by Gwynn White
Still clinging to Grigor, String stuck his tongue out at Dip.
It made Grigor smile. “Come on, let’s go see the place with the tins.”
Dip set off with a spring in his step. Grigor wished he could match it, but it took everything he had to keep one foot shifting in front of the other.
String clung to his side, occasionally commenting if the footing became rough, or a tunnel drop loomed.
If I survive this war, he thought, hoping Father was listening, I’m going to take care of String. And Dip. And Porky. All of them. Tears pricked. It was the kind of thing Natalia would have done. He owed it to her to carry on in her footsteps.
“A good tradition,” Father whispered. “When I was your age, I funded soup kitchens in Urchinville.” Father moaned softly. “I feel your pain, Grigor. Every stinking, heart- wrenching ache of it. But we are both strong. We will survive.”
What choice did he have? No one else would open the gate for Nicholas.
To keep himself from sinking into despair, he asked, “String, do you know what this place is?”
“I’ve never been inside. Dip hasn’t let any of us. He’s the only one who’s allowed to go in there.”
A dead end. He tried again. “What are you going to do when all of this is over?”
String looked at him blankly. “Do?”
“Yes. Do. Once the empire is gone and we have a new leader and more opportunities for young boys.”
“I want to be a gang leader,” String said wistfully. “The leaders have—watch this part. The tunnel changes direction and we have to climb steps.”
Grigor nodded his thanks. He and String negotiated the crumbling ladder.
String continued speaking as if there hadn’t been a break. “A leader like Dip. He gets the best pickings of everything. That’s what I want.”
A logical choice, but one that fed Grigor’s despair. “There are other things a boy with a kind heart and sharp wit could do.”
String walked in silence next to him.
“You could learn to read and write. You could get a job. Learn a trade. Maybe be a blacksmith, or—”
“A blacksmith?” String laughed. “Have you seen how puny I am?”
Grigor smiled with him. “Perhaps blacksmith is not quite the right opportunity to offer you. But if you work with me, and Nicholas, and Axel, and Meka, I promise you I won’t leave you on the streets. Give some thought to what you would like to do if you didn’t have to live in a dark tunnel.”
String scratched, the sound loud in the silence. “But what about Dip and the rest of the…”
“There’ll be plenty of work for everyone, once we are free.”
Dip’s swift steps slowed. He waited for Grigor and String to catch up. “It’s up ahead,” he whispered. “Ain’t nobody there. At least not the times I’ve been there.”
“What is it exactly?” Grigor asked. The excitement tinging his words surprised him.
“Dunno. But it has rooms with beds. Lots of them. And a kitchen with a pantry filled with them tins. Ready to take a look?”
“You bet.”
They walked briskly, finally stopping at a mesh grille set in a concrete wall. It covered a large, five-bladed fan. Or rather, a fan with four mangled blades. The fifth, Grigor surmised, had been used to make Dip’s spear.
“You wanna go inside?” Dip hopped from foot to foot.
“After you.”
Dip and String each gripped a side of the grille. Soundlessly, they lifted it off the wall. At some point, the screws holding it to the wall had been removed. Next, Dip tugged on the fan. It pulled off its rack. A gaping hole loomed before Grigor. He poked his head and his informa into it.
It was linked to a square metal vent easily big enough for him to crawl through. All along it, metal had been torn away. The vent turned a corner, and he saw no more. He pulled his head out. “What did you cut out of it,” he asked Dip.
Dip’s nose crumpled. “Horrible bits of stuff. Like… like the stuff in the mattresses at the infirmary in Cian. Only worse. We tried burning it to keep warm. The tunnels can get cold nights. But it stank so much that we ditched it in Hollow’s tunnel.” He chortled. “Hollow and his boys tried burning it, too. Stunk ‘em out something horrible.” His chest puffed. “That’s how we got the tunnel to the palace.
No wiser than he’d been before, Grigor said, “Let’s go inside.” He dropped the cloak onto the ground and clambered in first.
The metal clunked noisily as he crawled through it on his hands and knees. Hoping Dip was right out it being unoccupied, he waited at the bend for Dip and String to catch up.
“Keep going.” Dip’s voice echoed through the vent.
Grigor winced at the echo but crawled on until he was stopped by a second fan.
“Just push it,” Dip said.
Fearing the noise, Grigor said, “What’ll happen then?”
“Grill’s gone. I’ve fixed it so it swings open like a door.”
“No noise?”
“None.”
Grigor gave the fan a gentle push. As Dip had said, it opened without a squeak. He poked his head out. Below him stood ten beds. Each one was covered with a rough-looking blanket. A once-white sheet was tucked over the edge of the blanket at the pillow end. A layer of dust coated everything, except for the bed directly below the opening. The perfect symmetry of blanket, sheet, and pillow was in scuffed disarray. More evidence of Dip’s passing.
Eager to see more, he lowered himself onto the bed. It squealed beneath his weight. He froze, but when nothing moved, he climbed off it to make space for Dip and String.
In single-file, they edged out of the dormitory. With the choice of going either left or right, Grigor took the passage to the right. They tiptoed past more rooms with an identical layout.
What is this place? he asked Father.
“You tell me.”
Grigor frowned. The dormitories gave way to a kitchen with an attached eating area set about with utilitarian tables and chairs.
Dip vanished into another room, and Grigor followed him. Line upon line of tinned cans gathered dust on shelves that ran from floor to ceiling. A small section of it was bare. Dip’s stash that now waited in the Hive.
This looks like some kind of safe house, he said to Father.
“Not quite right, but close enough. Just over a year ago, on Nicholas’s sixteenth birthday, Lukan planned to destroy the world with a poison called Dragon’s Fire. This was a haven he built for himself, Lynx, and some of the high-born. They were the only ones from the palace who were going to survive the burning.”
More nausea bubbled. Were Meka’s and my names on that list?
“I think you know the answer.”
Lukan had planned to let him and Meka die. In his fury, Grigor swept a tin can off the shelf. It crashed onto the floor.
Dip and String stopped mid-step.
“Sorry,” he mouthed.
And then he heard it. Footsteps. As clear as their breathing.
“We gotta hide,” Dip hissed.
All three of them looked around frantically, but the rows of shelves and piles of tin cans offered no refuge.
The heavy, plodding footsteps were just steps away.
Help, Grigor pleaded. Bend the light.
Nothing happened.
Grigor swore internally. He loped to Dip and String and shoved them both behind him.
“Hey,” Dip hissed.
“Hush!” String whispered. A rustle of clothing and Dip was silent.
Fists clenched, Grigor took up fighting stance.
A dark shadow crossed the doorway. Seconds later, Stefan Zarot shuffled into the room. He had a rifle slung across his shoulder and a knife strapped to his waist.
His unflappable face twisted with shock. He took a step forward, then stopped. “What are you doing here?”
Thrilled to see him, Grigor opened his mouth to speak.
Stefan’s hand shot up and his face averted. “Don’t tell m
e. I never saw you. Now go. At once.”
“Why?” Grigor insisted.
“Zarot.” Lukan’s voice.
The blood rushed from Grigor’s extremities. “Lukan?” he mouthed. “Here? Why haven’t you killed him?”
Stefan turned and half-ran, half-stumbled from the room.
“Where are you?” Lukan called again.
“In the dining area, sire. What do you require of me?”
Grigor closed his eyes against the truth. He’d been so pleased to see Stefan that he hadn’t bothered looking into his eyes. Yet, Stefan had saved them. Thus far at least.
“Tell me what you will do to Axel when he enters my palace,” Lukan yelled from somewhere in the facility.
“I will slit his throat,” Zarot said in a dull monotone.
Grigor shook so hard. He strode to the door, intending to hunt Lukan down and kill him.
“You will die,” Father said sharply. “It’s not your task. Now get out of there before Lukan comes looking for Stefan.”
He dithered.
“Shouldn’t we run while we can?” String whispered.
His plaintive voice kicked Grigor into action.
The three of them skidded out of the pantry, past Zarot, who looked the other way and raced to the vent. Dip reached it first. He clambered on the bed and shot through the hole. Grigor shoved String to get him to go next. He took a moment to straighten the bed, then climbed gingerly into the vent. He pulled the fan closed.
Silently, they crawled to the tunnel opening.
Carefully, all three of them wedged the grille back in place.
It was only when Grigor arrived back at the Hive that the enormity of his discovery struck him.
He headed for Axel’s programmers to tell them the news.
Thirty
Forgotten
Felix pressed his ear against the front door to his cell. For the last few minutes, boots had clattered in the passageway outside.
Lots of boots.
Above the noise, men had shouted. He’d caught snatches of Chenayan and Trevenese mingled with other languages he hadn’t bothered learning. Amongst them, Tarachian.
The last time he’d heard that foul language was on the terrible day Axel had rescued Nicholas and captured him. So why was he hearing it now?
He tapped the door with a fingernail desperately in need of cutting.
Xipal’s child army! It had to be.
Had they attacked? And if so, had anyone he loved been harmed? Surely, Axel didn’t do any of the fighting around here?
“Lynx would,” he muttered to himself. “Savage that she is.”
He pressed his ear harder against the door, hoping to hear that she had been impaled in battle—and was rewarded for his efforts by a familiar voice.
“Ferret, separate the boys from the Blades,” Captain Treygan called above the rasp of boots.
“You sure?” Ferret asked. “Seems to me that they should all share the same cell and the same fate.”
“And what fate would that be?”
“Execution at dawn.”
“That’s for the warlord to decide,” Treygan said firmly. “Now do as I say. The Blades to the Black Hole and the boys to the jasper holding cell. Report to me when it’s done. I’ll be with Gallen and Marrow discussing the guard roster.”
“I thought my platoon was doing the guarding,” Ferret said.
“I have orders from Commander Lynx,” Treygan said curtly. “They override anything you’ve been told.”
Felix hammered his fist against the door. “Captain Treygan,” he yelled, even though it risked waking Katrina. Information was power. If he could get Treygan to tell him what was happening, perhaps he’d find a way to help. If he made himself invaluable, perhaps Treygan would mention it to Axel. And, just maybe, Axel would consider releasing him. It was a long shot, he admitted, but at the same time it was a tactic that had served him well in managing two emperors.
Treygan didn’t reply. Ear pressed against the door, all he heard was the shuffle of boots.
And then silence.
Ferret and his prisoners had moved on. So had Treygan.
His shoulders sagged, and he slumped against the door. He could have gone to his sofa, but he didn’t want to miss Treygan when he came back this way.
Katrina called out. He grimaced, hating that he had to ignore her, but this would benefit both of them.
Her wails intensified.
He was about to give up on his vigil to go to her, when he caught the clip of a single pair of boots coming up the passage toward his door.
Hoping that it was Treygan, he hammered on the door again.
Someone hammered back. “What do you want, old man?” Treygan.
He grimaced at being called old, then decided to use it to his advantage. He shouted through the door, “It’s my wife. She’s an old woman. She’s not well. I need a physician to call on her.”
It helped that Katrina’s wails had become almost deafening.
A key scraped against the lock before sliding into place. He stepped back. The lock clicked, and the door swung open.
Tall, severe, and mildly intimidating, Treygan greeted him.
He segued into a little prepared speech. “Please. Come in. If you see for yourself, you will understand what to brief the physician.”
Treygan didn’t move. “You won’t have much luck with a doctor tonight, old man. Not after the battle.”
Felix swept a hand out to offer Treygan a spot on the sofa. “That is distressing.” He walked to the sofa. “Were there many casualties?”
The blasted captain didn’t shift from the door. “I will let the hospital wing know that you wish for assistance. I’m sure they will attend to the warlord’s mother as soon as they get a gap.” A bow. “Enjoy the evening.”
Felix opened his mouth to speak, but the confounded man was already closing the door.
“Please,” he yelled. “Tell me what has happened. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
“Your days of conniving are over, old man.” Treygan closed the door in Felix’s face.
The lock clicked.
Felix grabbed handfuls of his wispy hair to stop himself from yelling in frustration. Nothing in his life had prepared him for a situation like this. If he was to survive it—let alone control it—he had to start working on a plan.
He sat down in his chair to plot.
Thirty-One
To Bluff
The doorframe dug into Axel’s shoulder but he hardly felt it.
Faith in the unseen. That’s what Dmitri had asked him for.
Faith that Nicholas—a boy who couldn’t read, couldn’t write, had never devised a battle plan—
He shook his head. Not true. It was his bees that routed the Tarachians that day in the Blade Furnace.
Did Nicholas have more bees up his sleeve for the war in Cian? Did Dmitri? That was the question.
Risk. It always came back to risk. How much to wager. When to pull back. To bluff.
His eyes widened and his breath hitched.
Bluff! Of course! A key strategy in any game of tiles.
How could I have been so blind? So... stuck in my thinking?
Why was Nicholas in this meeting if Lukan could listen in? That had to be a lie. A smoke screen to complicate things. A test set out by Dmitri to test Axel’s wisdom.
And my loyalty. Even though the seer claims that he trusts my heart.
It made sense of his tiny army. His mere three thousand warriors against Lukan’s millions. The entire campaign was a bluff. A complicated game of tiles, as the book suggested.
But what the book didn’t mention was that the Avanovs knew more about bluffing than anyone on the planet. Their Dreaded, their fake gems in the faces of adoring high-born, even the Dragon itself proved their mastery.
He wasn’t an Avanov for nothing.
He had informas. He had programmers who could create holograms. And then there was Felix’s Hive. Who knew what trea
sures the old snake had stashed there? Axel would harness every atom in that Hive to build the most colossal lie in the history of lies.
He would march an army of wraiths as numberless as the stars in Jerawin’s constellations into Lukan’s palace. They would sow terror amongst both high-born and low-born alike. A reaping scythe, they’d strip a path to Lukan’s Battle Command and to Felix’s old Lair.
On their heels would come his true defenders. His three thousand souls would offer cover for his programmers. To them would fall the task of disabling Lukan’s ice crystal network.
With their minds reclaimed, what jasper, low-born, priestess, or high-born would fight their liberators?
The palace would fall, and with it, All Chenaya and the Conquered Territories.
All that would be left to was to get Nicholas in front of Lukan. He, Lynx, Clay and their handpicked team of warriors, would guide him safely through the palace.
One swipe with an ax, and it would be over.
Nicholas would claim the throne. With his pure heart, peace would soon follow.
And if it didn’t, Axel would be at Nicholas’s side to enforce it. So would Stefan. And Pytor Pavel. And Meka and Grigor. In time, Nicholas could choose whether to rule or to hand the mantle over to someone else.
Perfection in motion, he whispered to Dmitri. Living the lie until the very end.
Instead of a reply from Dmitri, his informa vibrated against his leg. Almost absentmindedly, he pulled it out and flicked it on.
Ivarr’s face blossomed in the air.
He snapped to attention. “Good to see you alive and well. You have news, I presume?”
“Good day to you too, my warlord. We have found Prince Meka and his father. They are… Well, let’s just say that the prince is alive and well.”
Axel smiled. Even though he’d warned his men about Tao, seeing him must have come as a bit of a shock. “Excellent. His ice crystal?” A delaying tactic, maybe, to ask first about Meka before learning Nicholas’s status. He turned to face his son. It seemed like the honorable thing to do.
Nicholas sat on the edge of his stool with his hand covering his mouth. The lad looked like he was about to vomit. Axel’s heart melted. He walked over and wrapped his arm around Nicholas’s shoulder.
