Web of Eyes

by Jaime Castle

  Torsten let his eyes carry over the glass-blown flames donning the war table. “Or one who intended to be caught.”

  XII

  The Thief

  “I’D WONDERED if I’d ever see you again, scag.”

  Whitney had hoped he never would. He stared at the same scarred, ugly mug of the brutish guard who’d flattened him for stealing jewelry on the day of his first incarceration in Yarrington.

  “Looks like it’s your lucky day, then!” Whitney exclaimed. The comment was met with a swift punch to his gut.

  The guard shoved Whitney into the small cell. It was different from his last cell beneath the Glass Castle. It had been dark, wet, and gray—this one was as well, but it was somehow darker, wetter, and grayer. In this, there was no adjoining cell or even windows. This was the real lower dungeon. Where the worst of the worst wound up.

  “Not my lucky day, stuck down here with the likes of you,” the guard said. “But without a doubt, it looks like yours is far worse.”

  That was true.

  “Really?” Whitney said, finding the wind in his lungs again. “I like it down here. I was hoping for a darker cell.”

  “Well, get used to it. Our great King is dead, which means nobody will have time to worry about filth like you.” The guard laughed, deep, sinister. “Thieves rot down here. Forgotten with the dirt and shog.”

  “Last guard who said something like that had a nice view of my hind-quarters on my way out.”

  “Try to escape. I beg you. I’ve been waiting for an excuse to put you down for a ten-day.” He dangled a key in front of the cell, then quickly snatched it back. The guard laughed and lumbered away.

  Whitney groaned. Guards never realized what kind of challenge they were issuing when doing such things. But as the guard walked away, Whitney sat down, resigning himself to the cell. His mind wandered back to Troborough, his once-home. He’d never seen battle up close like that. He blinked as he remembered the feeling of blood-soaked dirt in his eyes, shuddered at the sight of the nearly black stuff under his fingernails. He closed his eyes to drive out the images and banged the back of his head against the stone.

  A rat squeaked by him, brushing his leg and causing him to flinch. It stopped and circled back toward him. He had a fondness for rodents. They shared the streets with him all these years—free spirits. He figured they must have known he was like them as they rarely feared him like they did other humans.

  Whitney stuck his arm out, palm up like a bridge from the ground. The little creature crept up on him, slowly at first, then, without reservation, crawled up to his shoulder. Its little whiskers bobbed as it sniffed the skin of his neck. It tickled and Whitney shivered a bit.

  They really did have a lot in common. Even growing up on his parent’s farm, he’d often found grander company in the field-mice than other people—especially with any child his age not named Sora. The rodents seemed smarter. When they needed food, they went and found it. When it rained, they found shelter, even if they had to brave old Wetzel’s broomstick.

  Determined little creatures.

  Whitney lifted a finger to scratch the rat on its brown head. The rodent lashed out with sharp teeth and bit him, drawing blood. Whitney reeled his hand back and sucked on his finger. The rat scampered away.

  “Even friends bite,” he whispered to himself in the dark.

  Figured after all that’d happened, he’d learn a lesson from a rodent. In the end, people, like animals, were only interested in one thing: their own interests.

  What had it all amounted to? Every heist, grift, and pocket picked? Living it up in Westvale or Panping City until his last autla was spent. Seeing the world and experiencing all its decadent pleasures. Some of that was just as amazing as he'd hoped. But now he was alone in a cage, all the same, without a soul in the world wondering where he’d gone.

  Piss in the wind.

  As a child, he’d dreamed of grand adventure far from farms—a life worth living. What he’d gotten was a lot of cuts and bruises and a wanted poster in almost every town he’d visited. Not that he regretted it. A child’s dreams are exactly what they sound like—dreams.

  He let his head fall back again, lightly bumping the wall this time. He breathed deeply, lungs still burning from the smoke in Troborough. On the bright side, he wasn’t chained to the wall. Plenty of holding cells around Pantego did that. In Latiapur, the Shesaitju capital, the cells opened right up to the Boiling Waters, inviting criminals to take the chance and drown. Nobody had ever made it out that way… well… nobody but Whitney.

  Snap out of it, Whitney.

  If nothing else, it was fun, the life he led—it was exciting. It wasn't putting one's shoulder to the plow and barely scraping by for no good reason.

  He stood and stretched, then strode toward the bars, a new vigor overtaking him.

  “Guard!” he shouted. When none came, he shouted again.

  He heard the sounds of clattering metal. The hulking guard peeked around the corner, knowing better than to get too close.

  “Aye?” the guard said. “Gotta piss? Hole’s in the corner. Don’t fall in.”

  The man shamelessly laughed at his own joke.

  “No sir,” Whitney said, buttering him up. “Hoping you could tell me what happened to all those at Troborough?”

  The guard’s face scrunched up into a wicked sneer. “You’ll find out soon enough, street rat.”

  “I’m just wondering,” he said, “why are you jailer types always such shogs?”

  The guard chortled and went back to what he had been doing.

  Whitney couldn’t imagine what would be done with the refugees of Troborough, assuming there were some. With King Liam dead and the Kingdom under attack, Whitney could be left rotting in that cell forever. Forgotten.

  Whitney sighed and slumped backed down against the walls of his newest temporary lodging.

  XIII

  The Knight

  TORSTEN HATED visiting the castle dungeons. The damp air. The stench. It reminded him of his common origins and how foul the docks smelled after all the fisherman returned for the season. At high tide, he could literally taste the salt on his tongue.

  He shook his head.

  Stress brought him back to those awful, yet simpler times when only his growling belly mattered. Now, Torsten could almost feel the kingdom tearing at the seams like the shirt beneath his armor.

  “Who’s there?” A guard sitting around the corner jarred awake, his stubby fingers moving over the grip of his cudgel.

  “M…my Lord,” the massive man stammered. He was almost as big as Torsten, but with half the brain. “What’re ye—shouldn’t ye be at the funeral?”

  “I was,” Torsten said. “Now I’m here waking up guards.”

  “I wasn’—”

  “Enough. Where is the crown thief?”

  “Crown… Oh, aye. Right piece of work, him.”

  He led Torsten by torchlight to a corner cell. A few other prisoners groaned and grasped at him through their rusty bars. Torsten ignored them. Only the worst of Pantego filled the lower dungeon; Heretics and assassins, witches and conspirators—the worst. And then, a quick-fingered thief who’d managed to break a priceless crown that’d been in the Nothhelm family for centuries.

  “This is him,” the guard said. “Ey, Thief! Wake the yig up.” He rattled on the bars until Torsten grabbed him by the forearm.

  “That’s enough,” Torsten said. “Unlock it and leave us.”

  The guard eyed him, confused, but when Torsten’s face didn’t waver he did as asked. Torsten took the torch and held it through the bars to get a better look at the thief. His clothes were crusted with dirt and blood, torn at every joint.

  The handsome devil yawned himself awake, fully stretched out like a stray cat in Latiapur. He glanced up, smacking his lips as if he’d been waiting for dried meat instead of rotting in a dungeon. He had eyes, weightless, warm and inviting like he belonged in a brothel, but Torsten knew his kind. Get too
close and he’d find a knife in his back and the autlas swiped from his pockets.

  “Another one come to take his shots?” the thief asked. “Right then, let’s get it done.”

  “Stand up,” Torsten demanded.

  “I think I’m good right here.”

  “I am Torsten Unger, the Glass Kingdom’s one and only Wearer of White. You will obey my commands.”

  “Wish I could, but my legs are a little tired from battling all those Sandsmen. You people are basically useless against them.”

  “Really? I heard my men found you being crushed under one of the Shesaitju heathens?”

  “People tell tall tales.”

  “Why did you take it?”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

  Torsten slammed on the bars. “You know exactly what I am talking about!”

  “I’ve taken lots of things from lots of rich people in lots of cities. Visit one. You’ll see this beautiful face on posters in half the barracks in Pantego.”

  Torsten bit his tongue, reached into the satchel dangling from his belt and produced one half of the original Glass Crown. The very same one Liam had worn to every battle in every corner of Pantego. The sight of it made him feel ill.

  The thief grinned. “Oh, that.”

  “Oh, that? Do you realize what this is?”

  He shrugged. “I was just enjoying a party and it rolled right into my foot. I couldn’t help myself.”

  “This is the King’s crown!”

  “Was.”

  Torsten rushed into the cell, his thick fingers wrapping around the thief’s throat. He lifted him, feet dangling and pinned him against the wall. “You are guilty of stealing from the Crown. You’ll be in a noose by morning, so I suggest you start talking.”

  Whitney pawed at his neck like he wanted to say something. Torsten let up.

  “I can’t talk when you do that,” he rasped.

  Torsten flung him to the floor and paced the cell. “What’s your name?”

  The man coughed, but drew himself to his feet and performed an exaggerated bow. “Name’s Whitney Fierstown, I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “He who stole the Sword of Grace and the Splintering Staff from the Whispering Wizards? The man who lifted the Ring of Pandula from the Latiapur Vaults and now, of course, my finest accomplishment, the Glass Crown.”

  “Finest failure. In case you forgot, only one half of the crown is sitting here in my pocket and the other is nowhere to be found.”

  "The way I see it, I successfully stole that crown. My mistake was stopping to gloat about it long enough for thieving dwarves and the Black Sands to get the jump on me. I guess we both have new enemies.”

  “Did you really think you would get away with this?”

  “I never think.”

  Torsten punched the wall right over Whitney’s slender shoulder. The stone cracked around his glaruium gauntlet. “Why did you take it, Thief?”

  “I told you, it came to me. It was like… fate. Iam’s will and all that.”

  “If it were fate, you wouldn’t be locked up like a hog in a pen.”

  “Unless this is exactly where I want to be.” He put on a grin like he was in on some joke.

  “Who put you up to this? Valin Tehr at the docks think he can turn this city into his own personal playground again with King Liam gone? I already know you aren’t with the Sands, so who else? The Panping want revenge?”

  “I saw something shiny and wanted it, simple as that.”

  “Who’s your fence? Thieves don’t work alone.”

  “This one does.”

  Torsten had to draw on every fiber of himself not to strike the man. His fingers balled into fists. “You really expect me to believe you did this alone?”

  “I don’t care what you believe.”

  “I could say you poisoned King Liam to get the crown if I wanted. One look at you and not a soul would doubt it.”

  “Go ahead. As you’ve said, I’ve got a date with a noose either way.”

  A response died on Torsten’s tongue. It was clear he wasn’t going to learn anything of value.

  “There are worse fates than death, Thief.”

  Whitney didn’t respond.

  Torsten wasn’t sure what he’d expected, an answer to the kingdom’s growing list of problems in the form of some lowly thief?

  He’d never lived in a Liamless world. Only a madman would slight him, let alone steal from him. Whitney was a braggart and a fool, but he didn’t seem insane. He was simply the kind of vermin that got loose when chaos took hold. And there was an honesty in his cool blue eyes that told Torsten he wasn’t lying.

  “Have it your way,” Torsten sighed.

  “I can get back to my nap now?” Whitney asked, making himself comfortable on a loose stone like it was a pillow.

  “It’ll be your last.” Torsten let himself out of the cell and called for the guard to come and lock it. He went to take a step down the long dark hall, when Whitney stopped him.

  “There was nobody left to steal from,” he said.

  “What?” Torsten turned and found Whitney with his eyes closed.

  “That’s why I took it. There was nothing left.”

  XIV

  The Knight

  WORD ON the condition of the young King Pi found its way across Yarrington. Torsten wasn’t sure who let the news out, but with so many wolves circling it was impossible to know. Any of the whispering sycophants on the Royal Council could have been behind it, and Oleander had already threatened to have any of them executed if it was found that they did.

  The story spun to the public by Wren the Holy through sermons in the market and the amphitheater was that Prince Pi, distraught over the loss of his father, cast himself from the window of his bedroom in the West Tower, but would survive.

  The news seemed to sate the masses, but it didn’t stop the rumors from stirring—a hornet’s nest of stings and accusations about the foreign Queen Mother at the top of the mill. Many said she killed her husband and tried to kill her son in an attempt to usurp the throne. Torsten, on her command, had been so busy arresting anyone caught speaking such blasphemies. She’d been appointed Queen Regent with Pi unable to rule, so he couldn’t deny her. He hadn’t even had a minute to address Redstar’s role in Pi’s condition with her or consider the Black Sands situation.

  Presently, he stood in the corner of Oleander’s chamber—always the Shield, even now for the Queen Regent. She sat, her hair freshly washed and being combed by her chambermaid, barely aware of Torsten’s presence. Torsten watched, but his gaze constantly listed toward the Queen’s bed where Pi lay, his small head poking through the covers, eyelids sealed and face tranquil for perhaps the first time in his short life.

  “Tessa,” Oleander said, addressing her handmaiden. “What do you believe about my husband’s untimely death?”

  Torsten could see discomfort on the poor girl’s face as she took a moment to collect her thoughts.

  “Your Grace,” she answered in a thick accent from the northern regions—maybe Poro or Parm, one of the sister towns. Each word was a bit slow and drawn out. “Twas a shame, right forward. I dunno how it could be seen any other way.”

  Oleander smiled. “And of my son?”

  “I, myself, cried at the news,” she said. “He was a sweet boy.”

  "Is." Oleander snapped. "He is sweet.”

  “Y…yes, of course. Tis what I meant.”

  She settled down, cleared her throat. “A result of your simple mind, I’m sure.” It was as if Oleander had completely forgotten her roots in the North.

  Tessa’s hand shook now as she continued combing, glancing periodically over at Pi. Smart girl, calling the boy sweet. No one who knew Pi in the last year would have called him sweet, and Torsten hadn’t known him before. Uriah said there’d been a time he was, but since the day Redstar betrayed them, Pi was disturbed and often violent, especially toward
the help.

  Torsten always figured Uriah was exaggerating about the boy’s former nature for Oleander’s sake, but he was starting to feel foolish for doubting. The more he thought about it, he almost blamed himself for not barring his windows after the night he’d witnessed him teetering on its edge.

  Incapacitation is better than worshipping a fallen goddess.

  Torsten quickly cursed himself for having such a cruel thought. It wasn’t the way of Iam.

  “Tessa, I’d like some honeyed wine,” Oleander said, breaking the awful silence.

  The servant placed the brush down immediately and curtsied. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Torsten watched with pity as Oleander picked up the brush and continued where the girl left off. He could see her reflection in the mirror before her. Her puffy eyes started watering again. She slammed the brush down on the vanity, startling Torsten.

  She stood and sat beside Pi, brushing his moppy hair like she would her own. Torsten followed but kept his distance.

  “I can feel him fighting still, Torsten,” she said.

  “He comes from good stock, Your Grace,” Torsten said. “Liam’s blood runs through his veins.”

  “That didn’t stop him getting sick.”

  Torsten’s lip twisted. “No, but he lived a glorious life before. I’m sure Pi will wake soon and we will again have a King worthy of the Glass.”

  “He won’t.”

  Torsten fumbled over a response. “Your Grace?”

  “He won’t wake until we find my depraved brother and retrieve his orepul. Something you continually fail to do.”

  Again, with the doll.

  Torsten had to stifle a groan lest he further anger her. “We’ve tried time and time again. Some of my best men—”

  “Try harder! Send more men. He is your King!”

  “Your Grace, this has nothing to do with a doll. Pi threw himself from a window because Redstar plagued him with visions. A worthless doll can’t wake a boy from such a fitful slumber, only Iam can help him now.” He wished he’d spoken more calmly. He’d been trying for years to break Oleander of her fixation, but nothing ever got through to her and with all the stress he was now under, it came bubbling to the surface.