by Della Roth
To the left, white light pours under the door that leads to the courtyard, but I halt before turning the knob.
If I do this, I can’t turn back. If I wanted to, I could turn around, find Roland, and let him figure everything out. I might order Cat to never let me leave the Palace. Block every door to me.
Or, I tell myself, you can run, and keep running until you forget what you’re running from. You have the skills to survive on your own.
I close my eyes and make a small prayer. My soul answers back.
Sometimes making the right choice is the hardest.
I slip out the door, into the courtyard, and out through the gate that separates Roland from the continent. As I disappear into the celebrating crowd, I head east toward the lower mountains.
Three
THE SKY NOW RESEMBLES midnight, even though it’s only ten in the evening, but it’s so gorgeous, I’m almost tempted to stop my journey and stare up above me.
Alben Underwood’s most recent hover-flare bursts into a black velvety backdrop with a million stars slowly orbiting three dense, bright moons. Streaks of white lights resemble shooting stars.
I marvel at the brilliance of it all. Roland stopped at nothing to make tonight special for me and for the citizens. And here I am, outside the Palace Skyscraper, fleeing like thief, without any guarantees of a return. Or success.
I cross over Saints Road, onto Skyscraper City Main and head East toward the lower side of the mountains. Royal Alcove. Jaucey lives there, with the rest of the royal elders.
I weave in and out of a few boisterous crowds. Yelling, drinking, and fighting. Mostly fighting. It’s more of a jousting-style game to get your opponent flat on the ground using everything short of an actual weapon. Large spectator circles have formed and as I pass around one, I’m almost yanked inside it to fight.
“Yer turn, honey,” a heavyset man drawls, his hand wrapping about my bicep. “Need a woman in this round.”
His grip isn’t strong, he’s looking everywhere but at me, and he wobbles. I assume he’s drunk, but he’s heavy and could easily pull my shoulder out of alignment, not to mention it’s the same side as my injured shoulder, so I don’t struggle.
However, the heavy-set man is too slow: the fight started without his help. Two women run at each other, grunting, punching, tripping the feet of the other.
“Maybe next time, pal,” I tell him, pointing with my other hand at the fighters. His fingers loosen.
Finally, he looks at my face and something like shock registers in his eyes. “It’s you,” he says.
He breathes in and out in quick succession, like maybe he’s hyperventilating. Right now, all eyes are on the fighting women—who are tearing the clothes off each other—but that might not last long.
“I think you should sit down. You don’t look so good,” I say and look around, unsuccessfully, for a quiet spot.
“But yer you,” he moans. How does one answer that? I have the feeling that if we continue down this conversation, he’ll start crying. “And I touched you. Don’t kill me.” His voice is a combination of moaning and shrieking.
I smack his grimy face and instantly, he sobers.
“Get yourself together, man. Follow me,” I order, and he does. I go around a burning trash can and instruct him to sit on the curb. I crouch down with him. “What’s your name?”
“Tomoko.”
“Okay, Tomoko, why in the name of the Goddess would I kill you?”
“The barbarian king woulda kilt me,” he says in a low, mournful voice.
I nod, understanding him to mean that Roland’s father probably killed some of his relatives for something as minor as touching him or touching something that belonged to the king.
Several young boys and girls run at us, circle the burning trash can, and race back up the sidewalk. I wait until they are gone before I answer him. “Do I look like the barbarian king?”
“Oh no!” he whispers with upmost sincerity. “Yer an angel, even with that gash on yer face. I guess even without yer brother, yer still gettin’ into scraps.”
I feel the beginnings of a smile. At least one person paid attention to what I said earlier.
“The barbarian king is gone and you don’t need to be afraid anymore. Come morning, everything will be different. You’ll see.”
I stand and he looks up at me with such faith that I’m blown away. I pat his shoulder, tell him goodbye, and move away from him and the fighting circle just as one of the women wins. For a brief moment, I hear her victory shouts above all other noises.
For a while, I’m lost in my own thoughts.
My boots crunch against broken cobblestone and gravel when I reach the outskirts of the city. The further east I go, the less populated the streets are, but torches line the streets in each direction I look, an indication that Roland thought that maybe more citizens would have been in this part of the city.
Or maybe, I think, he knew you would come this way and planned accordingly.
For my part, I’m grateful that I’m able to see my immediate surroundings. I’m not too worried about my own safety. I’ve already been nearly killed today. I figure the chances of it happening twice in one day are rather slim.
***
The torches are long gone, cool air falls in, shadows follow me, and the sky continues to bewitch me.
I look up almost every chance I get to watch the stars circulate and twinkle. It reminds me of the times Pareu and I would gaze up at the far-off stars and point out patterns or how my mother, in hand-language, would recite stories of the Goddess. It’s not a sad memory. I feel like I’m working toward making my family proud and now, since I know both of my parents are still alive, I’m doing something about what’s wrong and trying to make it right.
As I pass an alley, a particular hushed conversation interrupts my silent reflections. I don’t know why it alerted me—I’ve passed multiple alleyways that hid amorous couples—but this one, something about these voices sound urgent.
I press myself against a darkened wall to listen just as the shadow following me—one of the hooded assassins from the rooftop?—settles on the other side.
“This better be important, Elwyn.” The woman’s voice in the alleyway is deep, gritty, and unforgiving. And very authoritative. Whoever she is, she isn’t one to be screwed with. “What’s the message?”
When Elwyn doesn’t answer, I hear a thud against the wall and a whoosh of air escaping someone’s lungs.
Then a metal-on-metal sheering ting of a knife or dagger being pulled echoes in the alleyway.
A small feminine cry rings out, but it doesn’t sound like she’s truly scared.
“Don’t make me ask you again, girl.”
“The plans have been changed, Griselda,” a young voice answers. A child of eleven or twelve.
“I’m sure you understand that things like this cannot be changed on a whim, not without the proper incentive,” the older woman says.
“I suspected as much,” the girl says with an equal amount of grit before handing over what sounds like a bag of money. “Have your team ready tonight.”
“Tonight?” The question is hissed, like the older woman is caught off guard.
“Yes.”
A pause.
“That’s too soon—” Griselda’s voice is cut off, I hear her dagger fall to the ground, and she makes a series of choking noises.
Is the girl choking the older woman?
Instantly my dagger is out of its sheath and in my hands. I’m about to charge forward, but I hear something that stops me in my tracks.
***
Whispering. Chanting. I cannot understand the words, but I feel them.
Evil.
My veins turn ice cold and my heart beats so hard, it’s like it’s trying to tell me something. Dear Goddess, what’s happening? I bite down hard on my lips to keep from uttering a cry.
But, as quickly as the feeling consumes me, it dissipates.
“Fine,” Gri
selda’s strangled voice says. “We’ll be ready then.”
“I thought you would see it my way,” the girl says in a way that indicates she is used to getting what she wants. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
A quick succession of boot scuffs scrape against the gravel and the girl’s small figure sprints around the corner, missing me by inches.
Then, before I can decide on whether or not to stay and listen or follow the girl, another set of footsteps enters from the other side of the alley.
The other voice is hushed, low, and male. They greet each other in English, a language the male speaker isn’t fluent in, but soon switch to a pure Patroxi tongue. I listen as intently as I can to the dialogue, the long swishes and clicks of their words, but I can hardly pick up the nuances as they negotiate and talk around the terms of some previous agreement. I can tell they do not want to be overheard or understood.
The conversation doesn’t last long. Griselda hands over some the money to the Patroxi male—whom she calls General Err—and repeats what Elwyn told her.
***
“Priondu-dit-la-dit. Chhersh,” the male voice growls. We agree to agree. Salute. It sounds like part of his mouth is missing. Griselda, whom I’ve gathered is a war broker, repeats the phrase as well.
Arms are slapped twice, a farewell greeting for the Patroxi half-human population, and then complete silence. When I step away from the wall, the alleyway is empty.
It’s like they both floated up in smoke.
Whatever is about to happen will happen tonight. Not a lot of time to undo anything. If I kill Jaucey, will it change anything?
Instinct tells me that several factions will descend upon Skyscraper City tonight. Instinct also tells me that the girl, Elwyn, knows something. Maybe everything. Whatever I do, I need to act fast.
I leave the alleyway and jog in the direction the girl took.
The shadow follows me. Oddly, it’s comforting.
Four
I FIND THE GIRL near the Royal Alcove gate fifteen blocks away. The glorious starry sky above the Palace Skyscraper doesn’t extend this far east, and the real sky is a murky, cloudy saturation that casts the area in eerie, haunted shades of black, silver, and gray.
There’s nothing for me to hide behind, so I sink into the shadows of a decorative half-wall of a large house a block away and watch.
Beyond the gate where Elwyn stands, a rising cobblestone driveway leads up the mountain and, at a lower apex, a darkened granite, glass mansion towers somberly.
Glass. See what I have that you can’t have. The royal elders are notorious for inspiring jealousy. If the mansion was any closer to the gate, I might have been tempted to throw rocks at it. However, whoever built it was smart enough to place it back far enough to protect it.
I move closer.
The girl’s bright, conspicuous clothing sticks out like a beacon. Either the girl is stupid or she’s not afraid of being seen. And based on her behavior a few moments ago, I doubt she is stupid. Her fabriskin is of a high quality material, her slippers well made, and tiny jewels sparkle beautifully against her ebony-hued hair.
Elwyn presses a series of buttons at the gate’s intercom, each one a musical note, and a pedestrian gate silently swings open. The girl darts in and gently closes the entrance bars so they don’t clatter out loud. Her footsteps recede as she rises with the path up to the house.
Smart girl. She’s done this before, has the movements down, and she doesn’t appear concerned. Fearless comes to mind. I remember the choking sounds I heard back in the alleyway. I don’t know how she did it, but Elwyn put a chokehold on Griselda. And when the girl began to chant… it froze my veins.
Why is a twelve-year-old girl meeting a war broker in a darkened alleyway, imparting information? And not just any information—it has to be Lord Jaucey’s information.
It can only mean one thing.
Elwyn is Lord Jaucey’s daughter.
***
I try to watch her for as long as I can, but I can’t tell if she enters the house through the main door or not.
I crouch low and scan my surroundings.
The air is cool and quiet, the breeze soft, and the insects project more of a vibration than a sound. So when pebbles move somewhere to my right, maybe a block away, my throat catches mid-intake, and it feels like I need to swallow a ball of dust. I know it isn’t my shadow stalker.
Someone else follows me. Someone else watches me.
I let out the breath, walk to the gate’s intercom system, humming the musical notes. After three tries, the gate clicks open. I slip inside and, like the girl did, gently close the gate myself.
The path rises immediately into a steep incline. Baby palm trees no taller than me line the thin trail. I can see the outlines and shadows of other flowerless plants and bushes around what looks like a garden patio. The path branches in this direction, I round it, but nothing really interests me there, not unless I wanted to look at the owner’s leftover dishes scattered on a table.
The path curves back toward the side of the mansion and ends at a set of wooden double doors. Locked double doors.
I curse under my breath. What did I expect? To have a charming welcome party waiting for me? I put my ear to the door.
No sounds from the other side. No talking, yelling, no quiet footsteps.
Moving away from the door, I press my face against a large glass window. Everything appears dark inside, not even one dimly lit sconce to gently illuminate the room’s contents.
Thankfully, should someone be looking out from inside the mansion, I wouldn’t be visible either, but I kneel down just in case.
Clipped grass layered with a thin coating of dusty dew damps my knees and palms. I crawl several feet, check a window, see if it budges, and move on. I do this several times until something blocks my path.
It is a servant’s entrance.
The brick stairwell digs into the ground several feet from the main home. This is probably as good a chance as any. As I step onto the first step, though, the door opens. I bolt back the same way I came, jump over the bushes, and squeeze between the plants and the exterior wall.
A uniformed pair of boots walks past the bushes and into the direction of the patio garden. It’s a man carrying a tray. After a moment or two, I hear the rattle of dishes. I only have a couple of seconds to dislodge myself, climb down the steps, and enter the mansion without being seen.
I step over the bush and, without looking over my shoulder, I sprint to the brick staircase. I hear a string of profanities from the servant.
Dammit, I’ve been discovered. He still sounds far off, though. I dive lower just as several dishes crash.
I pop my head up over the brick. The man grumbles as he picks up broken shards from the grass. Okay, so maybe he didn’t see me.
Luck won’t be on my side forever.
With a grin, I discover that the door is slightly ajar. I slip in and reset the door the way I found it.
Five
I FIND MYSELF IN a kitchen workroom. Pots, pans, and other utensils hang from hooks jutting out from the low ceiling on one side. In the middle of the room sits a large wooden slab table. For eating. Cutting up food. Preparing dishes. My mother had something like it when I was young. I remember that, as a toddler, she’d prop me up on the counter while she baked. She’d pretend to not notice when I stole sugar biscuits.
I shake my head to get rid of the memory.
Beyond the slab and to the right, a simmering fireplace glows. In front of the glow sit two empty chairs. I imagine a housekeeper would cherish that spot as she rested from the day’s duties. She’d need it if she worked for Lord Jaucey.
I don’t stay long to admire the quaint, well-used room. Any second now, the servant will return and he won’t be thrilled to see a stranger gawking at the furniture in an overused room.
The next room is the kitchen. Large. Open. Gleaming. And empty.
I make my way through it, then a formal dining room st
rangely devoid of anything formal looking—it seems more like a staging area for food stuff—and out into a tunnel-like foyer that leads to an expansive, though dark and quiet, living room.
I slide against the wall and peer out through the windows that, only moments ago, I was trying to look into. And I was wrong. I definitely could have been seen. The windows have some sort of sheen on them, casting the outside into a greenish-yellow hue. I can easily identify where the plants are, where I was standing earlier, and now, the servant as he walks back toward the staircase with a tray full of dishes.
Infrared radiation-enhanced windows.
Faintly, I hear his movements in the kitchen, then running water, and some grumbling as he cleans the dishes. I turn and scan the living room, not because I’m interested in Lord Jaucey’s arrangements, but because I can’t seem to shake the feeling of being watched.
Other than the kitchen, its back room, and the formal dining room, the entire first floor is devoted to the living room, which boasts an epic high-rise ceiling and glass walls. Opposite the glass walls are two floor landings decorated with tall banisters.
If someone wanted to, one could look down and see the entire expanse of the living room. Or someone approaching on the walkway. Or even the street below, if one had excellent vision in the dark, looking through infrared-enhanced windows.
I wonder if Elwyn watched me approach.
Large war-themed paintings clutter most of the lone solid wall. Tall men and women, garbed in battle armor, are forever immortalized in barbaric scenes. In one particular painting, the subject is of a poor citizen being slaughtered as, above him, a black, cloudy smudge representing his soul leaves his body and enters the victor’s.
Goddess, if I lived here, I think I might burn everything in this room.
That thought is further cemented when a smaller, less noticeable portrait catches my attention. I study it longer than necessary. In fact, I have a difficult time not looking at it.
