A check of the clock pendant showed another half an hour had passed in preparation. I had no way of knowing whether a convoy was scheduled to pass over this hill within the forty-five minutes I had left. I hoped so. This needed to happen tonight—I needed for it to happen tonight. I didn’t know how much longer I could balance putting off the demands of jarls, keeping the konunger intrigued, waiting for Kolorma’s cue to perpetrate a murder I wanted to avoid, and sneaking around the city in a red mask. Throughout all this I could feel Bersi’s fear, grief, and loneliness like a pulse in my blood. It was all so much to carry. I felt for the first time since my arrival in Helésey, that it would be right to pray. But pray to whom?
Frigga, I supposed. Although the voice of one prisoner returned to me: The Lukan’s outside the window!
Lukan. An acolyte of Luka, god of mischief and magic.
That fit better than Frigga.
In the old days, I might never have considered saying a prayer to the chaos god, father-of-lies. Luka, he who legend held responsible for the murder of Baldr—Baldr, the most beautiful, beloved god, so commonly worshipped right up until Galmr’s Conversion. Flame-haired Luka was said to have helped the gods, once upon a time, although his engineering of Baldr’s death in later stories ended all sympathetic representations of him. Luka fathered Fenrir, the wolf of the end times, who ate Tyr’s hand.
Luka seemed a perfect mentor for one such as I, who wished to defy Tyr.
“Great Luka, master of magic, maker of mischief, father-of-lies, accept me as your servant,” I whispered. “Help me bring about the end of Helésey, the end of the reign of Tyr. Help me wreak vengeance on the worshippers of Tyr who put you and all other gods aside. Enjoy the mischief I would make, if only everything would come together. I need a convoy, Great Luka. Send me a convoy of trucks.”
Sucking in a breath of air, I crouched in my hiding spot and rummaged through the bag, preparing myself. In the next twenty minutes I recovered my strength even as my heart rattled in my chest like a loose ball in a basket. Fear that no convoy would come made my teeth chatter as well. The cold night air didn’t help.
Then I saw the first of the headlights at the bottom of the hill, turning the corner to climb the street, coming my way. Another set of lights followed, and another after that, and I knew that Luka had heard my prayer, and had decided to sponsor me after all.
“Praise to Luka, father-of-chaos,” I muttered as I readied myself.
I waited until the first set of headlights had almost reached me and I hit the switch.
The spots on the sawhorse flared on, dazzlingly bright, spaced just like those of the on-coming truck.
A scream of brakes—the truck, roaring with speed, swerved to the right. The sound blended with the smell of smoking rubber as the lead convoy truck attempted to avoid collision with what they believed was a vehicle coming up the hill on the other side.
The wires yanked the switchbox from my hands as the truck plowed into the sawhorse and the one behind it slammed into its rear.
No time to lose. I grabbed the bag and sprinted down the hill, keeping as close to the side of the buildings as I dared, trying to avoid the headlights of the rest of the convoy as I ran. I counted them as I passed: five, six, seven, eight… until I came to the base of the hill, turned the corner, and dove behind an automobile parked on the side of the street. The twelfth was the only truck that remained on this side of the turn; all the rest had come to halt on the incline. I peeked around the corner at the line of trucks on the hill. Several drivers and the men that rode with them were descending, calling questions and answers to each other.
The last truck stood still for a moment, until the driver side door opened, followed by the passenger side. The two men clambered down from the high seats. Holding the sap Spraki had packed for me in my hand, I prowled up behind the driver, who lagged behind the passenger. I sung the heavy leather club hard against the back of his head. With a low thud, the sap connected, and after an interminable pause, the man slumped and fell to the ground.
My eyes cut to the passenger, who, blessedly, had heard nothing. Luka was with me still. I crossed the space between us in four strides and clouted his head. He fell.
I paused to stare at my work, my heart thumping against my breastbone as if it might burst through at any moment. I had never deliberately hurt anyone like this. Even the man I cut in the Undergrunnsby had been attacking me, so it was self-defense. This was different. I’d set a trap and sprung it, and these two were unfortunate victims. I wondered, just for a moment, if they were married, if they were fathers—they were both some mothers’ sons, regardless. But they were working for Galmr and Eiflar, striving to spread the poison of the Conversion to every corner in Ódalnord. I would not accept the guilt that threatened to wash over me. I could not afford it. Let them serve as a warning to the rest. No longer could they profit from the Conversion without repercussions. They’d all best consider the consequences of their actions, and choose a better course. Let them join in the revolution instead.
No more time to lose. I only hoped the opera went long; live performances so often did. If Luka had any more favors to grant me, let that be one.
Grabbing the bag from where I’d left it on the curb I leapt into the driver’s seat. After a few breathless minutes wasted trying to understand all of the levers in front of me and the four pedals under my feet, I thought back to our old auto in Söllund. We’d needed a crank to get that started. This truck was more advanced than that, but it wasn’t completely dissimilar. I finally made sense of most of the pedals. One of the two middle ones was unfamiliar to me. The upper right pedal must be the starter, then the next one might be the clutch, or perhaps the one after that. The one on the far left would be the brake. There was a flat knob like the head of a key on the dashboard in front of me, and I didn’t know what it did, nor did I understand the two rods on each side of the steering wheel.
I fumbled, pulling a rod that clicked as it hit different, unmarked settings. Cursing engineers who didn’t label the controls they invented, I yanked on the other rod, which resisted my strength. Forcing myself to breath evenly, I tried twisting the key-like knob. The engine made a grinding sound that was awful but encouraging. Swallowing, I tried combining a knob-twist with the first pedal, the one I thought was the starter. Nothing but grinding. Knob-twist, pedal, right-hand clicky rod. More grinding. Knob-twist, pedal, left-hand rod—the truck lurched forward. A surge of panic flushed through me, giving me a sick, cold feeling. I released the rod and the knob and grabbed the lever in the center—it had to be the gear shift—and tried the right hand middle pedal, hoping it was the clutch. As a horrid noise sounded from the engine the truck almost hit the wall before I pounded the brake with my foot.
The truck stalled.
I didn’t have time for this. Knob-twist, pedal, left-rod. The truck started again. Clearly I hadn’t handled the gear shift and the clutch right; the pedal I’d tried first seemed to make the truck speed forward. The car in Söllund didn’t have one of those. Now, I shifted the lever, still convinced it was the gear stick, and tried the left hand middle pedal. This time, the wheels almost left the ground and a nasty grinding noise echoed against the city walls, but then I felt the truck settle into a gear. A flush heated my face as I tried to get the stupid thing to go in reverse. I forced the gear shift into another slot, and the truck rolled back with a shudder. Another shift, and it headed forward again, coughing and jerking.
Just as it somehow must have caught the right gear, and the ride smoothed out, I saw two figures in the mirror on the side of the door. Gritting my teeth, I tried the right hand middle pedal, and the truck jolted forward. I drove as fast as I dared down the street, turning here and there, headed to the large opening that led into the shaft of the Undergrunnsby I had passed so many times as I made my way to and from the palace. No one followed; the figures I’d left behind must not have found a way to regain their vehicle and turn it around in the street in time to pursue
me.
When I reached the large opening to the Undergrunnsby, I swerved into the tunnel, fear sparking for a brief moment when I thought the roof of the truck would hit the upper edge of the opening. It must have passed under with only an inch or two to spare. I drove in fast, following the shaft deep into the tunnels, finally making the turns necessary to reach the shantytown.
The truck halted and shuddered to silence. I left the headlights on and waited for the shaking of my body to subside. As I did, I watched the doors of the hovels open. Pale faces appeared, and soon people were coming out, moving with caution towards the truck. Everyone I spotted, even the children, carried some sort of weapon: large kitchen cleavers, iron poles, wooden clubs. I would be dead within the hour if this gamble didn’t pay off.
Before the people came within a few yards I hopped out of the truck and loped to the back of it, an iron crowbar of my own in my hand. The two metal doors each had a pane of glass in their upper halves. For a moment I considered breaking those, then rejected the idea in favor of prying the doors open. They didn’t resist for long. One swung hard and reached its limit, flapping back inward; I blocked it with a forearm and began pulling heavy wooden boxes from inside the back. By the time a few of the denizens of the shantytown had made their way round to the back, I was standing in the bed of the truck and using the crowbar on one of the larger boxes.
The lid popped off just as a man growled, “Here. Who are you, then?”
I supposed the hood of my vest obscured my face; there certainly wasn’t a lot of light. Shoving the lid off and reaching into the box, I stood straight, faced him and his peers, and held up a tin can labeled with a picture of a chicken.
“You could say I’m the delivery man,” I answered him in my deepest voice, sending silent thanks to Luka that the crates contained food.
Five large men stood outside the truck, looking in at me. One held a large knife, two held iron poles, and two held pieces of wood. None of them brandished their weapons in a threatening way, and if anything, my words had the effect of slackening their arms.
I could hear more people around the truck, but couldn’t see them. The five men stared at me for several minutes before anyone spoke. I assumed they were stunned, and considered whether to toss a can at one of them by way of breaking their paralysis. But then they might see that as an attack and I didn’t want to provoke violence.
“Is this some sort of trap?” one of the ones holding a piece of wood said. Judging from the voice it was the same one who’d asked who I was.
“Good question,” I responded. “After all, you can’t be too careful. There are some above who’d like to see you all wiped out, you know.” I strode to the edge of the truck’s cargo hold and held out the can. “Not me,” I said. “I want to feed you.”
“You expect us to believe you?” the same man said, although he and his friends were all staring at the can like they could eat it with their eyes. “You’re wearing a mask.”
“Yes, well, what do you expect from someone who just robbed an army convoy?” I asked, and with a gentle motion I tossed the can at him. He caught it, and the two men nearest him shuffled closer to look at it. “It’s not a trick. I stole this truck with the intention of diverting its cargo from its intended destination to all of you.”
“Why?” asked the man, casting a sharp eye my way. Meanwhile, behind him, two women appeared. One grabbed the can from his hand and showed it to her friend, whispering feverishly.
“Several reasons, really,” I said. “One, I came through here once and saw a child dying of hunger. I have a son of my own. I can’t abide knowing you’ve been driven down here to watch your little ones dying, while up above they tear down temples and talk of extermination. Two, I’m going to destroy them all, one convoy at a time, if I must. It’s the best way someone working alone, as I am, can hope to stop the Conversion.”
The man snorted, but his companions had set about using their iron poles to open one of the crates I’d knocked out of the hold. As more people came around to see what was happening, an excited murmur erupted into overlapping speech.
“How many do you think—”
“—full of them, look—”
“Do you think it’s really chicken?”
“—haven’t had meat in over a year—”
“—at least twenty-five tins in the first layer alone—”
As tin cans left the crate and traveled from hand to hand, a few of the people turned their faces to me.
“Who are you?” one woman asked.
“Raud Gríma,” I said. This set off another wave of chatter, but the excitement of meeting a character out of legend dimmed by comparison to the promise of full bellies.
“What do you want?” the first man demanded, his teeth bared at me.
Smart, that one. “Nothing comes for free,” I said with a nod at him. “Not since they put the vigjas of Baldr and the vigjadises of Frigga behind iron bars in Grumflein.”
“What do you expect us to pay you with? Sewer filth?” he asked. His voice shook. I wondered how long it had been since he’d eaten meat—or eaten his fill of anything, for that matter.
“No,” I said. “My price is your resistance. Your mutiny.”
He frowned at me, and some of the others stopped talking and stared at me as well.
I pushed back my shoulders and gazed down at them from my vantage point in the truck’s hold. “You’re here because of Galmr’s new order, and because of the corruption that laid the way for him. For years the court of Helésey has thrived while you have suffered, forced to make your homes in the sewers, forced to raise your children in darkness. I’ve seen the messages you’ve painted on the walls. I’ve admired them. But the time has come for more than messages that no one in power will ever see. The time has come to destroy Helésey, once and for all.”
“You’re mad!” the man with the wooden club said. “If we go above to—to what, ambush convoys? They’ll kill us all for sure!”
“Perhaps you haven’t heard,” I said, leaning towards him. “They plan on doing that anyway. Some of them—the gentler ones, I’m told—simply want to round you up and enslave you. Each of you, and your children, too. But they won’t abide your presence in the Undergrunnsby much longer, my friends. So allow me to leave you with this gift, and also this question to ponder: do you prefer death and slavery, or resistance and revolution?”
With that, I used the last of Spraki’s gifts I’d packed for the night. I threw a sphere to the hard stone floor. Its thin shell shattered, releasing thick smoke that rose and expanded, filling the tunnel. People cried out and jostled each other, many yelling that I’d trapped them, that the smoke was poison. It was not, but in the ensuing commotion I slipped away, as good as invisible, running all out once I’d cleared the smoke and could see.
~~~
I sat in the opera box and had time to catch my breath and send up a whispered prayer, thanking Luka for overlong performances, before the curtains fell and the lights came up. I clapped sedately as the muscles in my legs twitched and the audience members in other boxes stood and stretched, chatting about the show.
I listened as I found the strength to make my way out of the building; I needed to learn as much as I could about the opera, in case someone asked me about it. Two jarls chatted with zeal about how a partnership had composed the opera, and apparently one of the two was credited with the creation of the story, which deviated rather drastically from the traditional Lukasenna, the legend of Luka’s lament. It was as I’d heard it described: Tyr stole all the glory for himself in this version. Well, at least it would be easy to remember if anyone wanted to know what I thought of it.
Thankfully, my mystique as the konunger’s mistress kept most at bay, and I was able to take a car back to the palace with little delay. When I finally reached my bedroom I felt as though my limbs were made of lead. I pulled off jewelry and shoes and collapsed on the bed, images of gaunt children eating out of tin cans swimming before my eye
s before sleep washed everything away.
~~~
The next day, the court was all abuzz. Mother Tora entertained three older jarldises for tea when I finally emerged in early afternoon. I’d had a long soak in the bath which helped with the almost paralyzing aches that inhabited every part of my body, but I still did not move very quickly as I made my way into the main salon. I paused at the doorway to the sitting room when I caught sight of Mother Tora’s guests. My eyes cut to the empty dining room, but curiosity overcame that idea.
I sat with them and Mother Tora poured me a cup of tea without even acknowledging me with a look. Under normal circumstances the other jarldises might have seen this as a rather significant slight, but no one was paying me much mind at all. Everyone fixed their gazes on a little jarldis with white hair wearing a powder blue gown that fell to a chaste length of mid-calf.
“And that was just the beginning!” she exclaimed.
“You can’t possibly be serious,” said one of the other jarldises, who had graying blond hair in a rare chignon and a dress of dark eggplant velvet.
“As the grave, Jarldis Agvidar,” the elderly one in blue said. “The Officers started out looking for the villain, of course, but then they had to leave off to deal with an eruption of fires all over the city.”
“Fires?” gasped the other jarldis, who had a blocky light brown bob and wore a pale yellow gown. Her hand fluttered at her breast. “How can that be?”
“Well, obviously some group of malcontents were behind it all,” the blue one said.
The City Darkens (Raud Grima Book 1) Page 33
