But then Devan relaxed his face, and he fixed his smirk—that smirk—on his uncle. “Say, pally,” he asked, loudly, gregariously. “Whatcha got there?”
Tolem glared at Devan. Quickly, wordlessly, he closed the suitcase again and headed back toward the gaming hall. Picking up his cane, Devan followed close behind. As Tolem headed into the crowd, Devan walked calmly, comfortably, up to the nearest guard. “That man,” Devan said, pointing after Tolem. “He had something in his suitcase. When I asked him about it, he got very… uncomfortable.”
Without a word, the guard set out after Tolem, motioning for another two guards to join him as he edged through the crowd. Across the gaming hall, Devan saw Tolem round a corner and slip out of sight. When the guards got there, he’d be long gone. Word would spread among the guards to be on the lookout for a tall, dark, bearded man carrying a brown case. And that's where the guards' attention would be.
Devan adjusted his wig again and smiled. He turned and headed back to the drink station.
Zella
As Zella waited, she whistled. She whistled that same stupid, eight-note tune that Tolem taught them. There was a time when she thought of that melody as an anthem, proclaiming her power. Now? Now it just reminded her of his ugly, scowling face and the ugly, patronizing things he'd said a week ago.
She would have given anything to get that song out of her head.
Out of breath from climbing the stairs, Samus trudged over to her, maneuvering around the crowd that was pushing its way through the Grand Arch. “You're certainly a vision of...” He looked over her drab, conservative attire. “...something.”
“Thanks,” Zella said flatly.
“I would say you're getting ready to play a dangerous game, girl, but based on what Nalan says you have planned, I'll be surprised if you get invited to the table.”
Zella just stared at him.
His features softened. “Some advice. At least open up a few buttons. Thomme Faerathore has only a few uses for women. Advice on security measures isn't one of them.”
“That changes today,” Zella said coolly, smoothing her skirt.
Samus got in close to her face. “No. It won't. He's not going to listen to you. If you don't have your tits hanging out, you might as well get your fiancé to whip you up an invisibility cloak.”
Zella's eyes focused on something far away. Something in Samus' condescending tone reminded her of Instructor Tevill, Instructor Pyrinne, and Instructor Shabbol. They always sounded so certain of what she could and couldn’t do. She grew up with them nattering in her ear about her limitations, and no matter how many times she proved them wrong, they always came back with a fresh new load of barriers, excuses, complaints, problems. Her parents told her they were just pushing her to be the best she could be. If that were the case, Zella doubted she would have sensed such gleeful anticipation pouring off them every time they believed she was about to fail a trial.
Zella could sense that same gleeful anticipation coming from Samus as he held up his hands. “Fine. You win,” he said. “Worst case scenario, I keep working here, in the most opulent stronghold in six worlds, while you and your friends are executed on the spot.” He offered her his arm. “Ready?”
She took it, and they made their way up the south staircase. Up on the mezzanine, the ball gowns were more extravagant, the feast foods more exotic, the decor more sumptuous. On one side, a railing looked out over the gaming hall. On the other, a railing looked out over the arena.
In between, the crowd was shaped like a whirlwind, and at its eye was Thomme Faerathore, the pale, rigid-looking man at the center of everyone's attention. It was one of the few nights each year when the judgment angel descended to consort with the mere mortals.
He didn't smile. He barely moved. His sharp, angular features framed a pair of dark eyes that seemed to analyze every person he looked at, as if he were trying to determine the best angle from which to tear them apart.
As Zella and Samus approached, Faerathore had those cruel eyes trained on the principal executive of the Kaulethi Merchant Guild. “Mr. Faerathore,” Samus said. He cast his gaze toward the floor as his employer turned to acknowledge him. “It is my exquisite pleasure to introduce Ms. Zora of the Gulls, late of the Azjeeri Sultan's guard, where she served as captain. She has a proposition she wishes to discuss, if it pleases you.”
Halfway through the introduction, Faerathore turned back to the head of the merchant guild without uttering so much as a word of recognition.
“Mr. Faerathore,” Zella said, stepping forward, “I just wanted to say that your security is a joke.” With that, she reached into her pocket and produced a simple gold medallion—one that Devan had spotted Faerathore wearing the night they'd arrived at The Palace.
She let the medallion dangle from her fingers and smiled confidently. Faerathore turned his attention from the guild master and looked her way.
He sighed.
“Young woman,” he said. There was a cold precision to his voice; it reminded Zella of the sound of water freezing. “It is...unlikely...that you were able to enter my quarters without permission. It is more likely that you crafted a forgery of my order's sigil in a misguided attempt to curry my favor and sway me to do business with you.” He looked as though the act of explaining this to Zella was exhausting to him. “It would not be the first time.”
In point of fact, the medallion was authentic. After the dressing down from Tolem last week, Zella and Devan spent most of that night breaking into Faerathore's suite in the central tower. He was right—someone breaking into his chambers was unlikely. But not impossible.
“Failing to fool and manipulate me is the best thing that could have happened to you today, miss.” Faerathore looked into his wine glass and swirled the dark merlot around the inside. “Had I chosen to believe you, you would be dead now.” He looked over to Samus. “Your consort, as well.”
Samus looked to the floor, his bald head instantly turning a deep purple.
“In the future, I suggest you choose your sales tactics with greater care,” he said with finality. “Good day.”
Zella stood there, eyes distant, the medallion still dangling from her fingers. Abruptly, Samus took her by the arm and pulled her off to the side of the crowd.
“Are you ready to listen to me yet?” he hissed at her. His head was still glowing violet.
Zella's eyes flicked back and forth as she weighed her options. “Go,” she said quietly.
Samus arched both eyebrows. “Go?” He sputtered. “Young lady. What do you expect to accomplish here?”
Zella didn't answer. She just waved him away. Samus scoffed and turned to leave.
Placing two fingers on her forehead, Zella closed her eyes and opened her thoughts.
Allister
A guard approached the drink stand. Here he comes, said the voice in Allister’s head. This is the one. He’s the one who’s coming for you.
Allister kept mopping the tabletop with his rag. He tried not to look up to see what the guard was doing. He was just another in a long line of security men following his rounds, keeping an eye on everyone. Nothing to worry about.
Still…
Allister snuck a quick look out of the corner of his eye.
He saw that, said the voice. He saw that and now he knows. He knows what you’re doing. He knows and now he’s coming this way.
Allister kept mopping the tabletop. The guard kept on getting closer.
Here he cuh-umms... the voice sang. Here he CUH-ummmms...Here he CUH—
The guard walked past Allister without a second look.
Wha...where’s he going? the voice asked. Ah, must’ve been an honest mistake. I’m sure he’ll be back as soon as he realizes what an egregious oversight he’s made.
Silently, Allister thanked the gods one more time for his beard.
Uncertainty had been his constant compa
nion for weeks. Every day, he expected the guards to descend on him, or to come back to their suite and find a coven of mages holding Allister's toiletries case, proclaiming their bomb to be a fake. But nothing had happened. No armies at his door in the middle of the night, no quiet chats with The Palace administrators asking to negotiate. Not even a glimmer of recognition in the eyes of one of the guards.
Behind the bar, his hands were shaking. He wanted very badly to scream, or to puke, or to run out of the room screaming and puking. Honestly—if someone didn’t execute him soon, it was going to kill him.
Allister cringed. He hoped the others couldn't hear the note of panic in Zella's thoughts.
Allister pressed his thumb to his ring finger to open the channel.
Devan returned from the comfort room as Allister finished his thought. As he approached, Devan made a face at Allister, indicating his concern over Zella’s situation. Allister nodded, wide-eyed. He seemed to be having trouble breathing. “Ah!” Devan said, looking past him. “Perfect timing.”
“Evening, boys,” Phaedra cooed as she rolled up with her serving cart. “Ready?”
Devan raised an eyebrow at Phaedra. Allister couldn’t blame him. Even chef's whites look good on that girl, he thought.
“Well?” Phaedra put a hand on her hip.
“Where you go, how can I help but follow?” Devan asked in his smoothest tones.
Properly scolded, Allister fell quiet.
Devan and Allister followed as Phaedra's hypnotically swaying hips led them back behind the service area curtain and into the labyrinth beyond. For the moment, the hall was clear. Allister climbed inside the serving cart first, pushing aside their equipment bags that Phaedra had stashed inside. Devan took a moment longer, wincing as he situated his bad leg in the cramped space that was left. As soon as he was in, Phaedra repositioned the cart’s fabric covering and resumed pushing the cart down the bumpy cobblestone hallway.
Allister and Devan untied their hard-soled server's shoes and placed them into another bag. On their prior visit, Allister and Nalan became very familiar with how merciless the acoustics could be in the tunnels. The sound of footsteps seemed to carry forever.
The cart stopped. “Where you headed, Phaedra?” a deep voice asked.
“Guard station two,” came Phaedra's baby voice from the other side of the fabric. “Traumo and Ghude are getting a present from the top floor.”
Allister hoped Devan wouldn't notice the expression on his face through his fake beard; he wouldn’t need the link to read his mind. The top floor was where their suite had been.
“You got any wine under there?” the deep voice asked. His heavy steel boots clanked loudly across the floor, circling around the cart, getting closer. On a night like this, the Cenerons were being extra cautious, dressing their guardsmen in full plate armor instead of their usual silk-covered quiet mail.
“No. No wine in there for staff tonight,” Phaedra said. Her voice sounded different. Less playful. Below the curtain, Allister could see the boots approach.
“You sure?”
Allister bit his lip.
“Yep,” Phaedra said. There was a shaking noise, like someone jostling a wine bottle. “I keep it in my satchel.” She lowered her voice to a playful whisper. “Don't tell Samus?”
“On my oath,” the guard whispered back. The bottle sloshed again as he took it from her. “You know the way?”
“I know the way.”
“Don't work too hard, beautiful.” The boots clanked across the floor again, moving away. Allister's body unclenched.
Devan adjusted his wig; the sweat on his brow plastered wisps of it to his forehead.
You’re an idiot, said the voice in Allister’s head. And Devan knows it. You’re a twitchy mess and you’re going to blow the whole thing.
A few hundred feet from guard station two, Phaedra tapped Allister on the back through the cart’s draping. The pair lifted the draping and scurried out into an unlit side passage, Devan carrying his cane and hopping on one stockinged foot to cover the distance as quickly as possible.
Phaedra continued on her way. Once she made her delivery to Traumo and Ghude, she would return to the drink station to keep watch and wait for them to return. Assuming she didn’t alert the guards to their presence instead.
Allister pointed.
Arachnus
In the gladiator pens, Breigh stalked back and forth, back and forth. Her eyes were fixed on Arachnus' she never broke her gaze. Occasionally she would snap her teeth at him. Sometimes she would growl. She worked her hands open and closed, open and closed. She rolled her head back on her shoulders.
The third pair of fighters walked past them and into the arena. As they pushed through the curtain and into the daylight, a column of radiant light filled the darkened pens, blinding Arachnus for a moment. He blinked, and when his eyesight returned, Breigh had stopped. She was just standing there, perfectly still, across the hall from his cage. Her sudden stillness confused his sense of balance; after watching her in motion for so long, he felt like he’d stepped off ship after a long trip at sea. He barely kept himself from lurching to one side.
Breigh's eyes bored into him. Her neck and shoulder muscles twitched, as though she were barely holding back from lunging against the cage door and gnawing on the bars. Arachnus could hear her breathing, deep and resonant. Eyes dipped in madness, Breigh smiled. She smiled like crib death. She smiled like cancer.
“Want to know a secret?” She whispered, between labored breaths.
Arachnus didn't answer. He watched her. Under his mask, he bit his lip.
Breigh threw her head back and screamed. She screamed like she was trying to injure her own body through the act of screaming. She screamed like she was scraping together every pain and horror of her young lifetime and gouge it into her foeman’s soul.
In shock, Arachnus stumbled backwards and caught himself on the wall behind him, arms spread wide to steady himself. He too was breathing heavily now, in quiet, desperate rasps.
Breigh beamed. She grabbed the door of her cell with both hands and shook it as hard as she could. “Guards!” She bellowed through a tattered, raw throat. “Guards! We are ready! We are ready!”
“Let us make war!”
Phaedra
Ten minutes later, she heard a voice over her shoulder.
“Phaedra!”
Her eyes widened. She looked to the curtain behind her; Devan's eyes were peering out at her from under his wig and beard. She could see one hand motioning to her, urging her to follow.
Turning to the nearly empty gaming floor, Phaedra backed up to the curtain. Satisfied no one was watching, she stepped through.
Devan pressed his body up to hers. “We have a problem,” he said into her ear. “Get the cart.”
---
A short cart ride later, Devan led Phaedra down the same dark passage she’d taken them to earlier. With his cane in one hand, he felt along the walls with the other. “The last time Niro and Appleford were down this way,” he whispered to Phaedra as he worked, “they made two important discoveries. The first was a patch of wall where the stonework was a little…” He stopped and smirked over at Phaedra. “...rougher than the others.”
Phaedra looked up the seemingly sheer wall. The corridor was too dark to see how high up it went. She bit her lip.
Taking a moment to secure his cane on a loop of his belt, Devan dug his fingers into the cracked masonry and began to climb. He let his legs hang, leaving Phaedra on the ground marveling at how strong his arms were. He’d told her once that he’d been making up for his handicap his entire life; now she could see what he meant by that.
She wasn’t nearly the climber Devan was, even with both hands and both feet, but by the time she got halfway up the wall, he reached down with his cane to help her up. “Welcome to Niro and Appleford’s second important discovery,” Devan said from the ledge he was sitting on. By the time she scrambled up next to him, she was breathing hard, and a thin sheen of sweat had formed on her brow.
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