by Joseph Lallo
“Interesting. Right.”
The surgeon pushed up her sleeve. A part of Amaranthe wanted to face the moment with dignity, but when he removed the lid and set the mouth of the jar against her skin, fear surged through her. She twisted and jerked her arm away.
The surgeon cursed and flung the lid back on before the insect could escape. “Hold her!”
“Sorry, sir. She’s stronger than she looks.”
Another joined the first two, leaving a guard on her legs and one on each arm. The surgeon descended, ready with the jar again.
She tried to thrash free, all sense of strategy forgotten in pure desperation. Despite her frenzied struggle, Amaranthe felt the bite of the insect.
At that point, she deflated. Tears formed in her eyes.
“You can let her go.” The surgeon screwed the lid back on and returned the jar to the cupboard. “She won’t fight now. There’s no point, eh?”
He was right. Amaranthe became as inert as the wheezing forms on the cots. When the guards released her and backed up, she made no lunge to her feet. Their heads receded, and she only stared up at the reinforced concrete ceiling.
“I’ll be back in the morning,” the surgeon said in parting. “There’s water in a jug over there.”
Amaranthe did not move her eyes to follow his pointing arm. A part of her mind registered the clank of the steel gate shutting, the throwing of the lock. The insect bite burned, and a hot tingle spread toward her shoulder.
So, this was defeat.
She had always imagined death would come at the end of some criminal’s sword during a battle for a worthwhile cause. Never had she pictured dying amongst strangers, forgotten by the world. Was anyone even wondering where she was? She had no family in the city, but surely some of her enforcer comrades would be curious why she had disappeared from work without a word.
What about Sicarius? Would he wonder what was happening to her? No, he had predicted she would end up in the dungeon. And why not? She was an amateur next to him. She had walked into Hollowcrest’s office without any sort of plan. What had she expected would happen? That she would talk her way out of a death sentence and get Hollowcrest to stop drugging Sespian while she was at it?
After a time, Amaranthe grew bored of staring at the ceiling and feeling sorry for herself. She still had a reason to escape. Even if she was going to die, she could tell Sicarius what she had learned.
She staggered to her feet and plucked her hairpins from her sagging bun. The lock was set into the corridor-side of the door, which made it awkward to probe. It only took a moment to discover her pins were too large to reach the tumblers in the back. Opening that door would take a key or a professional set of lockpicks. She had neither.
While mulling her next act, she took some water to the men on the cots.
They smelled of urine and sweat, and cracks like canyons marred their lips. The men were an unsettling preview of her own last hours, and she wanted to crawl into the corner as far from them as possible. Instead, she tried to get them to drink. One opened his eyes briefly, but stared through her, not at her. She took his hand. With the splotchy rashes covering his skin, it felt like rust-licked metal under a summer sun. She fumbled for something comforting to say. All she could think of was how soon this would be her.
A smooth patch on the man’s hand drew her attention. She rotated his arm. A gang brand marked his skin. The Panthers. He was one of Mitsy’s. Amaranthe checked the other two men. They bore brands for the Black Arrows, another gang in the city.
“They’re using our own people,” she whispered, chilled.
One of the men sighed, exuding tangible pain.
“I’m sorry I can’t do anything for you,” Amaranthe said.
She wished for a book or something to read aloud to them. The thought triggered the memory of the note she had stolen from Hollowcrest’s office. She dug it from her pocket.
Hollowcrest, you said the emperor was under your control. Your puppet hasn’t made any of the changes we discussed, primarily to exempt key businesses from taxes in order to foster growth. Forge also demands a voice in the government. The empire is a defunct warrior aristocracy out of touch with the modern world. Your recalcitrance forces us to make threats. If the emperor does not pass the laws we have requested, he will be eliminated during his birthday celebration. The people will not accept you as a ruler. Since Sespian is the only Savarsin left who claims royal blood through both paternal and maternal lines, he is the only legitimate heir. His death will create civil war, giving us the opportunity to back a more amenable prospect.
How do we go forward? The choice is yours.
—Forge
Amaranthe slowly folded the note and returned it to her pocket. She dropped her chin to her chest. Not only was Sespian being drugged, but his very life was at stake.
She could not imagine Hollowcrest giving in to those demands, not after that lecture he had given her. He was warrior caste through and through, and he would only raise his hackles at the idea of government power for businesses. But if he did not give in to this Forge group, the emperor’s life could be forfeit.
Amaranthe slammed her palm against the wall. I can’t die now.
More than ever, she had to escape and warn Sicarius. If the emperor truly meant something to him, perhaps he could be counted on to pass on this information to someone with clout. Even if she died, perhaps the ripples from the pebble she tossed in the lake would create change by the time they reached the shore.
But first, escape.
Footsteps in the hallway spurred hope. She slid her hairpins under a cot, and edged close to the gate, poised if an opportunity came.
Unfortunately, there were a lot of footsteps. Hollowcrest came into view first, and then the four guards crowded behind him. Too many.
Hollowcrest unlocked the gate. “Search her.”
Guards flowed in. Two grabbed her arms, while the other two rummaged through her pockets and more personal places. They found the note. Amaranthe sighed as they took it. Now, even if she escaped, she had lost the only physical evidence that Hollowcrest was manipulating the emperor and that Sespian was in danger.
“Is there anything you don’t have your fingers in?” Hollowcrest asked.
“I’ve been trying to broaden my interests of late,” she said. “Since I’ve learned how dangerous it can be to blindly follow the orders of men you grew up thinking you could trust.”
“Take anything else she could use to escape,” Hollowcrest said.
They took her enforcer identification, her money, Sespian’s bracelet, and the key to her flat. She watched Hollowcrest to see if that bracelet would mean anything to him, but he let the guards remove it without an eye flicker.
He shut the gate with a clang. The lock clicked, and Hollowcrest led his men away.
Amaranthe threw her back against the bars and glared about the room. “All right,” she whispered to herself. “Nothing’s changed. I still have to escape.”
She checked the stove, but only a useless layer of ash lined the firebox. A narrow pipe exited the top and disappeared into the ceiling. The hole would not be wide enough to crawl through if she dismantled the stovepipe.
The cabinets were locked, but the mechanisms were simpler than the ones securing the door. She found a hairpin and soon defeated them. Empty canisters, a spool of surgical thread, and stacks of papers rested on shelves inside. Nothing particularly useful.
Her hand brushed against one of the jars holding the odious bugs. She jerked her arm away with a horrified yank. Then she snorted and relaxed. No reason to be afraid of them now.
Amaranthe paused. “No reason for me to be afraid of them.”
The beginnings of an idea percolated through her mind. There were a total of four glass jars, each with a wing-flapping, tail-flicking bug inside. Amaranthe spun out some thread and tied the jars together, leaving a long leash dangling. She placed them on top of the cabinet near
the cell door. Next, she found an empty canister with a lid and scooped ashes from the stove into it. Thus prepared, she pushed herself up to sit on the counter under the jars. She clutched the thread leash in one hand and rested the canister next to her thigh, where it could not be seen from the gate.
Several hours would pass before the surgeon returned. She could only hope she retained the ability to act when the time came.
The awkward position and the knowledge of impending death made sleep inaccessible. Waiting had none of the distracting qualities of plotting an escape or trying to draw information out of Hollowcrest. One of the sick men stopped breathing during the night. The pained wheezing of the others finally cracked Amaranthe’s stoicism, and she wept quietly. Whether for them or herself or both, she did not know. The tears felt strangely cool on her cheeks. I have a fever already, she realized numbly.
In the morning, the surgeon’s voice drifted down the corridor. She checked the thread wound around her hand.
Two men stopped before the gate. Amaranthe, staring at the floor, saw them at the edge of her vision. The surgeon and a single guard, carrying a repeating crossbow. She feigned a stupor. She was not a threat; at least, that’s what she wanted them to think.
Amaranthe waited until the surgeon unlocked the gate and pushed it open.
She yanked on the thread.
The jars crashed down, and glass shattered as they hit the concrete floor. The surgeon and the guard blinked in confusion at first. Then an angry buzz educated the silence. Realization came to the surgeon first, and she smiled with grim satisfaction as a bug flew at his face. His eyes widened and he leaped backwards, smashing into the guards who did not yet understand the ramifications of the broken glass.
Amaranthe jumped to her feet and lunged for the exit. She grabbed a fistful of ash from her canister and threw it at their faces. The surgeon paid her little heed except to swat at the ash and run back the way he had come.
“The bugs are out, you idiots!” he called over his shoulder.
The guards, finally realizing the danger, raced after the surgeon.
Amaranthe paused only long enough to slam the lid onto the canister, then ran the other way. She headed deeper into the dungeon, hoping her captors would expect her to go up instead of down. Numerous shouts rang from the direction of the stairs. No, she would never escape that way. She wished she could stop to free the other prisoners, but she had neither keys nor time. The virus-laden insects might delay pursuit, but only temporarily.
After a few turns, ancient stone replaced the whitewashed concrete walls. The gas lamps ended, but a rack with a few lanterns provided a means to travel deeper. She grabbed one and considered destroying the others, but figured the task would take her more time than it bought.
Deeper she went, the lantern doing little to drive back the shadows. Perhaps it was for the best. The glimpses of ancient torture implements, rusty wall shackles, and rat feces did nothing to hearten her. Staleness competed with mildew to taint the damp air.
Under what circumstances, she wondered, had Sicarius spent time down here?
At each intersection, Amaranthe tilted her head and tried to feel breezes that might indicate an outside exit. She was putting a lot of trust in Sicarius, a man she barely knew and whose deeds hardly spoke well of him. Whether he had been lying, or her fever-befuddled senses were betraying her, she reached a dead-end before she felt any hint of a draft.
She sniffed liberally around the walls, trying to detect some hint of the outdoors amongst the must and mold. Nothing.
Amaranthe backtracked and tried other passages. The exercise fatigued her. She came to two more dead-ends before a faint breeze brushed her cheek. Voices sounded, not far enough away for comfort. She removed the lid from her canister of ash, yanked her shirt over her mouth and nose, then threw handfuls of the fine gray powder in the air. It assaulted her eyes, and she stepped back, bumping into the wall.
“Hear something?” a man asked nearby.
“She’s down here somewhere.”
“Don’t see why we have to bother searching. Can just wait until the corpse starts to stink and find her then.”
They laughed, and armor and weapons clanked. There might only be two of them, but they were armed. Amaranthe had nothing, not even Sicarius’s dagger. Besides, she doubted she could best a five-year-old in her present condition. This had to work.
She held her breath and squinted through blurry eyes into the cloud of ash, looking for a disturbance.
There.
A draft coming from the floor swirled the cloud at foot level. She groped around the area, searching for a switch or button.
At chest level on the left side, she found a crease in the mortar that depressed when touched. A mechanism ground behind the wall. She winced, sure the guards would hear.
In front of her, a jagged edge detached like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle coming apart. Amaranthe had to set down the lantern and use both hands to open the heavy stone door.
She threw more ash behind her to obscure her footprints. She grabbed her light, stepped inside, and pulled the door shut.
Cobwebs and dust owned the tunnel she entered. Too tired to swat at them, she ran—no, stumbled—straight through. Her clumsy gait evoked resentment; already, this disease was sapping her muscles. Her breath whistled as if she were at the end of a hard run around the lake. She doubted she had much time left where she could do anything useful.
The tunnel ended at a steel grille blocking the passage. Outside, a pink sky filtered through bare, tangled limbs that screened the exit. Amaranthe found a lever to open the grate, and she pushed past the brambles. Thorns clawed at her hands and cheeks. A nearby sign read SEWER ACCESS POINT.
She snorted. Sure.
She stumbled forward, looking for a path out, and hoping she could make it to the lake without running into the enforcers. Strange to think those who should have been her allies would now be foes. When Hollowcrest learned of her escape, he would surely place a reward on her head. What crime would he make up to put on her wanted poster? Releaser of Deadly Bugs, reward 5,000 ranmyas. Cutter of Hollowcrest’s Arm, reward 10,000 ranmyas. Although, since he knew she was destined to die from the disease, he might not bother sending out search parties or alerting the enforcers. Too bad. She would rather be wanted than dead.
All she could do was make it to the lake and hope Sicarius would be there so she could deliver her message. After that...
She swallowed grimly. After that, it would not matter.
* * * * *
Dusk found Amaranthe curled on her side on a park bench beside the lake. Fevered and numb, breathing shallow, she didn’t recognized the black boots at first. Sicarius squatted on his heels beside her head. She had wanted to tell him something. What was it? Shattered pieces of thought flitted through her mind, too elusive a puzzle to fit together. She just remembered they were important.
“Emperor...Hollow—” She licked cracked lips. Speaking was too hard. She drew a shuddering breath between each word. “Forge...assassin...ation. Can’t...celebration. Tell...someone.”
Amaranthe panted, fighting to get out more words. The effort devoured her remaining strength. Darkness crept into her vision. She tried to push it back, but it overwhelmed her, and she lost consciousness.
Chapter 7
Pain pulsed behind Sespian’s eyes. The words on the page blurred and danced. The medical journal from the Kyatt Islands was written in a language he wasn’t fluent in, but Kyattese used the same alphabet as Turgonian, and he had a language dictionary to reference. The translating should not be so hard.
Sespian slammed his pen down and grabbed his hair. What was wrong with him?
“Problem, Sire?” came a voice from the doorway.
Hollowcrest strolled into the library with a handful of papers. He stopped next to the table. Under his feet sprawled a massive floor medallion that depicted the muscled bulk of Agroth, the founder of Turgonia an
d the first emperor. From Sespian’s viewpoint, it looked like the ancient warrior’s sword tip was poking Hollowcrest in the ass—a rather pleasant notion.
“No,” Sespian said.
“Why are you reading that?” Hollowcrest frowned down at the book.
“I’m trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. When I woke up, the surgeon said nothing, but people my age aren’t supposed to collapse on the steps of their homes for no reason.” Now, if Hollowcrest pitched down some stairs, that’d be more understandable, but the lean old gargoyle would probably live forever.
“Yes, we should discuss that.” Hollowcrest slid into the chair across the table. “Surgeon Darrik was reluctant to speak his findings to you, but he confided in me.”
“Did he.” Sespian leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and eyed Hollowcrest.
“He was concerned you might not take his findings well and didn’t want to deliver them himself.”
A flutter vexed Sespian’s stomach. “What findings?”
Hollowcrest set down his papers, propped his elbows on the desk, and steepled his fingers. “There is a possibility—we don’t know for certain, mind you—that you have a brain tumor.”
The utter silence in the library made it possible for Sespian to hear his breaths quicken. “No.” He stared at his notes without seeing them. “No, I don’t believe that. I’m not that sick. I’ll be fine. I’m sure it’s just...”
What? He had no idea. That was the problem.
“We’re not certain, so there’s always hope it’ll be something less problematic.” An attempt at a sympathetic smile creased Hollowcrest’s weathered face. “It would explain your headaches, though, and your fainting episode.”
“I didn’t faint, I passed out in a manly way,” Sespian muttered. “I’m probably not getting enough exercise or the right kind of food. Or something. I’m sure it’s not a tumor. The whole idea is just ludicrous. I’m too young. I haven’t done anything I wanted to do yet. I...” He barely heard his own words. He couldn’t believe this.
