Smoke & Summons

by Holmberg, Charlie N.

  Another armored man opened the door. Rone stepped through with his chaperone, only to be confronted by a second door that had to be unlocked, and then a third. The moment that third door opened, the wrongness of the place assaulted him like smoke.

  The smell was something he’d never before encountered, and he used to clean sewers for a living. The subtle scent of mildew, but . . . soured. The distant aroma of human feces, mixed with acid and . . . snow. A hint of iron, a pinch of body odor. Even that had its own distinct tinge—like the people here sweated vinegar instead of water.

  There were no prisoners this close to freedom. Three dark halls stretched before him, one in front and one to either side. All appeared to be unending tunnels, disappearing into a black void.

  He imagined the one in front of him—the one that led deeper into the prison—led to the first rows of prisoners. Was his mother there, or deeper down? Was her cell beneath his feet?

  The ball in his gut expanded until Rone had to lean over to compensate for its weight. He struggled to breathe. Perspiration pebbled his skin, and his teeth chattered from the coldness of it. The guard pulled a lamp from the wall beside him.

  There were no lights down these corridors. Surely that meant they each ended in some sort of sealed door, something obscuring the light from within. Surely his mother wasn’t sitting in utter darkness, wondering what she’d done to deserve her place in this dank hell.

  Rone swallowed. A headache twisted behind his eyes. “Do they hurt the prisoners here?”

  The guard regarded him with dark eyes. “This way,” he said, leading him down the corridor to his left. After a few steps, he said, “Not the quiet ones.”

  Rone’s hands shook, so he stuck them in his pockets, finding some solace in the amarinth and the wad of cash. His mother would be fine. She followed the rules. She wasn’t the type to scream her head off if wrongfully incarcerated.

  She had been utterly silent the day his father left.

  The guard’s lamp illuminated walls covered in metal sheeting; Rone could see the blurs of his reflection in them as they walked. The corridor turned. They approached another door. The guard knocked, and a slit opened, exposing a set of eyes. It closed, a bolt shifted, and the door opened.

  More light, Rone thought as he passed into the small room lit with half a dozen lamps, their smoke mingling before lifting through an air vent in the ceiling. Thank the damnable god for that.

  He finally got some air into his lungs. His chaperone muttered something to one of the other guards in the area—there were three—and showed him the papers. They reviewed them together. Nodded. His chaperone passed the documents to the new guard, who said, “This way. The warden’s last appointment just left.”

  This would never happen in Godobia. Or Ysben. Or even Serrana. While he’d never been to any of those places, their traders and merchants infiltrated Kolingrad often, especially during the summers. That, and his mother liked collecting foreign books. They all might have been fiction, but they painted the picture of the southern countries well enough.

  Rone nodded and cleared his throat. He didn’t want to sound afraid when it was finally his turn to talk.

  The new guard took a key ring off his belt and opened another door. They passed through another hallway, through another guarded door, around various twists and turns, and then came to a stop in front of yet another door, where the guard with Rone’s papers finally knocked.

  Rone had a fantastic sense of direction, but he wasn’t sure he could find his way back out of this place without help. How intricate did the labyrinth become, deeper in, where the lamps didn’t shine?

  A voice called out to them from inside. The guard cracked open the door and, reading off the papers, said, “Rone Comf to see you, order of visitor rights. Son of Prisoner 084467, Adalia Comf, imprisoned thirty-six hours for grand theft.”

  Sweat traced down Rone’s spine. She didn’t do it!

  He wanted to shout, to scream, to object. To turn himself in.

  He said nothing.

  “Let him in,” the voice within said. The guard pushed it open and gestured for Rone to enter.

  He tried to hide his surprise that the person behind the large desk was a woman.

  “Sit down, Mr. Comf,” she said. She didn’t tilt her head or gesture to the single chair across from her, but Rone sat in it regardless. He pressed his fists against his thighs and stared at the warden. She was in her late forties, he guessed, and overweight like the clerk. Her skin was horribly pale, likely from sitting inside this awful place day after day. Her dark hair was pulled tightly back from her forehead and knotted behind her head. She had sad, tilted eyes and a too-wide mouth. Her voice was low and unfeeling.

  So was Rone’s.

  “I believe my mother is being unjustly punished. Her persecutor’s name is Ernst Renad—”

  “Yes, I know Renad.” She glanced at a ledger on her desk, uninterested.

  Rone’s pulse thumped in his right temple. “Are you neighbors, or is he just a financial contributor to this institution?” He swallowed the venom leaking into the polite accusation.

  The warden looked back, her wide lips twitching. Did she find this funny? “He’s a financial contributor. I always ensure our contributors are well taken care of, Mr. Comf. Now, is there a purpose to your visit here? You’re aware you will not be allowed into the cells after this.” She leaned back in her chair. “But you look like someone who’s read the charter, hm?”

  Rone scowled. “I’m hoping to take over Renad’s payments.” He pulled the cash out of his pocket and set it on the desk. “I’m hoping to convince you to actually follow the law.”

  The warden dropped her gaze to the money and laughed. Laughed. “A sweet attempt, my boy, but you’re a guppy playing with sharks.” She reached out long-nailed fingers and pushed the money back toward him. “Increase it by a dozenfold, and maybe I’ll listen to your complaints. Of course, you’ve already used up your visitor rights, haven’t you?”

  Fire lit inside him. His hand slammed down on the cash, and he leaned forward. “You’re right. I’ve read the charter. I’ve studied the whole damn constitution. I can recite verbatim every law you’re breaking, and if you think I won’t—”

  Her laughter cut him short. It echoed off the walls like the cries of a whipped cat, high pitched and raw.

  His fingers crumpled the money into a tight wad against his palm.

  Once the warden caught her breath, she said, “So can I. So can I. Oh, dearie, do you know how many sweet young men and women—cute, educated ones like yourself—have tried to use threats to bow this establishment to their will? Do you think the scarlets care what happens within these walls? They keep our cells full so there won’t be any vacant spots left for them. Do you think the triumvirate cares who did what, or what the consequences are? I take care of the riffraff so they don’t have to. So they can keep the country running smoothly and live their dreamy little lives.”

  She folded her hands on the desk and leaned in close. “As far as they’re concerned, you and your dear mother—all these prisoners and all these families—don’t exist. You’re all cockroaches to them, don’t you see? Every last one. Why would they bat an eye at which ones get stepped on?

  “But I care, darling. I care about the big ones. Bugs like Ernst Renad, who soothes his ego by throwing around more money than your small mind could ever dream of.” She smiled. “Try again if you gather the means.”

  Rone’s fingers reached for the amarinth, tightening on its coils. Sixty seconds. Sixty seconds to put her in her place, to wipe that smirk off her mouth, to show her—

  “I did it.”

  She cocked an eyebrow.

  Rone licked his lips, finding a crack in them. His muscles tensed. He thought he could hear the darkness from the hollow chambers beneath his feet beckoning to him.

  His mother was down there.

  “I did it,” he repeated. The ribbons of the amarinth threatened to cut into his fing
ers. “It wasn’t my mother. I’m the one who broke into Ernst Renad’s home and stole the headpiece.”

  She smiled. “Isn’t that sweet?”

  Rone only managed to half swallow his replying growl. “You think I’m trying to cover for her? I’ll tell you the exact route I took. The layout of his house. Which walls his gilded mirrors hang on, and the color of the wood stain on his harp.”

  His heart paused its beating for a moment, making him feel stiff and cold. Was he really doing this? Condemning himself to rot and die in Gerech?

  But this was his fault. His mother deserved freedom. And Sandis . . . she would have to fend for herself.

  The warden shrugged. “Whether you did or you didn’t, the quota is full, and it would be a headache to re-sort the paperwork for this.”

  The fire inside him snuffed out, drenched and wet and cold. The residual smoke pushed against his skin, seeking for an escape he couldn’t give it.

  “You’re not going to take me in her place.” He sounded like a little boy.

  She offered him a lopsided, cynical smile. “Like I said, Mr. Comf. Contact me when you have the money.” She waved a hand toward the guard behind Rone, who opened the door leading back to the world of the living. It took a long moment before Rone found the strength to pry himself from that chair, his fingers still pressed hard into the amarinth. The only means he might have to get his mother out, if he wasn’t swindled then, too.

  He felt the warden grin at his back.

  Rone wasn’t finished with her yet.

  Sandis went through all of Rone’s cupboards, hoping she could cook something for him—did she remember how to cook?—but the man lived like a true bachelor. He didn’t have much in there—not for baking, at least. He seemed to be decently well off. He’d never told her what he did for work, had he?

  Where had he learned to fight like that, anyway?

  Giving up that venture, Sandis decided to clean instead. The flat was tidy, but there was dirt in the edges where floor met wall, spiderwebs in the window, and a ring in the tiny tin tub they’d both used yesterday. She found only vinegar to clean with, but it worked. She cracked a window, leaving the curtains closed, to air out the smell.

  After that, she dared to step out of the flat. She scoured the street below, pulling her shirt collar over her nose to hide her face. She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. She climbed onto the roof and looked again. Maybe they hadn’t been followed this time. Maybe Sandis had truly gotten away.

  Five stories up. Sandis’s heart quickened as she remembered the fall from the clock tower. Could that be the secret to losing the grafters once and for all? Faking her death? It would have to be believable. Kazen’s men had seen her survive that fall, so they knew something was keeping her safe.

  Did Kazen suspect she had an amarinth?

  Sandis shuddered. If he did, he’d want her even more. Want Rone, too.

  She’d tried to warn Rone to stay away. She was glad he hadn’t listened, but she couldn’t allow any harm to come to him on her behalf.

  She’d have to make her death believable for the grafters, which would mean concealing her body from their eyes. But how? A fire? Water? She could do it in one of the canals that sectioned off the city’s districts . . . but no, she couldn’t go there. Not anymore. Not after what happened to Anon.

  A thud startled her, and she turned to see Rone behind her. He must have leapt from the southwest building. His face was long and tired and looked older than his years, which she guessed to be around twenty-five. On closer inspection, his eyelids were heavy and his cheeks sallow. He hunched like he’d been whipped.

  He looked like someone who’d had a nightmare and was still waking up.

  “What happened?” she tried, her voice tiny.

  Rone paced a moment. Sighed. “I think I can get into the records building, but we’ll have to wait until tonight. Can you write? More specifically, spell?”

  Sandis studied him. His stance, his inability to look her in her eyes—all of it told her he was angry. Hurt. She’d seen it with the other vessels, the men especially. Something terrible had happened in his visit.

  It was evident from his evasion that Rone didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t have the right to press, so she simply nodded.

  “Good. I’ll need you to write down the exact spelling of the guy you want to look up, as well as any pertinent relations—”

  “I’m coming.”

  Rone crooked an eyebrow. “No, you’re not.”

  Sandis didn’t want to hurt him more, but she couldn’t stand to remain in one spot while the grafters lurked close by. Taking a step toward him, she implored, “Please, Rone, let me come. I can help if I’m there in person. The name wasn’t always Gwenwig.” She tugged at her memories of her father. He’d told her about the name change late one night after a shift at the cotton factory. “I think it was originally Gwender?”

  Rone rubbed a crease from his forehead. “I don’t think it’s a good idea—”

  “I don’t want to be alone.”

  The words rushed out of her unbidden, spoken so quietly she wouldn’t have thought Rone had heard them had he not paused. He studied her for a moment before his shoulders slackened. “Fine. Fine.”

  Sandis smiled, but the joy of her success receded as reality pushed into her thoughts. “We should go soon. It’s safer from the grafters during the day, when the police are out and there are witnesses.”

  “Trust me.” He looked at her pointedly. “It will be better to go at night. It will be harder for them to follow us.”

  Sandis skewed her brow. “How?”

  A slightly sadistic smile touched Rone’s lips. “You might want to bring a change of clothes.”

  Sandis didn’t have a change of clothes, since she refused to wear her old shirt. From the jerky movements and muted grunts Rone made as he packed extras of his clothes in an oiled waterproof canvas bag, she could tell he was annoyed.

  “We’re not . . . going in the canal, are we?” Sandis asked. Her voice quavered.

  “No.” He pulled the strings on the sack tight and glanced at her. “You can swim, right?”

  She nodded. “Well enough.”

  Rone slung the bag over his shoulder and blew out the candle. Shadows engulfed the flat. Again, he led her up to the rooftop. They took a different route, hopping buildings for maybe a tenth of a mile before Rone descended to the street.

  They were nowhere near the Innerchord.

  Rone paused for a moment, looking around—or, more so, looking down, like the cobblestones held some secret Sandis could not determine. He back-stepped and glanced down an alley. “This way.”

  Sandis held her breath as Rone led her down a narrow road constricted by brick buildings. It looked eerily similar to the one the slavers had driven her down four years ago.

  The alley ended at an iron fence. Despite the darkness—only the last indigo wisps of twilight glimmered through the polluted clouds—flies were active. Their buzzing jumbled in Sandis’s ears. She smelled the overflowing garbage bin before she spotted it. No trash carrier had been down here for a long time.

  The scraping of metal and stone drew her attention back to Rone. He crouched, moving something—a manhole cover.

  The faint smell of feces wafted up from the slow-flowing water beneath. He felt around under the cover, then cursed.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered, checking over her shoulder.

  “It’s a drop-off point. Where those in the know can leave me tips for jobs.” He set the manhole cover aside instead of replacing it. “Might as well start here.”

  Sandis eyed the manhole, then the sack with the extra clothes.

  “You’re joking,” she whispered.

  “Once upon a time, it was my job to clean these suckers,” he explained. “There’s a whole network underground that very few know about—including policemen and, I assume, grafters.”

  Sandis inched closer. Squinted to see better.
r />   “How well do you know your history?”

  She swallowed. “Decently.”

  “This whole place is built on abandoned Noscon ruins. They built their colonies with the earth, while Kolins forced the earth to comply with their architecture.”

  Sandis’s stomach turned as she took a step back from the manhole. “I don’t understand your point.”

  “Everything up here is flat. Everything down there is not.”

  “And?”

  “Closer to the newer areas of the city, it’s a tight squeeze. Move away from the wall and toward the Innerchord, and the sewers open up. They cover the entire city, even the poorest parts. Do you want to find this guy’s record or not?”

  Sandis listened to the flowing water. She was getting used to the smell, at least. She glanced at Rone’s bag. Nodded.

  “It’s dark down there, so you’ll need to follow me. This part and the last stretch will be the easiest, but the water gets high in the middle.” He grimaced. “At least it’s not spring. It’s really high then. And cold.”

  She stared at Rone. Then the manhole. Told herself the grafters couldn’t find them this way and the longer they squatted here talking, the more likely Kazen would track her down.

  Talbur Gwenwig. Her best hope had always been to find him.

  Rone dropped into the hole. Sandis expected to hear a splash, but there was only the soft landing of his shoes on something hard.

  “I’ll catch you,” he called.

  Swallowing, Sandis lowered herself into the manhole until the muscles in her arms started to burn. She let go, and for a split second, nothingness surrounded her. Then two hands grabbed her waist, and she ungracefully landed half on a cement slab and half on Rone, nearly knocking him over.

  Easing her aside, Rone grabbed a long stick from the wall and used it to pull the manhole cover back into place. Darkness surrounded them, save for a muted glow of moon and street light through the holes in the manhole cover. Rone replaced the staff in its brackets. “This way.”

  The platform narrowed to a passage barely wide enough for a person to walk on. Worse, it slanted toward the water. The cold, foul water lapped at Sandis’s toes as she turned herself sideways, following after Rone. How deep was the water? What would happen if she slipped?