by M. Walsh
“You are in the estate of Sebastian Clock,” Hanselton said. “Mistress Clock is expecting you.”
Before Krutch could repeat his befuddled response, Hanselton turned and left the room. In his place, a group of servants swarmed in and ushered him to the bathroom where, indeed, a bath was waiting.
Still trying to catch up, he went along and tried not to let the comfort and luxury lull him into false security. He remembered getting jumped the night before. By whom, he didn’t know, nor did he know how he got away and ended up in a mansion on the opposite side of town. Sebastian Clock’s mansion no less.
Was he rescued by Clock’s people? If so, why? And who had him attacked? Or were they just random muggers? He didn’t get a good look at them—maybe they were related to the tattooed guy Audra beat up? Maybe there’s yet another player in Seba that wants him out of the way?
I’m so confused.
Putting aside any questions and taking things as they came, Krutch enjoyed his bath and accepted the shave and haircut he was given. Once cleaned and dry, he was given fresh clothes, and his jacket—still holding his pistol—was returned to him.
At noon, Hanselton escorted him to lunch. He was led through the great mansion and awed by its size and evident wealth. The walls were gold and lined with a series of paintings and artwork. Everything was clean, shiny, and so unlike the dingy taverns, inns, and tenements he was used to, he couldn’t believe he was still in Graylands.
Lunch was served on an outside balcony. There, he was granted a grand view of the estate, including a wide lawn of grass—which was impressive given Seba was right by the desert. The estate was in the northeastern section of the city, known as Oasis Slope, and surrounded by similar mansions and fancy houses.
And, much like everywhere else in Seba, he could see the tower in Mannix Square. It stuck out like an ugly black gash amidst the rooftops and blue sky and made him uneasy upon seeing it.
He sat at the table and was joined by a woman wearing an elegant and revealing red dress. She was olive-skinned and had long, silky blonde hair. Her face was thin, and she adorned herself with gold and jewelry.
Before he could speak, she said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Leeroy. I am Evelyn Clock.”
He hesitated and tried to remember if Hanselton had said Mister Clock or Mistress Clock when he woke up.
“Um,” he stammered. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Clock. Will, uh, will your husband be joining us..?”
“My husband has business elsewhere.” She looked at him with a sly expression and predatory eyes. “I would prefer we keep our meeting private.”
Ohhhhh crumbs …
* * *
Jonathon Gash awoke that morning feeling sore. Wet weather was rare in Seba, but when it came, he sensed it. He looked out the window, and though the morning was clear and shining, he felt it in his bones. Clouds, humidity, and rain were on the way later, and he already felt the aches throbbing in his body. More bad news if what he heard about Gain was true.
The slaves had his bath already prepared and waiting for him. After they left, he eased into the tub, letting the near scalding water sooth his bones and soak into his stretched and worn skin—barely feeling the heat. He wasn’t old, but he might as well have been. The surgeries had that effect.
Tetra Serk was on hand to keep him updated, as she always was. Eldér—especially the Whitelanders—were nothing if not reliable. She was one of the only people in the world who knew of his surgeries and paid no mind to his wretched looking body. She sat beside the tub with her pen and paper.
“Anything..?” he asked.
“Information is trickling in from Gain,” she said. “Thus far, it seems the rumors are accurate: Carmine lost control of his pit fighters and there was a riot. He’s dead.”
Gash snarled. “I warned that stupid bastard! How many times did I tell him?!” He slammed his fist, causing an eruption of water to splash onto the floor. “The fool could not have picked a worse time to get himself killed. What does Clock know?”
“About as much as we do,” said Serk. “According to our sources, he’s meeting with Dune about it right now.”
Dread joined Gash’s anger. “Then he’s suspicious. He wouldn’t waste Dune’s time with this if he believed it was just a slave revolt.” A chill went through his blood, and his bones ached. Not just fear Clock might learn of his plans, but thinking of the message he received from the west the other day. “What was our last word with Carmine? Where was he on the item?”
“Delayed,” said Serk. “He sent trackers north to find out what happened and that was the last we heard.”
“That dumb shit,” he growled. “Stupid … stupid …”
Serk helped him out of the tub, put his robe on, and led him to his chair. He should never have relied on Dean Carmine, but he couldn’t use his own people—Clock would definitely have found him out. But with Carmine gone and Dune looking into it, now what could he do?
“My lord,” said Serk. “It might interest you to know Krutch Leeroy was attacked last night. Just after he left Clock’s tower.”
“By who?”
“Unknown,” said Serk. “Though, considering Leeroy’s reputation, it could be just about anyone for any reason.”
“Yes,” he said, lighting a cigar. “It can’t be Clock. He would never act so brazenly.” He puffed and blew smoke into the air, scratching his chin. “But Leeroy doesn’t know that.”
“You may also find this noteworthy: Leeroy was apparently saved by people working for Evelyn Clock. He’s in their mansion as we speak.”
Gash’s beady eyes lit up. He had hoped to plant seeds of distrust between Leeroy and Clock, but he never counted on the wife getting involved. Quite the bold move, he thought. He didn’t know what game she was playing, but that didn’t matter.
“Yes, yes … I can use this,” he said, his mind racing. “I might find a way out of this hole yet.”
“My lord, are you sure that would be wise? Krutch Leeroy is a dangerous card to play. He’s unpredictable and unruly.”
Gash knew she wasn’t wrong. The power dynamic in Seba was an unsteady one—a keg of black powder that could go off at any moment. And Krutch Leeroy was a match dancing along the edge of that keg. Based on what he’d seen of the man thus far, Gash couldn’t tell if he was very smart or very dumb—nor could he decide which was worse.
“We might not have a choice,” he said with a sigh. “If nothing else, we can use Leeroy to distract Clock while we clean up after Carmine. If Dune is put on the trail, we won’t have much time. Leave me.”
Serk bowed and left Gash to his chamber. He looked out his window, seeing Clock’s wretched tower in the distance. He was gambling a lot on that damn Gauntlet, and if it was lost—or worse, somehow ended up in Clock’s hands—his days in Seba were numbered, if not numbered period.
Smoking his cigar, he again thought of the message he received from the west. A message demanding due payment with a single warning that chilled Jonathon Gash to his core:
Don’t make me unleash the Jackal.
* * *
“Would you care for a drink, Mr. Leeroy?”
Krutch sat still, feeling like a metal rod had replaced his spine. His face flushed, and the sun felt too hot. His stomach was already uneasy, and the suggestion of liquor made him feel worse.
“I probably shouldn’t,” he said.
“Oh..? Not even wine?”
“Um,” he said. “Okay, I guess. I can handle some wine.”
Evelyn Clock snapped her fingers, and two glasses of red wine were poured. She held up her drink in cheers and took a sip. She looked dazzling in the noon light. Her jewelry sparkled and golden hair glowed. Her tanned skin suggested a woman who enjoyed spending her leisure time lounging in the sun. She placed her glass down and looked at Krutch with a seductive smile.
Holding his wineglass, but not drinking it, he said, “I think there’s been a mistake.”
“Oh, no mistake, Mr. Leeroy,” Evelyn said. “I
do indeed wish to speak with you. I’m pleased we have this opportunity to talk alone.” She smiled. “Fortunate for you as well, I think. Had my people not interfered when they did, who knows what those scoundrels would have done to you.”
“Right, um,” he said. “Do you know who those guys were or why they jumped me?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “If you have enemies in this city, I don’t know who they are.”
“… okay.” He took a sip, feeling like a boy who’d found himself in the dressing room of an older woman. “Does, uh, does Mr. Clock know about our meeting?”
“To an extent,” she said. “I’m sure my husband already knows of your attack last night, and I expect he’ll find out it was I who arranged your rescue.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “And he won’t … um …”
“Have no fear, Mr. Leeroy,” she said with a wink. “We’re only having a friendly discussion over lunch. My husband is quite understanding.”
He nodded, but didn’t believe that.
For lunch, they were served an impressive selection of seafood, cheese, and fruit. Krutch never considered himself a big seafood consumer, but seeing the layout of clams, fish, and crab legs, he was tempted to expand his palette. After all, he thought, how often did he get to eat so well?
“So tell me,” Evelyn said. “What brings you to Seba?”
“I think you’re the third or fourth person who’s asked me that since I got here.”
“Yes,” she said. “And we all know you claim to be hiding from Sentry Elite. Surely by now you realize no one believes that.”
Evelyn munched on slices of fruit and some cheese. Her smile faded, and she let out a quiet sigh. Playtime was over. It was time for business.
“I understand you met Jonathon Gash in private the other day,” she said.
“I did.”
“And what did he want with you?”
“Nothing specific,” he said, shrugging. “Testing the waters, I guess.”
“I suppose he mentioned my husband.”
“He did,” he replied. “He said your husband doesn’t like to share.”
“Ironic coming from him,” she said with a sneer. “Gash is the second most powerful man in this city. Do you know what ‘second best’ always thinks about? Overthrowing the real best.”
She took another sip of wine, while Krutch munched on some cheese in silence.
“There have been rumors,” she continued. “Rumors Gash has something planned. Something involving that pervert in Gain.”
“The mining, right..?”
“I understand there is still some mining, but I assure you, that has not been Jonathon Gash’s chief income for some time. Aside from the Brute Squad, much of his wealth comes from slave trading.”
Krutch had been chewing on some fish, but froze on mention of the word. With his mouth still full, he said, “What.”
“How else do you think we maintain such luxurious estates out here? Who do you think does the fighting in Malison Coliseum? We’re certainly not paying the rats in the Slums.”
He swallowed the food in his mouth, but it felt unpleasant in his gut. As if he needed another reason to dislike Seba and its rulers.
“Anyway,” said Evelyn, clearing her throat. “I don’t know what Gash was planning, but if it’s true and Gain has burned to the ground, he’ll be looking for other means to undermine my husband.”
“And that’ll probably include me in some way.”
“You would be wise to remember you have no friends here,” she said. “Gash is a snake who will do anything to get what he wants. And my husband … well, I don’t believe he wishes to make an enemy of you, but that is likely because he needs something from you.”
“That’s good to know,” he murmured, though Clock needing him was an interesting prospect. “Why tell me all this?”
She smiled and leaned back in her seat, making her dress stretch in front to accentuate her breasts. This seemed a deliberate and calculated move.
“What are you after, Mr. Leeroy?” she asked. “What do you hope to accomplish here?”
There was something in her eyes that reminded him of a cat his neighbor had when he was a kid. It was a mean little bastard that used to toy with rats before it killed them, hiss when someone tried to pet it, and slash with its claws when it felt like it. All of a sudden, he wanted to get as far away from this woman as possible.
To buy time, he downed the rest of his wine in single gulp. He felt a flush of warmth go to his head, and it seemed like the balcony swayed.
“What, uh,” he said, burping. “What do you want, Mrs. Clock?”
She leaned forward, still smiling—this time allowing a clear view of her cleavage. Krutch never had an instinct for seduction or mind games, but even he could tell another man’s wife was playing at something. And the fact the other man was Sebastian Clock made his stomach churn.
“I think I want what you want,” she said, her voice smooth as silk, almost hypnotic.
Unable to think of anything to say, he went to take another sip of wine, forgetting he already finished it.
“Everything.”
“I gotta go,” he said, springing from his seat and slamming his knee on the table. “I have to—that is, I should find my—my friends are probably worried about me and, uh, I should go find them.” Blushing, he fled the balcony, muttering, “Uh, thanks for lunch.”
Evelyn Clock waved him off with a satisfied smile on her face.
25
Katrina was sixteen years old when she knew she loved Jagger Ryggs.
It was a tumultuous time for Vigor and the rebellion. Katrina had found her father’s sword and was openly fighting against Armand Tyrell’s forces. As much as he tried to suppress it, the secret was out: the prophecy was true. The last Lamont, long believed to have been killed when Tyrell took the throne, was alive and she was fighting.
Her legend grew throughout Vigor and even in the Empires beyond. She couldn’t be found. No one was sure what she looked like. She traveled under a secret name no one knew. She was trained by the finest Eldér warriors. The blood of the Seraphim ran through her veins, and the day would soon come when she tore down the usurper who took the throne that was rightfully hers.
No matter what he tried, Tyrell could not find her. He hired the deadliest assassins he could muster. Scimitar warriors, fallen Eldér, Graigish mercenaries, and pirates were brought in to find and kill the Lamont Princess. Supposedly, he even summoned a Devil Lord, though that was an exaggeration—it had been a powerful dark mage. None would succeed. He unleashed his orcs onto the countryside—not even bothering to hide his affiliation with them. Still no success.
The last Lamont could not be found. She couldn’t be stopped. She was out there, and Tyrell could do nothing. Even then, Katrina was something of a Ghost Princess.
But as her legend grew and hope swelled throughout the land, Tyrell’s lethal attempts to kill her and crush the rebellion were taking their toll. His desperation was getting deadlier and everyone—whether part of the rebellion or not—suffered his wrath. By this time, Katrina had lost many friends and loved ones. Barton had already fallen, as did Sofia.
These assaults came to a head when Tyrell turned his attention to the Vigorian nobles who aided the rebellion. Many families were found out and sentenced to public execution as an example to the rest of the country—among them, the DeLances. It was an obvious trap, and Katrina knew Tyrell was daring her to save them.
It was a dare she accepted.
“You’re really going to do this?” Jagger asked.
The morning of the executions—the day she planned to free the prisoners—Katrina was praying in an ancient temple. Back then, when her faith was strong, she always prayed before a battle or mission. For the strength to succeed, save her home, and be the champion her people needed her to be.
“I have to,” she said. “I can’t just let them die.”
“You know it’s a trap, right?” he
said. “You know he’s counting on you showing up.”
“I do,” she said. “But that doesn’t change anything.”
She turned to face him and saw, not without disappointment, he was packed to leave. Since their adventure together, Jagger had been a constant ally. But ever the pirate, he was reluctant to count himself a true member of the rebellion. His loyalty was split between her and his fellow thieves—many of whom insisted they distance themselves from what they considered a lost cause.
She had no shortage of volunteers to help in her rescue mission, but she hoped Jagger would be among them.
“I guess you’re going,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. He had a lifeless smirk on his face—trying to come across as the cavalier scoundrel, but unable to hide his shame. “This is too rich for my blood.”
She said nothing, too hurt to try convincing him to stay, and instead returned to her prayers.
There was silence, and she thought he was gone, when he said, “You’re going to die, Kat.” She looked at him again, and his mask of easy-going apathy was gone. “You can’t win this one. They’ll kill you.”
“What would you have me do?”
He looked nervous—scratching his hair and shifting his weight. “You could come with me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Why not..?” He forced a smile and added, “You’re a hell of fighter. There’s a whole world beyond Vigor. You’d make a decent pirate.”
“You know I can’t.”
“Why? Because you’re the ‘Chosen One?’ Because some weird prophecy said you have to kill yourself fighting Tyrell?”
She sighed and shook her head. He knew she was never comfortable being labeled the Chosen One. She’d confided in him how uneasy it made her—seeing her people look at her as though she was some kind of messiah. Even then, Chosen One was a title Katrina Lamont regarded with dread.
“Tyrell murdered my family,” she said. “And I’m Princess. These are my people. I have to help them. I cannot abandon them.”