by E. C. Jarvis
“Is there a tavern near the citadel beside the palace, Friar Narry?” Larissa asked.
“The End of Hope,” Narry said. “Good place to play cards.”
“Fine. We’ll all meet there this time tomorrow.”
“And if we cannot meet there then?”
Larissa looked around at the faces of each person. Was she sending them all to their deaths? Would she never see any of them again?
Narry came forward first, a cheerful smile on his rotund face. He held her fingers between his pair of large and sweaty hands. “Things will be fine, Miss Larissa. The Gods have smiled upon you all this way. I doubt they would change their favour now.” He nodded, then stepped aside.
Sandy came next, giving her an awkward sort of hug. Sandy then hugged her cousin and followed up with a hug for Kerrigan. The puzzled look on the Colonel’s face was only surpassed but the astonished look on the Lieutenant’s face. Lieutenant Saunders gave Larissa a curt salute, and Colonel Kerrigan mirrored the action of his subordinate with a little more warmth on his expression.
Last, she turned to Cid. He stretched out his hand, offering a handshake. She held onto his hand, the callouses on his skin evident. If she still possessed a strength of healing, she would make an effort to fix those callouses as some small recompense for the danger towards which she was sending him.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night, Miss Markus,” Cid said.
No words found their way from her mouth. She wanted to say something poignant, to thank them all for everything they’d done so far, and to promise them some form of comfort in the future if they succeeded in their crazy mission. Instead, she managed nothing more than a weak nod. The two groups turned and headed away, walking solemnly down opposite paths. A twinge of guilt stabbed her chest when she realized none of them had taken the time or effort to say goodbye to Holt. He stood at her shoulder; the closeness of his body still felt unusual, especially after they had spent so long avoiding being so close. She wasn’t sure if it was because he loved her and needed to be protective, or because he was still suffering from Anthonium withdrawal and was drawing comfort from what little of her healing ability remained. Perhaps it was both.
With a sigh, she turned and headed down another street, the signpost promising retail.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Holt and Larissa walked together side by side for several blocks. The rundown buildings slowly turned to less depressing structures. Lines of apartments, which clearly housed the lower class workers, soon gained flower baskets hanging out of the windows, and the dirt pavements and broken cobblestones were replaced by block paving as they moved into the richer area of the city. A few more blocks down, they came to the shopping district.
“What is wrong?” Holt asked.
“Nothing… What makes you ask?
“Because you’ve barely said a word since we left the others, and you have a face like thunder.”
“Oh.” Larissa’s teeth chomped away inside her mouth despite having no food in there. Eventually, she swallowed and made an effort to speak her mind. “I always wanted to come to the Capital.”
“This isn’t the sort of trip you envisaged?” Holt said with a teasing quirk of an eyebrow.
“Not exactly. I almost came once.”
“When?”
“After my mother died. I was feeling down, so I promised myself a trip away from Sallarium City. I had it all planned, packed a bag, asked a neighbour to look after Imago for a few days, and made it all the way to the train station.”
“What went wrong?”
“I couldn’t even buy the ticket. I mean, I’d been out of the city before, but just to the next town, never too far. I was so afraid of going somewhere I’d never been before and on my own. I didn’t know who I’d meet or what trouble I might run into. I just turned around and went home, feeling even more sorry for myself than before.”
Holt didn’t say anything else. A slight squeeze of her arm was enough reassurance, and probably all the reassurance he could give.
“I’m not the same person,” she said somewhat absentmindedly as they turned another corner to a wider street filled with restaurants serving all manner of foods.
“The Larissa Markus who couldn’t buy a train ticket for fear of the unknown versus the Larissa Markus who is storming the Capital to infiltrate the palace and overthrow the President?” Holt slipped her arm through his and walked down the street with a haughty air of purpose, as a man taking his lady out for a pleasant evening meal. The cunning ruse sent her heartbeat into double time. It was a shame their attire didn’t match the act of appearing as rich shoppers.
“Something like that. I wouldn’t exactly call this storming the Capital, though.”
“Not yet. What wares does the master criminal and pirate captain wish to purchase with her ill-gotten gains?”
“Clothes first. Then perhaps some dinner,” she said as they passed a restaurant filling the street with delicious smells, the sign outside announcing the best pies in the Capital. Her stomach rumbled so loudly she wondered if Holt could hear.
“As much as I would love to dress in our finest and take you to dinner, we should lay low. If we were to be recognized—”
“Who would recognize me? No one knows me.”
“Covelle knows you. We don’t know where he has gone. Besides, someone may recognize me.”
“Oh?”
“I used to be a member of the elite guard. The closer we get to the palace, the better our chances of running into others who are still with the unit. They are trained to pay careful attention to their surroundings. They would not fail to spot me.”
“No dinner date in a romantic restaurant, then. Perhaps we could ask if that pie place will allow us to take away some food.”
“I think you would need to procure food from a less affluent eatery for that kind of service.”
“You underestimate my charm, Mister Holt. I used to work in retail. I know how to twist the arm of a greedy manager. It involves looking less like a pair of sewage workers, though.”
“Once we have clothing and food, then what?”
“Weapons.”
“Good.”
“You think I would plan on storming the palace unarmed?”
“I didn’t know if your grumbling stomach had fogged your mind to the practical aspects of the mission.”
“I didn’t think you’d heard it,” she said, shying away, feeling a blush touch her cheeks.
“It sounded like your cat was purring.”
As soon as he mentioned Imago, the smile dropped from her lips. She’d not seen the cat in weeks and was beginning to doubt if he was still alive—if a ghost cat could be considered alive in the first place. Her expression dropped further still when they turned a corner and arrived at a row of clothing shops. She stopped in the middle of the path and stared blankly at the other side.
“What is it?” Holt asked.
“A ghost from my past,” she said. Across the street, a large shop took up the space of three shopfronts. Bright chandeliers burned behind large glass windows, revealing racks of fine clothing. Above the door, a sign emblazoned in gold lettering read Greyfort’s Clothing Emporium.
She stared at it, dumbstruck for a time. Inside was a large cashier’s desk behind which stood a beautiful young red-headed woman, staring out at the shop. Daydreaming. Tears pricked the corner of Larissa’s eyes, but they did not fall.
“We should go,” Holt said, his voice low and serious, his mouth close to her ear.
“No.”
“Larissa, no good can come of going in there. If what you assumed is true, and your former employer was paid to hire you by your father, it would be unwise to confront him. We are avoiding recognition, not actively seeking it.”
She stepped down onto the road. Holt was right, his logic was sound, but her heart didn’t have the capacity to hold onto logic. She needed answers she was unlikely to find elsewhere.
Larissa swung the door open and steppe
d into the shop. A sickly familiar shrill bell rang out, announcing her presence. The girl behind the desk whipped her head towards the door and instantly spread her lips into a forced grin. The grin turned to a look of confusion when she saw Holt and Larissa.
“Hello. Welcome to Greyfort’s Clothing Emporium. Can I help you?” the girl asked as she nervously glanced toward the back of the shop.
“We were attacked by bandits,” Holt said, interrupting Larissa before she had a chance to speak. “We need new clothing.”
“Oh, of course. The men’s are this side, and the women’s are over here. Is there anything in particular you were looking for?”
“No,” Larissa said. The word snapped out, a bark of impatience. The poor girl visibly jumped in reaction and retreated to her spot behind the cashier’s desk, her eyes roving them with suspicion.
“May as well knock one item off your list of purchases while we’re here,” Holt whispered to Larissa before heading to the men’s clothing section.
She walked up and down the rows of clothes. The shop smelled familiar, like clean wool and warm fibres. The expanse was bigger than the shop in Sallarium, an upgrade to Greyfort’s circumstances, she supposed—one he wouldn’t have been able to afford without the additional income in his ledger. Her mood darkened the further she stomped through the shop. Where ranks of fine dresses with lace and delicate embroidery would have once delighted her simple soul, now she wished they were racks of knives and guns. She imagined grabbing a sword and stalking into the back room to lop off Greyfort’s head.
She stopped beside a rail with dark dresses and took a deep breath. How long had she been harbouring murderous thoughts? As much as she’d survived through some horrors, it didn’t mean she could go around killing people with impunity. Her gaze fell upon an outfit, a black shirt with fitted waistcoat cut low. The black skirt was short with only one layer of ruffles, and a black pair of gaiters with low heels. It seemed the perfect outfit for a female assassin—save for the ruffles. She supposed a real assassin would prefer to have minimal accoutrements. Her heart fluttered as she considered the reality of the task ahead. If they actually made it into the palace and got close enough to the president, could she truly murder him in cold blood?
The sound of a door opening at the back of the shop brought her back to reality. She grabbed the outfit and marched to the cashier’s desk, throwing the clothing onto the counter. Holt arrived at her side, a collection of black clothes in his hands and a pair of black boots. She wondered if he would be pleased at her choice and the consideration she had put into it.
“Miss Markus…” The elderly owner, Mister Greyfort, stood beside his assistant, his jaw dropped low.
“Mister Greyfort. I need clothes. These clothes…and more for my friends. You will provide them for me at no charge.”
“I…I cannot agree to that. You left me with no notice given. The papers branded you a criminal, then they said you were a pirate. Last I heard, you were the one of the President’s most wanted. Gods, girl, are you a criminal?” Greyfort looked suspiciously towards Holt. “Where is Professor Watts?”
“Dead.”
“Truly?”
“Yes. I burned his body on a pyre.”
“So it is true, then. You killed him?”
“I did not kill him, and I don’t care to discuss the details of what happened with you. I don’t have time to prove my innocence. I do know you employed me under false pretences, and if you don’t want me to announce the scandal of your involvement with a man named Solomon Covelle, you will provide the items I want free of charge.”
Greyfort swallowed, his grey face managing to turn a shade paler. “Very well,” he said after a moment of quiet contemplation.
Larissa returned to the racks to pick out something for Sandy, selecting a plain dark dress and a large overcoat that could have passed for a robe. When she returned to the desk, Holt had collected more clothes and a second pair of boots. The last two items he threw onto the pile made her resolve soften; a pair of gloves and a pair of goggles, both for Cid.
Greyfort’s assistant hastily shoved the clothing into bags and gave a nervous smile to Larissa as she passed them over.
“If you report this to anyone, I shall return and burn your shop to the ground,” Larissa said. When Greyfort stuck his chin out in obstinate defiance, her thoughts returned to the imaginary sword. Lopping his head off would actually be far easier than she cared to admit. “I will ensure you are inside the shop while it burns,” she added, then turned on her heels and left.
The trill shop bell announcing their departure seemed an almost comical end to her parting performance.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
The citadel was a strangely squat structure hemmed in by numerous tall buildings. Cid scratched at his temple as he scanned their surroundings. The presence of soldiers on the streets had grown markedly the closer they moved to the palace, and now the odd threesome couldn’t go more than a few yards without seeing a military uniform.
Friar Narry bounced along with a smile on his face, seemingly unperturbed by the soldiers; Sandy kept her head down, either playing the part of a pious priestess or feeling threatened; Cid struggled to maintain the illusion that he was nothing more than an innocuous citizen. His appearance was a mess—not that he’d ever looked particularly clean-cut—but he seemed to be an out-of-place blemish on any landscape, a fact which would prove troublesome if they were to avoid drawing attention.
His two fellow infiltrators appeared to look to him for instruction. Larissa’s plan seemed nothing more than hope and holes, but he felt compelled to at least attempt what she asked of him. The thought of leading other people –even a pair of fairly willing people—was far beyond his comfort zone.
When the last of the buildings blocking the view to the palace passed by, Cid tried his best not to glance up at it in awe. It was a great white building, oddly similar in both size and design to the Eptoran palace, though he could only see the large wall—too high for climbing—and some form of structure jutting out from the center. His thoughts turned to Elena as he imagined her within the confines of her own palace, half a world away. At least she was safe, instead of on some lunatic mission which would likely get everyone killed.
They reached the entrance gate leading to the citadel, which was flanked by soldiers. Cid would have found their presence unusual had he not known of the link between the religious structure and the palace. Narry bumbled straight toward the center of the gate, his bristly beard wobbling slightly when one of the soldiers ordered their group to halt.
“What is it, young man?” Narry asked.
“What do you three think you’re doing?”
“Entering the citadel, of course. I am a priest, recently transferred from Meridina, and this is my young charge,” he said, motioning to Sandy.
“What about that one? If he’s a priest, then I’m the Goddess of Creation.”
“He is a mechanic. The boiler house is in need of repairs,” Narry said, pointing to Cid’s tool belt.
“Any weapons?” the soldier asked.
“No. You’re welcome to check.” Cid stretched out his arms, offering a view of his belt. He hoped the soldier didn’t have the time or inclination to actually perform any sort of physical exam.
“All right, you go ahead.”
Inside, the citadel was a dark and dingy place, with burning braziers attached to the walls at irregular intervals. Cid felt an odd tingling down his back. His faith in the Gods had wavered significantly since the moment the Machine exploded; though he still considered himself a believer, he certainly felt out of place in this most holy of citadels. It was rumoured to be older than the Empire, dating back far beyond records and built before the palace. He would have liked to visit as a tourist to appreciate the stature of the building, but from the way each hall leading from the entrance foyer was manned by a mean-looking soldier, he supposed tourism wasn’t encouraged.
Much as the citadel in Meridina, a
nd every other of its kind, this appeared to have the same layout, with sections dedicated to each of the nineteen Gods. Cid had no idea where to start looking for a secret passage.
“This priest is taking this maintenance man to the boiler room,” a soldier barked from somewhere behind them. Cid hadn’t seen the man follow them inside. He stifled a groan. If they were to have an escort, poking around would be impossible.
Friar Narry took the lead, Sandy following in his wake, leaving Cid to navigate the narrow corridors last. He heard the heavy footsteps of the soldier behind, keeping close track on their movements. The citadel appeared to be laid out in much the same manner as every other religious building he’d seen; the design of the more modern versions was still based on this most ancient structure. They passed the room for the Saint of Purification, decorated in white marble with clear glass windows; the corridor curled down and around in a constant, long spiral, passing more rooms for more gods and goddesses. Finally, they reached the end of the passage, blocked by an ornate gate. The Friar reached his arm through and unlocked a latch; the gate creaked open, allowing them access.
“Be quick about it,” the soldier standing at Cid’s shoulder said.
He breathed a sigh of relief as they left the soldier behind and continued down the path.
The floor turned to a spiral of steep steps, the well-decorated walls replaced by dark stone slabs at rickety angles, squashing the space ever tighter.
“This is not the sort of place one wants to become trapped in during a fight,” Cid said.
“Fighting in a holy citadel is a sure way of angering the Gods,” Narry responded from farther down the staircase.
“Perhaps if someone else starts the fight, the Gods will grant us mercy as defenders,” Sandy said.
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Narry said.
“I’m not sure the Gods appreciate betting in a citadel, either, Friar,” Cid said.
“Good point.”
They reached the end of the steps and found yet another corridor, the dark and dingy space barely lit by one single fire torch hanging precariously from the wall at the opposite end. Several archways led off to either side, the first of which contained the boiler room.
