by L. Penelope
“You as well, mistress. Stay safe.” The false regard in his words rippled across her skin.
She exited the office, past the guard who made no move to stop her. Back in the auditorium, the scent of chemicals from the copying machines and paint from the signs clogged her head.
Outside again in the fresh air, she hurried back toward the crowded intersection. There was safety in a group of strangers. She looked over her shoulder, expecting to see a newsboy cap bobbing behind her, but as far as she could tell, no one followed.
Then again, why would they need to? Zann Biddel had his fingers in many pies. He had sources and connections that she couldn’t truly imagine. He may well be a member of the Reapers. And he, too, was trying to take down Syllenne Nidos.
Ella didn’t relax a muscle until she was home again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The dwellers of the forest traveled every year to where Matamere the Builder constructed his castles. When Ayal arrived, their tree-top village was abandoned, save Boy-Who-Passes-Twice, who stayed to stand guard.
“They do not take me with them,” he said, voice overripe and bitter. “But I will show them my worth before long.”
—THE AYALYA
Lizvette picked up her teacup only to find that the tea had gone cold. Her toast lay uneaten on her plate, and she pushed it away to rest her elbows on the table. Certainly she was too preoccupied to eat, what with her father’s threat hanging over her head.
She’d claimed exhaustion and hadn’t left the hotel suite at all the day before, hoping to somehow forestall the arrival of the messenger. Though she’d been incredibly bored attempting to focus either on the newspaper or the radiophonic, she had every intention of doing the same today. Likely believing her to be overcome with grief, the others hadn’t complained. Darvyn and Tai had been out early both days, having found some lead or another on the Dominionists that they were following up on.
She’d overheard them speaking in hushed tones but hadn’t had the energy to really listen. At least someone was doing what they’d come here to do.
She looked up to find Vanesse stalking toward her purposefully. Lizvette straightened to face the other woman, who came to a stop before her. The Sister stood there peacefully, her hands clasped in front of her, and smiled. “You’re coming with us to Clove’s second qualifying heat today. They’re great fun and an exciting preview to the race.”
An excuse formed on Lizvette’s lips, but then Clove barreled into the room and swooped down on the breakfast table, stuffing a piece of toast in her mouth without butter or jam.
“Hrmph hrmph,” she said with her mouth full.
Vanesse elbowed her, shaking her head. “She said we won’t take no for an answer. We can’t let you sit here moping for another day. It’s a terrible tragedy, what happened to Prince Alariq, but we must rally. Grab your cloak. It’s a bit chilly outside.”
Lizvette’s protests fell on deaf ears, and short of grabbing hold of the bedpost and refusing to release it, she had no other choice than to accompany them.
And so she found herself in a taxi, returning to the air station where they had arrived, while Clove described the route of the final race.
The airships in the Yaly Classic would pass through Melbain City and down to the Fremian Canal, then through the outer territories of the commonwealth before ending again in the city. Melbain boasted a mountain range with jagged peaks and varying climates throughout its territories. Add to that an obstacle course provided by the Physicks, which included such impediments as rain, hail, sleet, and fog, and the course was harrowing, indeed. Eight laps would take about eight hours.
Lizvette shivered to think of all the ways a pilot could be compromised during this race. What did Father have in mind to sabotage Clove? And how did he plan to use Lizvette?
When they arrived, the main tarmac of the air station was closed to commercial traffic, leaving the airbuses to run on a limited schedule from the secondary field. Sleek racing crafts and small, souped-up personal ships now filled the paved area, with pilots in striped jumpsuits milling around.
“Clove came in first in the initial heat. Her chances are very good,” Vanesse said, beaming with pride. The two of them stood off to the side, near the Elsiran ship but out of the fracas of the preparing racers.
“Don’t you get scared for her?” Lizvette asked. “The course sounds terrifying.”
A worried look crossed Vanesse’s face before she shook it off. “I’ll admit, it is different than I’d thought. This is the first time I’ve seen her race in person.”
“Oh?”
Vanesse shrugged. “I’ve always been too afraid to come. Word could have gotten back to my family, and Mother…” She shook her head and touched the burn scar on her cheek absently. “At any rate, she’s so excited for it, how can I not be, too?”
Lizvette could see how Clove’s excitement was infectious. The woman positively vibrated with glee as she rushed to her ship to meet a stern-faced inspector bearing a clipboard.
“Today is the final qualifier and will determine racing order,” Vanesse explained, her eyes on Clove as she spoke with the inspector.
There was no way Lizvette could do anything to hurt Clove. She picked idly at the amalgam necklace hanging like an anchor around her neck. If only she could speak of her father’s visit and plans to sabotage the race. Lizvette had tried writing a note, but any action she took to tell others of what had transpired ended in a burning sensation in her throat that physically prevented her from continuing. She’d tried to fight through the pain, but it wasn’t just discomfort, it was paralyzing, allowing her only the ability to clutch at her neck and suffer. After several attempts, she’d determined she could not get around the magic that way.
The sun broke through the cloud cover blanketing the city, and Lizvette moved into the shade of the building. The warmth of the sun was welcome, but habit had kicked in without her conscious thought. Staying out of direct sunlight to avoid further freckling had been ingrained in her. She touched her nose and realized she’d forgotten to powder her face today. The freckles she already had would be in full view.
With an inner scoff, she squared her shoulders, hoping her father would be around to see them. Freckles as an act of defiance—how pathetic was she?
She hadn’t noticed the boy who sidled up to her until he was firmly in her personal space. She took a step to the side. He edged closer until she pinned him with a glare.
In his early teens or so, he was blond and dark-eyed, wearing knickerbockers buttoned below the knee.
“May I help you?” she asked in her most imperious voice.
The lad kept his gaze forward, peering at the racers as they prepared for the heat. He stuck his hand in his pocket and produced a small, brown paper sack, which he held out to Lizvette.
“I’m not—”
“It’s from Nirall,” the boy interrupted, his voice cracking with youth. “Place it under the pilot’s pillow the night before the race.”
He shook the bag impatiently and darted a glance at her from the corner of his eye.
Lizvette looked around nervously before taking the package and hiding it under her cloak. “What does it do?”
The boy shrugged.
“Will it hurt her?”
“Listen, lady. I don’t get paid to ask questions.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “What if it doesn’t work?”
“It’s guaranteed to work. Absalom’s mech always works.” With that, he was off, scampering away before Lizvette could ask anything more.
Across the tarmac, Clove laughed heartily. Lizvette’s grip tightened around the bag as her dread increased. There must be another amalgamation inside, the purpose of which she was loath to discover. If she used it, she’d gain her father’s trust and be that much closer to bringing him to justice. If she didn’t, he would never trust her and her chance to capture him could vanish. While both options were terrifying, she knew she had to make a choic
e.
* * *
Darvyn sat on a park bench in a sea of perfectly manicured, vibrant green grass. His fingers gripped a newspaper written in a language he couldn’t read. The park was a peaceful respite from the assault of noise and disorder that was Melbain City, yet he still felt frayed at his edges. The press of millions of people packed tightly together battered his Song, leaving him exhausted each day.
Singing took far more concentration here than it did in Lagrimar. Even now, when he had simply shifted the color of his eyes from dark brown to mossy green to better pass for a Summ-Yalyish man, he felt the pull of the spell more than he should.
The disguise he’d crafted for Tai included masking his tattoos, changing his hair color, and broadening his features slightly to better masquerade him as Pressian-Yalyish. The Raunian stood across the paved square at the center of the park, beneath a giant statue of Saint Melba. The stone woman bore a warm smile while she carried an axe in one hand, a sapling in the other. A strange creature sat at her feet comprised of a variety of different animals. Two front paws, the back legs of a bird, the tail of a fish—Darvyn had no idea what the beast was meant to represent.
He scanned the area, both visually and with his Song, searching for the target of their stakeout. The day after they’d visited the pub, he and Tai had returned to question the staff about the identity of the Dominionists who had been there. Since the quest for Nirall had come up empty so far, tracking the group was their next best bet. As it turned out, Tai was nearly as good at coaxing information out of the female waitstaff as he was at intimidating Verdeel. Several waitresses identified one man, Hewett Ladell, as the one who’d begun the Dominionist tirade that night.
Apparently, Ladell was a local instigator, well known in the neighborhood for clashing with Loyalists who worshipped the Yalyish saints. After months of incidents, including several that had turned violent, the priests of Saint Melba began encouraging their followers to fight hatred with love and respond to the Dominionist baiting and criticisms with prayers or songs, like what Darvyn had witnessed in the pub.
Tai had found out Ladell’s home address, and they’d begun following him, hoping he would lead them to others in the Dominionist organization. Ideally, someone extreme enough, or with enough authority, to have had a hand in the Elsiran temple bombing. But each of the past two days, they’d lost Ladell in this park. After leaving his workplace in the belly of a giant tower, he would take the streetcar across town to the park. They’d see him enter but never leave, hence the stakeout.
Tai leaned against the base of the statue casually, chomping on roasted peanuts he’d purchased from a street vendor. In his crisp white shirt and vest, he looked like any other Administrator relaxing after work. But he perked up noticeably when a thin man in a black derby hat passed by close to him.
It looked like they exchanged a few words, and then the thin man disappeared behind the statue. Tai straightened, tossed his peanuts in the nearest trash can, then surreptitiously sent two hand signals to Darvyn. The first motioned to his right, where Hewett Ladell was striding down the paved path toward the statue. The second indicated that Darvyn should follow him.
Tai rounded the statue and disappeared. When he didn’t reappear, Darvyn stood to follow Ladell. Their target rounded the wide base of the monument just before Darvyn.
Ladell looked up when he approached. Darvyn nodded briskly, the way he’d seen Yalyish men greet one another, and held his breath, hoping this was the right move. Tai had said to follow, so he must know something.
“Autonomy or death, brother,” Ladell said, his eyes taking on a conspiratorial glint.
“Autonomy or death,” Darvyn repeated. The translator amalgam, which was pressed against the base of his throat, spoke the words in his voice. He couldn’t begin to fathom how the magic worked, but it was effective enough that no one suspected he wasn’t a native Yalyish speaker.
Ladell smiled tightly, and Darvyn reciprocated. The man then placed his palm on an engraved metal plate bolted to the cement base of the statue. A hidden door, built into the concrete, slid open, revealing a set of stairs leading downward.
The entrance was lit from somewhere below, and the steps were well worn. Ladell descended: this must be where Tai had disappeared to. After a moment, Darvyn followed. They headed through a narrow tunnel toward the sound of men’s voices. Darvyn hadn’t yet seen any female Dominionists, though it seemed odd for there not to be any.
The tunnel ended at an open door that led to a low-ceilinged basement. As they hadn’t walked very far underground, this must be one of the buildings bordering the park. Brick walls discolored with old water stains lined a room large enough to easily house the twenty men inside, many of whom were seated on folding wooden chairs. At the far end of the room, a staircase led up to what Darvyn guessed was the kitchen of a restaurant, if the mouth-watering aromas drifting down were any indication.
Tai stood off to the side next to two men who were locked in a heated debate. One was the man in the derby, who apparently had been convinced that Tai was another Dominionist headed to this gathering. At the pub they’d learned that in a Loyalist city such as Melbain, Dominionists often recruited in secret, only coming aboveground when they were firmly entrenched in their beliefs.
Ladell walked to the front of the room, clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention. Casually, Darvyn made his way over to Tai and sat down next to him as the others also took their seats.
“I see some new faces,” Ladell said, nodding in approval. “That’s good. Glad to know that more of our brothers are seeing through the false promises of the hypnotized. With every new mind unlocked from the tyranny of the saints and the sorcerers, we take another step closer to pure liberty.”
“Autonomy or death,” the audience said in unison.
Ladell smiled. “Autonomy or death, brothers.”
A ripple of unease worked its way through Darvyn. The mood and intentions of the men here were dark. Jealousy, pain, and hatred simmered beneath the surface.
“We are making inroads outside of our borders, as well,” Ladell continued. “Let us raise hands of strength to our brethren in Elsira, beset by an awakening deity who was best left asleep.”
The men raised both fists above their heads. Tai and Darvyn quickly followed suit along with a few other obvious newcomers in the audience.
“We cannot allow our homeland to be taken from us as theirs has been, drained from them by mages and witches and goddesses. The Physick scourge is growing far beyond the bounds of the commonwealth of Dahlinea. We will all have to dig deep within ourselves in order to fight it off.”
A throat cleared loudly from the back of the room. All heads turned to see a tall, dark-haired man standing with his arms crossed. He hadn’t been present a few moments earlier, and Darvyn had seen no one arrive from either the tunnel entrance or the kitchen stairs.
Tai nudged Darvyn’s arm. “That’s the man I saw disappear at the pub,” he whispered, sotto voce.
Darvyn took in the man’s steely stare and turned back to see Ladell blanch visibly.
“Let us review the words in The Book of Dominion,” he said, holding up a leather-bound book. “Chapter fourteen, verse fifty-five. I will be back in a moment.”
Ladell looked nervously toward the man in the back and headed for the stairs leading to the kitchen. The audience members stood and began breaking into small groups, dragging their chairs together.
Darvyn tugged on Tai’s sleeve and, in the midst of the confusion, backed them both into a corner where he cloaked them in darkness with his Song. Tai froze, the darkness spell blinding him as well as enlarging the shadows, hiding them both from view.
“Follow me,” Darvyn whispered. “I’ll lead us close enough to hear what they’re saying.”
Tai nodded. Darvyn grasped his shoulder, pointing him in the right direction. The other men’s voices were a soft hum as they began their study groups. Darvyn and Tai hugged the back wall, moving silently
toward the staircase where Ladell and the suspected Physick had disappeared.
“And you’re sure it will do what you claim?” Ladell’s voice was eager.
“I’m sure,” the larger man said gruffly. “Only a handful of these have been made. I obtained this at great risk to myself, and I expect top shing for it.”
“Of course, of course, but how can I know it works?”
“When has my merchandise ever been faulty? Test it if you want … after you pay.”
“How much, then?” Ladell asked.
“Fifty thousand shings.”
Ladell gasped. “That’s highway robbery, Absalom. It can’t be worth that much.”
“I assure you it is,” Absalom growled. There was a long pause, and Darvyn strained to hear, not sure if the men had moved or simply lowered their voices.
“Actually,” Absalom said, “since you’ve been such a good customer, I can give you a demonstration right now.”
Heavy footfalls thundered down the steps. Absalom emerged from the entry to the staircase and scanned the room.
Darvyn froze only a half dozen paces away. The spell should have made discovery impossible, but when the large man turned, Darvyn’s heart sank to see he’d donned a pair of spectacles. When Darvyn had been captured in Lagrimar by the True Father’s men, a pair of amalgam spectacles like these had been used to see through his concealment spell. He took a step away from Tai as Absalom locked eyes with Darvyn. The Physick smiled a bone-chilling smile, raised his hand, then tossed something.
“Run!” Darvyn cried, heading toward the tunnel, but the small brown pouch the Physick had thrown hit him in the shoulder. It burned where it touched him and magically unfurled into a net, the webbing spreading out over his body, holding him in place. The brown material began to glow with a brilliant light. Drawing on Earthsong, he crumbled the cement floor around the Physick’s feet, trying to lock him in place, but the shimmering netting was draining his Song, rapidly bleeding it from him.
He thrashed against the confines of the net, and every spell he tried fizzled before it could take hold. The thread connecting him to Tai’s disguise still held, but barely.
