Beyond

by Mercedes Lackey

  There would, of course, be a massive search for the missing, but it would all be centered here. Records would be combed through, but the Dolls were in charge of the record-keeping, and as thorough as they were, he was positive they had either erased those records or never made them in the first place. So actually, the longer he stayed here, the longer it would take to associate Valdemar with the missing.

  He’d probably send me home . . . wait, no he wouldn’t. As soon as he got horses into the stables, he’d need someone who knows how to care for them. And that would be me.

  He buried his face in his hands, head aching, thinking. But the more he thought about it, the surer he was. The best thing he could do for Valdemar was stay here.

  All right; got to think this through. I’d never heard of the Dolls before I got to the City, so it stands to reason they’re never seen outside of it. Everyone is going to be at the Regatta once that yellow toad gets heaved into his golden-chariot-throne and hauled there to observe. And that was when we were going to leave anyway.

  So, I’ll be there instead of running off. The Dolls leave, and the only people who notice are the Palace servants. They won’t know what to do about it, or who to report it to. Will the mages go to the Regatta? Probably not, but they won’t notice the Dolls are leaving until it’s too late, and anyway, what could they do to stop them? And who would they tell? Who would they send? They might be able to send a message magically, but would anyone pay attention to it? Probably not; the way things run around here, it would probably get dismissed to be looked at after the Regatta was over.

  So far, so good.

  At the worst, someone will send one of the people working in the kitchen as a runner with a message. By then, the Trap will be shut down, or even destroyed, the dissidents will be gone, the hostages will be gone, and the Dolls will be gone.

  What then?

  Well, people being people won’t believe that the Dolls have gone. They’ll probably assume only some of them have left, or that they got herded into a room somewhere in this heap and locked away. Only when they’ve figured out that their slaves have slipped their chains will they look further . . . or will they?

  The most likely thing is that people will start blaming each other. And meanwhile, the Emperor will be furious, and the longer he goes without being waited on, the more furious he’ll be.

  So assuming that someone actually takes the initiative to get the soldiers garrisoned here to come act as servants—by then people will be getting hungry, and angry, and the soldiers won’t exactly know how to be servants in the first place. And that—their immediate needs—is what people are going to concentrate on. Not on finding the Dolls, not on finding out where they went, or how, or who’s responsible. It will probably take until morning before someone gets the mages to go down to the Fabrication Annex and make more Dolls to serve the Emperor before he starts ordering executions. And that is when they’ll discover they can’t make more Dolls.

  By morning, the Courtiers who can leave, or who have figured out some way to leave besides Gates, will be leaving. Any of them who are smart and can go by Gate will promise to send human servants here. So some human servants will start to trickle in. But they won’t know the Palace, they won’t know how to use the Gates to get from place to place within the Palace, and it’s going to add to the chaos, not subtract from it.

  Meanwhile . . . meanwhile what I should do is blunder down to the stables, because my first thought will have been to see if the horses are all right, and I’ll just come tell someone that the horses are all gone too.

  Then what should I do? Well, supposedly I can’t go home, because I don’t have a talisman. So I guess . . . I know. The Emperor just thinks I’m a farmer, so all right, I’ll tell whoever is trying to be in charge that I’m going to go work in the garden. And I’ll do that. I actually do know how to work in a garden. At least, I can tell what’s ripe from what’s not, and pick it and take it to the kitchen.

  Whoever’s in charge by the second day at least will be an officer, probably the ranking officer here. So by the second day, more people will be leaving, “servant recruits” will be blundering around, and I’ll look useful. Which should take more suspicion away from me. But the Emperor is still not going to be doing anything useful in the way of finding out who’s behind the defection. He’s probably going to be furious, and shouting contradictory orders, and generally making things worse.

  It occurred to him that it could be weeks before anyone started trying to track down where the Dolls went.

  Will they send me home to get more horses?

  Would that even be a priority? Horses needed grain and hay, and that needed transporting. Horses were very labor-intensive, and all of the concentration was going to be on getting the Palace running again. Back home, horses were a necessity. Here they were a luxury.

  Meanwhile . . . all the time this is going on, I can put myself in charge of the gardens. I can be directing soldiers and the gardeners they pull from the city gardens what to do about the Palace garden. And I can be thinking about who to blame and what to say when someone checks on Valdemar.

  I might even be able to slip away—no, I shouldn’t do that, not unless I can’t think of someone to blame. That should be my first priority. I should act as baffled as everyone else to discover that three quarters of the population and all the herds and supplies are gone.

  The longer I can keep them from looking at Valdemar, the colder the trail will get.

  I’ll do it. But I can’t tell Isla. And I can’t tell Star, either, because the Dolls will tell her. I can’t tell anyone.

  Poor Beltran. He’s going to be stuck here, too.

  He groaned. This place was as close to hell as anything on earth he had ever seen. And he was consigning himself to it.

  Was this his just deserts for all the things in his life he had done wrong?

  And if all my calculations are wrong, and they do decide I’m behind this . . .

  Everything I’ve consigned myself to will seem like a pleasant garden stroll.

  * * *

  —

  He had expected Star to squeeze him into some new, elaborate outfit for the “Blind Feast,” since it was supposed to be so important. But the Doll just brought him the newest and most immaculate of his outfits, kitted him out with everything, including the Spitter, and made sure there wasn’t a speck of dust on him. Then Star followed him down to the Dining Hall, where he found himself joining the tail of something he had never seen here before.

  A line.

  This, it seemed, was where he and everyone else were supposed to be kitted out with their “helmets.” When he got to the head of the line, the people before him were fitted with something that looked like a helmet with a blank visor; it was fitted to their head, and the visor pulled down. His mage-sight gave him a little flash of some unknown spell being invoked when the visor came down, then the person was led away carefully by a Doll.

  No words were exchanged when it was his turn. Interestingly, the two people putting the helmet on him were human. Junior mages, perhaps? At any rate, the helmet was put on his head.

  He nearly jumped out of his skin when it tightened down around his head and a bit of his face, as if to make certain he couldn’t remove it or shift it himself. It felt incredibly intrusive, and made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

  Then the visor came down. And—well, you couldn’t say he could see nothing, because that wasn’t true. His vision filled with blue, as if he was gazing into a cloudless sky.

  This was the only thing that kept him from having a screaming case of claustrophobia.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and one on his elbow. “This one will guide you,” said a Doll’s voice. He couldn’t tell if it was Star or not, but he groped after what would have been the right hand, and felt the Valdemar pin, and relaxed a little. Why that should have made a dif
ference, since all the Dolls were his allies, he didn’t know. But it did.

  Star deftly guided him for what seemed an interminable length of time, then stopped. The Doll turned him, then put his left hand on the back of a chair. Using that as his guide, he managed to get into it without falling over, and Star pushed the chair up to the table.

  Now the visor cleared, and he could see a little; the view was just his hands, the glass, the cutlery, and the plate in front of him. There was a bread roll on it. Completely without an appetite now, he picked it up and began taking it apart, one tiny crumb at a time.

  He had gotten down to the crust when the tiny plate full of crumbs was taken away. By now he could tell that all the chairs around him had been filled, and there was the murmur of voices.

  I have to make conversation.

  But . . . it would have to be conversation that didn’t reveal who he was, right? He wasn’t entirely certain what would happen if he did say something that would identify him—

  Probably these helmets do something. Mask it out? He wasn’t certain how that could even be possible, but—maybe mages were monitoring everything.

  He cleared his throat nervously, and started to say something about the treachery of women. But then he thought—But what if I’m sitting next to a high-ranking woman?

  His palms began to sweat.

  “I wonder how the war in the south is going?” he finally said aloud. “Of course, our Glorious Emperor is going to win, but it would be enlightening to get some idea of when new lands will be open to grant to those who are deserving of them.”

  “I have a bet on that it will be over by harvest,” said someone on his right side. The voice sounded thin and hollow, as if it was simultaneously coming from a great distance and from the midst of an echoing cave. It certainly couldn’t be identified.

  “I would not be in the least surprised,” replied someone across from him.

  And then he heard a Doll voice in his left ear. “The first dish of the first course is beef broth. Will you have some?”

  His stomach knotted. “No, thank you. I would like some watered wine.”

  The wine glass in his vision filled as if by magic, and he carefully reached for it, and just as carefully brought it to where he thought his mouth was. When it actually reached his mouth, he drank it down thirstily. His mouth felt horribly dry.

  “The wine, is, as always, very good,” he said.

  There was a chorus of voices around him, echoing that sentiment and commending the Emperor’s taste in wine.

  Three dishes were presented, then a bell sounded, and everyone fell silent.

  And following that, a voice spoke into the silence.

  “The first course is complete. The Princes are being unBlinded,” said the voice.

  This isn’t a meal, it’s a torment. First, everyone is pressed into the same ordeal, except for the Emperor, who, no doubt, was never Blinded to begin with. Everyone was likely seated next to those they might otherwise know as rivals, even enemies. The higher ranks get to watch everyone else squirm and tire themselves being painfully polite. The lower ranks are reminded, with every course, that their lives depend upon those above them. We’re all fed like hooded falcons. Anyone could be ordered assassinated while Blinded, and all any of us nearby might hear would be something like a cough. So nobody wants to stay silent, because that would be even more unsettling.

  He had run out of things to say about the food, and groped for something the mages controlling his speech would consider acceptable that would not reveal who he was. “I have been thinking of starting a mews, for falcons,” he said, praying that no one would be aware that he in fact had no interest in falconry. “Does anyone have recommendations?”

  Everyone, it seemed, had recommendations. Opinions were given on the best size of mews, how many birds one should have, the best place to find a good falconer or falconers to care for the birds. Opinions were given about what birds were best for what sorts of hunting. Someone told a joke about how to pick out the most experienced falconer for what sort of bird—it ended with, “ . . . and the best eagle handler is wearing an eye-patch!”

  The laughter around him went on for far too long and sounded very strained, as if everyone was trying to laugh as long as they could to avoid making more conversation.

  This course was of four dishes. The bell sounded. He held his breath. It was almost over. This would be for “Dukes.” He’d finally be able—

  “The second course is ended,” said the voice. “The Dukes will be unBlinded.”

  And nothing happened.

  He felt a rising panic, and tried to calm himself. Surely this was just because he was a Duke of a very small Duchy indeed. Surely he would just be the last of the Dukes to have this wretched helmet taken off. Surely . . .

  “The first dish of the third course is salmon,” said Star. “Will my Lord have some?”

  He did his best to suppress a scream.

  As he sat there, unable to eat, barely able to drink, as the voices around him grew boisterous and more mocking, as he realized that others around him had had their helmets removed, and could see he had not, he tried to get words out past the knot in his throat, and choked on them.

  Then the Earls were unBlinded.

  Then the Counts.

  And finally . . . “The fourth course is completed,” said the voice. “The Barons will be unBlinded.”

  And now the helmet was removed from his head, and he sat there, his face pale and sweaty, his hair matted, taking in the mocking smiles, the sneers, his placement at the table.

  He was nearly at the head of the table. Above him, seated at his table for one, on a dais, was the Emperor, looking down, looking at him, and smiling a hard, cold smile.

  Think, think, think, think!

  Kordas rubbed at his stinging eyes, hiding the expression of panic he felt cramping his face. He breathed too quickly. His shoulders violently spasmed, staying cramped and making it impossible to lower his hands. Finally out of nowhere, the words came. Words suited to a buffoon, a clown. “Oh, thank the gods!” he said, plastering a weak, false smile on his face. “Valdemar is too small to be a Duchy! There is too much paperwork, and too many things to think about. Oh thank you, glorious Emperor! Thank you for relieving me of this terrible burden! I can never, ever thank you enough! Next year I shall send you four Valdemar Golds to thank you for your understanding and your wisdom!”

  The smile on the Emperor’s face flickered for a moment, and then faded.

  “Of course, Baron Valdemar,” the yellow toad said. “Your new title will be stamped after the Feast, then we’ll be all done with your future.”

  Stay the fool. Stay the part. Hold together.

  “I would never dare to ask for a moment of your attention during the Regatta,” he replied, casting his eyes down as he tried not to choke.

  “Directly after the Feast,” the Emperor replied in a hard voice. “Your Duke will be Merrin now. Well done, Merrin.”

  As he stared at his plate, feeling faint and wondering if he was going to be able to keep from throwing up, there were murmurs of congratulations all around him.

  And—

  “Congratulations for getting what you deserve, Valdemar,” said his right-hand neighbor, someone he didn’t even know, in a falsely hearty voice. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” he managed to get out. “Thank you. I’m a lucky man.”

  “Oh, that’s true. Duke Merrin probably had you kept on as a Baron because of your way with horses. Good moods prevailed. If you’d been completely useless, you might be in the Sacrifice Fights tonight!”

  A couple more people laughed, commenting on how it should be a good show tonight.

  “Sacrifice . . . fights?” Kordas gasped out.

  “Hah! Wars don’t win themselves, you know, and Abyssals don’t get fed just
anything. Deals are respected here, and paid in full. Sacrifices are made. Bulls and rams weren’t enough after the first decade, and we always have prisoners to execute anyway. So we give them a chance; last one alive lives another year. Makes for great fights! Mouthpiece goes in, three pellets are loaded between the jaws, and off they go.”

  “Shows traitor protestors what shooting their mouth off really means!”

  Laughter erupted again, sounding very far away and hollow, while Kordas dry-heaved.

  This place—this place—

  It was only with Star’s steadying hand on his shoulder that he was able to remain in his seat for the rest of the interminable meal.

  19

  At least I’m still a Duke for the moment. But I’m not going to have the authority to do things now . . . now what do I do? His thoughts ran around in his head like frantic little mice, as he and Star left the Dining Hall and headed for the Hall of Gates. He dragged his feet, moving as slowly as he could. The Hall of Gates was echoingly empty. Probably everyone back in the Dining Hall was still enjoying the joke played at his expense. Except maybe the Emperor.

  At least I spoiled that fat toad’s fun.

  “Star, when I’m not a Duke anymore, are the orders I’ve already given going to be carried out?” he asked forlornly.

  “Of course they will,” Star replied promptly. “They are on paper, with the proper seals of authority. They will keep on being carried out, regardless.”

  And it was then that he heard someone behind him, the sharp staccato of dress heels on the marble floor, someone heading his way. He looked back over his shoulder.

  It was Merrin.

  Merrin, who, once he saw that he’d been spotted, slightly raised his hand. “I say, there, Valdemar—”

  Fury erupted in him, and he didn’t even stop himself. He turned and rushed the bastard, plowing into him at full speed, seizing the lapels of his coat and running him into the wall behind the Gates so hard that Merrin’s breath was forced out of him in an “oof.”