Sister Sable (The Mad Queen Book 1)

by T. Mountebank

  Walking to the end of the table, she held it flat against the polished wood and looked severely upon the Count. His face was damp with sweat, and when he spied the bundle on the table, he shivered.

  The Count had never shown his gear to anyone—had never shot up in front of anyone either—but he was well past what a smoke or a snort could fix; he needed to pierce a vein. Barely audible, feeling like he was cringing, he said, “Please, I will take that.”

  But Lilly was hard with disapproval. After several moments of glowering disgust, she opened the roll to prepare the dose herself.

  The black plunger had hardly drawn from the glass vial when Lilly pulled it out. The Count was afraid. He found his voice. “Young lady, five milligrams is not going to cut it. If you would, please, allow me.” And held out his shaking hand.

  “I’m not interested in getting you high, sir. This is enough to keep you from hurting.”

  “I assure you, it’s not.” And then, with as much grace as he could manage, he explained, “I am a thirty-year junkie with the tolerance to prove it. Anything less than twenty and I will vomit in this nice man’s lap.”

  Sable nodded to back him up while Fallon scooted away. The Count had tears in his eyes that had nothing to do with grief, but the sick of withdrawal that ached in his muscles and bones.

  Lilly was staring at Sable, wondering how to address her before giving up entirely and asking with subdued politeness, “Will you please leave the table while this man takes care of his business?”

  The Count sneered, “Why? Do you think it’s going to insult her delicate senses?”

  “No,” Sable explained as she got to her feet, “she thinks you might stab me with it.”

  The Count erupted on Lilly, “I am retching sick over here and you think I’m going to share?”

  Standing beside the General, Sable spoke on the Count’s behalf. “He really will need at least twenty milligrams to be of use. And that’s not nearly enough to make him feel normal. If you had any pity, you would allow him thirty-five.”

  The General’s jaw was tight with what he was hearing, not wanting to imagine how Sable was so familiar, but he spoke evenly, “Captain, give the man a total of twenty milligrams.”

  “Bless you, Marlow. Bless your little red betraying head. I’ll defend you as the most charitable backstabber I have ever known.” Tying off at the table, the Count went for a vein in his arm. Fallon looked to the ceiling, but Lilly coldly stayed on every move. When the Count removed the tourniquet and withdrew the needle, he was derisive, “Not even a head roll from that miser’s portion.”

  The small measure was enough to make him want to speed through the exchange to get rid of them so he could get more. He watched his precious kit leave the table with Lilly and could hardly take his eyes from it when she stopped on the other side of Marlow. But the proximity of something so dear to something so harrowing jolted him. He tried to place the memory of a nightmare, what it was with the sighting of Marlow that made his chest tighten. He wondered if he had actually gone through the convulsed bawling withdrawal on the tiles he remembered, the dark drop into madness with Marlow holding his head, at once tender and yet the intention seemed murderous, as though she intended to solicitously drown him in shadows.

  He was thinking it with no intent of speaking aloud, “There is something about you that is dark and malignant.”

  He felt the memory spasm through him when she returned to lower her head to his ear and whisper a confirming, “Dark as the night.”

  To be free of them, of the heavy gloom that had settled in the room, in his veins, pounding despair through his blood, he would give them what they wanted so he could have what he needed. He explained to Lieutenant Fallon, “The bank’s security is layered. Location verification runs through my cell.” The Count called the electronic bank, “Only certain locations between cell towers are permissible, such as here in the center of Jenevuede, and only from this cell’s identity module. The bank texts back a random question to answer through the laptop. The second security layer is biometric authentication by voiceprint ID linked to this computer, and the final is finger vein identification.”

  Fallon took the cell to read the question aloud, “How do you feel? Seriously? The bank asks that?”

  “One of many hundreds prearranged by myself; no second guesses. Any error and I will be notified, and if I don’t respond, the account will be locked. So, young man, if you are thinking of installing a keylogger on this machine, or any other devious rootkit, allow me to save you time; unless you can do something with biometrics no one else can, your chances of successfully hacking my accounts are zero.”

  Sable concurred, “And repeatedly failing is so disheartening.”

  “I wondered what you knew of it, Marlow. It caused me great inconvenience.” While he spoke, the Count typed an account number into the laptop’s login screen. “After the third reset, I was forced to fly to one of those tiny island nations so loved by us tax evaders but in the middle of a near-empty ocean. Setting it right again cost me several days.” Unable to look at her, he told Fallon, “Now be quiet.” He depressed the microphone and answered the question to the waiting load screen, “I feel more like I did when I came in here than I do now.”

  “Huh,” Fallon nodded. “I don’t know what you just said, but I think you summed it up for all of us.”

  Since he was young, the Count had a knack for seeing through systems, whether it was manipulating the curve of his university’s grading structure or any country’s tax laws, it was all about understanding the weakness to exploit the intended defense. If he wrote code, he would have been a hacker, but instead he shifted money from country to country under inventive corporate accounts, hiding his clients behind nominee directors that never knew what they were signing, or what businesses were linked to their names. He began unraveling President Pavlović’s deposits, following the money from bank to bank. From the first deposit, originating with Pavlović’s Sierran account, to the sham children’s charity on Alowa’s home continent, then over to two more corporations and back to the rebel commander, Mark Ansel, it all ended in General Marič’s account, a private offshore foundation with Marič as treasurer. Fallon saved the whole meandering transaction to an external drive.

  “You have killed me as surely as if you shot me in the head, Marlow.”

  “I’m sorry it has happened like this,” she was sincere. “I’ve not done you any favors, but I have also not yet killed you.” She rubbed her hands against the rough denim of her jeans, feeling guilty for the cooperation she had not quite finished extorting. She took the laptop and accessed the bank holding Radimir’s money in trust. Sliding it back to the Count, she showed him the funds had been released to him. “You have been bought and paid for. You belong to Intelligence Chief Girard now.” To escape the reality of having just enslaved someone to another, she dropped into the Stare, becoming a nun with a heart too slow for remorse. “You will find Girard takes moves against her agents very personal. In addition, she has paid too much to let you die. When she’s done with this fiasco, none of these events will have been about you. It will have been a strike against General Marič, a killing of Radimir for actions against the crown.”

  The Palace

  Sable sat alone in her rooms looking into the distance, into the past, searching for the place that everything went so wrong. The path started splintering after returning to the palace. She had exited the cars in her robes, red braided hair hidden beneath the headdress, looking like a nun. Catherine was waiting, insisting there was no time for Sable to dye her hair black again; the situation in the capital had become unmanageable. Confidant the soldiers would not fire on their own countrymen, Cloitare adherents had pushed into the hospital. The silence of the clergy could be endured no longer. Desperate to confirm the promised future still lived, no amount of mace or force would keep them out. They had surged down the halls demanding information, racing up the stairs to disperse through the floors, looking for
the room under guard, filling the hospital until they confirmed the King was not present. Their patience at an end, it had turned into a riot.

  Ushering Sable through the back of the palace, Catherine pressed a tablet into her hands with words on the screen designed to placate the people. While Sable read, Catherine quickly described the scenes of turmoil, “They set an ambulance on fire, looted the pharmacy, and now they’re hurling medical equipment out the broken windows of the top floor.” Those below in the throng still pushing through the doors were lucky to escape with just broken bones. But with bodies crushed against the walls at the entrance, and the medical staff scattered or hiding, the injured could not be treated in the pandemonium. “The crazies at our gates are being placated with every treat we can offer from the kitchen’s pantries, but you’ve got some red-handed zealots in the plaza who just battered down the back door of the Basilica.” Directing Sable out the front of the palace as though she had been inside all the while, Catherine rolled her eyes at herself for putting the Queen before the public in her Cloitare robes.

  To the few news cameras permitted through the gates, Sable spoke from the top of the stairs.

  “My children, the King is recovering at home with your Queen Mother. Your devotion through this darkest time has given me strength.” Then finding the prepared words offensive in their restraint, Sable cast them aside to speak for herself, “The King I love with absolute devotion has been harmed. We all share the same anger. It is what makes us a family. But as your mother, I am telling you to stay calm. Remain peaceful. Understand your mother’s watchful eye has already seen those responsible. You will witness great changes in the coming days, and you will know, as will they, that the King’s justice recognizes no borders.”

  She had spoken without seeing him first. Here Sable looked closely at the past, seeing tiny hairline fractures begin to emerge.

  But the first real crack dividing the future that might have been from the future that was unfolding revealed itself outside the King’s rooms. The General had stopped her, pulling her back by the arm in the moment before she would enter. He wanted to speak the thoughts that had been troubling him. “Sable, we cannot hold these secrets. We cannot hold them and say we faithfully serve the King. It makes us both liars and deceivers.” His face was set with resolute conviction. “And, while it may not be the worst, it bothers me the most: it is completely inappropriate for you and I to be sharing the same secret.”

  Sable spoke softly to settle the distress. “We leave words unspoken to save the King’s life.” As the General began to shake his head in strong denial, Sable explained, “Let us remove ourselves to get a bit of perspective. We will make it about another person, Catherine, for instance. If there were something Remy might learn of Catherine that would cause him to lose all trust in her, yet this secret did not harm him, would it not be wiser to stay silent and allow him the full benefit of her skills? Her protection of the King knows no limit. Should he be denied this for the sin of omission?” While the General’s expression showed he was considering it, Sable continued, “If Remy learned all the secrets kept by his advisors, he would have no advisors left. And then he would be in greater peril than any secret could have caused.”

  “You may be right, but the man has a right to choose. It is his life. I would not want anyone concealing from me information that could get me killed, especially not for the sake of trying to save my life. Not only do I have a right to know, I would likely have a better idea of how to deal with it. To do anything less makes a man seem incompetent.”

  In both their arguments, Sable could hear the truth. One was the rationale of the soldier, the other of the spy, and in neither did Sable completely trust. Knowing her own desire was to remain quiet, Sable asked, “What are you suggesting?”

  “We tell the King everything.”

  Sable stopped breathing. Finally needing air, she expelled, “Everything?” And when the General nodded curtly, her words came hushed with disbelief, “You would reveal your father?”

  “I can do it knowing Remy will see it fairly.”

  “Will he?” Sable was afraid to even consider it. “You know him better than I.” She stared at the floor, “I could never reveal Master Orson. Perhaps you should ask him if he wants to be revealed.”

  “No. When we explain what the Cloitare did to him, Remy will understand and he will be fair.”

  Sable rolled a sound of understanding in her throat. “As explanation, you mean for me to tell Remy that I influenced him with my voice.”

  She looked condemned, so the General said gently, “He will forgive you.”

  “Perhaps.” Sable felt fear seize her heart. The sleepless nights were shaking through her nerves; the drug to combat it had tipped over into angst. Feeling her face flush with sorrow, she forced herself to speak so as not to cry. “When he learns, he will not trust me. He will guard against any threat of persuasion and return uncompromising denials to my every request. Do you imagine he will allow me to go behind the double doors?” Sable frowned the answer no. “If I don’t lead the clergy, or directly control the Cloitare, when the mothers kill him, which of us will regret this conversation more?”

  The General wanted to clear away all the misconceptions that had been deliberately created in Sable’s mind. “You are following my father’s advice, and though I love him and it pains me to say this, you fail to understand his desire for revenge is more important than whether it gets you killed.”

  Sable found a cold smile to offer. “That is precisely why I can trust his strategy. We have agreed to win by any means.”

  The General pulled back. “You said there was no plan for outside the convent.” His eyes narrowed on her. “You meant and you still mean for them to kill you.”

  Raising her brows, Sable turned her head slightly, giving possibility to the statement.

  Angrily, the General’s voice rose without tolerance, “This is not what Remy would want. He would tear down the doors to save you, and he’d destroy them all if he found you dead.”

  She lifted her expression as though her mind had sparked with illumination at his words, and then instantly regretted it.

  Livid with the realization, his voice boomed, “And that is exactly what you two are counting on.”

  “Not exactly, there’s a bit more required of the outcome than just getting myself killed so Remy reacts.”

  “Tell me.”

  Too weary to fight, she admitted, “It will end with the King as head of the Cloitare.”

  The General was momentarily silenced then somber with approval, “That’s good. That’s very good.”

  “I know.”

  “But you intend to die. And that, Sable,” the General spun around to escape it and then turned to face her again even angrier, “is madness. Pure lunacy. That is not a plan. That is a tragedy. You have been taken advantage of because you do not understand strategy.”

  “But I know your father does.”

  “You intend to go forward with it? I am asking you to believe me, such a plan is unfit.”

  “I trust Master Orson and I swore to him I would follow his strategy.”

  “I was there, I heard. But I also heard him tell you to decide where your loyalties lie. And then, above all other considerations, ensure your every action reflected it. You cannot say your loyalties lie with Remy and still follow my father’s plan. You are either loyal to Remy or my father.” He could see Sable was becoming confused. While she held her face in consternation, he pressed, “Decide.” And when she stepped away from the ultimatum, turning her face to avoid the conflict, he ordered her like an insubordinate soldier, “Now, Sable. Choose.”

  Startled by the strength of the command, she lost her cool, angrily answering, “Remy. Of course, it’s Remy. You already knew that.”

  “Then we tell him everything. And I, the strategist to this king, our King, will devise a plan that Remy will approve, and it is not going to involve your death.”

  ~~~~~~

/>   The fractures in time became far more serious when Sable followed the event line through the King’s door. Catherine had left her speaking to the public to have Remy woken, but as yet the damage had not been done.

  Sable pushed through the distance into the past to feel him pulling up with the softest, warmest memory of her on his skin, in his arms, weighing heavy against his chest. It was the drug, Remy told himself, but it was also Sable. She had once pulled him into the same heat and comfort, smothering him in a desperate embrace that had been euphoric, consuming, and black, and now each time he awoke, he felt it again.

  Through the long hours she was gone, he had asked every time he surfaced, “Where is Sable?” Once he clearly understood he had sent her to retrieve an abducted soldier, he became alert enough to demand she be contacted and brought back. He had refused further medication to get his head wrapped around the explanation that she could not be reached. But then, feeling the rips in his flesh with every breath, he accepted small doses, a faint reminder of Sable’s touch. It kept him waiting, even when he slipped into sleep, he was expectant, waking in panic, mad with himself and everyone else that she was gone, out in the world, no one knew where, facing risks he repeatedly imagined as fatally violent, involving guns, hostages, blood, and always Sable uncontrolled and deadly mad.

  Making it no further than the sitting room, Remy agreed with Branson that going farther was unwise, but they both knew impossible was the accurate word. Even before he heard them, he knew she was near. He listened to the rise and fall of Lucas’s voice through the door and recognized Sable as the cause of the General’s frustration.

  To Catherine, who was dismayed to irritation that the two were arguing in the hall, he instructed, “No, let them continue.” So much of what he could remember seemed surreal. Lucas’s voice brought some of it back, a hazy recollection of agreements and discord.