by Bella James
That was the point of the shoes, Livy knew. They were status. Women wearing shoes too ornate, too painful and too high to walk in were women who performed no manual labor. They didn't keep house for anyone else, didn't plow fields in Pastoreum or ice fish in Tundrus or create goods like the women who lived in the islands of Oceanus did.
Livy's shoes were the same thing now, another assurance by the Plutarch that she wouldn't run away.
Wouldn't if I could. She'd been placed here by the leaders of the rebellion. She could do more good in the capital than she could fighting.
"What do you think of today's gown, my dear?" Malvin passed a cultured, soft hand over the fabric. It didn't snag or catch like Livy's would. Livy had used her hands. The Plutarch found such things beneath him. "There'll be a different dress every day until the wedding."
"It's beautiful," she said simply. It was. Jewel encrusted, made of silk and decorated with gemstones. But she didn't rise and didn't even think to take the dress and go behind the privacy screen to put it on and model it for her intended. A little warning in the back of her mind said she wasn't playing her part. Another voice – her own, she thought, the angry voice that stayed true to who she was as her grandfather had urged her to do – fought back: playing her part included being surly about being locked up, and honestly angry about things anyone would be angry about. If she had truly journeyed back to warn the Plutarch about threats against his life and to stand by his side, she would be angry about being locked up.
So she sat, watching the dress, unmoving.
The Plutarch crossed into her line of vision, frowning. "Why so sad today, my love?"
And that was for show. She didn't know why he cared what his people thought, only that he did. He put on a show for them.
At least when they had an audience, he wasn't hurting her.
"Are you unhappy with your lodgings? Your clothing?"
Or anything else she'd like to tell him about, that he'd promise to fix and take out on her later.
"No," Livy said slowly. "Everything is beautiful. Everything is perfect. And everyone has been so kind." She looked down at her hands before continuing. "I had a bad dream. That's all."
Before her, the Plutarch went still. Livy could have kicked herself. She'd forgotten the Plutarch's superstitions. Livy shook herself and stood, walking to the dress. "It's silly. It was just a dream. There's something else – "
But he cut her off before she could continue. "Nonsense. Dreams are omens. They mean something. There's only one person who can correctly read the dream for us. We will visit the Oracle this evening. Do not fear, Olivia Bane. We will find the meaning behind the dream and it will cease to trouble you."
I know what the dream means, Livy thought. It wouldn't cease to trouble her until the walls of Arcadia fell. Telling him that would mean her death, and the end of the rebellion. Instead, she demurred, agreeing to see the Oracle. Couldn't hurt. Livy didn't believe the Oracle would spill out anything about the rebellion. The woman wasn't a mind reader, after all – that was impossible. She was simply wise and drugged and afraid and she used her powers of intuition to tell the Plutarch what he wanted to hear.
It would be fine, she told herself, and realized he was asking her something.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I was thinking about the dream again. What did you ask me?"
He looked annoyed, but only annoyed as anyone who'd just discovered their audience wasn't properly attending. "I said, you wanted to ask me something else?"
She hadn't asked him anything yet, but never mind. "My sister, Pippa." She didn't have to pretend; there was already a tremor in her voice at the idea of what Pip was going through. His face had hardened when she said Pip's name, though, so she changed her tactics, wondering if it would work. Soft voice, low and throaty, she said, "I wanted her to stand …" Pause. "For our wedding." With soft emphasis on the word, as if she were a shy maiden.
Standing from her seat beside the window, she glided to his side, still sleep rumpled and wearing a diaphanous gown. One hand stroked his arm, trailing down to entwine her fingers with his.
"I want her to stand for me, as maiden and witness, and share in our binding ceremony. I'd be ever so grateful."
His eyes were trained on where their fingers intertwined. How many wives had he killed? How many incarnations of the Plutarch had married and bred and thrown the woman away? Still he watched her fingers, and brought up his free hand to stroke along her uncovered arm, touching the softness of seventeen year old flesh. When his eyes met hers, they were soft with want.
"She'll be brought to you. Is she – "
"Here, somewhere," Livy said eagerly, not releasing his hand. "I've heard rumors. She was caught in one of the taxes, but she's only thirteen. She's in Arcadia, in one of the pleasure palaces." Should she add she was sure he'd understand why she wanted her sister brought away from such a place? No. That would be overplaying her hand. She simply stood, connected to him, softly touching him now, the back of his hand, with one finger in the hand that was only inches from her modified, deadly ID chip.
It shouldn't have worked. He should have shoved her aside angrily, or agreed only because he wanted her family at least elevated, and at least until the wedding.
But it did work. He wanted her. He softened to her. Livy wasn't fooled for an instant that he wouldn't kill her the instant she said one thing out of line. Or the minute she fulfilled whatever her purpose was.
But for now he was promising. He'd have Pippa found and brought to Livy and they could share her rooms until the wedding and Pip could have them to herself after.
And for now, it was almost enough that Pip would be brought from the brothels, safe, or at least safer, with her sister.
Or it was almost enough until the next rebel hummingbird showed up with its message attached.
Plutarch burning villages for traitors. Marry now.
She'd just asked for Pippa, more or less as a wedding present, and now she was supposed to ask to marry even sooner? The Plutarch had all manner of rituals he wanted them both to go through. The wedding was all about publicity. Even the poorest villages would have communications arrays set up so they could watch from the village square.
Would he even be willing to move up the date of their marriage?
No time for that now. Someone was coming along the corridor outside Livy's rooms, confident, fast footsteps as the person rushed toward her. Livy had to bathe and dress, and she had classes in decorum and etiquette in the afternoon and undoubtedly another fitting for the damned dress. Might as well just sew the thing on her, they were so determined to get it right.
All the while her stomach was writhing. What about her family? What about Pippa during the delay while the Plutarch pretended he didn't know exactly where to find her? What about Arash and the others?
A perfunctory knock sounded on the heavy, ornate door, which was already swinging open before the last imperative tap sounded.
"Olivia Bane?"
Why do they insist on asking every time? Is it considered a courtesy or to remind me who I am? It's not like anyone else is trapped in here!
"Who is it?" she demanded. Her voice sounded testy. Might as well – if she was going to be the Plutarch's bride, surely some power came with the title. At the very least she could be unpleasant.
Though it was doubtful she could come anywhere near matching the unpleasantness of the woman who stepped through the door. Her face was jowled and dour, her eyes sunken into folds of flesh, her mouth permanently turned down. She had steel gray hair and a steel gaze and wore coarse black hard woven clothing, just like Livy's family had worn during winters in Pastoreum.
Livy shut her mouth with a snap, realizing she was staring.
"Who are you?"
The woman made a sound of disgust. "No more manners than a Gamma," she said in a voice that dismissed Livy just that fast.
Livy cocked her head. "Who are you, and how dare you speak to me that way?"
Far fro
m making the other woman apologize or shrink into herself, Livy's demand caused her to stalk over and position herself directly in front of Livy.
"My name is Earnestine Balk. I am your duenna."
With that, she crossed her arms and stood staring around Livy's chambers as if marking the things she'd like for herself or determining places Livy might hide and Earnestine might find her.
Livy caught up to her own rampaging emotions. She'd stared down Arash, met two councils of rebels, talked back to the Plutarch, been kidnapped by rebels if it came to that, survived having her very own Centurion, called and ridden a mutated scorpion and lassoed, ridden and killed one of the giant sand predators, a world snake.
She could deal with Earnestine Balk.
"What's a duenna?" she asked.
The rotund woman in black glared at her. "A governess. A chaperone. A keeper. I will be with you day and night until your wedding, to make certain you remain – " here she paused, significantly, and Livy wasn't sure if the pause was meant to emphasize remain as in not run off or her next word – "Unharmed." Which if she meant what Livy thought she meant, it was pretty much too late.
Then the full force of what the woman had said slammed home. Not the chaperone part or even her unpleasant name, but "with you day and night."
She couldn't! How would Livy get word to the rebels? She couldn't very well write and receive notes by hummingbird with this vulture hanging round her neck. No self respecting hummingbird would come anywhere near Livy!
But the etiquette and decorum classes weren't going totally to waste. Livy drew herself up and reminded herself who she was and who she was to marry and despite her Grandfather's admonition – To thine own self be true – right now Livy needed to be true to her new role: The Plutarch's Wife.
"I suppose it's customary," Livy said with a sniff, turning away as if Earnestine were the least of her concerns. "Seems very old fashioned. But if that's what my husband wants, then I shall abide by his decision." Emphasis, carefully, on husband, and on his decision.
Then she turned away and went back to her bath, locking the door behind her because no old woman was accompanying her that far. When she emerged, clean and wearing the ceremonial nonsense dress of the day, the duenna instantly flew at her, furious.
"You are not to lock doors between us. I will not have it."
Livy turned to face her fully, leaving her hair to be combed later. She snarled into the old woman's face. "You will not accompany me to such intimate settings as a bathroom. I will not have it. And if you persist, I will appeal directly to my husband."
It was deliberate, and a test, on both their parts. Livy wanted to hold her breath.
"He's not your husband yet," the old harpy snapped.
Livy, having just won, said, "But he will be," very quietly. "And then, we shall see."
LIVY WAS FINISHING up her toilette and wondering if the Oracle could help her in any way to get the word out to the rebels or to Julia, who Selene had told her had been reinstated in the Plutarch's administration without anyone the wiser that she was the girl who had been his second choice as wife. Her hair was cropped, her skin darkened, her makeup stripped. Maybe Selene could pass messages, though the hummingbirds seemed leery of the spear carrying Centurion.
Before she finished her line of thought, someone hammered hard on her chamber doors. "Olivia Bane! Why is this door locked? Are you all right? Let me in!"
Livy whirled to answer the pounding, but Earnestine stood before she did and marched to the door, one hand up imperiously to stop Livy.
This ought to be interesting, Livy thought, and stood back, waiting.
Earnestine opened the door and Selene surged inside and stopped at once, her spear going from alert to threat, held sharp edge across Earnestine's throat.
"Who in all the hells are you?" Selene demanded.
Earnestine took one step back and said, "I am the duenna of Olivia Bane and I will not have you in these chambers with a weapon."
Livy bit her lips. She wanted to laugh.
Selene swept up her stave, using the long wood pole across Earnestine's throat to push the woman all the way back up against the nearest wall.
"Understand this," Selene murmured, her voice low but clear. "I am personal guard sworn permanent to Olivia Bane. No one is allowed to come between us, and my spear is far sharper than your tongue, old woman."
For a moment, Livy knew nothing but delight. Watching the hateful duenna get put in her place, and watching the glorious muscled and beautiful Selene instantly fight for Livy was delightful.
Seconds later she was back to worrying. About Pippa. About Julia. About the rebels. About the rebellion. About her family. About the child without a face.
About marrying the Plutarch.
CHAPTER 3
J ulia checked again the feeds to the communications equipment in the most secure of the capital broadcast rooms. Though most of the villages across the world survived with horses and carriages, wagons and plows, the capital thrived with Before Times technology and the huge advances that had been made in equipment since Arcadia had been founded. There was no need for the rest of the world to know.
Only the Plutarch's own leadership and some of the Aristocracy.
Julia certainly hadn't known and until she had come here, neither had the rebels. Now Julia was able to get out word that the Plutarch intended to use broadcast delays and taped events in order to make it look like he was in places he wasn't and places faster than he could get there. Not all the plans were in place yet, but it looked like making him look even more godlike and omnipotent was part of the name of the game.
Julia didn't know why. After all, the supreme ruler was the dictator of the entire world. What more did he want? But maybe the plans played into stopping the rebellion, crushing it totally, which he meant to do after marrying Livy. The ruler considered the rebels a nuisance, one that could be burned out, stomped out, eradicated. But now that his wedding drew close again and his choice for bride had been taken by rebels – even if she had gotten free – John Malvin was stepping up his campaign to end the rebellion and every rebel who had anything to do with it.
Julia was pretty sure the Plutarch didn't give a damn that Livy had been taken by the rebels – after all, one of his first moves had been to choose the runner-up in the Bride of Plutarch competition and announce himself engaged to Julia. She was also convinced that the majority of people scattered across the lands understood that the move to another fiancée on the part of the Plutarch and his need to keep society strong by marrying the "mother of the race" was a thinly veiled need to make certain that he always got what he wanted.
Including a bride, even if the original had been kidnaped.
Julia was pretty sure she was right about what she thought she knew.
What Julia didn't know yet was whether or not the Plutarch knew Livy was a rebel. Or that her family was. Or if he meant to use Livy's family to crush Livy's spirit, right before killing his own wife, possibly broadcasting the event in a show of force the world had never seen before.
Livy's family and, if the previous Oracle had been right in the minutes before she'd taken her own life rather than let the Plutarch kill her, Julia's family as well.
The Oracle had named Julia to the Bane family.
Whether that had meaning for the future, Julia didn't know. She held the knowledge close and waited. In the meantime, there were steps she could take to reverse the feed of information. Rather than getting information from the Forbidden Zone, the borderlands around The Void where most of the rebels were, she could deliver them all the information she could, and help the rebellion prepare to succeed.
Selene had brought Livy back into the capital city. Selene had found Julia when she'd run from the Plutarch and her own nightmare days as the intended bride before Livy was discovered alive. Selene had brought her in and created the cover story of a girl trapped by the very same rebels who had taken Olivia Bane. Playing up her bravery at revealing nothin
g, Selene had found Julia a post as communications director, and removed her ID chip so the Plutarch couldn't track her.
More than that. As far as the Plutarch was concerned, Selene had done her duty and killed Julia, the unnecessary second choice for bride.
As far as the leadership was concerned, Selene had rescued from the rebels a talented communications technician and put her back to work in the Plutarch's employ.
If Selene ever turned against them, the entire rebellion would be in trouble.
With Selene on their side, Julia worked the revolution from inside the Plutarch's administration.
And waited for the Plutarch's wedding.
Now she knew she couldn't simply wait any longer. She had to find a way to connect with Livy. Julia had received information from Arash. The royal wedding needed to be moved up and whether or not Livy had been told, nothing had been announced. Julia would know. Which meant Livy was holding back for some reason.
She couldn't. Arcadian forces were attacking the villages, burning and killing and leaving little standing, but everything wasn't quite what it seemed. It never was where the Aristocracy and the Plutarch were concerned. The death toll in the villages and the rural provinces wasn't really mounting, the fear quotient was. The Centurions weren't looking for death, they were looking for blind obedience under the yoke of fear. Every village had a scapegoat or two, someone the Centurion would name traitor, question, torture and put to death in very public displays. The point was to spread fear throughout the land. If the villagers believed they were being killed off and the villages raised to the ground, there'd be less support for the rebellion, which had its roots in the provinces.
By moving up the wedding, the rebels would be forcing the Plutarch's hand.
Julia frowned. For all the information she fed to the rebels and all the information she received in return, she still felt like she was missing something. For one thing, the plague that was spreading through the lands. Originally the Arcadians had treated it as a ruse, a rebel story meant to increase the level of fear and uncertainty among those in the provinces, as if the Big Brave Aristocracy and the Arcadian Leaders could stop the plague. As if they could be bothered to.