I spin in place and sprint back down the long hall towards the servant’s entrance, hoping against hope that I’ll be able to make it through. I’m willing to risk even unreasonable odds at this point, because my options are quickly running out. Flying through the kitchen, I knock over several servants in my run. The door is open!
I duck my head and burst towards the welcome glow of the Stars of Donir in the darkness. But my heart drops through my stomach as the light cuts off. I slide to a stop, eyes coming up on a muscled man, dressed in absurd gypsy clothing and covered in oils.
“It had to be you,” I say, spitting to the side.
“Who else?” Timo responds, settling the locking beam into place with a final click. His voice is more educated, more formal than the last time I saw him.
“You really have been moving up in the world, haven't you?” I say, stalling as I back slowly away. I don’t really fancy a tumble with Timo on my best day, but with a ravenous crowd following me and a painting on my back, I figure my chances fall to zero. If only I had my sword.
“I have, haven't I?” he answers, smiling like a wolf. “I would say the same, but I have no idea where you've been or what you've been up to these last years. I tried to find you, trust me I did, but you put on quite the vanishing act after that old man saved you. At least you are aiming for bigger targets than the pennies you pinched on the street,” he finishes, nodding at the painting on my back.
“So, me and you, eh? Just like old times,” I say, hearing the approaching tumult of the mob at my back.
“Ah, little Jacie,” Timo says, clucking like an old mother hen. “I don't have to fight you. I just have to prevent you from getting the door open until they get here. Not that I wouldn't love to break you over my knee.”
The first of the guards runs around and into the kitchen, shoving serving staff aside much as I had. I look around frantically, but there are no windows, no routes of escape. Guards approach me, swords drawn, and I glower at Timo as he smirks.
The guards begin to hem me in, and I glance at Timo as he makes a swift move in my peripheral vision, but it’s just to dart out of the room and away from scrutiny now that I’m caught. Timo’s exit distracts me, and a flash of silver off to my side has me ducking and lunging back, but I can’t get out of the way in time. I close my eyes and turn my back, bracing for an explosion of pain. I’m disappointed.
Nothing happens.
I scramble back. The sword hovers over my back, but doesn’t finish the blow. Why did he stop? He had me dead to rights... wood slaps gently against my back. The painting. Grinning, I swing the Caldero around in front of me, catching it in my hands. The guards are so afraid of hurting the priceless artifact, so frightened of the Duke's pronouncement in the dining hall, that they won’t dare damage it.
This, I can work with.
The guards circle me warily, and I match them. Every time one makes a move towards me, I thrust the painting out at him, threatening, and he backs off. Improvising, I back into the kitchen, deeper into the house, the frail canvas my only shield. More than a dozen guards surround me with more crowding the entrance every second. Snatching up a cleaver, I hold the blade close to the Caldero.
As I continue to pace around the room, I struggle not to laugh outright in spite of my fear. I’m holding hostage, of all things, a painting. Every time I jab the cleaver at the painting threateningly, the guards flinch and back up. It isn’t exactly a tenable situation. Eventually, someone will figure out a way around it, or Paloran will say to hell with it and have me killed, painting be damned.
Warning prickles at the back of my neck, a sixth sense I’ve always trusted. I spin quickly, but no threat looms. Instead, my eye catches a small window in the back of the kitchen that opens into darkness. Heading back towards the party proper doesn’t seem like a possibility, and the guards will swarm me if I try to lift the beam on my own. The little alcove is the only option. I back myself into that corner, jabbing the knife at the painting occasionally to let them know I’m serious.
The dimly-lit cubbyhole contains the rope pulleys and stable platform of a simple hoist for carrying food up and down in the mansion, supported by a thin shaft heading upwards into the walls of the Duke's residence. The contraption is normally reserved for platters and little else, either coming down dirty for washing or rising hot to feed the upper reaches of the castle in a timely manner. Eyeballing the size of the box, though, I figure I can fit.
I turn back to the guards, who relax some now that I’ve cornered myself. Smiling at them, I lift my right leg back and slide into the hoist, backing into the tight space. Riding the small platform to an upper level swiftly and before the guards can make it up the stairs, it’ll be easy to find a convenient window and make my escape.
Clunk.
I can fit, sure. The Caldero? Just fat enough to cling like a dockside whore and twice as rude besides. I turn the frame, spinning it a full circle, but the large wooden rectangle has the perfect dimensions to refuse entry. The guards laugh outside, and I can’t blame them. I would laugh, too, if it weren't so damn tragic.
Hearing the guards shift towards me, ready to come in and snatch the painting, I make a snap decision. It isn’t worth my life, and it’s definitely turning into too much trouble just to apologize to a leper girl I hardly know. I wince even as the thought crosses my mind. Juliet deserves better. With more than a little relief and a teensy twinge of guilt, I let the painting drop to the floor, grab the ropes, and speed myself upwards to safety. As my cover falls away, the Duke storms into the kitchen. He sees me, his face purple with fury, and points as I disappear.
“Into the upper reaches!” the man shouts, such outrage in his voice that it’s practically comical. “If you let that man escape, I will have each and every one of you hanged. How do the cretins dare?”
As I pull on the ropes, a thought worms its way to the front of my consciousness. An idea; a way around all this nonsense. The third floor door follows suit, and the fourth and final floor's opening is soon ajar. Let them guess where I’ve actually exited.
As the fourth level's door opens, I gape at the Duke's private bedchambers. Gold and silks decorate every surface, and a massive bed that easily took five or six entire trees to build lolls like a daisy in a field compared to the size of the room. My instincts practically throw me out of the elevator to snatch up everything that I can carry on the way out, but I restrain myself. Barely. I sit in the box, holding the ropes, counting slowly and steadily as I wait. My heart jumps as the door opens far faster than I expect anyone to be able to reach me. Instead of a soldier, however, the princess ducks inside, her movements furtive. Is she… sneaking? She walks to Paloran’s desk, rifling through the papers before opening his drawers.
“You don’t have much time.” The words leave my mouth before my brain catches up to the thought.
Shit! Where did that come from? She jumps, her cheeks blushing red, and I’m shocked again to feel like I recognize her, like there’s something more there than just the brief time we’ve spent together. The room is immediately bathed in green light, and spinning glass glitters around her.
“Who are you, imposter?” she asks, scowling.
“Men will be here soon, looking for me. They know I’ve come up this hoist,” I say, ignoring her question. “You have seconds at best.”
“Perhaps I’ll just join the hunt, and we can find out who you are and what you know…”
Glass darts towards me, sharp edges glittering, faster than I can think, faster than I can… my hands open of their own volition, and the hoist drops away just as several speeding shards of glass crunch into the back wall. I don’t have time to celebrate by survival, though. My weight, easily more than the hoist normally lifts, sends me free falling back down with the speed of a striking falcon. I fly past the third and second floors, barely getting a glance at empty hallways as I careen past.
Breathing deeply through my nose, bracing myself for the pain, I grab the speeding rop
es, squeezing with everything I have.
It’s like gripping liquid fire.
The skin on my palms bakes away as the speeding ropes begin to slow, and I bite through my lip trying not to scream as the ropes rake my hands again and again. The termination of my descent is abrupt. The hoist and I hit the bottom of the shaft with many times the force the makers intended. For the briefest second, I’m stunned, my lungs frozen, the world strangely quiet. When I blink, my eyes focus, and all of my pain evaporates or, well, at least fades, as the tiny hope in my heart blossoms into reality.
Standing in front of me, less than five paces from the exit to the hoist, stands the Duke and a single servant. The two of them are a brilliant tableau of perfect surprise, staring at me with mouths open and eyes wide. The guards are nowhere to be seen, all scattered around the mansion looking for me. Just a scared noble and his frightened servant.
I scramble out of the contraption and dive forward before they can recover. Snatching the cleaver off of the ground where I dropped it, I jump forward and grasp the Duke by his graying brown hair. He doesn’t cry out when I lay the cleaver gently along his neck, and the servant doesn’t move, mouth agape and shock written across his face.
The Duke draws in breath to speak, no doubt to plead or threaten or shout for help, but I pull his chin up higher with the cleaver.
“No, my lord,” I say quietly. “We’re just going to walk over to that door, the pair of us, and you aren't going to make a peep. Not even a quiet whisper. You, boy, pick up that painting and come with us.”
The servant does as he’s told, lifting the painting like it’s his firstborn child. I walk Paloran over to his own servant's entrance, the same one Timo blocked from me just moments before.
“Help me lift the bar, Paloran, or you and the painting join the Eternal,” I punctuate the threat with the slightest prick to the neck.
“That's Duke Pal—”
He cuts off as the cleaver comes around and hovers in front of his eyes.
“Not a whisper, I thought we agreed,” I tease. “Now open the door.”
Paloran grunts and crouches under the bar with difficulty, but he manages. I motion for the servant to do the same. He sets the painting down carefully and puts his own back into the effort, and the bar slides up and off of its slots, falling to the floor with a crash as the men stagger underneath it.
Before they can recover, I strike each man at the base of the neck with the pommel of the cleaver. They slump onto the dirty kitchen floor, motionless. Sounds of shouting and footfalls echo through the corridor, coming closer as they follow the commotion, but they only find a door swinging open in the moonlight, partially blocked open by the unconscious form of the head of the house.
***
Three days later, I jog through the streets, eager to get my errand run and be on my way. The news of Duke Paloran’s treason is afire in the streets, and the rumor of my escapades stealing the painting are fading in its wake. My adventures became a curious oddity compared to the news that the Duke himself was arrested for funneling money to the Vengeance. His arrest allows me to breathe a little easier.
I slip through the wrought iron gate at the back of the restaurant, hardly glancing at the statues as I practically run up the stairs to knock on Miranda’s door. The door opens a crack, then swings wide to reveal Miranda in all of her splendor. Even at the early hour, the sun hardly peeking above the horizon, she’s resplendent in finery, not a hair out of place above an intricate, brocaded ruby gown sewn up at the back.
“Good morning, my lady,” I say, stepping up to her and kissing the back of her hand.
“Ah, what a dear you are,” she says, grinning broadly and faking a blush. “You don’t have to treat me like that. Those of us with red blood know one another.”
“You are more worthy of the title than any of those with the blue,” I respond, winking. “Is my order ready?”
“It should be ready presently. Do you have time to stay and chat? We need to catch up.”
“Regrettably, I have to go. I’ll be sure to stop by as soon as I can, though.”
Having stared starvation in the face, I know that food is both necessity and luxury. When you encounter the best food of your life, it sticks with you. Torlas ruined me by showing me this place, setting off an addiction that hasn’t faded over the season hence. A side benefit to the perfect food is my budding friendship with Miranda herself. I often come at off hours, so we generally have time to chat, at least for a while.
“I’ll go kick the hornet’s nest then,” she says, turning and bustling off. “A boy in a hurry can only mean one thing.”
“And what’s that?” I call after her.
“A woman!” she shouts, laughing.
I hang near the threshold, refusing to actually enter the house, for I know I won’t be able to leave. She’ll press some sort of unholy dessert pastry on me, and I’ll spend an hour learning what exactly she’s done to create such a work of art. The very thought of what might be in there almost breaks my will, but I persevere because I know I’ll get plenty soon enough. Miranda returns, a force of nature filling the entire hallway, a small cloth-wrapped bundle in her arms.
She grins, handing me the package gingerly, and I realize that the bundle isn’t small, I only had the massive woman in front of me for scale. I heft it, cocking an eyebrow at Miranda.
“This seems a bit heavy.”
“Oh, I couldn’t resist throwing in some surprises,” she says, tittering. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“From you? I would blindfold myself and trust anything you feed me would be divine.”
The big woman blushes for real this time, bending down and hugging me quickly.
“Well, whoever she is, don’t let her break your heart, you hear?” she says, fixing my hair for me as we stand on her front doorstep.
“I don’t think that’s an issue,” I respond, winking and hefting the package.
I set off at a quick pace. It’ll take me at least an hour to make it to the colony. I’m concerned about passing through the Corpses while dressed well and holding a bundle of food that costs more than most of the people there will see in a lifetime, but I don’t hesitate. My fortune is my own, my luck and life earned. As Jonah always said, you get the luck you deserve, and damn anyone who hates you for it.
It’s difficult to climb the fence into the colony with everything that I carry, but I manage just before a patrol rounds the corner to spot me. My steps carry me up the rise and to her door. I don’t bother knocking; she won’t be here. On a normal day, Juliet makes her rounds in the morning, so she’ll be off tending to the other members of the colony, away for another few hours at least. Part of being a thief is knowing your target, so I’ve watched her through the fence for two days so that I can learn her routine. She moves even slower now than she did before, barely shuffling. Watching her move, I fight something dark scraping along the edges of my heart, something deep and despairing.
I slide to a stop at her table, placing the bundle on top and slowly unwrapping its contents. The white wrapping becomes a tablecloth, the coarse wood hidden easily under its folds. Fresh, thick toast with a chocolate-hazelnut spread, small, wrapped bowls filled with fresh strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, and some kind of exotic fruit called mangoes, and Miranda’s breakfast specialty: eggs lightly cooked in a skillet, white with the yolk intact, only the yolk has been sucked out and replaced with a spiced sausage that makes my mouth water just to smell. At the bottom, wrapped in a strip of cloth with Miranda’s golden seal stamped firmly on it, lies that unholy, holy dessert breakfast pastry I dreamt about. With a soft sigh of appreciation I rewrap the gift.
Pulling the painting from my back, I carefully place it on the table, angled so that the light catches it just so. Then, I sit back to wait.
I hear her long before I see her, the shuffling gait instantly recognizable. The door creaks open, and I smile broadly as she turns to face me. Her eye moves past me, roving
over the assorted goods that I’ve brought for our lunch. Only through familiarity am I able to ignore the portions of her face that leprosy has devoured. One of her eyes and the left half of her face is devastated, and wrappings of relatively clean cloth cover her from head to toe to hide the rest.
I lean forward and strike a match, lighting the golden candelabrum in the center of the table and standing aside respectfully so that she can admire the view.
“Who's there?” she asks, her voice quavering. “If you need help, I'll be down tomorrow to look after you.”
“Juliet,” I say warmly. “It’s me. It’s Jace.”
“Jace?” Juliet says softly. She shuffles forward and sits down heavily, her hands sliding over the back of the chair as if she feels her way into the seat. She moves her head around vaguely, not focusing on anything, as if... “I didn't figure you for a liar, but you sure like to keep a lady waiting.”
What joy I had at her arrival crumbles under an unexpected and extraordinary weight. My breath leaves me with a soft, long exhalation. I collapse heavily into the other chair at her table, the food forgotten, the plan disintegrating before my eyes. I glance over at the painting, the ugly riot of color and geometric shapes, and my vision blurs. The disease, already unfair, has claimed one of the last luxuries she had left.
Juliet is blind.
“Don't weep for me,” she says, her dirty, wrapped hands gently brushing my shoulders. I didn’t hear her get up. “It happened sometime near the middle of Spring. I've come to terms with it, and I still get around to my patients. My life hasn't changed, really.”
Her words just shatter me further, and my face slackens under the onslaught. I look up with clear eyes at the painting in front of me, forcing down the sharp, instantaneous stab of sorrow that accompanies the sight. She’ll never get to enjoy it, never even get to glimpse it. I stayed away so long that I didn't realize the mistake I was making. And she is comforting me.
The Crux of Eternity: Eternal Dream, Book 1 (The Eternal Dream Saga) Page 48
