’s ass.”
    Pally sneers but slinks back into the crowd.
    “Thanks,” Cael says finally.
    Gray shrugs. “I do what I can. But you better find that sister. They will cut your provisions. Or worse, if the proctor gets involved.”
    “I know.”
    Grey musses Cael’s hair then heads off after Pally.
    Lane shrugs. And laughs again. Carefree. Or just careless.
    Suddenly, those gathering at Busser’s beer stands and Doc Leonard’s beer stands begin to sing competing verses of the “Harvest Song”:
     
“
Here’s health unto our mighty Lord, the founder of the feast,
Here’s health unto the Lady fair, the tamer of the beast.
And may heaven’s doings prosper, whate’er takes in hand,
For we are Heartland servants, ever at command.
Drink, boys, drink!
And see ye do not spill.
For if ye do, ye shall drink two!
The Lord and Lady’s will.
Now harvest it is ended, and supper it is past.
To the health of Lord and Lady, boys, a full and flowing glass,
The heavens rain upon us all and grant us all good cheer.
Here’s to the Lord and Lady, boys, so drink off all your beer.
Drink, boys, drink!
And see ye do not spill.
For if ye do, ye shall drink two!
The Lord and Lady’s will.
”
    It’s hard for the mayor to be heard over the raucous, drunken chorus, but he eventually thwacks the mic with his open hand and sends a feedback shriek over the whole crowd, quieting the song.
    It’s still an hour early. Why is he talking? And where’d the proctor go? Cael suddenly doesn’t see her or her attaché anywhere.
    “The Lottery is being postponed,” the mayor says. A chorus of boos and hisses rises up to meet him, and he has to raise his voice so he can be heard. “The piss-blizz—ah, the pollen drift is too bad, and it’s not just here; it’s across half the damn Heartland! The proctors have to—”
    More boos. And hisses. And stomping of feet.
    “I
said
, the proctors have to head back to the flotillas before they get grounded here for a couple days—” Clearly the proctors wouldn’t get caught dead tooling around the Heartland for longer than a day.
    Someone throws a glass toward the stage, and it