“What’s in there?”
“The truth. Would you like to know it?”
The question wasn’t rhetorical, the Epistem was sincerely offering Clover a choice—innocence or experience, ignorance or knowledge. The Filia said learning was a lightening, and the past few months had borne that out. Clover would’ve given anything to return to the days before he’d heard about that pumphouse, when his parents were still alive and his biggest fear was of Clive and Gemma getting married. But time only flowed in one direction, and his innocence was long since lost.
“Yes,” he breathed.
The Epistem smiled. “Good. Then please strip.”
“Strip?” Clover hoped he’d heard wrong. “You mean my clothes?”
“No, I mean your skin.” The Epistem clapped once, derisively. “Of course your clothes.”
“Why?”
“Because the path must be walked as the garden was walked.” The Epistem turned around and covered his eyes.
Clover did as he was told, quickly shedding his shirt, pants, shoes, and socks. He hesitated only a moment before unbuttoning his undersuit, ashamed by the childishness of his body: all protruding ribs and stick legs.
The Epistem kept his gaze averted as he produced a large iron key from a pocket of his robe and set it on the desk behind him. Clover picked it up—heavy, old, inscribed with a short phrase in Greek: έσεσθε ως θεοί.
“What’s it mean?” he asked.
“ ‘And you shall be as Gods.’ Now go.”
“Yes, sir.”
Clover approached the door. Up close, he could make out the details of the carving. In the branches of the tree perched a falcon—one of the traditional symbols for the Daughter. The snake was portrayed as a vine twisting its way around the trunk, with large diamond-shaped spines just like what you saw on the skin of a rattler. A stream of nectar appeared to flow out of a knothole that also served as the keyhole. Clover inserted the key, but before he opened the door, he looked back over his shoulder.
“Thank you for your faith in me, sir.”
The Epistem was still facing the windows. “Don’t thank me yet,” he said, a forbidding solemnity in his voice.
Clover turned the key.
10. Paz
THEY WATCHED AS CLOVER WALKED away with the strange stuttering man.
“What in the Daughter’s name was that about?” Gemma said.
Paz shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I never understand what he gets up to.”
She wished she could have gone with him, but of course that was impossible. No matter how close she got to Clover, she would never be allowed into the Library; there were some risks even a lust-addled teenage boy wouldn’t take. Still, the sudden summons, tonight of all nights, seemed to signal something important. And Paz would be there to ask him about it when he returned. Maybe she’d finally learn something worth knowing.
Flora screwed up her face in disgust. “I can’t believe you kiss him!”
“Clover is a fine kisser,” Paz said, which was true enough, though it had required a fair amount of hand-holding to get him there.
“Is he really?” Gemma asked.
“Sure. Isn’t Clive?”
“I suppose. But he’s always poking his tongue around. And his face is all scratchy.”
Paz had quite liked the experience of kissing Clive, but she wasn’t about to tell Gemma that.
“Ew, ew, ew!” Flora screamed.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Gemma said. “I can’t remember the last time we really kissed. He’s always so busy these days.”
“Who’s so busy?”
Paz’s heart jumped when she saw the Protectorate uniform—was her deception about to be revealed?—then again when she realized who was inside it. Hidden behind that short beard and high-collared jacket was a familiar face: Clive. It had only been a matter of weeks since they’d last seen each other, but he looked different from before. Harder. Older. Paz hated the way some animal part of her thrilled to the unexpected meeting.
“Hi, Clive,” Flora said. “We were just talking about kissing!”
“That’s not important,” Gemma quickly interrupted. “How did everything go today?”
“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Clive said, “though it’ll probably get uglier when the results come in.” The soldier behind him gave a little cough for show. “Oh, sorry. Everyone, this is Garrick. Garrick, this is Gemma, Flora, and Irene.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” he said, taking Gemma’s hand and giving it a kiss. “And you,” he said, doing the same for Paz. “And you.” Flora pulled her hand away before he could get at it, but she was grinning ear to ear. “And now that we’re all introduced, let’s get drunk, shall we?”
“Are you allowed to drink in uniform?” Gemma asked.
Garrick cocked an eyebrow. “If I said yes, would you believe me?”
They all left the square as a group, yet as they turned down one road, then a smaller street, then an even smaller alleyway, the line broke up, and Paz suddenly found herself alone next to Clive.
“It’s been a while,” he said.
“You’ve been learning to be a soldier.”
“And you’ve been spending all your time with Clover.”
An accusation of sorts, but she refused to recognize it. “He’s a wonderful boy.”
“I know he is. But don’t you think—”
“Why are you being all slowpoke-y?” Flora asked, using that magical power little kids always seemed to have, sensing the exact moment they would be least welcome.
“I’ll show you who’s a slowpoke,” Clive said, chasing her back toward the others.
The pub was only a few minutes farther on, at the place where one crooked alley met another: the Stag’s Head. It was terrifically crowded, so much so that a dozen people had been relegated to the cobblestones outside. Paz followed the others through the throng to the back of the establishment, where they secured a small table just in front of the fireplace. There weren’t enough chairs, so Paz and the Poplin sisters sat on the edge of the hearth, their backs slowly scorching as Clive and Garrick went to order drinks. After a couple of minutes, the boys returned with an iced maple for Flora and frothy mugs of ale for everyone else.
All her life, Paz had heard the Anchor had the best beer in the world, and her first sip of the ale didn’t disappoint: wintergreen and ginger on top of the usual bite of the hops. Flora had just asked Garrick where he was from, and now the boy was in the middle of an entertaining, if unnecessarily comprehensive, life history. He’d grown up a good ways south of the Anchor, moving to the capital a few years back in order to join the Protectorate. A good old country boy like so many Paz had known, sending his extra shekels home to his family every month.
His autobiography was interrupted by a bawdy chorus that began in some corner of the pub and quickly overtook the whole room: “Soldiers come and soldiers go, be there war or no.”
“So what’s going to happen when the results come in?” Gemma shouted over the singing.
“We’re gonna win,” Garrick said.
“And then?”
“And then we’ll go back east and figure out what’s what.”
“Damn right,” Clive said, raising his glass to toast his fellow soldier.
Paz could almost laugh at the thought of these callow, arrogant boys marching on Sophia. They’d come in all puffed up like roosters, and leave with their tails between their legs.
Or more likely, they wouldn’t leave at all.
“I’ll get the next round,” she said. Her drink wasn’t quite empty, but she needed to get away from them all for a moment. Only no such luck . . .
“I’ll come too,” Gemma said.
The crowd parted for them easily enough—two young, pretty women bent on inebriation were not to be detained. Once Paz had gently and then not-so-gently declined the offer of a drink from the hirsute man sitting at the bar, she and Gemma ordered another four ales.
“Do
es Clive seem strange to you?” Gemma asked while they were waiting.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Cold or something?”
“I’m gonna answer your question with one of my own,” Paz said. She knew she was about to say more than she ought to, but she didn’t care. That was the terrible thing about alcohol: it erased your inhibitions while simultaneously convincing you that inhibitions were a terrible burden in the first place. “Why do you worry about him so much?”
Gemma looked hurt by the accusation. “What do you mean?”
“You’re always thinking about him. About how he’s feeling and what he’s doing—it’s all you talk about. I mean, what would you have done if he hadn’t made it back to the Anchor at all?”
“Irene!”
“What? It’s just a hypothetical question.”
It was almost funny, how genuinely confused Gemma looked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Well, what would you do if you never ended up getting married? If you just had to be on your own forever?”
“I guess . . . well . . . I really love horses. I like taking care of them, I mean. When I was Flora’s age, I thought about trying to breed them.”
The bartender finally brought the ales, but Paz immediately asked him to pour them a couple of glasses of shine.
“I really shouldn’t,” Gemma said. “Sometimes liquor brings on my fits.”
Paz raised her glass. “Gemma, we’re drinking to your dreams here. To horses!”
Gemma rolled her eyes, relenting. “To horses!” They clinked glasses.
The shine wasn’t as smooth as the stuff they made up at the academy, but it sure was strong.
“Whooee,” Paz said, blinking away tears. She slammed her glass back down on the bar.
A moment later, Gemma drew her into an embrace so tight it crushed the breath from her lungs. “Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
Gemma pulled back, frowning. “I don’t even know.”
That set both of them to laughing, so hard that Paz didn’t notice the man calling out her name until he’d said it three or four times.
“Irene! Irene!” His tone was odd: mocking almost, playful. She recognized it even before she found his face in the crowd. “There you are,” Chuck said, pushing his way up to the bar. “My old friend, Irene. What are the odds of that?”
Paz quickly weighed her options. Did she pretend to know him, but only as the stranger who’d harassed her last week? Did she play along, now that he was at least calling her Irene? Or did she plead total ignorance again?
Chuck leaned in close, putting a proprietary hand on her hip, and whispered into her ear: “You’ll come outside with me right now, or else I’m going to start talking to everyone you came here with.”
Gemma was watching them with a quizzical expression, still unsure if Chuck was a real friend, or just some drunk. Paz laughed flirtatiously, giving Gemma a look that said everything was just peachy. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she shouted. Chuck had hold of her wrist and was pulling her toward the door. “I’m coming,” she hissed. “You don’t have to drag me like a mule.”
She wrested her arm free but followed him outside—down the alley, farther and farther from the pub, until he found an unoccupied stretch of road and drew her into a doorway. She’d had to abandon Silverboy during the trip to the Anchor (the discovery of the weapon would’ve exposed her as a spy), but at least she wasn’t completely defenseless. Only a fool didn’t keep a knife in her boot for special occasions.
“Time to lay your cards on the table, Paz,” Chuck said. “Just what in hell are you playing at here?”
She couldn’t tell him the truth, of course, but he’d already seen through her original lie. Some imagination would be required. She pushed him away, just hard enough to seem angry instead of afraid.
“I’m running a con, obviously. And you’re about to muck the whole thing up.”
Chuck grinned conspiratorially, revealing three wide gaps where teeth should’ve been. “What’s the angle?”
“It’s none of your business, actually, and that’s all I’m saying.”
She’d only taken one step into the road before he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back, slamming her head against the door.
“You’ll say as much as I want you to say.”
She hadn’t expected to get away that easily, but it had been worth a try. “Fine!” she said. “You don’t have to get rough. That boy you saw me with is the son of a very wealthy Honor. And I’ve got him wrapped around my finger.”
“So you’ve come into some money.”
“Not yet. That’s why you’re barking up the wrong tree. You gotta leave me be for now, and I’ll cut you in if it all pans out. Deal?”
She put out her hand to shake. Chuck snorted, then gave her a backhanded slap that sent her spinning. It was just the opportunity she’d been waiting for; she bent over, as if in pain, and slid the knife out of her boot and up her sleeve.
“You think you can fool me,” Chuck said, “but I know where your heathen family went after you left Coriander. And you won’t be marrying no Honor’s son if they find out about that. They’d kill you first.”
“What do you want from me?” she said, straightening up again.
“I haven’t decided yet, in the long term.” He put a hand on her belly, exhaling rank tobacco breath into her face, then ran it down along her hip. “But I’ve got some ideas about the here and now.”
As he leaned in to kiss her, she slid her hand up his chest and plunged the knife into his heart. The smile died on his lips. His breath caught.
“You brought this on yourself,” she said, twisting the hilt. A bubble of blood expanded in the corner of his mouth and popped redly. She stepped backward as he fell onto his knees and tilted forward, coming to rest with his head propped up against the wall, almost as if he were praying.
And just behind him, in what had previously been an empty alleyway, stood Clive.
11. Clive
HIS FIRST THOUGHT WAS THAT she was fooling around with someone behind Clover’s back—and was some part of him pleased at the notion? Only now the boy was slumping forward, and Irene stepped aside to let the body land heavily on the stoop. She looked up, and her eyes met Clive’s. For a moment, he found himself staring into cold black holes in a perfectly composed face, a vague disgust the only visible emotion. Then her countenance crumpled, the knife clattered onto the cobblestones, and she threw herself sobbing into his arms.
“He attacked me,” she gasped. “He knocked my head into the wall. Feel.” She took one of his hands and placed it gently on the back of her head; sure enough, a lump had already begun to form. “He was drunk, and he was trying to force himself on me, and I pulled the knife—”
“Shh,” Clive said. “You don’t have to explain.”
“I just wanted to make him stop.”
He put his hands on her wet cheeks and pushed her gently away. “Why’d you leave with him?”
“Because I know him. We grew up together. He said he’d come here with a whole bunch of people from Eaton, and he was going to take me to see them. But then, once he got me alone . . .”
She choked up, dropping her head onto his shoulder again.
“It’s fine, Irene. It’s all going to be fine.”
He stroked her hair, careful to avoid the lump on her head. Sometime in the past few minutes, a light rain had begun to fall, pattering gently on the cobblestones. Away from the mass of bodies in the pub, Clive could smell it—the acrid zing that signaled a storm on the way.
“Did anyone see you two come out here together?”
“I don’t know. Just Gemma, I think. But other people might’ve noticed.”
“I doubt they’ll remember much of anything come morning,” Clive said. “We just need to get clear of this quick.”
He went over to the body and flipped it onto its back, then knelt down, threaded h
is arms through the armpits—still so warm—and heaved it up into a sitting position. It was a believable enough pose for a passed-out drunk, except for the blood that had soaked his creamy white shirt to a dark, vivid red. There was nothing for it but to wrestle off the boy’s thin woolen coat, shaking the heavy sausage arms out through the sleeves, then drape it back over him like a blanket. The head lolled heavily forward, and Clive almost retched when he pushed it back up into a more natural attitude.
“You should empty his pockets,” Irene said quietly.
“I don’t want his money.”
“I know. But when the body’s found, won’t it look better if he was robbed?”
She was right, as usual. He hastily rifled the boy’s pockets and took the dozen bronze shekels he found there.
“Take them,” he said to Irene.
She shook her head. “I couldn’t.”
“They won’t do him any good anymore. You know that.”
As she reluctantly took the coins, something compelled him to grab hold of her hand, crushing the metal between their palms. Both of their fingers were stained red with blood: but had she transferred it to him, or had he transferred it to her? He looked up into her eyes. They had a secret now. A bond. Her pulse fluttered hotly in her wrist. Their faces were so close he could smell the ale on her breath.
“Clive,” she whispered, “we—”
But he’d never know what she’d been planning to say, because at just that moment, the entire city seemed to erupt with sound—screaming and shouting, crying and clapping, somehow coming from above and below and around them all at once. Irene pulled her hands sharply away from his, as if waking from a nightmare.
“What’s happening?”
“The results of the plebiscite must have come in,” Clive said.
“And?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” A soulful howl went up from a nearby rooftop: the shattering of the old order in one livid thunderclap. “The Protectorate won.”
Clive saw himself propping the body up against the wall, repositioning the head, going through the pockets. He saw that dead look in Irene’s eyes. . . .
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