Free The Archivist by Tom D Wright

for town.
    Checking again to make sure we are still alone, we step out onto the road and head down through the falling daylight into Port Sadelow.
    From the top of the hill I can see the whole settlement laid out below. The port town is not large—I would guess it has a couple of thousand inhabitants. The main street runs about ten blocks, and several parallel side streets flank both sides of the main thoroughfare.
    Danae leads us down the side street we used to exit town the previous day. The dirt road is lined with what I guess are fishing cottages, based on the handful of people in their yards who ignore us, focused on mending nets or smoking fish—except a couple of old women who eye me suspiciously.
    When we come up to Danae’s street and start to turn the corner, I stop. Two figures wearing black capes and hats stand with their backs toward us, a few houses down. They are talking casually and pointing at the building in front of them, so I do not think they noticed us. Grasping her hand, I pull her back and we retrace our steps. It is a good thing we do not have our packs.
    “Tell me they weren’t outside your house,” I say wistfully, hoping I am wrong.
    “I will if you want me to, but the fact is that they were. Should we try the back way?”
    I ponder whether there is even any reason to enter the house, but if we can check it out, I want to find out what they are up to. Waiting for darkness would be to our advantage, but the ground is unfamiliar and I do not want to use a light to broadcast our presence inside the house. I nod for her to lead the way.
    We pass several other houses, then turn onto a path that cuts through the block around a small shed, and duck into some brush behind her home. Working our way forward carefully, we crouch down and examine a broken door about twenty feet away.
    It slowly sways open and closed as the gentle, salty breeze pushes it one way and then the other. The concerned look on Danae’s face tells me that the entrance is not normally in this state of disrepair. I watch for a few minutes and see no movement, then gesture for Danae to stay where she is while I reconnoiter.
    Keeping low, I dash across the back yard past a large vegetable and herb garden and stop at the door to listen. No sound comes from inside, so I glance around the corner of the house just in time to see the Disciples walk off. Holding the door ajar, I slip inside a small kitchen and stop.
    Pots, pans, dishes and utensils lie strewn across the floor, and drawers have been thrown into one corner. Bags of flour, beans and grain have been slit open and spilled in one corner, and the shattered remains of numerous pottery containers of spices and herbs lie in a corner where they were hurled against the wall.
    I carefully navigate through the obstacle course until I get to the entrance to the common room to ensure that there are no unwelcome guests. Then I return to the back door and gesture for Danae to join me.
    When she steps into the kitchen, she gasps and stands in shock, taking in the scene. I urge her forward and she actually begins to cry when we enter what remains of the living room, dining room and Doc’s clinic. A tornado blowing through the house probably would have been neater.
    Just like in the kitchen, every manner of container from the workbench has been opened, smashed or dumped out onto the floor. It even looks like some of the floorboards have been pried up in places.
    Danae finally finds her voice as she whispers, “Why?”
    “That’s a good question. Why don’t you tell me?” She stands there for several moments until my words register, and then she turns to me.
    “What did you say?”
    I step over to a leather chest that has been turned over and slashed to make sure there was not a false bottom. “If they wanted to exact revenge, they would’ve just torched the building. They were searching for something and from the looks of it, they wanted it pretty bad. So, aside from setting bones