The Conjurer's Riddle

by Andrea Cremer

Grave shook his head. “I’d like to stay here. I enjoy watching Birch work. And Aunt Io has asked me to complete some tasks for her.”

  “What kind of tasks?” Charlotte asked with a small frown.

  “I don’t know,” Grave answered. “But she said it would be helpful to the Resistance if she could observe me and take notes.”

  He smiled at her again. And then, to her surprise, he reached out and clasped her hand. “Take care, Charlotte.”

  “Thank you?” Charlotte stared after Grave as he left.

  “What was that about?” Jack asked. He sounded as perplexed as Charlotte felt, but not angry.

  “I have no idea.” Unease stirred in Charlotte’s chest. Io’s quirkiness had been disarming, but Charlotte didn’t like the idea of anyone running experiments that involved Grave.

  Oblivious to Charlotte’s troubled thoughts, Jack glanced at the workshop and shrugged. “There’s one last thing to show you.”

  Deciding there was nothing she could do at the moment short of storming into the workshop and demanding to know what Io’s plans for Grave were, which seemed both impractical and ridiculous, Charlotte followed Jack beyond the workshop to another row of hatches in the wall.

  “More guns?” she asked.

  “No,” Jack said. “These are escape hatches. If the Tower should be taken, this is the way out. Each hatch contains a capsule that, when activated, will be propelled down a chute and into one of the surrounding lakes. The capsules will float, so they won’t be stuck at the bottom.”

  “Good to know.” Charlotte hoped she never had cause to think about the escape hatches again.

  She was still thinking about the chute and the lakes when she noticed that Jack hadn’t said anything else. He was just looking at her. Then she noticed that the escape hatches were tucked away, removed from the working spaces of the Tower.

  “Is Ash here?” Charlotte asked, in an attempt to dodge whatever conversation Jack hoped to have. “I should find him.”

  “Charlotte.” Jack took one step, and he was standing right in front of her.

  She could feel her pulse jumping at her throat. “I really should find him. There are things—”

  Her words died, because Jack had reached out and was curling strands of her hair between his fingers.

  “It’s not blue,” Charlotte said with a nervous laugh.

  “I know.” He touched her temple and slid his hand around to the nape of her neck.

  Charlotte couldn’t move. She couldn’t look away from Jack’s face. She knew he was about to kiss her and she wanted him to. She could let everything else go for just a few moments. Just enough time to know Jack’s kiss again.

  But he didn’t kiss her. Jack folded Charlotte in his arms, holding her against him. His palm still cradled the back of her head. She rested her cheek on his chest, listening to his heart. Listening to him breathe.

  “I’m so sorry about your father,” Jack murmured.

  Charlotte’s throat burned and her head throbbed. She pushed Jack away because she was about to cry. Not only cry, but give herself over to sobs that would wrack her body until she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t want to let that happen. She didn’t think she could bear the shame.

  She hissed at him, “Don’t you dare try to follow me.”

  She fled.

  Charlotte didn’t run. She didn’t want to draw anyone’s attention. All she had to do was find her way back to the door stamped with a hammer. She walked close to the stairwells, feeling too exposed in the broad corridor. She thought she must be close, and she slowed, trying to get her bearings. It wasn’t easy; everything in the Tower did look the same. But it was a straight line from where she had left Jack to the door she was seeking. It had to be nearby.

  Voices on the landing above Charlotte brought her to a complete stop. They were voices she recognized. Her mother’s. Coe’s.

  The upside of their proximity was that it meant Charlotte had almost reached her goal. But she was desperate to keep either of them from seeing her. She glanced around. If she ran forward, they would spot her. If she ran back the way she’d come, she risked meeting Jack. She took in her surroundings once more, and decided on scrambling beneath the stairwell to wedge herself between stacks of boxes that had been stored there. She tucked her knees to her chest, making herself as small as she could.

  Their footsteps were louder, their voices becoming more distinct.

  “Gladwell is getting restless,” Caroline said. “He’s wearing on my patience.”

  “I’ll try to find something to keep him busy,” Coe replied.

  “I’ll be indebted to you.” Caroline laughed.

  Their footsteps stilled, and though Charlotte couldn’t see them through the boxes, she realized with horror that they had to be standing at the bottom of the staircase.

  “Now that you’ve spoken to Ashley and Charlotte, what do you think of my proposal for your next operation?” Coe asked.

  A shudder traveled down Charlotte’s arms.

  “It’s intriguing and not without merit,” Caroline said. “But I have very little to go on. Both of my children seem reluctant to talk about him.”

  “Ashley’s nature is to be reticent,” Coe remarked. “And Charlotte is protective of the boy because she’s tenderhearted. Though I wouldn’t recommend ever telling her that.”

  “Her father was tenderhearted,” Caroline said. “It didn’t help him in the end.”

  A sob tried to crawl from Charlotte’s throat. She clamped her hand over her mouth and struggled to hold back her welling sorrow.

  “Despite my children’s reluctance to divulge more about Grave, we can build upon what intelligence we’ve gleaned from the Empire,” Caroline continued. “Our sources report that they plan to break Bromley in order to recover the process by which he resurrected his son. Once they’ve managed to bend his will, they’ll have the means to repeat his work. We need that information first.”

  “I know Charlotte.” Coe sounded smug. “With a little time, I’ll convince her that Grave belongs with the Resistance. And she’ll persuade him to assent to our designs. He does whatever she asks.”

  “How strange,” Caroline said. “Very well, Commodore. I’ll give you your time, but Grave cannot leave New Orleans. If all that you believe about him is true, we can’t risk losing him to the Empire. And given that the man who invented him is in Imperial custody, they’ll soon be searching for the boy—if they haven’t already begun.”

  “As long as Charlotte stays in New Orleans, Grave stays,” Coe told her. “And I’ll give Charlotte all the reasons she needs to be here.”

  “Watch your tone, Commodore,” Caroline snapped. “She’s still my daughter.”

  “I believe your words to me were ‘whatever you deem necessary’,” Coe replied. “If you want soldiers who boast the strength and resilience of Grave, you’ll let me proceed without hindrance.”

  A frustrated huff followed by rapid boot strikes that began to fade signaled to Charlotte that her mother had gone. She heard Coe sigh, whether from weariness or frustration she couldn’t divine, and then his footsteps, too, faded.

  Charlotte stayed beneath those stairs for a long while, too shocked to move. She sat with her arms wrapped around herself, but it was no longer to aid her hiding. Her body was numb, her mind in denial.

  What she’d overheard couldn’t be true. She must have misconstrued their words. Or missed some essential part of the conversation that made it obvious Caroline wasn’t so calculating, and that Coe hadn’t revealed his intention to manipulate Charlotte.

  Ashley. When I tell Ash what I heard, he’ll explain everything.

  But the thought of finding Ashley didn’t compel Charlotte from her hiding place.

  Grave.

  They wanted Grave. But not because of who he was, but what he was. Soldiers alike to him? Ho
w did her mother plan to achieve that end? What would they do to Grave to ensure success?

  Horrible images and scenarios crowded Charlotte’s mind until she couldn’t bear them. Losing herself in those thoughts would only mire her in dark emotions. She had to act, to do something to work against the plans her mother and Coe hoped to set in motion.

  It was Grave that Charlotte needed to find. She couldn’t leave him alone in the Daedalus Tower. Not until she knew more about what she’d overheard.

  She climbed out from between the stacks of boxes and slowly moved to the edge of the stairwell. She stood up casually, hoping no one had been watching her. As she hurried toward the workshop, she did her best to ward off imminent panic. She had no idea what to do beyond getting to Grave. Her mind was grasping for explanations that would make everything all right again. How could she have doubts about the motivations of the Resistance? Her entire life had been molded by the endless rebellion for which her parents fought. So many had died. So many still would.

  It’s not that they’re wrong. A dry, pragmatic thought managed to wriggle its way through the otherwise hysterical chorus. Coe agrees with my mother about Grave. He could be the perfect weapon if he was trained to fight and his loyalty to the Resistance was secured. Coe made that assessment because he’s a soldier. The Resistance is made up of soldiers; if they discovered something that could turn the tide of the war, what else would they do but make use of that asset? But what would it mean to create others like Grave?

  That rationalization offered Charlotte no comfort. While she could understand its logic, her stomach knotted at the ease with which so many people seemed to recategorize Grave from a person to a thing. Establishing a distinction of such gravitas should be difficult, and yet somehow Charlotte found herself again and again put in the position of defending Grave’s humanity and denying the dominance of whatever machinery had brought him back from death.

  It wasn’t just machinery. Charlotte shivered, remembering her brief visit to the Hive. Yes, Hackett Bromley had employed his expertise as an inventor to create the mechanisms that accounted for Grave’s strength, speed, and agility, but Grave had always been more than machine.

  He’s the echo of a person.

  Charlotte remembered Meg’s hiss of fear and rage when Bromley had revealed the Book of the Dead and admitted his reliance upon its secrets to complete his work. So powerful had been Meg’s reaction that it prompted her to abandon her friends and join the Sisters of Athene’s Temple to learn more about the arcane mysteries that could breathe life into dead flesh. Having witnessed the things Grave could do and heard the tale of his origins, Meg had taken on the personal responsibility of seeking out the greater meaning of Grave’s existence.

  But what are my responsibilities?

  Speaking out on behalf of Grave was something Charlotte took to without hesitation; her instincts compelled her defense of the strange boy. But she sensed that a time loomed not far off when words would not be enough. What then would she do? What choices did she even have?

  No, Charlotte chided herself. What choices does Grave have?

  • • •

  Charlotte picked her way through the room, avoiding fountains of sparks and discarded hunks of metal. The tinkers were cloaked by leather aprons and goggles of all sorts, making it difficult to discern any person’s identity. Pip’s bright pigtails saved Charlotte from tapping on shoulders until she found Birch and Grave. The trio had been set to assemble constrictor slings. Grave and Pip were measuring out lengths of slender metal cable while Birch fine-tuned the trigger mechanism.

  Birch pushed his goggles up onto his forehead when Charlotte joined them. “Meeting done?”

  “More or less,” Charlotte said. “Can you spare Grave for a bit?”

  “I don’t think that will cause a problem,” Birch said with a shrug. “They’re just trying to keep us busy, from what I can tell. No one will be assigning me vital tasks until they’ve seen more of my work.”

  “Do you need me too, Charlotte?” Pip asked. She glanced at the length of cable in her hands with disappointment, none too taken with her current work.

  Charlotte gave her an apologetic smile. “I don’t want to steal both of Birch’s apprentices.”

  “Chin up, Pip.” Birch nudged the girl with his elbow. “If you like, I can show you how the trigger functions and let you have a go on the next one.”

  Pip brightened instantly, hopping up on a stool beside Birch at the workbench.

  Charlotte waited while Grave returned his protective goggles, gloves, and apron to their appointed hooks and drawers just inside the workshop’s entrance. They exited the room and Charlotte gestured for Grave to follow her. She chose a route that would take them back to the boathouses while also avoiding the commons. She walked at a quick clip, but hoped her swift retreat wouldn’t draw unwanted attention. Grave matched her pace and imitated her silence. As they walked, Charlotte played out scenarios in her mind, considering the outcomes that could result from her next act. She couldn’t stand by while Grave was put to use as a weapon for the Resistance without regard for his willingness to do so. But how could she stop it? Could Grave be hidden? Could he run? Could he simply refuse and face whatever consequences resulted from that disobedience?

  It troubled Charlotte deeply that the last option struck her as the most dangerous. The Resistance was something she’d always trusted to be in the right, but she couldn’t imagine her mother or the other leaders leaving Grave to his own devices while they continued to fight. If Grave didn’t fight for them, he became a liability. At best, he would become their prisoner. At worst . . .

  They reached the ladder exit and climbed up to the trapdoor that opened into the storeroom that was the secret entrance to the Daedalus Tower. After they’d collected and donned their masks, they ascended the stairs to the shop and made their way to the front door. Outside the store, the Market paths were abuzz with festivity. People filled the paths bearing cups brimming with drinks, each so potent that Charlotte’s eyes watered when a vendor shoved a cup toward her and its vapors filled her nostrils. Street performers dazzled children with feats of balance and contortion. Men and women shouted and bellowed as their fortunes grew or shrank at various games of chance. Musicians were everywhere. Some paraded through the streets in vivid costumes, frolicking as their bugles blasted and drums thundered. Others occupied those places where paths met and crossed, the players’ bright tunes drawing throngs of attentive listeners.

  Charlotte took Grave’s hand and led him into the crowd. She’d gone only a short distance when she came up against a wall of bodies. She couldn’t see over the heads and shoulders of onlookers, but she pushed her way through without garnering the ire of any spectators. Whatever performance had captured their attention must have been riveting, for nary a person paid notice to Charlotte and Grave as they squirmed through the crowd.

  In her attempt to go through the ring of onlookers, Charlotte somehow ended up at the front of the group. The object of the crowd’s attention was a duo of musicians and a dancer. The musicians were men; one played a fife, the other a drum. The dancer was a woman clad in scarlet that flamed against her dark skin. Charlotte slowed, not wanting to look away from the dancer. The woman’s movements were impossibly fluid. She bent and twisted, rose and fell, flowing with the drums’ persistent rhythm and the frenzied pace of the fife’s melody.

  Charlotte felt each strike of the drum in her pulse, its vibrations somehow thrilling and calming her simultaneously. Though she stood still as stone, Charlotte became aware of every sinew in her body. She knew its power, its potential. She was the dancer. She was every drumbeat and each soaring note of the flute. They all were.

  This isn’t right.

  The small voice whispered to Charlotte, its message pushing past the captivating art of the dancer and her musicians.

  She’s not a dancer. Entertainment is not her ai
m.

  Though she felt a bit silly doing so, Charlotte answered her conscience. Of course she’s a dancer. Isn’t she dancing?

  Is that all? The voice answered. Look around you. Look at what’s happening.

  Pulling herself out of the torpor induced by the performance, Charlotte observed the rest of the crowd. Glassy-eyed, bodies swaying with the drumbeats but never moving from the place where they stood, the audience wasn’t enjoying the music or the dancer’s skill. They were caught in an invisible snare.

  A mesmer. The dancer is a mesmer.

  The moment Charlotte realized what was happening, all lingering drowsiness and befuddlement departed as if blown away by a sudden gale. Charlotte viewed the scene with clarity, and alarm. While they watched, the crowd had grown. Anyone who stopped to listen and watch became rooted at that place, which left Charlotte and Grave surrounded by a thick wall of bodies.

  Charlotte didn’t know the end goal of this mesmer—it could be something as petty as pickpocketing—but she had no desire to find out. She grabbed Grave’s arm.

  He looked at her, his eyes not as unfocused as those around him, but still altered. “I feel strange.”

  “I know.” Charlotte tugged on his shirtsleeve. “Come with me. You’ll be fine once we’re away.”

  Grave frowned, and when his attention returned to the dancer his face filled with contentment. “I like it here.”

  “That’s the problem.”

  She was about to wrap her arms around his waist and haul him backward, when she caught a movement in her peripheral vision. Charlotte turned, trying to pinpoint the flicker of speed that had been such a contrast to the sluggish shifting of the bodies around them.

  There it was again, but only for an instant. And Charlotte was certain the second flash of movement had been too far removed from the first to have originated from the same place.

  “Grave.” Charlotte gripped his arm. “We have to get out of here.”

  “I like it here,” Grave said again.

  “Please, Grave.” The movements in the crowd were becoming more frequent. As much as Charlotte chased them with her eyes, her gaze couldn’t catch whoever or whatever it was.