Whisper staggered a step, locking arms with Keen, who glowered. After a long moment, they both turned, saying nothing.
“Tell Rukisa the Prelate is finished,” Nolan said.
The killers turned, listening.
“Those exact words,” Nolan growled.
With that, Whisper and Keen stepped away without a sound.
Two shadows flittered overhead, and Nolan studiously ignored them. “Our friends are here. I’ll have them on standby. Just in case.”
“Record everything you can,” Cherry told the drones, who both gained height and slipped away to the south.
“Open windows. Taverns. Anything interesting. One on us at all times, one out roaming,” Nolan ordered.
Cherry tilted her head at Nolan again, lips in a moue. “Good plan for cover. Now, about those two—killers. Was that the best idea? Tipping our hand?”
Nolan waved her concern away, then pointed to the soaring city façade, dark, snowy, and impossibly tall. “As if there aren’t Calabrians already in there?”
Rukisa
East
“Stay here and wait for me, is that understood?”
Rukisa’s question was rhetorical, but the response was not. A firm chorus of assent greeted her as she turned, the sun just beginning to dip below the Clockstones. They soared above her, raw, torn, and primal, gray fingers climbing toward the sky in each direction as far as the eye could see.
“We will stay until you descend. If any of them leave, I will deal with them personally,” Hexor said, her tone light, the meaning of her words anything but. There were two dozen fighters arrayed ten meters below Rukisa’s perch, a vague stone stairway that led up and away, vanishing into the growing shadows above.
“Tomorrow. I’ll return then. Send outriders to verify that our muster points are crewed and organizing whoever turns up. Hexor, you have my permission to build fires tonight. It’ll be chill this far up. Set three watches, two locations,” Rukisa said, turning and beginning her climb without looking back. Such was the nature of her power—she issued orders and expected nothing other than complete obedience.
“Lady?”
The soft question floated up. A female voice, unknown to Rukisa.
She stopped, turned, then looked at the speaker—a young, rough woman with filthy hair and chapped cheeks. Rukisa lifted a brow. “Quickly.”
“Why here? Why now? Are we not making ready to ride north?”
Rukisa fought the urge to laugh because her answer would mean nothing to someone of Silence, who lived her days wrapped in hunger and superstition. Those were not Rukisa’s way, but—
“Only I can ascend the Clockstones. More importantly, only I can descend and live to tell about it. Up there”—Rukisa pointed with her chin—“is a source of magic. We’ll need things to push north, and my recent change in location leaves me short of the weapons I must have.”
The woman looked abashed, eyes down at the bare, gray stones under her boots. “I see.”
“No you don’t,” Rukisa said and began climbing, her long legs making two steps at a time. In minutes, she was up, turned, and climbing a narrow path that had spots of frost where the sun never touched. A dry place, high and cold and dangerous.
A place of secrets.
She reached in her bag, then slipped a small breathing mask over her mouth and nose and activated the filters. The mask warmed and cleaned every breath she took, clinging to her face and nose like a second skin. She climbed until the sun went bang against the distant horizon, then slipped away to a furnace glow. Stars emerged, then the moons, and then Rukisa was in full darkness, still climbing at the same relentless pace. She had excellent night vision, and was heavily armed and alone. It was as she wanted for what was to come.
Two hours before dawn, the cave loomed, a null point in the velvety curtain of night. Oblong and tilted, the opening was a scar, plunging deep into the mountain, and from within, Rukisa saw something that made her shiver with anticipation.
Light.
“A guest,” she murmured.
The mask went away, tucked back into her bag, just as a wicked handgun came out, the snub barrel wide enough to hold a small egg. In her other hand she carried a long, thin blade, the edge gleaming with cruel purpose as Rukisa flattened herself to the wall and went in.
She made no sound, and every movement was that of a feral animal on the stalk—silent. Purposeful. Clever.
Twelve meters in, the cave floor showed signs of transfer char, a dark, glistening stone caused by—heat? Energy? There was no way to know, and it didn’t really matter. Rukisa had seen people trade the char as semi-precious stones, accompanied by a fanciful lie designed to part people with coin, or young women with their favors. Since Rukisa had no need of either, she moved on, careful not to step on the new, brittle surface, spalled by an impact of something large and heavy.
A woman groaned in the gloom, her voice low, laden with pain, and speaking a language from beyond anywhere humans had ever been.
Rukisa approached, her worry fading as she saw blood spilling freely across the transfer char. She tsked, shaking her head as she moved forward, gun now pointed down to the cave floor.
“Nasty looking wound,” Rukisa remarked.
The woman rolled her eyes, then tried to fix them on Rukisa, but having little in the way of success. Her wounds were fatal; of that, there was no doubt. How long she would live could be measured in minutes, if Rukisa was laying odds. The woman’s singlet was form-fitting, canary yellow, and rimmed with a black metal wire that connected at her small waist. Her hair was cut short, almost to stubble, and she looked as human as Rukisa, if not more so.
Except for her fingers and hands. Two thumbs, four fingers, and an odd crook to her wrists only added to the sense of wrongness, then her eyes fixed on Rukisa, finally. They were nearly lavender, with enormous pupils, and tilted beyond anyone from Old Earth. She was missing a boot—her feet had six toes—and when she opened her mouth to speak, Rukisa could see her incisors were longer and flatter than a true human.
Rukisa knelt by the woman, shaking her head in sympathy. “Hard fall, that.”
“Sub’a’b’tht,” the woman said, her voice a soft, musical lilt.
“I know,” Rukisa said, placing a hand on her cheek. A single tear rolled down the woman’s face and tracked through fine dust and grit that could only come from a fire aboard a spacecraft. With a deft movement, Rukisa pinched the woman’s nose and brought the edge of her other hand down in a savage chop, crushing the windpipe. As the woman struggled, Rukisa bore down, making sympathetic noises until the woman—alien—went still, her spirit leaving in a series of defiant twitches.
In a moment, it was all over, and Rukisa got down to the business of looting. She emptied the alien’s bag, pockets, and uniform, taking her time and missing nothing. Next to the corpse, she started a pile of salvage, then rolled the woman over to reveal—
A tool kit. Filled with tech.
Strapped to the alien’s back, the kit had been hidden, but Rukisa prized it away and found herself laughing, unbidden, at the treasures within. Inside she found four gears—all the size for the cable, their teeth gleaming with newness—quantum chips— always welcome—and a knife.
A very special knife. A ship’s blade, the monomolecular type with the retracting handle that would never break or lose its edge. In a pinch, you could do surgery with it, but you could also use the knife to install and patch quantum chips, none of which was possible in the world occupied by Rukisa’s real people.
Her family. Her purpose.
The Calabrian Prelate.
She scuffed at the ground, covering the entire ten-meter circle in a slow, careful method designed to miss nothing and see all. The stench of seared chemicals and armor still hung in the air, and Rukisa was careful not to get too far into the middle.
The jump point wasn’t just a point. It was a series of points, scattered in the atmosphere, and the southern ocean—
—and
the caves, too high for people to climb without masks sent with the gear of every Calabrian agent. The only interdimensional—or galactic—transfer points ever found were on a world at the bottom of a whirlpool in space.
And the Calabrians had been looting it for millennia.
Rukisa hefted the tool kit, then tucked gears and all into her bag. She held items worth more than most starships, the technology delivered from somewhere outside human space, or time, or even the known universe. The chips alone could buy and sell a planet, and Rukisa would have enough money from this sale to never have another downplanet assignment for the rest of her long, long life.
She stood, stretching, a slow smile spreading on her face. With regeneration and neural augmentation, she could expect another two to three centuries of healthy living.
Rukisa looked down at the dead alien and briefly wondered—did they know? Did they understand where they went when the point failed?
Would they ever send anyone looking for their loved ones?
Rukisa tapped the bag, smiling again. Billions of Libran Crowns, all hers. All convertible to any form of payment she wanted. And all she had to do was keep the kingdoms at war until a shuttle dove—successfully—to answer her pickup call, and take her far, far away from the world where universes collide.
And money was made.
She gave the body a mocking salute. “Thanks for dropping in.”
Radwill
North
“That little prick,” Radwill whispered.
Vondaar sat in front of a Thread, its screen connected to Tilden, who was somewhere else. The connection was strong enough to let Radwill listen without any hiss or static.
“You can’t wait,” Tilden was saying.
Vondaar put a manicured hand to his throat. “What am I, a common killer? That’s what I have you for. I won’t move against her here, in this pile. How would I get away?”
“Leave that to me,” Tilden said.
Vondaar’s bark of laughter echoed off the stone walls of his room. “And be left behind, guilty of regicide, as you drift downriver on a barge? I don’t think so, old friend. My parents told me you were—oily—but even I didn’t think you were stupid. I won’t kill a princess, even though she has to die in order to allow me my final place. To reiterate, her blood is your task. Now what will you do? Will you honor our contract or—”
“You could die first,” Radwill said, slipping from his hiding place behind the heavy wall covering. “But I think we’ll leave that to the queen. Tilden, I’ll see you soon.”
Tilden’s face was shocked, then calm, and then—he began to laugh. “Don’t think you will.” He touched fingers to brow, every tooth showing. “Fair currents, my prince. I don’t think we’ll meet again.”
The Thread’s silver screen went dark, leaving Vondaar and Radwill standing in the room, silent except for the popping sounds a Thread made as it cooled after use.
Vondaar smiled. “How much?”
Radwill made a show of thinking. “Three pounds, princeling. That should do.”
“Is that some North’r unit of coin? I can assure you, I have plenty to—”
Fast as a thought, a knife appeared in Radwill’s hand. He shook his head slowly, smiling all the while. With deliberate glee, he stuck the sharp point against Vondaar’s fine brocade tunic, the tip nearly punching through.
But not quite.
“Not coins, you double-dealing bastard. Pounds. Three pounds. That’s what your liver weighs, more or less. I’ve a mind to take it, but—no. Corra will need to see you. This is her decision.”
Vondaar tried bravado. It didn’t work. “Are you her pet? To do as she commands?”
Radwill considered that because he never did things in a hurry—unless it was killing. “If I am, it’s an honor. Unlike what life would be like under you and those serpents you call parents. Off with you, now. We’re going to walk down the stairs, across the square, and straight into the chamber. If you twitch, you die. If you run, you die badly. Do you understand?”
“I do, and—”
The blade flickered out, slashing Vondaar’s cheek. He squealed in pain as the blood began to flow, hot and crimson.
Radwill gave him a cool grin. “It’s a long walk. That was to help you remember.”
Meeting
North
The guards were calm, professional, and unmoving, which was fine with Nolan. All five of them held short spears and pistols, their collective expression one of stony silence.
The tallest spoke into a tube in the wall, to the left of the largest doors Nolan had ever seen.
“Impressive,” Cherry said, looking over the inlaid wood. There was silver chasing in each section—a royal crest, she thought—and no handles. The doors opened from the inside.
Jack spoke to Nolan just then, without any preamble. Double agents in the castle. Be aware.
I counted on it, but thanks, Nolan said.
After a long moment, Balant appeared from the door, which opened just far enough to permit his bulk. He gave Nolan and Cherry appraising looks, then lifted his brows at Avina before hooking his thumbs into a wide metal belt. “Did you just liberate something from two cutters out there in the open?”
“We did,” Nolan answered instantly.
“A blade, or some other dangerous thing, and now you ask to see the queen?”
“We do,” Cherry answered.
Balant freed his thumbs, hands cocked like a wrestler. “You’ve got balls of iron, I’ll give you that.”
I’m probably part iron, Cherry said. Unlike you, Nolan, who is tragically fleshy.
Silence, robot.
In answer, Cherry snorted laughter into their comm connection, all while Balant stood, unaware of their conversation. And many other things.
“In addition to iron balls, we’ve got a damned good reason,” Avina said, giving Balant a level look.
“Our spymaster saw the pickup. Nice work, he said, and then he told me you’re as dangerous as anyone in the three kingdoms. So why the fuck should I let you into the presence of my queen?” Balant’s jaw was set, his feet spread apart. The guards hadn’t moved—except for their eyes. They all watched the newcomers with an uncomfortable heat.
“Permission to give her a gift?” Nolan asked.
Balant tilted his head, then nodded. “Aye. Slowly.”
Nolan took the bag from around his neck and placed it gently on the flagstones between Balant and him. “A blade, and don’t touch it. You’ll die.”
Balant didn’t move. “Tell me more.”
“I can’t. At least—not here. Put as many guns on me as you want, but—a question. You serve your queen?” Nolan asked.
“With my life. And her name is Corra, not that you’ll call her that.”
“Not looking to contravene her rule. It’s bigger than any crown, and that package is a great way to explain why,” Nolan said. He’d known her name, but it was good to hear it spoken with respect by someone like Balant. It gave weight to Nolan’s conclusions—that these people were all worth saving, and Corra, especially so.
Balant flicked a glance up and to the left, and the doors slid inward, silent as a tomb. He leaned over and slung the bag over one thick finger. “Follow me. And if you twitch in her presence, I’ll kill every one of you myself. Understood?”
“We expect nothing less,” Avina said.
As one, Nolan, Avina, and Cherry filed into the massive space, flanked by even more guards who appeared like ghosts. Their steps echoed up to the ceiling some ten meters above, detailed carvings spiraling away in every direction.
“A cathedral,” Avina said.
“It is. But not to a god. To the crown, because she rules the snow and the river,” Balant said.
“How old is she?” Cherry asked. “Your, ah, queen?”
“Sixteen summers, nearing seventeen. Don’t let her age impact your opinion. She was born to this—and here we are,” Balant said with a wave.
Stairs went up
—twenty-two in all—to a dais framed in massive bone arches and floral paintings under a jeweled glass ceiling. There, on a plain chair, sat a young woman with red hair and pale skin and a sword resting on her hip like it was meant to be there.
“Your majesty. The—opportunists that Radwill saw. They bring a gift,” Balant said.
The room was crowded. There were two dozen people in uniforms of every kind, busy at tasks that had an obvious purpose, or none at all. To the left was a second set of high doors, three more chairs, two tables, and an oval screen that looked like tech older than the dawn of time. Sparks hung within the golden border, and it rippled with the uncertainty of a pond before the storm.
Master Ainault stood before the other doors, his long arms held easy as he sized up the new arrivals. Over his shoulder, Vondaar was brought into the room, sputtering and mewling.
“Cor—your majesty, they’re—get your hands off me, you dolt. I’m a—” Vondaar said, only to be clouted behind the ear by Radwill, who appeared from behind the disgraced Count in a blur, slapped him, and stepped back, a stern look of disgust on his angular face.
“Shut. Your. Mouth,” Radwill said.
“I already like these people,” Avina said softly.
“Whether we like you remains to be seen,” Corra said, turning her brilliant eyes to them. “What did you take?”
Nolan nodded toward the bag. “It’s yours, ah, Majesty. I ask you to be as careful as you can. It’s no joke.”
“A weapon?” Corra asked, quick-witted as ever.
“Yes, and not of this planet,” Nolan said.
Corra cut her eyes at Balant, who nodded. The term planet didn’t faze them, and Nolan, Cherry, and Avina all marked the lack of a reaction.
A bustle of noise erupted from the second doors, and Radwill reached for his sword. Every guard in the room went to a higher state of alert with a flash of steel, and the doors pushed open to reveal—
“Ah. Ferdwick. Nice of you to join us and press the case of your”—Balant pretended to search for a word, then grinned— “esteemed guild.”
Lost Kingdom: Book 1 in the Lost Kingdom Series Page 25
