by Lyn South
The master cook assigns me to the boil house, preparing onions and other sundry vegetables for a stew. The boil house, while large and open, is closed off from the outside world. The windows are too high to see out, and there isn’t a direct line of sight into any other rooms of the kitchen suite. Of all the rooms I could’ve been assigned to, it looks like I’m in the blind spot.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I hiss into the CommLink. “Carter, how am I supposed to keep my eyes open for Trevor if I’m stuck in here? She could come through one of the other rooms and I would never see her. She could be halfway up the king’s privy stairs by the time we realize she got through the palace door.”
“She won’t get by us, Arseneau. Relax.”
“Relax, my ass. How am I supposed to redeem myself if I’m not actively involved in catching Trevor?”
“Don’t leave your post unless you’re given the word, Arseneau” Carter says. “And keep this line clear for mission commands.”
The CommLink fills with other chatter: orders from Carter to Nico to modulate the encryption codes on the live audio and video feeds so the Benefactors can’t hack into our feeds; orders to the security details to get into position in the gardens and inside the palace; another command for me to stay put.
Fagin confirms she stopped Original Timeline Me and picked her pocket. Fagin has my fake letter.
“You didn’t feel a thing,” Fagin says over the CommLink. It makes me smile. God, she’s good.
One letter down, one to go. Things are going according to plan. As long as we stop Trevor, the timeline changes should heal themselves.
Chopping potatoes and onions would be cathartic in exorcising my tension and anger if it weren’t welling up inside me with the bludgeoning force of a firehose.
Incremental changes to the angle of sunlight streaming through the windows is the only indication of the time passing; several hours, at least, since I’ve been holed up in here.
Finally, a perimeter sentry in the gardens breaks in: “I’ve got Trevor,” he says. “North side of the palace. Looks like she’s headed to the king’s privy garden, not the kitchens.”
Fuck Carter’s orders. I’ll be damned if I let things happen to me without a fight.
I carefully place the chopping knife—a seven-inch blade with a smooth wood handle—into my boot. I slip out of the kitchen, stride down the hallway leading to the kitchen gardens. Once outside, I sprint toward the location where Trevor was seen.
As I approach the North corner of the palace, closest to the king’s apartments, I spot her: Dressed as Cesario, she strides toward the privy gardens. We’re separated by little more than a hundred yards and some tall topiaries lining the path leading to the privy stairs. Moving parallel to her, I work my way around the spiral-sculpted shrubs, hoping to cut her off before she gets anywhere near the king’s door.
Her head is on a swivel, perpetually scanning her surroundings. Her gaze stops on me. She slows, watches me for several moments. I keep moving, and hope I look like a palace servant on an errand, and she will relax and move on.
She stops. Studies the cast of characters milling around the gardens. She settles on a man casually inspecting the contents of a merchant’s loaded cart—he’s one of our team in disguise and occasionally casts discreet glances over his shoulder at her. Trevor’s gaze drifts back to me.
Our eyes lock long enough for suspicion to firmly lodge itself in her brain. Whether or not she knows it’s me, wariness changes her trajectory.
She turns away from the palace and heads in the opposite direction, her gait set at casual stroll.
I follow.
“Arseneau,” Carter’s voice says in my ear. “What the hell are you doing? Get back to the kitchen.”
“This is my life, Carter. I’m going in and you can’t stop me.”
“Got your six, Dodger,” Nico cuts in, “Keep your eyes open.” Then to the commander: “Carter, she knows these palace grounds. Since she’s already in pursuit. You could waste resources sending your men after her, or let Clémence in the hunt for real.”
I smile. There’s my boy.
“Murdock,” Carter says, ignoring Nico. “Get Mademoiselle Arseneau back to the kitchen.”
The man inspecting the carts moves towards me.
Trevor tosses a quick look over her shoulder and, noting that I’m following her and Murdock is right behind me, takes off at a run.
“Goddamn it, Arseneau!” Carter says.
In for a penny, in for a pound. If I’m gonna be crucified for stepping out of line, I might as well make it worth the pain.
“Got two plays here,” I say, forcing the words out as I run, full-bore in Trevor’s direction with Murdock hot on my heels. “Deal with me or chase her. What’s it gonna be, Murdock?”
Carter swears again. “Murdock, stay locked on Trevor. She’s the objective.” He pauses. “Arseneau, I swear, if you fuck this up, you’re done.”
“No shit,” is all I have time to say.
Trevor races through the palace grounds like an Olympic sprinter; she’s so much faster than I would ever give her credit for. I’m pretty fast, but I won’t be able to keep up if she’s able to sustains this pace.
She enters a stand of trees, crisscrossing through them like it’s a slalom course. We lose sight of her as she ducks behind a large oak on the far perimeter of the tree line. When we emerge from the trees, we’re greeted by an empty wide-open field.
“Where the hell did she go?” Murdock huffs.
“If she’s within transporter range, she might be back on her own ship by now.” Carter’s speculation is accompanied by a terse tone.
Something darts through the trees on our left. “Nope. She doubled back into the woods,” I say, then follow her into the dense copse of trees. I catch glimpses of Murdock to my right as he runs even with me on the meadow-side of the trees in case she reemerges from the woods.
Trevor veers to the right, clearing the grove of trees once more. As I swerve in that direction, there’s a flash of brilliant light.
“Their transporters got a lock on her,” Murdock says.
Nico’s voice breaks in, “I’ve pegged Trevor outside the stables.”
“Get a lock on our guys farther east and transport them to the stables,” Carter says.
I run as fast as I can. Trevor has a big head-start on me and reaches the stables just as a boy, leading two horses by their reins, rounds the corner of the building.
Trevor wrestles with a stable boy, who goes down screaming, and swings herself up onto the larger horse’s back in one smooth movement.
She points her mount North and they take off at a gallop. Minutes later, when I get to the stable, the attendant lies writhing on the ground, screaming as he grasps his thigh just above his disjointed knee. A second stable hand, having heard the screams, races outside and kneels beside his friend.
I scramble onto the second horse’s back; he snorts and paws at the ground, clearly not in the mood to be ridden by anyone who isn’t his master. The gray Barbary stallion isn’t huge, but still powerful. He shuffles sideways and tosses his head up and down, neighing in frustration.
“Whoa. Easy, boy, say, trying to calm him and settle myself in the saddle.
He doesn’t want to take it easy. He continues to shuffle and stamp his hooves and shake his head. I grip the reins and pull back, bringing the horse’s nose toward my knee. He settles, just a bit.
“Oi! That’s Governatore, the King’s favorite stallion!” The second man yells. “You can’t steal the king’s horse.”
“Watch me.” As soon as I nudge him, he bolts toward the open field where Trevor’s figure is shrinking in the distance. She disappears over the ridge of a small hill.
The Barb’s front quarters are filled with explosive power; he sprints through the meadow at a much faster clip than I expect; he may just be happy for the opportunity to run. We skirt the tree grove that clings to the Northward curve of the riverbank to our left an
d head toward the spot on the ridge where I last saw Trevor.
We crest the hill; nothing but open fields to the North and East for the next five miles, at least. There’s more trees and another ridge a little farther to my left. That’s the only direction she could have gone.
Pointing my mount toward the west, I follow the tree line again and come upon a gristmill, its massive waterwheel pirouetting in the currents of an offshoot of the Thames. I take in the surroundings as I catch my breath from the work of riding the king’s horse: A loose, riderless horse grazes on the tender marsh grass on the lee side of the mill. There’s no one else in sight.
I slip from the saddle and loop Governatore’s reins on a fence post at the edge of a well-traveled muddy path that leads to the lowest level of the mill. There are footprints in the mud, leading to a door which stands slightly ajar.
Why go into the mill just to transport to her ship when she could’ve made that jump once she was over the ridge and out of sight of any locals?
Because she’s probably inside waiting for you. To finish things on her terms.
I ease the door open a little further and slip inside.
Wheat chaff swirls down from the rafters. The sun, what there is of it, filters through one small west-facing window, and illuminates only the bottom step of a stone staircase at the far end of the cellar. Muted gray shadows drip down the wall and spill across the floor.
I pause to listen. Outside, the river churns against the water wheel. Above me, there’s the ka-thunk, ka-thunk rhythm of millstones turning on their grindstone. I feel my way across the room, moving inches at a time until I trip and land on a substantial, fleshy mass.
There are arms. And a torso. And a face covered with a slick, pungent substance. Shifting my weight off the body, my fingers fumble to find the carotid artery. I put my ear close to the mouth.
No soft, stirring tickles of breath on my cheek. No blood coursing through the veins beneath my touch. I leave my fingers in place longer than necessary, hoping for the blip that would signal life. I rock back on my heels and exhale.
Is killing really so easy for her? Does she think about it for even a moment before snuffing out that light?
I move toward the half-lit steps and stumble again, this time on something that jumps up and smacks me in the face. My right cheek throbs. I feel down the length of a wooden shaft with both hands.
A fucking rake.
I don’t fancy using the knife nestled inside my boot. Knife fighting is so much more intimate than other types of combat, requiring eye-to-eye contact at close range. I’m not sure I can be eye-to-eye with an opponent—even Trevor—and feel the knife’s edge pop the delicate skin in surrender. A weapon with a longer reach would be better.
For now.
I hold the rake into my body to keep it from bumping and thumping against the wall as I make my way up the stairs. There’s no door at the top, only a wide, rectangular opening to the next level. I poke my head up to peer over the threshold.
Sturdy ropes loop themselves around and through hoists and pulleys used to raise filled bags to the floor above. Various milling tools are strewn on nearby workbenches or tucked into corners: wooden shovels and scoops, more winnowing rakes, hammers and chisels for working on the cog wheels of the gears.
Two sets of enormous round stones used to pulverize grain into meal take up most of space on the far side of the room. With all the machinery and stacks of flour bags, there are several places where a skinny girl like Trevor could lurk unseen.
Planks set in the rafters far enough below the ceiling that she could hide there, too. On the floor, sticking out from behind the grinding stones are a pair of motionless legs. I ease into position, next to the body, and check the man’s pulse.
Trevor’s body count is up to four, counting Lady Anne and Thomas Wyatt.
A voice drifts down from the rafters. “Just can’t leave well enough alone, can you? I have things all planned and you go and screw them up.”
I walk the perimeter of the room, eyes on the ceiling, and hold the head of the rake forward, ready to deflect the first strike when it comes.
“Something didn’t go according to plan, Trevor? How disappointing for you,” I say.
“Were you born with that remarkable sarcastic streak or is that a skill you learned on the streets?” Her voice moves; now it’s coming from my left.
“Both,” I say, looking upward for some hint of movement that might reveal her position. I nudge a set of pulleys out of my way and hear the metal squeak as they swing behind me.
Carter breaks into the conversation. “Trevor, we have reinforcements converging on that mill as we speak. Giving yourself up now would be the wiser move.”
“Let’s discuss wise moves for a moment, shall we?” Her tone doesn’t sound defeated or even slightly concerned. In fact, she speaks in a victor’s tone, like she believes it’s all over but the crying. “There’s a trained assassin with his eye on Lady Anne. If your men spoil my party, she’ll be dead before you can say ‘Shakespearean tragedy.’”
For a long moment, no one moves. No one speaks.
Carter says, “Delacroix, are you in position?”
“I’m with Lady Anne and the King in the Great Hall,” Fagin replies.
“Anyone suspicious-looking?” Carter asks.
“They’re all suspicious-looking. They’re all back-stabbing courtiers working to advance their own interests.” She snorts. “If there’s are assassins here, they’re blending in too well for me to spot them.”
“You’ve been at court for months and you still can’t tell the players without a scorecard?” Carter says, in a skeptical tone.
“It’s fucking Christmas,” Fagin replies. “More people here for the holiday, so that means a lot of new faces.”
“Until we find Trevor’s people, you stay glued to Lady Anne. You’re her new knight in shining armor.”
I smile. “Lucky me.”
“Are we agreed, then?” Trevor says. “Your boys stay out or your precious timeline still goes to hell. This is between The Dodger and me.”
Silence.
“Carter,” Trevor says. “My patience is thin.”
“Fine, we’ll play it your way for now,” Carter says, grudgingly. “Don’t think for a second that you’re walking out of there unscathed.”
“Yes, my dear commander,” she says, a lilt in her voice. “I am.”
“We all know you can transport out of here any time you want,” I say, taking a few hesitant steps forward. Eyes still aimed at the rafters. “What kind of game are you playing?”
“I want the opportunity to kick your ass. Call it my own personal vendetta.”
“Have you cleared this cage match with your bosses? From what I hear, they had a very specific purpose for me.”
“They did, yes.” Her voice comes from ten feet further ahead of me and off to the right.
She moves almost as silently as I do.
“I’m all ears. I’d love to hear more about it.”
“I won’t light myself on fire to keep you warm.” The voice moves again. “You could have been content with saving your parents and lived happily ever after. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“It’s true. My parents were never murdered. But the only ’ever after‘ I saw was a future where they probably never lived at all. Turns out, changing shit that’s supposed to happen creates all kinds of...other complications.”
“See.” She draws one syllable out into at least four. “Your dizzying intellect has revealed a cosmic truth: Be careful what you wish because it might come true.” The echo of her soft laugh reverberates off the timbers. “They say fate is a fickle temptress, but what about people who don’t believe in fate? Just because you don’t believe in something doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
Ahead of me, dust drifts down from the rafters. I freeze, listening for the groaning squeaks of floorboard joists from the weight of her footfalls. No sound comes.
“If I
wanted an existential philosophical conversation, I’d go climb a fucking mountain and find a holy man. I’ll stick to science, thanks.” I say. “Elizabeth’s reign is a fixed point in history and changing it fucked up everything that was supposed to come after on just about every level.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. That’s your truth...your perspective. Just one of many possible realities. You think your truth is more valid than anyone else’s?”
“The historical timeline isn’t a judgment call to make. It just... is.”
“Only for those who lack the courage to change it.”
A surge of energy takes root in my chest. All the anger, sorrow, mourning, frustration, and helplessness of my life compresses into this single match strike. The fuse lit and it has nowhere else to go but into a powder keg of wrath. The Benefactors used me like a thermonuclear bomb they programmed for maximum destruction and then set off in the middle of King Henry’s court.
“Brave words for someone who won’t come out of the shadows,” I say.
“I thought you loved mystery games and riddles.” Her voice is an echo. The acoustics make it seem she’s everywhere at once; I can no longer pin down where she is.
A few more steps and I’m standing in a large gap in the wood beams above.
“Come out and we’ll discuss this face-to-face.”
“As you wish.” Her voice is right bloody behind me.
I turn toward the sound just as Trevor swings down from the rafters and plants her feet squarely in my shoulder.
The blow knocks me sideways. The rake head scraps the floor catching in the seam of a loose board, causing me to lose both the implement and my balance. I scuttle backward like a crab, using my hands and feet, trying to put as much distance between us as I can.
She picks up the rake and swings it over her head like an ax, bringing it down hard and fast on a narrow sliver of floor between my legs.
I send a feeble kick at the rake, but it’s enough force to knock it out from under her. I roll to the left just out of her stumbling path as her weight pitches forward.
She chuckles, regaining her footing. “It seems I must put some effort into killing you.” Her eyes gleam and she twirls the rake from one hand to the other over and over like a martial arts master wielding a staff.