Knight of Novus

by Alydia Rackham

  "Oh."

  John studied his face, lead sinking down into his gut.

  "Was it important?"

  "Yes," Thomas answered distantly.

  +

  "Something isn't right," John declared softly as he peered through the windshield.

  "What is it?" Thomas murmured.

  "I'm not sure. I always get a strange feeling in the Pale," John slowed the car. "But this is worse."

  They rounded a bend in an old residential sector filled with bombed-out houses, hulks of burnt trees and bare, dirt yards. They both knew that Ash Street had been so named before The Purge—but it seemed to fit the place better now.

  "Do you see anything that looks Victorian?" John asked, leaning forward. "I am not very familiar with the style."

  "You're not going to have to be."

  John glanced over at Thomas sharply. His Socius had gone pale, and was staring off to their left. John quickly followed his gaze-and put his foot on the brake. The car halted.

  Neither man spoke for a long moment. Then, carefully, John unbuckled and got out.

  A dirty, hot wind greeted him, smelling of cinder, caustic chemicals and smoke. He ignored it, reduced to stillness by the sight before him.

  The old Victorian house had burned.

  Black scraps of siding, pieces of the porch railing, skeletons of furniture and the solitary chimney were all that remained, shrouded and smoldering. The roof of a side tower lay in a broken heap in the side yard. John slammed his door.

  "When did this happen?" Thomas murmured tightly.

  "Last night," John answered, carefully stepping toward it, dry grass crunching beneath his feet. "I can still feel the heat."

  Together, they picked their way toward the bulk of the collapse, the soles of their shoes hissing against the ashes.

  "Be careful," John warned, glancing back. "There may still be pockets of embers."

  Thomas nodded wordlessly. The hem of John's flame-resistant coat whispered against some scattered stones. The two maneuvered around the bricks of the foundation and edged toward a large hole that had been a half basement. John stood on the lip of it and gazed down. His hands closed into fists.

  "There's your Monet," he muttered. Thomas stopped beside him and said nothing, only letting out part of a sigh. Down below, next to some boxes, a withered couch and a leaning lamp sat a large, rectangular canvas, warped, wrinkled and blackened, but on the left hand side of it, the shrouded face of a woman could be distinguished.

  "It's The Death of Camille," Thomas said, his voice tight. Suddenly, he swore, turned and kicked a metal can hard. The strike banged through the silence, and the can clattered down into the hole. Thomas turned his back to it, crossed his arms and hung his head, his jaw tensed.

  "Who did this?" John stared at the painting, his eyes narrowing. "This just happened. Who would do this?"

  He felt Thomas regard him.

  "Vandals? Jerks? Pyros?" he said heatedly.

  John shook his head.

  "No. Everyone knows this property has value. It could be sold for thousands-especially that painting." John took another breath. "And something confuses me. I smell H-13."

  "I've heard of it. What exactly is it?"

  "A flammable agent," John replied. His voice tapered away. "But it was only used by the Kingdom."

  "Then what do you suggest?" Thomas stepped toward him. "It was Knights?"

  John's heart surged and his breath caught as he lifted his head to his Socius.

  "I..." John blinked, his brow furrowing. "No," he swiftly shook his head. "No, not since the Awakening."

  "Why not?" Thomas countered.

  "No," John said again, his gaze locked on the painting. "That would mean that they...They knew what they were doing."

  Thomas did not answer.

  "Knight and Squire, this is Restoration Base."

  John pulled the comm out of his pocket as he drove with one hand.

  "Restoration, this is Sir John. We read you."

  "Sir, the Fellowship would like a personal briefing with Sir John alone, concerning the report you just logged of the burning of the Remnant on Ash street. Please be in the main reception hall at promptly four o'clock this afternoon."

  "Understood," John replied, and turned off the comm. "They want to meet with me about the burned Remnant." He cocked an eyebrow at Thomas. "That didn't take long."

  "I wonder if they also think it's Knights," Thomas mused. John swallowed and did not reply, but his hands tightened on the steering wheel.

  "What's going on?"

  John glanced at his bathroom mirror to see the reflection of his son standing behind him in the doorway.

  "I have a meeting with the Fellowship," John replied, buttoning the topmost button of his high-collared, pure-white dress uniform. Benson came in to stand beside him.

  "What about?"

  John glanced down into the aged blue eyes of his young son. He straightened his collar.

  "Remember I told you that Thomas and I went to investigate a Remnant in the Pale this morning?"

  Benson nodded.

  "The house was burned." John turned back and assessed his sharp reflection.

  "By accident?" Benson inquired. John shook his head once.

  "No. I smelled H-13."

  Benson sat down on the edge of the shower and crossed his arms.

  "Then it must be old agents of the Kingdom," he concluded. John turned toward him, his eyebrows raised.

  "You think so?"

  Benson shrugged.

  "It makes sense. You told me yourself that Viceroy Mengalus was a Traitor. And he was ordering the destruction of Remnants all the time."

  John straightened in discomfort.

  "Well, that’s why I have to go to the meeting. Could you get me my sword?"

  Benson got up and moved to the door.

  "Do you want your gloves as well?"

  "I don't wear those anymore."

  Benson smiled briefly.

  "Of course. I forgot."

  +

  Restoration Base was housed inside the main building of the old Novus Courthouse, because it was in the center of the city, was large, and equipped with the finest technology of the time. Understandably, however, there had been some major changes to its appearance. The giant coat of arms belonging to the King that crowned the entrance was despicable to the Restoration, but very difficult to remove, so it had been covered with a sweeping banner of Michelangelo's Creation. Potted plants had also been arranged on the flanks of the great staircase, including budding apple trees and, as it was spring, some long-stemmed red and yellow flowers. People milled about and sat on benches and stairs in the shade of the small trees.

  John slowed to a halt as he walked up before the edifice, and stared at the towering building. It presented a strange and mixed sight to him.

  And when he laid a casual hand on his sword hilt and began to ascend the stairs, the people parted like the Red Sea.

  They instantly stopped their conversations, moved out of his way and stood very still, watching him. John did not look at them, for their sake. They had still not expelled the memories of Knights in their blazing reds and blacks, marching with their shining swords hanging from flashing silver belts. He kept his gaze down, especially avoiding the eyes of the men, and arrived at the front door. A blue-clad guard approached him.

  "What is your name, sir?" he asked.

  It was only then that John drew himself up and spoke deliberately.

  "Restoration Knight John Cannon. I am here to meet with the Restoration Fellowship."

  Gasps traveled up and down the crowd behind him, and murmurs—but the murmurs were warm. He now glanced behind him, and caught several people sending him broad smiles. They went back to their conversing, and seemed even more easy than when he had first arrived. The guard also straightened and gave him a friendly grin.

  "Yes, sir. You are expected." The guard moved and opened the thick door for him. "Go right on in."


  John inclined his head.

  "Thank you." He stepped inside, and glanced upward. He stopped.

  This room had undergone drastic overhauling. Before, the walls had been white marble, the same as the floor, and the towering ceiling had been gray and blank, like an overcast sky.

  Now, the walls had been re-done in gold; beautiful, shining chandeliers hung down from the tin-type ceiling; a red carpet covered the floor, and a laughing, stone fountain had been installed in the center of the chamber. Officials scurried back and forth, entering and exiting the long hallways that connected to this room, carrying small computers, notebooks and cups of coffee. Their voices and footsteps mingled and bounced off the hard surfaces-a sharp contrast to the dead, flat silence of old.

  "Looks a little different, doesn't it Sir John?" an inside guard sidled up to him. John glanced at him.

  "Yes," John confessed. "The last time I was here, they were still fixing the walls, and there were no chandeliers."

  The middle-aged guard beamed and drew himself up.

  "You would never guess that the regime lived here just six months ago."

  John mutely shook his head, watching how the light danced off the water of the fountain.

  "Sir John!"

  John twisted and faced one of the long hallways. His mouth opened a fraction, and his hand tightened reflexively on his sword hilt.

  Sweeping toward him, an entourage in black flanking her, was a tall, black-haired, green-eyed, beautiful woman. She wore black trousers and boots, her hair was bound back in a long braid, and she wore the floor-length, crimson coat of a United Kingdom Scarlet Knight. John took a step back, his heart-rate accelerating—u

  Until he noticed that she wore small, pretty, silver earrings that danced around her cheeks.

  She approached him, and her red mouth worked into a smile—a type of smile that John recognized. It reminded him of his own: untrained, and somewhat deliberate.

  "Good to see you." Her vivid eyes intensified as she stopped in front of him. "We have been waiting for you."

  "I am not late," John stated.

  "I know," she acknowledged, her crisp, proper dialect foreign to his ears. "But I had to fly here to speak with you, and I have been here for over three hours." She canted her head, then glanced behind her. "I...believe it is customary to shake hands upon a meeting, is it not?"

  When she said this, a long-faced, thin, solemn man with grey eyes stepped around from behind her—a man John recognized as August, the leader of the Rebellion and newly-elected President of the Restoration. The tension between John's shoulders relaxed a bit. August gave John a placating glance, for the man had perfected the art of subtle expression, then nodded at the other Knight.

  "Yes, indeed it is."

  The other Knight faced John again, and presented her right hand.

  "I am Scarlet Knight April Weston, from the Kent sector of the Liberated United Kingdom."

  John hesitated a moment, then reached out and clasped her hand. He rarely received skin-on-skin contact from other adults—the touch sent a thrill down his arm.

  "I am Restoration Knight John Cannon," he answered quietly. She barely cocked an eyebrow at him.

  "And not just any Knight," she added, dropping his hand. "You are the one who killed Viceroy Mengalus, and The King—and made all this possible," she waved a hand to encompass the room.

  John met her gaze squarely.

  "The Rebellion interrupted the signal to the chips. They did the most difficult job."

  August chuckled.

  "He is too modest," August assured her. "Shall we head to the office?"

  "No," April shook her head. "Let's walk."

  "Leave us," August commanded the entourage.

  John blinked in surprise. But before he could object, April had swept past him, followed closely by August, and he was forced to follow.

  They exited the building again, and drew more startled stares. A warm wind and the noise of the street greeted them. The three trotted down the stairs, and April looked into the eyes of all the people, no matter how they shrank from her unfamiliar presence. John's brow darkened.

  "Do you think it is wise for us to walk so openly, Scarlet?" he asked in a low voice as both of their strides hit the sidewalk at once.

  "If we hide in the old Novus buildings, they will suspect and fear us. We have learned this where I am from," she told him.

  He fell into step beside her easily, for she had not broken with the discipline of her training, either. August fell slightly back, as if he wished to leave them to their conversation but still listen. He had no need of another escort; no one would dare come near him while he walked with such companions.

  "Yes, but they are unused to you," John countered the Scarlet, peripherally observing the pedestrians hurriedly clearing the way in front of them. "Looking them in the eyes frightens them."

  "You look at the ground?" the Scarlet questioned. John nodded, staring at the paving about ten feet ahead of them.

  "That is effective and wise, since you are a man," she told him. "It shows you to be humble, and non-threatening. But for a woman, it shows weakness and submission." She lifted her chin. "I am the highest-ranking official next to our Minister, and a leader—just as you are, Sir John. And in these turbulent times, I cannot afford to be weak."

  John fell silent for a moment, and risked glancing up once or twice. The first time, he was greeted with the same trepidation, but the second time, he caught sight of a few smiles, and one or two cordial nods.

  "They know you here, don't they Sir John?" the Scarlet briefly assessed him. He shrugged briefly.

  "A few of them, yes."

  "It looks like a good deal more than a few. They watch you, but do not look at you the way they look at me. Some of them, I would dare say, even have affection for you. Almost as much as they have for President August," she commented as she swept her confident gaze over the crowded streets. She smiled just a little. "Perhaps it is time for you to start looking up, after all."

  John's brow grew even darker, and now he followed their swift feet.

  "Is something bothering you?" she asked.

  The edge in her voice brought his head up to attend her.

  "No, ma'am," he answered automatically, startled. "I just..." He took a breath and faced front. "I was considering how you became a Scarlet."

  She arched an ebony eyebrow, higher this time.

  "You mean, because I am a woman?"

  John's brow twitched and he tightly shook his head.

  "I do not believe you are incapable," he told her. "But it was the law in this sector of Novus my entire life that women could not be Knights."

  "It was against the law in my home, as well," she informed him. "But The King was not about to pass up anyone who could defeat all of his Scarlets in hand-to-hand combat. Even if she was a woman."

  John's eyes narrowed.

  "How did you learn?"

  "My father was a Scarlet, and taught me everything." Her gaze grew distant. "He was later executed as a Traitor."

  John nodded slowly, more of the tension in his back relaxing. The three of them rounded a corner and arrived at one of the small, newly-planted parks in the city. It only had two small trees and some grass, but the people were working with what they had, and the sunlight shone down into it, unadulterated. Their feet grew quiet as they trod on the grass and came to the middle of the park. There, the Scarlet drew to a halt and turned, and the three of them stood facing each other.

  "I was groomed my entire life, Sir John, for the task that you accomplished," the Scarlet told John. "But I did not have the gift of deep feeling and sensing, as you do-which is why you succeeded, and I did not begin to sense until after the Awakening."

  John briefly glanced down. She went on.

  "August has told me of your skill and wisdom." She took a breath. "Which is why I came to you to ask for help."

  John looked at her sharply.

  "What do you mean?"

&nbs
p; "Though the house on Ash street was our first Remnant to be burned," August spoke up. "It is not the very first. It has been happening all over, especially in the Freed United Kingdom, where the Scarlet is from."

  "Normally we would blame it on vandals, or accidents," she added. "Except for the presence of—"

  "H-13," John finished, hushed. August and the Scarlet nodded.

  "It seems that these arsonists have spread out, now, and begun destroying any Remnant they can find," she told him. "My colleagues and I have begun the duty of hunting them down at home, but I want you to head up that mission here. I've come to get you started."

  "Who do you suspect?" John asked, pressure building on his sternum. April met his gaze.

  "They are Knights," she answered plainly.

  The pressure turned to slight pain, and his jaw tightened.

  "Are you sure?" John's eyebrows came together.

  "They are known as The King's Majesty Men—and they have gone back to The Regulator."

  John stared at her, unable to speak.

  "No," he finally said, his brow snarling. "No. What reason would they possibly have to go back to that?"

  She raised her eyebrows.

  "Can you think of none?"

  John stood for a moment, then winced, backed up a step and turned his eyes from them, sweeping them over the sight of three children playing with a ball.

  "No," he replied, but his voice was rough.

  "But apparently they have," August reminded him. "And we need to know why, and who is supplying The Regulator transmission and chips, and somehow stop the Knights from destroying the Remnants."

  "You mean kill them." John looked directly at August. August sighed, and suddenly looked old.

  "Perhaps."

  John's frown deepened, and he shifted. One of his guns was prodding him again.

  "We cannot let them continue, Sir John," the Scarlet said softly. "Whoever is supplying them is using the Knights for his own purposes, I am certain. And whoever that is wishes to resume the type of control that The King kept over us for all those years." She stepped a bit closer to him. "And I hear that the painting destroyed last night was a Monet."