The Last Plutarch

by Tom O'Donnell

  “Consul…?”

  “I’m waiting,” Abraxas said.

  The guard swallowed. He transmitted a document. Abraxas accepted it through his implant and watched it scroll past. He blinked.

  Lillian?

  “What was my daughter doing here?” he asked.

  “She wanted to talk to you, sir. You weren’t in at the time. She said she would wait in your office.”

  Abraxas grimaced. She must’ve left before he’d returned. Lillian rarely sought him out. She’d been a closed book for many years. He called up the list again.

  “Helicus was here?” he asked. Helicus was in the Circle, but he hadn’t attended the meeting–so what had he been doing in the White Palace?

  The guard looked away.

  “What is it?” Abraxas asked.

  “He didn’t want his presence advertised.”

  “You mean he told you not to tell anyone. Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know, sir. He’s–”

  “In the Circle, yes.” Helicus would have unrestricted access to the entire complex.

  “Yes. But he left with two Plebians. He and Issenian,” the guard said.

  Abraxas and Gregorio shared a look of surprise.

  “Issenian?” Gregorio asked.

  Helicus was a debaucherous old man, while Issenian was a social beauty who associated with pro-unity factions. It was an unlikely pairing.

  “Where were they going?” Abraxas asked.

  “I wouldn’t venture to guess, sir, but the Plebians were chained. They were having a bit of sport, it seemed.”

  “Issenian does not ‘sport’ with Plebians,” Abraxas said.

  The guard shrugged.

  Abraxas opened his mouth to speak, but a transmission interrupted him.

  Consul, I have an urgent issue that needs your attention.

  Brutus, the Chieftain of Order. Should any trouble arise between Plutarchs, it was Brutus and his underlings who were charged to resolve the situation.

  What is it? Abraxas sent back.

  It’s Helicus, Consul. He’s been murdered.

  *

  Issenian sat in a hardened room in the Grove of Order, feeling a sudden shiver. The room was square and sterile, much like the building itself. The White Palace was full of circular chambers, reflecting the governing body, the Circle; but the Grove of Order was all stark angles and hard edges. There was something in that, Issenian thought. The government was circuitous, but the justice system was made of uncompromising lines.

  “He … hit you then,” Brutus said, sitting across from her.

  Issenian affected a sigh.

  “Brutus, am I not the victim here? How many times must I tell you? He hit me. I don’t know what he used. Something hard. He was behind me. There was no time to react. My head is still tender. When I woke up, Helicus was…”

  She made a vague gesture.

  “And why was he behind you?” Brutus asked.

  Issenian gave him a look, followed by a very blunt answer.

  “I get that–but I’ve never known you to take a Plebian slave as a lover. Why this one?” Brutus asked.

  “You mean aside from the fact that he’s strong, bold, heroic, and a slave to my bidding? Oh wait, I think I just answered. Godsblood, Brutus. I was planning to return him. Give me a break. We all have our secrets. I’m all for a better relationship with the Plebians. But I do have needs and desires. I don’t look it, but I’m an old woman. It’s not as easy to feel alive as it once was. Sometimes you need something so contradictory to the rest of your life that from the outside it would seem absurd. Sometimes you want to offer freedom, and sometimes you want to take control. I can trust you not to tell anyone about my indiscretions, can’t I?”

  Brutus grunted.

  “How did–no, never mind. You were unconscious when Helicus was killed, I know. But where do you think the Plebians went?” Brutus said.

  “I have no idea, but my aircab was missing. They must’ve figured out how to operate it. It’s meant for non-Fog users. You remember when my niece had that trouble a few years back?”

  “My tech put the block on her implant,” Brutus said, nodding.

  “Yes, well, I agreed to have her confined to my house for most of her sentence. I had the aircab built so she could take herself to her tutors without my help. The controls are very simple.”

  “And it was missing,” Brutus said, an edge of doubt in his voice.

  “As I’ve told you.”

  *

  “Do you believe her?” Abraxas asked, arms crossed as he stood in Brutus’s office.

  Brutus shifted.

  “There are oddities,” he said. “I never knew Issenian to have such tastes. And the Plebians knocked out both Plutarchs? Helicus had to have been hit almost the same instant as Issenian, otherwise they could’ve protected themselves with the Fog. I suppose that’s possible, just difficult to pull off. Issenian had some ornamental blades in the house. The Plebians could’ve used one to murder Helicus before he regained consciousness. Why not kill Issenian too though? Because she’s a woman? I don’t know. Then the aircab…”

  “You have doubts,” said Abraxas.

  Brutus shrugged.

  “Still, I can’t see any reason Issenian would want to help the prisoners,” he said. “She has Plebians sympathies, but there are limits. What do you think?”

  “Issenian wouldn’t have planned it. It’s too radical for her. The whole scenario is odd though. She’s never seen eye-to-eye with Helicus, and I never knew her to dominate Plebian slaves,” Abraxas said.

  Lillian came to mind. What had she wanted at the White Palace? She barely spoke to him these days, and even then she was cordial, like a stranger. She’d been moving in that direction more or less since she was ten, when her mother died. Abraxas frowned. She wouldn’t have been involved with this, would she? No. The Plebians had gone with Helicus and Issenian, however unlikely.

  “If they took the aircab, they’re somewhere in the streets below,” Abraxas said.

  “We’re already running a scan. There’s nowhere in the Fog they can hide,” Brutus said.

  *

  Yet hide they did.

  After four days, Abraxas was at a loss. They couldn’t have left the city without the help of a Plutarch, but no Plutarch would’ve offered it. Perhaps they’d found a way to hide from the programs sweeping the Fog. Lillian claimed she’d only wanted to plead for the Plebian’s life after hearing about his Triumph. She had a weak heart–too much like her mother. Gregorio had tried to extract DNA from what remained of the Godhand’s blood sample, but the Godhand had destroyed the sample during its analysis at the Triumph. Nothing led anywhere.

  Then a small fire on the edge of the clearing attracted the Watcher’s attention. A wooden pole with a white cloth attached stood in front of the fire.

  “Someone out there wants to talk,” Abraxas told the Circle at a hasty meeting.

  “Is it them?” Vilindrio asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “Our missing Plebians? Couldn’t be. How would they get out of the city? Maybe savages loyal to Trajan. Either way, we’d better find out.”

  “Could be a trap. The savages will want Trajan back. They may hope to lure one of us out,” Afrika said.

  Abraxas made a steeple of his fingers. He looked at Gregorio.

  “Send your nephew,” he said.

  Gregorio was taken aback.

  “Gallatius? You must be joking.”

  “Not at all. He needs to be reminded there’s a world outside Panchaea, and this is one task he can’t screw up. It’s likely anyone out there isn’t someone we want to survive, let alone talk to. If he wants to work his mischief, let him work it outdoors for once.”

  His excesses must be curbed. If he’s going to keep flaunting order, I’ll weigh him down with responsibilities, Abraxas thought.

  “What if it’s a trap?” Gregorio said.

  “We’ll send a pentacrus to guard him.”

 
“What if that’s not enough?”

  “Well, that would be a great shame,” Abraxas said, keeping the smile from his lips.

  CHAPTER 17

  Just a dream, Meric thought, but when he blinked, Swan was still beside him, and Meliai was still standing over him: an implacable, half-naked savage with green fire in her eyes and an atomblade in her hand. He started to sit up.

  “Slowly,” Azog said.

  Swan stirred awake. She gasped and covered herself with their makeshift blanket.

  Meliai screamed and drove the blade toward Meric’s head. He didn’t move. The point turned and struck a rock inches from his right ear. Meliai bent low over him, furious, teeth gritted, eyes glassy with tears.

  “Where’s my father?” she growled.

  “With the Plutarchs,” Meric said.

  She raised the blade again.

  “I should feed your body to the fire,” she said.

  “It would be no less than I deserve.”

  “Meric!” Swan warned. Nog put a hand on Meliai’s arm. Meliai straightened and made frustrated sounds. She spat. Her eyes flicked to Swan and back. Seven of the nine savages who’d gone to Ozymand were present.

  “Was a muddy trick you pulled, foggin’ up my stew like that. Should stuff some whitecrowns down your bloody throat,” Nog said.

  “Do as you will. The Plutarchs have taken all that can be took. What lies before you is only an empty shell,” Meric said.

  “Then you won’t mind if we stab it a few times,” Hestia said.

  “Treachery abides in the tongue. Cut out the tongue, cut out the treachery,” said another, less familiar savage. Several nodded in agreement. Only Azog stood apart, silent and detached, his great hammer on his back. Meric gave a hollow laugh.

  “Treachery? I was your captive. I never pretended to be one of you. Is it treachery to escape? Some would say it’s a soldier’s duty.”

  Nevertheless, he saw the betrayal in Meliai’s eyes and felt a wave of guilt.

  “We will trade them for my father,” Meliai said.

  Meric’s mouth dropped open.

  “That’s your plan? You can’t even enter the clearing without being vaporized,” he said.

  “We’ll find a way.”

  Meric shook his head sadly.

  “It won’t be enough,” he said.

  “We will make it enough. We will take every soldier who leaves the city. We’ll trade a hundred men for my father.”

  “You don’t get it. A thousand wouldn’t be enough. We’re nothing to them, and you’re less than nothing. Would you trade a man for a thousand clumps of dirt? For ten thousand specks of dust? Offer that for all the good it will do,” Meric said, though he hated himself for it. He’d already taken everything from her. Now he would destroy her last slim hope. But it had to be done.

  “It’s true. They value only themselves,” Swan said.

  Meliai’s nostrils flared, though her eyes never moved toward Swan.

  “Then that’s what we’ll trade,” she said quietly.

  *

  Meric and Swan were brought to a hidden camp on the outskirts of the vast white-stoned burial ground. The savages detoured around the ruined amphitheater. A stately colonnaded house received similar treatment–who knew what bitter demons dwelt within? All spiritual entities may have been aspects of the Goddess, but some were still best avoided.

  Meric had learned to take news about the supernatural with a grain of salt, but he’d heard too many stories as a child to dismiss the topic entirely. There was an eerie feel to the graveyard; the living were intruders. It was a surprise when Meliai left the camp to walk alone toward the ancient colonnaded house.

  “Where’s she going?” Meric asked.

  Nog was the only savage still speaking to Meric. On the walk, Meric had learned that Meliai had cut a raft from the broken steamcar and taken to the river alone. Nog and the others had followed as soon as they’d recovered enough from the mushrooms. Two of their group had returned to Red Oak with messages for the tribe, but Meliai had refused to leave Panchaea. They’d spread out around the Fog, keeping watch–which was how they’d found two sets of tracks close to the river.

  “Summoning help,” Nog said, grimacing.

  “What kind of help?” Meric asked.

  “The kind that don’t concern you.”

  Meric regarded him before speaking.

  “The stew was a mistake. I thought I was doing the right thing, but it was all wrong.”

  Nog grunted.

  “You Fog-dwellers. Always the same. I’m surprised you never broke your neck trying to sit down, because you don’t know your head from your ass. You just better hope Meliai can figure a way out of this. If we can’t get Trajan back, things aren’t looking good for you two.”

  “Swan hasn’t done anything. Let her go if it comes to that.”

  “What she’s done don’t mean dung, brainless. Things will change without Trajan.”

  “What do you mean?” Meric asked.

  “Trajan is a powerful sorcerer. He brought the People together, taught us things, gave us rare goods. Because of that, we abided by his rules. Without him–not so much. Soon the People will remember they have no great use for former fogborn.”

  Lucretius, Diodorus, the rest of Club Fogborn–did that mean Meric had doomed them? Swan was sitting at the base of a tree, wrists bound, dark eyes on Meliai. A spark of purpose touched Meric. Whatever else happened, he had to save her.

  “What is that?” Swan hissed, eyes widening.

  Meliai was at the colonnaded house. Someone–something–stood in front of her. It was covered in dingy black fur, its face hidden in shadow. Mother-of-pearl claws extended from human hands.

  “A demon,” Meric whispered.

  “Not quite. A Bloodrat. Hope that girl knows what she’s doing,” Nog said.

  “A what?”

  “Bloodrat. Biggest tribe in the area.”

  “It’s–human?” Meric asked.

  “For the most part. The fur is stitched from rat-pelts. They say the claws come from rats too. Big ones in the deep-down. They attach them to their fingers.”

  The deep-down?

  “They live underground,” Meric concluded.

  Nog nodded.

  “In the underworld built by the ancients. Holes all over this land lead up from the old tunnels. Find them in the damnedest places. The Bloodrats know them all. Thing is, you make a deal with them, you’d better keep it.”

  Meliai pulled a rectangular package out of a satchel she was carrying. Meric recognized it. She must have carried it all the way from the crashed steamcar.

  I bring a bit for emergencies, Trajan had said, showing him the explosive.

  Meliai left the package with the Bloodrat. Azog joined her on the way back, frowning as she spoke beyond Meric’s hearing. The big man didn’t look happy. What kind of deal was she making? A kick to the back caught Meric by surprise. In the dirt, he turned to see Hestia’s lithe body standing over him.

  “Thought you might be escaping,” she said, shrugging

  Although Nog didn’t harbor deep anger toward the Plebians, most of the others weren’t so forgiving. They spat at Meric or pushed him down or kicked him when the urge took them. Meliai merely pretended he didn’t exist; he thought he preferred the kicking. Azog only watched the abuse in placid disapproval. Dinner was knocked out of his hands and replaced with mud–the only meal he was worthy of eating. When he spoke out of turn, he and Swan were gagged with strips of dirty cloth. Meric could read the disgust on Swan’s face: Fog-only-knows where these have been. The skin at the edges of their mouths grew red and raw. Still, Meric couldn’t blame them. Instead, he cursed the Plutarchs for lying to him, cursed himself for keeping faith with them, cursed God for allowing it all to happen.

  His feelings were murky where the latter was concerned. He’d been taught the Fog was a manifestation of God’s Will. The Plutarchs’ control over the Fog had been the strongest evidence of their
holiness–and in turn, the strongest evidence of the Divine itself. But humans had created the Fog. Had they created God as well?

  All his life, Meric had issued silent prayers and intentions and vows inside his head. He’d begged and bargained with a silent, invisible, untouchable force. It had always felt like someone was listening. He didn’t want to believe those silent words were echoing through the lonely confines of his skull, but he couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. His world’s foundations had collapsed; would its sky now fall as well?

  Meric spent the day reflecting on all the ways he’d failed and all the ways the world had failed him in return. Trajan was unrecoverable. How could he save Swan? He couldn’t. He would fail her as well. Life had felt so promising once, an incomparable sweetness–turned to ash at the first real taste.

  When he woke that night, Meliai was standing over him. She gazed down in the darkness, fists clenched, body rigid. She knelt suddenly and gripped him by the ragged collar of his shirt. Pain and fury welled in her eyes. Her teeth were gritted, her lip trembling, her frame drawing ragged breaths. A tear plummeted onto Meric’s cheek.

  She never spoke. She didn’t have to. The betrayal in her eyes said it all. She slapped him hard enough to make his ears ring. Then she darted away, capricious as the wind.

  *

  “Come,” Azog said, pulling Meric and Swan to their feet. It was late afternoon, the day after the meeting with the Bloodrat. The others had gone out that morning. Hestia had just returned to whisper with Azog.

  “Where are we going?” Swan asked.

  Hestia threw her a casual backhand in answer. Azog caught her wrist inches from Swan’s face. Hestia glared at him, spat, and pulled away. Her spit was green–chewing demongrass. Azog had a wad as well. They were preparing for a fight.

  “We go where the Goddess wills,” Azog said, implacable gaze turning toward Swan.

  They circled east around Panchaea, fording the river south of the city. They passed close to the Obelisk; the massive white pillar towered closer than ever. After a number of kilometers, Azog and Hestia crouched low in the bushes within sight of the clearing. Meliai was sitting behind a massive scarlet oak. Her hair was tied back and camouflaged, her skin smeared with mud. Meric almost didn’t see her. She and Azog exchanged hand-signals.