War of the Networks

by Katie Cross

  Exhausted, I dropped my head onto the cool rock floor and closed my eyes.

  I’m still alive, I repeated over and over, forcing myself to focus on a memory of Papa’s face. I’m still alive.

  News from Home

  A faint ring of purple circled my neck the next morning. Fractured blood vessels littered my right cheek. Every attempt I made at swallowing resulted in a swollen, thick pain, like a heavy ball in my throat, so I left breakfast at the door. I used an incantation to make my allotted water ice cold and drank slow sips.

  The day would be sweltering, just like all the others. For now, however, the sun remained behind the Arck. It wouldn’t shine on the balcony until it reached its zenith, so I sat outside and enjoyed the morning air that, while not cool, wasn’t broiling yet. A new melancholy gripped me, and I longed to see home again. What were Camille and Leda doing? Was Papa getting any sleep?

  Was Merrick thinking about me?

  “You.”

  The small voice came from behind me. I whirled around, reaching instinctively for Viveet, even though she wasn’t on my hip. Zoe stood in the balcony doorway, her dark hair swaying around her jawline. She’d tied white rags around her hands, which held a broom taller than she was. She’d addressed me with the formal greeting of the common language.

  “You,” I said back, and her tense fingers relaxed. She blinked several times and put a hand on her throat.

  “Did … da montagna … did she—”

  While I didn’t know the Yazika language of the Southern Network very well, I knew the accent. It bore similarities to our own language in the Central Network, so da montagna likely meant monster.

  I pulled my hair out of its queue and let it fall around my shoulders, hiding my neck. Surely she already lived most of her nightmares in her daily life. I didn’t want to let her know she’d barely missed a brush with death. Then again, she likely already knew. Perhaps she’d experienced Mabel’s—or Juba’s—wrath before.

  “Nothing,” I said, attempting to splice words from the common language together. My tongue felt awkward in my own mouth. “It was … nothing.”

  “You?” she asked pointing to me.

  “Bianca,” I said, putting a hand on my chest. “My name is Bianca.”

  She glanced over her shoulder and, seeing no cheetah sneaking up on her, set aside the broom and stepped outside. The moment her feet crossed onto the balcony, she stopped, drew in a deep breath, and closed her eyes. Her scrunched expression eased. When her midnight eyes fluttered open again, she blushed.

  “Outside,” she said, shaking her head. “Not allowed.”

  I smiled. Zoe’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t say anything for a long pause. When she spoke again, it was halting, like she, too, couldn’t quite find the words. “Vy did you … ah …” She mimicked a slap to her face.

  “Why did I help?”

  She nodded.

  “I don’t like da montagna. I … uh … like you.”

  A girlish smile lit up her face. “Shto?” she cried. She shook her head. “I mean, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  I had the impression that she would have rushed into my arms and hugged me if she hadn’t been so wary. I remained by the edge of the balcony so she had plenty of space.

  “Sit?” I asked as I sank to the ground and pressed my back to the warm sandstone wall.

  “Shto,” she said. A second blush bloomed across her cheeks. “Ah, yes.”

  She sat a few paces away, but some of the fear had faded from her eyes. I wondered so many things. How old was she? How long had she been here? How long had she worked for Mabel? Was she separated from her family? My instincts told me she hadn’t been here long.

  “Your home?” I asked. She gestured to the south.

  “Far away. Big … uh … village.”

  “Family?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Gone. All … gone.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She stared at me. “Vy are you here?”

  I sighed. “Da montagna has taken me … uh … prisoner.”

  Zoe thought over the words for a long time, and when they seemed to click, she became concerned. “No!” she cried. “Prisoner?”

  I nodded. Zoe looked away. “They take our magic,” she whispered and held out her hands to study the blood-soaked bandages. “Then da montagna takes us.”

  After watching the swearing-in ceremony, I had no doubt that Zoe had endured some similar barbaric choice.

  “Zoe, have you seen an old woman here?” I asked. As a maid, Zoe likely had access to most of the Arck. She might have seen Isadora or know something about her. She could drastically cut down—or narrow—the risk I was going to take sneaking out to search for the Watcher myself.

  Zoe glanced at me from the corner of her eye. “Old voman?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. Vy?”

  “She’s a friend of mine,” I said carefully, trying not to show my desperation lest I scare her away. “She’s lost. A prisoner here also.”

  At this point, any little clue could help us track Isadora down. Even though all odds pointed away from the Arck, I couldn’t imagine Mabel allowing Isadora to be far away.

  Zoe shrugged, her eyes trailing back down to my neck again. I rearranged my hair to make sure it hid the worst of the bruises.

  “I need to talk to her. It’s very … important.”

  The sentences took me time to work out, but in the end, I felt mildly confident she’d understood, though she made no indication except a guttural sound in her throat.

  “Food?” she asked, bringing her hands to her mouth. “You vant food?”

  “I can’t.” I shook my head and patted my throat. “It hurts.”

  She leaped to her feet. “I vill return.”

  Before I could call out, she dashed away, her bare feet running across the floor and disappearing into the hall. She returned less than ten minutes later with a clay teapot and a small cup that fit in my palm. She put the cup in my hand and poured a warm broth into it. It tasted salty and rich and smelled like chicken soup. I sipped at it.

  “Thank you,” I said, smiling. I gestured to my throat. “Much better.”

  Zoe beamed and nodded. She held up a finger.

  “More,” she said, grabbing a linen sack from behind her. She untied the twine around the top, reached inside, and settled onto her knees in front of me. “I bring,” she said, twiddling her fingers. “Give me feet.”

  I obeyed, stretching my bare right foot out in curiosity. I was wary of any kind of shoe, especially in this hot weather. But I let her put a thin piece of leather against the bottom of my foot and lace a pair of leather straps around my leg all the way to my knee.

  “Stand,” she said, motioning with her hands. “You like?”

  I held my skirt above my knees and walked, enjoying the way the soft leather of the sandal followed my foot, conforming to each ridge instead of boxing my toes in. I wiggled my toes, still free to the open air. Juba glanced our way, huffed, and lay back down.

  “Yes,” I said, jogging across the room. “I can barely feel them.”

  “There are … others,” she said haltingly. “More, uh, styles?”

  “Of sandal?”

  She nodded.

  “Are all of them this simple?”

  “Yes,” she said, tilting her head to the side. “Less string, sometimes.”

  “Zoe!” I said, spinning in a circle. “These are perfect!”

  She clapped, her eyes lighting up. “Good, yes?”

  “Very good.”

  “More clothes.”

  She motioned to a pile of linen the color of pearl. Western Network females mostly wore short sleeves and low waists, with rounded necks and skirts that hung in layers. I tried one on to appease the little maid. The dress flowed around my ankles, tapering just below my left knee and revealing only one leg. Despite the four layers of cloth, it felt light and airy. The fabric bunched around my waist when Zoe tied it a cer
tain way, reminding me of the female witches I had watched in the market below.

  Zoe glanced over her shoulder, saw that Juba’s eyes were closed, ducked her head, and crooked her finger to bring me closer. “I bring,” she whispered with a conspiratorial smile. She pressed a finger to her lips, reached into the bag of clothes, and pulled out a scroll.

  “Find on the ground,” she said, gesturing. “Your … Netvork? No?”

  I pushed the clothes away from the scroll with a gasp, hardly daring to believe. Zoe had found a Chatham Chatterer scroll in the Western Network!

  “Zoe!” I whispered. “This is wonderful!”

  She straightened up, checked Juba again, and hunkered back down. “You read ven you are very … ah … bored? Hide it,” she said, her eyes widening. “Very sneaky.”

  I would have scooped her into a hug, but she kept all witches at arm’s length, so I settled for a beaming smile. “Thank you, Zoe! Oh, thank you. This is wonderful!”

  “I must vork,” Zoe said with a reluctant sigh. She pointed to the Chatterer in the bag and lowered her voice. “No show da montagna.”

  I winked. “Our secret.”

  “I go,” she said, walking backward to the door. “I clean later. You vill be here?”

  “Yes.”

  A small smile spread across her face, and she left me alone on the balcony with my cup of broth and the warm feeling in my heart that I’d just made a friend.

  Clavas Attack Border Towns

  In a sudden, unexpected show of force from the Western Network, reports of Clavas attacking Eastern Coven villages along the border have been pouring in since morning.

  The border villages of Buckley and Saxon have fallen to the West Guards that followed the Clava attacks. Those unable to transport away or flee for their lives have been slaughtered. Early reports indicate that no one remains in the small village of Jamesport. A few witches have said that the Clavas appear to be hydrophobic, though this hasn’t been confirmed through Chatterer journalists.

  This is the first time the Clavas have attacked civilians. They are not taking prisoners.

  Shelters have been set up on the eastern edge of the Western Covens. Other safe areas are under construction in the Letum Wood Covens. Updates will be published as they become available.

  — —

  URGENT NOTICE TO THE WITCHES IN THE SOUTHERN COVENS

  This is an official evacuation announcement given through the Ambassador under orders from the High Priest. Evacuate immediately. Transport to Chatham Castle or neighboring covens. Leave behind anything you cannot transport with. Clavas and West Guards continue to invade.

  DO NOT DELAY. EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY.

  The Southern Network

  The sound of Juba’s paws pacing back and forth in front of the bathroom door rang through my ears. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry, they seemed to say. My left arm stretched in front of me like a furry, spotted rope. As far as cheetah tails went, it wasn’t bad. A bit short, but I couldn’t expect much more from my first attempt. My eyes flickered to the small gap of light at the bottom of the door when Juba’s shadow passed by again.

  One more attempt, I thought. He hadn’t banged his head impatiently against the door, which meant I had just enough time. To solidify the ruse, I reached my other hand into the porcelain bowl and splashed it in the water.

  Using a spell, I pulled the transformative magic back in. Patches of fur gave way to skin. Five fingers formed from the fuzzy end of the tail, separating back into my familiar appendages. I let out a sigh. It was always a relief when my body returned to its usual state.

  Just as I restarted the magic, a knocking sound reverberated through Mabel’s chamber, so loud I heard it in the bathroom. A visitor? Juba threw his shoulder into the door, rattling it. Ah. I had no time after all.

  “I heard, I heard,” I muttered, pulling the door open. Juba eyed me with suspicion but had no time to conduct his usual sniff check before he hustled away. I stepped out, peering around the corner to see a spindly messenger boy standing in the doorway to the hall. He waved an envelope in the air, a wary eye on Juba.

  “A-a-a m-m-message!”

  Mabel burst into the room from behind him, nearly knocking the poor boy over. The envelope flew into her outstretched palm. By the time it reached her, the messenger boy had disappeared down the hallway. The envelope opened itself, ejecting a small piece of parchment that floated up to her eyes. Her jaw clenched. The message exploded into a bright flame, burning until it dribbled to the floor in a pile of ash.

  “Fool!” she cried. “Mikhail, you bloody fool.”

  For once, Mabel and I agreed. Mikhail, the High Priest of the Southern Network, was a fool. She disappeared into her walk-in closet, emerging five minutes later in an ice-blue gown with elbow-length sleeves and a long bodice.

  “Come,” she commanded as she walked past me. A chain appeared in the air, locking onto my manacle and jerking me toward her. I stumbled, falling twice before gaining my feet. She snatched my arm and, without warning, pulled both of us into a transportation spell.

  Without time to prepare myself for the pressure and time of a long-distance transport, I found myself gasping for breath when we landed on the castle steps in the Southern Network. The air felt crisp, carrying the promise of fall. Without snow banking the castle and coating the evergreen tree branches, the Southern Network bloomed a surprising shade of deep green.

  “Compose yourself,” Mabel snapped. “I won’t have you blubbering while I’m reigning Mikhail back in.”

  The cool tingle of a silencing incantation wrapped around my throat. My head still spun, but I righted myself just as Mikhail’s Ambassador, Dmitri, stepped onto the porch. The past few months had not been kind to him—his eyes sank into his once-stout cheeks, leaving sagging skin and deep wrinkles. Stains marred the front of his shirt. His sharp gaze fell on me, but he said nothing. I’d met Dmitri at the end of winter earlier this year, on a trip with Marten before the Southern Network broke the Mansfeld Pact. I hadn’t made a good impression then. I had little hope of making one now.

  “Where is he?” Mabel demanded. “I need to speak with Mikhail immediately.”

  Dmitri flew back, colliding with the door with a sickening thud. “He is in a meeting, Your Greatness,” he said, falling to his knees and bowing until his nose touched the floor. This clearly wasn’t his first encounter with Mabel.

  “Pull him out of it. I’ll be waiting in the throne room.”

  She plunged into the castle without invitation, dragging me with her. Dust had overtaken the windowsills and obscured several old paintings, one of which hung crooked. The long hall, once filled with white and blue banners, lay empty. Only one banner remained, and its ends were burned. A mouse scampered across our path as I struggled to keep up with Mabel’s stride. Whoever Mikhail employed as the Head of Housekeeping needed to be replaced. Just like last time, not another witch was visible in the castle, leaving it in an eerie, unbroken silence.

  Dmitri followed us for a few moments but disappeared to the left when we took a right. Mabel plowed into Mikhail’s throne room—a disorganized place on a good day—and threw herself into the golden throne. The inlaid rubies sparkled as red as her burning eyes. She filled the chair better than fat little Mikhail—at least her feet touched the floor.

  I swallowed. She’d insulted Mikhail’s greed and pride by overtaking his throne and demanding his attention. They both had nasty tempers. Surely this wouldn’t go well.

  In the absence of concubines to fawn over him—and someone to clean the place—Mikhail’s throne room looked like an abandoned storage area. What wasn’t coated with dust was hidden by dirt. Tangled knots filled the polar bear rug. A gruesome tapestry on the wall had frayed in two corners. Most of the precious gems that normally littered the room were missing.

  Mabel’s fingers drummed on the armrest. She sat back, shifted forward, and moved back again.

  “Where is the little rat?” she hissed.

  When M
ikhail came into the room, I didn’t recognize him. The fat, bawdy, disrespectful witch I remembered had faded into an aging, thin old man with a squashed face and an unattractive scowl. While the word meek could hardly apply to a witch like Mikhail, I couldn’t think of any other word to describe him now.

  “Mikhail,” Mabel said, her voice ringing over the room. “You have disappointed me yet again.”

  He stood in front of her but remained out of reach. The lapels in his half-untucked shirt spilled over his pants. The opal in his beard hung crooked, and two braids had come unraveled. He smelled like ipsum but didn’t appear drunk. Then again, his eyes were tucked so deep into the folds of his face that it was hard to tell.

  “Vy is this so, Your Greatness?”

  Mabel rose up from the throne and towered over him. “You lost the city of Husseldorf in the Eastern Network! Derek and Niko now have an advantageous position near the Central Network border.”

  She pulled a scroll out of her pocket and threw it on the ground. It unfurled itself in front of him. The headline across the top flashed in bold letters.

  Central Guards Obtain Key City

  “Derek now holds the bridge,” she said, slapping Mikhail across the face with the back of her hand. She must have strengthened the blow with magic, for Mikhail flew back head over heels and slid across the floor.

  “Your Greatness,” he said, his arms trembling as he pushed himself to his feet. “The situation vas bad. Ve didn’t have Vest Guards. My vitches have no magic!”

  Mabel pointed at him. “Do not blame your weakness on me! You should never have agreed to the attack if you were short on supplies or staff. I want to speak with your Head of Guardians.”

  Mikhail waved a hand as if to dismiss the idea, but I wondered if he was protecting his Head of Guardians.

  “He is busy,” Mikhail said. “You deal vith me.”

  Mabel’s eyes glowed blood red with pleasure. “Oh,” she whispered. “I will deal with you. Derek has remained one step ahead of you ever since the fighting began. If you will not prove yourself to be an asset to the cause, I will find a High Priest who will!”