“So am I. Happy that you’re a Sacerdio, that is.”
Dina met his gaze, hopeful for a moment.
“You’re the finest Sacerdio I’ve ever worked with. I’ll give your superiors a glowing report, if we ever get out of here.”
The hope died. Dina searched his eyes for a moment longer, then, not seeing whatever she wanted to find in his eyes, nodded slowly and looked away again.
It was for the best. If Gabe was really going to do what he told du Serres he would, then he didn’t want Dina any more involved than she already was.
Standing, Dina straightened her dusty and stained robe. “I’ll inform the lieutenant you’re ready, then.”
Gabe’s heart clenched as she left the tent. The first link severed.
Outside, Dina explained in a soft voice that Gabe was fine. Carufel ordered her returned to her charges and then the lieutenant stepped into the tent. He stopped when he saw Gabe standing, eyes widening as he took in Gabe’s healed jaw. It wasn’t often an Alarian saw magic at work, Gabe guessed.
Putting aside his surprise, Carufel asked, “Are you now capable of doing what you said you would?”
Gabe nodded, not able to put words to his betrayal.
“The general wishes to know what you will need.”
“Somewhere quiet and private,” he said bitterly.
They ended up in Ismael’s old tent, one of the few Delaluzian ones to survive the Alarian occupation. Two chairs were set facing each other. At Gabe’s request Pio was the first prisoner brought in.
“What’s going on?” Pio asked Gabe.
“Take a seat,” he said, resigned to his decision so he was able to look the Engineer in the eyes, even if it was only for a moment.
Pio eyed the chair warily. “Gabe, what’s going on?” He didn’t sit.
“Hopefully, I’m saving lives. Please, sit.”
Pio sat as if he thought the chair might explode. As soon as his arse was down, General du Serres entered. It was an alteration to Gabe’s original plan he didn’t like, but could understand.
“What...?” Pio began to rise, glaring at the enemy officer.
Gabe put his hands on Pio’s shoulders and held him down. “It’s all right, Pio. He’s just here to ask you some questions. No one’s armed.”
The glare turned on Gabe. “You’re working for him now?”
Removing his black glove, Gabe said, “It’s the only choice I had.” He put his left hand on the exposed skin of Pio’s neck and sent a wave of calming magic into the man. Pio’s heart rate, rising in confusion and fear, eased back to normal and the Engineer relaxed into the chair. “This won’t take long, Pio. Then you’ll be allowed to go back to your hut and not bothered again.”
Du Serres, watching Pio’s growing calm with little expression on his face, sat opposite him, hands on knees, back straight.
“You can begin, General,” Gabe murmured, keeping his hand on Pio.
“Please state your full name,” the general said.
Pio glanced up at Gabe, looking for confirmation. Gabe nodded.
“Pio Chispa par Paloma,” the Engineer said, his heartrate and blood pressure normal, breathing steady.
“You are the head Engineer for Tejon Company, Negron Battalion, Church of Ciro Military?”
“Yes.” No change in his body.
“Do you know why we’re here? You and me, in this tent, specifically.”
Pio’s heartrate jumped, a flash of fear turning into anger. He jerked against Gabe’s hand and tried to stand. “Because you’re a murdering bastard but your terrorism isn’t enough to—”
“Calm down,” Gabe said, pushing down on his shoulder, an automatic burst of soothing magic responding to Pio’s sudden panic. “No one’s going to harm you. Just listen, and tell the truth.”
Grumbling under his breath but giving in to Gabe’s gentle persuasion, Pio settled again.
“Please answer the question,” du Serres said.
“You’re looking for that boy.” Pio struggled for spite but ended up sounding more sullen than anything else.
“Yes. What can you tell me about him?”
Pio looked from the general to Gabe, clearly wondering what was expected of him. His pulse kicked up a little but nothing that couldn’t be explained by lingering resentment. At him or du Serres, Gabe couldn’t tell.
“Don’t worry about the Bone Mage. Just look at me and answer the question,” the general said encouragingly.
Grudgingly, Pio said, “He was a prisoner. Did something at the front the officers didn’t like. Don’t know what, though. Probably a spy for you.” He sneered at the general.
Du Serres let the challenge go by unacknowledged. “Did you help him escape from the men holding him under guard?”
“No.”
“Did you see him during the takeover at all?”
“I was pinned down in the command tent with Captain Meraz and the others! Being shot at by your people.”
“Pio,” Gabe said calmly, “just answer the question.”
Teeth grinding in anger and resentment, Pio growled, “No, I didn’t see the boy.”
Du Serres studied Pio for a tense moment, then nodded. “You may go.”
Pio shot to his feet, shaking Gabe’s hand off his neck. He scowled at the general then turned on Gabe, furious. “If you ever touch me with that fucking hand again, I swear to Saint Ciro I’ll chop it off.”
At du Serres’s command, two soldiers came into the tent and took Pio by an arm each. They guided the angry man out, leaving Gabe and the general alone.
“Well?” du Serres asked mildly.
Gabe shook out his white hand, as if he could shake away the lingering sensation of Pio’s anger. As if he could so easily get rid of the taste of defeat and betrayal that had soured his magic. What would Master Mage Carrasco think of him if she could see him now, using his Luz-given talent to aid the enemy?
“Mage Castillo?”
“He wasn’t lying.”
The general nodded and called for Lieutenant Carufel.
“Who’s next?” Carufel asked Gabe.
“Botello. He’s in my hut.”
When the lieutenant had left to fetch Botello, du Serres said, “I do hope, Mage Castillo, that you are being truthful with me. I have no means of judging if you are lying.”
Gabe snorted. “I suppose you’re just going to have to trust me. Or at least, trust your methods of persuasion.”
Du Serres acknowledged that with a small nod.
They heard Botello coming from a good way off. It was clear from his shouting he believed he was next for the mesquala’s pole. The timbre of his righteous anger changed to stunned confusion when they passed the central yard and continued on.
Gabe sighed. Pio’s anger would be nothing compared to Botello’s. He hoped the general didn’t expect him to sleep in the same hut with either of them again.
#
At the end of the interview, it took Carufel and three other soldiers to remove Botello from the tent. The screams of ‘traitor’, ‘betrayer’ and a few less savoury terms echoed in Gabe’s head for a long time. Botello’s anger had sparked a couple of fires, one of them on Carufel’s jacket. The lieutenant apparently took extreme exception to the damaging of his uniform and knocked the larger man unconscious with one, mighty punch.
Botello had not lied, either.
Gabe skipped Ismael. He wanted to give the Dean time to recover. They moved on to the captured soldiers.
Most responses to Gabe’s part in the interviews were like Pio’s, angry and betrayed, though few got as loud and violent as Botello’s. Gabe knew it would happen, thought he’d prepared himself but each word of disgust, each look of horror, dug in deeper than any wound he’d ever healed. These people may not have welcomed him with open arms but they had trusted him to be on their side.
Captain Meraz, brought in under heavy guard, took one look at his exposed hand and then met his gaze. He looked away in shame. She simply sat an
d faced General du Serres as if they were equals. Her interview went much longer than anyone else’s, with the same questions asked over and over, sometimes worded differently, sometimes not. Whatever disgust du Serres may have felt for a woman holding such a high rank in the military was well hidden and he treated her as he would any other enemy officer. Meraz spoke true and forthright, never flinching from the general’s intent stare. She made demands as well, about her people’s welfare and care, bargaining on the part of every prisoner.
At the end of the interview, when it was evident she didn’t know Rafe’s true identity or where he was, she turned to Gabe.
“Mage Castillo,” she said, the bruises on her face fading, the cuts and abrasions mostly healed without his intervention, “thank you.”
That was it. She was led out and Gabe was left with the silent general, his guilt not eased but seeming to weigh tenfold on his heart.
“We’ll leave it there for today,” du Serres said, standing. “I can see this is tiring for you.”
Gabe’s magic was barely tapped. He could have gone on, but he knew that wasn’t what the general meant. So he nodded.
“I’ll have fresh sheets brought in for you. You won’t sleep amongst the other prisoners anymore.”
Unable to speak for fear of screaming, Gabe nodded once more. Du Serres left without any further discussion. Sheets were brought very quickly, soft and clean, but Gabe avoided the bed. It gutted him with the implication it was a reward for his betrayal. Likewise the meal of roast meat, stewed vegetables and bread. Botello’s parting words—justified—rang in his ears. If they ever got out of this alive, would anyone bother to think of the lives he saved by doing this? Or would they all be like Pio and Botello? Would he be hanged for treason?
Chapter 27
The door slammed behind Bolivar, Karyme’s words burning in his ears.
“How could you?”
Three words he’d come to hate since all this had started. How could he? How could he not? The rejoinder echoed through his mind, but as furious as she made him, as guilty as he was, it had never been said. Saint Zanita save him, he still loved Karyme with a passion that fanned his anger into a fury he’d never felt before.
Hands curled into painful fists, Bolivar stared at the wall across the corridor. Varnished mahogany panels showed him a ghostly reflection of his pinched, red face. The wood was just a veneer, covering up the dull, grey stone hauled all the way from Patria to Ibarra City to make Leon’s manor. Centuries ago, when the manor was built, the plain stone had been a source of pride for Leon. The quarries at Patria had provided the building material for most of southern Delaluz. There was even Patria stone in the original de Ibarra palace, but it had long been lost in the continual growth of that monstrosity. Patria stone was no longer in such demand though. Not since the white stone of Roque and Navarro had become so popular. Patria’s revenue didn’t come from stone anymore, but the staging camps for Ibarra’s army.
Damn Ibarra and damn his war.
Bolivar wanted to smash his reflection but resisted. As much as a broken hand might distract him from the shit he was drowning in, he didn’t want to damage the panelling. Didn’t want to break the beautiful lie over the shameful truth.
Holding a growl behind clenched teeth, he turned and stalked for the stairs. Karyme wouldn’t have him back in the bedroom tonight. Possibly never again. They’d managed to keep their troubles hidden so far, but not for much longer. This argument had been loud, the servidors were sure to have heard, and there were only so many nights he could pretend to be working late. Gossip would spread and then everyone would know his shame.
Of course, Isabel already knew, and that meant Ibarra did as well. After Karyme’s party the first night of the council meeting, he was certain Caritina suspected. If Sol had bothered to come, his cousin would have discovered it for sure. Grief and guilt twisted Bolivar’s guts, tears stinging his eyes as he recklessly took three stairs at a time. If Sol had come to the party, then perhaps Bolivar wouldn’t be in this mess now. Perhaps Sol would still be alive.
He stumbled on the last half dozen steps, catching himself on the banister before he could fall on his ugly face. A bitter chuckle escaped him. A good thumping might just improve his looks. If only he’d received some of Isabel’s beauty and she’d got some of his heart. If only...
Intent on making it to his study and the second half of the bottle of Talamhian spirits he’d left before heading up to bed, Bolivar staggered through the library, rebounding off furniture in the dark. Cursing at an offending table, Bolivar shoved it aside and found himself staring at a wall. It was bare of shelves, holding a door to his study and a veritable mosaic of portraits. He was off target, staring not at the carved wooden door, but at a stern faced woman who looked as if something smelled bad and that that something was him.
Marchioness Leticia Eufemia Ceja Frias de Leon. Family legend claimed she’d been a fierce woman, uncompromising, strict and demanding. She’d defended the border from Valdes with little more than levied commoners and her own sword, her victory supporting her run at the ducal throne. Despite her determination, she’d lost the challenge, betrayed at the end by a husband who accused her of consorting with demons. He’d taken their son with him. That boy became Bolivar’s several times removed great-grandfather. The daughter, left to the Marchioness’s untender hand, escaped as soon as she’d reached majority and fled to Roque. As far from her overbearing mother as she could get and still be in Delaluz. She was Sol’s several times removed great-grandmother.
Bolivar gave her a leer. “How about that, Great-grandmother Bitch. Your family now sits on two ducal thrones, something you never did.” He scowled. “Well, at least it used to. I can’t see Ibarra letting Sol’s boy keep Roque to himself. And as soon as my secret’s out, the prick will be right there, giving Isabel a boost up onto Leon’s throne. You mark my words, Leticia.”
“I don’t know about Leticia, but I’ll mark them.”
The voice was coarse, each word sounding painful, but at the same time, it was familiar. Before Bolivar could react, a body moved up behind him. A black-gloved hand slapped over his mouth and a sharp point dug hard into his back, cloth and skin parting around it.
“Fuck you,” Bolivar tried to say, but the hand clamped down hard and he bit his tongue. The pain of it eclipsed that of the knife in his back only momentarily. The simultaneous hot and cold of the blade pushed into his flesh made coherent thought hard.
“Now,” his assailant hissed in his ear, “we’re going to move into your study, very carefully. A little slip of the knife and you will be crippled for life. Not even the most skilled Bone Mage could fix you afterwards. Do you understand that any wrong move on your part will be very detrimental to your future happiness?”
Desperately aware of the keen point pressing against his spine, Bolivar nodded, slow and once only.
“Good.”
With sparse instructions, the attacker moved them to the door, the blade never once shifting in his back. Arms shaking, Bolivar opened the door, convinced that at any moment the knife would slip and he’d end up like poor old Eduardo in Valdes. But they made it inside without a hitch, the attacker giving the door a precise kick that saw it swing shut almost naturally.
The study was dark, the lamp Bolivar had left burning little more than a flickering hint of flame dulled by the built-up soot on the inside of the glass. He knew his study intimately, having spent several nights here in recent times. Before him were two chairs for visitors in front of his huge, heavy oak desk. The wall with the door was covered in floor to ceiling bookshelves, as was the one behind his desk. To the right was a large window looking out onto the interior garden, where not so many nights before Karyme had held her party, smiling and laughing as if nothing was wrong. On the left was the weapons display. These were just the minor notables of Leon’s history, the more valuable heirlooms remaining in the palace in Leon City, but sitting in pride of place was Marchioness Leticia de Leon’s gr
eat-sword. Ignored these last many, many years, it was probably rusted into its scabbard, but Bolivar was certain it would nicely bludgeon anyone to death. He just needed to get to it without crippling himself.
“Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t,” the attacker said, his grating voice making Bolivar wince in unconscious sympathy. “Trust me, your only choice is to cooperate.”
The hand was removed from his mouth and the knife slid from his back. “Sit.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Bolivar almost had it. The cadence beneath the rasping was so familiar. If only he could hear it without the painful grating.
His hesitation earned him an unsubtle jab in the back with the knife. A sharp point of pain spearing through the ache of the deeper wound.
“Now.”
“All right,” Bolivar snapped and reached for the back of the chair beside him.
Lunging away from his attacker, Bolivar knocked the chair backwards into the other man. The wound in his back tearing even more, he scrambled for the weapons display, hands reaching for the sword.
It wasn’t there. Nothing but bare, cold stone and the colder realisation he was probably going to die.
Hands grabbed him, by his hair and the back of his tunic. He was thrown into a chair that rocked backwards so far it unbalanced. It didn’t tip over, though. The man was already there, catching an armrest and bringing it back down. Flung forward, Bolivar’s trip to the floor was brought up short on the man’s knee, which smashed solidly into his face.
Dazed, wreathed in pain and blood, Bolivar tried to focus on his assailant, but the man was gone again. Struggling with a spinning head and weak legs, he tried to get up, to get away. A hand landed on his shoulder and pushed him back into the chair.
“I told you cooperation was your only choice. If you want to see Karyme again, you’ll do as I say this time.”
A thick, bloody sob broke through the agony. Karyme. She was upstairs, alone in their bedroom, crying, vulnerable. If this bastard dared touch her...
“Don’t worry,” he said as if he could read Bolivar’s panicked thoughts. “She isn’t why I’m here. This is all about you. Now let’s talk.”
Dead Bones Page 37