by Sharon Shinn
It was the longest, most direct speech Kit remembered hearing from a gulden addressing a difficult indigo, and it made her appreciate the doctor even more. She wanted to say so to Sereva but she couldn’t make the muscles of her mouth work. It was too much trouble; she went back to sleep.
When she woke, it was somewhere past midnight, and Sereva was sleeping in a chair by her bed. Kit was a mass of aches and bruises. Her brain seemed to be holding its breath inside her skull, trying to puff itself up so large that it burst through the bone. The whole left side of her body throbbed in time with her heartbeat; her arm was cocooned in something soft and clumsy. Her head hurt so much that it was hard to think clearly, but at least her thoughts felt as if they could be forced into some kind of order.
“Sereva,” she called and had to repeat the name twice before her cousin stirred. Then, instantly, Sereva was on her feet and bending over the bed.
“Kitrini! You’re awake! How are you feeling?”
“Awful. I hurt all over. I’m not even sure what happened.”
“There were a couple of explosions in the Centrifuge this afternoon. Hundreds of people killed. Only a few of you got out alive. They sent a message to Granmama and it—Kit, she actually fainted. I think she’s so much frailer than we realize. I didn’t know if I should stay with her or come to you, but Jayson’s with her, and he called a while ago to say she’s fine now. But you! You were so pale and crazy when I came in. You didn’t recognize me—you didn’t speak to me—”
“I recognized you.” But now a new pain was settling in over Kit’s chest, weaving itself through the warp of her ribs and troubling her breathing. “You said—explosions in the tunnel? Caused by—what?”
“They don’t know yet. Could have been some electrical malfunction, I heard.”
“Or it could have been a bomb. Bombs.”
“Maybe, but that’s too horrible to think about.”
Kit knew she would be unable to think of anything else. “When will they know? Are they investigating? Did they shut down the tunnels?”
“Oh, yes, the Centrifuge is closed for the next week at least. There’s a two-mile section between South Zero and One that’s completely caved in. Nobody knows how long it will take to repair. Ariana Bayless is already trying to figure out how to route commuter traffic into the city. They’re offering incentives to workers to stay in the city at special hotel rates, and they’re planning to overhaul all these old buses that haven’t run for years. It’s going to be a mess.”
It was Jex. Surely not. Surely, not even Jex would blow up hundreds of people during the commuting hour, just to make a point, just to infuriate Ariana Bayless? It was Jex. He was not so cruel, so reckless, so prodigal with others’ lives. It was Jex. But she had just left his arms, and he knew she would be taking the Centrifuge home. He loved her; he would not have sent her into such danger without a warning, would not have allowed her to leave him blithely to steer straight into certain carnage. It was Jex. It was Jex. It was Jex.
Sereva was still talking, nervously, as if she couldn’t stop herself. “I can’t imagine why they brought you here, but that arrogant doctor—or whatever he is, I’m sure he doesn’t have an actual degree—he wouldn’t let me move you to a real hospital. So I said, then I’ll have to stay, I’m not leaving her there alone all night with people who can’t be trusted to care for her—”
“The gulden have superb medical training facilities on Gold Mountain,” Kit said faintly. Her brain squeezed against her skull with an insistent pressure; surely her head was about to shatter. “They produce marvelous doctors.”
“Well—maybe for their own kind—everybody knows that their blood is just a little different from ours—”
“It is,” Kit agreed. She closed her eyes, hoping to ease the pain a little. “It’s weaker. More vulnerable to disease. But their bones are stronger. Other than that—not much difference.”
“You may say that,” Sereva said, “but I don’t believe it.” She may have added more, but Kit did not hear it. She curled in upon herself, trying to ease both the pressure in her head and the pressure on her heart, and fell asleep once more.
* * *
* * *
In the morning, except for a nagging headache and a leaden pain throughout the left half of her body, Kit felt relatively normal. Clear-headed, at least. She was hungry, though when they brought her food, it suddenly did not seem like a good idea to eat it. However, when a nurse told her she couldn’t go home till she’d kept food down for at least six hours, she ate about half the meal, and she actually felt better for it. Late in the afternoon, a gulden doctor came in to examine her—not the one from the night before—and pronounced her well enough to leave.
“But I’d have her checked by her own doctor in a day or so,” he advised. Sereva answered with a sniff and a look that meant I certainly intend to! but Kit smiled at him warmly and thanked him and the hospital staff for their care. They took a limo to Sereva’s, for Granmama did not feel well enough to watch the invalid, and the boys came rushing out to help her to the door.
“Here, Kitrini, lean on me! I’m so strong!” Bascom exclaimed, tugging her arm over his shoulder and putting a hand at her waist.
“Kitrini, you look terrible!” Marcus informed her, dancing before them up the wide walk. “What’s a concussion? Does it hurt? Will your brain burst open?”
Kit laughed weakly. “I don’t think my brain will burst open, but I wouldn’t swear to it at this point. Bascom, a little slower, please? My ankle hurts.”
But eventually she was ensconced in the room she had claimed a few weeks ago, pillows behind her back, under her foot, and under her elbow. Bascom was volunteering to sleep on the floor outside her door in case she became wakeful during the night, and Marcus said he would be happy to stay home from school all week to amuse her.
“I don’t think either of those sacrifices will be necessary, thank you very much, but you might check in with her every once in a while to see if she needs anything,” their mother told them. Her voice was stern, but she was smiling, and she reached out a hand to play with Marcus’s long, tangled hair. “She should be up and on her feet very soon.”
“I’ll have to send a note to Del and tell her I won’t be in for a while,” Kit said, sinking back into the pillows. Ah, this was heaven after the flat mattresses and severe pillows of the hospital.
“Who’s Del?” Sereva asked.
“The woman who runs the charity bank.”
“All right. Anyone else I should contact for you?”
Jex. If he had not set the bombs, he surely would have heard about them, and he knew when she had left the Complex. He would be frantic, wondering if she was hurt or dead, cursing himself for not keeping her there an hour longer, half an hour—fifteen minutes would have saved her from the blast—
“No,” she said, closing her eyes against every imaginable kind of pain. “No one else needs to know.”
* * *
* * *
The next two days passed quietly, almost pleasantly, with Sereva and her family going to elaborate lengths to make sure Kit was comfortable, well-fed, and entertained. Granmama came to visit, looking, as Sereva had said, so fragile and old that Kit wanted to jump from the bed and ease her into a chair. Her skin looked dull and faded, exposed overlong to sun or some other impossibly stressful element; her coiled white hair seemed thinner, more brittle. But her intense blue eyes were bright as ever, and her spirit seemed completely undaunted.
“Haven’t you caused me enough worry already?” the old lady asked as soon as Marcus and Bascom had helped her settle in. “Now you have to go soaring through explosions? What’s the matter with you? Don’t you have any sense at all?”
Marcus and Bascom stood riveted with shock, but Kit burst out laughing. “You’re right, Granmama, I had a concussion just to upset you. I hope it worked.”
&nbs
p; The old lady shook a finger at her. “Trying to send me off before my time. Think you’re going to inherit all my property. One more trick like this and you’ll be out of the will forever.”
“I thought I was out of the will, anyway. I hoped I was! Leave it all to Sereva. She’s a much better steward than I am.”
“Well, I would, if she’d bothered to have a daughter. Now, maybe if these two young rascals marry well, I’ll give their brides some tidy property. Only if I like the girls, though.”
Bascom was listening closely, but Marcus had wandered over to the window and picked up a discarded book. Bascom said, “That’s a long way off, Granmama. I won’t marry for years and years, and Marcus—”
Now he was the one to have a finger pointed in his direction. “I’m already making plans for you, young man! It’s never too early to pick out the proper girl. You keep that in mind. You marry a girl your great-grandmother likes, you can have a nice piece of land. Any of my estates you like the best? Hey? You’ve been to them all. Which do you like?”
“Granmama, he’s just a boy—” Kit murmured, but Bascom had come closer, a considering frown on his face.
“Well, my father always says Govedere is the most profitable of your lands, but I think Munetrun is my favorite,” he said seriously. “I like the house the best. It’s not as grand as Govedere, but I feel happy when I’m there. And I like the land. It’s so wild. I feel like you could go live there and no one would come bother you for years.”
Granmama was smiling oddly, but she kept her voice gruff. “And that’s what you want? To live tucked away somewhere completely isolated from the rest of the world?”
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “The city’s so crowded. Sometimes, I can’t concentrate. Sometimes, I just want to get away from everybody.”
“Well, Munetrun’s the place for that,” Granmama said, and now she allowed her smile to grow. “That’s where your great-grandfather and I lived when we were first married. I’ve always loved that estate. Doesn’t earn a damn dollar, of course, and it takes so long to get there that you’ve practically aged a year before you arrive, but that’s the place I’d choose, too. Not that you’ll get it. Fairenen or Glosadel is more like what I’d bestow on your bride—but only if I like her.”
“And I would be happy to have either of those, Granmama,” Bascom said, so seriously that both Kit and the old lady started laughing.
“So you shall, then,” Granmama said in delight, “so you shall.”
* * *
* * *
Kit was up and walking on the third day, though she was cautious about putting weight on her left foot, and her first expedition tired her more than she would have believed possible. Sereva’s doctor had come twice and pronounced her well on the way to mending, though he warned her to watch for headaches and come instantly to see him if any became too intense. When she asked him what limitation she should put on her activity, he smiled somewhat sardonically and said, “You’ll know.” Which had proved to be true.
Late in the afternoon of that third day, while the boys were still in school, Sereva was at the office, and Jayson had left on errands, a maid came to find Kit in her bedroom.
“Hela, there are people here to see you,” the girl said. She spoke so oddly that Kit felt a sudden flush of alarm. There had been any number of visitors in the past few days—Emron Vermer and his cousin, Aliria, Carvon, even Corzehia Mallin and her husband—all bringing flowers and condolences to the downed heroine. Kit had told Sereva that she absolutely refused to see any of them, so Sereva had merely carried reports of Kit’s condition to her well-wishers. But none of the servants would seem so unnerved at the arrival of more of these high-caste callers.
“What kind of people, Catie?” Kit asked.
“They say they’re from the mayor’s office. They look like security officers.”
Ah. Kit had not expected this, but she should have—in fact, she was surprised it had taken so long. “Well, bring them up to see me. And bring us all some kind of refreshments. Be polite.”
“Of course, hela.”
A few minutes later, Catie had opened Kit’s bedroom door to show in a man and a woman dressed in the shapeless khaki uniforms of the city police. Kit had managed to arrange herself on a quilted chair so they didn’t find her lying helplessly on her bed, and she graciously indicated that they could seat themselves on a small sofa nearby. They complied, glancing around the room with expressions that were meant to be blank. Kit could read them, though: These were low-caste indigo unused to the luxuries of the Higher Hundred, and they were awed.
Something in her favor. One of the few things. She must be careful.
“I’m Kitrini Candachi,” she introduced herself, though they knew damn well who she was. “Won’t you tell me your names?”
“I’m Hoyla Davit, and this is Berkin Star,” the woman said. She was middle-aged, somewhat paunchy, with skin so dark that the folds of her neck looked painted on in black. Her fingers were broad and stubby, but her arms, even enclosed in the formless cotton, looked powerful. “We’re investigating the explosion in the Centrifuge that occurred four days ago.”
“I thought you might be. Have you figured out yet what caused it?”
“We’re not certain yet, but it seems unlikely to have been an accident or an electrical malfunction.”
“So—you think it was—a bomb or something like that.”
“It’s too early to say, hela. Maybe you can help us fill in some of the gaps.”
Kit took a deep breath. “If I can. What do you want to know?”
“Tell us what happened when you were in the tunnels.”
“I had just passed the South Zero gate when I saw a bright orange light in front of me. I didn’t even realize what it was at first, until the other ringcars started tumbling back. Then all the cars started smashing together, then there was another explosion behind me and more cars started crashing into each other. I didn’t actually see either of the explosions. They seemed to be about a minute apart, but I kind of lost my sense of time. They could have been seconds apart, or ten minutes. I just couldn’t tell.”
“And you’ve had a concussion, we hear, so your memory might not be perfect.”
“Well, there are parts of that night that I don’t recall.”
“What’s the next thing you remember?”
“Mmm—I guess when the medics came and started digging me out. But that’s pretty hazy. The next thing I remember clearly is waking up at the hospital.”
Hoyla Davit gave her one close sharp look. “The gulden hospital, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Why were you taken there?”
Kit felt her eyes widen in unfeigned surprise. “I don’t know. I suppose it was the nearest—”
“You didn’t ask to be taken there? As a preference?”
“Well, no—I didn’t mind, of course, but I didn’t choose the hospital. I was unconscious at the time, Officer.”
Hoyla Davit nodded. Her partner all this while had said nothing. He looked to be about thirty years old, well-built and stupid. Kit could not help that ridiculous childhood rhyme from singing through her head: A woman has the brains/A man has the muscle/A woman holds the reins/Till a man wants to tussle. Who had taught her that? Surely no one in Geldricht. She gave her head an infinitesimal shake. Concussion or no, she must concentrate; she must understand what was going on here.
Hoyla Davit was speaking again. “When you entered the Centrifuge, where were you coming from?”
“I’d been in the city. Running errands,” Kit said, trying to keep her voice casual. It was hard when her chest suddenly constricted and her lungs could not take in enough air to support her words.
“Do you remember exactly what errands you were running?”
She manufactured a lie on the spot. “Well, I’d stopped at my bank�
��I’d gone by a restaurant to try and solicit donations for the charity bank where I work—I’d gone to visit a friend—”
“What friend?” The question pounced out.
Kit raised her eyebrows. “And why exactly is it you need to know?” she asked in the haughtiest Granmama tone she could manage.
“And why exactly would you be reluctant to tell?”
“It seems to me,” Kit said, still in that supercilious tone, “that no friend I would visit in the city could have any relation to explosions in the Centrifuge—which, as I understand it, is what you’re here investigating?”
“Unless that friend was Jex Zanlan,” Hoyla Davit said.
So they knew. Of course they knew. The guard at the gate had recognized her name, her face; and hadn’t there been cameras trained on them the whole time she was in Jex’s prison? In his prison, making love to him under the thin shield of blankets and furniture. Worse and worse and worse.
“Jex was one of the people I visited that day,” she said calmly. “Why?”
“Jex Zanlan is a known terrorist who has been responsible for several acts of violence recently committed in this city,” said Hoyla Davit. “If we discover that the explosives were deliberately set, Jex Zanlan is the first person we will look to.”
“He’s in jail,” Kit said. “How could he set off any bombs?”
“That’s a stupid question, hela,” Hoyla Davit said softly.
“Not as stupid as some of the questions you’ve been asking me.”
“Then answer this one. Did Jex Zanlan tell you of any plans he’d made to sabotage the Centrifuge that day?”
Kit leaned forward and, dropping the hauteur, infused her voice with cold passion. “If Jex Zanlan or anyone had told me of plans to blow up the Centrifuge, I would have been in Ariana Bayless’s office faster than you could call my name. And, believe me, Officer, if anyone had warned me that the Centrifuge was about to be bombed to pieces, I would have walked home sooner than board a ringcar and try to beat the explosion to my gate.”
