by Jim Heskett
Now on the front side of him, Yorick gazed up at Wybert, taking in the scowl on his face. The lord was furious, his frenzied hair rippling in the breeze. Wybert lifted a loudspeaker device to his face, and the thing squealed when he pressed a button on the side.
“Now,” he said into the device, “all my guerreros are here. And some of you have been here a little less than you are supposed to.”
A few heads turned around, checking with each other. General look of confusion on the faces of all the guerreros. But Yorick had an idea what it meant.
They might be in trouble. A lump formed in the back of his throat and he forced himself to breathe evenly, pushing the air in and out.
“Some of you,” Wybert continued, “have been going into places you aren’t supposed to go, aren’t you? You’ve been dillying and dallying and… opening doors you shouldn’t open.”
Fear rumbled Yorick’s stomach. Now, they were caught, for sure. He took a step closer to Rosia but didn’t dare give her a look. Despite the shakiness of his knees, he made every effort to look curious and neutral. His body wanted to collapse, to sink to the ground. A distinct vision of facing a line of guards appeared to him. His and Rosia’s backs against the wall, their hands bound. Trying to tell Rosia he loved her one last time before they were shot in the bellies and left for dead.
There was little chance Wybert could have known about the entry into the tunnels. They’d shut the door. They’d encountered no guards directly. No one had seen them leaving by the garage on the mansion grounds, and they’d gone back to the warehouses to clean up after themselves.
How could they have been caught?
And then, Yorick’s gaze landed on Diego, who was grinning at him.
Diego had been inside the mansion. He must have seen the two of them leaving by the garage, or somehow seen them through the grate pointing down into the tunnel. The look on Diego’s smug face all but confirmed it.
Yorick poked Rosia in the ribs and nodded at Diego. She grunted and then turned her attention back to Wybert.
Wybert paused in mid-sentence to turn around as a loud clang came from the east edge of the plantación. The gates were opening.
“Ahh!” he said. “Perfect timing. We’re going to have some guests staying with us for a while. Time to tighten the screws, you little idiotas.”
When the gates had opened wide enough, three large trucks rolled into the plantación. Big vehicles spewing black smoke. They parked, and then the drivers slipped out and opened their backs. From the bowels of the trucks came a flood of men. Armed men. Wearing military gear from head to toe and carrying rifles far more menacing than those the plantación guards carried.
This was an army. At least fifty of them. Gear rattled as these men organized into a line. Each of them wore the royal crest on their clothes, a set of interlocking triangles with a large letter N on the inside. Took Yorick a moment to recognize it. They were from the First City.
Not good. Not good at all.
Yorick’s pulse threatened to drown out all the sounds around him. Rosia took his hand and squeezed it.
As some of the armed men marched toward the battlefield, Wybert scowled down at the guerreros. “I don’t want to do this. Believe me, I’d rather not call them in at all, but these are desperate times. Some of you want to destroy everything we’ve built here. And so, until this threat has passed, let’s all give a welcome to a platoon of the king’s Royal Army.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rosia was accustomed to guards watching over the battlegrounds as the battles took place. They might find one or two in each quadrant, making sure the round didn’t get out of hand or become too personal. Sometimes, the guards would stand by and watch the action like bystanders at a play. Often, the snipers stationed on the wall would train their scopes on the battlefield.
But now, with the king’s soldados watching, there were a dozen of them present in each quadrant. As Rosia led Yorick to the block, she noted at least ten standing by with their extensive armor and sporting massive guns clutched to their chests. Underneath their helmets, they wore expressionless faces, and only their eyes seemed to move. Cold and rigid, like machines.
They had little experience with the king’s army, other than a single encounter about two years ago. Someone from the First City arrived. An important person in nice clothing, escorted by five soldados who Rosia only later learned were from the Royal Army. The king’s personal bodyguards. When Wybert met with these people from the First City on the steps of the mansion, an argument broke out. A soldado pushed one of Wybert’s guard, and the guards all raised their rifles. The soldados shot the guards dead. And the crazy thing was, Wybert did nothing about it. He let it happen, unable or unwilling to stop it.
The army didn’t answer to Wybert, which meant this situation was more out of control than it had first appeared.
Why were they here?
Amid the block quadrant’s smattering of buildings, Rosia pointed at one. “There,” she said to Yorick. “That one with the knocked-out windows on the third floor. We go up there and play sniper.”
“Works for me,” Yorick said as he raised his rifle and spit some shots at a trio of Reds at the far edge of one of the buildings. They hadn’t been paying attention, and the nearby shots startled them into action. They chose to run, ducking around the buildings.
“Let’s get in there before they circle around,” Yorick said. “Catch them on the way back.”
As they rushed toward the building, glass crunched under Rosia’s feet. In the handful of years they’d been guerreros for the Blues, no one had ever sent in a cleanup crew or workers to fix up these battered buildings. Half the windows were busted, resulting in a sea of broken glass. Perhaps that was one of the reasons the block quadrant was the least popular of the four battlegrounds. No one wanted to end up bloodied from head to toe by slipping and falling into the mess.
Rosia leaped over the threshold into the apartments. Inside this building was a small foyer area, with rows of locked boxes built into one wall. One door on the side led off to a workout area, with the strangest exercise equipment Rosia had ever seen. All of it rusted and unusable. A couple of other doors in this room led somewhere, but Rosia had never bothered to explore. Never had enough time during the heat of battle.
She and Yorick dashed forward, toward the stairs at the far end of the room. They scaled them three at a time, hearts pumping and legs burning. Their footfalls echoed around the concrete stairwell.
Rosia reached the third floor a second before her boyfriend did, and she threw a shoulder into the door leading into the main hallway. She held her weapon high, although they were unlikely to encounter anyone inside. With sights on the apartment door at the far end, she took long strides, practically leaping. Heart pumping, adrenaline driving her forward.
They entered the apartment to find it empty. A poster on the wall showed an illustration of a laughably muscular Wybert dressed in battle gear, standing atop a junked car, brandishing a giant rifle. The caption below read The Lord Will Fight For You. It was the newest object in the apartment by at least fifty years. The only thing not yellowing or broken down.
These domiciles looked nothing like their dorm rooms. There were electronic devices that made no sense at all. Some with screens, some without, some with actual knobs and sliders that served no function she could discern. After reading enough of the fiction books, she and Yorick had puzzled out the names of these devices… radio, intercom, television—the last of which they’d always called vid screens. But why they were here, and their intended purpose still seemed elusive.
Rosia and Yorick raced toward a sofa next to the blown-out windows. Near it, they halted and then ducked down so they could lean against the sofa and look over it.
“There they go,” Yorick said, tilting his chin at the same trio, coming round the building. “They’re not ready for us, that’s for sure.”
Rosia aimed down the sight of her rifle, and Yorick did the sam
e. She tracked the three, focusing on the one in front, as they skulked across the courtyard at the center of the apartments. “I got the leader.”
“If Wybert knows we were in the tunnels,” Yorick asked, aiming his own rifle, “then why aren’t we in a dungeon right now? If he believed Diego enough to call in a whole platoon of the king’s soldados, why let us continue?”
“I don’t know.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Yorick said as he wrapped his finger around the trigger. “Maybe he only knows someone was in the tunnels, and he plans to interrogate everyone at some point. Or the army is here to keep us all separated, so we can’t get together and come up with a communal lie. Maybe he thinks it’s all one big conspiracy.”
“Could be,” she said. But, she also thought Wybert might know everything. And maybe this was the last battle. Perhaps the lord planned to take them in after today’s round. Or, maybe none of it meant anything, and Wybert knew none of it.
Rosia lifted her free hand in the air and made a fist. At that moment, she and Yorick pressed the triggers of their rifles and peppered the ground with shots. They took out all three of the Reds pursuing them.
And she finally let out a breath. Head woozy, all the chemicals in her body swirling and making her feel like the world had sped up.
For a full minute, they both leaned against the sofa and stared at the courtyard, not speaking. It was almost peaceful. From far away, the sound of rubber bullets echoed. Some battle cries, some collisions far away, but here, it was quiet.
Rosia enjoyed the moment until she realized more than two minutes had now passed. Beside her, Yorick was quiet, his eyes staring out through the window to the blue sky above.
“We should get going,” she said. “We haven’t taken out enough of the Reds to sit and hide for the rest of the round.”
The rank. Always had to worry about the rank.
She slipped back from the sofa, and they scurried out of the apartment and down the hall. Down the stairs, out the front of the apartment building, and around the side, toward the warehouse quadrant.
When they entered the quadrant, Rosia skidded to a stop. Hiding in the shadow of a warehouse was Malina, the meek and mild girl who had been with Tenney last night.
“What are you doing here?” Rosia said. “You’re not allowed on the battlefield.”
Yorick stepped in close, hiding in the shadows with her. His eyes darted around. “If the guards see you here, that will be very bad for you. And there are a lot of them out here today. More than usual. Trust me.”
“We know. I had to bring you two a message,” Malina said in her small voice. “Tenney says the rebellion is still going to happen, in two days. It doesn’t matter how many guards or soldados there are.”
Rosia shook her head. “No. Not possible. The Royal Army is here. We will all die if something happens while they’re here. They won’t bother to toss us in cages. They’ll kill us where we stand. I don’t even know if Wybert could stop it from happening.”
Malina shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. We will be at the play tonight if you want to discuss it.”
With that, she raced away, toward the fields. Yorick’s mouth hung open, and he didn’t have to speak for Rosia to know what he was thinking. If he and Rosia couldn’t find a way to end this in less than two days, they would all be dead.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Yorick guided Rosia along the aisles at the amphitheater, looking for Tenney and Malina. Hoping to find a seat near them. So far, the two farm workers did not seem to be in attendance.
The day had been surreal. Every minute of it. Despite Wybert’s apparent knowledge of their underground escapades, the lord had not seized Yorick and Rosia. He had not said a word about it during the ceremony after the round. The Blues won, and a Red named Venton ended up ranked last.
Venton had been a Red for about a year. She’d been kitchen staff for a long time before that. Even longer than Yorick had been at the plantación. Venton was about twenty years old, unassuming and small. She kept her head down and never engaged in the loud talk or taunting that some other Reds enjoyed. But over the last few weeks, she’d changed. Even Yorick had noticed how Venton continually slipped in the ranks during these daily battles. She didn’t cheer when the Reds won or jeer when they lost, only quietly turned in her rifle and suit chip and then walked back to the dorms after every battle. She would sometimes eat alone in the cafeteria, despite being welcomed by her Red teammates.
This morning, Venton had made no complaint as she left with the guards. Only relinquished her rifle and suit chip and then nodded at a couple of her teammates. Just like that, Venton disappeared inside the mansion, to suffer the same fate as Hamon.
The king’s elite soldados had stood nearby, silent and watchful. After the ceremony, Wybert escorted several of them inside the mansion. Yorick had seen the hesitant look on the lord's face. Wybert didn’t like dealing with real soldados. His guard was loyal to him. The king’s men were loyal to the king, obviously.
So why had he called them here? Especially given that, if Diego had told the lord he’d seen Yorick and Rosia leaving by the forbidden garage, he could have had them arrested and punished for breaking the lord's law? What was Diego’s game?
None of this made any sense.
On the way toward the theater, for the second time this week, the gates had opened and let in a long, black car. The slow procession attracted the attention of everyone around, as it always did.
The car parked in front of the mansion, dark windows hiding the inhabitants. A man and a woman in expensive clothes emerged, and Wybert raced out to meet them. Fluster on his face. He didn’t keep them long. Stomping his foot, he spoke to them, waving his hands in anger. The whole conversation lasted only thirty seconds, and then Wybert’s guards pulled close to him.
The man and woman huffed away, and Wybert stormed back inside the mansion, furious. No one spoke. The car made its slow path back out and the gates shut once again.
From the time the gates opened and then closed only took about five minutes. Such a quick visit was unheard of, and Yorick didn’t know what to make of it.
He had always assumed these visitors in the sleek cars were trade ambassadors from the First City. Wybert sold his fruit to Denver since the rumor was fruit didn’t grow well that far down south. No one knew for certain. But they came every few weeks and Wybert would usually spread a big, fake smile and wave his hands in exaggerated joy. Putting on a show for them. But never before had Yorick seen Wybert react with open hostility toward these people everyone assumed were terribly important.
Why was Wybert at odds with the First City of Denver and its king? Sometimes, Yorick realized he had no idea what the world was outside these walls. Why people did what they did or how anything worked.
Now, sitting in his seat at the theater, Yorick would have given anything to have been nearer to that argument with the people from Denver. To find out what they’d said to make Wybert so angry.
Rosia pinched Yorick on the arm and flicked her head toward Malina, sitting at the end of a row. There were a couple open seats in the row behind her. But no Tenney. Malina looked up at them, and Yorick could see the fear in her eyes from here. She wasn’t okay. Despite the evening heat, she rubbed her long fingers up and down the arms exposed through her sleeveless shirt.
Yorick and Rosia scooted along the row, excusing themselves as the other theater patrons grunted and groaned and shifted out of the way to allow them past. Noises from the play boomed all around them.
Yorick sat directly behind Malina and focused his eyes on the action onstage. This play, Yorick recognized as The Pawns of the House. A strange play that was supposedly funny, but Yorick didn’t understand any of it. The plot made no sense at all. A lot of characters running around, babbling, kissing, trying to confuse each other. This one was a favorite of the kitchen staff, and they played most of the roles as well as constructed the sets and costumes. It gave them an excus
e to do something else with their time once the dinner meal had concluded.
Rosia leaned forward and whispered, “you said we could talk to him. Where is he?”
Malina breathed hard and fast, her eyes darting everywhere. “I don’t know. Tenney went to the bathroom at lunch and never came back. I can’t find him.”
Someone nearby shushed them, and Yorick flicked a hand toward that person. It’s not as if they were the only people in the audience talking. The action onstage was loud enough to drown out most conversation.
Malina met his eyes. “I don’t know what to do. He’s never disappeared on me before. This isn’t normal.”
And Yorick didn’t know what to say. If Wybert had caught Tenney—possibly making or transporting weapons or sneaking around for some other purpose—and had stashed him in the interrogation room, then, the field workers’ rebellion was probably sunk.
And maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. Of course, Yorick didn’t want to see Tenney harmed, but if he were able to sit on the side for a time, maybe he would cool down. At least wait until the soldados left the plantación and everything went back to normal.
Malina searched their eyes, her sharp features pained. The corners of her lips pulled down, her eyes were slick with tears. Yorick studied her face. She was pretty, like a piece of breakable crystal. Her ears were slightly pointy and stuck out from her head, and she had an angular face. Very uncommon. Yorick could see why Tenney was attracted to her. Aside from the light hair and eyes, she had a look different from anyone he’d ever seen at the plantación.
Yorick shrugged at her and was about to open his mouth and explain, but Rosia leaned forward. She placed a comforting hand on Malina’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Malina. We’re going to find him for you. Tonight. Whatever happened to him, we’ll get him back.”
Damn it.
Chapter Twenty-Five