by Jason Letts
“You’ve got to change my name. You yourself didn’t know who I was until someone told you, and I’ve been here for weeks. I had never been in the spotlight enough that people would recognize me unless they were told.”
A subtle grin found its way to Sander’s lips.
“Falsifying credentials and processing the transfer order, I can do those things, but if you get caught on the way out it’ll cost me my life,” she said, reaching into a drawer and beginning to fill out a form.
“The mechanics can sneak you onto the transport,” Landon said.
“As far as the people here know, I’m supposed to be heading to the Hockley estate at the Vault. So it won’t be a surprise I’m leaving. As long as they don’t catch wind I’m on a different transport, I’ll be fine, but I can’t promise my mother won’t come sniffing around here again when she realizes I won’t be coming. How long do you think it’ll be until they figure out where I’ve gone?” Taylor asked.
“This is why I’m not worried about you,” she said, twisting to the side and pointing to the filing cabinets again the wall. “There are hundreds of these cabinets full of orders, and then there are rooms and rooms of papers stacked to the ceiling. Nothing here is electronic. I’ll hand you the printed orders and bury the copies somewhere in the building. It would take forever for anyone to find them and even longer to realize a particular name was made up for you. But that’s not the real danger.”
“What’s the problem?” Taylor asked. Sander swallowed and scratched her wrist.
“It won’t take long for them to realize something’s amiss, and when they do they’ll start pointing the finger at people rather than searching for papers. I’ll still process your transfer order under your real name to your Vault, and it’s possible Keran will think you jumped ship before reaching your destination, but if you find them on your heels in Toine, you’ll know they’ve gotten to me.”
Taylor pursed his lips and cast her a sympathetic look. Taylor had to move forward with his part of the plan, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t feel terrible about it when other people took bullets for him along the way.
“I’m sorry it’s going to come to that,” he said, watching some anger flicker across Sander’s face.
“Don’t be. I know what I’m doing, but you just have to make it count. What are you going to do anyway?”
The unspoken answer had been looming in the air the whole conversation, maybe since that first argument he’d seen in the mess hall when he’d met Landon.
“There’s only one thing to do,” Taylor said, casting a sidelong glance at Landon.
“When someone in power rigs the system to ensure they’re beyond accountability for their crimes, there’s only one law of nature that remains as a viable punishment,” Landon said.
“I’m going to kill Chancellor Aggart.”
CHAPTER 7
The misshapen third arm of Madora’s two-headed intellectual mastermind scribbled a few words on a stiff card, snapping its fingers to summon a courier, who carried it through the underground maze of tunnels to the surface. The courier, wrapped tightly in a cloak, emerged from a forgotten, dried-up well housed in a clay structure, and threaded the card onto a string loop that was connected to a nearby window. Two other decoys were set up with similar cards, and the courier pulled one side of the strings to feed the cards across. A child of five years took the card from the string, folded it into his mouth, and ran out into the street toward the bazaar, where he slipped through the crowd to the snake charmer, finally spitting the card into the snake basket.
Several hours passed. A toothy dog pulling a cart full of straw shuffled past the snake charmer, who slipped the card into the straw. The scary dog returned to his master, a bald man who found the card, stuffed it into his shawl, and slunk through the alleys to the southeast end of town, where a new compound had been built walling off an entire city block. The bald man dropped the card on the ground in front of Agjam’s short-tempered husband, who stood guard at the only entrance. He set his foot on the card and after an hour dragged it back and tapped it under the gate, where an artisan later swept it into a dustpan and carried it inside to Lowell Bracken.
“They’re coming,” he read aloud to Tris, who lifted her head up from the embroidery she was working on. Lowell was filled with such a sudden burst of enthusiasm he couldn’t help but repeat himself. “They’re coming!”
“Don’t forget to send the Mind back a thank you note,” Tris said.
“Very funny,” Lowell remarked. “We’ve got to get moving on this already. There’s so much to do to get ready. Why, why…”
Lowell trailed off as he looked around the room, which featured real stone masonry and hardwood floors. After Dedrick’s death, Lowell and Tris had gotten serious about security, commandeering an entire block to keep themselves and their sympathizers safe. It could’ve never happened without the support of the artisans, who enlisted their families and convinced residents to join the cause. Even though nobody was enjoying a lavish lifestyle because of the arrangement, they all recognized that an important opportunity was afoot to create something that rivaled the Commerce Titans’ cutthroat monopoly on trade in the town.
With so much to do, Lowell had no choice but to get started by sliding into a wicker chair and leaning back. At a nearby table, Tris glanced over at him and shook her head.
“Don’t look so satisfied with yourself,” she said, focusing on her embroidery, which had become something of a nervous occupation for her.
“It’s going to work, Tris. We’re on our way back to the top. Can you feel it? Can you see what we’re going to transform this place into?” he said, getting up and pacing into the hall. “Over here we’ll knock out these walls and put your throne room—your own throne room! We’ll cobble together some roofing, deck the place out with shiny rocks from the river and seacoast, and Velo Wozniak and Portia Illiam will be dazzled!”
Tris’s sigh was audible all the way in the hall.
“But not dazzled enough that I won’t have to do the worst thing anyone’s ever imagined. I don’t think I can do it, love. And don’t wave that ink-stained rag around. I know what I agreed to, but I just don’t think I can,” she said, wilting against the tabletop.
Lowell strode over and put his hand on her shoulder, squeezing it lightly. He knew what he was asking from her, a gift that would change their lives for the worse forever. But it was his family, the Bracken legacy, and the future of the world that would benefit. He pursed his lips as if he’d bitten into something sour, wishing it didn’t all have to be so hard.
“We need to be sure,” he said softly. “I’ve negotiated with both of them before. Velo is like a dog that can’t resist red meat. Portia always has to squeeze every possible advantage out of a deal. It’s foolproof.”
“Except I’m the fool!” Tris said, her eyes watering.
“Hey, let’s not talk like that,” he said, kneeling down and taking her hands in his. Tris hesitantly looked back at him. “We’re really doing the same thing here, and we know what it’ll cost. The Virtuoso needs to save the poor and raise the city of Madora. There’s a real historical precedent for that, and by some twist of fate the role found you, and you embraced it with your whole heart. We’ve also got people in the ClawLands who need us. They’ve lost loved ones in the fighting, and are now living in the crossfire between the premier families, Chancellor Aggart’s Guard, rogue villages and towns speckled throughout the country, and every crook and criminal who realized there was nothing keeping them from their darkest impulses.
“And you know what? We can fix both at the same time,” he said, looking into her eyes. She pulled her hands away to wipe a tear. Every day he needed to convince her anew, and the only thing Lowell dreaded more than these conversations was the rapidly approaching day when he’d no longer have them.
“You’re right. I know you’re right,” she conceded, nodding. “I just wish there were another way and that the kids could be here w
ith me. Yes, they have their parts of the plan to carry out. I feel so old and I miss my gardens.”
“It’s for the best,” Lowell said. He rose when Tris stood from her seat. Her graying hair had gotten so long, draping most of the way down her back.
“Maybe I need to get some air. The sunshine will help me feel better about it.”
Tris left him abruptly, filling him with a sense of longing that ate at his insides. He tipped back into the wicker chair and struggled to get comfortable. Finally he brought one knee up and rested his elbow on it so he could hold his jaw in his hand and think.
Velo Wozniak and Portia Illiam were two of the richest people in the world. Thanks to Sierra’s unpleasant experiences, the Brackens had learned that most of the Wozniak Conglomerate was built on rape and hijacked family lines. It explained why Velo’s wife, Erina, always had the look of a starved animal in a cage; her family had owned a large tract of land in the north that had been usurped into the Wozniak Empire. Velo himself was almost certainly conceived without consent as well, but he’d been brought up with such insulated wealth that he had no conception of how people actually lived. Lowell had to make sure he saw as little of Madora as possible before the poverty scared him off.
But Portia Illiam was no stranger to the concerns of the least fortunate. After all, she employed an untold number of them as indentured laborers on her farms in the south of Cumeria. She was smart, beautiful, tactical, and never forgot a grudge, which made Taylor’s reckless intrusion all the more outrageous. Now that some time had passed, the thought of it made Lowell smile. He wished he could’ve been there to see that gaudy statue hit the dirt.
When Lowell roused himself to set the renovations in motion, something in his back shifted uncomfortably as he got out of the chair. He rubbed it, cringing. The meat sack that was his body had seen better days. It had trouble sleeping, creaked something awful, and every once in a while gave him stinging pain in the joints.
After crossing part of the complex, he pushed his way into a longhouse where two dozen of their crew were lounging about chatting. They’d had quite enough of that and could use something constructive to do. Lowell produced the card from the Mind of Madora and held it in the air.
“Let’s get to work!” he shouted.
Tris left the building and wandered beside the high walls of the complex and around some of the crumbling buildings they encased. It would be quite a feat if they could fool those powerful people into thinking this was a palace; they’d only need to spend a couple of hours here to know it was more like a prison.
Coming round to the back, Tris climbed onto some boxes, pulled herself onto the top of the short structure, and traversed a narrow iron arch that would be part of the new palace roof in order to reach a dilapidated bell tower jutting above the other rooftops. Straining, she pulled herself onto the shaded cement surface, swiveled around, and looked out across the surrounding city that stretched into the distance. The sun shone high in the sky, but the breeze, the shade, and the stillness made it seem like night.
The feeling of being watched that always prickled the back of her neck became particularly bothersome. Tris knew she was never really alone, not when there were shadows near and corners to lurk behind. She wrapped her arms around her legs and set her head on her knees, wondering if she’d ever be free from his torment.
“Haven’t I given you everything you wanted?” she asked. Sierra, Randall, and Taylor were gone and unlikely to return anytime soon. Dedrick was dead and buried at the bottom of the sinkhole. He’d told her during the market riot to cast out the foreigners, and lo and behold she’d done just that.
A gust of wind kicked up, blowing sand across the rooftops just in front of Tris in a cyclone that encased the bell tower. It wasn’t natural, and somewhere in the swirling sand she could see him.
“The businessman remains. Madora will never prosper until the people are free to work their own will,” the Defender said, his voice as scarce as that of a dying man. Tris looked over her shoulder and saw him step out of the darkest corner of the bell tower. He had the dark robe on, hiding his weapons underneath. The otherworldly sword, the one the Mind said he was born holding, had its hilt poking out from behind his back.
“Don’t worry. He’ll be leaving soon enough,” Tris sighed, slipping underneath the surface of the emotions that ravaged her.
Lowell had said they had nothing to fear from the Defender for now. The city’s notorious lost child would wait for the moment when he could cause the biggest disruption. Inviting the Wozniaks and the Illiams to Madora would put him in striking distance of the exact foreign powers he most professed to hate. But if anything happened to them, the entire plan would fall to pieces, right along with the lives of her children.
“He has schemes that trouble me deeply,” the Defender said. Some also called him Unseen Man, but according to the Mind a better name would be Unborn Man. Tris thought about those women marked with the Virtuoso’s X-shaped scar who voluntarily walked from Madora south to the Jagged Edge, failed the Defender’s birth ritual, and were killed for it and left to float against the sea rocks.
“They trouble me deeply as well,” Tris whispered. What would she do when all of her family was gone? They were what she lived for now, that and fighting for the people of Madora, but she couldn’t imagine managing to carry on that fight without their strength to propel her.
A moment of silence ensued that lasted long enough to make Tris think he was gone. But the clink of a chain confirmed his presence. He was always watching her, looming ever closer.
“Is it true you’re a man who cannot die?” Tris asked, softly, absently.
“Anyone could believe that until they do,” he said.
“Is it true that you killed your mother while still in the womb and burst into the world unborn from a place called Before? That you’re searching the world for a replacement mother to give birth to you?”
“Who…who told you such a thing?” The concern and surprise in the Defender’s hollow voice were unmistakable.
“And this is why you mark women like me—not because you have any grand plans for the city of Madora, but because you want me to complete your ritual and fulfill your selfish desire for a different life,” Tris accused, emotionless.
“My aspirations for the city of Madora are beyond question!” the Defender declared. Tris had touched on something, some sensitivity he had about himself. As awful as it sounded, Tris found that it felt good to exploit it. There was nothing he could do to hurt her, not when he needed her so badly.
“Has it ever dawned on you how absurd it is to hate foreigners and yet seek salvation from them for yourself and your city?” she asked, never looking back at him.
“You are Madoran now. You feel this city and its people.”
“But deep down you know that you’re not even really part of this city, because you’re not alive. Recreating these circumstances will never bring your mother back, I’ll never submit to your ritual, and you’ll never be a real Madoran,” she said.
“The monster,” the Defender shuddered. “It told you these things. They are horrible untruths. Lies, lies, lies. It puts its smarts to playing on your fears, to turning you against me when we could be transforming this city together. I hate that one. It is not human and is not part of the city of Madora. I’ll kill it, and the city will be free of this most grotesque shackle.”
“So why don’t you then?” Tris asked.
“Oh, I have tried many times. Its maze is full of tricks and traps, most of them designed solely for me. I’ve been lured into rooms only for the door to be shut and the ceiling to collapse, leaving me buried deep below Iyne’s surface. It’s trapped me in rooms with raging sauruses. When I think I’ve found it, it’s never there. Then there’s the bright light. The monster has a way to trace me, and once I make it through I’ll slice that creature into pieces so fine no one will ever know what it was.”
The Defender unleashed a torrent of hatred that se
emed like it would never end. Tris knew the Defender despised the Mind, but she’d never known about the conflicts they’d had.
The fleeting thrill from needling the Defender had worn off, leaving Tris back to sulking about the downside of the plan. The sounds of banging echoed around the complex, signaling an uptick in the construction. Before long someone would be looking for her.
“You’re fighting a losing battle,” Tris observed, preparing to descend from the bell tower. “You can’t keep the world out of Madora.”
“If you bring the world in, every Madoran will learn to want them out,” the Defender said. Tris jerked her head, curious about how much of their plan he knew, but she saw nothing but cracked clay, dark shadows, and emptiness, which mirrored so much of what she felt inside.
An old, bald man in haggard robes raised a hand and stood up from the crowd. When the auction master called on him, he stumbled down to the front, gingerly climbed over the blockade, and nearly fell into the sinkhole when he made the hop to the stage. Already cringing, Lowell watched from the back, as he had at each auction since Dedrick’s death.
At the end of each auction, desperate members of the crowd were allowed to take the stage and attempt to sell something to the Commerce Titans, the eight wig-wearing gangsters seated behind the judges’ bench, who posed the greatest threat to the imminent meeting with the Wozniaks and the Illiams. Now that construction on the hollow palace was underway, Lowell needed to find a way to distract the Titans, really put their balls in a vise.
Selling to the Titans never turned out well, and the show was more a display of the iron grip they had on the city and their willingness to wield it against the destitute. That meant extorting protection money out of anyone who opened a store, scooping up all incoming goods from caravans and cargo ships, most of which were fully in their pocket, and then gorging themselves on the proceeds after jacking up the price of everything they sold.
The old man produced three straw dolls from within the folds of his robes, displaying a smile full of bright, white teeth as he talked about them with far more enthusiasm than Lowell could’ve mustered in his position. The dolls were obviously made by children, most likely his starving grandkids. The tubby auction master took the dolls so the Titans could inspect them, the pockmarked ringleader in the middle set a small bag of Madoran coins on the mantel and the auction master carried both the dolls and the coin back to the old man. The crowd gasped when the auction master made an announcement and handed the dolls back to the man, who clasped his heart and hobbled back. His smile and those teeth vanished instantly. Lowell didn’t understand until the auction master produced a small hammer and wedge. The Commerce Titans were willing to buy, but dolls from hungry children were not of interest.
