Republic

by Lindsay Buroker

  She hadn’t believed anything would come of her random observation about the “suspects” who weren’t in the hotel tonight. This was... unthinkable.

  Clanks and thuds came from the carriage house behind her, Dak’s men and the hotel staff preparing vehicles to drive them off the premises before the fire spread. Five minutes earlier, the men had been groggy and grumbling. They were all wide-awake now, their eyes as haunted as Tikaya’s must look.

  A familiar uniformed figure stepped out of the smoke. “Lady Starcrest,” Dak rumbled. “I believe I owe you my life.”

  “No more than I owe you mine,” she said. “I think perhaps we can call each other by first name now.”

  “If you wish.” Something in his tone suggested he probably wouldn’t.

  “Everyone didn’t make it out, did they?” Tikaya had heard a few screams after the explosion.

  “We warned everyone,” Dak said. “Some people packed and left. Some people ignored us, or were too slow. There wasn’t time for hand-holding.” He pulled out a pocket watch and shook his head. “If I had known how little time there truly was...” Another head shake, this one almost violent, full of disgust. “I should have known about this, should have uncovered... whatever there was to uncover. We won’t know until the fire is out and a team can investigate. Explosives in the basement, or maybe lower. Someone might have tunneled in past all those cursed plants. I don’t know.”

  An image of Serpitivich in the library flashed into Tikaya’s mind. “A couple of nights ago, I saw the vice president with blueprints for the hotel and maybe the underground infrastructure too. He said he’d been assigned the task of keeping that plant out of the sewers.”

  Dak grunted. “I didn’t give him that task. Guess we can’t ask him about it since he’s not here. Conveniently.”

  A man in a bathrobe broke a bottom floor window with a chair. He knocked out the glass and stumbled from the building. Coughing, he almost collapsed, but he wiped his face and lifted a hand toward the window. A woman in similar attire half climbed and half fell out after him.

  “Baskic,” Dak called to a corporal, then pointed to the figures. They were stumbling away from the building, coughing and wheezing for air.

  The soldier jogged toward the couple to help.

  “I sent some soldiers to round up the fire brigade,” Dak said. “They’ll put out the fire, and my men will help them pull out anyone else who’s alive.”

  Tikaya nodded numbly. “I feel useless standing here staring, but—”

  “You would only endanger yourself if you tried to go back in there. Let the professionals handle it. You’ve already helped more than anyone else—we’d all be stuck in there if you hadn’t had that hunch.”

  Tikaya wanted to shrug away this praise. She had only pointed out a piece of data that might suggest something. Dak had been the one to figure out what the something might be, not to mention having the audacity to force an evacuation when nothing might have happened.

  “I’m also moving Serpitivich from my short list to my special list,” Dak said.

  “What happens to people on your special list?”

  “They get shot on sight.”

  “I... see. Is anyone else on it?”

  Dak snapped his pocket watch shut. “Rias might be if his report doesn’t arrive soon.”

  “Those vehicles your men are readying, are any for checking on him?” Tikaya hadn’t forgotten the reason she had packed and dressed, throwing on boots, trousers, and a jacket, along with grabbing the bow and a knife. She had tried contacting him via the communications sphere they had in their quarters, too—as far as she knew, the other half was still in the submarine—but nobody had answered. She had stuffed it into her pack to try again later.

  “Yes,” Dak said. “We’ll leave as soon as the fire brigade shows up.”

  Tikaya would have started walking to the submarine warehouse at that moment, but there was little point when the vehicles could get her there ten times as quickly. As soon as the water in one of the boilers heated enough to be operational, she would go, fire brigade or not.

  “Sir?” someone called from around the side of the building.

  Two soldiers came into view, and they were escorting two other men, one carrying something large over his shoulder and one hobbling and leaning heavily on a pole.

  “Bring them here,” Dak yelled, then lowered his voice. “That’s the Mangdorian diplomat, isn’t it?”

  Tikaya squinted into the smoke. “Yes, that’s Basilard and Maldynado. Basilard is carrying... someone. Were they caught in the explosion?”

  Dak jogged forward to meet the pair, and Tikaya followed, though not before casting a long look toward the vehicles. Soldiers were shoveling coal into furnaces. Surely one of those lorries would be ready soon.

  “Hello, good Colonel,” Maldynado said, a deep grimace making the words come out oddly. “I don’t suppose you have a medic around, do you? While I’m sure there are survivors here who need assistance, I really need someone to remove this vine from my leg before I lose my foot.” He sounded like he was trying very hard to be polite and not to start screaming—or throttling someone—but given the tightness of the green tendril wrapped twice about his leg, he had to be in a lot of pain. Though a foot of it trailed behind, the rest severed somewhere along the way, what remained hadn’t loosened its grip. In addition, it had eaten away his clothing with its enzyme, and that must be burning into his flesh as well.

  Basilard lowered the person he had been carrying and went to help his friend, drawing a serrated knife and motioning for Maldynado to sit down.

  Tikaya gaped at the burden Basilard had dropped. It wasn’t a survivor from the hotel fire, it was a woman, a Nurian woman, her almond-shaped eyes frozen open in death, her dark clothing saturated with blood that hadn’t yet dried.

  Dak had pulled out a knife, looking like he intended to help cut Maldynado’s plant off, but he froze when he noticed the dead woman’s face. “Is that...?”

  “The Nurian assassin and sometimes sniper?” Maldynado asked. “Yes, and how we got her is a fabulous story that I’d be delighted to tell once someone saws this off my leg.”

  Quit moving, Basilard signed.

  “I’m sorry, but my leg hurts. The parts I can feel anyway.”

  Now Dak looked like he wanted to throttle someone, but he started cutting into the vine on the opposite side of Maldynado’s leg from Basilard.

  Maldynado watched the knife work with concerned eyes. The blades were slicing quite close to his skin. The couple of times Basilard looked away, gazing toward the hotel and searching the yard, Maldynado swatted him on the shoulder and pointed at his ankle for emphasis. The knives didn’t have much of an effect on the rubbery plant. Tikaya thought of Rias’s black dagger—it would slice through the vine more easily—but she hadn’t seen it when she had packed her bag. He must have taken it with him.

  “Easy,” Maldynado said, “easy, please. You’re getting close to tender flesh. Colonel, are you sure you’re qualified for such a delicate procedure? I only ask because you’re in intelligence, and I imagine that involves using pencils as weapons rather than blades. And a man’s foot is at stake here. His favorite foot.”

  “I didn’t think one typically had a favorite foot,” Tikaya said, hoping to take Maldynado’s mind off the procedure. The way he was squirming, it wouldn’t be either of the men’s fault if they did cut him.

  “I didn’t, either,” Maldynado said, “until I was in danger of losing this one. Now I’m positive. It’s definitely my favorite.” He flinched when one of the blades brushed his trouser leg. “And it’s sensitive. Careful there... careful...”

  “Does he always complain this much?” Dak asked Basilard.

  Basilard nodded. Usually more.

  “I’m not complaining, I’m advising.”

  I haven’t noticed a difference.

  Maldynado prodded him. “Don’t stop cutting to gab. What? Don’t look at me like that. It’s n
ot my fault you can’t talk and cut a vine off a man’s leg at the same time.”

  That earned him a glower, and Basilard kneeled back for a moment. Professor Komitopis, do you know if my translator was in the hotel tonight? I had told her... that I didn’t need her with me, that she could have the evening off. But I don’t know if she would have left to explore the city with so much of it closed down or abandoned or... His fingers faltered as his gaze raked the yard again. The fire brigade’s lorries were rolling into position around the smoking building, but Basilard probably didn’t see them, not when he was looking for a sole person.

  Maldynado’s fingers twitched toward Basilard, as if he wanted to wring his friend’s neck to force him back to sawing, but Dak was getting close to breaking through. His blade kept brushing Maldynado’s clothing, something that transfixed his attention, though Dak had yet to slice so much as a thread.

  “Dak,” Tikaya said, “do you know if Basilard’s translator was warned? The red-headed Mangdorian woman?”

  “Everyone was warned.”

  “I don’t suppose you know if she... heeded that warning promptly?”

  “I don’t know.” Dak knelt back, raising his knife. “There.” He flicked the severed ends of the vine away from Maldynado’s leg.

  “Oh, thank you, Colonel. Allow me to revoke all those nasty comments about the uselessness of intel officers.”

  “You didn’t make any such comments.”

  “Didn’t I? Oh good.”

  “Though you were rather derogatory toward my pencil.” Dak stood, strode into the carriage house, and yelled, “If there’s not a lorry ready by now, I’m going to start throwing privates into the furnaces.”

  “I’m beginning to suspect that man of having a sense of humor,” Tikaya said. “A coarse one.”

  Maldynado was too busy unlacing his boot and frowning in concern at his foot to respond.

  I’m going to help the fire fighters, Basilard signed and trotted off.

  A whistle sounded, releasing a screech of steam. Tikaya hoped that was the sign that a vehicle was ready and they could check on Rias now. She was about to run for the carriage house, but a large armored lorry rolled out first. With cannons mounted on the roof and harpoon launchers below the cab, nobody would mistake it for anything except a military conveyance. It braked with a squeal of steam, and a squad of soldiers piled into the back, men armed with rifles and swords. Dak was standing in the cab next to the driver, and Tikaya climbed in beside him, glad to finally get going.

  “You too, Marblecrest,” Dak called.

  Maldynado was holding his boot and a sock up with one hand and prodding his bare foot with the other. “Pardon?”

  “I want that body explained.”

  “Now?” Maldynado pointed at his poor foot. “I’ve been grievously injured, and I’m quite certain I’ve done my piece for the president tonight already.”

  “Now, Marblecrest.”

  Maldynado sighed dramatically, picked up the pole, and limped to the lorry, his sock and bootlaces dragging on the ground. Tikaya wondered if she was grinding her teeth as audibly as Dak at his plodding pace.

  When Maldynado finally maneuvered himself inside, he said, “I’m disowned, you know. I’m just Maldynado now, not Maldynado Marblecrest. If you’ve a passion for surnames, you could use Montichelu. That’s what I’d like on my statue.” He stretched a hand out, as if stroking a plaque etched with his name. “Maldynado Montichelu. There’s really no reason to mention my father’s line at all. Dreadful people most of them.”

  “Marblecrest,” Dak said. “The body.”

  Tikaya fingered her bow as the lorry rolled out of the hotel’s courtyard, the dark city streets replacing the bright flames of the burning building. A part of her wondered if Dak would get the story out of Maldynado before they reached the warehouse. The other part was too concerned about Rias and Mahliki to care.

  • • • • •

  Mahliki clutched at her temples, trying to gather her wits, to find a way to fight the mental assault. It felt like mallets were slamming into the sides of her head, treating her like a gong. She squinted up and down the street, trying to pick out her attacker. She was aware of Sespian touching her back and asking what was wrong, but she couldn’t see anyone else on the street. He had to be out there somewhere. A good practitioner might be able to target someone out of sight and at a distance, but these Turgonians didn’t seem that adept.

  “Adept enough to hurt you,” she grumbled, wincing.

  “What?” Sespian asked. He was searching the street, too, that dagger clenched and ready.

  Mahliki jerked her hand to dismiss the comment. It had been in Kyattese, and her head hurt too much to reformulate it into Turgonian. She tried to push herself to her feet. Maybe if she could put a few blocks between her and her assailant, she would escape his range.

  Sespian’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “Stay here,” he whispered. “I see him. I’ll pretend I don’t.”

  “Where?” Mahliki asked.

  “Roof.” He squeezed her shoulder, then ran across the street and into an alley.

  Mahliki hunkered down, slumping against a building. If she appeared more incapacitated than she was, maybe the person would come down to check. She would pretend she couldn’t move. It didn’t take much pretending. She had never had much interest in studying the mental sciences, but she had been regretting that choice this last couple of weeks. If she knew how to call lightning from the sky, her father wouldn’t have to be risking his life, trying to invent new machines while under fire—and she might know how to thrust this Turgonian bastard from her head. Even better, she could return the attack.

  Well, maybe she could do that anyway.

  She had dropped the electricity generator, but it wasn’t a long-range weapon anyway. She inched her hand to her belt and drew a dagger, careful to hide it from above with her body. Knife throwing wasn’t her specialty, but she and her siblings had sat around numerous campfires, tossing blades at driftwood stumps with Father while waiting for dinner to cook. At the least, she could distract a practitioner by hurling one close enough to worry him. For that, she had to locate him first.

  With her head down, Mahliki couldn’t hear much. She listened, trying to pick out scuffing above that might indicate someone moving closer, but the shouts and rifle shots from the waterfront drowned out lesser sounds. Hoping the shadows would hide her, she risked a glance upward. A hooded figure knelt at the edge of the roof right above her. She winced, certain the person had seen her look up, but his attention seemed to be toward the alley Sespian had run down. He drew a short sword. Maybe he thought that, with Sespian gone, Mahliki would be helpless and he could finish her off.

  “Try it,” she whispered.

  Blackness pulsed at the edge of her vision, and she struggled to focus on the figure, but she did her best to push the pain aside. When the practitioner dropped off the edge of the roof, Mahliki jumped to her feet. The blackness almost swallowed her sight completely, and she had to grab the wall to keep from losing balance. She gave herself a half second to recover, then threw the dagger at the figure.

  A clank sounded. She was sure she had missed and that the blade had struck the wall, but the mallets banging on her head disappeared. The resulting relief gave her a surge of energy, and she lunged for the man, ready to throw a punch. But he crumpled to the ground before she reached him.

  Confused, she stood there for a long moment, her fist cocked. Had her knife struck after all? The darkness made it hard to tell, but she was certain she had missed. The way he had fallen against the wall made it seem more like...

  Mahliki glanced toward the roof on the opposite side of the street. Sespian dropped his hand to the gutter and hopped down, landing lightly on his feet.

  “That wasn’t quite how I imagined it,” he said, “but I guess it worked. Are you all right? Is he, erm, was my throw accurate?”

  Mahliki checked the man’s throat, her hand brushing against the
hilt of the black dagger—and a lot of warm blood. The blade was embedded in the man’s neck and must have severed his spinal column as well. “Very accurate,” she said, struggling for detachment. She wiped the blood off her hand, though she tried not to be obvious about it. She didn’t have the bloodthirstiness of her Turgonian ancestors and always preferred subduing a man without killing him. She reminded herself that this one had meant to kill her and had been using his craft to delay Father when he could have been helping the city instead.

  Sespian sighed. “I don’t usually aim for throats, but I saw him over you with the sword, and was afraid to dither around.”

  “Given the situation, I appreciate the non-dithering approach.” Mahliki tried to decide whether it would seem weak-kneed to ask him to retrieve the knife, since he had been the one to throw it. She didn’t care for the crunch of bone that came from pulling a spear out of a boar’s side when the family was hunting. The crunch of a human being’s bones was even less pleasant.

  Sespian retrieved it before she had to ask, wiping the blade on the man’s robe. “Two more practitioners to go?” he asked.

  “That have shown themselves so far, yes. I saw two separate ones throwing fireballs from the cabs of the lorries. I think they’re still there and that this was a third. He might have been placed on guard because he has—had—a different specialty.”

  “Like attacking women’s minds?”

  “Maybe so. There could be others back here like this.” Mahliki picked up the electricity generator and pointed up the street. “Let’s keep going, but keep an eye out.”

  As she led the way, she realized she had given him another order. When he had asked that earlier question about where she had learned to order people around, she had worried it had been a criticism, or a hint that he didn’t care for following the commands of women who were younger than he. Especially when he had been groomed to be emperor all of his life. His tone hadn’t sounded irritated, but Sespian could be as hard to read as his father at times. His face was far more pleasant and his eyes much warmer, but that didn’t mean one knew his thoughts.