by Ann Denton
“A kid?” the older soldier looked skeptical.
“General Dummk got ‘im some orders from Troe. Provide escort and check. Think he’s tryin’ to piss me off. Makin’ me babysit.”
Lowe looked indignant. “I’s good with the numbers sir. That’s why he sent me.”
Mala appraised him coldly. “I think you’d be good for somethin’ better than that.”
Lowe gulped. The room went deadly quiet. Mala smiled harshly. “Don’ speak outta turn again or you gonna learn jus’ what it is I think you’re good for boy.” She barked out a laugh. The older soldier joined her.
“Sir?” The young soldier bit his lip. “Imma s’posed to tell you she’s gone.”
What? Who? Verrat? How am I supposed to react? Did Keptiker know? Mala decided less was more. She raised an eyebrow, simply waiting.
“We had her stuff a’ready and packed for Troe like you said. But she just disappeared. Took one of dem boats, too.”
A boat! Verrat didn’t have a boat.
“Boy, you bein’ as clear as mud right now. Spit it out.”
“She’s gone sir. The Chiara’s gone. Left not five minutes past.”
Mala froze, uncertain how to play this out. She knew the Chiara was an advisor. She knew that Keptiker had been meeting with her. She didn’t know the significance of their relationship. Mucking hell. I am totally unprepared for this mission. Ein was right. She had to force herself not to look to Lowe for guidance. She locked eyes with the scrawny soldier. His grey eyes blinked rapidly. It was clear that he expected her to be upset. He was cringing. So Mala boomed out, “She’s gone?”
“Yezzir,” the blue nose continued, relieved now that he felt more confident of his commanding officer’s reaction. “Said she hadda get them paintin’s to Troe right quick. Important. She’d seen summin’.”
Mala’s heart froze. “Paintin’s?”
The boy nodded.
“Of what?”
“She didn’t say.”
Paintings. The Chiara painted. And she’d left to show Troe a painting.
“Shit!” The words slipped out before Mala could contain them. Everyone turned to stare at her. Calm. Calm down. Cold. Control. Keptiker.
She sat at the desk, though every instinct told her to send someone, everyone after the Chiara. But she couldn’t. “Bring dese two to da prep room. Git ‘em set up. Troe wants ‘em overseeing. Makin’ sure we ain’t skimmin’ him. Then roun’ ev’rybody up. Three hours. We leavin’ at nightfall.”
Both soldiers saluted. They turned in the doorway, ready to head off.
“Wait!” Mala called out. “You,” she gestured at the younger soldier. “Stay.”
The boy visibly gulped. But he nodded. Ein and Lowe disappeared down the hall, but not before Lowe shot her a warning look. She ignored it.
“Take me to da’ Chiara’s rooms,” she ordered the skinny Erlender.
Mala followed the young soldier, blatantly ignoring the curiosity radiating from him. She was deviating from the plan. She knew it. But her gut drove her forward. Somewhere at the Center, she’d shed the insecure girl who’d hidden behind her mother. Mala knew she was young and stupid and hardly trained, but her vow echoed in her head. Blood for blood. And Mala knew somehow this Chiara was the one who’d told Verrat about her death. What does she know? What did she see?
Scraps of paper littered the floor. Canvases stood stacked against the wall in a corner. A small fire burned in a tin trashcan that appeared filled to the brim. Mala ran to it and knocked it over, immediately stamping on the contents to salvage what she could.
When the fire was out, Mala squatted and scooped up the tiny shards of paper that remained. She felt eyes boring into her back. She whipped around and stared down at the young soldier. “Three hours! Git movin’.”
He immediately left. She bent back over to the papers.
Lines. Mostly lines, incomprehensible pieces of much larger artworks. Faces. None recognizable. Mala flipped through page after burnt page, watching the paper disintegrate under her fingertips.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Wait. She stopped. She turned a sketch sideways. The lower half of the face was singed. Short curls. A straight brow. Eyes she would know anywhere. Lowe.
Her heart clenched. She stood, slowly, as if in a trance. She folded the paper, tucking it into her pocket. She glanced around the room, only half-seeing what was there. Stacks of canvases.
Numbly, Mala flipped through them. Dull landscape after dull landscape. What do I do? What does it mean? What did she see? Why did the Chiara burn this sketch? Do I say anything? She pictured trying to bring this to Ein or Lowe. They’d only scoff. But somewhere deep in her stomach, belief churned. Mala longed for Ges. He would listen. He would say anything’s possible.
Verrat’s dying words echoed in her head. The Chiara draws things. And she’d drawn Lowe. And now, that woman was headed for the King’s compound. Ahead of them.
Mucking hell.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The stars were cold pinpricks above. A full moon watched Mala and her ratty band of Erlenders march inland, down a dirt path that ran parallel to an old asphalt road that had long since deteriorated into a series of cracked black teeth. The wind whipped their skin, sending a stinging chill right to the bone.
But Mala hardly felt it. She was too busy turning her revelations over and over in her mind. She felt crazy. Felt like she hadn’t in months. Like she was back in Bara’s guard, the only idiot to ever possibly believe in the unbelievable. In magic.
The feeling made her claustrophobic. It made her count her breaths. It made it impossible to focus. Finally, she couldn’t deal with it. And so she did something foolish.
“Unchain ‘er,” Mala gestured to Neid, who was attached to a long chain of prisoners snaking their way along the back of the procession.
Keptiker’s soldiers looked at her questioningly. She flashed a grim smile. “Think I’mma paint her a little picture of what’s comin’ for her. Increase the anticipation. Troe likes ‘em quiverin’. If ya know what I mean.”
That earned a dark chuckle. She pulled her gun from her waistband and kept it trained on Neid, as the girl was re-cuffed into an individual pair of irons. “We’ll take the rear, gentlemen. No needa’ wait on our account.”
Mala stood stock still, until she and Neid were several meters behind the last of the group.
“What are you doing?” Neid whispered venomously.
“I need to talk to you.”
“You are an idiot. You’re blowing my cover. Our cover.”
“Ein and Lowe won’t listen. I have to tell someone.”
“What?”
Mala took a deep breath. “You hear that I killed Verrat?”
Neid nodded.
“Before she died, she told me Keptiker would kill her. She said the Chiara had seen it. And, well, I was me. But I had a meltdown. Into Keptiker. Right before I killed her.”
There was a beat. Neid stopped moving. She stared at Mala, mouth gaping.
Mala gestured with her gun. “Keep moving.” She gave Neid a little shove in case anyone was watching.
“You don’t really believe—” Neid started.
“She believed. And it happened.”
“But Verrat was his prisoner. We’ve been watching tape on Keptiker for days. He was gonna kill her anyway. It would be easy for her to believe that. Especially after she escaped. She had to know he’d come after her.”
Mala paused. “Maybe.” Neid had a point. But there was still the vision when she’d melted. She felt uncomfortable mentioning it. Visions aren’t proof, right? “But the thing is, Verrat believed, said the Chiara painted it. And what if Verrat’s not the only one who believes? Erlenders believe in that stuff. So what if this Chiara working with Keptiker is painting things … that she tells people will happen?”
Neid’s brow furrowed.
Mala hurried on, wanting to get the explanation out before Neid could pass judgement again. “I wen
t to the Chiara’s room. It was full of paintings. Drawings. Mostly landscapes. But there were sketches. She tried to burn some.” Mala scanned carefully up the road. She didn’t see anyone looking back. She dug the scrap of paper out of her pocket.
“I saved this. I don’t know if you can see it very well, but it’s Lowe. She drew Lowe.”
Neid hissed. “How would she know what he looks like?”
“You mean other than having visions of the future?”
Neid rolled her eyes and handed back the scrap of paper. “Do you think Alba told her?”
Mala raised a brow. “Alba left before we got our mission.”
“So either she’s seen Lowe look like a kid on a past mission … or there’s another mole.”
Mala considered that. “Maybe. Maybe Alba wasn’t one to begin with… who knows?”
“So Lowe’s compromised.”
“I dunno. But the Chiara left early to tell Troe something. So it’s likely.”
“So we’re walking into a trap.”
Mala nodded. Her chest felt tight. “I think so. I think Lowe’s in danger.”
Neid leaned toward her. “Question is, what are we gonna do about it?”
Chapter Thirty-Six
“No!” Lowe protested, his six-year-old voice shrill and whiny. “You’re sendin’ me off so you gotta chance to skim offa Troe’s—”
Mala punched his eye. Hard. “You wanna accuse me a’ cheatin’ my cousin? That’s funny.” Mala turned to the senior blue nose beside her. “Ain’t that funny?”
The soldier nodded. His mouth gaped, showing a missing tooth. He looked shocked that she’d just leveled a kid.
Was that too much? No—don’t second-guess. Mala clapped the soldier on his shoulder.
“Shave his head. And his eyebrows. Clowns otta look tha’ part. Then take ‘im with a group to get water. If you needa’ – chain ‘im up. Don’ take no lip from a kid. Getta lotta water. I don’ wanna run out. Our own supply. Don’ trust no one inside.”
Mala had to remind herself not to bite her lip as the soldier roughly manhandled Lowe. It’s for a good cause, she told herself. It was the best she and Neid had been able to devise. Something that would delay Lowe’s entry so they could scout out Troe’s compound first. Something that would change his appearance. Something, anything to try to save him.
I’m sorry, Mala mentally called out after him.
Ein raised his eyebrows but kept his mouth shut. Either exhaustion or stress had tamed his arrogant streak. Mala was grateful; they’d marched through the night and she didn’t think she could handle his protests, too.
The night sky lightened to grey around them and tendrils of fog unfurled over the next hill. As they reached the crest, Mala caught her first glance of Troe’s compound.
It had been an urban downtown nearly a century before, a collection of skyscrapers clawing at the stars. But now, only one ominous black glass tower remained, surrounded by a jagged circle of debris. Troe’s father had put explosives to every building for a three-kilometer radius. It gave him the advantage of a clear view, and a mound of rubble surrounding his compound like a glittering moat. Only two entrances had been carved through the mountains of steel and glass. And these were heavily guarded.
Mala heard guns cock as her group approached the main entrance. She stopped at the head of the group, next to Ein, waiting expectantly.
A gate lowered and a contingent of guards, looking much better fed than her Wilde soldiers, approached them, armed to the teeth. Knives, bows, axes, and guns were all strapped to them. Though some of them wore animal hides across their chest like the Wilde band, many had on actual pants or shorts raided from Senebal territory. The guards fanned out, blocking the entry.
“Weapons on the ground!” their leader called out. He was a tall man, taller than Keptiker. His nose had been broken in several places so the blue lines now resembled jagged waves. He stopped directly in front of Mala, who handed him her gun.
He stared Mala down, his beady black eyes evaluating her. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
He waited while his men collected their weapons. “Everyone on the ground. Hands behind your head!”
This isn’t protocol. Mala’s heart thrummed. What would Keptiker do? Do I comply? Instead of getting to the ground, Mala raised an eyebrow. The captain of the guard raised one in return. Mala waved a hand, indicating her people should follow the order. She remained standing.
The captain patted her down roughly. Then he kicked Ein in the ribs with a grating, “Git up,” sounding in her ears. Ein struggled to his feet. The captain cuffed him.
Neid cried out. “Get off!” She struggled to her feet. Immediately a guard was on her.
Mala sucked in her breath as the captain of the guard stepped forward. He wrapped his hand in Neid’s hair and pulled back until she screeched. He pulled until she dangled from her hair alone. He peered into her eyes. “Attached to your old master, little slave?”
Don’t speak. Don’t speak. Mala silently urged Neid to shut her mouth. She wasn’t sure if her pleas did the trick, but Neid stared silently back at the captain.
A young soldier shuffled quickly over and shoved a crumpled piece of parchment at the captain. “It’s her.”
The captain studied the paper for a moment. Then he stared at Neid. He held out his hand. The young soldier handed him a gun.
No! Mala didn’t have time to scream before a shot rang out. Blood splattered across Mala’s cheek. Ein stood frozen beside her. She felt shock. She knew horror was in there as well. But disbelief trumped her other emotions.
“Lil’ vixen. Tried to git away.”
She just tried to protect her brother.
“Chiara wuz right sir.” The young soldier tossed down the blood splattered sheet of paper. It was thick paper, a type Mala recognized. She had a scrap of it in her pocket. She inhaled sharply.
The captain turned to her.
“Well now, Troe’s gunna wanna talk to ya. About why you bringin’ spies in here.”
She forced herself to meet his eyes. “Careful captain. Las’ man talked to me like that can’ talk no more. Lemme see that paper.”
The captain narrowed his eyes, but shrugged. “Dead now so dunno what good it’s gonna do ya’.”
Mala bent to scoop up the drawing at her feet. There, in charcoal, in the same style as Lowe’s drawing, was Neid’s smiling face.
Muck!
Next to her, Ein fell forward in a dead faint.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Mala stood rigid, defiant, in the small room. Five guards stood around her, guns casually pointed at different parts of her anatomy. She watched herself in the windows, Keptiker’s body at attention. His face looks calm at least, she comforted herself. But anyone who laid a hand on Keptiker’s chest would know Mala’s heart was running a marathon.
Troe ignored her as he completed his ceremony. Kneeling at a wall full of broken clocks, he bowed. He cut his finger with a ceremonial knife. He whispered words under his breath. The king smeared his own blood over an emerald. And then he swallowed it.
Troe turned to Mala, a wall of windows at his back, curtains shoved aside. The sunrise painted a pink halo around him. A thin, sickly face. A long, pointed nose with faded stripes along the bridge. Salt-and-pepper hair. Everything was unattractive save his eyes. They were a light, nearly neon green. And his eyes were fixed on her. Troe stalked toward Mala, sweeping his tattered black cape behind him.
She didn’t see the punch coming. Her head snapped to the side. Electric pain sizzled along her jaw. She righted herself and continued to stare at Troe, fighting the reactions Verrukter had ingrained. Not yet. Timing. Surprise attacks are best. She chanted lessons from Lowe in order to calm herself.
“Where didja’ find ‘er? Why’d you bring ‘er?” Troe’s voice rasped.
“My men found ‘er in the woods near Wilde, tryin’ to spy,” Mala smoothly rattled off Neid’s cover story. “We caught ‘er, a
nd I thought ‘stead of selling ‘er, she might appeal to ya. She was purty defiant.” Troe watched her, cocking his head. She felt he wanted something further, so she tacked on, “If the Chiara had stuck aroun’ lemme know what she saw, ‘course I woudn’ta brought ‘er.”
Troe evaluated her for a moment. Mala maintained eye contact, counting each breath. One, two, three … She exhaled. Troe waved at his guards and the guns dropped.
“That woman does havva flair fer drama,” Troe acknowledged. “Coulda’ saved us a lotta trouble. I’m meetin’ ‘er later. I’ll give ‘er a talkin’ to.”
“Good luck,” Mala rolled her eyes.
Troe’s eyes snapped back to hers, and Mala worried she’d gone too far. But a second later he barked out a laugh.
“Git outta here. I’ll have my people count whatcha’ brought. Send for ya then.”
Mala gave a brisk nod, tapped her heels together, and exited the room. In the hall her legs felt like jelly, but she forced one foot in front of the other as two armed guards escorted her to Keptiker’s room.
Inside, she barely had time to sink onto the cot before Lowe burst in, rage etched across his features.
“What the muck was that?” he seethed. “You think you should lead this mission? You? Tossed me in with that group and when we get here what’s happened? You got Neid killed already? Five seconds in? What the mucking hell?”
Mala glanced at him. The rage radiating off him immediately sent heat to her stomach. She spiraled into a meltdown. Glancing down at herself, she realized she’d transformed into Fell. “Great. Where’s Ein?”
“I don’t know,” Lowe seethed, child-size fists balled in anger. He glared at her, one eye a swollen purple knob from her punch.