by T. C. Edge
As Adryan once told me, he and the Consortium are not evil people. Evil, as they say, is a point of view. And from theirs, everything they’re doing is right.
But…he killed my parents. I’ll never, ever forgive him for that.
And one day, I’ll avenge them.
I’m rational enough, however, to realise that that day is not today. And it won’t be tomorrow, or the next day either.
He is, like it or not, untouchable. If we kill him, we’ll merely spark a flame in all his followers to attack. They will take as many lives as they can before their own are lost. That is the sort of loyalty that you cannot buy. The sort of dedication that can only be designed in a lab.
As the rain begins to build beyond the four walls that shield us, the discussion goes on. And while each member of our faction has had our say, to some degree or another, our opposition are spoken for by Cromwell, and Cromwell alone.
Sitting in her chair, her posture still well presented and composure fully manicured and maintained, our leader turns her attention to our counterpart’s allies.
It’s as if she’s only just recognised them by the way in which she speaks.
Twisting her wrinkle-riddled neck to her right, she sets her gaze on the four white-suited men and women who now sit to the side, perched in a similarly fixed and upright manner as she is on a series of chairs near the wall.
There are two men, both appearing in their early to mid sixties, and two women who seem harder to place. One is certainly older, I know that much, but their expressionless faces don’t exactly make it easy.
When you don’t laugh or smile or cry or curl your brows in anger or confusion, wrinkles are less inclined to develop. As with many Savants, their skin maintains a more youthful complexion that no doubt hides their true number of years.
Lady Orlando’s gaze fixes to the older of the two ladies.
“Mrs Blackwater,” she says. “I remember you from many years ago. I understand you’re High Secretary for Order, is that correct?”
The old woman nods.
“Yes, Mrs Cromwell,” she says. “You are correct.”
Lady Orlando lifts her hand, palm out.
“Please, do not refer to me as Mrs Cromwell. It is Lady or Mrs Orlando, or Cornelia if you should prefer.”
“My apologies, Mrs Orlando.”
As they speak, I think of my time learning of the structure of the High Tower alongside Adryan prior to my botched assassination attempt. Mrs Marsha Blackwater was the High Secretary for Order, tasked with maintaining justice in Inner Haven. Either she was very good at it, or very bored in her job, given the lack of crime across the inner part of the city.
I suppose she must also have worked closely with Commander Fenby, and then, briefly, Commander Burns for the very short stay he had at the summit of the building. I turn once more to our ally, who hasn’t been allowed to sit by Agent Woolf. Instead, he stands on weak legs, still looking rather forlorn and drugged out. The poor man could do with a break.
Lady Orlando continues.
“And what do you think of all of this, Mrs Blackwater?” she asks.
The Consortium member throws out the party line: “I concur with everything Director Cromwell has said. We have discussed all of this at length and are committed to tackling this threat together.”
“And you, Mr Linney?”
Lady Orlando looks to one of the men. I remember the name, the High Secretary for Development. A more important figure, as far as I understand it, given the work that the Consortium have been doing in trying to develop some of the lands beyond the borders of the city.
The old man is clearly known to my grandmother too. I suppose she’ll have rubbed shoulders with these people during her time as Cromwell’s wife.
“Director Cromwell speaks for all of us. We have nothing to add,” croaks an old, rather tired voice.
I tiny, almost inaudible little huff escapes our leader, and a similarly sized smile scoots up her lips.
“You have them well trained, Artemis,” she says wryly, turning back to the man opposite her. “Not a particularly loquacious bunch, are they?”
“Too many voices merely cause a din,” counters Cromwell. “I speak for all of us. As Marsha says, we have discussed our position for far longer than you know. We have been aware of a possible threat for years, and have come here with information that you, now that you have control of the city, need to hear. Do not sit there, Cornelia, and make pithy remarks.”
“I shall make any remark I choose,” she bites. “We have heard what you have to say, and will consider it. But you cannot be so obtuse to think that we’ll invite you back into this city with open arms. Believe me, I take any threat to our security very seriously. If we decide that what you’ve said holds some merit, then we will move forward, but only with some very, very strict assurances in place.”
I don’t like Cromwell’s reaction. The manner in which his face coils up reminds me of a snake about to strike.
A curl of his lips indicates he has something further to reveal, another bargaining piece perhaps as we sit here and decide the fate of so many.
“I understand the need for assurances at such a fraught time,” oozes his deep voice. “It remains obvious to me that any one of your people would love to see me to the furnace. I have, as you know, developed a contingency to ensure I am not harmed. However, I always place value in backups. You will be given assurances, Cornelia, of peace within the city. The order has been given to all my forces to stand down. That order will not be reversed for the time being. Yet, I understand you don’t trust me. And, consequently, I cannot trust you either.”
He turns his eyes to Woolf, who hovers beside Burns in a slightly darkened corner of the room.
“Romelia has informed me that you have many people within an old, retrofitted mine north of the city…”
Damn. He knows. She must have got it from Rafe’s head.
“These people are obviously dear to you, seeing as you secreted them away during the fighting,” he goes on. “I have, therefore, taken steps to ensure they play a part…”
“What have you done!”
My gaze sweep over towards Rycard, who’s left eye smoulders and spews fire. He takes a threatening step towards Cromwell, forcing Freya to heave her mighty frame forward and lay a large arm in front of him, halting his progress.
I see the thought of Sophie and Maddox all over his face. I think of them too. But mostly, it’s Drum who clatters into my head.
Cromwell’s hands lift to calm the half-Hawk.
“Do not be concerned, young man,” he says coolly. “Your people in the mines are quite safe. I have a contingent of my Stalkers not too far away, who are currently awaiting further orders.”
“If you kill any of them…” begins Rycard, still seething.
Cromwell’s hands stay aloft.
“I have no intention of doing so,” he says. “I am just taking precautions, as any good leader should.”
A collective exhale of breath filters into the room from the people on our end of the divide. The man is good, that cannot be denied. He’s made himself invulnerable, and now he’s preying on our own weakness: the love we hold for those under our protection and care.
Essentially, he’s holding several hundred people hostage. And, if we don’t agree to his terms, who knows what he might do.
“This has to be a two-way street, Artemis,” says Lady Orlando. Her voice is slightly strained now. The pressure is starting to tell. “You cannot hold us to ransom like this.”
“On the contrary, Cornelia, I have no choice. I must safeguard my position by any means possible. But, I am willing to concede certain things, as a show of goodwill.”
He looks again to Agent Woolf, still refusing to drop that smug smirk from her detestable face. I want to slap it right off her. Or better yet, punch her so hard her jaw can never quite manage the same position.
Zander is clearly thinking along similar lines, giving the shape of his e
yes. Though, I’m not so sure he’d hit her. He’d probably leave that bit to me.
However, it isn’t to Agent Woolf that Cromwell refers. Instead, it’s the forlorn shape of Commander Burns that draws his voice.
“Leyton Burns is a traitor to our people, much like Adryan Shaw…”
My chest burns for a second at the mention of my sort-of husband’s name. My hazel eyes drop a shade or two towards black.
“He operated as a spy within our ranks,” continues Cromwell. “Unseen and unknown until Agent Woolf informed us of his deception. I, naturally, would like to see him terminated for such a crime. However, I am willing to show good faith and return him to you. Call it an olive branch. I ask for nothing in return.”
His words sink into the air and result in a short silence. Burn’s eyes lift a little, perhaps in hope, or perhaps something else that I can’t quite measure.
As Lady Orlando looks set to speak, however, something creeps into my mind. A voice, Burn’s voice, that came to me as I woke from my dreams only yesterday.
Don’t trust me, he’d said. They have me…don’t trust me.
Those are the words I heard.
“How do we know it’s not a trap,” I say, my voice hurled all of a sudden into the room.
The occupants of the office all turn to me. It’s a reasonable question, and given more weight by what I think I heard.
I feel a need to explain, and look straight at Burns now.
“I heard you, Commander Burns,” I say. “I heard you in my head. You told me, us, not to trust you.”
He offers no real reaction. It’s clear that there’s some sort of drug in his system that renders him largely incapacitated.
“You heard him?” questions Zander at my side.
He always seems surprised by the thought of me having any sort of telepathic link with someone other than him.
“I think so. He said not to trust him. You remember what happened with Brenda and Tess…”
He nods.
“What happened?” questions Lady Orlando.
“Someone,” I say, staring at Cromwell, “set an order in their heads to kill me if I went back to the academy. They tried to stab me with a knife, but Zander stopped them. No reason why Commander Burns hasn’t been put up to the same thing. He’s probably got orders to kill you, Lady Orlando.”
She swings her eyes accusingly at her ex husband.
“He has no such order,” says Cromwell. “How exactly would that help me? I am here to fashion a pact. It would hardly last long if it involved murder.”
“A temporary pact,” I add. “I bet you’re looking long term. Once all this is over, then the order will activate. And, night night, the Lady of the Nameless.”
“Nonsense,” says Cromwell immediately. “Be my guest and root around inside his head. You’ll find nothing of the sort, I can assure you. I am trying to offer an olive branch here, as I say. If you don’t wish to have Mr Burns back among your inner circle, then so be it. He can return to his cell in the REEF.”
Burns doesn’t react to the thought. Agent Woolf does. Her smug smile gets even smugger. I didn’t think that was possible.
“And what do you say about it, Leyton?” asks Lady Orlando, turning to Burns.
He’s unable to answer.
“What drugs is he on?” she asks, turning back to Cromwell.
“Just sedatives, primarily,” he answers. “Now, feel free to take him with you or not. If you choose no, I will at least give you the guarantee that he won’t be harmed under my care. You see, I have nothing to hide.”
Lady Orlando thinks for a few moments. Then, she glances at me, before giving a little nod.
“We will take him. Being under your care is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. And Leyton Burns is the opposite of that.”
She turns to Freya, who stiffens her posture as they link eyes.
“Freya, take Leyton outside and make sure he’s transferred straight to our medics back in Inner Haven.”
“Right away, my Lady,” she booms, before marching towards Burns and reaching a long arm around his body.
Towering above Woolf, she glares at the woman with a look that would quell many a man, before heaving Burns out of the door and into the steadily falling rain.
“Zander, see what you can find in his head when he comes around,” says Lady Orlando. “We don’t want any nasty surprises coming our way.”
My brother nods, but stays put. It seems as though the meeting is finally about to end.
Our leader turns her eyes back to her old husband. She looks at him for a good long while before speaking once more.
“We will consider our position,” she says. “In the meantime, you can show us further faith by doing one thing.”
“And what is that, Cornelia?”
“Your Stalkers at the mines will be ordered to escort our people back to the city. They will watch for any and all threats on the road and make sure that not a single one of our men, women, and children, are harmed. They will deposit our people at the northern gate, where we will see to their transfer to Inner Haven. Then, they will return to the rest of your forces at the REEF. Do that, and you will have earned a little of our trust. Do it not, and further pleas may fall on deaf ears.”
She stares at the man again, playing hardball. I feel my pulse hammering as I watch proceedings. It’s a smart move, killing a couple of birds with one stone: remove the threat to our people from the equation, and also get them safely back into our arms.
Genius.
Cromwell considers the proposal. Yet, I get the sense he expected this and has already formed an answer. Nevertheless, he draws it out as if trying to convince us he’s really giving a lot up.
He isn’t. I suspect this was just a smart ploy all along to engender trust.
“OK, Cornelia,” he says eventually. “You have a deal. My men will bring your people home. I would, if I were you, contact them first. I understand my Stalkers can appear quite frightening to normal folk.”
“We’ll tell them to expect your men at dawn. Once we have them back in our arms, we will give further consideration to what you’ve said.”
The two old spouses nod at each other. The meeting finally concludes.
And with it, a ceasefire begins.
211
The city begins to take on a different shape as we work back through its western streets. Leaving a garrison at the perimeter gate, the rest of our forces return to Inner Haven with a degree of tension seemingly lifted from the entire collective.
It takes no time at all for word to spread that a ceasefire, while temporarily applied during the afternoon to facilitate our meeting, will now be indefinitely prolonged until further arrangements are reached.
Our soldiers are given the orders first, and then a process of word of mouth takes place. By the time the convoy re-enters Inner Haven, passing through the heavily guarded inner gate, I can already see the altered expressions on people’s faces.
Fear has morphed into relief. Crinkled brows have begun to ease up. Foreheads are no longer wrinkled and bunched but smooth and flat. Eyes that once held an unyielding anxiety now open a little wider in hope that things might just be OK and that we have, in fact, been declared victorious.
Yet, it’s a huge leap of faith to assume that we are now safe. Yes, the coming days may be calm and tranquil when compared to those that went before, but those to follow soon after may well charge back with a violence-fuelled vengeance.
If what Cromwell said is true, then this will merely be a lull before we’re forced to face off against an entirely new foe. If he’s lying, and unfortunately I don’t think he is, then our ceasefire may not last long, and we may once more find ourselves at odds with the man himself.
But, it remains a relief. That I can’t deny. Whether it lasts only a day or week or month doesn’t matter. The respite is welcome, and will give us time to further consolidate our position.
When we reach the City Guard HQ, our m
ain forces disband, returning to their tasks and further spreading the word of the current state of affairs. For those of us at the core of negotiations, however, the discussion isn’t done, and more decisions need to be made.
So, we return to another office – Lady Orlando’s this time – and take some time to go over what we’ve heard once more. We find Adryan there, at his new station, and extremely eager to hear what happened.
The basics have already reached his ears; that a ceasefire is in effect. However, what he doesn’t know, and what most people don’t know yet, is the true core of what Cromwell revealed.
At this time, Lady Orlando has ordered for us to keep such details to ourselves. If the people heard that a new, foreign force might be gathering, the burgeoning calm will quickly give way. I’m sure she’d rather not deal with a panic.
Adryan, however, is quickly filled in. He seems strangely unsurprised by it all.
“I’ve met Rhoth,” he says. “It makes perfect sense that there are other people out there. And it makes sense that they’d see an opportunity right now to attack. When two people are engaged in conflict, that’s the best time to step in and stab them both in the back.”
“Unfortunately, I agree,” says Lady Orlando, choosing this time to wander around the room rather than return to her perch.
She does, however, have a glass of whiskey in hand. Mrs Carmichael used to call it ‘thinking juice’ on occasion. It appears my grandmother agrees with that sentiment.
“I can’t believe we’re buying this crap,” barks Beckett, still unwilling to yield. “Lady Orlando, look at what the man’s done. Look at what he did to you all those years ago. How can you trust him?!”
“I don’t trust him,” she retorts. “This may not be a matter of trust at all, but one of mere fact. However, you’re right in a manner of speaking; I will not just believe everything Artemis says. I will need to gather my own intel before I consider treating with him again.”
She stops in position and swings her eyes towards Zander.
