by K A Riley
Brushing aside the lengths of her red and gold silk robe, Harah crosses her legs at the ankle and presses her fingertips to her knees. Her fingernails are polished in red with a small white dot in the center of each one. “And you thought you’d just march into my palace and steal it?”
“Well, maybe borrow it?”
“It didn’t occur to you to ask for it? File a formal petition?”
“We didn’t know that was an option.”
“It’s not.”
“We were told no one outside the palace ever gets to use it,” I chime in.
“And you always believe what you’re told?”
“Rarely, actually,” I admit.
Harah sits back and absently twists a thin, neatly pleated braid of her coppery red hair around her finger. The glass crown on her head shifts a little to the side and throws off a sparkle of reflected light from its clusters of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. “It so happens that in this case, what you were told is true. We keep the Alternator to ourselves, and we never let it out of this palace.”
“But what about—?”
Harah cuts me off with a raised hand. “If you’re going to suggest sharing it, may I offer you the opportunity to think that through.”
“We’ve thought it through,” Rain snaps before lightening her tone and holding up her hands like she’s trying to slow herself down. “It’s your right to do what you want with the Alternator. Your…um, majesty.” Harah smiles and nods for Rain to continue. “But the ultimate right thing to do…the best thing for our friend, for everyone, is to share it.”
Harah’s smile retreats from the corners of her mouth and is replaced by a condescending smirk. “Really? Share it. Those are pretty principled words coming from a pack of thieves and a—what did you call yourselves?—a conspiracy? How long do you suppose it would be before the Alternator fell into selfish hands? Or power-hungry hands? Or desperate or stupid or just plain old evil hands? Conflicts would happen, wars would be waged, and everyone would suffer. We keep the Alternator to ourselves to prevent all that.”
I really want to argue with her, but I decide against it for two reasons. First, she’s kind of right. Even as kids in the Valta, when the only thing that mattered was our cooperative fight for survival, disagreements still sprung up over the dumbest things. Blanket and pillow allowances. Who got assigned to which duty more than the next person. How much space we were allowed to have around our cots.
The second reason I choose to bite my tongue is the two knife-wielding boys flanking me on either side. They’re not very big, but with their venomous eyes and considering the anger ridges permanently carved into their foreheads, they don’t look like they have much of a sense of humor when it comes to uninvited intruders and would-be thieves second-guessing their queen.
“So what now?” Cardyn asks, puffing up his chest and trying not to show his nerves.
A girl off to the side steps forward, lowering her sword until it’s two inches from Cardyn’s neck. “Now, we kill you.”
“We’re not savages here, Bethany,” Harah scowls at the girl. She waves her away before returning her searing, green-eyed gaze back to us. “On the contrary, we adhere to the strictest codes of chivalric conduct.”
“What’s that mean?” Rain asks.
“It means you’ll be given a chance to prove your worth before I cast final judgement.”
Harah claps her hands, and a small crew of boys and girls in purple and white striped robes drags four high-backed, intricately engraved, and delicately ornamented chairs over and sets them up behind us. “Please. Sit. No need to be tired before you’re…expired.”
Casting glances around at our captors and at each other, Brohn, Cardyn, Rain, and I ease down onto the soft, velvety cushions of the wide-armed wooden chairs.
“You said we’d have a chance to prove ourselves—,” Brohn begins, his hands clamped onto the chair’s armrests.
“I said you’d have a chance to prove your worth,” Harah corrects him. “There’s a difference between who your Self is and what you’re worth.” She gives us a sweet smile and a wink but then straightens up in her throne. “But we’re not there yet. Manners before murder, right?”
Harah claps her hands and, one by one, introduces us to what she calls her Royal Court.
A line of girls and boys forms to either side of her, facing us in a semi-circle of haughty, nose-in-the-air arrogance.
“I present to you, the Ladies of the Royal Court: Duchess Deirdre. Marchioness Mary. Countess Colleen. Vicountess Vicki. Baroness Babs.”
The five girls—trimly dressed in white pantsuits and black stilettos, purple blazers, and matching purple fedoras—give us a tiny nod before returning their noses to the air as five boys step forward to stand at attention on Harah’s other side.
“And their counterparts, the Lords of the Royal Court: Duke Dave. Marquis Marcus. Earl Earl. Viscount Victor. Baron Bill.”
“They like their alliteration, don’t they?” Cardyn whispers.
Rain elbows him but I catch the corners of her mouth twitching up at the same time.
Harah doesn’t seem to notice as she finishes her grand introductions. As each of the girls and boys steps up one at a time, they curtsey or bow with the overdone regal flourish of kids doing a curtain call at their junior high school musical.
Like the girls, the boys are decked out in white and purple, only reversed, with silk purple pants, black riding boots, white blazers, and matching white fedoras.
They all sport a random assortment of accessories: silver sashes, red and white striped scarves, periwinkle pocket handkerchiefs in the breast pockets of the boys’ jackets, gold broaches, sparkling necklaces, dangling earrings, and multiple bracelets and watches scrunched halfway up their wrists.
“They look like they got caught in a Costume Department explosion,” Cardyn murmurs to me through clenched teeth.
Harah leaps to her feet. “Silence!”
“Sorry.” Cardyn slams himself back into his seat, his cheeks burning pink.
Harah stands and paces in front of her two lines of flamboyant royals. “In the time-honored tradition of royalty sparing the helpless commoners, you shall be given the chance to go free if you pass our tests.”
Brohn risks leaning forward. “Tests? What tests?”
Harah looks him up and down. I don’t know if her mouth is dry or something, but she definitely licks her lips a little as she sizes him up.
“The tests of your worth, of course. The tests to determine if you’re worthy of my forgiveness, or if your crime of breaking into my palace warrants your death.”
Harah snaps her fingers, and a squad of armored knights, their monstrous two-handed swords drawn and glinting in the room’s bright white light, forces us into a line and begins to shuffle-march us out of the room.
The knights, two in all silver, the other two in all red, must be part of the same squad we dispatched in the hedge maze. They’re every bit as big, and, from the growls rumbling out from under their visors, they know what happened out there—what we did to their friends—and they’re not too happy about it.
From behind us, surrounded by the gaudy entourage she calls her Royal Court, Harah barks out orders for the knights to stay focused. Like an owner admonishing four snarling and livid pit bulls, she calls out to them, “Not yet, noble knights! We must obey protocol. But rest assured, your fellows will be avenged!”
I don’t know where we’re going, what Harah has in mind for us, or what form the knights’ vengeance might take, but either way, I’m definitely not ready for it.
27
Food Chain
On the way out, Cardyn rubs his hands together and pumps his fist in pretend celebration. “Oh goody. Tests. And all that happens is that we get killed if we don’t pass.”
Brohn gives him gruff orders to knock it off.
A crew of two girls and a boy in red robes with white belts and matching shoes leads the way. Young and eager, they keep getti
ng too far ahead and Harah or one of the members of her Royal Court—the round-bodied, long-haired girl she introduced as Countess Colleen—has to keep whistling through her fingers or clapping her hands at them to call them back.
Walking between us, with me and Brohn on one side of her and Cardyn and Rain on the other, Harah tilts her chin in the direction of the three kids. “Those are my Attendants-in-Waiting. Page, Squire, and Steward. Such an impatient lot.”
In addition to the three scampering kids, we’re flanked on either side through the palace hallways by the four knights, two on each side of our procession, in full armor—helmets, boots, riveted gauntlets, steel chest-plates, lances, swords, shields…everything. The floorboards underfoot shudder under the weight of all that shifting and clanking equipment.
“Personal security detail?” I venture to ask, trying hard to keep the snark out of my voice.
Harah doesn’t seem offended, though. “These are my Bodyguards of the Honourable Corps of Gentlemen-at-Arms. It was their two brothers—Sir Edward and Sir Steven—whom you met in the maze.” Harah holds her hands about a foot apart in front of her. “Sir Steven is still in the infirmary with bandages this thick around his neck.”
Cardyn makes a clicking sound with his tongue. “Does everyone here have a title?”
“Everyone everywhere has a title,” Harah says. “In the end, it’s how we define ourselves, isn’t it? It’s all we really have.”
Rain crinkles her nose, an act which Harah is sharp-eyed enough to catch out of the corner of her eye. As we pass a cluster of kids huddled together on a curving, carpeted staircase, she asks if Rain disagrees.
“I like to think we’re more than just our titles,” Rain admits.
“And what title are you? What do you call yourselves?”
Rain shrugs.
Brohn rubs his hand along his jaw before saying, “Like Cardyn said, we’re a Conspiracy.”
“That you are.”
“No,” Cardyn offers in an attempt to clarify, “We’re Emerg—,” but I cut him off with a subtle but sharp elbow to the ribs.
“We’re travelers,” I tell her.
Harah gives me a wide, white smile. “Travelers. I like that.”
We exit the palace through a set of gold-plated doors. Harah’s Attendants-in-Waiting continue scampering ahead, leading us along a winding walkway of polished paving stones.
We pass more clusters of kids as we go. Like the others, they’re dressed in combinations of colorful silks and sturdy canvas fabrics. Here and there, a few of them are in modern clothes. They’re the ones who step back and avert their eyes as we pass. I get the sense that these are the ones who are somehow on the bottom rung of this feudal social ladder.
We’re just passing through a wide field of patchy brown grass and then over a hill, when we come to a stop at the edge of a narrow, murky stream.
Inviting us forward, Harah’s voice rises with an air of regal formality blended with the over-the-top enthusiasm of a game show host. “This might be the beginning of the next leg of your journey, Travelers. Or it might be the end of the road. The trials will determine your destiny.”
She points to a spot about fifteen yards away where a small island—which I realize is actually the silver, smashed-in roof of an old, flattened truck—is sitting in the middle of the crawling water.
Harah signals for a boy who comes bounding up, dressed like a little butler. “Bring me the test kit.”
Adjusting his matching purple bow tie and food-stained cummerbund, the boy scampers over to a hedge by a low stone wall where three wooden crates, each about the size of a living room storage stool, are lined up. He flips open the top hatch of the first box and reaches inside.
Cardyn elbows me. “I’m guessing this isn’t lunch.”
“You really need to stop thinking with your stomach.”
“I can’t help it. Inevitable torture and death always make me hungry.”
“Breathing makes you hungry.”
Over at the crate, the boy withdraws a bulky sack that shifts and rattles as he runs it over to the page named Page.
Cardyn’s lip trembles. “There better not be a snake in there.”
I point down at the trail of tiny kernels decorating the ground. “I think it’s seeds.”
The little butler boy bolts back to the second box, lifts the lid, and withdraws a brown-spotted, orange-billed duck, which clacks and squirms as he runs it over to the page called Squire.
Brohn and I exchange a look as the boy scurries over to the third box, lifts the lid, and reaches down to pluck out a feral cat. Its fur is shaggy in places and spikey in others, and it doesn’t seem too happy about being handled. It hisses and tries to claw at the boy, who runs back and places it, with delicate care but great firmness, in the hands of the page named Steward.
“Maybe Card’s right,” Brohn suggests. “Maybe this is their idea of lunch.”
“It’s your first test!” Harah bellows. I’m sure she means to sound powerful and menacing, but she’s a little too pretty and sweet-looking to carry it off. She may have something terrible in her heart, but at least she has kind eyes. I get the feeling she’d make a good friend if it weren’t for the fact that she’s turning out to be such a potentially deadly psychopath.
She strides up to the water’s edge and turns back to face all of us. “You need to get all three of these members of the food chain—the seeds, the duck, and the cat—over to that island. Who among you will accept the challenge? Which among you shall be nominated as your champion?”
“The water doesn’t look too deep or fast,” Brohn says to me, pointing to what’s essentially a tea-colored creek. “You can kind of see the bottom. We’ve crossed way worse than this.” With a dismissive grunt, he steps forward. “No problem. Pass them to me, and I’ll have them across in no time.”
Harah holds up a hand. “Actually, Traveler, there are problems. You see, this test has certain rules by which you must abide: You can only take one item across at a time. The food chain must survive. No part of the chain can be allowed to eat any other part. If you take the cat and leave the duck and the seeds together here on shore, the duck will eat the seeds. If you take the seeds across and leave the cat and the duck together here, the cat will eat the duck.”
“Fine,” Brohn says through a self-satisfied smile. “I’ll take the duck first. That will leave the cat here with the seeds, so no problem, right?”
“Except which will you take over next?”
“What do you mean?”
“If you take the duck first and then bring the cat, the cat will eat the duck on the island. If you take the seeds next and come back, the duck will eat the seeds on the island. Either way, the chain will be broken…as will my faith in your worth.”
Brohn pauses, frozen in thought. Cardyn looks to me for an answer to this impossible problem, but I’m as lost as he is. Harah’s right. She gave us a no-win death trap and, on behalf of all of us, Brohn just heroically stepped right into it.
Rain nudges me and whispers, “I’ve got it.”
“Whatever you’ve got,” Cardyn whispers from my other side, “don’t give it to me.”
“I don’t have a disease, Sweet Potato,” Rain mumbles. “I have the answer. I know how Brohn can do it.”
Rain whips around to face Harah. “Do I have your permission to consult with Brohn?”
Harah suppresses a grin, I’m guessing at Rain’s obvious attempt at formality, and then nods.
Rain tugs Brohn over and pulls him down far enough so she can whisper into his ear.
Straightening up, Brohn smiles and tells Harah he’s ready for the test.
She tells him he may begin, and Brohn slips out of his long jacket, which he lets crumple to the ground at Harah’s feet.
Scooping the duck out of Squire’s arms, he steps gingerly into the water and then, with long strides and high knees, sets out for the crushed and nearly submerged truck. It’s really not far and fortunately, as Br
ohn predicted, the water’s not deep. He’s there in just a few seconds as the rest of us look on.
With his pants and the bottom of his white linen shirt dark and heavy with water, he sloshes back through the thigh-high creek and clambers up onto the rocky bank. After a quick look over at Rain and a thumb’s up at her nod of approval, he takes the cat from Steward and heads back into the river.
The cat, once hissing and hostile, settles down in Brohn’s arms. It’s as if his confidence and strength double as a soft, thick security blanket for the once restless animal.
I know the feeling.
“But if he takes the cat over, it’ll eat the duck!” Cardyn exclaims.
I frown and nod, but Rain smiles. “Wait.”
Out on the so-called island, Brohn eases the cat gingerly down to the rusted surface of corrugated steel and then gathers up the duck and heads back toward us, leaving the cat on the roof of the truck to prowl around by itself, its ears and tail twitching angrily at the water burbling up around it.
Brohn hands the clacking, head-bobbing duck to Squire and takes the sack of seeds from Page. With the sack slung over his shoulder, he makes a wet march back to the island where he drops the seeds. The cat noses at the bag before going back to licking itself.
Plowing his way through the creek, Brohn strides right up to Squire, takes the duck back from her, and brings it over to the island where he stands in slightly wobbly triumph on the roof of the truck. He’s got the cat next to one foot, the seeds next to the other, and the green-billed duck paddling its leathery orange feet but otherwise nestled securely in his arms.
Rain squeals and throws her arms into the air. At first, I think the guard behind her just stabbed her with his sword, but Rain cries out, “He did it! He got them over to the island, and no one ate anyone else! The food chain’s intact!”
Harah’s people all stare at her in a moment of what appears to be awed silence. I haven’t figured out if Rain’s solution makes sense, but I trust her and I’ve known her long enough to know that if she says she’s got a solution to a riddle, puzzle, or problem, it’s probably right.
