The Silenced Tale

by J. M. Frey

  Beside me, a young man with a cane hung off the back of his chair cranes his head up and, in a deeply French accent, asks: “Can you move, please? You’re blocking my light.”

  “Huh?” Elgar asks, and then starts. “Oh, hey, it’s you. From the elevator.”

  And sure enough, there is the foursome we met on the elevator yesterday—the Frenchman with the cane; the shorter, rounder fellow wearing another pithy t-shirt; the young black woman with the funky glasses; and the older woman who had blinked so owlishly.

  “Uh, hi, Mr. Reed,” the older woman says, her attention stuck to my creator like day-old bubblegum.

  “Turtle, it’s your turn,” the younger woman scolds her.

  “Kora, it’s—”

  “I see that,” her friend replies. “Play!”

  The older woman lays down a card amid the complicated pattern of previously dealt cards between them and says, “I cast Darkness.”

  Pip tugs on my hand, ready to start moving again, but then skids to a stop after just one step. I crash into her back, Elgar likewise crashing into mine, and we stagger forward a few steps, blind.

  Blind, because as soon as the woman named Turtle lays down her card, the entire facility plunges into a deep blackness. A shiver of sound trembles upward as thousands of people gasp in unison, chairs scrape back, and items are dropped to the cement floor. And then the first shout goes up; a child wails, someone screams. Someone near the food court shouts: “Calm down. Stay still! The emergency lights will come on in a second!”

  His prediction rings true as the baleful red glare of the emergency exit signs blink on, and a bank of buttery yellow floodlights splutter and surge, as if the electrical feed is fighting against the power of the spell cast upon it. There is no point trying to cast Words of Hiding in the dark, and I release Elgar to fetch out my tablet. Blast and damn, my live feed has gone dead. It is useless. With an oath, I jam it back into its pouch.

  When my eyes finally adjust, a quick glance tells me that both Elgar and Ahbni are staring down at the card game beside us, eyes and mouths dropped wide in shock. Kintyre and Bevel have circled to the other side of the table, regarding the cards thoughtfully, and with no little amount of trepidation and awe. Turtle still holds the corner of the card she played pinched between her fingers, the rest of it flattened to the bare table, but she is staring straight upward in a sort of giddy awe.

  “Did . . . did I do that?” she breathes.

  “No!” Ahbni says.

  “Yes,” Pip counters. A glance to my other side tells me that my wife is also staring up into the darkness. Even in the light of the emergency backups, the mingled orange and red from the exit signs, I can see the grim cast of her features. “I don’t think we need to hold hands anymore.”

  I am reluctant, deeply reluctant, to let her go. We need to know if the magic will hold once I do. I reach across the table and pick up an unused paper napkin from what looks to be one of their finished meals and hold it out in front of me.

  “What are you—?” Ahbni asks, but chokes on the rest of the question when I say a Word of Burning.

  This time, the magic is strong enough that a flame immediately appears on the corner of the paper, flaring bright before withering to a wimpish coal and wisp of smoke. I reach out and take Pip’s hand again, and the flame leaps back up, flaring as bright as a pitch-dipped torch. A terrible, faint green glow flashes between her lashes, and she gasps like she’s been punched in the gut.

  “Proximity is still important, but touch is stronger,” I whisper.

  “Lanjakodka,” Ahbni curses. “This can’t be real.”

  “’fraid so,” Pip mutters, staring down at the table.

  I can see her eyes flashing over the cards, can see her trying to work out the way in which what just happened did so. And how to fix it—how to keep it from happening again. The players all lean backward, confused, unsure of why she’s peeking at their cards so intently.

  “Todd? Todd? You okay?” the Frenchman asks the other fellow at the table, and Todd shakes his head, swallowing hard.

  “Not so good with dark spaces,” Todd gulps. His free fingers scrabble at the table top, knuckles white. He looks ready to bolt.

  “We must fix this, before people start to panic and someone is harmed, Pip,” I whisper to my wife.

  “Here,” Pip says, leaning over Todd’s shoulder. “Play this one.”

  “I can’t. It’s not my turn,” Todd protests.

  Pip snarls in frustration. “Who’s next?”

  “Me?” the young woman called Kora says.

  Pip slides around the table, stumbling a little in the low light, and says, “That one. That reverses the last card played, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Play it.”

  Tentative, staring up at my wife through her smudged glasses with an expression that clearly states that she thinks Pip is crazy, the young woman lays down a card with an image of a blue bottle in a field of equally electric blue lightning. Another, static-cling sort of shiver crawls across my skin. Pip’s eyelids flutter as she sucks back a pained gasp, that same faint green glow flaring in her eyes for a brief second. Elgar groans and catches at his chest.

  The darkness splutters, and sparks, and then, with a mechanical whine, the lights surge back on.

  “Merde,” the Frenchman gasps, and folds his hand. “I’m done.”

  “Good idea,” Pip says. “Maybe stop playing altogether.”

  “Perhaps it is best to get everyone to stop playing,” I suggest. It’s entirely possible that the cards around us have started to soak up the magic we seem to be shedding in our wake, and only those of the players closest to us will be affected. But better not to take that chance.

  “Oh my god,” Elgar hisses, tensing up, his knuckles going white around the cuffs of his cardigan as he stares up around us. His right hand keeps twitching toward his hip, like he wants to pull his knife, and he keeps moving it back to his cuff to keep from making a bigger scene by brandishing a weapon in a crowd. “Oh my god. What does that mean?”

  “It means,” Pip says grimly, “that the leak is getting worse. We should—”

  A deep, rattling boom fills the hall. It originates from somewhere above us, and is followed by an earth-shaking crash and crunch. The population of the lower levels screams, high and discordant, as one. The floor tilts under me, and I clutch at the card table, sending the little paper squares scattering, to keep on my feet. Ahbni goes down hard, but Pip and Elgar manage to clutch at chairs and remain upright. Kintyre and Bevel look as placid as if they’re standing on a streetcar.

  The shaking lasts perhaps twenty seconds in total. The lights flicker again, and the room fills with the rattle and crash of furniture overturning; the high, terrified noises of the people; the sickening thud of bodies hitting cement. The air fills immediately with cement dust, chalky and stifling and impossible to breathe. I bury my chin and mouth in my sleeve, reaching for my wife, who is reaching back, clutching me as the world around us tremors. The four card players dive under the table for shelter against the raining dust and pebbles.

  And then, as suddenly as it began, the shaking stops. The room is quiet, each person there waiting, waiting to see. . . . The walls groan. One corner of the room buckles slightly, the tiles of the ceiling cracking under a shift in pressure and weight. It holds. Thank the Writer, it holds.

  People start coughing. Standing. Calling for friends, and medical attention, and help. Kintyre and Bevel each stand on chairs, scanning the crowd, searching, searching . . . but no, of course he’s not here. The Viceroy would never endanger himself thus.

  Green light flares, once, through the new cracks in the ceiling. Oh, no. Upstairs. All those people who had no time to flee, no warning. Who must have been crushed by . . . by whatever has happened above us. Writer, we need to get out, get up, get to where I can see what’s happening, where I can assess our options.

  “What was that?” Elgar asks, voice shaking.

/>   “You wanted a trap?” Pip answers. She huffs in frustration, punching her own thighs. She is wobbling again, eyes glassy, clearly in pain from whatever magics were just used to accomplish the cave-in. “We’re in a trap. And it looks like the bastard just sprang it on us. Look at the escalators, the elevators, the emergency stairs. All cut off. There’s rubble everywhere. Fuck.”

  “Save one. That path is clear,” Bevel says, pointing back the way we came, to the escalators. “We should scout it first, though, before we send people up it.”

  “Agreed,” I say.

  Pip is having trouble finding her balance, and as much as I wish I could be the one to support—or even completely carry—her, my greater strength is needed for Elgar. He is wincing with every step, holding his shoulders and neck tight, and I feel a vicious stab of pleasure to realize that his injuries have been aggravated. Good, let the blind fool suffer. I am not feeling charitable toward him at the moment.

  “Right,” Kintyre says, hopping down from his chair. “It looks like the most secure and easily defensible area is there.” He points at the ballroom. “Mr. Reed, take the womenfolk and head inside. Forsyth, Bevel, and I need someone who knows this realm to scout for escape routes with us.”

  “The womenfolk?” Ahbni repeats, aghast.

  “Time and a place, Ahbni,” Pip says between gritted teeth. “I’d rather Forsyth was with Elgar and I went with Kin and Bev, though.”

  Bevel shakes his head. “Protect the Writer. I believe you capable.”

  Pip, clearly annoyed that he’s trying to pander to her vanity, snorts and turns to gather up Elgar as well as the four card players still cowering under the table. Whatever backlash she experienced while the upper stories were brought down upon us seems to have left a mark. I do not know how severe it was, what with her being cut off from my view by the dust, but she is mincing, holding her ribs tenderly, grimacing with each step. The green in her eyes lingers, a glowing rim around her iris. I do not know how much more Pip’s body can take before the magical runoff does her a permanent injury, and that terrifies me.

  Ahbni and Pip leave first, Elgar and the little pack of card players close on their heels. In the distance, I can see that the doors of the ballroom have been blown off their hinges, the whole wall singed and seared, the metal in them warped and half-melted, dusted with virulently green ash. Between us and them, lining the walls, the doors to all the other small panel rooms have been flung back, left hanging open like gawping mouths, giving the room a gap-toothed grimace. In the center of the open space, the gaming tables are overturned, the chairs thrown to the side, bags and satchels abandoned, food and drink spreading across the concrete.

  The people are still, though, startled and hunching down, waiting to see what might happen next.

  I see a few bodies amid the tables and rubble, too, and hope that they are not dead. Though, better dead than injured and abandoned to their pain. I wish to go to them, to help, to see. But the safety of my family is paramount, and perhaps once I’ve got them ensconced in a safe place, Bevel, Kintyre, and I can come back to see what can be done. Hopefully, by then, we won’t have to, though, and the emergency personnel will have arrived and given aid.

  Kintyre has Foesmiter drawn, and Bevel has the Shadow’s Cloak wrapped around his free arm in an impromptu shield. I unsheathe Smoke and together, we head toward the escalators.

  There is a snap and a sizzle, and a shower of sparks suddenly rains from above. People gasp and yelp. The lights flicker once more, and then cut off again. Only the red and amber glow of the emergency beacons light our way. Was the power cut off in the massive crash above us, or is this more magic? Is this the Viceroy’s attempt to draw us out, or stalk us?

  I wish I could stop guessing, stop thinking in circles, stop trying to anticipate. It’s exhausting. I wish to just know. I was always a Shadow Hand more at home behind a desk than out in the fields and castles and taverns, and now I am reminded why. I much prefer to read the reports of action, than to participate in it.

  We make our way, quiet and stealthy as we are able, toward the escalators.

  The food court seems abandoned, though I hear the harsh whispers of those hiding in the small booths as someone soothes a crying child, and someone else hisses medical instructions to another. The blue glow of phone screens being used as flashlights breaks up the darkness of the booths and carts. Good, it seems that these people, those that are left here, are safe and sane enough to care for one another.

  Again, a pang of guilt for leaving them behind surges in my breast. But I am not their lordling; their safety is not my purview. Not until the safety of all can be assured.

  We inch up the escalator slowly, ears straining for any sound that might give us warning that an attack is coming. The escalator is not functioning, the power cut along with that of the lights. I keep my eyes aimed at the ceilings and shadowed corners around us, not putting the Viceroy’s love of the dramatic out of my mind, knowing that he does prefer to be literally above everyone and everything.

  Nothing. Nothing. Damn it, why does he wait?

  When Bevel reaches the top of the stairs, he pulls Kintyre to an abrupt stop beside him. “Aw, hells,” Bevel whispers, and the moment I’m in the foyer of the convention center, I see why.

  The grand glass doors have been entirely blocked with what used to be the floor above us. Jumbled boulders of concrete ring the escalators and fountain—which has gone quiet—cutting off access to all of the exits. The remains of tables and chairs from the Dealer’s Room above are sprinkled around the space, splintered and twisted, pebbled with abandoned wares and an avalanche of loose papers from destroyed books, and comics, and artist’s prints.

  Syrupy afternoon sunlight streams in from the glass ceiling above us, now visible with the floor brought down.

  “We could climb up there, break a window,” Kintyre says, pointing to the mountain of rubble and debris. “Get out that way?”

  “I don’t trust it,” Bevel says. “It doesn’t look stable enough. And we’d be exposed and easy to pick off. I say we head back downstairs and regroup.”

  “Agreed,” I say again, morose, and we descend the still escalator once more.

  “I hope nobody is in that mess,” Bevel says, as we pick our way back down into the gloom of the lower levels.

  “We must hope that they all escaped. And if some did not, there is nothing we can do for them now,” Kintyre comforts him with more wisdom than I am used to hearing from my brother.

  “I despise that there’s collateral damage,” I add quietly. “And I hate that I am relieved that Alis isn’t among them.”

  “Where is she?” Bevel asks.

  “Not here, thank the Writer. She stayed with Pip’s parents,” I say. I pull my phone out of the pouch strapped to my sword belt, and bring up Martin’s contact information. “It may be on the news by now. They must be scared sick.”

  I feel my whole body drop with disappointment when I look at the screen, however. “No signal.” I hold the phone up to the open air above our heads, watching the bars, but there’s nothing. “Either the concrete is blocking it all, or it’s been cut off on purpose.”

  “What about outside help?” Bevel asks.

  “Someone outside would have called for rescue personnel, yes,” I reassure him, replacing my useless phone in its pouch. “But it might take a few hours to get everything safely cleared and get inside. It might take days.”

  “Then we assume we are under siege,” Kintyre rumbles.

  I point at the fountain. “At least there’s water. It might be heavily chlorinated, but it will be safe to drink. And food, for a few days, in the food court, and in the . . . the bags down in the gaming room from the . . . uh . . .” I cannot say it, and instead, swallow heavily.

  “We’ll search,” Bevel says. “I promise. We will get ourselves secure, and then scout for survivors.”

  I can only nod jerkily. “This way,” I say, and point at the ballroom. “I dislike the ope
nness. Collect what provisions you can, and rally those able to move. I would much rather we all weathered this siege in the ballroom, where there are only three entrances to guard.”

  “Yeah,” Bevel says, echoing my sentiment, and shooting me a cheeky grin when I turn to look at him in surprise. Kintyre moves to obey me, and then pauses.

  “I don’t even know what half of this stuff is . . .” Kintyre says, poking his nose into a cabinet filled with pizza slices. “Is this travel bread?”

  “Of a sort,” I tell him.

  “Oh, hello,” Kintyre adds, addressing someone who is behind the counter.

  “He-hello,” that someone says, standing. It’s Ichiro, the liaison, his face smeared with dust-cut tear tracks, his bright volunteer shirt stained with what appears to be someone else’s blood. “Is it safe to come out?”

  “For now,” Kintyre says, and helps him limp around the counter.

  The answer of whose blood is on his shirt becomes clear when the skinny volunteer from the Green Room doors follows after him, the back of his forearm showing a long, deep defensive wound that is matched by the one on his forehead. Clearly he’d raised his arm to protect his face from some sort of flying debris. There are paper napkins stuck to the edges of the wounds where Ichiro had tried to stop the bleeding.

  “Come on,” Kintyre tells them. “Grab whatever you think we’ll need—water skins, bandages, ointments, what food you can, and we will set up a camp in the far room there.”

  “Water skins?” the skinny volunteer echoes, looking dazed. He was probably concussed by whatever caused the gash to his arm and forehead. All the same, the two lads obey, and a handful of other people—a mix of all ages and ethnicities—emerge from behind the counters and under carts at their urging.

  Bevel goes over to a mother holding her sniffling baby tight to her chest—they are both extremely dark-complected, their hair in matching tight braids along their scalps, their eyes both wide, white, fearful circles in their faces. The side of the mother’s face and the backs of her hands are covered with fine cuts from protecting her child.