by Will Wight
Once again, she stared at him until he thought she might be examining the back of his skull for clues. He hoped she saw his guilt and his worry there.
She finally relaxed, giving him a look of shared pain and squeezing his arm. “Sorry about that. I just…I have to ask, you know? It’s hard watching people go.”
A knot had formed in Calder’s throat, so he only nodded.
Varia returned soon after, adjusting her gloves and looking sour. “He’s clean,” Cheska’s quartermaster said. “We disposed of the body. It was a mess. If it wasn’t Elder work, there’s no telling it now.”
“Hear that, Captain Marten? You check out. Clean as a whistle.”
Calder wasn’t surprised. He’d strapped the chest containing the crown to the Lyathatan’s manacles.
No Reader in their right mind would examine those closely.
No Reader but him.
“I am pleased to hear that my record is as clean as my conscience.”
Cheska snorted. “I do wish I knew who’d walked off with my prize,” she said, giving him an overly obvious wink that Varia immediately noticed. “I’d put in a bid myself. I do have quite a collection already, you know.”
Chapter Sixteen
While the captain steers the ship, the crew steers the captain.
—Navigator’s Guild saying
present day
Petal’s time in the Champion’s Guild had wreaked havoc on her nerves.
She had only been on the job a few days before they started finding Champions dead all over the Capital. She had even been part of the team of alchemists and surgeons that had examined the bodies after death, which had been both fascinating and morbid.
Every Champion was a treasure trove of alchemical knowledge and discovery, but she also hated cutting human corpses apart.
And now she had been instructed to stay inside the building the Guild was renting because there was something going on outside. She and the other alchemists were gathered around the entry room, which looked something like a waiting room from another Guild’s chapter house.
They could have gone back to their individual bedrooms, but none had wanted to be alone.
The other six talked with each other, trading jokes and news and speculation on what was going on outside. Petal didn’t say anything, but she curled up in a fluffy chair and listened.
The chatter soothed her; it made her feel like she was back home on the ship.
There were only two Champions left in the area, and they had gone to protect Calder, so only the support staff were left here. Seven alchemists and a handful of servants. There had been some guards at first, but they had been drafted elsewhere days ago.
It was only weak, ordinary people here. Now that something was going on outside, she wished at least one of the Champions had stayed.
Petal glanced behind her chair, where she saw the only person in this makeshift chapter house more nervous than Petal herself: a little girl with red hair and a dress with such a high collar that she could hide behind it like a mask.
Lotta was the twelve-year-old daughter of one of the administrators here, and she peeked out from behind a corner to watch the others talk.
The girl wanted to take comfort from the talk of the adults, but she was too afraid to come closer. Petal understood.
She rose from the chair—nobody said a word to her—and walked across the room toward Lotta. The girl flinched back but didn’t run away; Petal had spent the time to make friends with her already.
Petal knelt down, smiling gently at Lotta. “You know, I have a project in the back. I could use some help with it. If you don’t mind?”
The girl glanced nervously at the door. “What if they come in?”
Petal knew better than to ask who ‘they’ were. That meant whoever was outside, causing problems and trying to get to them.
“They won’t. The Champions won’t let them.”
Lotta sunk into her collar, muttering, “The Champions are gone.”
“No, the Champions are out there. Fighting for us. And they never lose.”
Urzaia had claimed that he was undefeated in the Izyrian arena. She tried to focus on his smile and his confident laugh, and not on the fact that he had been killed himself in the end.
Lotta looked up and met her eyes…
…and then someone kicked the door in.
Both Petal and Lotta jumped and screamed at the explosion of the door hitting the wall, but Tyria was the first one through. “Table!” she shouted. “Where’s the operating table?”
A few of the others scrambled to lead the way down the hall, and the Champion pushed past Petal carrying something. No, someone.
Petal’s breath stopped when she saw who Tyria carried.
White armor. Red hair.
And a wound on his back, slowly dripping blood.
Rosephus charged through the door afterwards, the Emperor’s full-face helmet clutched in one hand. He glowered at no one in particular as he walked through, and she saw that he had a shallow cut over one eyebrow.
“We need you to get the armor off the Steward’s body without breaking it,” Rosephus said to the room. “Who among you are Readers?”
Lotta tugged at Petal’s arm, but Petal was beyond caring. She drifted down the hall as though in a nightmare.
Two of her peers had already started busying themselves around Calder’s body, strapping on goggles and aprons and preparing scalpels to cut the armor free.
Calder’s body.
Petal found herself standing over him. His face was waxy and fake, like a mask. His eyes stared up at nothing.
Someone called her name, but she shakily felt for a heartbeat in Calder’s throat. He wouldn’t die here. Not yet. He still hadn’t succeeded the Emperor, not really.
The Champion snapped her fingers in front of Petal’s face, and Petal jerked back to reality. She didn’t move her hand, but she looked up, startled.
Tyria gave her an exasperated look. “You think I didn’t take his pulse? He’s gone.”
One of the other alchemist’s tugged on Tyria’s arm and then whispered something in her ear. Tyria’s face fell.
“Light and life…sorry, Petal, I didn’t know. Could somebody take Petal…yeah, thanks.”
One of Petal’s colleague’s gently tried to steer her away, but she didn’t move.
There was no pulse. What did that mean?
“Petal,” Tyria said, “We’re on a clock here. If we’re not out of the Capital in an hour, we’re not getting out.”
Calder’s death would mean the fall of the Imperial Palace. Tears welled up in her eyes. She shouldn’t have stayed away from him. That was when everything had gone wrong…
Something thumped against her fingers.
She jerked away from Calder’s throat, staring at it as though it had bit her. Then the meaning of it sent a lightning thrill racing through her, and she grabbed his neck as though she meant to strangle him and shoved her ear up against his lips.
It was faint…so faint and so irregular that she almost couldn’t hear it over the chatter of the others. But air whispered into his mouth.
Tyria spoke again, less gently this time. “Petal, we can’t work with you standing there.”
Petal tried to speak, but the words were all jumbled up on her lips. Instead, she did something that she would usually never have dreamed of doing; she reached up and grabbed Tyria’s head, pulling her ear up to Calder’s face.
If the Champion had resisted, not all of Petal’s body weight could have budged her an inch, but the woman sighed and relented. “I know he was your Navigator, but I—”
She cut herself off. Her eyes widened.
An instant later, she stood up straight. “Rosephus! Seal the door! Nobody gets in!” She looked around, taking in the rest of them. “I don’t know how he’s held on this long and we’re still running out of time…but do what you can to save his life. No one leaves this building until he stabilizes or dies. We can’t let word
get out that he’s here.”
Petal’s thoughts whirled around one another like a flock of confused birds…but she clung to one thing.
She needed help.
Without explanation, she scurried back into the hallway, where Lotta cowered behind her high collar. Petal grabbed her, pulling her farther away from the examination room so Tyria couldn’t hear.
She swiped tears away, took a deep breath, and met the little girl’s eyes. “Lotta. That man is my friend. And I need help if I’m going to save his life. Can you help me?”
Lotta’s eyes trembled with fear and uncertainty, and Petal could tell she was going to have to find another way.
The other researchers would report her to Tyria, but maybe she could sneak out a window herself and find a street courier…
“I’ll do it,” Lotta whispered.
Petal was stunned for a moment. Then she was overwhelmed by gratitude. She swept Lotta up in an embrace.
“Thank you. Now, here’s who we need…”
Dalton Foster sorted through his cabin on The Testament, grumbling. He’d taken his most important possessions off the ship weeks ago, but he’d left a few things here on the assumption he’d return.
Now the Capital was buzzing like a hornet’s nest, bells were ringing for some reason known only to the Emperor’s ghost, and people were screaming that the Imperial Palace had fallen and the Steward was dead.
Well, he’d only believe the boy was dead three days after he buried the body himself, but he could read a room. The time had come to get out of the city. If Calder was still alive, he could find Foster whenever he wanted.
Andel would be fine. Jerri could go rot in the Elder’s void.
Petal…Petal might be in some trouble.
He leaned out of his room and peeked down the corridor, where Petal had stayed. She had left tons of her samples and equipment and alchemist junk in her room as though she’d meant to come back for.
He certainly wasn’t going to touch it. They were lucky her possessions hadn’t exploded and sunk the ship already.
She’ll be fine, he consoled himself. She’s with the Champions; she’ll be safer than me.
He heaved the sack of his belongings onto his shoulder and climbed up onto the deck. His joints ached, and he had to move carefully to avoid a spill, but he managed to get everything in place.
No way he was going to carry it all down the ramp, though. He’d have one of the Imperial Guards do it.
But when he reached the deck, he realized there was no Guard up here. They were both standing at the bottom of the ramp, looming over a little girl.
She trembled under their scrutiny as they held a hooded quicklamp over her head, examining her in the dark. Her hair was redder than the Captain’s and she hid most of her face behind a tall collar. She was telling a story and pointing to the ship.
Foster grumbled as he carried his own luggage down the ramp. He should have hired a porter.
When he was halfway to the Guards, the girl’s eyes lit up and she pointed straight to him. “Dalton Foster! Are you Miss Petal’s friend?”
One of the Guards asked another question, but Foster elbowed him aside and put on his reading-glasses so he could see the girl better. “You know Petal?”
“She sent me here for her things, but I was supposed to go find you after.”
The girl was shaking like a leaf, but she put plenty of power in her voice, as though she was forcing herself to confront a monster.
Good for her, but Foster didn’t think of himself as quite that scary. “Why does she need her stuff?”
The girl glanced up at the two Imperial Guards and shook her head.
Foster carefully lowered his bag to the ground. “Keep an eye on this,” he told the Guards. Then he gestured to the girl and started heading up the ramp.
Dutifully, she followed him.
Only when they were out of earshot did she start speaking, and she still whispered. That was probably wise; neither of the Imperial Guards looked like they had giant ears or anything, but there was never any telling with their kind.
“The Steward is alive,” she said.
Foster wasn’t surprised, so he didn’t understand the wave of relief that hit him when he heard the news. “That so? He’s looking to skip town, then?”
That would be the wise move, but if so, Calder should have shown up on the ship.
The girl shook her head vigorously. “He’s been stabbed. I think he’s going to…die…if Miss Petal doesn’t get her things.”
Foster ran a hand through his beard, thinking. If one of the Independents got him, that probably meant Gardeners. And if the Gardeners stabbed him but failed to kill him…
He leaned closer. “Tell me, girl. You saw him?”
She nodded.
“Was he wearing all-white armor?”
She nodded again.
Petal had been right to call him.
Foster looked back down the ramp and barked at the Guards, “Change of plans! Get up here double-speed. We’ve got packages to move and no time to drag our feet. Step to it! The Steward’s life is in danger!”
The Imperial Guard would have plenty of questions, but he’d have to answer them after they were already on the way.
He directed them down below deck. “Pick up the pace. Once you’re done with that, we have another stop.”
Andel put the list down, finishing his recitation. “…and twenty pounds of dried lentils.”
The merchant leaned over the counter. Metz was a grizzled man with wild hair, a bright red shirt, and a left eye that seemed permanently locked in a squint. He surveyed Andel, his one open eye flicking to the door as though he expected to be inspected at any second.
“I can get you baby Kameira,” Metz growled. “You name the species.”
Andel tapped his list. “This will do fine, thank you.”
“An executioner’s cowl dating back to the eighth century. No one will recognize you in it, no matter what you get up to.”
“I’m here for supplies, sir.”
Andel had been hired on as part of a noble family’s estate, and he’d found the staff in a pitiful state. Not a one of them had any idea how to stock a pantry or plan an event. They were about to throw a feast for some of the more influential visiting Guild members, and the instructions they had given their servants were to “buy some food.”
Andel had been hired at the perfect time to save them from themselves, but for some reason this merchant seemed to think “twenty bags of beans” was code for something.
“All right, I can see you’re a man of discriminating taste. Yes indeed.” Metz chuckled and carefully withdrew a long box from beneath his counter. He flipped it open with dramatic flourish, revealing a rust-spotted cavalry saber.
“A saber from the South Sea Rebellion. Filled with the resentment of dead men, and still spotted with the blood of Baldezar Kern himself.”
Half the flagstones in the Imperial Palace are spotted with Kern’s blood, Andel thought, but he maintained a businesslike smile.
“Perhaps I have come to the wrong place. If you don’t stock foodstuff, then it was my mistake, and I will return to you when I need…tools of dubious origin.”
Metz stood up straight, crossing thick arms and regarding Andel through his narrowed eye. Andel could only hope that the message had penetrated.
“I see. I see who I’m dealing with now.” He raised one finger. “Give me half a minute and I’ll come back with something that will knock you right out of your boots.”
Metz packed the cavalry saber away and stuck it back under his counter before marching into the back room of his shop.
“I hope it’s rice,” Andel called after him.
Someone tugged at his sleeve, and he looked down to see a little girl with a cloud of fiery red hair and an expression like she was staring down a bear.
Andel immediately thought of Petal.
He smiled down on her. “Is there something I can do for you, ma’am?
”
“Are you Andel Petronus?”
So she’d been looking for him. Interesting.
The only people who knew he was here worked for his employer, but he was still surprised they had sent someone after him so late at night.
“I am. And who are you?”
“I’m Lotta, but I’m supposed to tell you that I came from Mister Dalton Foster. He needs you to go to the chapter house of the Champions on Peregrine street.”
Andel’s eyebrows lifted.
Calder had been supposed to deliver a public address a few hours ago, but Andel hadn’t attended. He would have expected Foster to lure him to the Imperial Palace, not a chapter house. If this was an attempt to persuade him to leave his employer and join a Guild, this was…strange, to say the least.
“Did he say why?” Andel asked.
Lotta’s eyes flicked nervously to the back. “He said to tell you that your Captain’s life is in danger.”
Andel’s breath caught and his heart clenched, but he regained control of himself a moment later. It couldn’t be too urgent, or the entire city would be in an uproar.
Unless…if the Imperial Palace had been sealed off, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten word yet. He’d been working all night, and it took time for news to travel across the Capital.
His voice was colder than he intended when he asked, “Do you know what happened?”
She shook her head too rapidly, sending her hair flying everywhere. “They carried him in bleeding, and they said he was dead, but Miss Petal said he wasn’t.”
This time, Andel stopped breathing.
He reached into the holster beneath his white coat, checking his pistol, then turned across the counter as Metz returned. He carried a brown sack in his arms.
“Not only is this rice, but it’s an ancient strain of alchemically enhanced, Kameira-blessed—”
“Change of plans,” Andel interrupted. He put a thumb behind his White Sun medallion and lifted it. “I need one of these, I don’t intend to ask any questions about where it came from, and I need it now.”
Metz’s grin split his face, and he tossed down the bag of rice as though it contained garbage. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”