To Best the Boys

by Mary Weber

  I look at her and blink. I think I know that. I think I’ve always known that.

  “And I think that desire is just as noble as what you’re doing, if that’s the life I want and choose. So I’m staying here with what I want. And you are going to go get what you want. Are we clear?”

  I bite my cheek and eye her, then Beryll.

  Then nod.

  Because of course it’s clear. Her life may not be for me, but it is for her.

  The walls shake and dust crumbles into my eyes as the metal door shrieks and strains against its hinges. “Rhen, this thing’s coming down,” Lute says through gritted teeth.

  The expression in Seleni’s eyes hardens. “You win this thing, Rhen Tellur. Enough to make Vincent and Germaine regret they weren’t born women. And then you burn those horrid dead-boy clothes you’re wearing to the ground, because I don’t ever want to be seen with you in them again.”

  With that, she shoves me toward the door Lute’s holding up, steps back as a light flickers on, and offers up a wide smile. “See you two on the outside.”

  The ghouls are still screaming as I step in. The next moment Lute’s hands drop and the metal door falls. And suddenly the room Lute and I just locked ourselves in lurches, and the ground beneath me feels like it’s plunging away. It takes my stomach with it as the whole thing begins flying upward toward the surface.

  20

  It’s approximately ten point three seconds before the moving room slows and comes to a full stop with a soft thud.

  Lute slips his hand into mine and we wait for the door to open.

  It doesn’t.

  He steps over to press against it, while I peer around for another lever, but there is none. The box we’re in is made of smooth metal and nothing more.

  “Hello?” I yell. “Mr. Holm? Mr. Kellen?”

  The overhead light brightens, makes a whirring sound, then it’s shining at the wall in front of us, which starts to ripple, and a set of words appears:

  WHO ARE YOU?

  I glance at Lute.

  He frowns and grips my hand tighter just as the metal wall shudders and squeals, and the door slides open, and we are looking directly into the face of Mr. Kellen. Or rather, Mr. Holm. Whichever is his actual name.

  “Welcome, Rhen Tellur from the Port, whose uncle owns a study and who has joined my sport. It’s quite nice to see you again.” He chuckles and tips his head as if assessing me. “I’m glad you took my advice.”

  I pause. He knows who I am and that I’m in his contest.

  I point to the metal floor and don’t ask how long he’s known, or what he’s going to do about it, or even what advice he’s referring to. “Our friends in the catacombs need immediate—”

  “Ah yes, your friends. Have no fear, they’re already near and soon to be safe. But now . . .” He clicks his teeth. “It appears you are the final two. And yet two others have already come through.” As if pleased with this pronouncement, he tugs his pipe from his lavender vest pocket, taps it against his hand, then moves aside to keep from impeding our view any longer. He swags an arm across a stone veranda overlooking a ballroom that’s even more magnificent than the ones in Aunt Sara’s fairy-tale books.

  Lute and I step from the metal lift and onto a marble floor with gold veins running lacy patterns through it. Clusters of dangling chandelier lights catch and illuminate the gold, causing it to glow beneath giant floral arrangements, imposing banquet tables, and frothy fountains. It gives an aura that the whole room’s not only alive but the very heartbeat of the house.

  Except without people.

  I catch Lute’s eye. Where are Vincent and Germaine?

  I turn to Mr. Holm. “Do you know where the two other players went, sir?”

  “Two? Two? As I said, they already ran on through.” He tips his head and leans in to peer at me, then Lute. Then smiles. “Just as you both will now follow me.” He spins on his heel in the direction of an enormous gold door set precisely in the veranda’s center. “But best be careful where you step, lest your game become forfeit.” With that, he dons an imaginary hat and starts forward with short, clipped steps as he raps that pipe against a coat button.

  I glance at Lute long enough for the meaning of Mr. Holm’s words to sink in. He’s still going to let me compete. Lute flashes me a wink, and then we’re hastening to catch up and follow the pattern of Holm’s feet. Three steps to the left. Three to the right. Five forward.

  It’s like a dance, repeated in perfect time, as the sound of his pipe rapping that button is the only thing in my ears, until it becomes like the pendulum of a clock.

  Mr. Holm doesn’t stop to look back until he’s reached the giant ornate door, where he utters an incoherent word and the thing silently swings open in front of him. I whisper to Lute, “Vincent still has the key,” but I doubt he hears me because when I turn, we are entering a sitting room the size of a small house and his eyes have gone round as saucers.

  The parlor is decorated similar to the ballroom—in white and gold marble, with three lightly draped windows on each side that span floor to ceiling and overlook the hedge maze we came through last night. Instead of floral arrangements and fountains like those out in the hall, a single long wooden table stands in front of us, and set out on it is a selection of laboratory supplies and half-mixed fluids.

  I look up to Mr. Holm who’s sashaying over to a collection of gilt rugs and blue velvet sofas on the far side of the room where an array of well-dressed attendants lie sprawled out across them.

  Lute’s breath catches, and then mine does too.

  In fact, my whole body goes still.

  A person looking years older and far more normal than he does in any painting I’ve seen sits in one of the formal chairs. And yet—I’d recognize his regal nose, silver ringlets, and emerald-green dress suit anywhere.

  We are in the presence of King Francis.

  In the wide, jolly-faced flesh.

  I hit my knees the same time as Lute, but His Royal Highness is already waving a jeweled hand for us to stand as four guards on our left shift their attentive stance. They wear the same type of chest pieces bearing the knight’s crest we saw in the catacombs.

  Mr. Holm clicks his heels and the sound echoes through the room. “Now that we’re all here, we may begin. Mr. King, Mr. Wells, please join us.” He tips his chin at a bench behind me, on which Germaine and Vincent have apparently been waiting. They leave their spot and stride over, and Germaine snickers at something Vincent’s just said—until he reaches us and leans in. “Probably shouldn’t give up your baking job, girl. We’re always in need of women to cook.”

  Vincent stares straight at me and softly smiles. “Miss Tellur.”

  “So nice to see we’re all here.” Mr. Holm raises his voice. “Now allow me to officially introduce your spectator for this final assessment of the test. Our Fair King, Ruler of all Caldon, His Royal Highness King Francis, long may he reign.”

  I start to bow again, but the king twitches his hand as if it’s unnecessary and edges forward in his chair. “I commend you for your efforts.” He steeples his fingers beneath his chin with an expression that says this is what he came for. “You have my full attention. Please commence.”

  With a nod, Mr. Holm comes to stand on the other side of the table in front of us.

  “So now we’re to be observed while we perform,” Germaine says.

  “What did I tell you?” Vincent whispers. “Like rats in a maze.”

  “His Royal Highness is only here to observe, nothing more. However, the task you’ve been assigned is specifically for him.” Mr. Holm doesn’t look at Vincent—just turns to the king who tips his head—before he swerves back to indicate a single door directly across the room from us that blends so well into the wall it looks like part of the marble. “You’ll note the door behind me requires a key. On the other side of it, you’ll find your future with glee. But in order to pass through, you must first accurately complete this final test.”
/>   “I’ve promised His Majesty an extra-special display this evening. Aside from the fireworks, we’ll send up kites that will glow like cavern worms into the night sky. It’s your job to create the glow compound used to coat those kites. But let me warn you—as with most chemical reactions, time is of the essence.”

  Holm points to the table holding the laboratory supplies. “In front of you is a bench with four individual stations. Each one has the same equipment, same chemicals, and same compounds. And I’ll give you a clue.” His voice dips excitedly. “Parts of the process have already been prepared for you. But . . . it’s up to you to figure out which solutions have been mixed at what stages, and what assembly steps and chemicals have yet to be finalized.”

  He steps back, places his hands into his vest pockets, and stares at us.

  I frown and look around. Wait—is he serious? Creating a glow compound is tricky, but it’s not that tricky. It’s more like making a cake—lots of ingredients and detailed timing. But otherwise, it’s essentially the same. I peer over at Vincent. He and I used to make these with my da and take them out into the fields to release. They’d last a few hours and look like the stars had come to earth.

  Vincent’s eyes say he’s remembering the same thing. He shakes his head at Germaine. “There’s got to be a catch. It’s too simple.”

  Except Germaine says nothing as he stares at his section of supplies. And when I peer over at Lute, his face is a mirror image of Germaine’s.

  Neither of them knows how to do this.

  “Please note, you may speak to one another, trade supplies, and offer small conversation.” Mr. Holm’s voice trickles around us. “However, you may not share your finished compound. Nor may you share the recipe for how it can be created. Gentlepersons of the Labyrinth exam—the clock starts now.”

  I turn from Lute to the station in front of me to grab a pair of gloves. Only there are none. I narrow my gaze. Why wouldn’t he supply gloves?

  Shaking it off, I tug my sleeves to the edge of my fingers and start in.

  If I can figure this out fast enough, I can help Lute.

  First I analyze the two pitchers of solution that have already been readied. One green, one clear—I just need to figure out which stages. I dip a glass pointer separately into each and dab a bit of their liquid onto a dish to see if I can get a feel for what’s already been placed in them. I make a quick list on the available notepaper, then place the dishes under a microscope and begin adding individual chemicals to see if I can narrow down the still-needed components.

  Next, I gather the remaining ingredients I think I’ll need and begin measuring those, one at a time, beside a third pitcher.

  “Seems your boy there is struggling a bit,” Vincent whispers. He hovers beside me, peering at my mixture and notes, his gloved fingers resting beside my own bare ones.

  I lift a brow. Where’d he get the gloves? “Seems your boy is too.”

  He grins. “Brings back old times, doesn’t it?” He moves on, tracing his gloved hands along the table, then steps around me and does the same to Lute. Then to Germaine.

  I shake my head. If he’s trying to intimidate us, it’s not working. It’s just annoying.

  Focus, Rhen.

  I go back over the ingredients I’ve measured and begin to combine them in the pitcher. If I’ve learned anything through the years with Da, it’s that sometimes the simplest experiments are the trickiest, simply because I tend to overthink the process or go too fast.

  Lute studies the compounds in front of him and writes out their structures on a paper. His bare fingers press against the table and scratch out each chemical as he deciphers it. Smart.

  I turn back to my own mixtures and set my hands on the work area to refocus. Then pick up the green to pour into my clear liquid first. I’ve just added it in when the tips of three of my fingers start tingling. I ignore them and dip in a glass stick to stir the solution.

  The tingling picks up. I frown and look down. We should’ve had gloves.

  Except . . .

  Except I don’t believe any of these chemicals would give such a specific sensation. I rub my fingers on my pants to stop the prickling, but just as I return them to the pitcher, the table jolts and a cry rings out through the room.

  21

  A second cry rings out, and something hits the floor with a thump. In my peripheral vision I see Germaine slumped over into a fetal position. He’s shaking and gasping for air like he’s choking.

  What the?

  The king and his attendants rise just as the knights move to surround His Majesty, even as he’s asking what’s going on and requesting that something be done for the boy.

  I look around for Mr. Holm, but he must be assisting the king too, because I don’t see him. My fingers begin to shake. Ignoring His Royal Highness’s questions, I drop to where Germaine is convulsing on the ground and Lute is already kneeling and loosening the boy’s collar. He yanks it back so I can check Germaine’s pulse. It’s racing far too fast for safety.

  I scan his body, his chest, his lips, then glance up at the table to Germaine’s chemical combinations. This isn’t due to the compounds we’ve been using. Something else is going on. Something is wrong.

  Vincent.

  I veer around to find him still standing at his station, casually pouring the first two of his pitchers together. On his face is a smug look of satisfaction. Not just smug—chilling.

  I narrow my eyes as he seals the lid on his pitcher, then lifts it up and looks at me. He begins to shake the solution.

  My skin ices over. He took out his own friend. In front of the king and Holm, no less.

  A hand grabs mine, and Germaine’s eyes have grown wide with terror. He’s squeezing my fingers as if begging me to help him as his breathing becomes labored. “Vincent . . .,” he chokes out. “What’s he done?” Which is when I notice my own breathing feels funny and my throat is tightening. What did Vincent do?

  Come on, think, Rhen. I lean down to sniff Germaine’s breath and catch the slight blue discoloration appearing around his mouth. Except now it’s edging the whites of his eyes as well.

  Bloodberries?

  The tingling in my fingers gets harder. It’s spreading up to my elbows.

  Lute lets out a cough beside me and then gags, and he’s suddenly shaking too.

  “Lute!”

  I don’t know how Vincent did it, but he gave us a dose of bloodberry. I peer up at his passive face again, then at the table where noticeable purple streaks are beginning to appear. Right along the spots where he’d traced his gloved hands.

  The gloves. The ones he’d been using have been discarded beside a pile of others—beside our gloves. And they have a purple stain on them.

  The fact he brought a berry in here, broke it open, and spread it where he knew our hands would touch . . . It’s brilliant, and sick, and the thought that he was once my friend makes me want to retch. I turn back to Germaine, whom Lute’s still trying to help, and count his pulse again. Considering he’s not dead yet means the dose is diluted. Which would make sense if it was absorbed through us touching the wood.

  “He used a bloodberry,” I say aloud. “The poison’s soaking in through our hands.”

  Lute’s hands are trembling as he nods. “How bad?”

  “Toxic enough that if we don’t counteract it, we’ll all be dead shortly.”

  Lute bends over and pretends he’s not trembling, even as the blue stain is starting to edge his lips. “What do you need?”

  I spiral back to my studies in the lab with Da. To the natural toxins and their opposites. I rise and look around for a vase of flowers. “I need piphonies.”

  “Like the arrangements on the veranda?” Without waiting for a reply Lute shoves off the floor and half strides, half stumbles from the room—only to return thirty seconds later with an entire vase of blooms. His legs are shuddering so hard he can barely stand. So are mine. The poison’s hitting our lungs and nervous systems.

&
nbsp; I help him set it down. There. Yellow buds as small as buttons. I ignore the quaking in my arms and torso and begin pulling the blossoms out by the handful. Lute strips the leaves off and drops them to the floor, and then he tips over with his hands clenched at his chest.

  I don’t stop to help him—just reach up, grab a glass, and use the base of it to grind the petals right there on the marble. As soon as I’ve finished I grab a damp clump and shove it under Germaine’s tongue, then put a wad under Lute’s too, then mine, right as my breathing thickens and my vision starts fading.

  Through the dimness I see Vincent set down the pitcher of mixture he’s just finished with. The liquid inside the glass lights up like a bright blue star.

  I want to tell him to go to the underworld, except I don’t because my body’s suddenly exploding with agony, as parts of me begin quivering and breaking in an internal earthquake. And not just in my nerve endings and fading mind, but in the part of me that knows that Vincent’s win means I have failed.

  My mum with her illness.

  My belief that I could beat this test.

  My flimsy hopes for my future.

  And as much as I try to block it out, all I can hear in my head is my uncle’s suggestion that perhaps I am too much like my parents to become anything different.

  The room begins to spin. The king and his friends, the cold marble floor—it all starts flickering, like a mirage brought on by the poison. I blink and grab Lute’s hand as the darkness encroaches and Vincent bolts for the marble-looking door.

  The next second, Lute staggers to his feet, pulls me up with him, and pushes us toward where Vincent’s fumbling with the key and the lock. Except we only make it two paces when Lute falls. I try to drag him back up as his body starts to convulse like Germaine’s.