“I called my bodyguard to come and get me, and he brought me home.”
“That is very neat.” His fingers played over the steel surface of the table, and a moment later Lily heard her own voice, echoing from speakers on her left.
“Jonathan?”
“Where are you, Mrs. M.?” The static that had covered the call was entirely gone now, Jonathan’s voice crystal clear.
“Mrs. M.?”
“I’m on my way to Boston.”
“What’s in Boston?”
“The warehouse! They’re in trouble, Jonathan, all of them. Greg had Arnie Welch over for dinner—”
“Mrs. M.? I can’t hear you! Don’t come to Boston!”
“Jonathan?”
The call broke off.
“Your tag tells a better story than you do, Mrs. Mayhew. Last night, you traveled up to Boston, to Conley Terminal, and you were there most of the night.” The neat little man in front of Lily smiled again, and Lily noticed that he had a real mouthful of teeth, white and square and neat, too neat to be anything but implants. “There are only two ways for this to play out. You can tell me what you know, in which case I will be tempted—though I promise nothing—to paint you as Lily Mayhew, the sympathetic battered wife. It’s a terrible crime, to kill your husband, but there are ways around that, even when your husband was Greg Mayhew, Defense Department liaison and all-around Good Citizen. I’m not God, so you’ll likely serve a couple of years, but they will be soft years, and when you get out, your husband’s money, your beautiful house in New Canaan, your three cars, all of it will be waiting for you. You can start a new life.”
His words made Lily think of Cath Alcott, who had gotten into her car one night with her three children and simply vanished. She wondered if Cath had had any money. It changed everything, money. It was the difference between vanishing without a trace and simply dying in some dark place with no one to know or care. Lily thought of the group of people she had seen hunched around the bonfire beside Highway 84 . . . and then the man’s voice jerked her back.
“If you say nothing, we go to work on you, and you tell anyway. Don’t even kid yourself that you’ll be able to stay silent. There’s never been a member of your little group that I couldn’t break. But if you waste my precious time and delay my investigation, I guarantee that you’ll be Lily Mayhew, the cheating whore who shot her husband, and after I’m done with you, you’ll die by the needle.”
Lily held silent during this speech, though his words made her stomach twist into thick, ropy knots. She was no good with pain, never had been. She feared the dentist, even a cleaning. It was all she could do to drag herself into Manhattan once a year to allow Dr. Anna to poke the horribly uncomfortable speculum between her legs. But the thought of Dr. Anna steadied Lily as well, reminded her that William Tear wasn’t the only one who could be hurt if she opened her mouth.
“I’ll give you thirty minutes to think it over,” the accountant told her, rising from the table. “In the meantime, I’m sure you’re hungry and thirsty.”
Lily nodded miserably. She was thirsty, so much so that she could feel each individual tooth throbbing in its own dry socket. He left the room and she bent to lay her head on the table, feeling the sting of tears behind her eyes. She searched for the better world, but there was nothing now; she could not call it up in her imagination as she had so many times before. The better world was gone, and without it she wouldn’t last long.
Am I really this weak? She thought that the answer might be yes. There had always been something flimsy inside her. Greg must have sensed it; in fact, Lily saw now, Greg might have understood her better than anyone else ever had. All of Lily’s bravery only kicked in when there was little risk involved. When the chips were down, she folded. She thought of being alone in their enormous house, of having all of that space to herself, to do as she pleased, without Greg’s shadow lurking around every corner. It would be an amazing thing.
Bullshit, Maddy whispered. They’re never going to let you go. And even if they did, you think they’d let a single woman keep all of that money, do as she pleases? In New Canaan? In any city?
Lily smiled gently. Maddy was right, it was a pipe dream. The little accountant had looked straight through Lily and seen what she wanted more than anything—freedom, the ability to live her own life—and then dangled it in front of her like a cheap toy. Lily Mayhew, née Freeman, had been weak all of her life, but she had never been dumb.
“I won’t break,” she whispered silently into her crossed arms, into the wetness of tears. “Please, just this once, let me not break.”
The door opened with a hollow clang, and a hulking man with a soldier’s buzz cut came in, carrying a tray. Lily sat up eagerly, hating herself, but she was too hungry and thirsty to stage a hunger strike. She guzzled the water, then attacked the meat, a cold lump of unidentifiable off-white gristle that didn’t seem to taste like anything at all. The food only made her more hungry, and then it was done. She pushed the tray to one side, staring at the grey cement walls around her. The accountant had told her to think it over, but now she could think of nothing but all of them: Tear, Dorian, Jonathan. Where were they now?
With the ships, her mind answered. Wherever the ships are, that’s where they’ll be.
Lily felt certain that this was true. Tear would let Parker loose, and now Lily saw exactly how Parker fit in with the program: he was a distraction, a smokescreen for Security. While Parker was wreaking havoc, Tear’s people would board the ships, and then they would leave.
Leave for where? There’s nowhere to go! Do you really think he’ll sail off the edge of the earth and straight into paradise?
Lily did. The image was eerily persuasive: an entire flotilla of ships, all of them heading toward an unknown horizon where the sun was just beginning to rise. This vision didn’t feel like Lily’s; rather, it was as though someone else was dreaming inside her head. Did any of them know what was on the other side of that horizon? No, Lily felt certain they had no idea. They would probably end up sinking in the middle of the ocean. Did she really want to face everything that the accountant threatened for that?
Tear. Dorian. Jonathan.
The door clanged open again. The accountant had returned, and he stood over her, smiling broadly, his hands tucked behind his back.
“Well, Lily, what’s it to be?”
She looked up at him, sweat misting her brow, her guts sick with anticipation. But the words came out strong and clear, not her own words, and Lily suddenly felt as though there was another woman inside her, someone trying to hold her together, to get her through.
“Fuck it. Let’s go.”
Chapter 13
September First
FAUSTUS: Come, I think hell’s a fable.
MEPHISTOPHELES: Ay, think so still, until experience change thy mind.
—Doctor Faustus, CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE (pre-Crossing Angl.)
When Kelsea broke free this time, Mace was with her. Both of his arms were locked around her waist, dragging her back, and Kelsea saw that she’d been heading toward the great double doors at the far end of her audience chamber.
“Was I going somewhere?”
“God knows, Lady.”
I was. But where?
The answer came: her mother’s face, beautiful and thoughtless. Mace released her and she gestured toward the door. “Come on, Lazarus. Let’s go down to the portrait gallery.”
“Now?”
“Now. Just you and me.”
Pen’s face stiffened, but at a nod from Mace, he faded back toward the hallway. Kelsea couldn’t afford to worry about Pen’s feelings now; she checked her watch and found that it was past one in the morning. She was running out of time.
By unspoken consent, they did not take Mace’s tunnel this time. Instead, Kelsea marched out her front door, down the long hallway that fronted the Queen’s Wing, and into the Keep proper. They had run out of extra rooms long ago, and now even the corridors were lined w
ith people, most of whom seemed to be wide awake. The smell of unwashed bodies was dreadful. As Kelsea went by, they bowed, murmured, reached to touch the hem of her dress, and she nodded in acknowledgment, barely seeing them, secure in the knowledge that if anyone tried anything, she could end him in an instant. An old woman blessed Kelsea as she went by, and Kelsea glimpsed an ancient rosary wrapped around her gnarled fingers. The Holy Father would scream if he knew that one of those was still knocking around; no one in the Arvath wanted sinners to be able to tell their own grace. Seeing the milky cataract that covered one of the woman’s eyes, Kelsea reached out and grasped her hand before moving on. The flesh there felt bone-dry, like scales, and Kelsea was relieved to let go.
“May Great God protect and keep you, Majesty,” the woman rasped behind her, and Kelsea felt something turn over inside her. Did they not know that she was going to die today? How could they not know that? She quickened her steps, determined to reach the portrait gallery before Lily took her again. She could feel Lily’s need now, Lily’s pain, eating into the edges of her mind, trying to drag her back, and for a moment she resented Lily, wondered why she couldn’t pile her sorrows on someone else.
“Has there been word of Father Tyler?” she asked Mace.
“No. All I could find out is that he and a brother priest vanished from the Arvath several days ago, and the Holy Father is livid. He’s offering a thousand pounds for Father Tyler, alive.”
Kelsea halted for a moment, leaning against the wall. “If he hurts Father Tyler, I’ll kill him, Lazarus.”
“You won’t need to, Lady. I’ll kill him.”
“I thought you didn’t like priests.”
“Why am I here, Lady? You no longer need protection. I could drop you in the middle of the Dry Lands and you’d likely walk out unscathed. These people are no danger to you. Why have you brought me along?”
“We started out together.” They rounded a corner and began to descend a new staircase, this one smaller than the Main Stair and circular where the Main was square. People had crowded onto both the top and the bottom of the staircase, but they scrambled out of the way as Kelsea approached.
“You started off with all of us.”
“No. That morning with the hawk, you remember? That’s when I first knew I was the Queen, and it was just you and me.”
Mace glanced sharply at her. “What are you planning, Lady?”
“What do you mean?”
“I know you. You scheme.”
Kelsea veiled her thoughts, willing them out of her face. “When the sun comes up, I mean to go down to the bridge and try to parlay.”
“The terms were nonnegotiable.”
“Nothing is nonnegotiable, Lazarus, not if I have something she wants.”
“She wants this city and all of its goods in plunder.”
“True, it may not work. But I have to try. I’ll take only four guards with me, including yourself and Pen. Choose the other two.”
“Perhaps not Pen.”
She halted, turning to face him. They were near the bottom of the staircase now, only a few turns to go, and Kelsea lowered her voice, mindful of the people who were undoubtedly below. “Something to say, Lazarus?”
“Come now, Lady. A besotted man makes a poor close guard.”
“Pen’s not besotted.”
The corners of Mace’s mouth twitched.
“What?”
“For a woman with remarkably clear vision in most areas, Lady, you are stone-blind in others.”
“My private life is not your business.”
“But Pen’s professional life is, and just because I’ll tolerate some things in the safety of the Queen’s Wing doesn’t mean I’ll tolerate them elsewhere.”
“Fine. It’s up to you whether he comes or not.” But Kelsea winced at the thought of Pen’s reaction to being left behind. Was Mace right? Was Pen in love with her? It seemed impossible. Pen had his woman, and although Kelsea had her occasional possessive moments, the woman served a purpose, allowed Kelsea to feel as though she was doing no harm. She didn’t want Pen invested in their arrangement. She wanted it to be private, something that never needed to be dragged into the light of day. She wished Mace had not said anything.
No point in fretting over it, she reminded herself. Everything ends in a few hours.
The portrait gallery was full of people, at least several families sleeping on the stone floor. But a few sharp bellows from Mace did the trick; parents scrambled to their feet, grabbed their children, and were gone. Kelsea shut the door at the far end of the gallery, and then it was just the two of them again, Mace and Kelsea, the way it had been at the beginning.
Kelsea went to stare at her mother’s portrait. If her mother had been standing before her, Kelsea would have grabbed her by the throat, torn her hair out by the roots until she screamed for mercy. But how much of their current nightmare was really her mother’s fault? Kelsea thought longingly of those early days in the Keep, days when blame had been clear-cut.
“Why did she give me away, Lazarus?”
“To protect you.”
“Bullshit! Look at her! That’s not the face of an altruist. Sending me away for fostering was utterly out of character. Did she hate me?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“What is the point of this little expedition, Lady? To whip yourself with your mother?”
“Ah, hell, Lazarus,” Kelsea replied wearily. “If you’re not going to talk to me, then go back upstairs.”
“I can’t leave you down here.”
“Of course you can. As you pointed out yourself, no one here can harm me.”
“Your mother thought the same thing.”
“Queen Elyssa! Nothing but trash in the finest silk. Look at her!”
“Call her all the names you like, Lady. She still won’t be the villain you wish her to be.”
Kelsea whirled to stare at him. “Are you my father, Lazarus?”
Mace’s mouth twisted. “No, Lady. I wish I was. I wanted to be. But I am not.”
“Then who is?”
“Has it ever occurred to you that you might not want to know?”
No, that had not occurred. For a moment, Kelsea pondered the worst people it could be: Arlen Thorne? The Holy Father? Her uncle? Anything seemed possible. And did blood really matter so much? She had never cared about her father’s identity; her mother was the important one, the one who had wrecked a kingdom. Kelsea stopped pacing, looked up, and found the portrait of the Beautiful Queen staring down at her. The favored child sat on her lap, smiling brightly, no dark corners, and behind the Beautiful Queen’s skirts was the other, the dark child, the bastard, not loved and not special. Parentage did matter, Kelsea realized, even if it shouldn’t. Pain stabbed into her vitals and she cried out, doubling over. It felt as though someone had kicked her right in the guts.
“Lady?”
Another blow, and now Kelsea shrieked, cradling her stomach. Mace reached her in two steps, but he could do nothing.
“Lady, what is it? Are you ill? Injured?”
“No. Not me.” For Kelsea suddenly knew: somewhere, centuries away, Lily was paying the price for her silence. Lily needed her now, but Kelsea shied away, cowering inside her own mind. She wasn’t sure she could face Lily’s punishment. She didn’t know how she would come out of this thing on the other side. Would she have to feel Lily die? Would she die herself?
“Lazarus.” She looked up at Mace, seeing both sides balanced in equal measure: the angry boy who had emerged from the unimaginable hell beneath the Gut, and the man who had given his life in service to two queens. “If something happens to me—”
“Like what?”
“If something happens,” she overrode him, “you will do several things. For me.”
She paused, gasping. Bright, searing pain scorched her palm and Kelsea screamed, clenching her hand into a fist and pounding it against her leg. Mace moved toward her and she held up her other hand to
halt him, gritting her teeth, fighting through it, blind with tears.
“What’s doing this to you, Lady? Your sapphires?”
“It doesn’t matter. If something happens to me, Lazarus, I trust you to look after these people and keep them safe. They fear you. Hell, they fear you more than they fear me.”
“Not anymore, Lady.”
Kelsea ignored his comment. The pain in her palm had lost its sharp edge now, but it still throbbed hotly in time with her pulse. Kelsea closed her eyes and saw a small metal rectangle gleaming in the bright white light, recognizable only through Lily’s memories: a cigarette lighter. Someone had held Lily’s hand to the flame.
Not someone, Kelsea thought. The accountant. A man of whom Arlen Thorne would have thoroughly approved. And Kelsea wondered suddenly whether humanity ever actually changed. Did people grow and learn at all as the centuries passed? Or was humanity merely like the tide, enlightenment advancing and then retreating as circumstances shifted? The most defining characteristic of the species might be lapse.
“What else, Lady?”
She straightened and unclenched her fist, ignoring the mouth of seared flesh that seemed to open up in her palm. “If he’s still alive, you will find Father Tyler and keep him safe from the Arvath.”
“Done.”
“Last, you will do me a favor.”
“What’s that, Lady?”
“Clean out and seal off the Creche.”
Mace’s eyes narrowed. “Why, Lady?”
“This is my kingdom, Lazarus. I will have no dark subbasements here.” Through Lily’s eyes, Kelsea saw the warren of fluorescent hallways inside the Security compound, the endless doors, each of them hiding agony. Her palm throbbed. “No secret places where awful things go on, things that no one wants to acknowledge in the light of day. It’s too high a price, even for freedom. Clean it out.”
Mace’s face twisted. For once, Kelsea read his thoughts easily: what she was asking would be terrible for him, and he didn’t think she knew. She put a hand on his wrist, clutching the leather band that held several small knives. “What’s your name?”
The Invasion of the Tearling Page 41
