Republic

by Lindsay Buroker

  “I... suppose not.” Amaranthe shrugged at the other enforcers, who were exchanging eye rolls with each other.

  “I have all your newspaper articles,” the corporal said as she climbed the steps to join him. “The ones where you’re mentioned, that is. I can’t believe one of us—” he waved at his fellow enforcers, “—helped stop those Forge people and put Fleet Admiral Starcrest on the throne.”

  Amaranthe had never seen a man swoon before, but this corporal might be in danger of it. She signed his paper, and he accepted it, then shook her hand heartily. For a moment, she worried he might kiss it, but he released her with an enthusiastic, “Thank you!” and skipped back down the steps. Well, it beat being greeted with swords and muskets.

  “He’s young,” the sergeant explained, then gave her a salute and moved his team on.

  “You’ve become a celebrity,” came a voice from behind Amaranthe.

  Deret Mancrest stood in the doorway. Wearing a green robe.

  Chapter 19

  Mahliki pressed the switch and watched the tiny blue streaks arc out of the iron prod and into the severed section of green tendril. She kept an eye on the pocket watch on the table at the same time. After a few seconds, the inch-thick vine charred up and curled inward on itself. She turned off the switch and wrote a few notes. Next, she applied the electricity to a preserved pod, one of the ones that could spew those deadly spores. She was reasonably certain it wouldn’t be able to do so after it had been cut open and spent two days in a formaldehyde bath, but she was prepared to leap over the table if it so much as twitched. But the pod succumbed to the electricity at the same rate as the other piece. She recorded this, then moved onto one of the rare leaves, green flat disks with shiny surfaces that could ooze that enzyme that broke up animal flesh. It proved sturdier, withstanding the electricity for twelve seconds before withering up. Some of that enzyme oozed out of its green pores before it fully succumbed.

  “Are you learning anything useful?” Sespian asked, walking over to join her. He had finished helping Father design a portable version of the electricity generator an hour or two earlier and had been working in the submarine with the engineers the last she had heard.

  “About what I expected so far.” Mahliki waved at the charred samples, then fished a jar out of her bag on the floor. “This is the one I’m curious about.”

  “That’s the root sample you risked your life to get, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s the last piece I have. I’ve already run so many experiments on it and the rest of the specimens that I’m surprised the mother plant isn’t out there plotting my demise.” She glanced at the demolished section of wall—night had fallen out there, and the plant’s infiltrations had grown less frequent, but it was still keeping the soldiers busy.

  “It seemed more offended by your father’s ministrations,” Sespian said.

  “Yes, I think that’s because he performed his experiment on attached parts of the plant. You would be more upset about someone trying to flambé your finger than a piece of hair you lost yesterday, right?”

  “I imagine so. I’m comforted that it doesn’t seem to know what we’re doing to the pieces that have been severed. The way those bits can grow new plants of their own accord if they’re not stopped...” Sespian shuddered. “The whole organism has a distressing ability to thrive against all odds.”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s not aware of what we’re doing in here to its severed bits.” Mahliki secured the piece of root in the vise clamped to the table. “That first big attack came when I was pulping up one of its limbs, remember. Right now, I think it’s focusing on growing big enough that it can ensure it wins when it attacks us next time.”

  “How... comforting.”

  “Let’s see how it likes this.” Mahliki prodded the root with the iron wand and flipped the switch. Within a second of turning on the electricity, the specimen burst into flame.

  Sespian gaped. Mahliki caught herself gaping too. She had expected the root to be more vulnerable than the tough green flesh, but she hadn’t expected quite so impressive a show.

  “You... ashed it,” Sespian said.

  “Ashed? Is that a word in Turgonian?”

  Sespian prodded the fine gray powder that was all that remained beneath the vise. “It is now. You tried burning it with flame before, didn’t you?”

  “I tried applying everything to it earlier. And to the other pieces as well. I just didn’t have a way to make electricity at the time.” Mahliki swept the ashes into her sample jar. “I suspected the root was most vulnerable when we learned that those priests wanted the Explorer out of commission—even though the plant has stretched several blocks inland, the only roots that seem to be accessible are down in the muddy waters beneath the docks. Which we should be able to get to soon.” She nodded toward the submarine.

  Clangs and clanks echoed from within. An hour earlier, her father had disappeared inside with as many engineers as could fit in there without anyone hitting anyone else with a hammer. Judging by the occasional yelps and cries of “ow” that came out, they might have crammed one or two too many inside. In Kyatt, most engineers would run for high ground if a man-eating plant invaded the harbor, but these people had been climbing over each other for the opportunity to work with Father.

  “I’m glad the plant hasn’t managed to harm the submarine yet.” Sespian pointed to some of the broken floorboards and pushed up piles of earth around the craft and around the makeshift laboratory. Thus far, the soldiers who had come down with Father had been enough to keep the plant at bay.

  “I know,” Mahliki said. “It’s our only chance at getting down there with enough weapons power to tear up the roots and electrocute them. Even if Father’s handheld generator works underwater, I wouldn’t want to send anyone out there in a diving suit.” She shivered at the memory of her experience in the plant’s grasp. “That would be a suicide mission. The plant has grown so much since then, there would be no pulling someone from its clutches.”

  Sespian glanced at the pocket watch. “Must be about time for the vice president’s aide to show up again. It’s been almost an hour.”

  “You’ve noticed his frequent reports today too, eh?”

  “Every time he’s burst in, he’s brought up spot fires all over the nation that supposedly demand your father’s attention right now.”

  “I know,” Mahliki said. “Did you hear what he said the last time Father shooed him away?”

  Sespian nodded. “You’ll be sorry if you put this contraption above tending to Turgonia, the way a good president should.”

  “One wonders why the vice president can’t handle some of those fires. Is he busy reading?” Maybe he was working on the report Mahliki had mentioned a few days ago. “I wonder if Serpitivich even knows his aide is coming down here. Maybe he’s the snitch Mother has been looking for.”

  “I have a feeling—”

  The front door slammed open, and a soldier raced inside as if a tiger were chewing on his heels. “My Lord President?” he shouted. “We have a problem!”

  “The plant again?” Mahliki asked.

  The soldier spun around. “Where’s the president?”

  “Here.” Father thrust his head out of the hatchway, his gray hair sticking out in all directions, and his cheek smeared with grease.

  Outside the walls, rifle shots blasted into the night, the soldiers firing at someone—or something. More booms erupted farther up the street. Blasting sticks? Mahliki couldn’t tell whether their people were throwing them at some distant enemy, or if some distant enemy was flinging explosives at them.

  Pounding sounded on the rooftop. Hammers? Or maybe footfalls? Had people climbed up there?

  “My Lord President!” The soldier ran up to the sub and saluted, as if Father had time to waste on ceremony. “There are armored military vehicles coming down the street from either direction, and they’re doing... doing...”

  “Dump your ore cart, Private,”
Father said.

  A tingle ran up Mahliki’s arms and spine, stirring gooseflesh. “Someone’s using the mental sciences,” she announced.

  Sespian ran to the front door to look out.

  The soldier nodded vigorously. “Yes, magic. They threw flames at the ground around the building. At first, we thought they were trying to help, that someone had thrown explosives, not thrice-cursed m—magic. But it didn’t bother the plants at all.” The soldier’s voice grew faster and higher pitched as he raced on with his report. “In fact, it riled them up, so all of the sudden, they started grabbing men, trying to pull them toward the water. We’re so busy cutting them down, it’s going to be hard to keep the lorries at bay.”

  “Yes, the plant has shown a propensity to defend itself when attacked,” Father said, his face and voice utterly calm. “Someone must have noticed this and hopes to take advantage.”

  The soldier took a big breath and swallowed some of his hysteria. “Yes, My Lord. We’ll keep defending, of course, but I thought you should know that we’re going to have some trouble.”

  That sounded like an understatement. While the soldier finished reporting, Mahliki ran up to the front to join Sespian. She peered over his shoulder to see out the door. Not ten feet from the entrance, those plants writhed and twisted like living animals. The only time she had seen them so animated was when they had attacked Father, and there hadn’t been so many of them then.

  “I saw some of those vehicles this afternoon.” Sespian pointed up the street, where two broad black army lorries blocked the way. “They were commissioned to help evacuate the city.”

  The tingle plucked at Mahliki’s skin, warning of another Science attack. Expecting whatever practitioner was out there to try to rile the plants further, she wasn’t ready when a ball of flame whooshed toward the front door.

  Sespian reacted more quickly, hauling her away from the entrance. She almost tripped over one of the broken boards the plant had shoved upward, but Sespian kept her on her feet. Blinding flame washed over the doorway, and heat poured inside.

  “Evacuate the city?” Mahliki squeaked. “It looks like they want to evacuate this building.”

  “More like incinerate this building. Those aren’t soldiers out there. Someone snagged those vehicles somehow.” Sespian’s voice was almost as calm as Father’s, though the flames crackling outside the door were certainly cause for alarm. “The drivers are wearing those green robes. A new fashion statement in the city, it seems.”

  “Mahliki,” Father called. “It will ease my nerves if you come join us inside the sub instead of playing peep-and-hide with the enemy practitioners.”

  Mahliki straightened her clothing. “I’m a grown woman, Father. I don’t play peep-and-hide.”

  “Understood,” Father said, but she realized it was to the soldier who had finished reporting. “I’ll come out and talk to Captain Eaglecrest in a moment, but tell him I want the supply lorry unloaded and those suits brought in before anything happens to them.” He beckoned for Sespian and Mahliki to join him, then ducked back into the submarine.

  “Suits?” Sespian asked. “Diving suits? I thought we’d decided they would be too dangerous? Or does that mean he’s not going to have time to finish the submarine modifications?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s going to be hard to finish anything with the roof on fire.” Mahliki tugged Sespian toward the side of the building the blasting stick had blown away earlier. With luck, their enemies in the vehicles would be watching the front door and not the less standard exits. “Come on. Let’s see if we can do something to stop those practitioners.”

  “I’ll find a way to deal with them,” Sespian said, though the glance he threw toward the door had a daunted quality to it. “You should stay in here and help your father.”

  “The Explorer will burst at the seams if anyone else goes inside.” Mahliki spotted the prototype generator by her table and grabbed it before veering for the hole in the wall. “We can be far more useful out there.”

  “Yes, but your father—”

  “Can come out and visit if he’s worried about me.” Mahliki gave Sespian a wink and ran outside.

  • • • • •

  “Good evening, Deret.” Amaranthe wondered if she should mention the robe. Would he know she understood the significance? Would he know she had been sent to find the leader of the organization? “I wasn’t certain if I’d find you here or if the paper would have moved.”

  “It has actually. Up to the ridge.”

  Deret stepped aside to let her in. As usual, he managed to imply that his swordstick was an affectation rather than a crutch, at least when she was watching. Dubious green robe not withstanding, he had changed a bit, trading his shoulder-length wavy brown hair for a military-style cut. It looked good on him, leaving less to distract from his strong jaw and aquiline nose. He had different spectacles on as well, these with thinner frames than the sturdy old pair he had worn before. Suan’s influence maybe, though Amaranthe was more concerned about the robe than his dating activities. It alone didn’t unnerve her overly much—maybe there was a legitimate reason for it—but she did note that nobody else shared the building with them. Only a couple of lanterns burned on desks near the door. Too many shadows buried the back of the open building to see if there was still a gaping hole in the floor, a vestige of her last visit to the Mancrest establishment.

  “I had a meeting down here tonight and decided to stop by for a few forgotten items,” Deret added.

  “What kind of meeting?” Amaranthe waved at his robe. “That’s not your usual expensive warrior-caste clothing.”

  “Affording expensive clothing has been difficult of late. Someone demolished the Gazette building last winter, as you may recall, and it’s taken a lot of money to make it suitable for printing again. Only my father’s stubbornness kept the papers from being delayed. Now...” He huffed out an irritated breath in the general direction of the building. “I don’t know if I care enough to rebuild again if that plant damages the place. I’ve been thinking of selling the paper.”

  “I’m sorry about your father.” Amaranthe decided not to mention she had been twenty feet away from him when he had been killed. “I know you and he weren’t close exactly...”

  Deret snorted.

  “But I’m sure he didn’t deserve to be killed.”

  “He died the way he would have wanted—in a woman’s bed. Albeit I had always imagined him dying in a much younger woman’s bed, but I suppose screwing the president’s wife was a conquest worthy of his penis.”

  “Er.” Amaranthe didn’t know what to say to his bitterness. Lord Mancrest had locked his son in the basement over a difference of opinion, so she hadn’t expected tears over his death, but more... tact, perhaps.

  “I apologize,” Deret sighed. “That was crude. Please, come the rest of the way in and sit down.” He waved toward a chair. “May I get you something to drink? There’s... water from the tap—if that’s still working—and water collecting in a bucket that’s coming in through a leak in the roof.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Amaranthe sat at one of the desks with a lantern on it. She wanted to ask him about the robe and this meeting he had gone to, but he looked like a man who needed a friend rather than an interrogation.

  “Wait, I’m not sure if Needlecrest cleared out his entire collection. I may be able to offer you...” Deret fished around in the drawer of an adjacent desk, then held a dark bottle aloft. “Ah ha.” He examined the label. “Starcrest Cellars. Now there’s irony.” He dragged a chair over to sit at the desk with Amaranthe, then tugged the cork out of the half-empty bottle of apple brandy. “Is it true he killed my father?”

  Amaranthe had been in the process of holding up a hand to decline the drink, but she froze. “What? Who?”

  “I hear you’re staying in the president’s hotel, so I figured you would know. Starcrest, my father. Because of the adulterous wife.”

  “No,” Amaranthe said, �
�of course not. The president didn’t even know he was still legally married to that woman until recently. Haven’t you seen his Kyattese wife?” If Deret thought Starcrest’s first wife still meant something to him, then he might not be the source of information she had hoped for. Perhaps coming hadn’t been the best use of her time, though she had wanted to offer her condolences on his father’s death anyway—for what little it seemed to mean to Deret.

  He grunted. “Yes, though the old one is prettier. One thought that, now that he’s back in the empire, er, the nation, and he could have anyone... Oh, I guess I haven’t got the entire story. Starcrest has declined interviews, and there’s been a lot of other stuff to cover.”

  “Such as why people are running around the city in green robes?” Amaranthe asked lightly, though she dearly wanted to know what his connection to the priests was.

  Deret tilted his head curiously, then lifted his sleeve. “Oh, right. Sexy, aren’t they? I had been trying to get someone into the organization for weeks—they didn’t want to accept interviews, either—but they utterly ignored me until my father was killed. All of the sudden, I was an interesting commodity, probably because I’m now in charge of the newspaper. Weird, isn’t it? After all the arguments we had—and the way he locked me up in the basement—he left the paper to me instead of my brothers. Maybe he knew I was the only one who cared enough to keep it running and who had the experience to make it work. Or maybe he simply filled out his will before we had our big tiff.” Deret shrugged and took a swig from the brandy bottle. “Either way, the New Kriskrusians came knocking on my door, wanting to have a newspaper in their pocket. I wanted to know more about them, so I acted as if I might be open to the idea. Tonight was my first night being invited to a meeting.”

  Amaranthe relaxed back into the chair. “So you’re not a recruit? You’re simply... learning more about them?”