by L. Penelope
For a moment, he was afraid she would ask him more, like why he’d sailed to Elsira and how exactly he’d come to the attention of the Goddess Awoken. But Lizvette merely clutched the bulbous pendant and nodded absently.
“It is a difficult thing, to have a reprobate for a father,” she said.
“On that we can agree, duchess.”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, but at least she wasn’t crying any longer.
Tai was exhausted. Relaying his father’s sordid tale had taken much from him. He never spoke of it. All who knew him already knew, and it was far too personal a tale to share with new acquaintances. And yet that was just what he’d done. Shared his pain in an attempt to lessen hers, at least for a short time. That was not something he was used to.
He stood up straight and favored her with a formal bow. “I’ll leave you to your rest.”
Her eyes followed him as he left the room, and he felt her gaze until he closed the door. He stood on the other side, rubbing his hand where her silken skin had grazed his. Telling himself that one touch could not possibly have felt so good.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ayal chose her direction by following a butterfly, trusting its beauty to guide her. She soon met Boy-Who-Passes-Twice, who ran with the speed and grace of a young lion. He earned his name the second time he came by, racing the wind in circles around her.
Beware, she thought, to try and catch him is to grab the air.
—THE AYALYA
Ella waved good-bye to her last client of the day, pocketing the generous tip she’d been given. She gazed out the front window to the street beyond, bathed in a sunset glow.
The bell over the door tinkled when the paperboy ducked inside to deliver the evening news. Beauticians and wash girls descended on the pile, snagging copies for themselves.
Doreen triumphantly wrenched a newspaper from the grip of a teenage wash girl and sauntered back to her chair. She sat as if she hadn’t a care in the world, flipping purposefully through the pages as Ella swept up her station, eager to head home.
“Listen to this,” Doreen said. “‘We must never allow our country to be overtaken. United as one, the voices of every loyal Elsiran must rise, saying: Grols keep moving. Keep moving until you’ve found a land of your own to do with as you please and leave ours to us.’”
She lowered the paper and shook her head. “Same rubbish, different day. I’ve got to hand it to whoever’s writing these, they know how to keep us reading.”
All over the shop, activity had paused while people read over shoulders, eager to see the divisive contents of the latest letter. Ella bent to whisk the loose hair into the dustpan and toss it in the bin. She wished she could do the same with every newspaper in Elsira. The daily letters to the editor weren’t signed by the Hand of the Reaper, but the language matched the tone and content of the original note taking responsibility for the bombing.
The hateful words castigating the Lagrimari and calling for a separate land for them had entranced the populace. Whether you were sickened or reassured by the sentiments, they were hard to ignore.
Doreen read on but Ella had heard enough. She felt frayed and worn from having so many emotions at once. Her delight at meeting with the girls the day before bled into the fear that Gizelle would stymie the adoption. That combined with the tension of the ubiquitous protests and the fracturing of public sentiment regarding the Lagrimari—all she wanted to do was fall into her bed and sleep for a thousand years.
With a heavy sigh, she shouldered her bag and left the shop without a word of good-bye to anyone. They were all too enthralled by the newsprint clutched in their hands to notice anyway.
The air smelled of rain. An uncharacteristic hush hung over the streets. Ella welcomed the clouds, dark like her mood. As she neared the Earl Place Park, she was disheartened to find a nest of demonstrators infesting it. The men and women stood shoulder to shoulder, signs raised and voices crying out.
Ella prepared to cross to the other side of the street to avoid them when she got a glimpse of one of the hand-painted signs: GROLS KEEP MOVING.
She paused, staying still even when the traffic semaphore was changed to indicate she could cross and bodies moved around her like a stream parting for a boulder.
The phrase “keep moving” was new. Sure the protesters had shouted variations of the idea that the Lagrimari shouldn’t stay where they currently were, but those exact words—the ones Doreen had just read aloud—she was certain she hadn’t seen or heard before today.
She moved down the sidewalk, closer to the group, taking a good look at the people and their signs. Those gathered were mostly working-class Elsirans. These weren’t indigents or transients rounded up to add bodies and present a good showing. Sincerity and passion shone in their eyes.
A particularly tall man with a bushy beard near the middle of the crowd drew her attention. She recognized him from the day before at the refugee camp. This man had spent his day off demonstrating, and was now here, after normal working hours, standing in the chilly evening, shouting again. These people were not only committed, they were extremely organized.
A youth passed out pamphlets to onlookers. Ella forced herself to accept one and scanned the contents. It was an overview of the key concerns against unification, a rehash of the editorial letters from the papers. She folded it and stuffed it into her bag.
Elsirans were passionate about many issues and protests weren’t uncommon, but this level of coordination was unusual. Something felt off here, but she couldn’t put her finger on precisely what. And she had no desire to stay and listen to the nonsense any longer to try and work it out.
The young man passing out pamphlets had nearly come to the end of his stack. He motioned to another fellow—dressed almost identically in brown coveralls and a newsboy cap. The second youth, seeing the dwindling supply, straightened from his position lounging against a light pole, nodded once, and turned sharply to head away from the park.
Ella made the split-second decision to follow him. Wherever they got their propaganda materials was bound to offer at least a tidbit of information on whoever was organizing these demonstrators. That could be important in Benn’s investigation—an angle they hadn’t considered before.
She kept a good half a block between herself and the young man, confident that the crowded streets would also help to mask her pursuit. His destination was only a few minutes away, a well-lit structure two blocks from the docks. Words carved into the concrete above the entry read The Elsiran Fellowship of Dockworkers—the union that Benn’s father and brother were members of.
The man disappeared inside the front doors, which stood open and welcoming. The building was old, perhaps historic. Not covered in stucco like so much of the city, but built of stone to withstand storms blowing in off the Delaveen Ocean.
A hum of chatter bubbled out from within. Since the doors were open, there could be no harm in taking a peek inside. An inner voice that sounded suspiciously like her husband warned her that it wasn’t her best idea, but she shushed it effectively. She’d just take a quick look.
As she ascended the front steps, she ensured her wheat-colored hair was safely hidden beneath her cloche hat, so she wouldn’t be immediately recognizable as foreign.
She tried to stick to the shadows cast by the massive wooden doors as she peered inside. A shallow lobby led to an auditorium, all of its doors open as well, as if inviting the city to join the hustle and bustle inside.
Tables had been set up in rows bearing an assembly line of sorts. There were dozens of men and women painting wooden signs and hammering in stakes for handles. Several tables held mimeograph machines with operators rolling papers through, printing up more of the pamphlets. Folding and stacking stations took up much of the rest of the space.
A chalkboard in the corner listed a slew of phrases that Ella had heard the demonstrators hurl. Seated just in front of it were a dozen people of all ages, making notes in little journals, hanging on the words of a woman st
anding before the board, apparently instructing them.
Ella swallowed her shock and dismay. Not only was this operation highly organized, they weren’t even trying to hide it. The act of opposing the Lagrimari—and by extension all foreigners—had been turned into a factory.
She spotted the young man she’d been following coming out of a side door. His head was bent as he spoke to someone in the shadows. Wait, no, the man she’d followed was gathering additional pamphlets into a box near the center of the room. But there was yet another dressed just like him, with the same build and general height standing across the room, watching over the teacher and her blackboard.
With shock, she noticed several more similarly dressed men, appearing to be anywhere from seventeen to twenty-five, scattered across the auditorium. The coveralls and cap they all wore must be more than just coincidence—it appeared to be some type of uniform.
She started to back away, an uneasiness filling her belly. Benn would be home soon, she’d tell him what she’d stumbled upon and get his take on it. When she turned to go, she found her path blocked by a brown-clad chest. She looked up into an unsmiling young face, partially covered by the bill of a cap. He was tall and rangy, without a hint of stubble on his cheeks.
“Excuse me.” She attempted to step around him but he placed a heavy hand on her shoulder.
“Mistress Ravel, if you’d come with me please.”
Ice numbed her limbs. She tried to swallow through a suddenly dry mouth.
“H-how do you know my name?”
“My employer would like a word with you.” His voice was bland, and the grip on her shoulder was firm but not painful.
If she could get her shael out of her bag, she might have a chance to strike him and run for it. But he was doubtless faster than her and there were so many of these men around—in strategic places, as if they were standing guard.
“Who is your employer?”
The young man refused to answer. Ella allowed herself to be turned around and led into the lobby of the union building. She tried to pull out of his grip, but he held firm, his hand moving to her upper arm as if he were escorting her and not forcing her.
A fist seized her lungs, stuttering her breathing. She knew a lot of people in Portside, but she’d made only one true enemy that she knew of. And Syllenne Nidos had never been known to employ a cadre of strapping young lads as guards.
Ella was marched around the perimeter of the room. The only notice the two of them attracted was from the other guards, whose heads turned in their direction. It was unsettling that their eyes were shaded by the brims of their caps, but it served to make them impossible to tell apart.
Their destination was the side door she’d noticed before. It opened to a short hallway that ended in a door marked Office.
“Come in,” a pleasant-sounding tenor replied to her guard’s knock. Recognition caused her breathing to spike painfully. She struggled to pull herself together as she was pushed into the room. The door clicked shut behind her.
Seated behind a neatly organized desk was Zann Biddel. She should have guessed.
Biddel was the leader of the Dominionist sect in Elsira. She’d only met the man once, but it was clear he remembered her.
“Please have a seat.” He motioned to the hard-backed chair in front of the desk. She sank down and perched on the edge.
He offered a somewhat wistful smile. “You look so much like your sister. Not sure how I missed it before.”
She jerked at the reminder. Her sister, Kess, had thought herself in love with this man. Had risked everything—including the wrath of Syllenne Nidos—when she’d gotten pregnant by him. When the Sisterhood stole the baby, Ella’s investigation into the disappearance had led her to Zann and his small (at the time) group of religious dissidents. But since the fall of the Mantle, the Dominionists had multiplied.
When Zann Biddel lectured, he was able to captivate audiences. His charismatic manner stoked the Elsiran fear of magic into a blaze that burned with distrust of all religion. For them the Great Awakening was something to be feared, and the Goddess’s vast power nothing but dubious witchcraft.
Answers began falling into place in her mind. “Are you behind all of the protests? The newspaper editorials?” she asked. Her jaw fell open. Was he a member of the Hand of the Reaper?
He steepled his fingers. “The editorials are anonymous. But quite inspiring. And those moved by the contents within needed a place to come together. I utilized my resources to provide that to them.”
“A far cry from the back room of a billiard hall,” she murmured, recalling where they’d first met. “What about the bombing?”
“Bombing?” He sat back in his seat and shook his head. “Our protests are peaceful. Citizens exercising their rights to be heard. The bombing was a senseless tragedy that took many lives, both Elsiran and otherwise.” His grave expression did nothing to convince Ella.
“And the mimeographs? The supplies? Are those the result of your resources as well?” The copy machines were not cheap to rent or run. Thousands were being spent to keep this operation going. Zann was a fisherman by trade, hardly a wealthy aristocrat. Dominionist rhetoric was all about the working man—no matter how many people his group pulled to their side, their funds could not possibly be so flush.
“We must all provide for that which we believe in,” he replied earnestly.
She crossed her arms and settled back. “So to what do I owe the honor of this visit? Is this a social call?”
His gaze never left her, but she refused to become unnerved by it.
“Should I inquire as to your health?” she continued. “That of your family? Are you married, Master Biddel?”
A subtle tremor traversed his face; her jab had its intended effect. She hid her satisfaction, knowing very well that his wife had left him, and unlike him, Ella knew where she was. Something he could never find out.
When she’d finally located her nephew and stolen him back from the clutches of the Sisterhood, she couldn’t keep him. For one, Kess had created a blood spell on her deathbed and embedded all her memories into her son. Ella was the only one who could access the memories when she touched his skin, but because of that, she couldn’t care for the child. The second reason was that the baby had distinctive white hair, a color no Elsiran or Yalyish bore. It was evidence of his father’s mixed blood: Zann was half Udlander, but passed himself off as full Elsiran and spouted bigotry and nationalist rhetoric that his own heritage belied.
Revealing the baby would put a target on the child’s back, and from what she knew of Zann, he would not hesitate to pull the trigger. Zann’s wife had taken the infant out of the country to hide him and raise him safely away from both his father’s wrath and the Sisterhood’s machinations.
Zann’s veil of pleasantness thinned, showing more of the truth beneath. “Mistress Ravel—or is it Mistress Farmafield? It’s so difficult to keep up with the peculiarities of foreign naming conventions.”
She gave a bold smile. “You, sir, may call me whatever you like.”
“Well then, I noticed you hovering at the entry and thought you may want a closer look at our operation. We have nothing to hide.” He spread his arms apart. “Your curiosity is well known throughout the city.”
That set Ella’s hair on end. “I had no idea I was so renowned.”
He thumped his hand on the table and another layer of the mask fell away. “You are the type of woman who loves a crusade. We have that in common, you and I.”
“I wasn’t aware that we had anything in common besides caring for my sister.”
His nose flared and something dangerous shifted in his gaze. “It’s come to my attention that you have something of a bone to pick with the High Priestess.”
Ella just stared back.
“I thought I would share with you that constables are searching the Eastern and Northern temples as we speak. They received an anonymous tip that there might be something worth finding in the storerooms.
”
She could not let on what she knew of the ongoing investigation. Ella had given Benn the account book to take to the authorities, but she wasn’t as certain as Rienne that it was the blow necessary to take down the High Priestess. An anonymous tip though? Could that have been Rienne’s work?
“That wasn’t in the papers,” she said slowly.
“It will be. When they find what they’re looking for.” His eyes glittered in subtle triumph. Or perhaps the tip had been the work of someone else entirely. She flinched at his smugness.
“You are certainly well informed, Master Biddel,” Ella said. “Do you have reason to wish the High Priestess ill?”
“Nothing against her as a person. I’m sure she’s delightful,” he said dryly. “Her role, however, is the problem. The Sisterhood and the delusions they promote are dangerous to the populace.”
“And yours aren’t?” She arched a brow.
“I’m not your enemy. We actually have more in common than you know. Your campaign against Syllenne Nidos is nearly over. That is something to rejoice in, is it not?”
She lifted her chin. “Perhaps I’ll just have to find something else to occupy my time.”
His lip curled into a sneer. “Might I suggest crochet?”
Ella stood, more than ready to be done with this little tête-à-tête. “I’ll take that under advisement.” Biddel’s message had been delivered loud and clear. He had far more reach than he should and was keeping an eye on Ella. She’d have to bear that in mind going forward. She moved toward the door, hopeful no one would stop her exit.
“Did you ever locate your nephew, Mistress Ravel?”
She turned back to him, face carefully composed. “No, I did not. There is absolutely no trace of him.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Ella admired his ability to keep everything close to his chest. But she suspected there was a good reason for that—the man was colder than a snake and just as hard to grasp.
“I thank you for your concern,” she said. “Have a pleasant evening.”
