The Panagea Tales Box Set
Page 8
There was a way out of this. There had to be. A creative solution existed for this circumstance; just because he failed to invent one to save Malcolm's greenhouse, he could still find one that saved the love of his life. He needed time to think. But it was a luxury he didn't have if he lingered here. At any moment, his betrayal would surface. The Time Fathers would know.
Laws. That’s what he needed now. He had to find a loophole, a way to manipulate the frozen things here. If he could move that bullet five inches to the right, it would bypass Lilac. Nicholai reached out a hand, and though he knew it would result in utter failure, he tried to move the fragment. As expected, despite how much force he applied, the bullet remained unmoved. Time ticked. Not here, but in his head. The mocking sounds of each passing second in his brain tortured him. He needed a library. He would pour himself over every personal recording from every Time Father who ever existed if it meant finding the cure to this problem. But he could not do it here ... not only were the books frozen in their places, but the militaries of individual divisions would descend on him soon. While only a Time Father could enter Southeastern's borders while it remained frozen, they could still surround him until he gave up or starved to death.
He was a criminal now. At least as far as the other Time Fathers were concerned. Nicholai ran his hands through his hair as he paced. They would strip him of his Chronometer and murder him for his betrayal against the divisions without so much as batting an eye. His atrocity was unforgivable. Even with his father on the council of existing Time Fathers. If they killed him and retrieved his Chronometer, they would initiate a new Time Father. He would reboot time in the Southeastern division. Lilac would be dead.
Nicholai’s ears perked as he heard a distant boom. It was soft ... but he knew what it was. Where the borders of the other divisions met Southeastern, the tectonic plates in the earth’s crust shifted. The immovable southeast met the force of the other moving divisions underground. Though he could not see it with his eyes, that boom would be the first of many. He didn’t have much time.
With the sounds of the dying earth fading away, the only noise surrounding him was his thudding heart. He didn’t know where he was going, but he had to go. Nicholai gazed at Lilac, trying to remember a time when her expression was more comforting than the one she held now. He leaned his cheek against the side of hers and whispered, “I will fix this, Lilac. I will. I promise.”
Nicholai kissed the cheek of his muse. He did not know where to begin. They would hunt him in every division. In a world where a majority of the land was colonized, there were not many places to hide. He could not even gather any supplies to accompany him, with all the foodstuffs frozen in place. Eating was necessary; he’d have to enter a division. He could make his way south, where Darjal Wessex reigned supreme, or east, where Avital York was in charge. Avital was the eldest of all eight existing Time Fathers. It showed in his face. His division was the most industrialized of all, resulting in many health problems for the townsfolk. The population was so high that traveling to Eastern would be suicide. It would be impossible to hide from the watchful eyes of everyone in that district.
Darjal of the Southern division was a religious man; his passion did not rest so much in industrialization as it did cleansing the world of its sins. He forced his people to attend the churches daily and considered it a betrayal against the division and a slight to his self-imposed godliness if their attendance slipped. That would be his best bet. The more people in attendance at the churches, the less roamed the streets to spot him.
Nicholai stared at the scene before him: Lilac, locked in fear, Rodgie, frozen in bitterness. He got what he wanted. His daughter would not die today. Not unless Nicholai pressed the crown on his Chronometer. He could start time again ... tell the Time Fathers it was an accidental occurrence. They might buy it. But it also bought Lilac’s certain death. He preferred to gamble with his own life than hers. As long as he held the Chronometer for the Southeastern division, she would remain living. With a heavy heart and little other choices, Nicholai departed. It would be a long journey on foot, with only his regrets to keep him company. With the pressure of finding a solution gnawing at him the entire time, it would be a painful journey as well.
Chapter Five
Churches smelled weird. The stale stench of people deferring through monotony, Iani Platts thought. He watched the men and women of the Southern division pour into the gothic building in droves. It was the evening service. The citizens of Avadon would be prisoners there for the next hour. Most, anyway. Those who attended the morning service would skip the afternoon and evening ones, already at home in their beds. As early risers, they liked their rest.
Iani and Rennington knew the town’s routine well. It came with the territory when they were part of the military protecting it. Gods, that felt like a lifetime ago.
Rennington tilted his head, watching. Not many patrons crawled on the street at this hour. It was the perfect time to commit a crime.
“I don’t miss going to church,” Iani admitted, turning to Rennington, “and not just because of the smell.” The two stood in the shadows of a narrow alleyway, waiting for the doors of the church to swallow up the patrons and keep their prying eyes off the streets.
“Come on now”—Rennington crossed his arms as he leaned against the alleyway wall—“that church is doing us a good bit of favor right now.”
Iani spat and shook his head. “Nah. Nothing good ever came out of Southern.”
“On the contrary, little brother.” Rennington watched the last person enter. The large metal doors squealed as they closed behind them, sealing them within the church’s guts. He looked over his shoulder and flashed a cocky grin. “We came out of Southern.”
Their experience here led Captain Kazuaki Hidataka to send them on the supply run. Ever the strategist, the captain knew they could get in and out with efficiency, setting off the least alarms. They’d done it before, and they could do it again. Though the town of Avadon wasn’t their home base when they lived in the Southern division, they were dispatched to patrol here often enough when the military was shorthanded.
Iani and Rennington exited the alley and walked along the street, blending in plain sight. As expected, it was barren, save for a handful of townsfolk and the occasional footman. The brothers slipped into the marketplace where vendors peddled their wares morning into night. The dawns here were always abuzz with the clamoring of people, but in the evening hours, it fell quiet.
A Southern footman marched down an aisle of tightly packed businesses. Some already closed up for the night, iron bars keeping the contents of the small trade shops safe. There always remained a few—the greedier, or perhaps more desperate men and women—who kept their doors open. Open doors meant more opportunities to make money. In the competitive world of Avadon’s marketplace, a shopkeeper who stayed open at all hours stood a much better chance at achieving financial success.
Rennington pulled a harmonica out of his back pocket and glanced over to Iani. His little brother nodded and adjusted the large backpack he carried over his shoulder. The two went their separate ways. They knew the routine like the backs of their hands.
The eldest brother approached the widest aisle of the marketplace, the area with the most foot traffic. He pulled an empty crate into the center of the road and stood upon it, holding up his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he shouted, “let me regale you with a tale. A tale of a man ...” He played his harmonica, providing a musical serenade to accompany his story before he paused and started again. “A man who met a lady—a siren—a vixen of seduction and delight!”
Rennington played more, the music growing increasingly magnetic. His sound painted a picture of captivating desire until he stopped playing long enough to speak. “Indeed, his thoughts drifted to her porcelain skin, her milky thighs, her heaving breasts, and his impure thoughts angered the gods.” The harmonica music shifted to a deeper tone, more ominous and unforgiving.
Iani did n
ot make eye contact with his brother while he drew what little crowd there was toward him. He rolled his eyes when he heard the repertoire Rennington chose. “Went with the gods one again,” he muttered to himself, careful as he came up behind a merchant.
Avadon’s residents were suckers for god-infused stories. The merchant, too captivated by Rennington’s performance to notice the stealthy movements of Iani from behind, gazed outward. Exposed on all sides to allow airflow and prevent heatstroke, Iani had no problem reaching under the counter and seizing a box of rations before backing out undetected.
The case only contained fifty individual meals. This would have to be one of many they loaded onto the cockboat that hid on the shore. Luck lived in the fact that the supplies weren’t more guarded. In those instances, Iani had to change tactics, stealing money from those too distracted by Rennington to notice. The pilfered currency purchased the needed supplies. While it raised less red flags than stealing entire crates of goods, it was also more of a gamble.
As deserters of the Southern division military, there was always the risk people existed who still recognized their faces from the ‘Wanted’ posters that papered the town a decade ago. Thankfully, their desertion did not remain fresh in the minds of the townsfolk. The Platts brothers encountered no trouble when they pulled the same stunt in Avadon six years ago, but Iani did not want prior success to make him cocky. Cocky men made mistakes. He didn’t have time for mistakes. Especially when they had to collect ten or more crates to bring back to the ship by dawn if they wanted enough supplies to make it to the next port.
Iani took the box into the alley and hid it under an old, discarded blanket. He turned around to fetch another unattended container. He cleaned as much as he could from the unwatched booth before he started his other tactics. With fluid, efficient movements, he acted fast. The ability wasn’t just a perk, but a necessity. Rennington was a solid harmonica player—one of the best Iani ever heard—but even his brother could not captivate the audience forever.
Iani Platts hid three boxes in the alley. He did not wish to press his luck by going for a fourth. The businesses commanded small spaces. They would notice multiple crates of missing supplies if he got too greedy. As he was about to change up his tactics and pluck money from unsuspecting satchels, he heard someone shout, “Thief!”
Iani froze. He never thought for a moment he would be caught. The Platt’s brothers never got caught.
Rennington’s music stopped. The small crowd, once lost in his talent, gasped at the declaration. They patted their pockets to be sure their own money was safe.
Rennington scanned the area for his little brother, assuming the alarm bells were raised due to his actions. He tried to pinpoint him, ready to jump in if things escalated. If this town unleashed a mob on Iani Platts, they had to get through Rennington first. He was not afraid to police these people; the townsfolk of the Southern division were weak and timid. He learned that after spending many years with them when Iani and he belonged to the Southern military. To him, they were spineless. You’d have to be, to witness the horrors the Southern military carried out and not riot in protest.
The movement of two footmen caught Rennington’s eyes. He thought for sure he spotted Iani in the distance. It was hard to tell. The sun set and darkness moved in. His eyesight was not immaculate. Though their medic, Elowyn, had a great deal of medical training, there was not much she could do for those who suffered from night blindness. He narrowed his eyes to see better, but all he witnessed was the shadow of a man running in a direction opposite the footmen.
“Guards!” A merchant shouted, waving his arms. “He went that way!”
Iani watched the thief run. His heart raced, having figured for certain he was the one under the heat of the footmen’s attention. They chased after the stranger without giving Iani so much as a glance. A wave of relief washed over him until he saw Rennington shove his way through the small crowd and chase after the footman and the thief.
“Bloody shit,” Iani hissed, running panicked hands through his hair. What would have been an amazing opportunity to plunder the marketplace with the footmen distracted by another thief turned into a shit show. Rennington must have mistaken the thief for himself. Iani felt humbled that Rennington abandoned all fear to save him, but he also couldn’t help thinking about what an idiot he was for not recognizing the thief wasn’t him. “Gods damn it all, Renn, you’re going to get us killed,” he muttered to himself, taking off after the elder Platts brother.
The two footmen who had taken off after the thief were joined by two others who patrolled nearby. The stranger, shrouded by a hooded cloth, was quick on his feet. Shadows whipped and fell from his body as he dashed under street lamps with haste. He was fortunate to have a lead on the footmen. It allowed him to dart into an alley flanked by the walls of the church and a steam engine repair shop.
The four footmen stopped before they turned into the alley. They did not want to charge in blind and risk getting shot. After exchanging glances with one another and issuing several hand gestures, they motioned to one another for all to draw their weapons.
“You’re surrounded!” one footman shouted, his back pressed against the repair shop’s exterior. “Exit peacefully and we will not shoot!”
Silence followed.
Frustrated it would not be an easy takedown, the footmen readied themselves. All eyes locked on their superior while he silently counted down with his fingers—three, two, one—the four men charged into the alley, handguns and falchions out in front.
“What the feck?” One footman narrowed his eyes, bewildered that they were all staring at an empty alleyway. The soft glow from the street lanterns illuminated the nothingness.
It was a dead end. There was no logical way for anyone to exit. They crept into the alley, each moment that passed leaving them more puzzled than before.
“He didn’t just disappear into thin air,” one said, lowering his gun. They looked up, thinking perhaps he somehow scaled the textured walls of the church.
Rennington appeared at the mouth of the alleyway. Believing Iani to be in the hands of the footmen, he fired with little hesitation. A bullet struck the throat of one of the four soldiers. The gurgling sound that escaped his lips would have haunted anyone who hadn’t witnessed such horrors before, but the eldest Platts brother was unaffected. He didn’t bat an eye when the soldier fell to his knees, nor was he deterred from firing another round that struck a guard in the arm.
The sound of bullets ricocheting off the alley walls echoed through the ears of the thief while he watched from his safe space. Narrow slits in a hidden grate attached to the lowest point of the church wall allowed him to see all the goings-on without drawing attention. He lowered his hood, feeling safer within the underground catacombs of the church.
Nicholai’s heart hammered as he tried to catch his breath. His knowledge of the secret tunnels that wove through each of the divisions was enough to keep him alive today. These particular catacombs merged from the coast all the way to Seacaster, the home town of the Southern division’s Time Father, Darjal Wessex.
Though each division had a series of underground passageways leading from every Time Father’s home town to the nearest piece of coast in the event of an emergency evacuation, Darjal’s was the most elaborate. A paranoid man, he had secured many exits for himself, should the necessity arrive. His fundamentalist views on religion made him an unpopular Time Father and the most common target of assassination attempts.
Nicholai watched with confusion as the fight outside ensued. Who was this man who assaulted four footmen without a second thought? Was he trying to save Nicholai from falling into the unforgiving hands of the lawmen? He couldn’t understand why. The Southeastern Time Father had been careful while he weaved his way through Avadon. He’d been here for over a week now, pillaging food and any useful information he could. In all the time Nicholai had spent sneaking through the shadows of this town, he never saw that man before.
“Iani!” Rennington shouted, trying to locate his brother in the darkness of the alley and the unrelenting chaos of the three remaining footmen. He squeezed off another shot at his attackers but missed. His cautious aim was his downfall—he didn’t want to fire without consideration for fear he might hit his brother. But when no response followed his call, Rennington realized the grave mistake he made. Iani was nowhere in sight.
He only took a second to scan the area for his brother. But when one was up against the competent aim of the Southern military, one second was all it took. Rennington’s upper shoulder felt the familiar sting of a bullet, painless at first, but radiating out with agony. The sudden shock caused him to drop his gun, and he cursed. There was no time to stop and pick it up—the footmen already realized they disarmed him and drew closer, weapons ready.
“You’ll come quietly or you’ll come in pieces,” one footman ordered as Rennington clutched his bleeding arm. The soldier approached the wounded man, who knew better than to move. He did not wish to be shot down. Rennington guessed they wanted him to run. They enjoyed gunning down a target. At least they did when he served alongside them. The footman sneered and punched him hard in the gut before he pulled out his restraining device.
Nicholai continued to watch from his safe space beneath the church. He had an unexpected attack of conscience. Clearly, the man mistook him for somebody else, but his actions were still noble. Though the Southeastern Time Father did not approve of his slaughtering methods, it was hard to watch the man who would have been his savior, get dragged away. He contemplated initiating an assist. It was ingrained deep into Nicholai’s character to assist when a person needed it, but it was a big risk to blow his cover for a stranger.
Rennington was too proud to groan from the punch, though between the stomach assault and his bullet-ridden shoulder, his body screamed in one too many places. He waited to feel the icy touch and unforgiving weight of the iron shackles on his wrists, but they never came. Only the sound of another gun being discharged.