by Jo Zebedee
Christophe cleared his throat. “The pictures of you...” His cheeks flamed red, contrasting with his greying beard, and it was hard to tell who was more embarrassed.
She bit back an apology. She was done apologising for who she was. “They were taken without my knowledge,” she said.
“Quite.” He gave a quick nod. “I will abide many things in politics, but I won’t stand over smear campaigns.” He nodded, almost absently. “I’m glad you were able to explain about the leaks. I found it hard to reconcile that with you.”
Sonly nearly stopped – only someone behind catching her heel reminded her to keep walking. Christophe’s stoicism was famous. It was rumoured he’d last cracked a smile about two decades ago, and that may have just been a cough. And as for voicing a clear opinion….
“I’m grateful for the support,” she said. She paused, wondering if she dared push further, and then decided she must. Too much was hanging on tonight. “Why have you supported me, if I may ask? You’ve never liked my politics.”
“I never liked your approach,” he said, his voice prim. “You rely too much on the people and not enough on policy.” They were speeding up, carried by the crowd. “If you must know, my father was Bendau’s mayor when the Empress came to power. She removed him by blackening his name to the city.”
“The allegations were false?” she asked. She knew about the scandal, of course. That it had involved a tribal girl ensured it had a notoriety mentioned in most histories of the town. But she’d never known what lay behind it.
“That’s not what matters.” He looked deeply uncomfortable.
The rumours were true, then. But so were the pictures of her and Jake, and they still told a lie. She nodded her understanding, closing the matter.
“What matters is you have my full support. Whatever happens tonight, the Senate will stand firm: that I will see to.” He gave a sly smile. “Harald was voted off this evening by the interior council, as were other members of the Empress’ faction – your return gave the council the faith to do so. I hope you don’t disappoint.”
No pressure, then. “I won’t.”
They stopped in front of the palace gates, both crowds merging into one. Her own picture was on many of the pennants, she realised. That sort of thing used to happen to Kare, his face being used in places he hadn’t authorised. He’d hated it, but she’d always envied him for being in position to be used. Now she understood how he felt – it wasn’t the notoriety, but the expectation. She wanted to tell the crowd they had it wrong, that it was the whole Senate they needed to promote, not just her. She stopped herself, remembering her advice to Kare over the years: that people needed a person to trust, not a legislature. This time she was that person. It was up to her to meet it as well as he had, day after hated day.
She held her hands up, waiting for the holo-recorders to come closer. When they had, she called out, her voice ringing, “The Senate has returned.” A yell grew, from those closest and those at the back, giving her more confidence. “Tell your friends! We’ll take our protest to the gates of the palace. To the Empress herself. The time has come to return our city to where it should be.”
She faced the palace. At any moment, surely the gates would open and her rebellion would be cut down. The bitch knew what she could do with the Senate behind her, and not to underestimate her: it was why she’d tried to silence Sonly. But the soldiers behind the gates stood firm. They knew the crowd couldn’t breach the great gates and take the palace. No crowd ever had, not since the Empress had taken the city with her tribal army.
The soldiers manning the protest were edgier, though, their hands on their weapon butts, their shields raised and ready. They could feel the passion of the crowd. They were beginning to see this wasn’t a normal political rally that could be held back by the daunting prospect of what lay beyond the gates. More people joined her crowd, coming from the old quarter, the merchants’ village, rich and the poor alike, come to reclaim what they’d voted for – freedom, equality, a voice. Her.
***
Lichio stood in the shadows at the bottom of Josef’s embassy’s garden, Simone beside him. The conservatory where he and Josef had sat, night after night in a private world of their own, was dark and silent.
The sound of cheers came from the boulevard: Sonly’s name was chanted over and over again. He met Simone’s eyes and managed not to swear. Instead, he grimaced. “I told her not to overstretch herself.”
Simone smiled. She seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself, back in the thick of things. “She doesn’t appear overstretched. You should be pleased.”
“You think so?” He gave a short laugh. It was good to see Sonly with the fire back in her. He’d been afraid, seeing her on Ferran, that it was quashed forever. “You aren’t the one who’ll have to listen to this being recounted for the rest of your days.” He turned his attention away from Sonly; she did seem to have things in hand. And, if she didn’t, there was nothing he could do. “I want every operative you have to meet me at the tribal graveyard by the moat.”
“Yes, sir.” She was the only person he knew who could put a smile in her voice. “We’re going in, then?”
Lichio looked at the palace’s white walls looming over him. Had Kare reached his mother yet? Was he already fighting for his life, or still searching? He gave a firm nod. “Yes. We’re going in.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Kare hit the door with his shoulder and crashed into the bedroom, Kym behind him. The time for subtlety, for hiding, was over. His mother was there, as he’d known she would be, framed against the bay window. Her back was turned to them. Kym brought her rifle up and aimed; he unholstered his blaster, kneeling. Neither could miss.
Heavy boots sounded. Her guards were coming. He set a smoke-grenade off. It wreathed, surrounding him and Kym. Kym’s shot rang out, his next, and then Kym again, shot after shot. Her scope stayed fixed on his mother; the smoke would make no difference. There was a crash as the window shattered.
Their shots ended, leaving only silence. He barely dared breathe as the quiet stretched on. The window his mother had been standing at was gone. They must have found their target.
No movement came from her end of the room. His shoulders went down, and he got to his feet. He’d actually done it: taken his mother before she was ready.
He started to cross the room. Sounds came from outside, dulled by the smoke, but the name was unmistakable. Voices, calling over and over for Sonly, and that made no sense – she was on Ferran. A thought began to occur – that Sonly had never been good at doing nothing – and he hurried towards the window, alert for any movement.
A familiar touch at the edge of his senses made him stop. It stroked him, gloating. Strong and unbroken. His breathing turned harsh and a chill washed through him, one of terror, made stronger by her knowledge of it. Of him. Behind, Kym gave a strangled choke.
“You came,” said his mother, her voice smooth. “Your wife landed an hour ago, and her brother.” Lichio and Sonly? He wanted it not to be true, for her to be lying, but he’d heard the crowd. If Sonly was here, Lich would have come. “It stood to reason you were in the city.”
She stepped through the smoke, untouched by the gunfire, a smile on her face. Damn her, she’d been ready for him, already shielded. He’d been a fool to think otherwise. He knew, without looking, that her personal escort would be behind him, blocking any escape.
He composed his face, refusing to give in to his fear. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do but face her.
***
If Lichio never saw the culvert of the moat at Abendau palace again, it’d be too soon. Only weeks before, he’d clambered through it to escape, now he was crawling under the old arch, past the grille he’d forced, and back into the freezing water. He heard a splash and sharp intake of breath behind him – when this was over, he really needed to get Simone a nice desk job. She deserved it after all the crap he’d thrown at her over the years.
He splashed o
ut of the moat before it entered the main channel, and leaned down, letting Simone take his arm to pull herself out. He led the way through the gardens, keeping to the shadows. He was sick of shadows, too.
The tribal burial ground was ahead, an ancient church-land that preceded the palace by generations, part of the now-flooded original building. It lay in the most secret part of the garden, not open to the public or visitors.
He stepped through an arch, set into the red-stone wall, and stopped in a small square of cleared ground. No plants or false water here, just tombs of red stone surrounding him in the darkness.
The night was utterly silent. Anytime he’d been here – not often, as even in the daylight the place was eerie and old – it had been quiet. No birds, no wind, nothing but the unshaded sun beating down on its dead people.
“Where’s your team?” His whisper seemed to carry, unmuffled by trees or the running water.
“At the west wall.” Simone went to move past him, but he caught her arm.
“Wait.” The silence held. No desert-mice moved. No bats swooped. “Don’t rush into anything.”
He strained his eyes, but there was nothing out of place. Satisfied, he moved through the burial ground. If his team were here, that would be enough to send the mice into their hiding places.
He reached the west wall of the square. The wall had a small cairn inset within it; Ankshara, the first of the elders to be buried in Abendau. His operatives – a group of five – stood alongside it, lined along the wall. He sent a silent thanks and strode up to them.
“Sir,” said one. His eyes flashed a warning, and Lichio slowed. “Ru—”
A squad of palace guards emerged from the dark shadows of the tombs. Lichio’s hand was already on his blaster even as his eyes took in the number emerging.
“Step forward, General,” said their captain.
Mouth dry, Lichio moved away from Simone. There were too many for him, a whole squad. He dropped his hand from his blaster, brought it up to his pocket, seeking a grenade, a proton-burst, a star-bomb, anything.
He was grabbed and twisted, his legs kicked from under him so that he fell, sprawling. A soldier landed on his back, knocking the air from his lungs. He tried to kick, but his legs were taken, sharp shig-wire digging into his skin and tightening as he fought. His hands were pulled back and cuffs put on. Hard hands pulled him to his feet and gave nowhere for him to go.
“Take him to the cells,” the captain spat. “We’ll deal with him after.”
After what, he wanted to ask, but was marched away too quickly.
***
“I came, Mother.” Kare forced himself to step forwards, but she held a hand up and he stopped. He tried to force himself towards her again, teeth gritted, but couldn’t move. Kym fell to her knees beside the door with a low groan. She cradled her rifle against her, her tight fingers the only defiance.
“No further.” The Empress was calm, unruffled, holding him with no effort. He closed his eyes and sought inwards. There was no response from either the mesh or Kerra. He squeezed his hands into fists, letting pain sharpen his thoughts. Kerra: I need the mesh.
Nothing. He opened his eyes and faced his mother. It wasn’t just his power she could sense: it was the shape of his mind, his focus on her. How long had she known he was coming for her?
A line of soldiers pushed past him. He held his head high, calculating. If he grabbed his mother, set his weapon to her, they wouldn’t shoot. His muscles tensed, ready, but he held where he was. Damn, she was strong.
“It won’t be clean,” the Empress said. The chill in him turned to ice. His breath was harsh in the room, driven by barely held panic. “It won’t be quick, either.” She gave a soft laugh. “Nor for le Payne, making his way through the grounds. Or your wife, who thinks bringing a rabble will be enough to stop me.”
His mother was going to take everyone he loved and hurt them, and he could do nothing. Useless again. He should never have tried this. She knew it; she was enjoying his thoughts. He could see it in her face, feel it in her touch. He glared at her, trying to free himself, but she gave him no chance. Instead, she increased her hold.
“Take him,” said the Empress.
It wouldn’t be quick. Her words came back. This time, if he lost himself, there’d be no return. He’d die not enough of a man to care. “No.” His voice was a whisper, squeezed from his tight throat. He’d promised himself he would die first, not be anyone’s dog again. He thought of Beck, and the memory of the sadistic bastard – dead, but stalking his dreams – moved him, where nothing else could; he had to fight.
“Woods!” he said, the word squeezed past his mother’s hold. Sweat broke along his brow, but he’d done this before, resisted her without his power. “You said you never missed.” She tried to stir, but fell back.
“She never took Silom’s mind,” he said. The Empress increased her hold on him. His throat clogged with effort. “She stole everyone else’s, but not Silom’s. Fight. Like he did.”
A soldier grabbed his arm. His other wrist was pulled behind his back. He wrenched forwards. “Come on! Fight, Woods!”
A light came into her eyes, something of the determined look he was used to. His arm was twisted, the blaster taken from him. He was pulled back. He dug his heels in. “Fight her!”
Somehow, Kym climbed to her feet, her rifle held high. The Empress’ power flexed – focused and deadly. Her soldiers raised their weapons.
“Bitch!” Kare yelled, staggering forwards, taking the attention from Kym. “Look at me, you bitch! Look what you’ve left.” Gods, it was hard, fighting her. He wanted to drop to his knees and give up. “One son, who’ll die standing for everything you abhor.” His father hadn’t given in to her. “No Empire, not with Sonly down there.” Sonly, too – she’d always resisted. The thought of her strengthened him. “No heir to carry it forward – the children hate you as much as I do.”
Kym made a gagging noise. It wasn’t working. His mother knew him in the way only they understood each other. She wouldn’t be diverted. She raised her hand, eyes on Kym. “Take her.”
A laser beam passed in front of Kare, a deadly needle, and Kym cried out.
“No!” Hands held him. He tried to dive for her. Kym fell, her tunic burned through. Her hand clutched her rifle. They’d have to prise it from her.
The Empress turned to the window, her hand going to her throat. Kare felt it too, a new presence, something as strong as his mother, as determined as her, as cold as her. Something familiar. Gods. He fell back against his captor, stunned.
A shot blasted. Kym was on her knees, face screwed in pain. The Empress’ guard responded, the gunfire deafening. Kare broke free and stumbled forwards into the line of fire; he’d go down, here and now, and give Kym another few seconds to finish the job. She rolled to the side, firing all the time. A soldier yelled and fell, and then another.
Pain ripped through Kare’s chest. The shot hit with enough force to tear him from his captor’s grasp and send him sprawling. He hit hard against the wall, his arm under him. It gave with a crack. Numbness spread as he slid down the wall. He heard Kym’s yells, saw shots criss-crossing the room. She’d take the Empress for sure.
His breath bubbled and he smiled. He’d cheated his mother; he’d die before she could hurt him. He closed his eyes, accepting the blackness, accepting there was nothing more he could do. Let it end. Let it all end.
Someone joined him in the numbness: his father and sister, sitting either side of him. Silom, too, and Sam. The dead gathered, waiting for him to join them.
“Kill her,” he whispered. “Don’t miss.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The scoot lay on its back, crashed just in front of the gate. Its engine whined and its wheels turned, fruitless. Kerra staggered away and took in the wreck of the gate and the bodies of the soldiers scattered. They’d tried to prevent her getting into the city, she remembered, but everything else was a blurred half-memory of power and screams and shots
going wild. The scoot crashing had scattered the last few soldiers, leaving her free to get off and push her way past the rubble.
A soft groan and some clattering stones proved to be Baelan crawling out from under the scoot. He had a red mark on his cheek, and his hair was sticking up in every direction, but otherwise he looked fine. He brushed red dust off himself and looked at her, his eyes wary. He looked around the gateway, slowly, taking in the bodies strewn like dolls, the rocks that had been brought down.
“Wow.” He blinked, as if dazed. “Remind me to stay on your good side.”
A part of her, hidden deep within, tried to smile, recognising his words as a joke, but the mesh swirled, quicker and stronger, and the recognition of what his words meant fell away. There were no minds in the mesh with her now, just a consciousness. It had a sense of age to it, and a coldness far from the Roamer minds she’d known. What that meant for the Roamers, or if it was only she who’d lost perspective, she didn’t know. Somewhere, a faint part of the old Kerra wanted to get out, but she was buried and tired: the mind was louder, and vengeful. It wanted the Empress. She’d stolen its children.
Soon, she needed to get there soon. Urgency ran through her, making every limb tingle with the need to run. She ran down the street, the city a blur as she powered forwards. Baelan barely kept up. She held her hands out by her sides, wider and wider, as if that would give the power room to move, to be, and the mesh kept growing.
She reached the Grand Boulevard, not caring who saw her. She was untouchable. Ahead, a crowd had gathered, but she didn’t care about that either. She sprinted up the avenue. The palace was just ahead.
A new power met hers and clashed, focused on her. Her grandmother. For a moment fear filtered past the mesh and Kerra slowed, but the mesh surged, sweeping her doubts away. Kerra would show the Empress who was stronger. She’d force the gates of the palace and do what her father had failed to do, what Ealyn hadn’t managed, and take her down.
