by Duncan Pile
“Inside,” the Wrench said, prodding Jonn in the back.
Jonn resisted. “What’s going on, Wrench?”
The Wrench met his gaze, his expression conflicted, but then he seemed to relax. “Just get inside Tarek,” he said, but not unkindly. Belkin stepped forward, crowding him through the door. “This wasn’t my idea. Belash has got it into his head that you’re not who you say you are. You just need to prove him wrong.”
“Who does he think I am?” Jonn asked, feigning surprise even as dread uncoiled in his belly.
“I have no idea. He stopped talking to me about this days ago, but he believes he’s discovered a fool-proof way to prove it once and for all. Just wait here, and I’ll come and get you when he’s back.”
Jonn considered making a break for it there and then, but he was inside the cell and the exit was blocked by Belkin’s hulking form. His best chance would be to break free when the Wrench took him to meet Belash. “Whatever you say,” he said with a shrug, backing into the cell.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t see the need for this, but Belash is cautious about who he lets into his inner circle,” the Wrench said. “Just humour him and everything will go back to normal.”
“Sure,” Jonn said.
The Wrench paused, eyeing him intently. “Tarek, tell me once and for all – do you have anything to hide?”
If Jonn didn’t know better, he’d swear the Wrench wanted to believe in him. After all the bloody, murderous things he’d done, was it possible the Wrench cared what happened to another person? There was only one answer Jonn could give. “Of course not.”
“As I thought,” the Wrench said. He took a lantern from the corridor, lit it and placed it inside the cell. “Just sit tight and I’ll be back later. Belkin, close it up.” The door swung shut, leaving Jonn alone in the cell. He sat against the wall and let out a long, slow breath, thinking carefully about what he’d just learned. Belash had his suspicions about him and thought he’d found a way to penetrate his disguise. Jonn had no intention of letting him try.
…
“You think he’s wearing a disguise?” the Wrench repeated. After days of being kept in the dark, Belash had finally told him of his plans for Tarek.
“I don’t know for certain, but Silandra said he had two faces and Kenril believes it is possible,” Belash said.
The Wrench stared at the crime-lord with naked incredulity before remembering to mask his expression. Not even he could mock Belash to his face, even if the crime-lord had abandoned good sense. “And this device will reveal it?” he asked, indicating the strange sculpture in Belash’s hand – a single eye, cut from black stone and raised on a slender stand of the same material.
“Kenril says it cancels magical effects,” Belash said. “A useful thing to have don’t you think?”
“Indeed,” the Wrench said. “So when I bring Tarek to the roof garden, you expect it to reveal a disguise?”
“If he’s wearing one, that’s when it will happen.”
“And if nothing happens?”
Belash considered him carefully. “Then you can have your deputy back.” The Wrench made sure to hide his satisfaction, knowing that Belash’s mad fantasy would soon be proven false.
…
Jonn sat on the cold, stone floor of the cell, the minutes passing with agonising slowness as he waited for the Wrench to return. It felt like he’d been there for hours. The lamp had burned out long ago, leaving him to fret about the rescue in the darkness. The plan itself was straightforward, so his thoughts naturally turned to all the things that could go wrong. What if the Wrench chained his wrists? What if Belash had doubled the guard in the roof garden in anticipation of his arrival? So many things could go awry, and he couldn’t afford a single hindrance. As time passed, he became increasingly convinced that waiting for the Wrench to return was too risky. It would be better to take matters into his own hands.
He rose to his feet and rubbed his sweating palms on his shirt. “Belkin,” he called, and heard the shuffle of footsteps on the other side of the door.
“What you want?” the guard said.
“The lamp’s gone out,” Jonn said. “It’s pitch black in here.”
“You no come out. Wrench say you stay here.”
“I don’t want to come out,” Jonn said, feigning amusement. “I just want some light. The Wrench didn’t tell you to leave me in darkness, did he?”
There was a long pause. “Wrench didn’t tell me to give you a lamp.”
Jonn clenched his jaw in frustration. Belkin wasn’t quite as simple-minded as he seemed. “Look Belkin, if the Wrench gave me this lamp, he wanted me to have some light. If you leave me in the dark, he might be angry with you. Understand?”
There was another long pause. “Okay. I get you new lamp.”
“No Belkin, I don’t need another lamp!” Jonn snapped. “Just take this one and fill it with oil.” He took hold of the ring on top of the lantern.
He could almost hear the cogs turning in Belkin’s brain. For a moment he thought the simpleton wasn’t going to comply, but then came a metallic scrabbling and the snap of a lock. The door swung inward, letting in a flood of light from Belkin’s lantern. Jonn squinted, peering at the giant through the glare. He’d only get one shot at this.
“Give me lamp,” Belkin said.
“Right you are,” Jonn said, swinging it around with a mighty heave of his shoulders and smashing Belkin in the face. The simpleton howled and fell back, arms raised to protect himself. Jonn rammed a fist into his stomach, doubling him up. Clasping his hands together, he brought them down on the back of Belkin’s neck, dropping the man-child like a stone. Grabbing him beneath the arms, Jonn dragged the heavy body into the cell.
He couldn’t take Belkin’s dagger; carrying a weapon wasn’t permitted in headquarters unless you were on duty. He needed to reach the roof garden without being stopped, which meant passing through the complex unarmed. Closing the door on Belkin, he hurried back to the stairwell and rushed up the steps, taking two at a time.
He slowed down as he passed through the hallways, resisting the urge to rush. Several men greeted him, but his grunted responses saw him past them without incident. His heart was in his mouth every step of the way, but he reached the final corner without incident and approached the entrance to Belash’s suite of apartments. He knew the two guards on duty – Y’denu and Utasa; seasoned fighters from the Berrian desert who’d honed their skills guarding caravans in one of the most dangerous, bandit-ridden regions of Antropel. The only way Jonn could beat them was by taking one of them out before the other knew what was happening, and then dealing with the second guard on equal terms. He decided to tackle Y’denu first. Both guards were deadly in a fight, but he’d spoken with Y’denu several times in the mess, which might make him less guarded. Jonn sauntered towards them, keeping Y’denu to his right.
“Thought you were off the rota today Tarek,” Utasa said.
Jonn shrugged. Just a couple more steps. “You know how it is round here. They catch sight of you, you’re working.”
Utasa grunted, and Y’denu broke into a smile, just as Jonn launched himself forward and drove his elbow into Y’denu’s temple. The warrior dropped without a sound. Utasa stepped back and reached for his weapon, but surprise had made him hesitate and Jonn was already on him, driving his fist into Utasa’s solar plexus. He grabbed the winded man by the hair and kneed him hard in the face. He heard the crunch of shattered bone and the guard went limp in his hands.
Dropping Utasa to the floor, Jonn grabbed the henchman’s sword. He glanced along the corridor, expecting reinforcements, but no-one came running. There was no time to hide the bodies. The clock was ticking and there was no going back.
Jonn retrieved a dagger from Y’denu’s corpse and hurried down the corridor. He turned a corner and entered the women’s courtyard – an open space with a pool at its heart, filled with colourful fish and surrounded by a shady portico. If he could cross t
he courtyard without being seen he would make it to the roof garden in one piece, but if anyone cried out in alarm the guards would spill down from above and he would be cornered. His heart in his mouth, Jonn strode towards the stairway that led to the roof.
“Tarek!” a familiar voice said. Jonn froze as Kaitlin bustled out of the laundry. A buxom, red-haired beauty, Kaitlin was Belash’s favourite among the women – something she’d let go to her head. She was interfering and imperious, and there was little chance she was going to let him pass without causing a fuss. “What happened to you?” she demanded, looking at his shirt. Jonn glanced down to find he was spattered with Utasa’s blood.
“An accident,” he said. “Belash is expecting me.”
“You’re not on duty,” she said, eyeing him shrewdly. Her gaze fell to his sword. “Why are you armed?” she demanded, her voice becoming shrill. She glanced towards the roof garden and opened her mouth to scream, but Jonn was already in motion. Clamping his hand over her mouth, he spun her around and rapped the hilt of his dagger sharply against the back of her head. “Sorry,” he said, dropping her unconscious form to the ground.
Several of Belash’s women had emerged from their boudoirs, watching him gravely. For a heart-stopping moment he thought they were going to give him away, but they turned their backs and disappeared into their rooms without making a sound.
“Wait!” he whispered, and the nearest girl turned back to face him. “I’m here for Adela. Where is she?”
The woman thrust her chin in the direction of the roof garden.
His nerves afire, Jonn walked to the stairway and started up, climbing on silent feet until he reached the hatchway. He sheathed the sword but held onto the knife, placing his fingertips on the coarse underside of the hatch. He sprang into motion, shoving the hatch open and rushing through it in a frantic explosion of energy.
“Tarek!” the guard on duty said, glancing over Jonn’s shoulder as if looking for a pursuer. It was Renby, a man Jonn was on speaking terms with, and who had only recently been assigned to the elite guards. Jonn rammed the knife into his chest and twisted, lacerating Renby’s heart and lungs. The wide-eyed guard slid off the blade and fell to the floor with a wet smack, blood gouting from his mouth.
“Adela!” Jonn called, barely above a whisper, but she didn’t appear. The time for secrecy was over. “Adela!” he called. Urgent footsteps sounded from within the pleasure palace and a group of heavily armed men spilled out, spreading out in a half-moon formation. There were five of them, experienced fighters all. Belash followed them, accompanied by the magician Kenril and the Wrench, whose face was the very picture of disbelief.
“I need him alive. Take him,” Belash said, and his men started forward.
The Wrench started to object but then he saw Renby, lying in a pool of his own blood. His face whitened as the reality of Jonn’s betrayal dawned. “He’s mine,” the Wrench hissed, his expression flattening.
“No!” Belash said. “You can have him when I’ve finished with him.”
Jonn watched Belash’s men warily as they advanced, their blades extended before them. He dropped into a battle-ready stance.
The slap of bare feet against the roof garden’s wooden floor brought his attackers to a sudden halt.
“NO!” a voice cried, and Adela came pelting out from behind the pleasure palace, pale silks flowing behind her.
“Get her!” Belash barked, and the nearest of his henchmen intercepted her with ease.
Jonn started forward, but was stopped by the other four guards, their swords levelled at his vitals.
The guard who’d grabbed Adela wrapped an arm around her neck and forced her to face Belash. She launched a kick at the crime-lord, but her foot flailed uselessly in the air. “Be still!” Belash hissed, grabbing a handful of her hair and twisting it until she cried out, eyes screwed up against the pain.
“Who is this man to you?” Belash asked, his voice a threatening hiss.
Adela said nothing, her lips a tight, white line.
Belash tightened his grip on her hair. “Answer or I snap your neck!”
Jonn felt the red mist descend, eradicating all thought. With a wild roar, he bashed one of the swords aside and sprang at the crime-lord. His own life didn’t matter. He just wanted Belash dead.
Something crashed against the back of his head and he fell to the floor, stunned. A strange sensation swept over him – a cold wave, rippling from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. He shook his head and tried to rise, but someone planted a foot on his chest and forced him back to the floor. “Everybody hold!” a voice cried, and when Jonn’s vision cleared he found Belash standing over him, pressing the tip of a sword to his chest. The Wrench stood behind him with Adela in his grasp, a gleaming blade pressed to her throat. No sight could have terrified Jonn more.
“Who are you?” Belash asked, his voice colder than ice.
“Tarek,” Jonn answered feebly, seeking some advantage, some way of postponing the inevitable.
Pain exploded in his side as Belash kicked him with a heavy boot. “Don’t let him move,” the crime-lord said, turning away. He disappeared into the pleasure palace and returned carrying a small mirror, which he thrust before Jonn’s face. “Take a look!”
Reluctantly, Jonn looked into the glassy surface, knowing what he would see. Sure enough, the mirror didn’t show Tarek’s blunt, heavy features; it showed the hard lines of his own face.
“Your disguise is of no more use to you. Trust me when I say that we are going to find out everything – who you are, why you’re here, and who gave you that disguise in the first place. I’ll ask you once more – who are you?”
Relieved of the need to mask his hatred, Jonn spat his response, cold fury sounding in every syllable. “My name is Jonn.”
“Jonn?” Belash echoed, his eyes widening. “The same Jonn who stole this woman from me in the first place?”
“She was never yours,” Jonn growled.
“You infiltrated my organisation, hoodwinked my second in command and wormed your way into the elite guard. All to save her?”
Jonn didn’t deny it, defiantly holding the crime-lord’s gaze.
A slow smile stole across Belash’s face. It was the only time Jonn had ever seen the crime-lord smile, a manic expression that boded nothing but ill. His flat, lifeless eyes cracked open, and Jonn caught a fleeting glimpse of the cruelty within. Belash threw his head back and laughed, a metallic quack that held nothing of mirth.
“What a touching tale,” he said. “One that begs a noteworthy ending. How about this? I’m going to tie your lady love to a stake in the mess hall and invite every man in headquarters to have his way with her. You will be forced to watch every last moment, even if I have to slice off your eyelids, and when the men have sated themselves I’m going to give her to the Wrench. As I’m sure you are aware, he is not subject to a normal man’s appetites, but finds his pleasure in other ways. He will apply his special talents, binding her life to her body until she cannot endure another moment. When at long last her time has come, he will use his skills on you instead. I am certain he is angry at you for deceiving him so.”
Against his will, Jonn looked up and met the Wrench’s gaze, seeing the promise of everything Belash had said and more in his hungry, fevered eyes.
“You should have known how this would end,” Belash said.
Jonn glanced towards the eastern corner of the roof, looking for Hephistole, but there was no sign that the arch-mage was present. Had Kenril’s device revealed him too? Hephistole was bound by a magical vow of service, preventing him from taking an active role in secular governance or law enforcement. He had been very clear from the outset that he could transport Adela to safety but he couldn’t attack Belash’s men directly under the constraints of the magically enforced vow. If Kenril’s device had revealed the chancellor’s presence, he would have been forced to flee. Facing the very real possibility that he was on his own, Jonn was gripped by despair.
He’d failed in every regard; he hadn’t rescued Adela, and he wouldn’t even be able to take her life quickly and cleanly. Instead, she’d suffer the worst fate imaginable, and all because of him.
“Nothing to say?” Belash asked, bending down to meet Jonn’s gaze.
Overcome with dread, Jonn could only shake his head.
“That will change soon enough. Bring him!” Two of the five guards sheathed their weapons and hoisted Jonn up by his armpits.
…
Hephistole waited impatiently for Jonn to reach the roof garden. Cloaked in a spell of invisibility, he had no need to hide, and sat with his back to a huge, potted plant, facing the pavilion.
The morning had passed uneventfully. Belash had risen early and descended into the warehouse, leaving his harem of beautiful women under the watchful eye of a single guard. Hephistole observed them as they went about their business, settling into patterns that appeared orderly and well-practiced. In the long hours of Belash’s absence, they tended the place as if it were their own; watering plants, gathering the laundry, fetching debris from the glassy surface of the ponds and feeding the fish. After their chores were complete they tended to each other; brushing hair, plucking eyebrows and rubbing soft oils into feet.
Hephistole looked on in admiration, amazed that even in such trying circumstances these women had sought to shape the parts of their lives that were still under their control. They had found solace in each other, treating their fellow captives with kindness. There were exceptions of course, most notably a red-haired woman who paraded about the place like a queen. No-one showed any disrespect to her face, but Hephistole saw the looks they exchanged when her back was turned. There were others too, pretenders to the red-head’s crown perhaps, who moved about the roof palace with calculating eyes and haughty expressions, but they were few and far between.
