Shield and Crocus

by Michael R. Underwood

  If the Smiling King has recognized Dlella, Wonlar guessed the others had too. We need to break up those meetings, keep the tyrants from cohering into a lasting partnership. “anything else?”

  “I saw inside the wagon. There were more than thirty people in there. They kept going down the street, picking up people at random. I heard patrons say they’d seen other wagons the last couple of days. How many do you think there are?”

  Wonlar answered Douk’s question with another. “And where are they being taken?”

  Douk glanced to each corner, and then shrugged guiltily, as if his ignorance were a failure. You can’t know everything, my friend. “I’ll ask people what they’ve heard, but I don’t imagine anyone who comes to my café would be one to know something like that. I can go out right away and speak to some of my acquaintances in the corporation.”

  Wonlar shook his head. “Don’t put yourself out on this. It just means we have to track one of the wagons back to their holding location. Get a message out to Blurred Fists and see what he can do.”

  “Of course! We can’t allow this to continue. And by we, I mean you, but really we, the city and its people. Can I bring you anything?”

  “A new pen, more paper, and more tea. I need to think.”

  Wonlar pulled out a map and tried to decide where this wave of kidnapped citizens could be taken. Candidates for the warlock Guard, subjects for COBALT-3’s experiments, wage slaves for Dlella, or new subjects for the Smiling King?

  Douk nodded at Wonlar’s comment, and then scaled the stairs, reinvigorated by his continued involvement. One of these days his support was going to get him killed, and there won’t be any more pastries, no more protracted meetings over the smell of his Yehbu Grey roast. One fewer flower left to bloom when spring came again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Interlude—The Successor

  The newly self-minted executor slithered across the floor, deepening the sand mounds formed over weeks and weeks of nervous slithering. Dlella had claimed Nevri’s title, but not her actual office, not yet. Soon she would fully slide into the power gap left by Nevri’s timely passing.

  One by one, the Lieutenants will swear to me, and I will take the corporation to places Nevri even dreamed of. Expand abroad to consolidate Ibje refinement, streamline supply chains, and crush the Shields for good.

  Dlella’s office had marbled walls and no furniture save for a pile of pillows in one corner where she could recline. A broad window draped the room in sunlight for her afternoon naps, where she soaked up the warmth to stay energized.

  The bank robbery had been thwarted, though not without losses. Consolidation was the current order of business. The summit was an excellent chance to forestall hostilities from the other oligarchs, take time to breathe, get the loyalty of Nevri’s other lieutenants. Backing Yema’s play to continue the summit gave her cache with him, and let her show her savvy to the others. She’d learned long ago from Nevri that while money solved most problems, only reputation could solve the rest.

  She’d pushed back the Shields’ mob, but her work was not yet done. Not all of her former peers had come to their senses and sworn to her as the new executor.

  Qazzi Fau was due presently, and her head was still dull from Aegis’ hammering fists, three days after the fact. She picked up the wide cup of medicinal tincture and took another sip, swirling the hot liquid around her forked tongue and letting it cool slightly before swallowing. The warmth coated her throat, and she felt pain leech out of her body as the hot liquid ran down her throat. Weakness was a luxury she could not afford. This she also learned from Nevri, one of a thousand lessons Dlella was putting to use as the late executor’s successor.

  There was a knock at the door, and Dlella beckoned in her twitchy Pronai secretary. His shaking hands held a notebook and a pen.

  “Qazzi Fau is here to see you, executor.”

  Dlella continued her slithering route, feeling the sand give way to her tail. “Wait here for a minute, and then send him in.”

  Let him know she’s in control. She needs his support, but as a subordinate, not the peer he used to be. Qazzi would bring with him the forces of the northwestern territory under his supervision, control of the Right Shoulder gate and the entrance taxes and tariffs that went with it.

  If he broke faith with the corporation, there would be a civil war in her territory. That cannot be allowed. He will swear to me or die.

  Another knock, and Dlella said, “enter.”

  The governor of Right Shoulder entered the room, one hand hanging on his sword belt. His Spark-touched eyes appeared as blank white orbs, but they could see color and texture perfectly well, along with the threads as any Ikanollo. His eyes saw one other thing as well—the future, possibilities, and likelihoods. That power made him a useful ally and a deadly opponent. He used it mostly in combat, but Dlella wasn’t sure if it extended outside of the martial arena.

  Did he know how this meeting was going to pan out already, or is he uncertain as well? Dlella hid her pain, hid her nerves.

  She put up the perfect façade of an executor, unquestionable and all-knowing. They’d been equals, rivals, for years, but that ended today.

  “Welcome. Please, take a seat.” Dlella opened her arms wide, and then settled back on her coils.

  Qazzi took a place in front of her desk, assuming a wide stance, arms crossed. “I don’t want to squander resources on a succession war, so I’ve come to make a bargain.” To the point. She’d always appreciated that about him. “Tea?” she asked, continuing the niceties she knew he didn’t care for. But insisting allowed her to keep the conversation under her control and avoid his overbearing momentum.

  “No.”

  “Very well.” Dlella snapped twice and a rodent-kin boy rushed in with a pot of tea and two cups. The boy poured her a fresh cup and left the other cup empty at Qazzi’s side. “I will require the support of your security forces, full cooperation on administration and logistics, and forty percent of the transit taxes and tithes from the Right Shoulder Gate. You will accompany me to the summit and show your support. When they know you are under my protection, you will be able to continue your hunt for First Sentinel.”

  Qazzi didn’t move, didn’t blink. He was nearly impossible to read. He let her words die out, waited a moment. He responded in a flat voice. “Twenty percent, and I will have full jurisdiction on hunting down the Shields. And, I want governorship over cane’s collar.”

  Twenty? Dlella swayed behind the desk, and took a sip of her tea. Qazzi didn’t move.

  “Thirty. You’ll have jurisdiction inside my domain, but the hunt for the Shields is an all-city matter. I am cooperating with the other oligarchs. We are pooling resources so we can wipe them out before they regroup.

  Nevri underestimated First Sentinel, and she died for her weakness. I will not be that foolish, and neither will you.” She tried to leave no room for disagreement in the tight cadence of her words. But would he fall into line? Qazzi drew his sword and held it up, caressing the blade with his free hand. “Twenty-five, and you will make it clear to the oligarchs that it is my blade that will take First Sentinel’s heart.”

  He wasn’t threatening her. Or so she hoped. Qazzi regarded First Sentinel as the last great prey, the only one who had escaped him. He’d already killed one of the Aegises, but he’d never been able to keep the Shields’ aged leader in his grasp. First Sentinel was a reminder that Qazzi could fail. For such a cunning warrior, Qazzi exposed some weakness quite easily.

  “Done. I’ll have the paperwork for the particulars sent to your office.” She imagined that if she made him do the busywork himself he’d likely just stab it and send it back in pieces. He was a warrior, not a bureaucrat. But he was a leader, and had some of the city’s finest killers on his payroll. And if she was going to be the executor, she needed to follow the proper channels, so that the foreign trade partners would acknowledge her. There’d be time to reshape the corporation soon enough.


  “Watch your back, Dlella. Their desperation gives them strength. We will not play like Nevri did. This is war, and we will leave no survivors.” Qazzi sheathed his blade, then turned and walked out the door.

  Former rivals for subordinates, former enemies for allies, and former annoyances for arch-enemies. Dlella’s had become an interesting life. She resumed her slithering route with a smile.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  First Sentinel

  Life in wartime meant the Shields had to be even more cautious. The daytime patrols were doubled, night patrols tripled. The strain would eventually wear on the guards’ combat-readiness, but the summit and its resolutions had slowed the Shields’ movements to a crawl, even after Nevri’s death.

  If they had to take four detours around closed districts every time there was a meeting, they weren’t going to be able to respond to anything. The tyrants had fully leveraged their control over the city, but trade had dried up. By Wonlar’s calculations, the tyrants couldn’t keep the restrictions up for more than a week without seriously undermining their bottom line, but that would be enough time to complete their summit, finish whatever resolutions they were debating. Assuming the tyrants were motivated enough by Nevri’s death to come together, put aside their decades-old grudges.

  They’re playing to their strengths, so we have to play to ours. The first night of increased patrols, Selweh led a raid to torch one of Yema’s barracks in the middle of the night. The next morning, the Shields robbed several tax offices and distributed the money among the districts surrounding the failed bank attack, building on the seed of goodwill in that area. Every day brought two, three, even four missions. Three days into the lockdown, the Shields’ time frame had grown very short. Missions were born, planned, and executed in hours rather than days or weeks.

  Strange that we’re at war and I’m bored out of mind. The others are running themselves ragged and all I get to do is wander around in Douk’s coffeehouse and listen to everything second-hand.

  The idleness eroded his patience like rain on the cliffs of the city. He was involved in planning most of the missions, but the closest to the action he’d gotten since Nevri’s death was watching a few brawls outside of the coffeehouse and seething that he couldn’t intervene.

  But it couldn’t be helped—his leg still refused to accept his weight. He’d tried to walk without a cane that morning and dropped to the floor like a sack of threegrain flour.

  Selweh stepped down from the kitchen and gave him the smile that he’d had since he called his father “wonner.” “Good news. The proceedings for the day were cut short. Smiling King assaulted Dlella, and Yema stormed out.”

  Wonlar scaled the stairs oh-so-slowly and hobbled out into the back room. Douk’s back room (“the party room,” he liked to call it) had abstract paintings titled Revolution and Renewal, several early sculptures from Sarii before she stopped taking commissions, and a circular glass table with seats for three.

  Wonlar lowered his voice and took the nearest seat, setting his cane against the table. “The fire?”

  Selweh nodded, continuing to pace. “Yema got into his carriage in a huff at noon and hasn’t been seen back since.”

  “Excellent. The more we can get them worried about their individual problems, the less they think about pulling together.”

  Aegis pursed his lips, thinking or gathering courage, then said, “I want to go back to COBALT-3’s laboratory, the one where they held me.”

  Selweh stopped and shuddered, no doubt remembering the cold tables and the meticulously brutal experiments. Then his son smiled wide and said, “if we wait much longer, all of the intelligence I gathered while escaping will be useless. There are probably eighty citizens in there, and I can’t let them suffer.”

  Wonlar nodded. “It will raise our profile, showing we can still fight even when the tyrants are at the ready. Good. Tell Bira I’m coming along this time.”

  Selweh crossed his arms, his eyes narrowed. “Do you really think we’ll let you?”

  “No, but eventually you’ll give in. We need everyone on this.”

  Selweh put a hand on his father’s shoulder and cracked a smile. “Even the broken-down crotchety ones?”

  Wonlar laughed. How is it he always knows how to make me smile? Wonlar stood, wavered for a moment, then placed a hand on Selweh’s and sank back to his chair. “Especially those. I’m going with you.” I’d go mad if I spent another night in here, useless.

  Selweh hugged his father and left for the front room. Wonlar was alone again. Just a broken old soldier whose war is passing him by. All this for the death of one woman. Their gambit to end a war was merely sending the city careening out of control. Good job, old man. You caused this, so you have to fix it.

  He set aside his cane and pushed down on the sides of his chair. Pain exploded in his leg, but he growled, straightening on his strong foot. He wavered, put a hand to the chair, and then let go, standing on his own. He laughed again, grabbing the cane and setting about his preparations. This was going to take a lot of tea.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Aegis

  The sun was already a memory by eight, hidden beyond the cliff above the resting bones of the titan’s foot. The bones were stacked against the canyon wall, the ends covered by the accumulation of soil. In one of the stories he told to the children in Bluetown, Wonlar said that Audec’s skeleton was merely slumbering all these millennia. And one day he’d wake up and obliterate the troublesome city that had grown up around him like industrious carrion. If he hasn’t woken to crush the tyrants, I don’t think he ever will. It’s up to us.

  Selweh watched the street traffic from the corner outside Douk’s coffeehouse, leaning against the wall as the moon took to the sky. Three patrols had passed in the half-hour, each from different directions, and not a one went by without stopping to hassle someone every block, asking for papers, saying there was a curfew, or demanding a toll. He wanted nothing more than to stop them, but making a scene would expose their position.

  Selweh ducked back inside of the coffeeshop and saw his companions at rest. Bira and Sarii played a round of Titan’s Bones while Rova and Fahra played their tenth game of checkers at one of the high tables. Rova sat on a low chair and faced Fahra, who dangled her feet off of one of Douk’s tall bar stools. The arrangement necessary to put them on the same level brought a smile to Selweh’s lips. He grabbed hold of that smile, wrote the memory into his mind, adding it to the memories of being young with his father, of nights spent curled up with books, and the joys of discovering the wonderful alchemy of food. They were armor as much as the reinforced cloth of his raiment, especially in the past week where missions and planning crowded out sleep.

  His father still hadn’t emerged from the basement, and it was past the time they’d set to leave.

  Selweh saw Wenlizerachi blur through the kitchen, pursued by Xera, who wielded a stale loaf of bread, laughing. Audec-Hal’s champion wove his way around the mock conflict and down the stairs to the basement.

  “Father?”

  Selweh heard a sharp exhalation of breath, then, “hold on.” he took two more steps down the stairs and saw his father straining with the tall boots of his raiment.

  “Are you all right?”

  Wonlar grabbed the boot and shoved his foot inside, eliciting a popping sound and another wince. Wonlar reached to his side where three mugs steamed with liquid—dounmo and his elixirs.

  “You don’t have to come along tonight,” Selweh said.

  Wonlar finished off the mugs in quick succession and stood, trying to hide the pain. “None of us have to do this, son. We do it because we push ourselves, because we can’t wait for someone else to do it for us. Now give me a hand with the coat.”

  Selweh helped his father into the rest of his raiment, watching Wonlar gather his strength. His father put aside the shroud of illness that had wreathed him since Nevri’s death and rebuilt the mask of First Sentinel, just as Selweh had learned to put on th
e face of Aegis when the shield found him. Eyebrows narrow, lips tight, shoulders back, and chin up, whole body at at the ready. Make everything about you say “I am in charge; you do not want to get in my way.”

  His father was nearly seventy years old, and the man put on the face better than anyone Selweh had ever seen.

  “Bring them down. It’s time.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  First Sentinel

  Everyone knew that Audec’s bones were hollow. Children in every district were raised on the stories of the shardlings and the other horrors that dwell in the bone pathways. Most people were smart enough not to use them. Often times, we don’t have that luxury. This is one of those times. in order to bypass the district-by-district lockdown, the Shields took a route through Audec’s right hip to get into COBALT-3’s domain.

  Shimmercrab goggles showed him the vast interior of Audec’s Hip in red-scale, the steep drop-off to his left below the stable pathway. He’d walked that path a half-dozen times before, and the safest route was also the highest up, near the front of Audec’s Hip. The six Shields walked in a tight formation. Ghost Hands hovered above the group, keeping her attention open for any of the denizens of the hollows.

  [Anything?] First Sentinel asked in his mind for Ghost Hands to hear.

  [Not yet,] was her response.

  Blurred Fists scouted forward again. He’d run ahead a hundred yards, then speed back to rejoin the group and report.

  “This place always makes my blood cold,” he said.

  “I know,” Sapphire jerked her head around to look over her shoulder. “Did you hear something?”

  First Sentinel shook his head.

  [I felt nothing,] Ghost Hands said.

  He resumed walking, leaning on the cane for as long as he could before pushing himself in the real fight. “Keep going. I want to get to the laboratory in the blue time so we can be out by dawn.”