by Jo Zebedee
Silence stretched. It seemed unbelievable, sitting in the quiet office, with no sounds from the street indicating fighting, that the city had fallen.
Josef leaned down, so that he was close to Lichio. The scent of cloves was all around, the sharp tang of orange oil. He sighed, and kissed Lichio, long and slow.
This was what he needed – the moment he felt most alive. He gripped Josef, pulling him closer, running his hands over tightly-muscled shoulders. He was giving this up, to fight for a city he hated and an Emperor most likely dead. He put his head back, allowing Josef to kiss him along his throat, to the hollow at its base. Yes, he was letting this go. There was no one else who could hold the city and salvage something for his army, his agents, his friends. His sister.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“I can’t do it, my Lady.” The carpet under Baelan was soft but his knees felt bruised; he’d been there a long time.
“Why not?” Her words were sharp, her eyes cold, nothing like the statues he’d been praying to for years. Her manner was different from what he’d been led to expect. What else had he been told that might not be true? Like the stories of his father razing the tribes to the ground. That had never happened.
“I can see how he did it, but his power is entwined with yours. I can’t untangle it without threatening yours.” It was clever, what his father had done, seamless and strong: too strong for his own power to shift. It didn’t appear the actions of a weak person – to put something so irreversible in place. He must have known, when he did, that no psycher would be able to bear their centre locked away, yet he’d still done it. “I’m sorry, my Lady.”
Across the room, Phelps stopped his incessant pacing.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Kare held the empire for a decade without his powers.”
“He held it for a decade, barely keeping the families in abeyance,” said the Empress. “He held it poorly enough that they were able to plot against him.” She held her arms out, gesturing around the opulent walls of the palace antechamber. “I held my empire for thirty years. I intend to hold it for thirty more. To do that, I need my power to bind those vipers.”
Baelan’s eyes widened – how old would she be then? He said nothing, hoping she’d get fed up with him and send him away in disgrace. Which would be fine: anything to get out of this room and back to the desert and his mother.
Phelps started to pace again. “My Lady, the families are bound to you.”
She glared at him. “They were. Others want what he offered. They’ve had ten years away from me – many will not be easily taken back.” Her eyes narrowed. “Where is the so-called Emperor? Do we know?”
Baelan held his breath. The tribal brothers had been seeking Varnon; he’d heard Phelps liaising with the Elders’ Council earlier. He could imagine the search – tracking the scavenging crested lizards and carrion birds, listening for signs of a clutter-rush from the spiders, the sun hot on your back. He wanted to be there, scouting ahead as the children did, catching the excitement of the hunt, not stuck in this chill, airless room.
“No.” Phelps’ response was bitten off. “The tribes report that no one has given themselves to the desert today.”
“The le Payne boy?”
“We thought he’d died in the crash, but–”
“Unless a parachute jumped out of the ship on its own, he didn’t,” she snapped. Baelan leaned forwards, listening. There’d been so much coming and going all day – finally, he was finding out what had happened. “The doctor and the girl?”
Jealousy bit through Baelan at the mention of his sister, Varnon’s golden child, feted as his heir.
“Ryan plans to take the compound.”
“See she is taken safely.” The Empress was staring out of the window, her face thoughtful. When the light caught her as it did now, it made her face look thinner. Almost worried. “Her mother’s Senate must not stand in my way.”
Phelps gave a harsh laugh, a denial. “You’re right, in a specific respect, my Lady. Three of the families are refusing to meet with you. The Senate may also prove stronger than we think.”
“The Senate is only as strong as its leader.” Her eyes seemed intent on something Baelan couldn’t see, a goal invisible to all but her. “Which families?”
“Tortdeniel– ”
“They hold little influence. Bleeding hearts generally don’t.”
“Indeed. Balandt do, though, and Rilal was swayed by Varnon’s little performance at the Military Anniversary. He will not recognise your rule until Kare abdicates or is proven dead.”
Boring politics. Baelan crept to the second window and scanned the desert. It was past noon and the sun was falling towards the horizon. He wouldn’t be getting home today. He doubted he’d be getting home until he found how to shift the block.
He turned back to the room. Perhaps, if he asked, Phelps would take him to see his mother. He was his tribal father, after all, he held authority over him. But Phelps’ eyes were almost as cold as the Empress’. He didn’t appear to be the same man who’d spent months coming and going between the tribes, laughing with them, sharing bread and meat. Since the Empress had come back, he’d changed back to the Phelps of the legends, the cold hunter who stopped at nothing to get what he wanted. Baelan shrank away – the tribal Phelps may have taken him as his son, but this new – old – one had not.
“We need to get the daughter,” the Empress said. “While you see to that, tell Taluthna to proceed with Sonly le Payne. She holds the key to the Senate.”
“It must stand up legally. There can be no appeal,” said Phelps.
“Of course.” She gestured to the door. “See to it.”
Phelps bowed. “As you will, my Lady.”
He swept from the room, pulling the door closed after him. Disappointment surged in Baelan, a wave of angry frustration at being left behind, but he bit it back. Now was not the time to lose focus.
The Empress beckoned. His mouth went dry, but he did as commanded. How had he ever thought her a gentle lady? She was terrifying. He knelt before her.
“Again,” she said, touching his head. “Try harder. With precision.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sonly sat on the cot with its thin mattress. Lichio had assured her the cells in the palace were well-appointed – comfortable, even – and she’d trusted his professional judgement. This was as far from well-appointed as she could imagine. The walls were a dull grey, the flooring thin and worn. There was a smell in the room, a staleness left by previous occupants waiting in fear. When she saw Lichio, she’d…
If she saw him. Tears threatened, but she looked at the camera on the wall and bit them back, determined not to show how scared she was.
“It will be fine,” she whispered, hoping she was right. Kerra was safe, that was the main thing, and Kare – lord, she hoped Sam was right, and he was beyond where they could hurt him. She was under no misconceptions: he wouldn’t cope if he was taken again.
At the sound of footsteps in the corridor, she faced the door, heart beating too fast. Flutters of what felt like excitement but she knew was fear raced through her stomach. Who would it be? More of the faceless guards, or someone from the Senate, to tell her she was free? A chill ran through her; would the Empress herself come for her? She gulped past a hard knot in her throat.
Stop it. If it was the Empress she’d face her, knowing she was only a woman, the same as her. Without her powers she was nothing; Kare had seen to that. She crossed her arms to hide her shivering. She was lying to herself. If the door opened and it was the Empress…
It wouldn’t be. She never got her hands dirty. Except once, when she’d taken Kare’s secrets, invading his mind when he was too hurt to fight. Lord, she hated the bitch, so much that she almost hoped it was her, so she could spit in her face.
The footsteps stopped, but the door didn’t open. Dimly, she knew it was a game, another way to make her scared. She drew herself up
to her full height; they couldn’t touch her – if they did, they’d lose the Senate. She watched the door, fighting not to shout at them to get on with it. Whatever was planned, it’d be easier to know and not have to guess. The door stayed closed and her hands became clammy.
Finally, the door opened, and she found herself gazing into the cold eyes of General Phelps. He looked her up and down, and she was sure he could see that she was trembling. He smiled a small, cruel smile that made her breath shudder. He had always been cold, but he’d grown harder with age, his lean face a blank mask, as if she wasn’t worthy of any effort.
He was a bully, she reminded herself, who enjoyed power over others. She held his gaze and he looked a little less comfortable at being confronted. Not only a bully, but the bastard who’d stolen Kerra when she was a baby, making sure everyone thought she was dead. If she’d had even a hint that Kerra was alive, she’d have told every family who would listen that there was an heir in place. She’d have done any deal to get Kerra back. He’d known it and had left her to grieve for a baby she’d never lost. She lifted her chin. It had been Phelps who delivered Kare to the Empress. She was damned if she was going to kowtow to him.
“Phelps,” she said, her voice disdainful, and mercifully steady. “What is the meaning of this? I am the President of Abendau.”
“Save your breath,” he told her. “We have a few questions for you.”
He indicated for her to leave. She stepped forwards, and he sneered as she passed him, a sneer that carried a casual knowledge. Had she got this wrong? The Empress needed the agreement of the Senate to gain recognition. The constitution was strong enough to hold: she’d made sure of that when it was drafted, not wanting the door left open for a return to any sort of dictatorship on Belaudii, even a benign one. If any attempt was made to coerce her, she’d have their administration – whatever format it took – declared void.
Four soldiers surrounded her, their faces blank, uncaring, and marched her to the end of the cell block, into a small room with a desk and three chairs. A woman with kind eyes, her hair softly styled, sat at one side of the desk. “Sit down, Sonly.”
Sonly sat opposite, crossing her legs, and looked into the other woman’s eyes; they weren’t kind, not really. They were sharp, missing nothing, and dispassionate. At that moment, she knew who the woman was: Lichio had told her about his master, how he had known and understood him, and Kare’s description of the Great Master had been so horrifying in its ordinariness, it had never left her. The masters were torturers and fanatics. Bile rushed up, filling the back of her throat. She’d called this wrong.
“You’re a master,” she said, putting every bit of control and coldness she had into her voice. She would not give the satisfaction of showing her fear.
“I’m your master.”
The hell she was. The other woman’s eyes met Sonly’s, holding her gaze, as she pushed a dossier across the table. “Take it, look at it.”
Sonly didn’t reach for it.
“Sonly Varnon.” The name made her startle: the last time she’d called herself that had been the day she’d faced the Empress, side by side with Kare. How had the other woman known that name, the one Sonly never used, had the power to move her? Cold fingers seemed to tap out a message on her spine. The masters knew everything, Lichio had said. It was how they were so effective.
“Pick up the file and read it,” said the master. “Take your time, look at each picture.” The eyes held hers, daring her to say no.
Sonly glanced over her shoulder at the soldiers and the calculating Phelps. It was only a book. She reached out, hands jerking, and picked up the dossier. At the first picture she gasped.
“You know who it is?”
She’d know the boy in the picture anywhere: dark, dark hair, falling over his eyes in bangs; startling green eyes glancing through his fringe; thin as a whippet, with a small, shy smile. Perhaps about ten.
The fingers grew stronger, more insistent, climbing her spine. Kare had been blond when he was a child – he’d bleached it to hide who he was. He’d worn hideous glasses.
Ealyn, then. She paused, knowing she was grasping at straws: behind the boy, in the background, stood Abendau city. The city had been little more than a tribal settlement when Ealyn was a boy. Besides, he wasn’t from Abendau.
“No,” she said, denying what she knew.
“Tell me.” The voice was soft and insistent.
“His son.” Sonly croaked the words and the master smiled in delight.
“Whose?”
“Kare’s.”
“Good.” The relief from that word was beyond anything Sonly had expected, but the idea of being kept in this room, with its silvered walls, all hard surfaces and nothing to soften it, was horrific. “We want to work with you, Sonly, not hurt you. Or those you love. You’re smart, I know that.” She tapped the child’s picture. “You can count, and now we have two….”
Her words pulled the breath from Sonly. She shook her head. “No, you wouldn’t; she’s only a child.” There was no question of hiding her fear, of using coldness and strength for pretence. The threat to Kerra went to the heart of her because she knew what they were capable of. She wanted to find the words to make this woman stop.
The master smiled her delight. She knew what Sonly was feeling, and it was exactly what she’d planned. Sonly’s fear receded, a wave of hatred in its place, so strong her ears drummed with the sound of her heart beating, strong and ready to fight.
This woman didn’t know what she’d taken on. She thought she knew Sonly, but no one really did. Not even Kare knew the centre of her, the part that had faced down Eevan at sixteen, who’d fought to be given her place as her father’s daughter. She’d led a resistance to the seat of power in Abendau. She would not be cowed by threats and hints.
“That depends on you. We know where Kerra is and we intend to bring her to you. She shouldn’t be on her own in such turbulent times, she should be with the people she loves.”
Sonly moved her hand to her lap, clasping it in her other. She’d come into the room intending to bargain for her daughter’s freedom, amongst other things: the Senate, political immunity, house arrest. All that was forgotten. If they didn’t need Kerra, she’d have to find another way to fight them. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse and she wondered if the other woman thought it was fear, or grief, or if she could feel the anger. “What do you want for her?”
“Lots of things. Your husband, for one.”
“My husband is dead,” she said.
The master shook her head, her eyes knowing. “We don’t believe he is. Where would he go? And your brother? Where would Lichio be, if he knew the Empress was restored to her rightful place?”
Lichio was still free, then. Good. Lichio had better access than any of them to the agents’ network. And Kare: what did they mean, he wasn’t dead? Did they know, or were they tormenting her? She clenched her hands, digging her nails into her palms, pushing them against the soft skin. Her mind raced in smaller and smaller circles, coming back again and again to Kerra. She sent a silent thanks that she didn’t know where either of the men were – she had no doubt she’d give them up.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Kare and I, we live separate lives.” If they really did know about her life, they’d know that. “I have no influence on him, or him on me. Wherever he is – or whatever he plans – I couldn’t tell you. And Lichio? No one can predict Lichio.”
The master’s hand went up, and Sonly quietened. She could play this game all day, if that’s what it took. Delay and dodge, twist things around. She’d been a politician for years.
“That’s the first and last time you lie to me.” Damn the woman, she’d known. “We have things we want from you. We want you to answer what we ask. We want the Senate handed over, willingly and publicly. If you do this, we will consider your pleas for your child.”
“I want a guarantee her life will be safeguarded,” she
said, her chin raised in defiance. “Do what you will with the rest of us. I’ll deal for her safety. Nothing else.” That, at least, was the truth.
The master nodded, and two guards moved forwards to stand either side of Sonly.
“It’s important you know what we can do,” said the master.
“I think you’ll find I know exactly what you can do.” She’d spent ten years living with the legacy of what they could do.
The master shook her head, her eyes shining with something like excitement. “It needs to be experienced for you to fully comprehend.”
Sonly’s stomach did a slow somersault. “You can’t hurt me,” she said. “If you harm me, I’ll see you answer for it.”
The master laughed, and Sonly’s determination melted at that soft sound. This was no bluff. She thought of Kare, of Lichio, of what they’d told her of Omendegon, quick thoughts that she could barely acknowledge. Not and be able to face this woman.
What had they planned? Jake, earlier, had turned his back as if he’d known it was finished for her. Kare was dead, or taken, and Lichio, even if he was free, couldn’t come near the palace. No one was coming for her.
“We’ve prepared something special for you, Sonly,” the master said.
Phelps’ hard hands pulled her from her seat, and her knees buckled. They were going to torture her. Dear lord, it was going to happen. She tried to twist, but he held her firm.
“You can’t,” she said. His hard hands were immovable.
“We’ll talk again tomorrow,” said the master. “When you do understand and you’re ready to deal for more than just one life, knowing what you’re condemning others to. When you’ll be glad to give us everything we want.”
“Please,” she said, “don’t–”
“Don’t beg.”
Oh, lord. How many times had Kare told her that he’d learned not to beg, that it brought more hurt on him? Phelps pulled her to the door and her mind went back to the day before, and Kare’s scars. She still didn’t know how he’d got half of them, but the things he had told her made her blood run cold.