by Lu, Marie
The only things that seem out of place in this picture are the heavy metal shackles that bind my ankles and wrists, chaining me down to my chair.
A half hour passes before another soldier (wearing the distinctive black-and-red coat of the capital’s patrols) enters the chamber. This one holds the door open, stands at attention, and lifts his chin. “Our glorious Elector Primo is in the building,” he announces. “Please rise.”
He tries to look like he’s talking to no one in particular, but I’m the only one sitting. I push up from my chair and stand with a clink of my chains.
Five more minutes pass. Then, just as I’m starting to wonder whether anyone’s going to come at all, a young man steps quietly through the door and nods to the soldiers at the entrance. The guards snap to a salute. I can’t salute with these shackled hands, and I can’t bow or curtsy properly either—so I just stay the way I am and face the Elector.
Anden looks almost exactly like he did when I first met him at the celebratory ball—tall and regal and sophisticated, his dark hair tidy, his evening coat a handsome charcoal gray with gold pilot stripes on the sleeves and gold epaulettes on the shoulders. His green eyes are solemn, though, and there’s a very slight slouch to his shoulders, as if a new weight had settled there. It seems as though his father’s death has affected him after all.
“Sit, please,” he says, holding a white gloved hand (condor flight gloves) out in my direction. His voice is very soft, but still carries in the large room. “I hope you’ve been comfortable, Ms. Iparis.”
I do as he says. “I have. Thank you.”
Once Anden has seated himself at the other end of the table and the soldiers have all gone back to their regular stances, he speaks again. “I received word that you requested to see me in person. I imagine you don’t mind wearing the clothes I’ve provided.” He pauses here for a split second, just enough time for a coy smile to light up his features. “I thought you might not want to spend dinner in a prison uniform.”
There’s something patronizing about his tone that grates on my nerves. How dare he dress me like a doll? an indignant part of me thinks. At the same time, I’m impressed by his air of command, his ownership of his new status. He has suddenly come into power, a great deal of it, and he wears it so confidently that my old feelings of loyalty press heavily against my chest. The uncertainty he’d once had is quickly disappearing. This man was born to rule. Anden seems to have developed an attraction to you, Razor had told me. So I tilt my face down and look up at him through my lashes. “Why are you treating me so well? I thought I was an enemy of the state now.”
“I would be ashamed to treat our Republic’s most famous prodigy like a prisoner,” he says as he carefully straightens his forks, knives, and champagne glass into perfect alignment. “You don’t find this unpleasant, do you?”
“Not at all.” I glance around the chamber again, memorizing the positions of the lamps, the wall décor, the location of each soldier, and the weapons they carry. The elaborate elegance of this encounter makes me realize that Anden hasn’t arranged the dress and the dinner just to be flirtatious. He wants news about how well he’s treating me to leak to the public, I think. He wants people to know that the new Elector is taking good care of Day’s savior. My initial distaste wavers—this new thought intrigues me. Anden must be very aware of his poor public reputation. Perhaps he’s hoping for the people’s support. If that’s the case, then he’s taking pains to do something that our last Elector cared little about. It also makes me wonder: If Anden is actually looking for public approval, what does he think of Day? He certainly won’t win people over by announcing a manhunt for the Republic’s most celebrated criminal.
Two servants bring out trays of food (a salad with real strawberries, and exquisitely roasted pork belly with hearts of palm), while two others place fresh white cloth napkins across our laps and pour champagne into our glasses. These servants are from the upper class (they walk with the signature precision of the elite), although probably not of the rank that my family had.
Then the most curious thing happens.
The servant pouring Anden’s champagne brings the bottle too close to his glass. It tips over, and the liquid spills all over the tablecloth, then the glass rolls off the table and shatters on the floor.
The servant lets out a squeak and drops to her hands and knees. Red curls tumble out of the neat bun tied behind her head; a few strands fall across her face. I notice how dainty and perfect her hands are—definitely an upper-class girl. “So sorry, Elector,” she says over and over. “So sorry. I’ll have the cloth changed right away and get you a new glass.”
I don’t know what I expected Anden to do. Scold her? Give her a stern warning? Frown, at least? But to my shock, he pushes back his chair, stands up, and holds out his hand to her. The girl seems to have frozen. Her brown eyes go wide, and her lips tremble. In one motion Anden leans down, takes both her hands in his, and pulls her up. “It’s just a glass of champagne,” he says lightly. “Don’t cut yourself.” Anden waves a hand at one of the soldiers near the door. “A broom and tray, please. Thank you.”
The soldier nods in a hurry. “Of course, Elector.”
While the servant rushes away for a new glass and a janitor comes in to sweep the broken one safely away, Anden takes his seat again with all the grace of royalty. He picks up a fork and knife with impeccable etiquette, then cuts a small piece of pork. “So tell me, Agent Iparis. Why did you want to see me in person? And what happened on the evening of Day’s execution?”
I follow his lead, picking up my own fork and knife and cutting into my meat. The chains on my wrists are exactly long enough for me to eat, as if someone had taken the trouble to measure them out. I push the surprise of the champagne incident out of my mind and start planting the story that Razor made up for me. “I did help Day escape his execution, and the Patriots helped me. But after it was over, they wouldn’t let me go. It seemed like I’d finally gotten away from them when your guards arrested me.”
Anden blinks slowly. I wonder if he believes anything I’m saying. “You’ve been with the Patriots for the last two weeks?” he says after I’ve finished chewing a slice of pork. The food’s exquisite; the meat so tender, it practically melts in my mouth.
“Yes.”
“I see.” Anden’s voice tightens with distrust. He dabs his mouth with a cloth napkin, then puts his silverware down and leans back. “So. Day is alive, or he was when you left him? Is he also working with the Patriots?”
“When I left, he was. I don’t know about now.”
“Why is he working with them, when he always avoided them in the past?”
I shrug a little, trying to feign puzzlement. “He needs help finding his brother, and he’s indebted to the Patriots for fixing his leg. He had an infected bullet wound from . . . all this.”
Anden pauses long enough to take a small sip of champagne. “Why did you help him escape?”
I flex my wrist so that the cuffs don’t leave imprints against my skin. My shackles clank loudly against each other. “Because he didn’t kill my brother.”
“Captain Metias Iparis.” The sound of my brother’s full name sends a wave of anguish through me. Does he know how my brother died? “I’m sorry for your loss.” Anden bows his head a little, an unexpected sign of respect that makes a lump rise in my throat.
“I remember reading about your brother when I was younger, you know,” he continues. “I read about his grades in school, how well he performed on his Trial, and especially how good he was with comps.”
I spear a strawberry, chew it thoughtfully, then swallow. “I never knew my brother had such an esteemed fan.”
“I wasn’t a fan of him, per se, although he was certainly impressive.” Anden picks up his new champagne glass and sips. “I was a fan of you.”
Remember, be obvious. Make him think you’re flattered. An
d attracted to him. He is handsome, for sure—so I try to focus on that. The light from the wall lamps catches the wavy edges of his hair, making it shine; his olive skin has a warm, golden glow; his eyes are rich with the color of spring leaves. Gradually I feel a blush growing on my cheeks. Good, keep going. He’s some mix of Latin blood, but the ever-so-slight slant of his large eyes and the delicateness of his brow reveal a hint of Asian heritage. Like Day. Suddenly, my attention scatters, and all I can see is me and Day kissing in that Vegas bathroom. I remember his bare chest, his lips against my neck, his intoxicating defiance that makes Anden pale by comparison. The subtle blush on my cheeks flares into bright heat.
The Elector tilts his head to the side and smiles. I take a deep breath and compose myself. Thank goodness I still managed to get the reaction I was aiming for.
“Have you thought about why the Republic has been so lenient, given your betrayal of the state?” Anden says, toying idly with his fork. “Anyone else would already have been executed. But not you.” He straightens in his chair. “The Republic has been watching you since you scored that perfect fifteen hundred on your Trial. I’ve heard about your grades, and your performance in Drake’s afternoon drills. Several Congressmen nominated you for political assignment before you even finished your freshman year at Drake. But they ultimately decided to assign you to the military instead, because your personality has ‘officer’ written all over it. You’re a celebrity in the inner circles. Your being convicted of disloyalty would be a tremendous loss to the Republic.”
Does Anden know the truth of how my parents and Metias were killed? That their disloyalty cost them their lives? Does the Republic value me so much that they’re hesitant to execute me despite my recent crime and traitorous family ties? “How did you see me around the Drake campus?” I say. “I don’t remember hearing that you visited the university.”
Anden cuts into a heart of palm on his plate. “Oh no. You wouldn’t have heard it.”
I give him a quizzical frown. “Were you . . . a student at Drake while I was there?”
Anden nods. “The administration kept my identity a secret. I was seventeen—a sophomore—when you came to Drake at twelve. We all heard a lot about you, obviously—and your antics.” He grins at that, and his eyes sparkle mischievously.
The Elector’s son had been walking amongst the rest of us at Drake, and I didn’t even know it. My chest swells with pride at the thought of the Republic’s leader taking notice of me on campus. Then I shake my head, guilty for liking the attention. “Well, I hope not everything you heard was bad.”
Anden reveals a dimple in his left cheek when he laughs. It’s a soothing sound. “No. Not everything.”
Even I have to smile. “My grades were good, but I’m pretty sure my dean’s secretary is happy I won’t be haunting her office anymore.”
“Miss Whitaker?” Anden shakes his head. For a moment he drops his formal façade, ignoring etiquette by slouching back in his chair and making a circular gesture with his fork. “I’d been called in to her office too, which was funny because she had no idea who I was. I’d gotten into trouble for switching out the heavy practice rifles in the gym for foam ones.”
“That was you?” I exclaim. I remember that incident well. Freshman year, drill class. The foam rifles had looked so real. When the students had bent down in unison to pick up what they thought were heavy guns, they’d all yanked the foam ones up so hard that half the students toppled over backward from the force. The memory gets a real laugh out of me. “That was brilliant. The drill captain was so mad.”
“Everyone needs to get in trouble at least once in college, right?” Anden smirks and drums his fingers against his champagne glass. “You always seemed to cause the most trouble, though. Didn’t you force one of your classes to evacuate?”
“Yes. Republic History Three-oh-two.” I try to rub my neck in momentary embarrassment, but my shackles stop me. “The senior sitting next to me said I wouldn’t be able to hit the fire alarm lever with his training gun.”
“Ah. I can see you’ve always made good choices.”
“I was a junior. Still kind of immature, I admit,” I reply.
“I disagree. All things considered, I’d say you were well beyond your years.” He smiles, and my cheeks turn pink again. “You have the poise of someone much older than fifteen. I was glad to finally meet you at the celebratory ball that night.”
Am I really sitting here, eating dinner and reminiscing about good old Academy days with the Elector Primo? Surreal. I’m stunned by how easy it is to talk to him, this discussion of familiar things in a time when so much strangeness surrounds my life, a conversation where I can’t accidentally offend anyone with an offhand class-related remark.
Then I remember why I’m really here. The food in my mouth turns to ash. This is all for Day. Resentment floods through me, even though I’m wrong for feeling it. Am I? I wonder if I’m really ready to murder someone for his sake.
A soldier peeks through the chamber entrance. He salutes Anden, then clears his throat uncomfortably as he realizes that he must’ve cut the Elector off in the middle of our conversation. Anden gives him a good-natured smile and waves him in. “Sir, Senator Baruse Kamion wants a word with you,” the soldier says.
“Tell the Senator I’m busy,” Anden replies. “I’ll contact him after my dinner.”
“I’m afraid he insisted that you speak to him now. It’s about the, ah . . .” The soldier considers me, then hurries over to whisper in Anden’s ear. I still catch some of it, though. “The stadiums. He wants to give . . . message . . . should end your dinner right away.”
Anden raises an eyebrow. “Is that what he said? Well. I’ll decide when my own dinner ends,” he says. “Deliver that message back to Senator Kamion whenever you see fit. Tell him that the next Senator to send me an impertinent message will answer to me directly.”
The soldier salutes vigorously, his chest puffed out a little at the thought of delivering a message like this to a Senator. “Yes, sir. Right away.”
“What’s your name, soldier?” Anden asks before he can leave.
“Lieutenant Felipe Garza, sir.”
Anden smiles. “Thank you, Lieutenant Garza,” he says. “I will remember this favor.”
The soldier tries to keep a straight face, but I can see pride in his eyes and the smile right below the surface. He bows to Anden. “Elector, you honor me. Thank you, sir.” Then he steps out.
I observe the exchange with fascination. Razor had been right about one thing—there is definitely tension between the Senate and their new Elector. But Anden is no fool. He’s been in power for less than a week, and already he’s doing exactly what he should be: trying to cement the military’s loyalty to him. I wonder what else he’s doing to win their trust. The Republic army had been fiercely faithful to his father; in fact, that loyalty was probably what made the late Elector so powerful. Anden knows this, and he’s making his move as early as possible. The Senate’s complaints are useless against a military that backs Anden without question.
But they don’t back Anden without question, I remind myself. There’s Razor, and his men. Traitors in the military’s ranks are moving into place.
“So.” Anden delicately cuts another slice of pork. “You brought me all the way here to tell me that you helped a criminal escape?”
For a moment there’s no sound except the clinking of Anden’s fork against his plate. Razor’s instructions echo in my mind—the things I need to say, the order I need to say them in. “No . . . I came here to tell you about an assassination plot against you.”
Anden puts his fork down and holds two slender fingers up in the direction of the soldiers. “Leave us.”
“Elector, sir,” one of them starts to say. “We’re not to leave you alone.”
Anden pulls a gun from his belt (an elegant black model I’ve never seen before
) and places it on the table next to his plate. “It’s all right, Captain,” he says. “I’ll be quite safe. Now, please, everyone. Leave us.”
The woman Anden called Captain gestures to her soldiers, and they file silently from the room. Even the six guards standing next to me leave. I am alone in this chamber with the Elector himself, separated by twelve feet of cherrywood.
Anden leans both of his elbows on the table and tents his fingers together. “You came here to warn me?”
“I did.”
“But I heard you were caught in Vegas. Why didn’t you turn yourself in?”
“I was on my way here, to the capital. I wanted to get to Denver before turning myself in so I’d have a better chance of talking to you. I definitely wasn’t planning to be arrested by a random patrol in Vegas.”
“And how did you get away from the Patriots?” Anden gives me a hesitant, skeptical look. “Where are they now? Surely they must be pursuing you.”
I pause, lower my eyes, and clear my throat. “I hopped a Vegas-bound train the night I managed to get away.”
Anden stays quiet for a moment, then puts down his fork and dabs his mouth. I’m not sure if he believes my escape story or not. “And what were their plans for you, if you hadn’t gotten away?”
Keep it vague for now. “I don’t know all the details about what they had planned for me,” I reply. “But I do know they’re planning some sort of attack at one of your morale-boosting stops along the warfront, and that I was supposed to help them. Lamar, Westwick, and Burlington were places they mentioned. The Patriots have people in place too, Anden—people here in your inner circle.”
I know I’m taking a risk by using his first name, but I’m trying to keep our new rapport going. Anden doesn’t seem to notice—he just leans over his plate and studies me. “How do you know this?” he says. “Do the Patriots realize you know? Is Day involved in all this too?”
I shake my head. “I was never supposed to find out. I haven’t spoken to Day since I left.”
“Would you say that you’re friends with him?”
