“You okay?” asked Devan.
She nodded. “Fine,” she said. “Just...we’re kind of high up.”
“You work on a flying casino,” Devan said, “and you’re afraid of heights?”
Phaedra was really beginning to hate that smirk of his.She showed him her teeth. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was definitely an invitation to drop the subject. “So, now what?” she asked.
The ledge ran the full length of the passageway before snaking around the corner and leading down the main corridor. Scuttling sideways, they made it all the way to the lock room. While they barely saw a soul in the hallway below them, the ones they did see never glanced their direction.
When Devan lowered Phaedra to the floor again, she very nearly screamed. He had dropped her directly in front of the door to the lock room, and standing there, staring out into the hallway, were three guardsmen in full plate armor, hands resting on the hilts of their swords.
Allister poked his head out from around the door jam, sans wig and beard. He motioned to Phaedra and pulled her around the corner, where they couldn't be seen from the hallway. In a moment, Devan had joined them. Meanwhile, the guards stared out into the hall, still as statues, seeing and hearing nothing.
“The guards are frozen, and this room is muffled. You can talk here,” Allister said quickly. With his wig and beard laying discarded in the corner, he was free to run his hand through his hair over and over again.
“So here's what's going on,” Devan said, turning Phaedra by the shoulder to look out across the small white room. “You and I can’t see it, but there’s an invisible locking mechanism that fills this room. It’s like…” He hunted for an analogy. “If you can picture a teleportation spell that’s always on, acting like a…like a coal chute. This invisible lock keeps the door to that coal chute closed to anyone who can’t unlock it. Make sense?”
Devan sounded worried. Devan never sounded worried. Phaedra found it getting harder to breathe. “Makes sense,” she said.
“So the locking mechanism,” Devan continued, wiping the sweat from under his fake hair, “it's suspended in space between these three tiles.” With the tip of his cane, he pointed to the three small, bronze-colored panels embedded into the room’s white plaster walls. They each had an embossed floral pattern on it, and the one closest to them looked like it had been pried out of its housing and then replaced. “The idea was, we make some replicas of the original tiles, then we pry the originals out of the walls, replace them with the fakes, and get the real tiles back to our suite.”
“The idea was…?” Phaedra asked, focusing in on just that one word.
Devan squatted down beside a small wooden tray on the floor. In it, Phaedra saw a white blob of what looked like plaster, with a brown blob pressed to the top of it. He peeled the brown blob off the white blob and turned it over. The white blob was a plaster mold; the underside of the brown blob now bore a floral pattern identical to the original tiles.
“Part one of the plan is working fine,” Devan said, setting the brown blob down next to two other identical forgeries.
Allister leaned in between them abruptly, hissing, “It’s parts two through four that have gone tits-fucking-up.”
The tickle of panic that had been growing more and more intense in Phaedra’s chest was now more of a stabbing sensation. She put a hand to her lips. “Oh no. Oh no.”
“Yeah. That's roughly what I said.” Allister was pacing back and forth furiously. “Something in that vein, anyway.”
Devan held his hands up, palms out to Phaedra. “We have a plan.”
Allister laughed coldly and said nothing.
“Well, what?” Phaedra was unconsciously fanning herself with one hand. “What do you need me for? What can I do?”
“First,” Devan said calmly, fixing his eyes on hers. “You can calm down. All right? Deep breaths?”
Phaedra nodded curtly. She tried breathing.
Devan continued, “Now, Appleford…” he cast an icy glance over his shoulder back at Allister. Allister looked down at his feet. “...was under the impression that, if I took all three of the tiles...”
Devan held his hands well apart from one another.
“...and, say, put them in my pocket…”
Devan brought his hands together.
“...the locking mechanism would just sort of...fold up. And then we could take it wherever we needed to take it.”
“But that's not how it works?” Phaedra squeaked.
Allister shook his head. “No, that's not how it works.” He ran his hands through his hair some more. A few red strands fluttered free and floated around the room. “The tiles need to be roughly the same distance apart at all times. Too far or too close and the mechanism warps, the lock breaks, and we're fucked.”
“But we have a plan,” Devan said, pulling her eyes back to him. “And we're going to need your help.” His eyes softened. “Can you be brave for us, Phaedra?”
Eyes wide, Phaedra looked around the room. Statued guards. Jittery mages. And magic tiles that were sure to bring mages running. Her shoulders slumped and she let out a little whimper.
“Phaedra.” Devan pulled off his beard and wig and took her hands in his. His eyes were extra soft this time. “If this is going to work, it's going to be on you. I need to know we can trust you.”
Phaedra looked down at the floor, shielded her eyes with her hands, then covered her mouth. At last, she nodded. “Okay.” She tried to smile. “For you, Drake.”
Devan smiled for both of them and stroked her cheek gently.
---
All of the carts were chained up outside the lock room door; freeing one was small work for Allister, but Phaedra kept watch all the same. With the guards all down in the betting parlor, the hallways were practically deserted, but better safe than sorry. Meanwhile, Devan finished replacing the tiles with his plaster fakes.
When that was complete, Devan and Allister slid their shoes back on. The two of them and Phaedra each took one of the real tiles in hand and stood in front of the spot in the wall where it used to be. The cart was on the rails in the center of the room, up against the two bumper poles.
Devan stood at the back wall of the room facing the hallway. He slid his belt around so his pouch was on his backside. He slid the tile inside.
Allister turned to face out into the hallway and slid his tile into his right pocket.
Phaedra did the same but slid hers into her left pocket. This is how they would travel when they got to the game hall floor, with Devan at the rear point of a “V.” It was important, Allister had explained, that not only could the tiles not get too close together, but they had to stay basically in the same configuration; any twisting or turning could be disastrous.
Devan took a tenuous step toward the cart and, setting his cane inside, gripped the handle. He pushed the cart forward a foot or so then pulled it back again, testing its weight. “Are you sure you don’t want me to push the cart, Drake?” Phaedra asked. “Your leg…”
“It’s fine,” Devan said through gritted teeth. Even leaning hard into the heavy cart and putting most of his weight on his good foot, Devan’s leg already seemed to be bothering him. It was the right choice; at The Palace, women never pulled pay cart detail, and Allister was not exactly known for his ability to talk his way out of a tight situation.
Allister climbed into the far right corner of the cart. As Phaedra moved to climb into the far left corner, Allister held up his hands. “Wait!”
Allister's eyes darted around the space between them, looking for things only a mage could see. Phaedra held perfectly still, one leg in and one leg out. She looked back over her shoulder to Devan. Devan eyed her, then looked over to Allister.
“Okay.” Allister said at last, less certainly than Phaedra would have liked. “Okay. Slow.”
As slowly as she could, Phaedra finished stepping into the cart and settled into her seat on the bottom. “Okay?” She asked.
Pressing hi
mself hard against the far wall of the cart, Allister bit a knuckle. “It'll have to be,” he said, shaking his head a little. “But this is. As close. As we can be. Any closer and...”
“Right,” Devan said and started pushing. Time, Phaedra knew, was not on their side; Nalan was waiting in the airship bay and he could’ve been discovered at any time. Phaedra and Allister covered themselves with a tarp that was bunched up on the floor of the cart. “Shhh...” Devan cautioned as he rolled the cart out the door and away from Allister's muffle spell.
If the gods really did protect children and idiots the way Phaedra's mother said they did, they did their finest work during the next five minutes. Judging by the sound of footfalls, Phaedra guessed they had only passed a handful of guards, and every minute they continued to be alive was another minute they hadn't encountered a mage. Beside her, Allister strained as he worked to conceal the construct using a web of illusion spells he'd woven. But he hadn't seemed terribly confident about its efficacy.
When the cart reached the counting room, Devan grunted as he jerked the cart free from the track and kept pushing it down the hall. It wasn't far to the curtain leading out to the gaming hall. He got a few odd comments from passers-by and had to come up with an excuse or two along the way, but nothing serious—at least not from anyone carrying a battle-axe.
At the end of the hall, as soon as the way was clear, Allister and Phaedra stepped quickly out of the cart. After stealing a brief moment to massage the pain from his thigh, Devan stepped into the cart from the rear, grabbed up his cane, then stepped out of it again from the front. Allister and Phaedra walked forward as he did, keeping the appropriate distance. They walked around in a semicircle; a quick rearranging of pockets and pouches reversed their configuration, placing Devan in front and the other two behind, still maintaining their “V” shape.
“Okay,” he said, looking back over his shoulder. Phaedra noticed he was sweating; his leg was obviously killing him. “Now for the easy part.”
Phaedra looked ahead to the curtain and waited for Devan to move...only he didn’t. He didn't move for a long time. He just stood there watching the curtain. He crossed his arms and tapped a finger against his lips.
Allister and Phaedra took turns watching over their shoulders back to the hallway with growing anxiety. At last Allister spoke up. “Um...D?”
“The door,” Devan replied. “It's...” He paused, tapped his lips again. “It's too small for us to get through like this.”
He looked back over his shoulder. “I'm not sure how we're going to get out of here.”
Zella
Zella breathed a sigh of relief and veered off toward a balcony overlooking the gaming hall. She was on her way to try to talk to Faerathore again, and she was grateful for the excuse to delay. Across the hall, she saw the curtain to the back rooms push aside as Devan stepped back onto the plush red carpet.
Devan took two steps into the room. He looked stiff; his gait was deliberate and had none of his typical bounce. On the fourth step, he stopped. He took two steps back and pivoted, slightly, to the left. He took a step forward then stopped. He tried to pivot farther, stopped, pivoted back, stopped, and stayed.
He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He sighed.
He backed up a step, pivoted right, then backed up the rest of the way. The curtain swung closed behind him.
From above, Zella looked around the relatively empty gaming hall. Everyone there was too busy working to watch them, and her fellow guests on the mezzanine were too busy amusing themselves to care what happened to the commoners below.
Devan emerged from the curtain again, took two steps forward, pivoted right this time, took one more step forward then side-stepped twice to the right. One more step forward. Allister emerged from the curtain, facing the same direction as Devan.
Moving in unison, Devan and Allister took one sidestep to the left, then one step back. From across the hall, Zella could hear Allister cry out, “Ow!” as his back ran into the corner where a beverage concession table met the wall. Devan kept on moving, taking a sidestep to the left. Allister hesitated, looking at the table to his left; with no time to protest, he swung a knee up onto the table and, as awkwardly as Zella would have expected from Nalan, he clamored across, knocking over glasses, bottles, and stacks of napkins as he went.
Unable to see what was happening behind him—but no doubt hearing what was happening perfectly well—Devan shook his head and kept moving. Together they took one more step forward and Phaedra appeared in the doorway, also facing the same direction as Devan and Allister.
In nearly perfect synchronicity, the three turned, with Devan and Allister walking backwards as Phaedra merely pivoted there in the doorway. Allister arced backwards, sitting down on the concession table, scooting backwards through pools of spilled vino, toppling the table over backwards with a clamor muffled by the red carpet, then struggling to get his feet again. Devan had to run sideways in a long, gradually pivoting arc, to maintain the point position.
At last, they stopped. A perfect “V” with Devan at the point, Allister over his left shoulder and Phaedra over his right. Devan looked up to Zella and shook his head. She could see his exasperation from across the hall.
Devan sneered up at her. He rubbed at the side of his thigh.
Zella smiled back down at them.
Devan chimed in, thumbing his ring finger. He motioned back at his team, and together they began walking forward. If Phaedra noticed Zella watching over them, she made no sign of it.
Zella looked over at where the severe older man stood, talking sternly with the beautiful and mighty of Kaulethi society. A tall, buxom redhead had filled in the space between his arm and his ribs. Her fingers tapped playfully at the gold buttons on Faerathore's suit coat.
Zella covered her face with both hands.
Devan was quiet. Zella looked down at him.
Devan smiled.
Zella smiled back.
As he did, a pair of mages in their hooded blue robes pushed through the curtain behind them and stepped out onto the carpet. They spoke to each other as they walked, seemingly oblivious to Zella's three partners and their slow trek across the gaming floor.
The gong sounded in the arena in three short, sharp bursts. The premier fight was about to begin. Outside the Grand Archway, the murmuring of the crowd became
an explosion.
Breigh
A pair of heavy curtains was all that separated the pens from the arena. As each combatant on the undercard had made his way through that curtain, Breigh had squinted against the sudden blast of light, straining to see what waited for her on the other side.
In those brief moments, she saw a sea of faces, ten thousand panting spectators strong. They were piled upon the benches that ringed the great pit, pressed shoulder to shoulder, chest to back, not a man or woman seated. Ten thousand spectators waited, all eyes on the curtain separating them from the pens.
The pens and the demons who dwelled there.
There in the dark, Breigh closed her eyes and tried to commit it all to memory. The smell of the pens. The cool air, electric on her skin. The sick ache in her stomach. The rising fire behind her eyes.
She blinked back a tear and smiled, just for a moment.
Breigh squeezed the handle of her hatchet in one hand, the handle of her mace in the other. At The Collegium, combat training required her to keep their steel heads encased in thick, padded leather. Last night, she removed the padding and threw it away. Years ago, she had named them. Tonight, they would earn those names.
“Come, Bloodfeast,” she said to her hatchet. “Come, Ballstomp,” she said to her mace. She clanged their heads together. “Glory tonight.” And she pushed through the curtain and into the light.
Arms wide, Breigh roared, and the crowd roared back. The announcer's voice was lost in a hurricane of sound. Breigh turned around and around, taking in the sight, and letting those who worshipped her see who she was. High above her, her banner fluttered in the late autumn breeze.
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