Chatine cursed the thick haze that was constantly swirling around her brain, keeping her thoughts blurry, keeping her stupide. She shut her eyes tight, trying to push her way through the fog—both the one in her memory and the one that was holding her mind hostage. Until the jagged, fragmented pieces of that day in Montfer finally started to take shape and fuse together.
Mabelle was Vangarde.
This man was one of her operatives. And he had just staged a fight to slip something into the pocket of another prisoner. Something he’d obviously brought from Laterre and smuggled onto Bastille.
Chatine had gotten it all wrong. She’d misread the signs from the start. The rolled-up sleeves, the long hair, the lack of eye contact and acknowledgement.
The Vétérans weren’t just some random group of old prisoners. They were the Vangarde. They’d infiltrated Bastille, getting jobs in the kitchen, and the Med Center, and the morgue. They’d been here for years, maybe even as far back as the Rebellion of 488.
And now, they were planning something.
- CHAPTER 9 - MARCELLUS
THE THREE ARTIFICIAL SOLS WERE setting in the TéléSky outside, and the last of their golden light cast shimmering, glowing shafts across General Bonnefaçon’s office. Marcellus couldn’t help but think they looked like gleaming prison bars, slashing their way through the room.
Flicking his eyes across the vast, wood-paneled study, Marcellus scrutinized every light fixture, every nook and dark corner, every First World relic lining the shelves. He zeroed in on a promising-looking lamp on the general’s desk, but then ruled it out a second later.
Too close to his eyeline.
“Your move, Marcellus.” His grandfather’s deep voice pulled Marcellus’s attention back to the center of the room until he was staring directly at his grandfather, sitting in the leather chair across from him, hands steepled under his chin. The general’s dark brows were furrowed in concentration and his eyes looked flat and hard, like two shards of unbreakable rock, as he studied the three-tiered game board between them.
Looking down, Marcellus noticed that the general had pushed one of his infanterie pieces toward Marcellus’s troop of unarmed peasants. Without a moment’s hesitation, Marcellus moved one of his own infanterie pieces in to protect the peasants. Then, once he was certain his grandfather’s attention was still locked on the game, Marcellus let his gaze return to the room, discerningly rejecting one potential hiding place after another.
Too big.
Too small.
Too risky.
For a moment, he really liked the look of the great twisting, forked horns on the head of the First World beast that hung on the wall. But then—after gauging their distance from his grandfather’s desk, where the general conducted most of his business—Marcellus quickly decided it was too far away. To have any hope of finding out what kind of weapon his grandfather was developing, the listening device had to be closer to the action.
“Marcellus!” his grandfather snapped, and Marcellus quickly turned to see that the general had made his next move and was now glaring at Marcellus with a dissatisfied expression.
“Sorry, Grand-père,” Marcellus muttered, avoiding his grandfather’s stern eyes, and returning his gaze to the game.
“You’ve been awfully distracted this evening,” his grandfather noted. “Is there somewhere else you’d rather be?”
Marcellus swallowed through the growing lump in his throat. “No, sir.” He tucked his hands under his chin as he studied the board. His grandfather had moved one of his cavalerie pieces up to the second level, where Marcellus’s artillerie were lined up.
Sweat pooled beneath the stiff collar of his uniform. Being inside this room was making him uneasy. Not just because of the seemingly impossible task in front of him. But because he’d been in here for nearly half an hour and so far, his grandfather had made no indication that he’d watched the footage on Mabelle’s microcam. He hadn’t even so much as hinted that he knew Marcellus had been harboring evidence from a Vangarde spy. Even though Marcellus was fairly certain that he had watched that footage. That he did know.
Which meant General Bonnefaçon was currently playing two different games in this office tonight. The one that was playing out on the board between them, and the one that Marcellus couldn’t see. That was the scarier game. Because that was the game that toyed not with little stone pieces representing great battalions of the First World, but with Marcellus’s mind.
Marcellus picked up one of his artillerie pieces and rubbed his thumb over the ornately carved stone. He’d never liked the game of Regiments. The rules were complicated, and the strategy took years to master. Marcellus had, indeed, been playing for years, but it seemed no matter how many times he played, how many lessons his grandfather doled out, he couldn’t seem to get a handle on the game. He’d stopped caring years ago whether he won or lost. Not that he ever won.
He eyed his grandfather’s brigadier piece, gradually making its way across the top level of the board, toward Marcellus’s Monarch. Swiftly and decisively, Marcellus placed his artillerie piece on the same tier.
The general made a clucking sound with his tongue, and Marcellus glanced up to see he was shaking his head disapprovingly. “Always so hasty to act, aren’t you, Marcellus? Always rushing into things. You must learn to be more strategic. Plan your attack. Analyze your opponent. Play with your head, not your emotions.”
You mean be more like you? Marcellus thought scornfully. That was something he would never do.
“Sooner or later, Marcellus,” his grandfather went on, “you’re going to have to start playing the game like someone who actually wants to win.”
Marcellus sighed and allowed his gaze to dart back to the walls of the office, trying to block out the sound of his grandfather’s voice. He didn’t give a damn about winning the game.
His eyes flitted over the contents of the shelf closest to the general’s desk. The small statue of the First World military officer? Perhaps he could hide the auditeur in the man’s billowing cape or under his rearing, wild-eyed horse? No. The marble was too smooth. Too white. The device would surely stand out.
A knock on the door pulled Marcellus’s attention away from the shelf. A Palais servant entered carrying a large rectangular package wrapped in a white sheet. “General Bonnefaçon,” said the man anxiously. “I have the painting you requested.”
The general barely glanced at the servant as he waved his hand toward the desk. “Just set it down over there.”
The servant hurriedly crossed the office and propped the artwork up against the desk. “Would you like me to unwrap it?”
The general kept his gaze locked on the game board as he replied, “Yes, that’s fine. Merci.” Then, presumably to Marcellus, he explained, “It’s quite a painting. I found it in the servants’ quarters, of all places. I have no idea how such a valuable piece ended up there. So I asked for it to be transferred here. For safekeeping.”
There was a rustling sound as the sheet was removed, and Marcellus only had to glimpse a tiny speck of the corner—swirls of blue and pale yellow—before his heart plummeted straight down to his feet.
It wasn’t just a painting.
It was the painting.
The one that used to be in Nadette Epernay’s room and, before that, in his own governess Mabelle’s room.
It was buried inside this very painting that Marcellus had first found Mabelle’s microcam, setting off a chain of events that had led him right here.
“Check.”
Marcellus cut his eyes back to the game board to see his that grandfather had snuck one of his cavalerie pieces up to the third tier and placed it in striking distance of Marcellus’s Monarch. But Marcellus was far more interested in his grandfather’s other move. The painting had certainly not been delivered here at this very moment by accident. His grandfather wanted him to see it.
“Your move,” the general prompted as the servant darted back out the door.
Marcellus squinted at the complicated game board, trying to focus his thoughts. But his vision kept blurring. He was having a hard time concentrating on the pieces. Not just because now, with his Monarch in check, he was quickly running out of time to find a place to plant the auditeur, but because now he knew for sure that his grandfather had watched that footage.
He knew that Marcellus had learned the truth. About his father. About the general. About the real reason the Rebellion of 488 had failed.
But now the question was, what would the general do about it?
Sucking in a deep breath, Marcellus reached for his légionnaire and quickly moved it between the general’s cavalerie piece and his own exposed Monarch. The general immediately responded by pushing his brigadier piece directly in striking distance of Marcellus’s légionnaire.
Marcellus blinked down at the board for a long moment, unable to believe his grandfather had made such a stupide move. Even Marcellus knew not to put your brigadier—one of the most valuable pieces in the game—in the path of another player’s powerful légionnaire.
Had his grandfather made a mistake?
Was it possible he too was distracted this evening?
Swiftly, Marcellus knocked the brigadier piece over and swiped it off from the board.
“Check mate,” his grandfather announced.
What? Marcellus’s eyes struggled to make sense of what he was seeing as the general moved his own légionnaire up to the top level and, with a swift and purposeful flick of his wrist, tipped Marcellus’s Monarch onto its side. The heavy stone piece fell against the marble game board with an unsettling clink.
“Sometimes,” the general leaned back his chair, “we must sacrifice important pieces for the sake of the larger goal.”
And suddenly, Marcellus knew his grandfather was no longer talking about the game. He was talking about his own son. Julien Bonnefaçon. The one who went to prison in the general’s place. And now the only proof was in the general’s possession.
Marcellus stared numbly down at his fallen Monarch. That was it. Game over. And worse yet, he still hadn’t found a place to hide the auditeur. A defeat on all fronts.
Outside the general’s study, the golden Sol-light had disappeared entirely from the TéléSky, and through the windows now, there was nothing but darkness.
“Reset the game, won’t you?” His grandfather rose to his feet and immediately reached for the TéléCom on his desk, already getting pulled into a barrage of AirLinks and broadcasts.
Marcellus got to work arranging the Regiments pieces back into their starting formations. He saved his Monarch for last. With its crowned head resting against the marble surface of the game board, the stone piece looked so helpless and deserted, like Marcellus imagined so many of the monarchs had looked after those bloody battles for power and wealth that had been fought on the First World.
He supposed not much had changed since then, however. Laterre and Albion had been fighting since the first days of the System Divine. Battles for land and titan and influence had kept their leaders at odds for more than five centuries. The general, himself, had lost his own commandeur and friend, Michele Vernay, because of that grudge.
Marcellus sighed and picked up his defeated Monarch, turning it over in his hands. Over the years, he’d seen this piece fall time and time again at the hands of his grandfather. The general was just too clever, too strategic, too manipulative. And Marcellus felt like one of those lonely peasant pieces on the bottom tier of the board. Always unarmed and unprepared. Always outsmarted in the end.
But this time, as he studied the intricate carvings and bell-like shape of the Monarch, he noticed something he’d never noticed before. The piece was not made of solid stone, as it appeared. But rather, it was hollow in the middle. As he subtly lifted it up to eye level, Marcellus could see a narrow indentation carved into the base of the stone.
Deep and cavernous and …
Perfect.
“General Bonnefaçon!”
Marcellus and his grandfather both looked toward the door of the study to find one of the Palais maids, dressed in her usual black-and-blue uniform, panting breathlessly, as though she’d just been running laps around Ledôme.
“Yes?” The general looked more confused than angry by the intrusion.
“The Patriarche …”—her words were punctuated by short, ragged breaths—“… has insisted … you come … now.”
The general checked the time on his TéléCom. “Right now?”
The maid clutched her heaving chest. “He says … it’s urgent.… He’s in the … imperial appartements.”
A flash of irritation crossed over the general’s face. He evidently believed this to be just another pointless summoning from a man suffering from severe paranoia. “We’ll be right there,” he muttered to the servant, who bowed her head and slipped back out the door.
Marcellus gripped the Monarch piece tightly in his shaking hands. This could be his only chance. Carefully reaching into his pocket, he pinched the auditeur between his fingers. Tiny and round with a row of protruding filaments, it felt like an insect. And weighed nothing more than one too.
His grandfather had been right. Marcellus had been distracted tonight. So distracted, he didn’t even see what was right in front of him. The Regiments board was positioned on a small round table directly in the center of the study. It was equal distance from the general’s desk, the sitting area, and the large windows in front of which his grandfather often paced when he was on long AirLink conversations.
“Marcellus,” his grandfather said sharply as he stalked toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“Coming, Grand-Père,” Marcellus replied. And then, with his back turned to the general, he hastily shoved the auditeur into the hollow groove at the base of the Monarch and, with a soft clink, repositioned the stone piece on the top tier of the board. It stood stoic and regal. Ready for action.
Ready for the next game to begin.
- CHAPTER 10 - MARCELLUS
“THANK THE SOLS YOU’RE HERE!” the Patriarche said urgently before grabbing the general and Marcellus by the sleeves and pulling them through the door.
It was the first time Marcellus had ever been inside the imperial appartements. The walls were lined with velvet, and beautiful handwoven rugs covered the floors underfoot. Hundreds of tiny crystals on an intricate chandelier glimmered above, and in the center of the room, in a gigantic canopied bed, lay Veronik Paresse, fast asleep.
“This is a catastrophe!” the Patriarche ranted in a hushed voice as he paced in front of the bed. He was dressed in crumpled silk pajamas the color of apricots and a pair of fluffy wool slippers. At the crown of his head, a few strands of his thin hair tented upward like antennae on the top of the Paresse Tower. “An absolute disaster.”
“Perhaps we should take this meeting elsewhere?” the general nodded discreetly toward the sleeping Matrone. Her dark hair, usually so immaculate, resembled a nest of twisted, anxious snakes on the satin pillow. Her cheeks were sunken, her jaw taut, and two large gray shadows hung like rainclouds under her sleeping eyes.
The Patriarche scoffed and waved a dismissive hand toward his wife. “She’s so knocked out on sleeping médicaments, a droid army couldn’t wake her.”
“Madame Matrone has been through a lot,” the general said to the Patriarche in a calm, measured voice.
“Of course, she’s been through a lot,” the Patriarche snapped. “She lost her child—our only heir—to a bunch of Vangarde terrorists. And now they’re at it again.”
Marcellus started. “Again, sir?”
The Patriarche glanced anxiously around the room, as though checking for spies, and then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Citizen Rousseau has escaped.”
Marcellus peered sideways at his grandfather to gauge his reaction, but the general looked more inconvenienced than concerned.
“As we’ve discussed many times,” the general began, “Citizen Rousseau remains in solitary c
onfinement on permanent watch. You have no reason to worry about—”
But the Patriarche didn’t allow him to finish. “No, you’re wrong. I saw it with my own eyes. I couldn’t sleep, so I logged into the security feeds and saw that her cell was empty. The Vangarde have broken her out!”
“You must be mistaken,” the general replied diplomatically. “If there was a break-in attempt on Bastille, I would have been alerted immediately. The prison is as secure and impenetrable as always.”
The Patriarche snatched a TéléCom off a nearby settee and thrust it under the general’s nose. “I’m telling you, General, she’s gone. Look.” He pointed at the TéléCom, but the screen was dark. His cheeks flamed with fury as he jabbed violently at the screen. The flimsy device slipped in his hand, and he had to fumble to catch it.
“Damn the Sols!” he spat.
Until recently, the Patriarche had never owned a TéléCom because he, his wife, and the rest of the First Estate thought such technology to be crass and inferior. But after the death of his only daughter, he’d insisted on having his own TéléCom with the same security clearance as the general’s so he could be alerted instantly of any updates and, of course, keep a vigilant watch on Citizen Rousseau’s cell.
The problem was, he still hadn’t quite mastered how to operate the device.
“It was just here!” he thundered. “Where is it now? Where did it go? This stupide contraption!”
Marcellus noticed the general’s shoulders rise and fall in what was obviously an attempt at a deep breath. It was for this very reason that the general had secretly installed guardian controls on the TéléCom before he’d delivered it to the Patriarche. They weren’t too dissimilar from the controls Second Estate parents installed on their children’s devices. They allowed the general to keep tabs on what the Patriarche was doing with his TéléCom and prohibit him from accidentally—or intentionally—starting a war with the Mad Queen of Albion.
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