Republic

by Lindsay Buroker

  New regime? One run by the Kriskrusians? Amaranthe itched to take over the questioning, but Sauda didn’t have any interest in her, and she still thought remaining incognito would be best, if she could.

  “My father?” Deret asked. “He didn’t show any scruples when it came to jumping into bed with Forge and the Marblecrests.”

  “Precisely why I thought he would be amenable to a new offer. It is much easier to recruit for a new religion when it’s being endorsed by the oldest paper in the capital, as well as the new president.”

  New president? Amaranthe nibbled on a fingernail. If Rias were to... disappear, Serpitivich would take over the position. She didn’t know the man well, but she wouldn’t have guessed him as someone to be in league with religious zealots. With his academic interests and mannerisms, he reminded her of... Books. Someone who would be happier researching in a library than running a nation. But he had run against Starcrest in the elections. And he had garnered a lot of support, coming in second. Maybe that second place position had rankled.

  Deret recovered from a stunned moment of silence and asked, “My father wouldn’t take your offer?”

  “Even after twenty years, few people will cross Rias.” Sauda’s lips were a little too full—or perhaps she was too refined—to manage a hard sneer, but she conveyed the feeling, nonetheless.

  “So you had him killed?”

  “He knew too much. Admittedly, they weren’t supposed to have him murdered in my bed—” Sauda sent a withering glare toward the priests. “That proved quite nettlesome. I hadn’t been planning to be a suspect and spend days in jail, surrounded by mouth-breathing miscreants. I can’t believe Rias didn’t come down to help me out.”

  “Perhaps he believed you were guilty,” Deret said.

  Sauda sniffed.

  “How did you get out?” Amaranthe asked.

  “Let’s just say that I am now fully committed to the next president. I’ve given my word.”

  And had someone bought that word in exchange for arranging her pardon? “To whom?” Amaranthe asked. It was possible these priests planned to kill Starcrest and Serpitivich and had a completely new candidate in mind. But if that were true, how could they ensure his election?

  Sauda merely smiled.

  “What do you want from me?” Deret asked. “I grew up in this town and grew up in this business too. I’ll be distressed if your people believe I can be bought.”

  Amaranthe wished her cask were close enough to his that she could nudge him. It might not hurt to go along with Sauda, at least for tonight. Refusing her outright could be a bad idea.

  “Why, I don’t want to buy you, dear. I want to buy the Gazette.”

  Deret’s jaw dropped.

  “I understand you’ve been considering selling. Quiet recently, in fact.” Sauda raised her eyebrows at Amaranthe.

  Had one of these priests been listening in on their conversation at the newspaper building? She hadn’t heard or seen anyone lurking in the shadows, but if one was a practitioner, he might have more effectively hidden himself.

  “I’m prepared to make a reasonable offer,” Sauda said. “The Shadowcrests weren’t embroiled in this succession war, nor do we have waterfront property that’s been effected by this tedious plant invasion. I have the funds to pay you what the paper’s worth, and I have a brother who’s interested in taking over the running of it. There’s no need for you to worry about your ethics or fear reprisal from Rias. I assure you he isn’t a vindictive man.”

  “What’s in it for you?” Amaranthe asked. “What do you care about this religion and whether they’re well represented by the paper? Surely you’re not practicing.”

  Sauda raised an elegant, finely plucked eyebrow.

  “Are you?” Amaranthe added.

  Wouldn’t the president have known if his first wife had tendencies toward studying magic and ancient multi-headed gods? Of course, if it had been two decades since they had spoken... People could start a lot of new hobbies in twenty years.

  “I will be the wife of the president,” Sauda said. “One way or another.”

  So if she couldn’t have Rias...

  “Serpitivich is that good in bed?” Amaranthe asked, hoping she could startle a verification out of the woman.

  Sauda smiled. “I do not believe you’ll be leaving tonight, but in the event that I’m incorrect, I’ll keep that information to myself.” While Amaranthe was trying to decide if Sauda had just verified her guess or not, the woman opened her cloak and withdrew a rolled parchment. “Here’s my official offer for the paper, Lord Mancrest. I have a pen should you wish to sign tonight.”

  “Why would I sign anything to help you? Do you believe I won’t be leaving tonight, either?”

  “That’s up to you. You can choose to sell the paper and walk away from the journalist’s life, or you can remain here. Indefinitely.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought President Starcrest would have married a murderer.” Amaranthe watched the woman’s face, trying to see if she was bluffing.

  Sauda pressed her manicured and maroon-painted fingernails to her chest. “I have not murdered anyone.”

  The way she sent a long look toward the head priest told Amaranthe enough. She might not be murdering people, but she had no trouble standing back while others did the task.

  “The only thing I need to accomplish is to gain control of the Gazette,” Sauda said, “and then I’ll have my marriage. I’ll trust my husband-to-be to handle the more onerous task of becoming president.”

  “Unless he’s willing to wait five years, that can only be accomplished with Rias’s death,” Amaranthe said, deliberately using the president’s first name. While she could believe that marriage might turn some types of people from lovers to mortal enemies, she had a hard time imaging a former lover—wife—loathing Starcrest enough to design his death. Reputation aside, he struck Amaranthe as a likable, genuine person without any malice in his heart—or any irritating tendencies that might cause said malice to develop in the hearts of others. Even his mortal foes from enemy nations were reputed to think of him as an honorable opponent.

  “Rias made his choice,” Sauda said. “He should have stayed on that tropical island instead of coming back here with that vile blonde woman. No ruler of Turgonia has ever taken a foreigner for a wife, especially one who hasn’t renounced her citizenship in her own land. It’s loathsome and unacceptable.”

  But a scheming xenophobic murderer of a wife was perfectly acceptable, apparently.

  “Why not simply wait until the next term?” Amaranthe asked. “There’s no need for murder. Five years isn’t so long, and your would-be husband can run then.”

  Sauda didn’t answer. Actually, she didn’t seem to be paying attention. One of the priests walked over with a pocket watch in his hand, and she nodded to him.

  “Lord Mancrest,” Sauda said. “The paper. Will you sign it over to me? As you can see, I’ve made a reasonable offer. You can retire young, and you need not suffer financial problems ever again, if you’re wise with your investments.”

  “How thoughtful of you to consider the financial future of a stranger while you’re plotting your husband’s death,” Deret said.

  “As I’ve told you, I’m not plotting anyone’s death.”

  “Maybe she’s going to offer Starcrest a chance to sign away the presidency in exchange for his life,” Amaranthe murmured.

  Deret crumpled up the parchment and tossed it at Sauda’s expensive silk shoes. “I would rather give the Gazette to one of my idealistic young interns than sell it to the people plotting against the president.”

  “How noble,” Sauda said. “And how foolish.” She nodded to the priest with the watch. “Put him somewhere that’ll let him think about changing his mind.”

  “What if he doesn’t change it?”

  Sauda lifted a shoulder. “Accidents happen.”

  • • • • •

  Maldynado wasn’t sure how he had gotten stuck carrying
the body, or why they were taking it back to the hotel at all. It wasn’t as if the Nurian assassin could answer anyone’s questions now. Sicarius would have left it on that rooftop, but Basilard had pointed out that they might need proof to explain what had happened at the construction site—not to mention that even a Nurian should have a funeral ceremony, rather than being left to rot on a barren rooftop until the crows came. Somehow he hadn’t ended up carrying the body though. He was carrying the dead woman’s weapons and the pole that had eviscerated her.

  “Sicarius could have helped us tote everything back to the hotel before disappearing,” Maldynado grumbled. He looked forward to reaching Colonel Starcrest’s office, where he could foist his burden off on someone else. “Especially since he killed the woman, a woman with a child apparently.”

  It was not intentional, Basilard signed. I saw the end of the conflict.

  They had reached Seventh, the broad street that led to the hotel, and unlike many of the roads closer to the waterfront, its gas lamps had been lit for the night, so Maldynado could make out Basilard’s gestures.

  “I wonder where he ran off to that’s so important. You don’t think Amaranthe is in trouble, do you? He wouldn’t have come with us if that were the case, right?”

  Unlikely.

  “I hope he didn’t go to check out that address. He is not the type of person a child wants to have appear out of nowhere in the middle of the night. That would be worse than a makarovi popping out of the closet.”

  I wonder why the woman thought Sespian would be a good choice to care for a child.

  “Maybe the least bad choice out of a whole pile of bad choices. If she doesn’t know any people here... or if there’s no way the kid can be sent back to Nuria...” Maldynado shook his head. “I can’t figure out why someone would take a child into enemy territory, especially when she was there to kill people.”

  More enemies left at home, perhaps.

  “That’s hard to imagine. I—”

  Something snagged Maldynado’s ankle. Startled he jerked back, almost dumping his load. Whatever had him didn’t let go. He and Basilard were in the shadows between street lamps, and he couldn’t make out anything on the sidewalk at his feet, but he had a hunch as to his captor.

  “That blasted plant. A little help, Bas?”

  Basilard drew a knife and crouched. The tendril—it must have been two inches thick—tightened around Maldynado’s ankle. He shifted the dead assassin off his shoulder and pulled out a dagger of his own. Clouds had obscured the moon. He wished he had a match so he could see what he was doing. Or maybe a blasting stick. He had heard explosives, Sicarius’s black dagger, and lightning strikes were about the only weapons that made a dent in the plant’s green armor.

  “I’m coming down to help,” Maldynado warned, not wanting Basilard to mistake one of his fingers for the plant.

  He patted around his calf and found the thick tendril, its flesh smooth and slick in the night air. Vibrations coursed through it—Basilard was sawing at it a few inches from Maldynado’s leg. Maldynado poked with his own blade, trying to get it between the vine and his calf without cutting himself. His stabs proved ineffective. If anything the plant tightened its grip.

  “It hasn’t attacked people so quickly before, has it?” Maldynado was sure he hadn’t stepped on anything; that vine had slithered out of some crack to snap around his leg like a hunter’s snare. “I mean, I know some people got caught but—” he hissed as the tendril tightened yet again, “—I thought it was because they were slow. Or being stupid. Or—ouch, this thing is going to squeeze my leg right off. Bas, I hope you’re making some progress.”

  Basilard couldn’t sign and cut at the same time—and in the shadows, Maldynado wouldn’t have been able to interpret his gestures anyway. Maldynado redoubled his efforts at prying the thing off, no longer worrying if he cut himself. This time, he simply sawed at the vine. The rasps of Basilard’s dagger—he must be using one of the serrated ones—were comforting, but he couldn’t tell how many millimeters were being shaved away—if any.

  Maldynado resisted the urge to start yanking his foot around, certain it would mess up Basilard’s cuts, but he couldn’t feel his toes any more, and urgency and desperation were encroaching. He glanced around as he continued to cut, his blade doing next to nothing on the rubbery vine, hoping some steam vehicle might turn down the street and run over the plant a few times for him. Instead, he spotted movement in a nearby alley and heard a soft rustle, like that of snakes whispering through the grass. Except there were no snakes in the city—and no grass on the street.

  “More are coming,” he whispered. “What in the universe is this vile plant?”

  Basilard’s rasps grew faster. He felt the urgency too. Maldynado grimaced as some new sensation came to his leg, something damp seeping through his clothing. He probed it with his finger, then jerked his hand back. The dampness had... bit him. He wiped his finger on his jacket and dug his knife into the vine again. The blade slipped on its slick flesh. The ancestors-cursed plant was oozing something caustic.

  The rustles grew closer, even as the acid bit into his skin. Maldynado cursed, hardly believing that after all he had survived, he was in danger of being killed by a plant on some random street corner.

  “Bas, get out of here. More are coming. Don’t let them grab you. Tell the others—tell Evi... I was wrong. I should have gone to the country with her. I—”

  Basilard slapped him on the chest. What was that supposed to mean? Maldynado pulled on his leg, not expecting anything to happen. But it came away from the sidewalk. The tendril still had a death grip around his calf, but he could move.

  “You cut it off? Basilard, you’re—”

  Basilard grabbed him and hauled him several feet down the street. He pointed at the alley.

  “Right, right, more coming. Let’s go.”

  Basilard ran back for the body. Maldynado hoped more tendrils hadn’t already wrapped around it—he hadn’t been worrying about preserving it when he had dropped the corpse, but the dead woman had already suffered enough tonight. Nobody deserved to be eaten street side by some mutant plant.

  Basilard slung the body over his shoulder and jogged away from the alley. Maldynado tried to run after him, but he still couldn’t feel his foot, and he pitched forward, almost grinding his face into the street.

  “Gonna need a medic—or a logger—to hack the rest of this thing off me when we get back to the hotel,” he growled as he grabbed the pole to use as a crutch.

  Basilard only shook his head, his face grim as they passed through the light of the next street lamp. Carrying a body didn’t slow him down, and Maldynado struggled to keep up. He was starting to worry that the vine would act like a tourniquet and that he would lose his foot if he didn’t find a way to get the rest of it off soon. That spurred him to keep up, the pole clacking loudly on the cement with each awkward step.

  His breath whooshed out in relief when the lighted stone wall of the hotel came into view. Someone in there would be able to help.

  Basilard led the way, pounding toward the front gate. A gate that was usually guarded by two men. Nobody stood beside it now, and it was open, inviting anyone to enter. Strange, but Maldynado would worry about it later. He would—

  A thunderous boom blasted from within the hotel, and a volcano of light burst through the roof and poured into the sky. Even on the street fifty feet away, Maldynado felt the power of the explosion. It hurled him onto his back, and the pole spun out of his hands. Basilard staggered but somehow kept his feet, not even dropping the body hanging over his shoulder. Maldynado rose to his knees, staring in astonishment at the scene through the gateway. The explosion had left a hole the size of five rooms in the center of the roof, and walls were crumbling on every side, bricks tumbling to the ground like water streaming over falls. Flames leaped from doorways and broken windows. Glass and wood littered the grass and the upturned earth. Thanks to the plant, the entire yard of the beautiful old hot
el looked like giant gophers had been using it for a playground, but those vines were oddly absent now.

  “Bas,” Maldynado croaked. “Is there... Do you see... Could anyone have survived that?” He didn’t see anyone. Wouldn’t some people have made it out? Beyond the windows, curtains and furniture burned in some rooms. In others, it looked like the floor had been blown away, and everything had tumbled to the levels below.

  Basilard had been staring at the fire, his gaze transfixed. He shook away whatever thoughts had claimed his mind—concern for Amaranthe? his translator? the others?—and looked around the yard and to the street as well. Not another soul was out there with them.

  The guards, Basilard signed. They were not here.

  “Do you think maybe... nobody was here?” Maldynado hoped for all of their ancestors’ sakes that his question proved true, that everyone inside had somehow gotten warning of this catastrophe and fled the building in time.

  A clank sounded, rising over the cracks of breaking wood and the snaps of the fire consuming the hotel. A burned and blackened man staggered out the front door, tripped on the steps, and pitched to the ground.

  “Dear ancestors,” Maldynado breathed, stumbling as he tried to walk forward to help. The others might not have made it out after all...

  Chapter 23

  From the backyard by the carriage house door, Tikaya stared at the flaming roof of the hotel, shielding her eyes with her arm. Smoke buried the moon and clouded the air around the burning structure. A broad expanse of pockmarked grass stretched between her and the fire, but she could feel the heat, nonetheless. She had expected... She didn’t know what she had expected, but the realization that she had been inside that hotel not five minutes ago made her shudder. The weight of her bow, strung and hanging from her shoulder, reminded her that she had taken the time to return to the suite and pack—she was lucky her choice to delay hadn’t ended her life.