by Daryl Banner
Then the door to the caravan slides open. All the clones turn to it, startled. The To-Be-King steps out with a hearty sigh, observes the scene with the calmness of a man checking the day’s weather out his front doorstep, then spreads his hands. “There is no need to fight today,” he announces grandly. “State your demands, my friends, and we will see how we may best accommodate them.”
Then, in perfect unison, all the boys speak as one: “He cut me. This fucker in a neck brace cut me deep!”
It’s a strange thing for all of them to announce, considering the other clones aren’t bleeding at all. Only the one in Halvesand’s grasp shows red at the top of his shoulder where it meets the neck, the blood slowly spreading out of the wound, painting the shirt.
The scarf-clad man gives a random clone a look. “You will live, you big baby.” Then he eyes the To-Be-King. “I’ll state my demands plainly, and here they are: Get in the caravan. Now.”
Lord Liaff lifts two bushy, grey eyebrows, confused. “Pardon?”
“All of you. Get in the caravan. It’s our caravan now.”
Lord Liaff glances back at the chrome, considers it for a second, then shrugs. “Why don’t you simply take it, then? You don’t need us. We can get along by foot. I think us four shall manage quite well.”
All the boys speak as one yet again: “It isn’t just the caravan we want. You are Guardian. We want you, too.”
The effect of the boy’s multiple voices is eerie enough, but the words themselves strike fear into Halvesand’s heart. He keeps his knife to the stabbed boy’s cheek, unrelenting. The last time someone needed use of a Guardian, it didn’t bode well for me.
Or for Pace.
“What do you need Guardian for?” asks Lead Officer Forrest in a more sensitive tone, taking a different tack. “Are you in trouble?”
“Into the caravan,” states the black-silk face, the movement of his mouth revealed only by the subtle shifting of the silk.
Bee, her face flat and emotionless, mumbles, “We can’t all fit.”
In that instant, all the boys but the one at the wall and the ones holding weapons to Bee and Cope crumble to dust and swirl away, swept off by the breeze.
Bee rolls her eyes. “Well, then.”
“We are on an important mission,” blabs Cope, his wimpy voice shaking too much, revealing all his inexperienced fear. “We’re going to end the Madness. You are interfering with our saving of Atlas!”
Silk-face tilts his head curiously. “Why, then we are allies,” he mutters just as lightly.
Halves isn’t sure whether the man’s flippant, casual voice is meant to reassure or mock Cope.
“And if it so pleases you to know,” the mysterious man goes on, “the Madness has been long ended. It’s a whole new manner of evil sitting over our heads, now.”
“The Erana girl?” Cope is utterly incapable of shutting up. “She isn’t evil. She’s a prisoner of Impis’s Posse and needs to be freed safely from her post. We will do exactly that. Please, you must let us go so we can—”
“Your mission has ended.” The man slowly, almost sensuously, moves the blacksteel sword to the other side of Forrest’s neck, as if he gets some sort of sexual thrill from his power over her. “You’ve a new mission. Order them to get in the caravan. I won’t ask again.”
“Get in,” commands Forrest, gritting her teeth. “Arport. Tiamat. Lesser. King. In, now.”
Liaff purses his lips, hesitating, then finally retreats back into the chrome with a shrug. Bee Tiamat and Cope Arport by full name, still have their own weapons aimed at them by the other clone boys. They are slowly walked to the chrome caravan, then step inside it. Their weapons and clones follow them like slow, robotic dogs.
Halvesand notices belatedly that none of the three clones with his comrade’s weapons have a tear in their shirt sleeves. They also don’t share the same smudge of dirt on the cheek. That’s odd …
“Lesser.”
He still holds the boy at knifepoint, but has no energy behind his arm. He eyes Forrest, the one who spoke.
Lead Officer Forrest inclines her head toward him, her eyes like two steel marbles. “Lesser. I gave you a direct order.”
Finally after five seconds more of hesitation, he relents, letting go. The boy grabs at his own shoulder, then pulls his fingers away to give them a look. Blood. He scowls at Halves resentfully as he moves away from him, marching towards the chrome.
Just then, another person appears—a short, plump, coppery-skinned girl with big violet hair that rests in a tangled nest about her shoulders. She wears black and red skintight leather glued to her every ripple and fold of skin, which dances lightly as she walks. She has a surprisingly light tread, her every footfall as feathery as a cat’s, as she approaches the chrome. She places a pudgy palm upon its side, and the whole thing comes back to life, its engine purring gently once again. The Charmer, Halves realizes with a start.
“Lesser,” warns Forrest as she is led into the chrome by the man with the silk over his face, her own sword still at her neck.
Halvesand isn’t so quick to accept defeat. He gave in to a rogue on the street once, and she led him on a terrifying journey that still haunts him to this day, a journey that stole from him his innocence, his friend, and his voice. This is just another band of thieves, another band of rogues. They will deceive us, rob us, and then slay us when our use for them has expired.
Halves won’t be fooled again.
He rushes toward the back of the man the moment he arrives at the door to the caravan with Forrest. Halves’ knife is drawn and at the ready. He aims it for the back of the man’s skull, ready to pierce silk and skin and bone. No rogue will take me again.
Then shadows swirl around Halves at once, blinding him.
For a moment, he is lost. Completely lost.
Even his very soul.
He doesn’t know where he is. Who he is. The time of day. The time of year. The definition of time itself.
His purpose. His family. His thoughts, dreams, and wishes.
His existence.
The nature of existence itself.
And then all at once, reality crashes back into him just as fast as the blunt object hits his head—something he, this time, cannot stop.
His knees turn to noodles. The knife drops from his hand. Down Halvesand Lesser goes to the hard, unrelenting pavement, nothing swimming before his eyes anymore, not even shadows.
0281 Arrow
Arrow keeps a bit of distance from Lora, staying in the kitchens and watching as the woman from the eighth stands at the back door of the Noodle Shop.
A wind picks up her hair. She folds her arms and shivers, then glances back at Arrow over her shoulder. “It’s getting cold.”
“My friends are buried just outside the door,” he responds. “Just under the tree.”
She glances at it, regarding the spot for a moment. “What about your companions? The ones you came with? Shouldn’t they—?”
“They are watching the front door, Edrick and Arcana.”
Lora shivers. “Can … Can we stay inside a little while longer? At least until after this wind has died down?”
“It won’t take long.” Arrow leads her out of the back door and down the alleyway a few paces.
Lora reluctantly follows, still holding herself tightly as if it was the worst of winter and she was a minute from freezing to death. Arrow finds it a bit annoying, though can’t deny the fact that the bit of chill he and Arcana noticed not too long ago in the dying Greens has only gotten worse. Perhaps the winter never ended.
The two stand before the tree now. All is silent but for the wind.
Until Lora says, “I feel him.”
Arrow flinches and looks her way. “Who?”
“I don’t know.” She points at the earth beneath the tree. “Is this where you said your friends were—?”
“Yes.” Arrow gives a nod at the two gravesites. “Go on, then. Do what it is you do.”
Lora
wrinkles up her face. “And what exactly do you think it is that I do? You mean when I tell a story about the departed? When I fashion a name?” She scoffs suddenly. “Are you mocking me?”
Arrow, perhaps his patience exhausted, or simply grown cranky by the increasingly frigid air, crouches down by the lumpy soil at once with a grunt, then peers up at her and speaks in a stern tone. “Just as you did in the eighth. Tell me about the two who rest here.”
Lora, after a long moment of studying Arrow suspiciously, turns her soft eyes to the graves. Whatever tension was on her face, she at once releases. She herself crouches down by the dirt, and she reaches out a hand, placing her palm on the first grave. Her eyes turn sad.
“Well?” coaxes Arrow, so soft he’s barely heard.
She seems to ignore him. Then, as if compelled by some strange force, Lora closes her eyes and tenses up. “He was a boy with many friends. A boy who …” She sighs, frustrated, pausing. “A boy who … who had humor in his heart, always. Humor. He laughed a lot.”
A strange noise touches them for half a second, then is gone.
Arrow glances up, thinking it might’ve been the wind. But the cold wind has given them a moment’s mercy, not bothering them as Lora does her thing.
“He was brave on the outside, but always afraid within. He had a worry that people didn’t like him as much as they said they did. He had a worry that … that he would be surrounded by liars the rest of his life.” Lora wrinkles up her face, then at once her eyes open. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this. This … isn’t right … or fair … or respectful.” She turns her face to Arrow. “You said this is your friend? I can’t do this to your friend. I don’t know him.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Arrow nods. “Keep going, Lora.”
“But I—”
“Keep going. Tell his story.”
“But it isn’t his story. It’s my imagination. I have …” She grows more flustered by the word. “I … I-I have a w-wild imagination. My sister told me I ought to write stories. I could fill a library with what comes out of my silly head.”
“Tell his story from that imagination of yours, then.” Arrow’s words are calm, his eyes alight with wonder. “Just tell it as it comes.”
Lora studies him dubiously for a long while, then closes her eyes almost with resentment. “Fine.” She sucks in a breath. “He … He was worried that leaving his family was the worst mistake of his life. He sometimes regretted the friends he made … because he trusted so few of them. He died fearing his worst worries were confirmed, that he wouldn’t have died had he stayed home. His last thought …” Lora’s lips quiver as her eyes clench tighter, emotion taking her. “His last thought was that he wished he’d stayed home three years ago.”
Arrow’s eyes detach from hers at those words. He feels a cone of ice within his chest, and it’s nothing to do with the wind.
“I will call him …” She clears her throat, wipes away a tear, then opens her eyes upon the grave. “I call him Juston. Juston the Joyful.”
“Yes,” Arrow says to the soil. “He was.”
Lora glances his way, confused.
And then, as if Arrow needs more proof, he gives a nod at the second grave. “And tell me of my other friend buried here.”
Lora’s eyes drift to the second unrested mound of dirt. After a moment’s hesitation, she only sighs and says, “I don’t feel anything from your other friend. I …” She sighs again, deeper. “I suppose my inspiration’s all dried up. I can’t even imagine a thing.”
“No, it isn’t, and of course, you can’t.” Arrow puts a hand on the grave—the grave that should be carrying Victra Kingsword’s body, but isn’t. “You don’t feel anything because there isn’t anything in this second grave. My friend’s body … wasn’t recovered when she died. This second grave is a symbolic one. An empty one.”
Lora’s eyes snap to his. “Excuse me?”
Arrow meets her gaze importantly. “What I’m telling you, Lora, is that you have a Legacy. And it is with the dead.”
It is as if Lora didn’t hear his words. She only stares at him, and stares and stares.
Perhaps she didn’t hear them.
Moments later, the four are regrouped at a table in the middle of the dusty, cobweb-ridden Noodle Shop that hasn’t seen a customer in half a year. Edrick is picking at his nails and leaning back in a chair while Lora goes on and on with her outpouring of disbelief, spilling emotions, and sudden revelations.
“Every single person …” she breathes. “Every single one of them that I buried … I knew all of their names. I still know them. I … I can’t believe that I actually … that I actually knew their lives … and all of their families … and what they did … and what they feared …” So many tears have spilled from her face that all she has left are these strange, dry gasps and sputtering sounds. “All these years. It wasn’t my imagination. Not one bit of it was my imagination.”
“The trick,” Arcana says, taking over from Arrow, who is tired of belaboring the point to Lora, who can hardly listen, “is to figure out how far your Legacy can reach.”
“All this time …” Lora hisses, staring at her hands as they rest on the table, like her palms themselves are telling a story.
“We should see just how much you can surmise about the dead. Perhaps there are secrets and clues in their bodies, information, bits and pieces of their unresolved businesses.” Arcana takes hold of one of Lora’s hands. “Your Legacy can reveal the past in a way that none I have ever known can do, Lora of the eighth. And I have seen many incredible Legacies on several Legacy Tours. Several Legacy Exams. Hundreds of Legacies, Lora.”
“I did so poorly on my Exam. I lied at my Exam.” Lora’s eyes flash. “And had I known …”
Arcana gives her a tight-throated, casual chuckle. “If you only knew how many lied or withheld or exaggerated their gifts.” She leans in. “And here is a secret of mine: I never told Impis or my sister of a single one. It was a private joy of mine, to sit in on those Exams and be the keeper of those fearful students’ secrets.”
Arrow rises from the table, attracting everyone’s attention. He gives them all a muted, “Sorry, I’ll be upstairs,” as he heads for the secret door behind the front counter of the Shop.
The wood creaks beneath his feet. He passes the room Anwick used to sleep in, complete with a bathroom and large windows lining the far wall. It smells the same, despite the neglect. He keeps onward, ascending to the next room which is a storage of sorts, crowded even still with an abundance of overturned chairs, tables, and crates that once held shipments from various food markets, bottlers, and other items. The window in that room is cracked, part of its glass missing, the cool air from outside hissing its way in, giving Arrow a chill.
Then Arrow reaches the end of the stairs where it empties into the loft, the once proud home of Rain for so many years. It is missing its tapestries and the long table that they all would gather at, though not the chairs, which remain there, one of them standing, one of them lying on its side.
Arrow passes through the room to the back where his station used to be, right by the ladder that led up to the roof hatch. A small box of items sits on the squatty table next to an old computer, which Arrow realizes hasn’t worked in many months due to the lack of electricity in this building. Some little trinkets, items, and orphaned charms of Arrow’s lives in the box, all lost things that were quickly recovered from their hideout in the sixth, thanks to a group of brave (and stupid) folk from the ninth who would do anything Arrow asked of them, and even many things he didn’t, including this.
He sits at that table and empties the box, wishing to busy his mind. He finds a lemon-shaped paperweight he used once to spy on Yellow and Gandra. He finds a few old earpieces that make no sound even when he taps on them, then discards them.
And then he finds his mother tracking charm.
Arrow sighs with nostalgia and pain, which in this instance is the same thing. The tracking charm is a thin
plate of metal that he used to insert in this computer in front of him to track all of the whereabouts of various Rain members via tiny chips inserted into them. Arrow chuckles dryly at that, thinking of the one he injected into Juston’s arm and how the boy hated Arrow for weeks, always complaining that it stung, that it itched, that it burned.
He also put a chip into Gandra and Yellow.
Indeed, Arrow had a second, slightly devious plan in coming here to the Noodle Shop.
With a soft bite to his lip, Arrow pulls out a microbiot he had taken out of a streetlamp, and quickly wires it to the computer. After a few adjustments to the wires, the computer flicks on with a sound not unlike the cough of a sickly old man. Then he takes his mother tracking charm and slides the plate into the base of the computer.
“Having fun with your gadgets?” comes Edrick’s voice from the top of the stairs.
Arrow grunts, too focused on typing feverishly at the computer to acknowledge the pleasure boy. He manages to access the program in the system that reads his charm and makes a display upon the old, flickering computer screen. Arrow squints as he adjusts the settings, scanning his readings.
“They’re so boring down there,” whines Edrick as he leans back against the wall behind Arrow. “Dead people this, dead people that. Ugh. Women.” Edrick frowns and leans forward. “What’s that?”
“Shush.” Arrow keeps adjusting his settings, trying to get the charm to locate the implants across Atlas.
The computer beeps. A giant, misshapen circle appears on the screen that represents the whole city of Atlas, as compiled by the rough mappings of Pratganth. A tiny dot flickers right where they are at the Noodle Shop, which makes Arrow smile with pride. The computer has found Juston’s chip, still within his body in the grave.
“Is that the ninth ward?” Edrick leans forward so much, his chin is nearly on Arrow’s shoulder. “Fuck me, is that all of Atlas??”
“Shush, I said.” Arrow types in a few more commands, presses a finger to the tiny sliver of the mother charm that hangs out of the side of the computer, reaching his Legacy into the charm to make an adjustment. He has to be delicate so as not to lose any connections.