Beneath the Keep

by Erika Johansen

  “Put me down!” he shouted, raising his sword, and without thinking Niya reached up and grabbed his leg.

  “No, Barty!” she shouted. “Do not!”

  Barty gaped down at her, but at that moment the crowd reached Elyssa, pulling her from the steps and hoisting her high in the air. Niya took a trembling, relieved breath . . . but not too relieved. There was no danger in the mob, but the Fetch had placed his finger on the heart of the matter: when Arla found out about this little excursion, the world itself might shudder open.

  “True Queen! True Queen!”

  All around Niya people screamed the words, transported, and despite her misgivings, Niya too was borne along. She didn’t know whether Elyssa was the True Queen or not, but in that moment it hardly mattered, for she was swept along with them, tears rolling down her face, screaming in jubilation as the people carried them off: the eight guards and the True Queen, borne out of the Circus and into the heart of the city.

  Book II

  Chapter 13

  THE DEEP PATCH

  And now we must turn our attention to Arlen Thorne, who presents a unique puzzle for a historian. Who was this man, who started as a simple Creche sale and went on to a career of such infamy that, each year on William Tear’s Day, men would dig up his grave and literally piss on the bones? We could call Thorne many things: pimp, villain, traitor, butcher, criminal . . . even war criminal, as the later Glynn archives reveal. All of these names fit, yes, but their use remains an empty exercise in vocabulary, for history has shown us that the Arlen Thornes of this world are far too complex for a single term. His kind defies description.

  —Famous Traitors of the Tear: A Compendium, Evan Crawford

  Christian thought that finding Arlen Thorne would be an easy matter, for rumors about the young pimp flew around the Creche like moths. They said that he was a noble’s bastard, sold into the Creche shortly after birth. That he had had some sort of wasting disease as a baby, so that his body would not take nourishment, keeping him thin as a rail. They said he owned a seer, a woman of fabulous ghost-white skin whose eyes could dissect a man. All of the rumors combined to create a figure who was positively glamorous by Creche lights, and so Christian had assumed that the voices of the Creche would direct him straight to Thorne, like signposts in the dark.

  But Thorne’s stable was not easy to find. He denned in the Deep Patch, and Christian tried never to go there, for even in the twisted moral hierarchy of the Creche, the Deep Patch had an unpleasant reputation. Dogfighting ran on the fourth level, and if one had a stranger fetish than children, he was likely to find it on the fifth. Few men down there would talk about Thorne at all, and they were particularly reluctant to talk about Thorne’s stable. But Christian finally found a man he knew, a longtime ring promoter who now handled dogs, and this man directed Christian to a stifling recess on the fifth level.

  The enforcer on the arched doorway was an easy piece of business, half asleep. Christian covered his mouth with one hand and wrapped the other around his neck, cracking it easily. Killing a man outside the ring, he had found, was no different from inside, not when the death was necessary. After laying the slumping figure against the outer wall, Christian pulled the spiked club—the mace, he reminded himself; one of the men he had questioned had told him its name—from his belt and crept through the archway.

  He found himself in a squalid little cave that made Mrs. Evans’s common room look the height of luxury. Then, as he saw them scattered around the room, Christian finally understood the secrecy surrounding Thorne’s stable, the reason no one would talk about this place, not even in the Deep Patch.

  In the far corner were two dwarves, a boy and a girl. They sat together on a low sofa, clearly built for their height, but even standing, Christian thought that they would not reach his thighs. One of them held a thin boy, perhaps five years old, whose right arm was a withered stalk.

  Nearer to the fire, sitting on a small stool, were two little girls, twins. At the sight of them, Christian instinctively lowered his mace. The twins turned to look at him, and he saw that they were joined, their hips fused. All of these children were filthy, their faces and arms and legs smeared with soot.

  “Good morning,” the boy with the withered arm said, smiling shyly. “How can we help you? What sort of diversion do you seek?”

  For a long moment, Christian could not reply. He thought he had seen every terrible thing the tunnels could conjure, but that was the nature of the Creche, wasn’t it? There was always something worse, waiting just around the corner of the world he knew.

  “Where is Thorne?” he asked, in a voice that stuck in his throat.

  For a moment, none of them answered him. The boy’s bright smile disappeared, like a candle snuffing out, and then he pointed down a corridor to Christian’s right. Feeling as though something enormous had lodged in his airway, Christian turned and stalked softly down the corridor, which ended in a door that stood slightly ajar. Bright torchlight leaked around the edges. Christian paused, blinking, trying to clear the obstacle in his chest.

  “You said she would be easy to control,” said a man behind the door.

  “She will be, master,” a woman replied, her voice cool and pleasant. “But we must have the sapphire first, and it must come of her own free will. Try to take it by force, and we will both suffer.”

  There were at least two of them in there. The fact that one was a woman made no mind; in the Creche, women were often as dangerous as men. Christian crouched down, placing his ear beside the edge of the door, trying to decide where each stood in the room.

  “Have it your way,” Thorne replied, his voice betraying impatience. “But it’s taking too long.”

  “Do not rush me, master.” The woman’s voice had lowered into a snarl. Christian was almost certain she was on the far side of the room. “You have made that mistake before.”

  “I am not trying to rush you, dearest, but that cunt has upset everything with her damned sermon. The prophecy was already causing problems, and now this? It’s an earthquake.”

  “Trust me, master. Youth is vulnerable, and the girl has many cracks to be used against the mother. I have already begun.”

  “And what of the Blue Horizon? The Fetch?”

  “He is a difficult mark, but I am tracking him. They have a spy in the Queen’s Wing; I am sure of it.”

  Christian had heard enough. He was certain that they were both standing on the far side of the room, opposite the door. Taking a good grip on his mace, he batted the door aside and charged into the room.

  Thorne sat behind a large oak desk. Later, Christian would remember nothing of this desk except that it was perfectly clean; only Thorne’s clasped hands rested on top.

  “Welcome, Lazarus.”

  Christian leapt forward, raising the mace, his other hand reaching for Thorne’s neck. But the leap ended abortively; he felt his muscles seize, his brain unable to command, to give even the simplest orders. He crashed to the floor, landing painfully on one elbow, and lay there, staring wide-eyed at his mace, which had landed two feet away.

  “I expected you to be along, as soon as you heard about your whore. And here you are, as predictable as time!”

  Christian tried to get up, but he could not move. He couldn’t even see clearly. All of his senses were off; Thorne’s voice sounded first in front of him, then off to the side. Christian sensed another presence standing behind him, but he couldn’t make himself roll over to see.

  “Let him speak,” Thorne said, and Christian felt the tightness that locked his throat suddenly ease, allowing him to groan.

  “I am curious, Lazarus, as to what you intended in coming here. I’m not the one who harmed your whore.”

  “You pimped her out,” Christian snarled. He tried to push himself up again, but his arms would hold no weight.

  “So I did,” Thorne replied. “But what of
that? She was pimped out long before I came on the scene.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Topside, and you should be thanking me for that. You know the survival rate for whores down here.”

  Christian wrenched himself from the ground, his breath shrieking through his teeth with the effort. He made it two inches, then collapsed, all the strength running out of him.

  “I told you to hold him!” Thorne snapped.

  “I am,” the woman’s cool voice answered behind Christian. “But he’s a fighter.”

  Of course I’m a fighter, Christian began to say, then stopped, for she had not been talking about the ring. And now Christian realized who the unseen speaker must be: Thorne’s witch, the fabled white woman of the Creche, who killed men with a single glance. Christian had never believed the stories, but now he was fast reconsidering. Each of his muscles seemed to be clamped in its own vise.

  “I’m going to bind you now,” Thorne told him. “You may struggle if you wish, but it will avail you little. Brenna saw you coming. She always does. She would end you if I allowed it.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  “Oh, you’re much too valuable to kill, Lazarus. Arliss has put two hundred pounds on your head, and he’ll be along presently to collect you. That’s why I don’t mind you listening behind doors.”

  “Arliss?” Christian asked stupidly. He had forgotten all about the dealer.

  “Brenna says you’re clever, but I think not. Attacking the biggest poppy man in the Creche? What could you possibly hope to gain?”

  “It wasn’t about gain.”

  “No? Then you are a fool.” Thorne began to bind his ankles. Christian could not even move a muscle to try to fight him.

  Blindsided. This is what it feels like. At last I know.

  “Who was Maura’s client?” he asked Thorne. “Who marked her up?”

  “And why should I tell you that?”

  “Because whoever he is, he damaged the merchandise. Bad for business.”

  Thorne paused, his arms braced on his knees, and gave Christian an odd, speculative look.

  “That’s true, you know. I don’t like the beaters. Don’t understand them. I don’t know why they can’t simply take the fuck they paid for and be done. Transaction is efficient. Violence is waste.”

  “So give me the beater’s name. I’ll rid the earth of him.”

  Thorne chuckled. “Bold words, Lazarus. But once Arliss gets here, you’ll be in no position to storm the Keep. It’ll be all you can do to pray for a swift death.”

  The Keep. Christian seized on the words, making no murmur as Thorne began binding his wrists. Christian knew little of the Keep, only that it was where the royals lived, a giant pile of stone somewhere in the city. But if Maura was there, then there Christian would have to go.

  I have to live, he thought grimly. I have to live somehow, if only to find her and kill the client. And if I run upon any more members of that fucking club, I’ll kill them too.

  “Benny!” Thorne called, and after a moment one of the dwarves wandered through the door.

  “Sir?”

  “Send a runner to Arliss. Tell him we have Lazarus.”

  The dwarf disappeared.

  “Lovely stable you have out there, Thorne,” Christian muttered. “I thought I’d seen every fucked-up thing the Creche had to offer, but you—”

  “Why be dramatic?” Thorne asked. “I’m a businessman, no different from any other. I judge no man, merely offer wares that people want to buy. Grotesquerie raises value.”

  “I hope it’s me who ends you.”

  “Unlikely.” Thorne looked up at the witch. “Arliss will bring drugs, but even bound, I don’t trust this one not to make a fuss. Put him out, will you?”

  He turned back to Christian.

  “Well, Lazarus, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you. I don’t expect we’ll meet again.”

  Christian tried to answer him but could not, for his mind seemed suddenly as ineffectual as his body. He was exhausted, too tired to string words together. His thoughts seemed to crawl through mud. He wondered if this was how most people went to sleep, drifting off easily, while he tossed and turned in the darkness.

  “This is a curious piece of work,” Thorne murmured. He had picked up the mace now, and begun examining it. “Should I sell it, do you think?”

  “No,” the woman’s low voice answered. “Give it to the bookmaker. A favor, to cement future dealings. Arliss is about to move topside. When you move into the Keep, we’ll need friends in the Gut.”

  The Keep, Christian thought muzzily. Thorne was going to the Keep. But what business could a Creche pimp possibly have there?

  Christian’s eyes sank closed.

  Chapter 14

  IN THE MOMENT

  Youth is a time of great wonder, and more of foolishness. But the wages of even the most extreme foolishness cannot entirely eclipse the wonder. Some moments are never forgotten.

  —The Words of the Glynn Queen, as recorded by Father Tyler

  When Elyssa woke, she was standing just outside the witch’s door.

  She didn’t know how she had gotten there. Barty was nowhere in sight, nor were any of her other guards. It was late, and the corridor was deserted. But that couldn’t be. Even in the dead of night, there were always two guards on her mother’s door, at least.

  How did I get here?

  She had gone to bed early. In the past few days, she always found herself sleepy in the early evening. The weather, undoubtedly; as June moved into July, the heat had climbed, and now it was almost unbearable. It had been eleven days since the night in the Circus; her mother had not summoned her yet, and Elyssa, in no hurry to hasten that process, had been taking dinner in her room. It seemed only natural to go to sleep afterward. And—

  And how did I get here?

  Elyssa looked around again, seeing no movement beyond the torches, flickering in their holders. The corridor stretched away from her on either side, seeming much longer than it did in the daytime. And now she was beset by an uncomfortable certainty: she was all alone in the Queen’s Wing. The entire Keep was deserted. When she closed her eyes, she could visualize the city of New London below her, eerily silent, not a soul in sight. She was the only one left in the entire Tearling, and the silence of her kingdom pressed in upon her, as though the world were a tomb.

  Get hold of yourself! her mind snapped. You’ve been sleepwalking, that’s all, and tonight you had the bad fortune to do it while Barty snuck off to the john.

  But there were always two guards on Elyssa’s chamber, always. And where was Niya? Elyssa could not remember a single night when she had been wakeful that Niya did not present herself within seconds. For a moment Elyssa debated going to Niya’s room and waking her up, but then something crawled over her skin, tickling, like fingers, making her gasp. There was nothing there, but she ran her hands up her arms all the same, trying to rid herself of the sensation. She couldn’t stay out here in the hallway forever; she was wearing only her shift, and she was freezing.

  Go on, her mind whispered. Go into her room. You’ve been wanting to for days.

  Elyssa frowned at the certainty in that voice. Ever since the heat had climbed, she had been having terrible dreams, but their substance faded far too fast for Elyssa to remember upon waking. Only one image stuck with her, and it was so fleeting that she could not describe it without sounding foolish: a pair of blind eyes, hovering over her in the dark. The vision seemed so real that Elyssa had sat up, clutching her sapphire, and for a moment, she could have sworn that the jewel had been glowing bright blue.

  Without knowing it, Elyssa had put a hand on the door handle. Voices echoed in her mind. The sapphire cushioned between her breasts seemed to throb, as though it were alive.

  She’s in there, waiting. Casting
her bones and waiting for you.

  Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.

  You can have everything you want. But you must have the courage to act.

  Abruptly Elyssa turned and fled down the corridor. It seemed to lengthen before her, the end retreating from her flying feet, but at last she reached the door she wanted. For a long, terrible moment she thought that she would find it locked, but the handle moved easily under her fingers.

  The infirmary was dark, save for a single candle burning at Gareth’s bedside. The flame illuminated the tiny bell that Beale had given him to ring for aid. Beale was gone; as the senior medic, he did not work nights. But his two assistants sat snoring in the corner, not awakening even when Elyssa closed the door loudly behind her.

  My God, she thought wildly. She has put them all to sleep! The entire castle! It was like something from a fairy tale, but not the pretty kind that Elyssa had enjoyed as a child. She felt as though she had stumbled into Lady Glynn’s old book of Grimm, where fair faces hid cold intentions and queens were always demanding someone’s cut-out heart. When Elyssa’s mother had banished Lady Glynn from court, Lady Glynn had taken her enormous library of books with her, but Elyssa had already read most of them, and the Grimm had always stuck in her mind. The fairest of face could not be trusted, but did that make a grotesque-looking creature like Brenna any more trustworthy? Elyssa didn’t think so.