by Jeff Wheeler
He came forward and crouched by Sera’s feet. His filthy gloves lifted her dress, exposing her ankles and shoes. He clucked his tongue. “Shoes this fine could fetch a fine price on the street, Tyna, even dirtied as they are. Can I have ’em?”
“Not yet,” Lady Corinne said, her expression hard and guarded. A different woman. A different face. Was this a disguise? Or could it be that Lady Corinne was the disguise?
“I should be grateful to have such a pair as these. Such weak, skinny legs.” One of his hands went up her leg, making her wrestle against her bonds and try to jerk away. His hand clenched around her calf muscle, pinching hard enough to make her flinch and cry out against the gag. He brought the manacle around her ankle and secured it with one of the little keys on his ring.
He then jiggled her leg, testing the grip and making sure there wasn’t room for her foot to escape. As if proud of his handiwork, he straightened and looked down at her, his bushy beard so close to her face her skin itched.
“Got a lot of spirit left, this one,” he grunted. “Who’s she? That dress is pretty fine as well, ’cept for the blood. Need help taming ’er?”
“I can manage, Mr. Trimble,” Lady Corinne said. “I just need her kept here in the lockroom for a couple of days.”
“Want me to feed ’er? That’ll cost extra.”
“No need. Thank you, Mr. Trimble. You may go.”
Sera felt a pulse, a throb of the Mysteries, and then the man huffed, wiping his narrow nose on his forearm. He looked Joanna over, grunted, and then grabbed his rake and made his way back to the open iron door.
“She won’t get away from me,” he said as he stood in the doorway. “None of them ever get away from me.”
After he had left the cell, closing and locking the door behind him, Joanna whirled on Corinne. “Why this place?” she asked, her voice shaking in rage. “Of all your hideouts, why this one?”
“Because they will not find her here,” Corinne said.
“This is horrible!” Joanna snapped. “I cannot stay here, not dressed like this! I’ve never smelled anything so revolting in my life. Take me somewhere else.”
“I don’t have time!” Lady Corinne said, her face betraying a flash of anger.
The two women stared at each other, poisoner against poisoner. Sera felt they were on the verge of attacking each other.
“I cannot stay here. Not like this,” Joanna said. “I’m in my night clothes.”
“But you can. And you will. Take her dress if you must. Or make yourself appear to be clothed. Do what you will! But you must wait with her until the preparations are done.”
Joanna’s eyes flashed with anger and resentment. Then she turned on Sera, still gripping the knife in her hand. “I’ll have your dress, then. At least until I can find something better. I wish there were a poisoner school here.”
“There will be soon enough,” Lady Corinne said. “Don’t leave her unguarded. Mr. Trimble has his . . . fits.”
It was said with a voice of experience that made Sera go cold.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE INVISIBLES
Corinne left them, and Joanna promptly untied Sera’s wrists so she could take her dress. Left only in a dirty shift, Sera felt even more vulnerable. Her eyes had grown used to the darkness, but she didn’t think she would ever get used to the smell. The scraping noises had recommenced as soon as Mr. Trimble had left them, bolting the door behind him. The only light emanated from the fat stub of a candle.
While Joanna squeezed into Sera’s bloodstained gown, Sera worked at the gag that prevented her speaking. The knot behind her head was difficult to maneuver with her shaking hands, but she picked at it with the fingers of her good hand.
Joanna stared at her arms, at the fabric barely reaching her wrists, her nose pinched with disgust and anger. She reached behind her back, trying to secure the buttons, but it would not be easy without a maid.
The knot loosened, and Sera ripped the gag from her mouth. Freedom at long last.
“Corinne’s plans are falling apart,” Sera said after rubbing her jaw.
Joanna turned and scowled, still struggling with the buttons.
“Have you considered what will happen to you when the ministries find us? I think they will. It’s only a matter of time.”
“I didn’t tie the gag well enough,” Joanna said with a sharp look.
Sera scooted herself back, her ankle beginning to throb from the manacle secured there. “Hear me out. You and I both know Corinne . . . possibly better than anyone else. Her behavior has been more erratic of late. Surely you’ve noticed.”
“And what of it?” Joanna asked. “Do you think you can persuade me to let you go?”
At least she was talking. It was a start.
“It would be to your advantage if you considered it,” Sera said. “If you’re caught, you’ll be executed. No other outcome is possible. I don’t know if you fancy being hung on a gallows, but I imagine it’s not very pleasant. That is the fate of traitors and spies. But if you help me escape, I promise that you will not be killed.”
Joanna snorted. “I’m sure you’d find a comfortable cell for me, Your Majesty. But no thank you. Not even you could protect me from them.”
“Who?”
“I’ve said enough.” She turned away, hiding her troubled expression as she continued to paw the buttons. Sera’s frame was smaller than Joanna’s, so the dress didn’t fit very well.
“Here, let me help you,” Sera offered.
Joanna turned, startled and suspicious.
“That dress isn’t meant to be buttoned up by one person,” Sera explained. “I’ll help. Come closer. I can’t go anywhere. You think I can break this chain with my hands?”
“You might try something foolish.”
“I’m trying to survive this ordeal,” Sera said. “Nothing more, nothing less. Come closer. I doubt I could best you even if I had a weapon.”
“You couldn’t,” Joanna said archly. She approached and sank lower, low enough that Sera could reach the buttons. She moved her hair out of the way.
Sera tugged at the fabric and managed a few buttons on the top and the bottom, but they strained against the eyelets. There was no way she could close the gap.
“There,” Sera said with a sigh. “That’s the most that will go in.”
“Thank you,” Joanna said.
She started to rise, but Sera gripped her hand firmly, stopping her. “You said I couldn’t protect you from them,” Sera said in a low voice. “Who did you mean? The poisoners?”
Joanna gave her a dark expression. Still looking into Sera’s eyes, she reached down and wrenched her hand loose, sending a searing pain into Sera’s shoulder.
“Your empire has hunted us for generations,” she hissed with a menacing voice. “I’m a hetaera, Sera. I did it willingly. Do you think the Ministry of Thought would allow you to protect me?”
“I’m the empress,” Sera said, gritting her teeth. “I can.”
“You couldn’t even protect yourself,” Joanna said with disdain. “It wasn’t that difficult getting to you.”
“You’re lying,” Sera said, shaking her head. She tried to wrench her arm back to end the pain, but she couldn’t. “It takes time to subvert someone. To manipulate them into doing what you want.”
“It happens a lot faster than you would think,” Joanna said, letting go of Sera’s hand. “Even the scrupulous ones. I’ve been working on Stephen Fitzroy. If he survives the fall of the manor, I’ve no doubt I’ll get through to him. Every person will fall if the enticement suits them. Your empire has been corrupted beneath your very nose, Empress. You need look no further than your own father.”
Sera’s heart boiled in anger. “And you need look no further than Brant Fitzroy. Not everyone falls. He didn’t.”
Joanna shrugged. “One man doesn’t make much of a difference.”
“Sometimes it can make all the difference,” Sera said. “If it is prison that you fea
r, then we can make another arrangement.”
“I don’t fear your prisons,” Joanna said. Then she looked around the cement floor stained and smeared with muck, her nostrils flaring. “It doesn’t matter. Your promises are nothing more than smoke.”
“How little you trust,” Sera said, shaking her head.
“Well, it was trusting that got you into this mess in the first place,” Joanna said slyly. “Your own mother delivered you to us on a silver platter. Besides, I knew I might die ere this assignment was finished. It’s the risk we all accepted with the brand. Even Cettie accepted it. Yes, your pious little Cettie is one of us now. We will gain back what was lost. What was ripped away from us by the first empress. You will restore our true queen to us, Sera.”
“You are mistaken,” Sera said. Maybe Cettie’s involvement was a lie after all. Lies were the coin these people used. “You cannot force me.”
“We’ll see,” Joanna said, smiling. “I’m not going to stay in this sludge pit any longer than I have to. I need some air. And since I can’t have you trying to escape, I have just the remedy for you.” She twisted a ring on her finger, exposing a needle. Before Sera could react, Joanna jabbed it into Sera’s shoulder. There was a sharp bite of pain and then fog. Sera felt herself slumping.
How long Sera was unconscious, she didn’t know. The poison left her groggy and lethargic. The small candle had burned out, leaving her in utter blackness. She was aware of sounds, of movement, of the dragging of chains. Still, she couldn’t move. Her muscles were too rigid and heavy.
She was thirsty again, and her stomach gnawed with fierce hunger. Her body ached, not just because of her wounds, but from the cramped posture and the iron manacle’s grip on her ankle. Her thoughts were dark and brooding.
In her sluggish haze, she called out in exasperation to the Mysteries.
Why did you let this happen to me? I have tried to be good, to change from the selfish princess I used to be. I want to do your will. Why must I suffer these degradations? If I’m meant to die, then why not just end it now?
Silence met her mute entreaty. This did not surprise her. For while she’d felt the power of the Mysteries many times, had even been given words to speak on its behalf—like the Gifting she had performed for Lord Fitzroy on his deathbed—she knew she couldn’t force an answer to come. So she waited in the darkness.
As she began to tremble, her muscles coming back to her again, she thought she heard a whisper in her mind. A fleeting whisper, so faint it could hardly be discerned over the clanking chains in the other room.
With ordinary folk like you and me, if our pleas to the Medium are sometimes granted, beyond all hope or expectation, we had best not draw conclusions that we have earned such treatment. If we were stronger, we might be less caringly handled. If we only had more courage, we might be sent with far less help to defend even more desperate posts in the thickest battles of life and death.
She’d read those words in a tome years ago, while studying at Muirwood Abbey. The sentiment hadn’t made much sense to her at the time, but something about the passage had lodged in her mind.
She was comforted by the words, strangely enough, and felt as if they were the answer to her silent plea. Her experiences were for a purpose in a greater cause. The certainty of this thought gave her strength. Warmth unfurled inside her, and she lifted herself up, dragging the heavy chain a few inches across the floor. She leaned against the stone wall of the lockroom, conviction burning inside her.
If we only had more courage . . .
Sera’s mind lunged at the thought, grasping onto it. Send me, she thought. Send me into battle.
A key fit into the lock, and then the iron door groaned and opened. She saw Mr. Trimble smack a boy on the back of his head and bark at him to get in. The children were all assembled outside the lockroom. One by one, they entered and took their places along the wall. There were fifteen . . . no, eighteen children in all. The big beast of the man struck some of them as they entered the room. The punishments seemed arbitrary, and she saw each child cringe in anticipation of being chosen.
“Get in, get in, you little blighters,” Trimble sneered.
Each child was in chains, she saw, and several of them were bound together. A ritual then unfolded before her light-stabbed eyes. Under the overseer’s watchful eyes, the children fastened themselves to the manacles fixed to the wall. None of them could run away, she saw. They were bound to each other, then to the wall. And Mr. Trimble held the keys.
The ritual complete, the children sat shoulder to shoulder in the cramped room, some of them within reach of Sera. Those nearest her were looking at her in curiosity. She was bigger than most of them, but a few of the youths were teens. They all had a starved, wasted look that put her in mind of the stories Cettie had told her about growing up in the Fells.
“I’ll be checking each one,” Trimble said. “No mistakes, or I’ll cuff you with my key ring. Ya hear me?” He staggered into the room and gave an exaggerated yawn. “It’s morning, my little pups. Time to sleep. All snuggled and warm, heh heh. A litter of pups. Litter, that’s all you are.”
Trimble went from one end of the room to the other, testing each of the manacles. He’d even tested Sera’s connection to the wall. Once he was through, he removed the chains attaching the children to one another. He was precise and methodical. There was no hope of escape.
Sera’s heart throbbed with pity as she looked at the children’s grimy faces. These were nothing more than slaves. Nothing her government did had touched their ruined lives. How could it? They lived below the streets, away from the seeing eyes of the Leerings in the fountains above. And she had a feeling Mr. Trimble wasn’t the only one engaged in such a trade.
Her attention was roused when Mr. Trimble suddenly smacked one of the children. “I saw that look! Don’t you sass me! I won’t stand for it! I won’t!” He smacked the child again, the noise making all the rest of the children flinch. The boy was weeping, shoulders hunched, trembling.
She clenched her fists, trembling with rage, wishing she could command a dragoon to beat him.
“And you!” he said, lurching toward another boy. He struck him too. “I saw you slacking at the end. Hardly pushing your rake at all. You think I’m jesting? That I won’t fix a millstone to your ankles and throw you into the river outside town? If you’re not going to work, I’d just as soon drown ya! What good are you to me?”
“I’m sorry!” the boy wailed. “I’m-I’m sorry, Mr. Trimble!”
“You’d better be sorry! I won’t abide laziness. None of it. You want to eat, you must work. You work harder tonight, and you’ll get your bread tomorrow morning. Mind that, lad. You better mind that.”
The boy looked devastated at the thought of missing a meal. But he didn’t complain. None of them did. They were terrified.
He finished unlocking the extra chains and left them all in a heap on the floor. Trimble looked from face to face, rubbing his scraggly beard, his eyes wells of menace. He was looking for something. No one met his eyes, all heads were bowed low.
“You,” he said at last, pointing to a little girl. The feeling of misery and despair in the dark, fetid room increased, making Sera’s stomach ill. “It’s your turn. Up. Stand up!”
The little girl rose, her chain dragging against the stone. Everyone looked away from her, their expressions both guilty and grateful. They were thankful they had not been chosen.
The awfulness of the moment seared Sera’s heart. She found herself standing, pushing herself up against the wall before she could even think.
Mr. Trimble turned at the noise, spotting her. “What are you doing?”
“Go,” Sera told him, her voice trembling.
In two steps, he was in front of her. He slapped her face without hesitation. The sting shocked her, his violence terrified her, but she did not turn away. Staring at him again, she repeated her command—“go”—directing her will against his. “Leave them alone.”
Rage and fury filled his eyes. He hammered his fists against Sera, who pulled in her elbows to protect her body from the assault. Blow after blow struck her. He was screaming at her, but she couldn’t hear his words—the pounding of her heartbeat deafened her to them. She didn’t understand why, but his blows didn’t hurt.
“Leave!” Sera yelled at him, and again he went wild, striking her over and over. The blows hit her back, her ribs, her shoulders, but something gave her the strength to stand against it, to endure it. She’d never been beaten before, not like these poor waifs. Not like Cettie.
She saw the wild madness in his eyes, the uncontrollable anger. He would keep beating her because she had spoken up. She had challenged his authority in front of the children. But she wouldn’t stand aside. She wouldn’t abandon these children as so many others had done.
His blows slowed, and she looked at him, her teeth chattering. She was full of emotion, full of defiance. “You cannot make me cry,” she told him, shaking her head, sagging against the wall.
His look of rage only intensified. He was consumed by the Myriad Ones. She could feel their heavy presence in the room. Their host might not recognize her, but they did. And they wanted to break her.
Sera stared into his face and thought the command word. Banirexpiare.
It was as if she had punched him back without using her fists. Mr. Trimble staggered backward, a slack look on his face, his jaw hanging wide.
The Myriad Ones who’d inhabited him dispersed. Sera stared at him, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her arms were throbbing now in pain.
“Go!” Sera commanded him.
He stared at her, knees quaking, and then walked out and slammed the iron door, fixing the key in place and locking it. He’d left his lantern on the middle of the floor.
All the children stared at her in wonderment.
“Who are you?” one of them asked in a whisper.
“I’m Sera,” she answered, trembling anew at what she’d endured. She hadn’t backed down. The bruises and aches from the beating she’d endured were beginning to surface. Her stomach had never felt so sick before.
