by Ada Harper
“Anyone else hear that?”
“You could just tell us what you hear rather than asking,” Sabine said.
“The air circulation,” Cian answered instead. His pale eyes widened. “The fans appear to have stopped.”
“Doubting that was a coincidence.”
“It’d take far too long to suffocate us that way,” Alais pointed out.
“But just long enough to make us testy and scared,” Lyre mused, sounding like she was still teasing that idea out. “In any case, I recommend a team-building exercise for this little diplomatic summit. Namely: get the hell out.”
She was looking at Sabine. Expression sardonic and certain as always, but a hollow worry softened her look. An uncertainty weighing down the fine lines guarding the corners of her eyes. A silent appeal: trust me with this, please.
A glacier in her chest, a chunk of ice, had wedged itself between her ribs, crushing her slowly. Strange how she only noticed it when it began to melt.
“I agree,” Sabine said, because of course she trusted Lyre. Of course. Not trusting Lyre would be like not trusting your own shadow. Not trusting the earth under your feet, the sun warming your back. Lyre was as much part of her as any of that, no matter how much she wanted to deny it. A familiar, insistent tug, like a plucked string, vibrated under her skin.
Oh. So that was what a mate bond felt like. This time, her voice was a little bit hoarse. “Lead the way.”
Lyre’s relief was tempered by the way her sharp eyes picked over Sabine with an unspoken question. But Lyre knew when she had a job to do. She approached the reeds edging the solarium patio and pulled them aside with a sweep of her hand. “Gentlefolk, if you’ll please.”
The false formalism was lost on Cian, who picked at his empty hands fretfully. “If our people are apprised of the situation I see no rationale to take such a drastic step as to—”
Sabine followed Alais into the path Lyre had made, Kitra guarding her back. “Yes, our people. Small problem there. My personal physician at Ameranthe is a brilliant if grumpy caricae surgeon named Maris. And as far as I recall, ‘he’ has never been her preferred pronoun.”
She practically heard Cian’s synapses replay the conversation and his priorities realign. “Oh.”
“I suspect no one off this flotilla has heard a peep from us, and our hosts intend to keep it that way for reasons of their own. I intend to find out why, then find my way off this wreck before endangering any more of my people. Of course, if you find the more strategic choice to stay here and tap on your little widget, I wouldn’t dream of dictating the Syndicate’s actions.”
The reeds were woody, and Sabine stifled a smile at the sudden clumsy crackling sounds behind them. “I can acknowledge your logic.”
“Delightful,” Sabine breathed.
The solarium dirt was kept damp and fertile. Her silk slippers had not been made for off-roading, but at least they didn’t have heels. Therefore Sabine’s feet were only mildly soggy by the time Lyre stopped them in a trench that wandered between floral beds. A kick at the mulch revealed a large drainage ditch.
“Through here—” The group startled as a buzz started in the distance. It sounded like a drone. Or small metallic wings. Lyre lowered her voice and added, “Quick like.”
“What is that?” Kitra’s hand strayed toward the holster where he would have kept his pistol. All weapons had been politely secured when they arrived.
Lyre began working off the screws. “Cicadas, from the sound of it. Moths would be quieter. Be glad it’s not moths.” Kitra made a confused noise and Lyre’s shoulders hunched over the grate. “The Vault’s treasure is nano-biology and nano-botany. All those pretty gardens Sylvere showed you on the way in. Nothing here is just for show. Pretty much assume anything creepy, crawly, or green in this place can be turned against you, kids. And I’m guessing our hosts have noticed we’ve left the beaten path and are checking our welfare.”
They hedged in a tighter cluster in the dirt. Suddenly the mud on Sabine’s heels wasn’t the biggest concern.
A crack sounded behind them. Sylvere’s guard had hovered at the back of the group, at the head of the non-path they’d forged. It happened in less than a second. Sabine could just make it out as he raised his gun, then made a grunt of alarm that was stopped before it could escape his throat. A violent movement yanked the guard below the fronds. He didn’t resurface. The chatter of beetle wings buried any cry for help.
“Wasteful,” Sylvere murmured beside her as they backed up again.
An attack on their guards was an escalation. A threat. It formed a cool resolve in Sabine’s stomach. They were not just being kept to the paths of the solarium. They were being controlled. And she’d had quite enough of being herded for a lifetime.
The steel grate was well maintained, but definitely not designed to be forcefully twisted on a screw. The effort made sweat trace down the lean biceps that peeked from beneath Lyre’s shirt sleeves. Sabine watched its path meditatively. Focusing on her desire was more steadying than focusing on the whisper of wings growing closer to their huddled group.
The grate came away with a clang that made everyone jump. “In, and keep on going until you’re past the first turn.”
Chapter Thirteen
Lyre had no idea what she was doing.
No, strike that, she knew what she was doing. She was dragging a party of three sheltered, clueless politicians and one green palace guard into the eternal dark hellscape of her childhood. The hellscape she only barely escaped herself. They needed to get away, away from the solarium juncture and the surface level of sewer pipes that were still civilized enough for the Vault to send drones and guards into. The deeper they went into the underworks, the less civilized it got, but they had fuck all other choices right now.
They needed more choices. Because, gods bless Sabine, she might have survived a royal coup or two but the Vault flotilla underworks made an invasion look like a walk in the park. Sabine trudged along next to Alais like a trooper, ignoring the bile-colored sewer water that was starting to wick up her pant legs. But she had the look of a woman misplaced without something or someone to command.
And then there was Cian. She was already primed to expect complaints. Olivia was the resident Syn at Ameranthe and she was a fastidious freak. However Cian barely paid attention to the filth caking his polished shoes. Lyre directed the group to keep going. She herded them on, but the Syndicate Prime Minister lingered at the back of the group, pausing to squint at the rainbow of molds climbing the viaduct wall as if it was an art exhibit. Or he wanted to take a sample.
“Don’t touch that,” Lyre said for what had to be the fifth time in the past ten minutes.
“Merely taking observations,” Cian muttered.
“Then take them with your eyes. Hands in pockets. Half the stuff on that wall is probably caustic.”
“Is it?” That was a mistake. Cian looked even more intrigued now. Hell.
Said caustic molds were also one of the few sources of light. The farther they drew from the solarium grate, the fewer distant grates they encountered. Lyre knew this span of waterworks well, having chased beetles down here as a kid—their rainbow shells earned her a few chits when sold to other, better-funded Vault kids. And they were sloping in a downward direction, passing beneath the kitchen coolant pipes that added some modicum of safety from the sensors most definitely scanning for them above.
The mold flooded the dark tunnel with diffused amber, painting everyone in a dim honey shadow. It turned Alais mildly jaundiced-looking, but Lyre glanced at Sabine and her heart clenched. Her expression was serious but her tan skin glowed, and her normally bright gold and silver eyes were nearly luminescent themselves in the half-light. It was unfair, really, how beautiful and simultaneously untouchable one person could be. Even here in the dark.
“It’s a drainage pipe, and the best option t
o the lower levels we’re going to get without going above again.”
Alais made a disgruntled sound. “I presume I should not ask what it drains.”
“Yup.” Lyre tested the steel pipe. It’d do as a hand-hold, if a slippery one. “The slope shouldn’t be too bad since the critters have to navigate it. But it might be slippery and it’s a long way down. Hang on.” It was easy to sound more unsure than she was. Lyre knew exactly what the incline was on this pipe, and it’d been no problem last time she’d used it. Of course, last time she’d used it she’d been a scrappy, bounceable ten-year-old with more forgiving joints than sense.
And the chute dropped straight down once they reached the end. With that thought in mind, she sized up the group. “We need to make sure no one who slips is gonna take everyone out with them.” Lyre would need to scout the path ahead as they progressed. Kitra would watch Sabine’s back, and he was too short to serve the purpose anyway. Cian was an unknown. That left... “Alais. Be a burly, grunty altus and go first, will you?”
Insulting Alais worked like compliments on most people. She dropped her chin with a dazzling smile. “Burly. Grunty. Yes, that sounds exactly like me.” Nevertheless, she took up a place at the opening of the chute, followed by Cian, Sabine, and Kitra bringing up the rear. Lyre could only hope that if Kitra slipped, then Alais’s disdain of falling face-first down the chute would be stronger than the combined weight of the continent’s ruling governments.
After a quick demonstration on how to brace oneself against the sides of the chute for traction while edging oneself down, Lyre scuttled down the first section of pipe. Alais followed easily enough, aided by her long limbs and military training. Cian, Lyre was surprised to see, also managed with only minor adjustments to his grip. By then the pipe was too full of limbs and coattails to see, but Kitra gave an all-clear whistle that said everyone was in the chute and accounted for.
Thank the Lady for small favors.
Their luck continued to hold. The chute was mostly clear. Lyre found a nest of rogue goblin ants in the crook of one turn, but she was able to kick their rose-shaped nest down into the dark before Alais caught up. They made astonishingly good progress for a couple moments, until Kitra whistled out a low signal to stop.
“What is it?” Lyre called up, loud as she dared. They were descending into the lower levels now, already to the outer range of where Lyre had explored as a child. Vault children learned very quickly to stay to the top tangle of vents in the flotilla’s underworks. The children who didn’t learn that lesson were usually not heard from again.
The Vault was a floating city of technology run rampant. That manifested as tidy nanobot creatures and beautiful flora aboveground, but beneath was where failed creations and half-finished failures were tossed. Reclaimer vine theoretically disabled and dissected any castoff material on the flotilla, but Lyre knew how fast a living thing could evolve when there was a will to survive. She’d become enough creatures herself to understand that.
“A moment.” Sabine’s voice drifted down, strained and reedy. Sabine, as a matter of pride, never sounded less than chillingly poised in front of strangers. Lyre squinted up. Alais’s brow furrowed.
“Kitra?” Lyre called.
“The Empress...needs a moment.” Well, that response had been edited, probably under a withering glare. Lyre knew Sabine’s glares well. She wasn’t going to get any answers this way.
“Alais—two joints down, there’s a little drainage duct that creates a pocket to your right. G’on and I’ll catch up.”
“Go on?” Alais echoed, looking doubtful at the cramped quarters of the chute.
“Just get a good grip and hold still.” Lyre hefted herself backward up the pipe, nearing Alais before flinging herself to one side. A handhold on a bolt propelled her up and under Alais’s armpit. Alais, to her credit, held still as stone, only making an unamused noise as Lyre’s knee found her kidney.
Cian was less accommodating. He didn’t widen his stance to allow her room, and stared at Lyre like she was a particularly intriguing species of bug as she wiggled past. Lyre made sure to swipe a muddy hand over the back of his pristine longcoat just because.
Irritation was completely forgotten when Lyre finally squeezed past Cian’s shoulder. Sabine was braced securely against the walls of the chute—too securely, really. Her knuckles were pale as bone against the dark plastisteel and her joints trembled. Her shoulders were up around her ears. Eyes were wrenched shut.
Panic was a foreign concept to the Sabine Lyre knew. Kitra hovered above her like a worried bird, a hand clasped uselessly on the back of Sabine’s jacket. As if that would help. Lyre eased carefully up the chute, positioning her knee under Sabine’s, just in case she slipped. Lyre would go down too, but she always accepted they’d fall together.
“Hey. Barnacle Girl. What’s up?”
Lyre had been officially banned from using nicknames in public. The fine terror-white line of Sabine’s lips twitched but she didn’t open her eyes. “Don’t.”
“Don’t call you that? Seems appropriate, with how glued to the wall you are here.” Lyre eased closer. Sabine had been a barnacle child. Clinging first to Galen’s side at formal events, a pretty shadow no matter how bright the colors her noble parents dressed her in. Then, as a friendship seeded between quiet noble girl and clever common brat, she attached to Lyre.
And, just like a shadow, evolving to become more pleasing to the person she was following. Even as a kid, Sabine had a way of studying people. A charming kind of mimic, knowing at a glance what people most wanted and using it to her advantage to charm and persuade. Lyre envied that. She read people, but only their ugly bits. Sabine was lucky to attract followers, not enemies. Lyre had been drawn to her from the first moment. But Lyre couldn’t tell her all that, so Lyre called her Barnacle instead.
“I just need a moment.” Sabine’s chin lifted in Lyre’s direction. Only Sabine could manage to look imperious and proud while trembling in a rusty chute and smelling vaguely of sewer.
Lyre glanced down and was met with darkness. Good, Alais and Cian had found the alcove then. It wasn’t ideal, but it would give everyone a chance to rest for a few moments. If she could get the shivering royal in front of her down there. “This is a weird spot to pick for a nap, Barnacle.”
Again, Sabine’s lips twitched. Her left eye began to crack open, but before it could morph into a glare it snapped shut again. The muscle in Sabine’s fine jaw worked. Lyre wanted to touch her.
“Vertigo.”
That shook Lyre from her study of Sabine’s skin. “Vertigo? You got dizzy?”
“I did not get. It hit me just now.” Sabine spoke at a formal clip though she looked ready to hurl. “If I stop for a moment I’m sure it will go away—”
Lyre glanced up and confirmed it. Lyre felt fine. Kitra felt fine. A cruel and dangerous suspicion coiled in Lyre’s gut, but it would need confirmation. Confirmation could come later. Even Lyre’s calves were beginning to burn, braced in one position for too long. “Okay, Barnacle. We’ll get you down and you can swoon all you want—”
“I am not swooning,” Sabine hissed.
“First step is to open your eyes.”
Her eyes slivered open and shut. A twitch radiated from her shoulders. Sabine squeezed her eyes tighter. “I can’t. I’ll fall. Or vomit.”
“Barnacle vomit. The worst. I’d never get the stains out,” Lyre said, if only to buy time.
She glanced down and ran quicksilver calculations. The likelihood of managing to carry Sabine down was low—Lyre might have the muscle but Sabine was taller. And it was all a moot point because she was fairly certain Sabine would rather eat her own hand than let the Syndicate Prime Minister see her swung about so unceremoniously. “Gotta work with me here, Sabs.”
“I must regretfully decline.”
Lyre could antagonize her. Nothing got Sabine mov
ing like a good, well-placed prod of doubt in her abilities. But she tended to be more pride than finesse in that mode. All that would serve would be moving Sabine to slip and fall pridefully to her death. No, Lyre needed a gentler approach. Contrary to her reputation, Lyre could be gentle. Sometimes. For Sabine. “How’s your right eye feel?”
Sabine’s trembling arms stilled. “You think it’s the eye?”
“It could be a lot of things,” Lyre said quickly. The way Sabine made a face said she didn’t want to be comforted. “Yes, I think it’s the eye. You got infected with Vault-made nanobots. Could be they’re muddling with the dead Syn nanos attached to the eye and affecting your inner ear. If we get far enough out of range it shouldn’t be a liability but until then...”
Sabine was quiet. Lyre sighed. “Don’t worry, Sabs. I know it’s not elegant, but I can carry—”
“We do not have time for this nonsense,” Sabine announced. She twisted one hand free, brought it to her face, and flicked her thumb over her eye.
Lyre had a moment of blessed incomprehension as a crescent of silver slipped from Sabine’s fingers and plunked against the chute down into the darkness.
A noise approximately like a strangled bird wrung out of Kitra. “Your majesty! Are you—”
“Fuck me,” Lyre breathed. “Damn.”
Sabine patted at her face briefly, running fingertips brusquely over the scar tissue ringing her right eye. “I am perfectly fine—oh do stop squawking, knightsguard, it echoes in here—it wasn’t attached, after all.”
“You—” Kitra’s voice was loud in the confined space and he lowered it quickly, though it still came out at a strangled pitch. “Your majesty, your eye—”
“Is not a bit of crystal and tech. That’s just what covers it,” Sabine snapped. She turned and in the dim of the chute Lyre could make out her face. The scar of her right brow was in shadow, but her left eye had opened and glittered with steady purpose. “Lyre, if you please.”