Published by Karl Rademacher on June 30, 2014. This item is listed in Novellas, Serial Novellas

Kestor

By Patrick Keating

Kestor was originally published by Silver Blade Magazine in February 2011

Chapter One

D’Ahid burst into the woodsmith’s shop, scattering clouds of sawdust under his feet. “The Imperials captured Kestor. They’ll execute him.”

The woodsmith continued to work. “Good.”

D’Ahid could scarce believe his older brother’s words. “Abra…”

“That criminal and glory-hound names himself after a figure from legend, and thinks us stupid enough to believe he’s that same hero returned. I pray to Ruala he dies in agony.”

“Has your gumption galloped off? Kestor saved our lives.”

“Father died. I’d pay to spit on Kestor’s head when the Imperials put it on display.”

“Kestor has helped us all.”

Abra glared at him. “Helped? Thanks to Kestor, our homes and shops were searched time and again at governor Katral’s whim. All the while Kestor remained safe in those mountain caverns.”

He blew some sawdust aside. “At last life can return to normal.”

Normal? D’Ahid thought. Without Kestor, matters will downslide.

Abra resumed working. “Have you finished packing?”

D’Ahid stabbed a finger at a canvas bag in the far corner.

“Off with you, then. Best you don’t run late.”

“You don’t care what befalls Kestor?”

Abra sighed and ran his hand through his thinning blond hair. “Enough of Kestor. Concern yourself with your journey to Serlo and your apprenticeship to Drenu. Few enjoy that honor.”

D’Ahid grit his teeth at Abra’s obstinacy. He’d have better luck teaching fish to fly. Abra wouldn’t listen. He never listened.

“I know. I appreciate the opportunity, but I– Are you sure you don’t need me here?”

“I’ll be fine. We’ll all be, with Kestor now in chains.”

D’Ahid exploded, despite himself. “You ungrateful, callous… mule brain! You’d be dead if not for Kestor; and if the Imperials kill him, we’ll all be antelope among the lions.”

He grabbed his bag and slammed the door behind him.

* * *

Abra blinked away the sawdust, and resumed sanding the plank with quick, sharp thrusts. D’Ahid was ungrateful, not him. Because that terrorist had caused Father’s death, Abra had been forced to raise D’Ahid and forego the opportunity to study in Serlo.

In time, D’Ahid would understand. At least they didn’t idolize Kestor in Serlo; and Drenu would keep the boy busy, teaching him woodworking skills that would exceed Abra’s own. D’Ahid would soon forget about Kestor.

* * *

The village of Ijnag lay nestled in a small valley in the Ikswok mountain range, and was home to both the wood hovels of the six hundred residents and the stone garrisons of the less than two hundred Imperial invaders who ‘policed’ the community. As he walked north along the cobblestone L’Eroii Road towards the carriage station, D’Ahid glanced to the west, at the old mines where villagers of all ages had once toiled.

“I warrant Abra would gripe about Kestor causing their closing,” he muttered. He kicked a stone, and watched it skitter ahead of him.

Time and again, over the decade since his arrival, Kestor had sabotaged mining operations until the Imperials had wearied of the battle and abandoned the mines. They should have left Ijnag as well.

Why couldn’t Abra understand that Governor Katral had killed Solmon; and if not for Kestor, the sons would have died with the father?

A funeral atmosphere permeated the market stalls. Even the gossips kept quiet. Perhaps the people realized that without Kestor the Imperial terror would worsen. But if they had any gratitude, they’d storm the ancient castle at the southern end of the square and free the rebel leader, the Imperials’ penchant for ruthless reprisals be damned.

True, some had given Kestor covert succor over the years; but now no one spoke for him. The people would remain quiet, denying Kestor if asked where their loyalties lay.

The thought filled D’Ahid with disgust, but who was he to complain? How had he helped Kestor?

He looked to the eastern mountains, and knew he’d never see Serlo; never study under Drenu. For years, he’d vowed that one day he’d join the rebels. He’d wait no longer. Let others cower in their homes. He would take a stand.

He didn’t move.

For a long moment, D’Ahid worked to dredge up his courage. Then, steeling himself, he stepped into a nearby shop and purchased a lantern.

On the way out, he paused to pet the stray silver-furred cat the shop owner had adopted years ago. Soon after Kestor’s appearance many had asserted that the animal— whose fur was the same hue as the rebel leader’s hair— had heralded his arrival. Many also believed that showing kindness to the cat would bring good luck. D’Ahid needed luck. As did Kestor.

Suppose the rebels didn’t want his help? He forced the doubt aside. He owed it Kestor to try.

As Abra’s brother, D’Ahid had leave to enter the greenwood at the foot of the mountains and fell trees as needed for the woodsmith’s shop. The guard on duty, used to seeing him on a regular basis, gave him an indifferent glance as he went by.

Once out of sight, D’Ahid climbed the slope toward the caverns. Once, years before Kestor’s arrival, he’d gone into the mountains, imagining himself a great explorer. But he’d found the caverns dark, cold and frightening, and had run away.

Not this time.

The chilly, dusty caverns proved a labyrinth. No wonder the Imperials raided about as often as a full-twice moon in one month. Slim odds of finding the rebels. And often the rebels made lightning strikes against those troopers still in the village during those raids. But they should have done more than act as a burr under the saddle; more to make clear their displeasure.

After upwards of an hour, D’Ahid came to a passage that curved to the left; and at that curve shadows danced on the wall. He tip-toed forward. Someone had anchored a sconce to the rock, and set a lit torch within it.

Several feet further on, another sconce had been set on the opposite wall. His pulse quickened and he hurried on.

And found no one.

He wandered through more torch-lit passages and caverns for what he reckoned was another twenty minutes, before stepping from a large open cavern into a smaller cave. He’d scarce taken another step when a voice echoed around him.

“Who are you?”

D’Ahid spun around, his heart hammering. A lithe, comely girl had come into the cave behind him. She held a torch in her left hand, and her shaved head— save for a single lock of red hair on her forehead— marked her as one of the Noret Mountain people. How had she ended up in Ijnag, as one of Kestor’s followers?

“I want to help Kestor.”

She chuckled. “You help Kestor, lad? You?” She spoke with a pleasant burr, despite her challenging tone.

“I….” She spoke truth. What help could he give? He should go, not embarrass himself further.

No. He’d come this far. He’d not turn tail. “I’m no child. I’ve reached twenty summers, lass. How many have you known? Eighteen?”

She smiled. “Twenty-four. I like your attitude, boy. But why would you help Kestor?”

“He saved my life. My name is D’Ahid, and long ago–”

“In Phaned’s name!” She grabbed his arm. “Come with me.”

She rushed him through the labyrinth until they came to a large cave lit by a score of torches. Her words echoed through the cave as she called out.

“Lan, Telrac. I have an intruder in the council chambers.”

Several tunnels extended from the cave like the tendrils of a spider’s web, and D’Ahid had no idea which they’d taken. If they didn’t believe him and left him here, would he ever find his way out? He’d heard that the caverns extended as far as Noret, and the girl’s presence— the woman’s, he corrected himself— seemed to confirm that.

“I— I did come to help. Kestor once saved–”

She waved him off. “He makes an interesting claim.”

“What does he claim?” A voice came from somewhere to D’Ahid’s right. He held out his lantern and two men stepped into the light. One was a head taller than D’Ahid and muscular, with thinning gray hair and the thick beard of a farmer— though D’Ahid had never seen him in the market. The other stranger was leaner, and wore his long brown hair braided on the right in the custom of the southern Cinat region.

“Who is this, Jeni?” The bearded man spoke as if D’Ahid were a dinner guest. The Cinat said nothing, but he wore an aura of alertness; his eyes darting about the cavern.

“He claims he wants to help us, Lan,” the woman— Jeni— said. “Tell them your name, boy.”

“My name is D’Ahid. I’m-”

The men exchanged glances. The Cinat caught D’Ahid in his gaze, and his eyes narrowed. “Impossible. Thou cannot be D’Ahid.”

“D’Ahid.” the bearded man— Lan— spoke with an almost reverent tone. “We witness the fulfillment of Kestor’s first prophecy.”

“He can’t be D’Ahid,” Jeni insisted.

“Kestor’s prophecies have always come to pass.” Lan grasped D’Ahid’s shoulders, as if bestowing a blessing. D’Ahid tensed.

“Welcome, my friend. Long have we expected you. You wish to help Kestor?”

D’Ahid was nonplussed. “I- If I can. I don’t understand. What do you mean? I didn’t tell anyone I was coming.”

“Why didst thou come?” Telrac demanded.

“I— I wanted to help. To repay Kestor for saving me.”

Lan nodded. “And you shall help us rescue Kestor.”

“How?”

“By becoming him.”

* * *

Governor Katral drank in the sight of the silver– haired man standing shackled before him.

At last!

“Can this be the mighty Kestor?” He cast a disdainful glance at the outlaw’s ‘clothing.’ Barbaric. Unlike Katral’s own machine-stitched, tailored uniform, Kestor wore a hand-sewn stiff leather jerkin reinforced with interconnecting bronze links, and leather trousers protected by bronze greaves.

The outlaw’s one blue eye blazed with defiance. Even in shackles and rags Kestor projected a commanding aura. As a soldier, Katral admired that defiance. He also would not cower under threat of death.

“Can this be the insignificant Katral?” Kestor’s raspy voice— the result of an incompetent assassin’s attempt to slash his throat four years earlier— sounded bored.

A guard struck him. “Show respect.”

Kestor laughed, as blood flowed into his thick beard. “Respect for a murderer and coward? Never.”

The guard raised his hand again, but Katral shook his head. “Let him be. He attempts to cover his fear of impending death with bravado. I don’t skulk in the mountains, Kestor. I don’t hide behind a mask.”

Kestor chuckled. “Fear of impending death? I’ve known for years I would die today. Do you Imperials not know the legends of my people? ‘Kestor sees beyond tomorrow.'”

“Then I trust you’ve seen the need to say your final prayers. You should have killed me years ago when you had the chance.”

The outlaw smiled. “That would have been a joy; but you weren’t destined to die that day. You will soon enough; and if I told you the circumstances, you’d wish I had killed you. At least you’d have died with a modicum of dignity.”

He grinned. “The knowledge of your fate is satisfactory revenge.”

Katral frowned. Revenge? He’d never met Kestor before the outlaw’s arrival in Ijnag. Yet, there was a familiarity about him, though a census at the time had accounted for everyone. So where had he seen the man? No matter. Kestor would soon die.

And his own death lay decades away.

“Shall I escort him to the square, my Lord?” the guard asked.

“No. The people will see his head on display soon enough.”

Kestor watched with a calm, indifferent expression.

“Shall I reveal your future? You’ll not be governor much longer.”

“Indeed. Your execution means my promotion.” And about time. While lesser men wield power back home, my talents have been wasted in this insignificant colony.

Kestor smiled, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “In a manner of speaking. Shall I tell you something else? If you had not agreed to Rehar’s request for access to Enkelrea— in the hopes that whatever science he found there would help extend your power and prestige— I would never have come here. You would not have faced my rebellion.”

“That’s not possible. Rehar—”

A knock interrupted Katral’s reply. He turned to the lieutenant in the doorway. “Yes, Josald?”

Lieutenant Josald bowed. “My Lord, Lord Tragh will arrive within the hour.”

Success. At last, Lord Tragh had consented to visit. And at the moment of Katral’s greatest triumph. He’d soon enjoy responsibilities at the Royal Court.

“Excellent. Kestor’s head will greet him.” He gestured to the guards at the doors, even as he dismissed the outlaw’s ramblings. “Bring in his followers.”

Katral regarded the outlaw. Kestor still showed no concern, and instead appeared to await the climax of some private joke.

Moments later the troopers shoved three shackled and bloodied outlaws— two Cinat women and a Noret man— into the room. Hatred blazed in their eyes. The man was lanky, and blood encrusted his blond lock. One woman was stocky and had a hint of gray in her dark, braided hair. The other was of medium build; with hair that might be honey-colored when cleansed of blood.

Katral turned back to Kestor. “Any final words? You may beg forgiveness, but that will not accord you clemency.”

“Beg? We will beg for nothing from you. We need nothing from you. Noule is a free country, and we will drive you out, just as we closed your mines.”

Katral laughed. A free country? Noule was a loose assemblage of city-states with no central government and meager trade. No one from Ijnag had traveled more than twenty miles from home; and travel was the only means of contact with another community.

He glanced at the burnished bronze oval receptacle on his desk. By contrast, he could dispatch messages throughout the castle via a network of pneumatic conduits; and another pneumatic system, beneath the streets, communicated with garrisons in neighboring villages. The Empire brought such civilized benefits to these primitives. If Noule ever did become a country, it could thank Imperial guidance.

No, Kestor and his rabble had only been a local nuisance. Katral could have re-opened his mines with ease, had the Royal Court not focused Its attention on mining operations elsewhere. Those operations had continued unabated, while Katral’s mines remained closed. Did those incompetents at the Royal Court not understand how that decision had bolstered Kestor’s credibility?

He forced himself to relax. He’d soon transfer out. Let another deal with Ijnag’s problems.

“We’ll still be here long after you’ve faded from memory.”

The outlaw met his gaze with a look of calm assurance. “Kestor will never die.”

With a fluid movement, Katral unsheathed his ceremonial dagger, and drove it into the outlaw’s chest. “Indeed? Tell me more about this amusing theory.”

As Kestor sank to the ground, blood pumping from the wound, a trooper burst into the room. He drew up short as the guards raised their swords.

“M– my Lord, we’re under attack.”

Katral regarded the dying outlaw. “Seems your followers are a bit tardy. Underlings. How unreliable.”

He nodded to the guards, who lowered their swords. “Why the panic, trooper? Without Kestor, the outlaws are only a rabble.”

The trooper stared wide-eyed at the man at Katral’s feet. “Sir, they’re- they’ve-”

“Out with it!”

“My Lord, Kestor leads them.”

“Impossible! Kestor is here.” Katral kicked the outlaw, who groaned.

“I swear by all that’s holy, my Lord. Kestor and the other outlaws are at the inner gates.”

Katral rushed to the balcony and looked down at the courtyard. “It’s not possible,” he whispered. A man dressed like Kestor, but also wearing a bronze breast plate and the outlaw’s famous battle mask of heavy gauge leather, had engaged the palace guard. He fought alongside the rest of the outlaw’s followers.

He looked back at the man he’d stabbed, and blanched. “It’s a trick.”

The dying man managed a weak smile. “Kestor is eternal, unlike you.” He fell back and lay still.

“My lord, what do we do?”

Katral said nothing, his attention torn between the dead outlaw before him and the living one leading an assault on his stronghold.

* * *

As D’Ahid squeezed the trigger of a stolen Imperial weapon again and again, he shouted curses at the troopers. He didn’t care that they couldn’t hear him over both the noise of the fight and the material of the battle mask he wore. What joy to see fear in an Imperial’s eyes for a change.

Even so, he trembled beneath his disguise. How could this impersonation help? So much could go wrong. The metal mesh eye patch over his left eye let him see— after a fashion— but he still lacked peripheral vision. And even if he hadn’t needed to hide the fact that he had both eyes, how could he hope to rescue Kestor?

It seemed as if a windstorm had swept him to this moment. The rebels had rushed him to a cave where they kept a copy of Kestor’s battle armor. Before he knew it, he was wearing it. Then they’d taken him to a small, hidden dell. There, the rebels stabled their horses, and kept a humble garden for food.

D’Ahid stole a glance at his companions as they pressed forward. The horse he rode had been well trained, and responded to his clumsy attempts at commands. Jeni, at his right, fired a steady salvo of shots. Lan and Telrac, to either side of them, unleashed their arrows with lethal accuracy.

“Don’t give them a chance to regroup,” she ordered. “Imperial troopers fear Kestor. Use that fear.”

“But I’m not Kestor. They must see that.” And the castle guards outnumbered the rebels at least four to one.

“No. They only see the armor and what it symbolizes.”

A volley of shots rang out from within the castle. Telrac drew his mount up next to D’Ahid’s. “There. Our brethren hath escaped.”

“Give them cover,” Lan ordered.

Two Cinat women and a Noret man raced across the courtyard. The man carried the limp form of a silver-haired man over his shoulder. Kestor.

“Kestor’s dead,” he said. He lay the rebel leader’s body across Lan’s mount, as D’Ahid clutched tight the reins of his own steed. His ears must have deceived him. Kestor couldn’t be dead. And if he were, how could that man sound so calm?

Before D’Ahid could speak, the women doubled up behind Jeni and Telrac, and the man behind him. Then the rebels galloped into the mountains. The man and one of the women fired back at the pursuing troopers. The other woman regarded D’Ahid with narrowed eyes.

“Who be this?”

“Later,” Lan said. D’Ahid saw that he fought back tears. “Let’s get Kestor home.”

* * *

D’Ahid kept looking over his right shoulder as the rebels raced toward one of the caverns.

“Worry not,” Telrac said. “Our enemies will not find us.”

“That man said Kestor is dead. Of course I’m worried.”

“We still live and shall continue to fight.”

As the rebels rushed through the maze— the way illuminated by the tiny lanterns they’d pulled from their saddle bags, and lit while still moving— D’Ahid felt renewed respect. Even in half darkness, and at a full gallop, they knew their way around the labyrinth as well as he knew his own hovel.

At length, they dismounted in a small cave. The stockier woman took Kestor, and lay him down at the far side of the cave with reverence. Then she turned on D’Ahid, venom in her voice.

“Who be thee? How dare thou mock us?”

D’Ahid’s trembling fingers struggled to remove the battle mask and armor. “I– My name is D’Ahid. Lan asked me to wear this. I’m sorry.”

“D’Ahid?” The woman turned to Lan with an expression of disbelief. Lan nodded.

“He’s the one, Marifo. The one Kestor said would come.”

What one? “I don’t understand. How could Kestor— or anyone— have known I’d come to you?”

“He doesn’t know about the prophecy?” the Noret man asked.

“Not everything, Adrow. I’d hoped we’d have succeeded, and would’ve thwarted the second part of the prophecy.”

Adrow looked over at Kestor’s body, which Marifo had begun wrapping in a linen shroud. “Katral killed him just as you began your assault. You couldn’t have saved him. Not even I could have, and I stood as close to him as I do to you.”

Lan bowed his head. “Kestor said we’d fail to save him. I’d hoped he’d be wrong this once; that he’d train the boy himself.”

“Thou hast always said prophecy cannot be averted,” Telrac said.

“I- I’m not a boy. And what are you talking about? Please.”

Lan gave D’Ahid a wan smile. “Forgive us. Ten years ago, Kestor came to the people of Noule, and he saved both your brother’s life and your own.”

“I know.”

“Not even we know whence he came, but he arrived as if in fulfillment of the ancient legends that he’d return when needed. On that day, he made his first prophecy.”

“Lan,” Telrac cut in, a warning tone in his voice. “I would speak with thee.” He indicated the far end of the cave.

Lan nodded. “If you’ll excuse us, D’Ahid?”

“All right.” D’Ahid glanced at the others. What lay behind their stares? Did they blame him for Kestor’s death? He hadn’t wanted to impersonate the rebel leader. He’d only wanted to help.

* * *

“What is it?” Lan asked.

“Are thou certain he be the one?” Telrac whispered.

“‘The boy named D’Ahid will come to the followers of Kestor. And on that day, he will be your leader. He shall be Kestor,'” Lan quoted. “Has anyone else named D’Ahid ever come to us? And remember, only we knew of the prophecy.”

“I know what the prophecy says, but can we trust this boy, indoctrinated in the Imperial schools? Where lie his sympathies?”

“With us.”

“How can thou be certain?”

“Aside from the fact that he sought us out and risked his life in the rescue? Because Kestor saw D’Ahid as one of us. Have not all of Kestor’s prophecies come to pass?”

Telrac glanced back at the tall, young stranger. “Thou speaks true, but we need more than faith.”

“Not I.”

* * *

After an eternity, Lan and Telrac returned.

D’Ahid licked his lips. “What were you discussing?”

“Kestor’s instructions,” Lan said. “He told his first follower, Monsi of Trepe, that one day you’d come to us, and that you would become the new Kestor.

D’Ahid jumped back. “That’s insane. I’m just a woodsmith. Or will be. One day.”

Adrow regarded him with a jaundiced eye. “No one can replace Kestor.”

D’Ahid held up his hands. “I don’t want to replace him.”

Lan turned to Adrow. “Kestor chose the boy. Just as he called on each of us to follow him. You know that as well as I.”

“You must have misunderstood,” D’Ahid said. “Why would Kestor choose someone as unimportant as me?”

“Thou makes a good point,” Marifo said. “Wouldst thou have a child lead us, Lan?”

D’Ahid bristled at that. He was no one who mattered, but he was no child, either.

“Don’t take offense,” Jeni told him. She turned to Marifo. “Kestor saw the leader he’ll become.”

“You hope,” Adrow muttered.

D’Ahid turned on the man, surprising himself. “I helped save you. I don’t want to lead anyone, but show some thanks for the risks I took.”

“These last two years I’ve risked my life more times than you can count to protect Noule from the Imperials; so don’t you ever–”

Lan stepped between them, and D’Ahid sighed with relief. He didn’t want to fight Kestor’s people.

“Enough.” Lan’s tone was stern, and his eyes flashed as he fixed his gaze on Adrow. “Kestor’s prophecies have always come to pass. He saw that D’Ahid would pick up his banner when he fell.”

Adrow snorted. “I’ll take the horses to the dell.”

“But why him?” asked the other woman they’d rescued. Her tone seemed to balance disappointment and disbelief. D’Ahid seethed, but kept his tongue as she went on. “How long do we wait for him to become a leader?”

“We don’t wait, Amthra. D’Ahid leads us now, and I’ll follow him so long as I draw breath.”

He’s mad, D’Ahid thought. He’s never seen me before today.

“I want to join your fight, but I can’t replace Kestor. And no one knows the future. Whatever Kestor told your friend, you misheard.”

Jeni lowered her eyes. “Monsi of Trepe. He and Jada of Serdow gave their lives to deliver Kestorand myself two years ago.”

“I’m sorry.” D’Ahid looked over at the shrouded body of the man who’d once saved him. The man he’d failed to save. “I’m sorry we didn’t rescue Kestor, too. I tried my best, but–”

“You helped save the others,” Jeni said.

“No. They escaped on their own.”

Amthra stepped forward. “No. Thy attack gave us the diversion we needed. If not for thee, we’d have been slain.”

“Thanks. But Kestor is dead, and no good can come of that.” He started towards the body, but Marifo blocked his way.

“No. Thou may have helped us, but thou be not one of us.”

“I only wanted to pay my respects.”

“Let him pass,” Lan said. “He’ll do no harm.”

“Of course I won’t.”

Marifo seemed to consider, then stepped aside. D’Ahid knelt before the body of his hero. He’d always wanted to meet Kestor, talk with him, learn from him.

“How can I replace him? I failed him.”

Lan’s voice was gentle. “You weren’t meant to save him. Kestor knew his destiny, and he didn’t shirk from it. I wish I had half as much courage.”

“Did Kestor prophesy about all of you?”

“No,” Jeni said. “Yours is one of the few names he mentioned.”

“We still know naught about the last prophecy,” Amthra said.

D’Ahid stood. “Last prophecy?”

Lan joined him. “Kestor wrote and sealed the only prophecy that has not yet come to pass— so far as we know. We are not to open it until a date five years hence. He didn’t say why. Nor do we know why a message for Marifo is not to be opened until then.”

“Did Kestor write many prophecies?”

“Only the one to be opened in five years,” Jeni said. “Kestor made few prophecies, but he spoke them.”

“Then how can you be sure what he told Monsi? Kestor couldn’t have intended for me to lead you. I could never replace him. Besides, the Imperials know he’s dead.”

“A handful saw Katral kill him,” Lan said. “Many more saw you in the courtyard. They’ll believe Kestor is invincible. You knows the legends?”

“Kestor was a great warrior and just king who ruled long before the Imperials came. They say he couldn’t die.” D’Ahid looked at the body again. “I wish that were true.”

“But it is. For you are now Kestor.”

“No, I’m not! That is Kestor, and Kestor is dead!”

“The man is dead, but Kestor is a symbol of freedom. He passed that symbol to you.”

“Was he the original Kestor?” D’Ahid asked, as Adrow returned. The question seemed almost blasphemous, but he had to know. “Or was he another impostor?”

“He came to us in a time of need, as the ancient legends foretold,” Adrow said. “He is the only Kestor.”

“I said I don’t want to replace him.”

D’Ahid turned back to Lan. “But if he’s the original Kestor, he should be immortal.”

Lan smiled. “Immortality takes many forms. Consider the poet Eniarr. Even the Imperials acknowledge her work as great literature. Has she not gained immortality through that work, written centuries ago?”

“Do you jest? That’s not the same.”

“It is in the ways that matter. Just as Eniarr’s words keep her alive in our minds and hearts, that armor keeps Kestor and his dreams alive.”

Lan turned to the others. “The legends said Kestor would return, but they didn’t say he’d not be reborn. I believe the man we followed all these years came to us to prepare the way for the one who would come after him— D’Ahid.”

D’Ahid said nothing. Why bother? He couldn’t reason against Lan’s fanaticism.

“Whether the man who led us was the original Kestor doesn’t matter,” Jeni said. “He led the fight for independence. If D’Ahid will help continue that fight, he can call himself the Goddess Ruala for all I care.”

“Abra wants me to be a woodsmith,” D’Ahid said. “Kestor wanted me to succeed him. What about what I want?”

“What do you want?” Jeni asked.

“I… I want to make a difference. Somehow.”

“You will,” Lan said.

“I pray so. What was Kestor like? Did he have family?”

“He never spoke of them,” Amthra said. “We became his family.”

“I think he had children,” Jeni said. “He seemed protective of me, as though I reminded him of a daughter; but he never said why. I never asked. Perhaps I should have.”

* * *

Lord Tragh holstered his weapon, and regarded Katral’s body. He’d come a long way to see Kestor’s corpse, only to find that an uncomfortable journey had wasted his time. Then that coward had unleashed a litany of blubbering excuses for his failures. Worse, Katral had let the outlaws escape with Kestor’s body. The fool should have executed him in public.

Lord Tragh called for his lieutenant. He’d have Katral’s head displayed in the capitol as a warning. As to the body, burial in the inner courtyard gardens. Katral failed as a governor; perhaps he’ll succeed as fertilizer.

Vainglorious fool. No wonder it had taken a decade to capture Kestor; and then only by blind luck. But Katral had to foul that up, too.

“Send a dispatch to the capitol for a replacement.”

* * *

Governor Garn leaned back in the plush velvet seat of the gold-plated, horse-drawn carriage and frowned. How could civilized people travel in this manner?

She sat in comfort, but that comfort was offset by the carriage’s constant jarring as it navigated the cobblestone street. Then there was the steady clip clop of the horses hooves; the driver’s shouted commands to the animals; and worst of all, there was that stench.

Damn Katral. Because of him, she’d endured an interminable journey from civilization with neither rest nor her belongings. Those would follow sometime “later.”

Very well, if she must live in this sty, she’d not only rid it of the ersatz Kestor, she’d also introduce civilized transportation. Every major Imperial city utilized a network of pneumatic transport conduits for both passengers and cargo. It was efficient. It was… civilized. Under her guidance, this region would renounce its primitive ways.

The carriage offered one advantage. She could see her subjects lining the streets; and they her. Let them believe she was, at heart, one of them. Easier to guide them.

A quarter hour later, she stood in the square, flanked by an honor guard of troopers, and spoke in dulcet tones.

“I am Governor Garn. In recognition of his efforts in helping this fine community become a productive part of the Empire, Governor Katral has returned to our beloved mother country of Lakorci and received a promotion.”

She made an inward smile as she pictured Katral’s head adorning a pike. “I now command here, but I ask your help in moving forward into a glorious tomorrow.

“It saddens me that some selfish individuals want to prevent you from improving your quality of life. They’ve mocked you good people and our just laws by assisting in the escape, two days ago, of the outlaw who insults your ancient traditions by calling himself ‘Kestor.’ We’ll find them, and will ensure your continued safety.

“I know you want the best for the community, and will help us bring ‘Kestor’ to justice.

“Furthermore, in the spirit of mutual cooperation, I declare a full pardon for any crimes which do not involve ‘Kestor.’ These include all penalties on unpaid taxes.”

The crowd cheered.

“Anyone with information regarding those who helped him escape will not pay taxes for six months. ‘Kestor’ threatens the peace and safety of Ijnag. Together, we’ll make it safer.”

The crowd cheered again. If only she could have told them their precious local hero lay moldering in some unknown grave. Instead, because of Katral’s blundering, she had to play the outlaws’ game and pretend Kestor still lived.

But Kestor was dead, and the impostor would prove a minor obstacle.

Chapter Two

As Josald left Governor Garn’s office, he cast a surreptitious look at the petite, regal woman who’d taken command. What sort of monster had the Empire sent, and why such fanaticism about wiping out the outlaws?

Thoughts of her plan for tonight churned his stomach, but he took some solace in the knowledge that she didn’t want to be here. If he could orchestrate matters, she’d be gone— disgraced— and he’d take charge. Although Lord Tragh had appointed Garn, he wouldn’t condone such barbarity.

And Garn’s contention that the outlaws would follow the impostor who’d led the failed rescue attempt was ludicrous. They all but worshipped Kestor. They’d never obey another.

Josald reached his desk, and drummed his fingers on the smooth maple surface. To try to dissuade Garn from her plan would be suicide. She’d come within a whisker of executing him for the mere suggestion that there might be a better way. Still, there had to be a saner alternative than having an impostor hired by Garn claim to have killed Kestor, and announce he’s taking a more extreme stance against the Empire.

Well, that part of her plan had strategic value, given that Josald would “capture” and unmask Garn’s impostor before his “escape.” If the outlaws’ impostor continued his impersonation, he’d have to reveal himself to prove he wasn’t the same man. But the way Garn intended her impostor to prove his point— that was insanity. They could undermine the people’s faith in Kestor by less barbaric means.

That faith made no sense. “Eight hundred years ago, the warrior king Kestor united several once-combative tribes into the beginnings of a nation-state,” Garn had told him. “That nation-state fell apart after his death, leaving the scattered city-states of today, but he remains their greatest leader. One legend claims he never did die.”

A conflicting legend held that Kestor had declined the throne, and went into the wilderness, promising to return when needed. That same legend claimed he can conquer death.

Did the people believe Kestor immortal? Josald would like to think they weren’t that gullible.

Garn believed they believed it. Maybe that’s why she knew so much about Kestor. The history of some backwater colony didn’t concern him, but information about Kestor’s influence could prove useful.

“Josald, report at once.” Garn’s words echoed along the marble corridor, slicing through his thoughts.

He hurried to her office. “My lady?”

“One last thing. Kill our impostor at the rendezvous point.”

As she spoke, Garn continued to mark selected points on a wall map depicting the mountains. She’d ordered him to seal all the cavern entrances. An impossible task. More than one hundred known caves dotted the eastern slope alone. What’s more, Kestor’s people have ridden into Ijnag from both east and west, suggesting connecting passages beneath the village. Perhaps through the mines. But Josald wouldn’t make the mistake of trying to explain that a second time.

“Yes, my Lady.” Josald hadn’t expected anything less of her. By all rights, she should die, too.

* * *

Adrow threw a rock across the cave. It hit the far wall, and clattered to the ground.

“How much longer do we wait? The people need to know we haven’t abandoned them; and we must avenge Kestor.”

Amthra clenched her first. “Thy words ring true. To the people, these past two days must seem two years. We must strike hard.”

“We will,” Lan assured her.

Marifo turned to him. “I still say thou was foolish to send D’Ahid into Ijnag. He is meant to be in Serlo.”

“Worry not. Only his brother knows that, and D’Ahid said Abra remains in his shop afternoons. Unlike any of us, D’Ahid won’t attract undue attention as he helps restock provisions.”

“Others must know of his apprenticeship. And he has been in Ijnag since before dawn. He may encounter such people before night.”

“Perhaps, but they’d not give it much thought. The greater risk would be if he were seen either coming from or going into the mountains.”

“Risk to whom?” Adrow demanded. “We know D’Ahid comes from Ijnag, because I’ve seen his face before. But not all in Ijnag support us.”

“D’Ahid does,” Lan replied.

* * *

The archaeologist stood in respectful silence before Garn’s desk as she studied his report. After a moment, she looked up.

“Three thousand years?”

“Give or take a century, my Lady. We’ve only begun our dig, but we already know the people who lived there had a more advanced culture than our own in some ways. Governor Katral supported our work. I hope you will also.”

Garn turned her attention to the wall map. The dig was ninety miles to the south— well beyond Cinat— amid farmland. What had befallen the great city that once stood there?

She turned back to him as she tried to recall his name, then dismissed the thought. The man was only a minion. “You have my interest. More advanced? Explain.”

“It appears they achieved powered flight.”

“Incredible. You’ll discover how, of course. Such technology would prove useful. What else?”

“We found no indication of a conduit network, although flying machines might make one superfluous.”

“One would think. Continue your work. I expect regular progress reports.”

The archaeologist bowed. “Yes, my lady. I must point out that it could take several years before we can make a full report.”

“Of course. Some things cannot be rushed. Still, I believe you stand on the cusp of a significant discovery. I envy you.”

As the archaeologist bowed again and left, Garn let out a wistful sigh. Beyond doubt, she’d chosen the wrong profession.

* * *

The thunder of galloping horses drowned out the carefree tones of families gathered in the school yard to sing the Songs of Remembrance. From out of the shadows four masked riders bore down on parents, children and teachers.

The leader wore a reasonable duplicate of Kestor’s armor and battle mask, with the darkness obscuring the more obvious flaws. He threw an oil lamp into the wooden school. A conflagration erupted.

“You sing praises for the heroes of Imperial wars. Where are your songs of praise for Jarno, for Xervan, for Kestor?”

His voice rose in intensity. “Those who attend Imperial schools or sing Imperial songs are our enemies!”

Hidden in a merchant’s stall further up the street, Josald watched the attack. Was the impostor’s histrionic speech Garn’s words, or his own?

Josald gestured, and one of the three troopers with him opened fire. The horse beneath the ersatz Kestor collapsed. The impostor leaped from the animal and fired wild, into the crowd, even as his “companions”— disguised troopers— fled.

Another shot struck the impostor’s shoulder, and his weapon clattered onto the cobblestones.

As two troopers seized the impostor, Josald aimed his weapon at the man’s head. “It’s over, Kestor. Remove his mask. Let’s meet a living legend face to face.”

The man beneath the mask— a mercenary named Miklar— was dirty and unshaven. He stank of an overabundance of ale, but his apparent intoxication was part of the deception.

“Kestor, you’re not the man you were,” Josald said.

“He’s not Kestor,” someone shouted.

“So it would seem,” Josald agreed.

“Kestor is dead!” As rehearsed, Miklar wrenched free and produced a blood-stained knife from within his jerkin. “I killed him. He was weak. I am not.”

He feigned a lunge at Josald, who dodged the thrust, grabbed Miklar’s wrist, and twisted it until the mercenary cried in genuine pain and dropped the knife.

“Aren’t you? You kill helpless children, and then your friends desert you. You define weakness.” He gestured to the troopers. “Remove this animal.”

“My blade will yet taste of you, Imperialist,” Miklar shouted, as the troopers dragged him away.

As a woman wailed over the bloodied body of a little girl, Josald vowed that Garn would soon suffer her own lamentations. And the outlaws would help see to that. For now, Garn presented the greater threat to the Empire.

Sudden shouts of ‘alarm’ sounded from behind him, as Miklar made good his rehearsed escape.

Now you belong to me, Josald thought.

* * *

D’Ahid stood with clenched fists in the L’Eroii Road. A thick plume of smoke rose into the early evening sky. Why had the rebels done nothing to stop that maniac?

No one noticed as he slung the carryall of provisions across his back, and strode towards the mountains. Kestor had never allowed such an atrocity to happen. Why did he die, and abandon the people who counted on him?

D’Ahid gritted his teeth as he climbed up to the honeycomb of caverns. He’d hunt down that maniac, with or without help from the others. Damn their prophecies. Let them believe whatever they wished, so long as they protected the people.

A sharp, low voice from somewhere in the darkness cut off his thoughts, making him jump. “Identify yourself!” Adrow.

“I’m D’Ahid.”

“Take slow steps. Stay to your left.”

After D’Ahid had gone about twenty yards, Adrow pulled him into a fissure.

“Did you get everything?”

“Forget that. Look.” D’Ahid indicated the smoke far below, as he thrust the carryall at the rebel. “Someone impersonated Kestor and did that. He also murdered several children.”

“Ruala! Did he say anything?”

“He killed them because they sang the Imperial Songs of Remembrance. He also said he killed Kestor, and promised to kill anyone who opposed him. I don’t like those songs either, but he has to be punished. And if you won’t do it—”

Adrow’s jaw tightened. “We’ll deal with him. Come.”

Moments later, D’Ahid told the others what he’d witnessed.

Jeni rushed forward. “In Phaned’s name! He killed children?”

“Didst thou see this impostor?” Marifo demanded. “What manner of countenance had he?”

“I caught a glimpse when the Imperials unmasked him. He looked begrimed.”

“How did he escape?”

“I think he shot someone. His friends slithered away when the Imperials captured him.”

“Didst thou not notice their direction?”

“No, I didn’t. Not in all that chaos. You wouldn’t’ve fared much better if you’d been there. But you weren’t there. None of you were. You sat up here, doing nothing.”

“How dare thou speak thus—” Amthra began, but Telrac cut her off.

“No. He be right. As Adrow said, we should not have sat about.”

“We would not have if we’d not been ‘training’ him.”

“Don’t fault me,” D’Ahid shouted. “I don’t take to this prophecy nonsense.”

“Enough.” Lan’s tone was quiet, yet commanded attention. “This impostor must work for the Imperials.”

He turned to D’Ahid. “They know someone has replaced Kestor, so they engineered this atrocity— complete with unmasked impostor— to complicate matters for you.”

D’Ahid’s stomach somersaulted. “How do I prove I’m not that murderer unless I show my face? But if I do, everyone will know I’m just another impostor.”

He forced his stomach to quiet itself. “We must find him.”

He turned to Jeni. “What do I want? That monster caught; those Imperials who helped him exposed. I’m not the one Kestor prophesied about, but I will help hunt down that animal.”

“And so you shall,” Lan said. “Tomorrow, you will wear the blood-stained armor and ride with us into Ijnag. You’ll refute reports of your death; and you’ll vow to capture the impostor.”

“No. Who’d believe I’m Kestor unless I removed the battle mask? We don’t wait. We hunt this fiend tonight, and we bring him before the people tomorrow.” His assertiveness might have surprised himself if he hadn’t been too angry to care.

Marifo seemed to study him. “Perhaps Kestor chose well, after all. Thou speaks with wisdom beyond thy years. We must respond to this outrage without delay.”

“If the impostor be still alive,” Amthra said. “If they have not yet done so, the Imperials will kill him.”

“Why would they kill him?” D’Ahid asked.

Amthra gave him a sharp look. “So we can’t prove they planned the attack.”

D’Ahid glanced away. Any fool should have realized that.

“If he suspected a double cross, he might have hidden in the caverns,” Jeni said. “He’d try to reach Noret.”

“Then we’ll start the search here.” D’Ahid tried to sound sure of himself.

“Agreed,” Lan said. “If our quarry hides in the caverns, we’ll bring him into Ijnag come morning. If not, we ride down anyway; and D’Ahid will denounce him.”

Telrac grasped D’Ahid’s forearms. “I welcome thee. I saw how thou fought at the castle. Thou thirsts for revenge for thy father, and for tonight. We will have that revenge.”

“Justice,” Jeni insisted. “Kestor believed in justice, not mere vengeance. If we let the latter blind us, we’re no better than that monster.”

“Revenge be the only justice that matters. How could thou— of all people— not embrace it?”

D’Ahid couldn’t help but admire Jeni. When Lan had escorted him from the caverns that morning, he’d said that three years earlier her family had been victimized by the Imperials. Yet she didn’t seek vengeance.

But sometimes revenge was justice. Like now. “Telrac is right. We find that worm, and then we hunt down Katral. He murdered my father and burned our home. We should tie both those scum to a horse team and drag them through the streets, until their screams drown out the horses’ hoofbeats.”

“And would that barbarity restore either your father or those children to life?”

“Don’t patronize me, Jeni. Of course not. But it’d keep others from dying. And it would tell the Imperials to leave our lands forever.”

“Nothing’s so easy. And while I ken your rage, we must first clear Kestor’s name. If we fail, everything he fought for, everything we’ve endured, will have been for nothing.”

“I said don’t patronize me. I know what’s at stake.”

Marifo clasped D’Ahid’s forearms like Telrac. “Kestor was my world. No one can replace him, but it be clear he saw something in thee. I welcome thee in whatever role destiny has for thee.”

* * *

Josald’s gaze bore into Sergeant Reda. “No one must know why you’re searching for Miklar. Only a few know the truth about him. If I should suspect this knowledge grows more widespread, it will mean your life. Clear?”

Reda’s voice quavered. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. Take a regiment into the caverns. Miklar murdered three troopers. I want him in the ground by this time tomorrow. Find him before the outlaws do.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Reda hurried off, Josald smiled. After killing the troopers he’d accompanied to the rendezvous with Miklar- and then wounding the mercenary- he’d forced Miklar to flee into the caverns. As Josald had anticipated, Reda believed Miklar had killed the troopers.

Would Reda find Miklar before the outlaws did? More likely the presence of his regiment would signal that the man who’d massacred children hid in the caverns. The outlaws would root him out, revealing Garn’s deception. The Royal Court would recall her and demand explanations. And Josald would have command.

And if Reda should reach Miklar first? Josald took a ceremonial knife from his wall and slid it into his tunic. Perhaps he should handle things himself, rather than rely on either the Royal Court or Lord Tragh. If a pitched battle broke out in the caverns, the confusion and the shortage of troopers in the castle would allow him to give Garn his person attention.

She’d used Miklar like a licar in a game of Altars, forgetting that a careless player’s licar can be turned against her.

Chapter Three

D’Ahid, again attired as Kestor, hastened along a torch-lit passage with Lan, Marifo and Jeni. He prayed that the impostor lurked within the tunnels his team would search.

Warned by some instinct, Jeni motioned for silence. She exchanged glances with Lan and Marifo, then slipped down the passage and into a transverse tunnel. D’Ahid bit his lip.

After several moments that might well have been hours, she returned, and he unclenched his breath.

“I saw three troopers. But more are about.”

“How do you know?” D’Ahid asked.

“The Imperials never send in just three troopers.”

D’Ahid felt himself blush. “Could they find us?”

“Depends how many troopers be here,” Marifo said. “Didst they say anything, Jeni?”

“No. I just heard their footfalls.”

A wry smile crossed Marifo’s lips. “How could you not?”

“You’re certain they didn’t see you?” Lan asked.

“Positive. I spied them from behind.”

“How do we warn the others?” D’Ahid asked.

Jeni smiled. “If I could hear them, Telrac also will.”

“But how do we capture the impostor before the Imperials do? These mounted torches also help them.”

“They have more need of them,” Lan said. He doused the nearest torch, plunging the cavern into blackness. “Light your lantern.”

D’Ahid did so, and opened all four hinged metal doors.

“Now close those.”

The cavern became dark again. D’Ahid grinned as he opened the doors again.

“Clever. We can close off our light, but the Imperials won’t douse their torches. But suppose they have lanterns?”

“They won’t put them out,” Jeni said. “They don’t know these caverns as we do.”

* * *

D’Ahid leaned against a cavern wall, ignoring the cold, and punched his open palm. “An hour of this and nothing. I say we get to Noret before that swine does.”

“And if he slips past us in the thick greenwood above Noret?” Marifo asked.

“In case it evaded your notice, he’s slipped past us in here so far. We’d have a better chance of catching him near Noret. We’ll deal with the forest… somehow.”

“I agree,” Jeni said. “The others can continue to hunt him in the caverns.”

“I agree as well,” Lan said.

D’Ahid gave Marifo a questioning glance.

“Thou be our leader,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Let us go.”

“This way,” Jeni said. As she and D’Ahid started ahead, he wondered how often she’d returned to Noret, if at all.

“What happens after we’ve exposed the impostor?” He glanced back at Lan and Marifo, a few yards behind them. “We both know Lan misinterpreted the prophecy.”

“I know nothing of the sort. But I’ve never concerned myself with prophecies. Both the passage of time and your actions will reveal whether you prove worthy of leadership.”

“How did you come to join Kestor? Lan didn’t give me any details.”

Her sea-green eyes began to moisten, but she didn’t shed any tears.

“No. He respects my privacy.”

D’Ahid gave her a hurt look. “I’m sorry, but you people seem to know everything about me, and I know little about any of you. How fair is that?”

“Not very.” Her voice quavered- just a bit. “Three years ago, my younger sister was raped and murdered by a drunken trooper. We appealed to the Prefect of Noret for justice, but the trial was a sham. They acquitted him and sullied her name.

“Grief overcame my father and he attacked the trooper in the courtroom. The Imperials beat him, then hung him in the square as an ‘example.’ I wanted to tear out their callous hearts with my bare hands.”

“What happened?”

“When I got home from school, full of plans of revenge, I found Kestor waiting for me. He knew my plans, even my thoughts. He said he’d known others who’d felt the same; and then he asked whether I wanted revenge or justice.”

“What did you say?”

“That I wanted both. He told me revenge accomplishes nothing, while justice benefits us all.”

“He was wrong.” D’Ahid felt as if he were committing some great sin at questioning Kestor’s wisdom. “For us, revenge is justice. My father failed to report a runaway mine worker. Katral decided to set an example by executing not only him, but my brother and me as well.”

“But you were children.”

“Katral said age is no excuse for disobedience; that we should have reported our father. His words are seared into my brain: ‘Your first loyalty is to the Emperor.'”

“What loyalty has the Emperor ever shown us?”

“None. We’re less than cattle to him. But right about then Kestor appeared. He saved Abra and me, but couldn’t reach Father in time. Katral made his example, but that didn’t satisfy him. He also burned our home.”

D’Ahid met Jeni’s gaze. “Revenge is justice. Garn must answer for tonight; and one day I’ll hunt down Katral, and again there will be justice. That’s my prophecy.”

* * *

D’Ahid emerged from the caverns a few steps ahead of the others. In the starlight, he could make out the edge of a forest.

“Spread out,” Jeni said.

D’Ahid and the others melted into the greenwood. He watched the middle cave of the five caves near their position. A hunch told him the impostor would come out of that one.

He hefted a heavy branch, testing its weight.

Another hour passed before he thought he saw a furtive movement in the shadow of the cave he watched. He tensed. No sound reached his ears save the hoots of a few owls, but his eyes remained fixed on the cavern. Had he imagined it?

After an eternity, and as the sun began to rise, D’Ahid saw movement again. A man emerged, crouched low, and holding a direction finder. He wore an imitation of Kestor’s battle mask. A grim smile played across D’Ahid’s lips, and he offered Ruala silent thanks for granting his wish.

D’Ahid gestured toward the man and started forward, hoping the others saw his signal. He moved in stealth from tree to tree, and soon stood a few yards from his quarry. He tensed, ready to render that monster into a pulp.

“Murdering bastard, I’ll kill you!”

The man spun at the sudden shout. So did D’Ahid. Lan stood a few yards away. The man reached into his jerkin, and D’Ahid saw his chance. He charged with a yell, swinging the branch. The startled impostor froze. D’Ahid struck him in the ribs and he went down.

Before the impostor could recover his breath, D’Ahid tossed the branch aside and ripped off the man’s battle mask. He pummeled him with one hand as the other gripped the man’s throat.

Through a red haze, D’Ahid heard Jeni implore him not to kill the man.

“We need him alive. Remember?”

D’Ahid gave the impostor one final blow. “Bind him.” He kept his voice low and raspy, to sound like Kestor. “We’ll take him back come morning.”

“It’s a trap.” The man sounded terrified. “Imperial troopers are all over those caverns.”

“We know,” Lan said.

The impostor whimpered. “They forced me to dress like this and enter your caverns. Lieutenant Josald threatened to kill my children.”

D’Ahid hit him again. “Liar! You murdered those people tonight.”

“Oh, Gods, sir. No. Another man did those terrible things, but Josald killed him to keep him quiet. Then he realized he could have used him as bait. He made me-”

D’Ahid dragged the man to his feet. “I saw you myself.”

“Impossible. You weren’t there. None of you were.”

D’Ahid threw him to the ground again. “Kestor is everywhere.”

* * *

“Excuse me, sir?”

Josald looked up from his work. An imposing figure stood framed in his office doorway. Despite his size, the man seemed almost timid as he showed due deference to an Imperial officer.

“I don’t know if you remember me, sir. I…”

Josald beamed as he came forward and clasped his visitor’s hands. “Good morning, Abra. Of course I do. Wonderful cabinet you made for my wife and me last year. But I’m sure you’ve come on more important matters, at such an early hour. How may I assist you?”

* * *

After the woodsmith had left, Josald considered Abra’s fears that Kestor had harmed his brother. D’Ahid could have had a rendezvous with a girlfriend as Josald suspected, or had otherwise decided to delay his journey to Serlo. Or perhaps he’d joined the outlaws. Abra had let slip that D’Ahid didn’t share his feelings about Kestor.

Garn would find this information useful. Reason enough to withhold it. D’Ahid had been one of four villagers who’d received travel visas in recent days— all approved weeks ago. Josald had confirmed the journeys of the other three. As far as Garn was concerned, he’d confirmed D’Ahid’s as well. Oh, he’d investigate, as he’d promised Abra; but if his suspicions proved true, Garn would never know.

Once she learned that the four journeys had been confirmed, Garn would order him to check the records for any unaccountable recent visitors. It would be ironic if a recent visitor now impersonated Kestor, but Josald doubted it. Even so, why would the rebels have accepted D’Ahid, let alone allowed him to masquerade as their leader? From Josald’s vague recollection of the boy, D’Ahid lacked a commanding presence.

Sergeant Reda had reported his regiment’s failure to secure Miklar, along with his belief that the outlaws had captured him. If so, they’d produce Miklar this morning, perhaps while Garn visited the school. Josald couldn’t move against her until then, as he’d realized last night. Even if she didn’t have guards with her, killing her now would only brand him an assassin. But once her role in the massacre had been exposed, her death would be an execution.

* * *

Abra shook as he beheld the charred remains of the school. The odor of burnt wood still hung in the air. Only criminals and cowards fought the Imperials by attacking children.

As Abra and a carpenter from Trepe named Tusnic worked together under the sharp eye of a squad of troopers, other troopers hiked into the mountains.

“That murdering outlaw deserves summary execution. No, the Imperials should seal every cave. Let those wild dogs starve.”

Tusnic shook his head. “Wouldn’t work. They say some passages lead to Noret. Those outlaws are clever.”

“Doesn’t take cleverness to kill children. And sealing the caverns would keep those animals away from us. Let the Norets deal with them.”

The new governor’s carriage came down the road and stopped before the school. Abra listened with care as she stepped from it and spoke.

“My friends, I share your sorrow at your loss. Rest assured we will find and punish the monster who calls himself Kestor. And you can help. In fact, anyone providing information leading to his capture and execution will pay no taxes for one year.”

“I like that idea,” Tusnic whispered, as cheers rang up among the other workers.

“So do I. But I’d rather be the executioner.”

The thunder of hoofbeats cut off Tusnic’s reply. Kestor and his band rode with brazen arrogance into the village, and reined in their horses several yards from the crowd.

A trooper reached for his weapon, but two of the outlaws had already raised their longbows and drawn back the bowstrings.

“Unwise,” Kestor rasped. “We are outside your range, but you are not outside ours.”

Abra thrust his hands out and mimed wringing someone’s neck. “Come closer, outlaw,” he muttered.

Kestor shoved the man on the horse next to him to the ground. The man, who was ill-kempt, wore identical armor, but no battle mask. He seemed to be fettered.

“This man attacked the school, using my name. He is Miklar, a thug hired by Governor Garn.”

The bound man said nothing.

Abra turned to Tusnic. “He isn’t Kestor. Kestor is dead. He must be.”

“I see the bloodstains, but that is not Kestor’s shade before us. Maybe he can defeat death.”

“No!” The gods would not be so cruel as to let a monster like Kestor escape death, while condemning D’Ahid to an unknown fate.

“Governor Garn is not your friend,” Kestor rasped. “She hired this man to attack you and to discredit those who fight for your rights. Don’t let her soft words and empty promises deceive you.”

Abra glared at the outlaw leader, as he heard people muttering. They must have noticed the bloodstains. Then Garn’s voice rang out.

“Arrest them all. Now.”

A trooper started forward only to collapse in agony, as he clutched the arrow that pierced his arm.

“Arrest yourself, Governor,” Kestor said. “You hired this mercenary.”

“So you say. I never saw this man before now. Nor do I lurk in the mountains like an insect scurrying from the light. My office is open to anyone; and I go out among the people.”

She stretched out her hands, as if to prove her point. “Remove your battle mask, ‘Kestor.’ I’m told Kestor went without the battle mask more often than he wore it. These good people all know your countenance. Prove you’re the man you claim to be, and I’ll have this man punished for the attack on the school. And before all these witnesses, I promise you and your followers may go free.”

Abra started forward. “No! He’s a murderer. Kill him.”

Two troopers restrained him. “Don’t harm him,” Garn said. She turned back to the outlaws. “Well, ‘Kestor,’ can you convince this man that you didn’t commit these atrocities; that the man you accuse isn’t some hapless innocent onto whom you intend to shift the blame? Do you accept my terms?”

“No. I won’t dance to your song. Lieutenant Josald?”

Josald appeared puzzled that Kestor had singled him out. “Yes?”

“A few years ago, Governor Katral fell ill with fever, leaving you in command. Do you recall?”

“I do.”

“A renegade legion from Trepe saw his illness as an opportunity to attack and plunder Ijnag. We forged a temporary truce to fight and defeat them.”

“Kestor and I did, yes. That fact is well known.”

“We met alone. You said mutual trust would be impossible, but I said I would and did trust you. True?”

“Yes, Kestor,” Josald replied, his eyes on Garn. “He is Kestor, Governor. Only Kestor knows what we said that day.” He turned to the crowd. “Kestor also speaks the truth about Governor Garn.”

Garn glared at him, and reached for a weapon, but saw, as Abra had, that Josald had already drawn his. “You’ll die for this, Josald,” she said.

“We’ll see.” Josald turned to the troopers. “Arrest that mercenary. And arrest Governor Garn, pending a full investigation under Article Thirty-Seven. The outlaws may leave.”

Abra struggled against the troopers holding him. “No, you can’t! They’re killers.”

“Muzzle him,” Josald ordered. “But don’t harm him.”

Josald rode up to the outlaws and spoke to Kestor for a moment. Then the outlaws started to leave. Kestor glanced back. Abra was certain he was laughing behind the battle mask.

* * *

“What did Josald say?” Lan asked, as the rebels raced away.

“That he and Kestor must not have been alone that day; and that whoever coached me must have misheard.” D’Ahid paused. “Then he said I owe him a favor.”

“We’ll deal with that when the time comes. You did well. You’re a natural actor. The people believe Kestor still lives.”

“Maybe.”

“What of Abra?”

“I’ll go to him this evening.”

“Will you tell him you’ve joined us?”

“If necessary.”

* * *

Garn regarded Josald’s bloodied form with disdain. Incompetent fool.

“You overestimated your influence, Josald. You have fewer friends than you believed. You’ll die a traitor.”

He shot her a defiant look. “I’m loyal to the Empire, but you’re a butcher. By all rights, you should be under arrest. If not-”

“If not for my personal guard, I would be? Perhaps; but we don’t live in a world of perhaps, Josald. We live in the real world, a chaotic world. I will bring order to it, and I won’t tolerate disobedience.”

She fired a single shot at his chest.

He coughed blood. “The people have seen your true colors, and you’ll no longer charm them. You went too far with Miklar.”

“People are malleable. They won’t believe I had anything to do with that. And Miklar won’t tell anyone otherwise.”

“You’re a fool. The new Kestor now has a personal grudge against you.” He smiled. “I… know… his… name…”

Garn was nonplussed at that, and Josald’s lifeless eyes seemed to mock her.

* * *

Abra opened his door to D’Ahid’s knock and D’Ahid saw a torrent of emotions play across his face. After a moment, Abra broke the silence.

“Where have you been? Drenu wrote, saying you’d never arrived. I thought you’d been killed.”

He took a step forward. “Did the outlaws take you prisoner? How did you escape?”

D’Ahid stepped inside. “No.”

“Then what happened?”

“I never went to Serlo. I had a more important task.”

“More important?”

D’Ahid took a deep breath, and prepared for the explosion.

“I had to help rescue Kestor.”

“Are you insane? Kestor’s a criminal, and he’s responsible for Father’s death.”

“Governor Katral killed Father. Kestor saved us. I owed him something.”

Abra tensed, and took slow, steady breaths through clenched teeth.

“Even if that were true,” he said at last, “you have repaid your ‘debt.’ You can put aside this childish infatuation and begin your studies. It’s not too late.”

D’Ahid shook his head. “I can’t. The others need me.”

“What others? What do you- The outlaws. They’ve done something to you, confused you. You’re not a criminal. You don’t belong with them.”

He held out his hands. “No one knows you’ve been with the outlaws. You can still come back to your life.”

“I’m sorry, Abra. I’ll visit when I can, but I have a purpose now. I’m still trying to figure out what it is; but I know I’m not meant to be a woodsmith. The rebels are right to fight for our freedom. You could help us. I am the new Ke-”

“I will never help Kestor. He may not have attacked the school, but he’s still a criminal. If you stand with him, you’re no longer my brother.”

“Abra, listen. Kestor is no longer—”

“Speak no more of Kestor! You’ve made your choice. Go, before I call for a trooper.”

D’Ahid’s jaw dropped. “Abra…”

Abra turned his back. D’Ahid stared at him for a moment. Then he sighed. “We’ll talk again later. There’s something you need to know. Something important, but I’ll wait until you’re calm enough to hear it.”

Abra said nothing. After another moment, D’Ahid stepped into the night.

One day he’d make Abra understand. Somehow.

Chapter Four

Five years later…

Garn steepled her fingers as she listened to the archaeologist’s report.

“This machine you uncovered served as a means of capital punishment? What method?”

“Disintegration, my lady.”

“Indeed? Does the device still function?”

“Yes. We’ve tested it on some cats. All were disintegrated.”

“I had no idea the ancestors of our charges were so ruthless. What else can you report?”

“With regrets, very little. The few surviving records of that era don’t reveal anything related to the device’s history or under what circumstances they used it. However, it seems to have been the center of controversy. One fragment of an editorial condemns the ‘terrible device that tears us apart.’ But perhaps this editor stood alone in his or her condemnation.”

“Perhaps. How did you unlock this mechanism’s secrets?”

“By happenstance. We observed an alcove just large enough for a full-grown adult, and a large lever near it. So we decided to test it on a stray cat. We weren’t sure what to expect, but I daresay none of us anticipated what resulted.”

“Nor, I imagine, did the cat. Does it have other controls?”

“Yes. Several switches and levers of uncertain purpose. We determined it best to leave them be.”

“Wise decision. Can you bring this machine here?”

“At once, my lady.”

After the archaeologist left, Marifo stalked forward from her hiding place, her weapon aimed at Garn’s head. She’d have pulled the trigger long ago; but she had her orders.

She made no sound until she stood just behind Garn, and thrust the muzzle of her weapon into the governor’s neck.

“Say nothing and remain still. We must talk.”

“Must we?” Garn looked up into Marifo’s eyes, an expression of amusement in her own. “Come to kill me?”

“Not today. I bring thee information. Stand.”

Garn stood. Marifo gestured her away from the desk.

“You haven’t come to kill me? You surprise me, Marifo.”

“Were it my choice, I’d have killed thee long ago. But I have my duty.”

“What duty might that be?”

“Thou wishes to capture Kestor? I will tell thee how.”

Garn laughed. “Am I to believe that one of Kestor’s most dedicated followers would betray him? You’re a rabble, but you’re a loyal rabble.”

Marifo fought back the urge to shoot, to silence that smug tone. “There be a woodsmith named Abra. Threaten to kill him unless Kestor surrenders. Kestor will come.”

“Abra hates Kestor. Why should Kestor surrender for him?”

“If thou wishes to capture Kestor, that be how. I have followed my orders. Whether thee listens means nothing to me.”

“Orders from whom?”

“Whom indeed?” Marifo bound and gagged Garn, then slipped out of the castle. She knew that despite her suspicions, Garn would do as instructed. Before long, D’Ahid would be in their enemy’s hands.

“It be the right thing,” she whispered. “I am doing the right thing.”

* * *

“I had an interesting conversation with one of the outlaws earlier,” Governor Garn said as she strode into Abra’s shop like it were her own. Abra looked up from his work at Garn and the two troopers with her, masking his annoyance at the interruption.

“She said you could help us capture Kestor.” She spoke as if she and Abra passed the time of day.

Abra was nonplussed. “Me?”

“Curious, yes? You’ve been quite vocal about your hatred of Kestor.”

“Yes, I hate him. I hate the suffering he caused my family.”

“Then you’d want to help capture him.”

“I’d like nothing better.”

“It gladdens me to hear that. Yet I’m curious why that outlaw named you.”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you ever fished, Abra?”

His brow furrowed. How did that relate? “Once or twice.”

“We’ll do that now. You’re the bait.” The troopers grabbed him and forced him to the door.

“Why are you doing this? I said I wanted to help capture Kestor.”

Garn turned to face him. “You will help. I’m told Kestor will surrender to prevent your death. Unlikely, but I’d be a fool to pass up any opportunity, wouldn’t I?”

She seemed to study him. Abra shivered. He’d never trusted Garn, despite her affectations of neighborliness.

“Why would Kestor surrender for you? What connection could you two share?”

Abra’s stomach lurched. Had she learned that D’Ahid had joined the outlaws? He’d never forgive that betrayal, but he also didn’t want Garn to know. So he’d kept his peace all these years.

“Only that Kestor caused my father’s death. That outlaw lied, Governor. Kestor cares only about himself.”

“Believe me Abra, I don’t take anything that woman said on faith; but why would she lie about you? After all, excepting the unfortunate incident involving your father, you haven’t had direct contact with the outlaws, have you?”

“Of course not.”

A thought struck him. If Kestor could be captured it might break his hold over D’Ahid. Abra would give his life without hesitation to save his brother. But would Garn distinguish between true outlaws and an innocent in Kestor’s thrall? Doubtful. Lieutenant Josald might have, but Josald was dead.

“When you capture Kestor, you’ll kill him? You won’t give him a chance to escape, like Katral—?” He broke off, expecting a rebuff, but Garn said nothing. Nor could he be sure what to read in her steady gaze. “I’d give my life with gladness if it guaranteed Kestor’s death.”

A smile played across her thin lips. “Indeed? I’d hate to lose such a fine woodsmith. Perhaps we’ll catch our fish, yet also keep the bait alive.”

* * *

D’Ahid grinned as he waved to the young family making its way towards the greenwood above Noret.

Adrow seemed to sense his mood. “It makes you feel good.”

“It does. They’re free of Garn’s pitiless tax levies. But we need to do more.”

“We’re making a difference.”

“A sliver of a difference. Like how I keep Kestor’s name alive. But I’m just playing a role. Even this new battle mask I made doesn’t compare to Kestor’s own.”

“You sell yourself short. If people have souls, Kestor’s lives in you. Despite my initial doubts, you have proven yourself.”

D’Ahid wished he could share Adrow’s confidence, but he knew he’d never measure up to Kestor. “We’d best head back.”

When they rejoined the others, D’Ahid’s good spirits plummeted. A pall seemed to have descended over the others. No one had said anything, but the look in Jeni’s eyes spoke volumes.

“What’s happened?”

“Abra’s been arrested,” she said.

A sharp pain sliced through D’Ahid’s gut. “Why?”

She took his hand. “No one knows; but Garn will release him only if Kestor comes alone and surrenders.”

“Thou must not,” Telrac insisted. “It be a trap.”

“Could she know you’re now Kestor?” Adrow asked.

D’Ahid shook his head. “If she knew I wasn’t the real Kestor she’d proclaim it to the Empyrean.”

“Then why arrest Abra?” Jeni asked.

“Doesn’t matter. I won’t let harm befall him.”

“You can’t surrender.”

“I can’t let Abra die.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “When must I— I mean Kestor— surrender?”

“You have two hours.”

“Can we free Abra?”

Jeni bowed her head. “No. They have him in the square, guarded and tied to the machine that archaeologist— Rehar— claims our ancestors used for executions.”

“The Imperials allow no one near,” Telrac said.

“Then I’ll have to surrender.”

“No,” Telrac shouted. “Thee be not expendable.”

“I won’t let Abra die. I couldn’t save Kestor, but I will save my brother.”

“How can thou be certain he be in true peril?”

“Abra would never put me in danger.”

“Abra doesn’t know you’re now Kestor,” Adrow said. “And he hates Kestor. You must not go.”

“I must. I won’t risk his life.” D’Ahid again cursed his cowardice at never having told Abra the truth. He’d always pledged to do it “next time”, and the days and years had raced on. But would knowing the truth have spared Abra this fate? If Garn knew the truth, why hadn’t she denounced D’Ahid? If not, how had Abra attracted her attention?

He turned to Lan. “What do you say?”

“You must go. True, Abra wouldn’t endanger you, but somehow Garn knows of a connection between him and Kestor. How?”

“Because I told her.”

D’Ahid turned. Marifo emerged from the shadows at the far end of the cavern. She took slow steps, as if in a daze, and stopped several feet from the others. A parchment dangled between the fingers of her left hand.

Jeni grabbed Marifo’s shoulders and shook her. “You told Garn? In Phaned’s name, why?”

“I did as instructed.” Marifo held out the parchment. Jeni snatched it and read it. Her eyes widened, and her voice was tinged with disbelief.

“Kestor wrote this.” She turned to Marifo. “The sealed message for you. This is it.”

“The day he died, Kestor told me I was to unseal the message on this day.”

“That’s right. I remember,” Adrow said.

“Kestor wrote that Marifo must go to the governor— today— and tell her to threaten Abra,” Jeni said. She sounded as shocked as D’Ahid felt.

He made a vehement shake of his head. “Impossible. Why would Kestor order the betrayal of his chosen successor?”

Jeni handed Lan the parchment. “Lan knows Kestor’s script better than any of us. He’ll confirm this is genuine.”

Lan studied the parchment and nodded. “This is written in Kestor’s hand, but that isn’t all he says. He assures Marifo that this action is necessary to ensure the freedom and safety of all Noule, and that neither Abra nor D’Ahid will come to harm.”

He turned to Marifo. “Why did you not come to us before you acted?”

She wrung her hands. “Would thou have had me disobey Kestor? How could I do that? I have never disobeyed Kestor. Nor hast thee. Even so, I could not let any of you share my burden.”

She turned to D’Ahid, her tone both confident and imploring. “I have faith in Kestor. He would not allow thee to come to harm. I would not have done what I did if I had believed otherwise.”

D’Ahid regarded her with narrowed eyes for a long moment. If not for his faith in Kestor, he might throttle her. He still might. “Your reasons don’t matter. I won’t take any chances with Abra’s life.”

He turned to the others. “Whatever happens to me, see to it that the prophecy about no harm to Abra comes true.”

* * *

Two hours later, D’Ahid reined in his mount several yards from the north end of the square. There Garn had secured Abra to her strange device.

“I must admit I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Garn said.

D’Ahid affected Kestor’s raspy voice. “Release that man.”

Garn offered him a friendly smile as she cut Abra’s bonds. “Of course. But why surrender to save a man who hates you?”

“All the people are under my protection.”

Abra spat. “We do not want your ‘protection’, outlaw. No one asked you to come here.”

D’Ahid fought to keep his tone emotionless, lest Garn reconsider that there might be a connection between himself and Abra. “Kestor goes where he’s needed, woodsmith. I’m needed here.”

“A comforting delusion, I’m sure,” Garn said. “But you’ll not be among us much longer.”

“Perhaps. Others have said the same, and yet Kestor remains.” Even as he spoke, D’Ahid was surprised at his calmness. It helped that the real Kestor had foreseen that both he and Abra would emerge from this unharmed.

Idly, he wondered if he’d ever see himself as more than a substitute. Perhaps one day he’d come close to getting halfway there. If Kestor’s prediction proved wrong, he prayed the others would carry on. Lan would be best suited to assume the mantle.

He offered a silent prayer to Ruala, dismounted, and allowed himself to be secured to the device.

* * *

Abra hurried back to his shop. Bait for Kestor or not, he still had to finish an important order by sundown. Even so, he’d pause in his labors to witness the execution in an hour’s time.

Without warning, a hand reached out from a narrow alley and pulled him into the shadows.

“Say nothing,” a low voice hissed. “Thou be in more danger than thy know.”

Abra faced two of the outlaws, a farmer about his build, and a leaner Cinat.

“Release me,” he cried, as the outlaws forced him further into the shadows.

The farmer gave him a hard look. “You wish to live?”

Abra nodded.

“Then listen well, and we might save both yourself and your brother.”

Abra was nonplussed. “D’Ahid? What of him?”

“He be in Garn’s trap,” the Cinat said.

“Speak sense.”

As the Cinat spun a web of lies, Abra snorted with disdain. What kind of fool did they take him for? If D’Ahid was in the trap, that coward Kestor had forced him.

“You lie.”

The farmer’s eyes narrowed. “Do we? Come with us.” The outlaws led Abra behind homes and through back alleys until he could see the device from a hiding place. He shivered. D’Ahid was bound to it, unmasked, but wearing Kestor’s battle armor.

Two competing thoughts tore at him— that he’d led his brother into a trap; and that D’Ahid had betrayed the memory of their father by impersonating the man who’d caused his death.

“I must tell Garn D’Ahid is not Kestor. She’ll release him.”

The farmer held him fast. “You know she won’t. Even if she believes D’Ahid is a decoy, she’ll not release him. And if she got hold of you again, she’d make you act as executioner— to prove your loyalty to the Empire. Would you like that? To be your brother’s executioner?”

“To the Imperials, an outlaw be an outlaw,” the Cinat said. “She won’t free him.”

“She will when Kestor surrenders.” Abra put steel in his voice, even as he shuddered at the memory of words spoken long ago.

“Thou still does not understand. D’Ahid be Kestor. There be no other.”

“There will be. I don’t know how you forced D’Ahid to join you, but I won’t let him die because of it. One of you will masquerade as Kestor and surrender in his place. I know you have spare armor and battle masks. How else could one of you have impersonated Kestor to distract the troopers when you rescued your fellow criminals from Katral?”

“No harm will befall D’Ahid,” the farmer said.

“No harm? You and your ilk have corrupted him, and put him in harm’s way.”

The farmer remained calm. “Kestor not only prophesied that D’Ahid would succeed him, but also that D’Ahid would surrender himself to save you— and that no harm would befall either of you.”

“I should believe such fancies?”

“Kestor’s prophecies have always come to pass.”

Abra grit his teeth. “You’ll do nothing? You’ll leave everything to fate?”

The outlaw smiled. “I did not say that.”

Abra grabbed the outlaw’s tunic near the throat. “If you had any decency, you’d let D’Ahid return to a normal life.”

The outlaw remained calm. “This is his life, and he has helped people. He captured and exposed Miklar.”

Abra’s grip loosened. “That was D’Ahid?”

“Yes. He tried to tell you when you last spoke, but you would not listen.”

Abra released the other man and glared at him, but said nothing. None of the outlaws would impersonate Kestor and offer himself in D’Ahid’s place. They didn’t care about D’Ahid. If they had, they’d never have used him.

He had no choice. As much as it galled him, he’d have to pretend to be the man he hated and offer himself in his brother’s place. He’ll say D’Ahid was a foolish boy who’d tried to protect him, but that he can’t allow others to sacrifice themselves in his place.

He’d die, of course. But D’Ahid would be away from that foul machine by then. Perhaps Abra’s sacrifice would also snap him out of his spell, and he’d understand the truth of things.

If he’d accompanied D’Ahid to Serlo, or if he hadn’t chased him away when he’d revealed he’d joined the outlaws, all of this might have been prevented. He had one last chance to set things right.

“If none of you will impersonate Kestor, then I will.”

The Cinat gave him a dubious look. “Thou?”

“Yes. To save D’Ahid, I would even pretend to be Kestor.”

* * *

Tied fast in a small alcove of the metal apparatus, and under heavy guard, D’Ahid was displayed, unmasked, for all to see. The others would protect Abra, but he had failed them all. Even now, he didn’t understand why Kestor had chosen him.

The expressions of anger, disappointment and betrayal on the faces of the villagers who’d gawked at him for the past hour felt like daggers. He prayed they’d forgive him for letting them down.

“This is your legendary hero?” Garn asked, her tone mocking and derisive. “The one who knows the future and can defeat death— a would-be woodsmith?”

“That’s not Kestor,” someone shouted. “He is D’Ahid. I attended school with him.”

Garn nodded. “Nor does he have Kestor’s famous silver hair. Or his beard. And he has both his eyes. Could it be that Kestor— the true Kestor— is dead, and this boy has used— and mocked— you all these years?”

She offered D’Ahid the faintest hint of a smile, as the crowd jeered him. He glared back at her, and recalled something Lan once said.

“Kestor is the symbol, the spirit of freedom,” he shouted. “That spirit can move from one person to another. I may die, but the spirit of Kestor will live on in another. Kestor is eternal.”

A few people nodded, and D’Ahid prayed his idea would work. If they could think of Kestor as a symbol passed from one person to another, perhaps they’d accept someone who might come after him. The others would know that while no one could replace the real Kestor, they’d still have a way for the people to accept someone else using his name. Someone like Lan.

“The spirit of Kestor died with the man,” Garn said. “This boy, for all his poetic words, is just a pretender. And since I view D’Ahid’s crass impersonation as akin to sacrilege, it is fitting and proper that he be executed in the manner proscribed by your ancestors.”

She slipped the battle mask back onto him. “Let Kestor’s famous battle mask serve as the impostor’s hood of execution.”

Garn nodded to a technician, who pulled a large lever. The machine began to hum with a gradual increase in tempo. D’Ahid struggled, wishing for one last moment with Jeni.

Then came a blinding flash.

* * *

“Justice is do—” An arrow slammed into Garn’s chest. She stared at it as she felt her legs turn to rubber, then looked up. Her dying eyes widened as she saw a figure in the familiar battle armor urge his mount down the hillside.

“Justice!”

* * *

Lan saw a torrent of emotions play across Abra’s countenance as the woodsmith removed the battle mask. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t let grief and anger blind me, I’d— Now I’ve lost my only family. This,” he gestured at the armor he wore, “was all I could do to atone. I’d hoped to rescue him, but–”

“We’ve destroyed that machine,” Jeni said. “No one else will die in it; and your actions reinforced Kestor’s legend.”

Abra slammed down the battle mask, and began tearing off the armor. “Do not speak that criminal’s name in my presence.”

“How dare thee…?” Amthra began. Lan held up a hand. Now was not the time to fight; not with D’Ahid’s brother.

“Let him be. We understand your feelings, but we still appreciate what you’ve done for us.”

“I ‘appreciate’ that I failed to be a proper guardian to D’Ahid, and that led him to such as you. So much for your hero’s prophecy that no harm would befall him.”

Lan’s soul felt as if it had been seared. “I don’t understand. Kestor’s prophecies have never been wrong.”

“I just realized something,” Jeni said. “This is the day we’re to read the last prophecy. Maybe it will explain what happened.”

Amthra spat out a bitter, mirthless laugh. “Perhaps he names another to lead us, now that D’Ahid be dead. Or perhaps he tells us the prophecies all be for nothing.”

Jeni crossed to the small alcove where they’d stored the sealed prophecy. “I don’t believe that. Nor did Kestor. He never gave up.”

She returned with the parchment, broke the seal and unraveled it. “In Phaned’s name!”

He hand trembled as she handed Lan the parchment.

“What does it say?” Telrac asked.

Lan handed the parchment to Abra. “You should read this.”

Abra scanned the document. “It’s not possible,” he whispered.

Lan said nothing as he knelt and picked up the battle mask. He considered it for a long moment.

Epilogue

D’Ahid stumbled, then frowned as he regained his balance. He stood alone. How had he gotten free? The others must have come for him, and he’d become dazed in the fight.

Just then he noticed a large crowd at the far end of the square. Had his friends been captured?

He started forward, then stopped. He wasn’t alone. A man stood in the doorway of a small shop to his right, and stared at him with an expression of awe. D’Ahid found it disconcerting. By now the man must know he wasn’t the true Kestor.

“Kestor! By all the Gods, can it be true?” The man’s reverent tone carried the same degree of awe.

It seemed he didn’t know. D’Ahid made an inward shrug. “I am Kestor, my friend.” As he drew near the man, he saw that he was a stranger, doubtless a newcomer to Ijnag. “Do you need assistance?”

“Not me, but the governor means to execute a good and decent man.” He pointed toward the crowd. “You must stop it.”

“I intend to.” As a boy, D’Ahid been helpless to prevent Katral from killing his father. But now he’d keep Garn from murdering some other family.

He and the stranger wend their way behind the shops, unobserved. As he drew nearer the crowd, D’Ahid wished he had time to find the others, and that he could remember how he’d gotten free; but that would have to wait.

He could now see the people in the center of the crowd, and his jaw dropped as he tried to accept the reality of what he beheld. One thing was clear, he no longer doubted his destiny.

He turned to his companion.

“You are Monsi of Trepe.”

The man looked startled. “How did you–? You are Kestor.”

“Will you follow me, Monsi?”

“Until my dying day.”

“Do you see that family there? The younger boy is called D’Ahid. One day, the boy named D’Ahid will come to the followers of Kestor. And on that day, he will be your leader. He shall be Kestor.”

The End

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Published by Karl Rademacher on June 29, 2014. This item is listed in Novellas, Serial Novellas

Embers

by Salena Casha

Chapter One

“Melody.”

My heartbeat quickened and I froze. How did they know my name? The half-crescent light of the moon glowed off stone. An alleyway, shrouded in darkness, slithered between the buildings. I reached for the familiar hilt of my knife, but my fingers grasped at air.

A cackle pierced through the night. The hair on my arm bristled. “You can’t hide from us, dearest,” the voice sang. “We only want to talk with you”.

Yeah right. Their medallion burned against my chest. I tried not to wrinkle my nose. Who knew how many of those foul creatures had caressed the ruby with their hands. Its heat soothed me, and my muscles relaxed. The swish of satin brought me out of the trance.

“You’ll be my undoing,” I whispered to it and tucked it under my tunic.

Interminable darkness stretched in front of me as I slowly backed down the alley. My current position was far from advantageous. They’d find me eventually. I shivered at the thought of the Specters: those who trailed me. They were monsters that no one knew existed, except us, the Order. And our duty was to protect everyone else from them.

I quickened my pace, my feet soundless against the stone pavement. Not that it made a difference. If I had worn a silence spell, they still would be able to hear me. They had senses beyond those of humans. They were probably enjoying the fast beat of my heart. My feet tripped into a run as I slipped through the side-streets of Brita. The roads of the village were barren, the silence emphasized by my blood pounding away in my ears.

“Melody, I see you,” the voice called out again. Its high tone vibrated against the walls. I took another step forward when something grabbed my feet and slammed them into the ground. Panic built up in my chest as my throat threatened to close. I struggled against their magic as it paralyzed my legs, rooting me in my spot. Iciness spread through my veins; a cold breath slid down my back. I winced as the chill made its way deeper into my body.  Focus, I urged myself. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Control. Do not let them take your body from you.

A pale white form materialized in front of my eyes in a cyclone of wind. Her sharp teeth glistened in the moonlight, their sharpness punctuated by beady black eyes that stood out against white skin and hair. She traced my face with a long finger, her skin hard as marble. I tried not to wince as her nails scratched against my cheek, hot blood blooming from the scrapes.

“I believe you have something of ours,” she purred from her perch a few feet above the cracked ground.

The ruby’s heat radiated through my body as it undid the cold of the Specter’s magic. “Is that a question? Because if you’re asking, you’re supposed to say please,” I replied. Acid rose in my throat and I tried to swallow.

She swooped down, inches from my face, enraged. The rotting smell of her breath overwhelmed my senses. “Give it to me. Now.”

“No,” I said. My body thrummed with energy. The nerves in my hands felt as though they pulsed outside of my skin, shocked through with adrenaline. If I lost the gem to her, there was no telling what the Captain would do to me.

“I would tell you I won’t hurt you, dear, but I don’t like to lie.” Her eyes hardened as she barred her teeth.

The Specter’s magic slipped slowly off my body like melting ice. My muscles tensed as she reached out to touch my arm, her hand twisted into a claw. I delved deep into my mind and tugged at the core of my powers. Gritting my teeth, I pushed the blue string of magic out of my fingertips toward the creature. The sparks tunneled together, entwined in a long blast of light. She screamed out in pain and withdrew her outstretched hand. Magic rolled off my skin, escaping from my pores. It molded itself over my body in a bubble.

A loud crash bounced off the walls of the alley. I whirled around, my hand poised to send another stream of magic toward the disturbance. A dark silhouette tripped over a pile of rubbish.

“Melody, we have to get out of here,” someone cried. I wiped away the sweat that bled down my forehead. It was Aaron, my partner, the most notorious wimp in the entire kingdom. Always came out at the last possible moment.

“Easy for you to say,” I grimaced as I sent another string of magic from my fingers toward the Specter’s image. Something sharp cut against my hand and burnt my skin.

“My shield’s faltering. She’d breaking through,” I muttered.

I fell back onto hard rock. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The Specters only weapon was fear; they had little true magic of their own. Aaron grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet as the Specter began her approach. Patches of red decorated her white skin where my shield had scorched her.

“Let’s get out of here,” Aaron whispered.

“The Captain wanted a prisoner this time,” I snapped.

Aaron’s eyes widened, but he knew better than to protest, so he stepped behind me. I delved deeper into my power to search the hidden crevices of my reserves. I pressed my palms together and opened them. A whirlwind of blue heat erupted from my skin. The Specter clawed and shrieked against it as I twisted the blue wire around her figure. With one final twirl, I formed the magic into a cage. She clawed against the barriers. Part two of mission completed.

“We ready now?” Aaron asked. A loud howl ripped through the air, the sound of Specters screeching through the night. I didn’t think it wise to wait for them. I slung the cage over my shoulder, and he grabbed onto my arm. His touch seared my skin as he mumbled words beneath his breath. Pressure built inside my chest. Air pushed down on me. The alley tunneled and I closed my eyes. Wind sucked at my skin. And then there was only silence.

***

Chapter Two

Order members filled the headquarters, the cabin lit by a roaring fire. Red stains colored the floorboards. The elder members told us, with a wink and a nod, that at the time Headquarters was built, even the trees bled red. I knew better. It had been painted the scarlet to honor Order members who had died fighting the Greater Evil, a constant reminder of our own fate. I brushed a strand of frizzy auburn hair away from my eyes as I hefted the cage higher on my shoulder. Aaron trembled beside me. He never was particularly fond of crowds.

The rumble of voices hushed as the members watched us enter. I swallowed, ignoring their curious stares and looked confidently ahead of me. A desk emblazoned with two swords, the sign of the Order, sat at the center of the room. The Captain looked up from his map. Even in the limited light, the scar that ran from his temple to his lip glinted, sinister.

“Melody,” the Captain said. He removed his eyeglasses and let them hang from his meaty fingers. Grey speckled his black hair. The floor creaked under his weight. My stomach clenched as I removed the cage from my back.

“I’ve brought the stone and a prisoner,” I said. The Captain raised his eyebrows. Just stay strong. If he hears fear in your voice, you’re done for, I reminded myself. I was tough, raised on the streets. I knew how to deal with a military man.

“Are you sure?” he asked and gestured toward the cage. I looked down, my heart sinking inside my chest. The Specter had torn a hole in the side of my magic cube. Vanished. Must have disentangled herself during Aaron’s teleport. My hands shook as I forced myself to meet his eyes.

“She was here a minute ago, I swear,” I said. Digging into my tunic pocket, I produced the ruby. “But I do have the stone.” A sharp edge of the rock dug into my hand and blood oozed from the cut. A silvery spark of my magic stitched up the wound.

He shook his head, frustration oozing from his eyes. “Without a prisoner, the stone is useless.” He waved the congregation away with his hands. “Back to work.”

“Rogue, Henderson,” he pointed at two younger men at the back of the room, “Go out and try to catch that Specter. She can’t have gone far.” With a nod, they disappeared into the night.

“You, come with me,” he said and beckoned me toward the desk.

His reading glasses skittered across the table. I crossed my arms in front of my chest. Anger boiled in my veins. How did the Specter escape without my knowledge?

“Do you know how much everyone here has sacrificed for you? You have failed us.” His voice was heavy. “Again.”

Heat rose in my cheeks. Okay, I might not have been the most accurate shot in the entire Order, but it didn’t mean I wasn’t trying. “I would just like to point out, sir, that last time was not completely my fault. I was outnumbered.” He shook his head.

“This isn’t about blame. I put my trust in you and it’s gotten us nowhere. There is a war going on out there. We can’t afford any mistakes.” He sighed and replaced his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“I’ll give you one more chance. Find out what the stone does. If you can’t, you don’t belong here.” My throat closed and I tried not to choke as my eyes burned. The Order had been the only home I’d ever known. He couldn’t just take it away from me. I stormed out of the room toward the Novice barracks.

“Since the Specter escaped, does that mean we won’t be getting promoted?” someone asked. I turned around to see Aaron looking up at me from under his thick spectacles.

I shoved him in the shoulder. “We have a lot more than that to worry about,” I replied. My head pounded as though my skull was about to split open. He fell silent and ran his hand nervously through his hair. I ducked under the wooden archway to my room. The dirt floor crunched beneath my shoes. I tumbled toward the shaky structure of my bunk bed. The other Novices were sound asleep. They were able to doze through a hailstorm.

Pulling off my boots, I ignored his worried expression as he stood in front of me.

“What?” I looked up at him angrily.

Aaron’s shoulders bowed forward. “Nothing. You look tired. Get some rest. I feel like we both could use some.”

“Yeah, you must be tired from standing and watching me save your sorry little butt,” I said to his retreating back. He just shook his head and disappeared through the archway toward the male barracks.

I pulled off my tunic and slipped into my night shirt. The soft material caressed my skin as it beckoned me to sleep. Just relax, I told myself. You’ll be able to figure something out. I placed my knife back into the waistband of my shorts. Sliding under the covers, I listened as the sounds of the Order, those who worked around the clock, receded into the distance. Those sounds, which had been so familiar to me, sent a jagged pain through my heart. I couldn’t afford to lose my home.

***

Chapter Three

“This is useless.”

I slammed the jewel down against the boulder. My knuckles throbbed but the stone was still intact. Too bad it hadn’t cracked open and spilt its secrets onto the grey rock. Aaron looked over at me from where he sat. He clenched a handful of grass clippings, torn out by the root, in his fist. The Jove River trickled by us. Miles downstream, along the Brita Boundaries, it expanded large enough for barge traffic.  But here, it was just a thin brook; barely a creek.  And quiet enough for me to think. Below us, the village center prepared itself for nightfall. Below us, the Captain sat at his desk and awaited our return. I dug my nails into the rich soil.

“Melody, really, we’ll figure something out,” he said. I waved my red knuckles in his direction and he frowned.

“There’s nothing to figure out,” I said. The Captain’s threat whispered through my mind and my heart clenched as I tried not to look down at headquarters. Tendrils of sun flickered over the grass. The last rays flashed across Aaron’s glasses. “It won’t work for me. I don’t know how to make it show us anything.”

This wasn’t a fair test at all. How was I supposed to be able to figure out this secret? What if it was just a regular rock? All I wanted was to bury my face in my hands and sob like a child. But I couldn’t let Aaron see me cry. He had always been the weaker one, the one I comforted. And now in crisis, I couldn’t let the roles change. Squinting into the distance, I ground my teeth.

“Melody…”

“What? Is there some other stupid advice you want to give me?” I snapped.

“No. It’s just…”

“We don’t have time for this. For anything. We’re just going to get kicked back onto the street. Is that what you want? For us to become performers? You know what happens to Order members who are dismissed. They don’t last very long out there.”

Resignation folded his shoulders. His eyes gazed at a point above my head, his mouth hard. “Just look.” He raised an arm and pointed behind me. I followed his gaze.

Crimson light lit the valley below us. At first, I thought it was just the glowing remains of day. But the beams moved and flicked. I shaded my eyes. Flames stretched up toward the sky, a threat to set the clouds on fire. I could see Headquarters, see the wooden beams through which smoke spiraled. The structure creaked, on the verge of collapse. Dark shapes moved around the perimeter. From beneath their cloaks, matches flew onto the enflamed pyre. Magic sizzled under my skin and pulsed readily at my fingertips.

“No!” I rose and scrambled forward.

“Melody!”

I ignored him. It was a half-mile descent to the village through the thinly grassed meadow. I could get there in minutes. An explosion shook the structure. Tremors traveled through the ground. My knees slammed into the hard dirt as I lost my balance. I had to get there. Had to save them. I pushed myself to standing when Aaron grabbed my wrists. His brows curved down into a frown.

I felt for the knife at my waistband. “We have to help. Teleport us.”

“Are you crazy? We could land in the center of a burning room and die. We can’t risk it,” Aaron said. I wanted to remind him of all that the Order had risked for us long ago. That we owed them our lives.

“But it’s our duty,” I cried. The acrid tang of smoke stung my nose. I blinked away haze as I glanced toward the flames.

“No,” he said. “Our duty is to protect the stone.” He pulled me onto the ground. Grass tickled my bare legs and I wanted to wrench myself away but he gripped me hard. His voice lowered to a whisper. “Whoever set the fire is probably looking for it.”

I needed to tell him that he was wrong, but as I looked back at the shadows around the flames, my blood cooled. My arms went limp but he did not release his hold.

“We have to get away from here,” he said. I nodded and he pulled me to stand.

“You can let go,” I said. He hesitated, still holding my wrists. I rolled my eyes. “I promise I won’t run.”

“Fine,” he said. We made our way back to the river and I slipped the stone into my pocket. Silky plumes of smoke funneled into the darkening heavens.

The lazy current of the water made it easy for us to cross the river. The cool liquid seeped into my leggings and glued the fabric to my skin. I grimaced as I followed Aaron out of the stream, my clothes heavy. Grass crunched beneath our feet as we hurried away from Brita. It would’ve been nice not to have to walk, but Aaron never went outside the Britan boundaries. Teleportation required familiarity of some form or other.

Not that we knew where we were going anyway. I’d never been outside the boundaries either, never been outside the outline of the country. When the night sky had completely blacked out the light of the sun, other than the eerie glow of the coals that were once our home, I curled my magic into two glowing orbs that balanced on my palms. The landscape before us rolled toward the horizons in hills of never-ending grass. Aaron barreled on ahead of me.

“Wow.”

“What?” He called back over his shoulder.

“Nothing. I just didn’t know you knew how to walk,” I replied. I could picture his eyes rolling back in his head, annoyed that he had me for a partner.

“Wait up.” I panted up the hill to where he stood. His black curls rustled in the wind, the muscles in his back tensed. I placed a hand on his shoulder and he shrugged it off. “Aaron, we should stop. Rest. I can hide us. At least for the night.”

He did not turn and I walked around to face him. In the orb’s blue glow, his eyes glistened.  His body shook as he wiped a hand across his nose.

“It’ll be okay,” I whispered. He shook his head, arms crossed.

“It wasn’t just your home,” he said.

“I know.” I moved toward him but he stepped back.

“It wasn’t,” he repeated. And I could see him for what he was beneath the magic: just a homeless, orphaned thirteen-year-old boy.

“I’m so sorry,” I said and I grabbed his shoulders. On the verge of tears, he folded into me, his body thin beneath my hands. I helped him sit down on the cold grass. In the night air, I wove a cube of protection around us. His eyes traced the pattern as my magic glowed and then disappeared, an ebb and flow of familiarity. I lost myself to the buzz, to the patterns. Stay strong, I reminded myself, biting my lip. Aaron’s sobs echoed in the space as he cried into my shirt just like he had when I first met him.

When the Order had found me, I had been seven years-old. I was playing in the street, dressed in rags. Sitting on my haunches, I watched as blue sparks trickled from my fingers and fell onto the concrete. Flowers bloomed where my magic touched the ground. People in Brita had acted less than kindly toward me when they had seen such displays of power. One day, after a nasty incident with a shopkeeper, the Captain approached me and told me to come with him. I’d been horrified, thought that he would take me back to the orphanage I’d escaped. But I was too small to fight him. He brought me to Headquarters, gave me a bed to sleep in, food to eat, a place to train. He taught me how to use my magic.

They found Aaron when he was five. I had been at the Order for a year when they brought him in. All the Order children younger than nine slept in the same room and he was assigned to be my bunkmate. He cried all through that first night. When I asked him what was wrong (right after I threatened him that I’d strangle him in his sleep if he didn’t shut up), he clung onto me and cried until the sun came up.

As we had learned, the Order was a group of Mages. They were born with magic to protect their fellow ignorant brothers and sisters from dark forces that hid in all corners of civilization. War was caused by darkness as was famine and disease. The Order fought those that sought to bring evil into the world. We had all sworn to protect and serve the human race until we were no longer needed. Like that was going to happen any time soon.

I held Aaron against me even though my stomach ached. The Order was gone. The people who had loved us, who had accepted us, who had taught us how to use the magic that had alienated us from other humans, were gone. Rocking him like a baby, I whispered words I didn’t believe into his ear until he fell asleep in my arms. Slowly, I shifted him onto the ground. He lay there, snoring.

“I’ll take first watch,” I whispered and stepped outside of the protective circle. The acrid smell of smoke drifted toward me as the wind blew through my thin clothes. My nose wrinkled at the stench. It would have been a beautiful night if the flames from headquarters did not still blaze and bathe Brita with a golden glow. I swallowed and swiped the tears from my cheeks with a quick hand.

Be strong, I whispered to myself. So I watched the fire settle down to embers and, as the sun rose, cool to ash. My nails pressed red crescents into my arm, but still, I watched. My home was truly gone.

***

Chapter Four

“Melody, we have a problem,” Aaron’s voice drifted toward me. I looked up from the fire-pit where I sat cooking our breakfast. Another problem? As if we didn’t have enough already.

“What is it?” I raised my eyebrows. I had sent him down to catch some more fish from the river. Unless the entire population of salmon had died, I didn’t want to hear his news. He reached into the back pocket of his trousers and pulled out a scroll. Our faces stood out in black ink, imprinted on the front page.

I snatched the paper from his hand. “What does it say?”

Aaron was one of very few people in Brita who could read. Only a handful of people were born with that type of power. The Order had used his gift to its advantage and communicated with other organized protective groups through Aaron’s cryptic scribbles. Not that we had ever seen any fairies or other Mages. The Order members were the only magic folk we had ever known.

“The authorities are looking for us. They think we had something to do with the fire.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “We have to leave before they find us.” I didn’t respond. I could feel his stare boring a hole in my back. I breathed in the sweet scent of flowers. Spring would arrive soon.

“Where would we even go?” I asked, my voice soft. Brita was the only place I had ever lived. Born into the disgusting streets, full of filth and death and danger, I had thrived here. My blood ran in the gutters and my magic coursed through marbled veins in the city walls. If I left, I would lose a piece of myself. He shrugged and sat down next to me. He patted my hand, his blue-veined skin pale against my bronzed complexion.

“It’s okay,” he said.

“It’s not okay,” I shot back. My magic sizzled on the ridges of my fingertips. My skin glowed gold. Anger raged through my body and I breathed out as I tried to stabilize my core.

“It will be,” he continued. Fear flickered across his eyes, but he held his ground. “The ruby will tell us what to do.”

“Why do you bother believing that fairytale?” I asked and rolled my eyes. I shoved my hand into my pocket. The rough edges of the ruby blistered across my fingertips. I held the crystal up to the light, watched the sun glance off the surface. “It’s just a stupid rock. There’s nothing important about it.” I glanced at the stone and my heart skipped.

“What?” Aaron demanded. He moved toward me.

“It’s just, I think I saw something.” I brought the gem close to my face, challenged the cracked edges to speak to me, to show me something. Nothing. I sighed. Now I was seeing things. Great.

Aaron’s hand closed over my fist and I met his gaze. “Your magic. Maybe it brought out a message.”

“I doubt it,” I said.

“It’s worth a try. That is unless you’re afraid of being wrong,” he said and crossed his arms in front of his hollow chest.

My power still sat, unused, on my skin’s surface. Blue sparks speckled the glass before seeping inside the gem through a fissure at the edge. Must have happened when I’d tried to break it open. My magic burrowed into the gem. It trickled like grains of sand into openings and pockets. I watched as it formed itself and settled. A mountain peak appeared in the ruby, sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. Four words engraved beneath the image blinked and shuddered. There were no mountains in Brita, just rolling hills and grassy plains. And ash, I added. I could still taste the acrid powder that had been blown by the wind and settled on our bodies the night before.

“Look,” I said and held it out to Aaron.

He stared, his eyes wide. It took him a few moments to study the symbols, to read their meaning. As I watched him, heat crept up my neck. We couldn’t survive without each other and it made my head ache.

“It’s the Cora Ley Mountain Range,” he said.

“Do you think you can take us there?” I asked. I choked on the words, my breath coming out in a cough.

He nodded. “You sure you want to?” he asked. I wished I could bottle up Brita’s wind and take it with me. Not that I was sentimental or anything.

“We should go,” I said finally. Aaron nodded and looked back down the valley, back at where we’d last seen Headquarters and the river and the streets of Brita. I felt dizzy as he slid his small hand onto my wrist. His skin felt cool, like ice, and I shivered.

“It’ll be okay,” he said. The corner of his mouth twitched into a watery smile.

I nodded tightly as I ignored the knot that twisted my intestines, as I tried not to dig my feet too hard into the ground. My magic slipped through my shoes like roots. It touched the stones and the dirt and the waterways, traveling toward Earth’s core. I let my tendrils embrace all that was Brita. All that was me.

“Good-bye,” he whispered to the wind. Pressure crushed down upon us and my vision tunneled. As my patchwork home disappeared into darkness, I remembered to let go.

***

Chapter Five

Green needles covered the ground. They crunched under my feet as I landed. Pine needles, I reminded myself. The cool air spilt into my clothing. A breeze sent a shiver down my spine. It didn’t help that we stood in the shade of a tree. Absentmindedly, I ran my hand across the trunk.  It was rough and pointy as it shed pieces of bark into my hand. The amulet had returned to crystal clarity. I shoved magic into the gem again, but the sparks slid off the surface.

“Damn it,” I swore. “You took us all the way into the middle of nowhere and now you’re abandoning us.”

Aaron raised his eyebrows, “When you start talking to inanimate objects, I know we’re in trouble.”

“Shut up.” I slipped the jewel back under my clothes. “I know exactly where we’re going.”

“Uh huh,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“Just follow me,” I said and set off into the woods. Aaron sighed and followed, his city shoes snapping twigs beneath his gait. The sun peeked at us from above the canopy of leaves. At least the golden rays were the same here as in Brita. Speckled light danced across the floor and, for lack of a better option, I decided to follow it.

Flowers thrived beside their bramble archangels, bushes populated by the strange pairing. Ironic, I thought as we skirted thorns and sidestepped petals. Aaron tramped behind me, his steps punctuated every so often by yelps of pain as his skin caught on dangerous points. I shook my head, glad he couldn’t see my smile. Even if he was the most inept partner ever, there was no one else in the world I could imagine on a trek with me through the mountains. Not that I would ever admit that to him.

As we progressed farther into the forest, the overgrowth choked out the colored blossoms. Tree roots twisted up in snarled bunches from the ground, intent on tripping our feet. The air grew thicker; the sun disappeared for stretches of time. It was as though something compressed the woods. As if something had sensed that we didn’t know where we were going. I was about to turn around and retrace my steps when I realized that I could no longer hear Aaron’s footfalls behind me. My windpipe tightened and I whirled around, hand on my knife. He stood yards away from me, rooted in place, his eyes staring skyward.

“What are you looking at?” I asked.

He didn’t reply.

“Aaron,” I called again. He said nothing, his eyes focused on the canopy. I shook my head. Of all times for him to want attention, now he chose to make me confess that I didn’t know where I was going.

“Seriously, Aaron. I’m talking to you,” I repeated. Again, only silence. Annoyed, I walked over to him. If he wasn’t moving, I’d drag him back with me. I grabbed his arm. His skin was hard and cold to the touch. His irises did not register me, their surface glassy.

“Aaron?” I whispered. His skin marbled, his expression empty. A few of the leaves above me rustled and my heart pounded in my chest. This wasn’t right, didn’t feel right. A shadow flickered in my periphery and I tried to pull him behind a tree. But his body remained rooted to the ground. Leaves rustled again. I tugged at his arm, but I could not break his trance.

The air went still and I ducked behind a tree trunk. From the splintered bark, I watched Aaron’s frozen frame. I licked my lips, my palm sweaty against the cool metal hilt of my blade. The silence of the forest made my ears ring. I flattened my left hand, ready to spin a shield, when a loud pop boomed through the trees. Wind whipped my hair from my face and I gasped for breath. Black dust began to materialize next to Aaron. It sparkled as it formed a cloaked figure, its face hidden by its hood. I swallowed hard. The figures from the Headquarters fire. My body tensed as the misty being approached.

Suddenly, a hand clamped around my mouth and pulled me down to the forest floor. I tried to scream, but it came out as a gasp.

“Don’t yell. If you do, we’re both dead,” a man’s voice whispered urgently into my ear. I struggled against his hold. Something sharp pressed into my back and I went limp.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Just stop moving or it’ll hear us,” he ordered. I kicked him in the shin. The man swore under his breath, but his hold did not loosen. “I should just let it have you,” he said. “But I’m too much of a gentleman.” I rolled my eyes.

The black mist glided toward Aaron above the floor. My stomach clenched. So it wasn’t human. Great. Now this situation had reached the umpteenth level of bad timing. The dust sparkled. I let my mind delve into my magic reserves, but they were empty. I had used it all up on that stupid rock. The glittering specks settled on Aaron and enveloped him in black mist. Moments later, they disappeared just as the ashes from headquarters had blown away in the wind.

A voice, different from my captor’s, whispered in my ear, “Melody, Melody, sweet song, we know you.” I shivered as the cold wind blew down my back like an icy breath. Specters. It wasn’t the first time they had called to me, had told me they knew my name.

Anger roiled inside me with a heat that boiled my blood. I bit my captor’s hand hard, my teeth sinking into his flesh. Howling in pain, he pulled back and I dropped to the ground. I spun on him, knife drawn. Blond hair, pulled back from his face by a leather thong, framed silver eyes. He seemed to glow, his pale body fluorescent against his dark tunic. A long-sword balanced from his hilt.

“Where did they take him?” I asked slowly. I wanted to dive to the ground where Aaron had been, search for any sign of him, cry out his name. But I had the man to deal with now. I watched him warily. I should’ve let the Specter take me with him. At least then I’d know where it had gone.

“There’s nothing we can do now right now. They’ll be back,” he said. A thin line of blood oozed from the bite mark on his hand. At least he knew better than to grab me this time. “We have to get off the trail.”

Trail? I glanced around the forest, but I didn’t see any path. I gritted my teeth together and nodded tightly. If he left, I’d be alone, wouldn’t know where to go. Still, I did not put down my knife.

“Fine. I’ll follow you,” I said.

He nodded and set off into the trees at a run. The cold air stung my lungs as we raced away from the spot. My mind buzzed as I replayed Aaron’s stony form disappearing into the darkness. The man stopped in his tracks and I barreled into him.

He shot me an aggravated look. “Watch where you’re going,” he whispered. I shrugged. He grunted and knelt down onto the ground. Leaves rustled as he searched the forest floor for something. A click popped through the silence and the man pulled up a trapdoor.

“Get in,” he ordered. I hesitated, my hand resting nervously on my knife. “We don’t have much time.”

“Why should I trust you?” I asked.

“I saved your life,” he said. Again, I didn’t move. “Do what you like. But I wouldn’t stick around out here if I were you.” With that, he disappeared down the hole.

A screech, like fingernails against porcelain, echoed through the forest. The hairs on my arms prickled and I took a step toward the opening. The cry ripped again through the air and I didn’t need any more convincing. I dove into the entrance and the door clicked shut behind me.

***

Chapter Six

My fingers drummed against my leg as I sat by the fire. The man stood beside a chest of clothes, biting his thumbnail. He was a head taller than me and probably twenty years older. Thin, short scars decorated his face.

My voice sounded slow and hoarse as I broke the silence, “So you’re telling me that the Specters can come out in daylight?”

He cocked his head. “That’s what I just said, wasn’t it?” My face grew hot. When I didn’t say anything, he continued. “The cloak that you just saw is their new protection. They’re able to come out now anytime and anywhere.”

“Why?” I asked. My heart raced inside my chest, my feet ready to spring into action at any moment and take me back out into the forest.

His charcoal eyes pierced me before he looked back down at his hands. “You know very well the war that is being waged between the living and the dead. The Specters have become desperate. They have new,” he paused, “strategies. They’ve become bolder since branches of the Order are going up in smoke.”

“Branches?”

“There’s more than just one,” he said.

“How do you even know about the Order?” I asked. He was no regular huntsman. Mage? Warlock? He smiled ruefully. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Erik. I made a peace agreement of sorts with the Order. They asked me to join them, but I’ve found better things to do with my time,” he looked lazily into the fire. “What is so special about you that the Order was trying to protect?” His eyes shone with mischief. The ruby burned in my pocked, so hot I almost yelped out in pain.

“Nothing.” I refused to meet his gaze.

He looked at me again and sighed. “Show me the ruby. It’s in your pocket. I won’t take it. I just want to see it.” I gaped at him, my heart dropping into my stomach. He smiled, “You and your friend Aaron are not the only ones with special powers. As rare as magic people are, you still run into one every once in a while.”

“You’re a mind reader,” I whispered. Great. Now he could see exactly what I was thinking. So much for trying to escape.

He nodded, “Now show it to me.” I hesitated and he rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” I said. I slipped my hand in and pulled out the red ruby. He looked at it, eyes wide.

“What’s the matter with it?” I challenged. It looked the same as it always did, crimson light pulsing from its depths in a quick one-two beat.

He raised his eyebrows. “Do you know what you’re holding?”

“No, not really,” I said. “I’m trying to figure out what it does.”

He smiled. “I’m lucky I ran into you then. Or vice versa,” he said. He walked across the dirt floor, his body feet away from me. “That blood-red gem you’re holding is my heart.”

My jaw dropped.

“Your heart? You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.

He nodded. “Hard to believe, right?”

“But I took it from the Specters. They’ve been guarding it for centuries. How is it your heart?” I closed my fist. This was a just a trick. It had to be. To make me give the ruby to him.

“Not centuries. Just as long as I was alive. It didn’t really have a form until I came about.” He noted my raised eyebrows and waved a hand at me.

“It’s too complicated for me to explain. Too complicated for you to understand,” he said. “I’m not asking for it back.”

“How are you alive then?”

“It’s still beating, isn’t it?” he asked.

I looked down, watching the ruby pulse again. “Yes,” I said slowly.

“As long as it beats, I stay in this world.”

“Why did they have it?” I asked. If I was going to believe this whole “heart” thing, he needed to at least try to make me understand it.

“It’s how they live. A trade of sorts. They need it to survive. You’re a mage, you should know that.”

“But they usually kill people, not keep pieces of them,” I reminded him.

His face grew serious as he nodded, “Yes, that’s true.”

Silence filled the room and I slipped it back into my pocket. His eyes followed my hand but he made to move to walk across the room and take it from me. It was just what I needed: a bargaining tool.

“I have to get Aaron back,” I said. “Tell me how and then we can talk about giving you your heart.”

“I told you already I don’t want it,” he said.

My heart sunk. “At least tell me where I can find him.”

He paused, his fingers tracing over his sword. “We can’t be rash about it. Marching into a den full of Specters isn’t going to solve any of these problems,” he said calmly. “You still don’t understand everything.”

“What is it that I don’t understand?” I spat at him. Rage boiled under my skin and I tried to take a deep breath. I was still a Novice learner when it came to magic. I didn’t want to kill anyone on accident. Not just yet anyway.

“Aaron is only the first of many who will disappear.” He paused as he gazed into the fire. “I need to take you back to the Order, understand?”

“The Order? I thought it was destroyed.”

He laughed. “This is what happens when you come from such a small village. Your home was only a branch. The main one is nearby.”

Heat flooded my cheeks and I looked down at the ground. Foolish. “And they’ll know what to do with the – with your heart?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It’s really worthless to us. But it’ll be safer with them than it will be here.”

My eyes burned. Aaron was gone and it was all my fault. Erik walked toward me. His steel eyes softened.

“It really isn’t your fault. Everything that’s happening. Losing the stone made the Specters understand that they really haven’t been living. It was only a matter of time before they attacked us, declared war officially,” he said.

I fingered the knife at my waist. “We will find Aaron first though, right?” I asked.

“It’d be best to get you to safety first. To get you away from me,” he said.

Why? I wanted to demand. If he was such a danger to my safety, why was he helping me? I swallowed. “We need Aaron. He can teleport.”

“It’ll be too dangerous.”

“I will not go to the Order without him,” I said slowly.

Flames crackled across his silver eyes. He stared at me hard but I refused to flinch, refused to look away. He sighed.

“Fine. We’ll get your friend. But then I’m taking you back to the Order. Ending whatever quest it is that you’re on.”

“Our mission was to discover what the ruby was. We lost our home, we were following the path it gave us…” I stuttered.

“Right back to me.”

“You’ll need to go to the Order and explain to them about your heart. They’ll hear you out, maybe let you have it back. They didn’t know what it was,” I said.

“They’ve known for a while now,” he whispered beneath his breath.

I blinked at him, put on my best pleading face.

Erik bit his lip. “Fine, but the ruby stays here. If we lose it to them, the battle’s over.” I nodded.

He pulled me over to an ancient trunk that sat in the middle of the room and opened the lid. Inside was another container, smaller and lined with purple velvet. He opened the latch and I placed the ruby inside. Taking a red pen, he drew symbols around the lock. The box sizzled for a moment before it settled down into the depths of the trunk. He did the same with the outer box. Standing up, he turned to me and said, “You sure you’re ready?”

“I’ve never felt more prepared,” I said. Butterflies buzzed in my stomach.

He nodded. “Then you’ll need all the sleep you can get. Rest up. You can rest there,” he gestured to a worn leather chair in front of the fire. I watched the smoke curl toward the ceiling. Sparks sizzled as it touched the enchanted rocks. At least he was smart enough not to let us suffocate.

“I’ll be in the back room. If anything happens, come and get me.” With one last look, he ducked his head under a carved dirt archway. A flap of fur swung shut over the entrance.

I sat down on the chair, felt it creak under my weight. Shadows from the fire flickered across the red clay walls. The light blinked off the symbols of protection; I only knew them because Aaron had taught a couple to me. Invisibility, Silence, Dark. Only readers could understand their significance. A makeshift kitchen, with a boiling pot and an herb holder, sat toward the back of the room.

Snores issued from Erik’s room. Already out. I crept over to the trunk and traced the edges of the rough wood with my fingers. Maybe this would give me a clue about him. Tendrils of my magic enveloped the lock. The metal sizzled, burned my power. Mind-readers, I thought bitterly. I stared annoyed at his door. I guess the Order wasn’t the only society who kept secrets. I’d trust him for now. But if he did anything out of the ordinary, I’d be out of here faster than Aaron could teleport.

***

Chapter Seven

“How do you know where they’ve taken him?” I whispered as we slunk through the bushes. I had woken up that morning to a breakfast of sausages and eggs, food I hadn’t smelled, let alone tasted, in years. After arming up, we headed to where Erik claimed the Specter fortress lay.

“Can you stop the questions until after we find your friend? If you carry on like this, we’ll get caught even before we get close.” Erik turned and held up his hand to halt me. “Be quiet and just follow my lead.” I ground my teeth together, but said nothing. I would get my answers eventually. I slipped after Erik’s shadow as we wove in between the trees, deeper and deeper into the forest.

The canopy of leaves blocked out sun and sound. Eerie. It felt as though death had stolen over the entire area. Brambles, however, remained in abundance. The thorns tore at my clothes, drew thin red lines on my skin. Blue sparks constantly licked my skin as my magic sewed up my wounds.

A branch flew into my face and I ducked, rolling to the ground. Erik yanked me to my feet, his lips set in a thin line. I was so close to him I could see a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. Then again, the layers of protective garments probably didn’t help his ventilation.

“It’s through there,” he said, his voice calm. He nodded behind him through a dense overhang of branches.

“So what’s the plan?” I asked, licking my lips. A cool breeze ruffled my hair. The smell of pine stung my nose.

“Just trust me,” he said. I folded my arms in front of my chest, my fingers vibrating with magic.

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” I said with narrow eyes.

He shook his head, his gaze hard. “I can’t risk it. If you want your friend back, you’ll have to follow my lead. You won’t be able to get in there without me.”

“We’ll see about that,” I responded. If people thought that by telling me what to do, I’d just shut up and let them boss me around, they were wrong. I brushed past him and swept the branches aside. My heart stuttered in my chest. An immense black building rose up from the ground in a wide open clearing. Pointed minarets twirled up toward the sky and skewered the clouds.  The sunlight reflected off the building’s metallic surface. Flashes of silver blinked on the grass.

“Ladies first.” He tilted his head.

“Whatever,” I replied. The area was too open; there would be no place to hide if we got caught. Sparks sizzled on the edges of my skin. My heart pumped in my ears as I approached the wall. Placing my hands on the smooth stone, I yanked my power up from my core. Tendrils exploded from my hands and ran across the surface. I tried to concentrate it in one spot but the sparks scattered, deflected by the strange metal.

“Finished?” Erik asked. He leaned against the wall and inspected his nails. “Don’t waste your magic. We’ll need it when we’re in there,” he said. He extended his arm in my direction. “Give me your hand.”

“Thanks, but I don’t think this is one of those types of moments,” I shot back.

He shook his head, hand still outstretched. My ears burned. Calling my magic back to me, I watched as the sparks slithered under my skin. The electric buzz of the current felt familiar. He grunted and grabbed my wrist. My feet, which had been below me only moments ago, disappeared. I went numb. Gasping, I tried to cry out, but my voice was gone. Erik stood beside me, his eyes white. We glided a foot above the grass toward the wall. I squeezed my eyes shut as we slammed into the granite. Warmth slid down my back. Pressure squeezed my body from all sides. The feeling passed and I opened my eyes.

We stood in a hallway, the walls glazed with the same metallic surface from the outside. Purple torches decorated the infinite walkway. A gaping hole stood before us from which darkness oozed. Erik was already moving forward.

“Your friend is down these stairs in one of the cells. Most of the Specters are at the other side of the castle, so we’ve got some time,” he turned to continue down the stairs but I stopped.

“How did you do that?” I whispered. I looked back at the wall, my hand shaking as I touched the hard surface. What other magic was he keeping from me?

“I already told you. No questions,” he said. “Let’s move before they register the breach.” With that, he charged down the cold stone steps. After a beat, I followed him. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I became aware of blue doors that decorated the walls every few feet. The floor slipped beneath my feet as I ran. Erik halted in front of a large door covered in spikes. He drew a circle over the portal with his finger, muttering something under his breath. A click. The door swung forward. More darkness. Erik motioned me through.

“He’s here. Paralyzed. Not dead,” Erik mused as he brushed past me. The smell of mold and rotting fruit stung my nose. Imagine living here, I thought. Even for Specters, these were pretty poor accommodations. The floor was rough beneath my sandals. I took a tentative step forward, my foot sinking into a puddle.

“Gross.” I shook the muck off my foot. It would take an hour for me to get the stench of this room off my body. Snapping my fingers, I pushed magic out of my palm into a small orb. Manacles hung from the stone walls, rusted with abandonment. Who needed chains when you had a paralyzing spell? I thought. Ambiance maybe?

Aaron stood, statue-like, in the right corner of the putrid room. I rushed forward, and wrapped my arms around him, burying my face in his stony shoulder.

“Aaron, I’m here, it’s okay now,” I said. His skin was cold; the blue veins that customarily ran through his hands marbled. It didn’t even matter that he couldn’t hear me.

“I need you to push your magic where his heart is. It’ll spread out and thaw the rest of his body,” Erik glanced back toward the door. His hand rested on a saber at his side.

I nodded, placing my fingertips against Aaron’s stony chest. Heat seared through my nerves as sparks jumped from my body to his. Slowly, his clothes near my hand began to soften.

“He’ll warm up on the way out. We only have so much time,” Erik said. He swung Aaron over his shoulder and nudged me toward the door.

My lungs stung from the dead air as I ran. The hallway stretched on before me in interminable darkness. The skin on the back of my neck prickled. My breath came out in fogged puffs. They were coming. I sprinted up the stairs two at a time. My body collided into Specter mist. Agony contorted my muscles. Without thinking, I pulled my knife from its sheath and slammed the blade into the fog. My magic soared across the metal and tunneled outward. The woman let out a piercing scream as her body disintegrated into white dust.

“Melody, behind you!” Erik yelled and I whirled around. A claw slammed into my chest. My back hit the hard ground, my lungs winded. My knife skittered away from my fingers.  I scrambled to regain my balance, but I could feel my body freezing, my feet rooted to the floor. Don’t panic, I said to myself. A male Specter floated inches away from me. I watched warily as his twisted lips curved into a grotesque smile.

“Hello, dear. We knew you’d arrive. Where is it?” he snapped. An icy wave of fear crystallized in my blood. I gritted my teeth, pulled my powers up from my core. Heat seeped in my veins. The Specter made to swoop in closer when metal sang through the air. A blade sliced through the Specter. Remnants of the apparition blew away as the cold slipped off my skin.

“I could’ve handled that,” I said as relief flooded my muscles. I slid my blade back into its sheath.

Erik rolled his eyes. “I never said you couldn’t.”

“Let’s just get out of here,” I said, holding out my hand in Erik’s direction.

“Mhmm,” someone groaned and I looked around in surprise. Aaron raised his head from Erik’s shoulder.

I smiled, “About time you woke up.”

“Melody,” Erik said slowly, his eyes wide.

“What?” I asked, but the word barely escaped my mouth before something hard slammed into my right temple. Pain bounced inside my skull as I collided with the floor. Moments later, Erik collapsed next to me with an audible oof.

I tried to focus, but my vision spun. A sharp pain shot through my back. Slowly, the world lost its fuzziness and I scrambled onto my elbows, ready to push myself to stand. Fear trickled into my stomach. Around us, in a circle, were about twenty Specters. And they all looked hungry.

***

Chapter Eight

An old Specter, with wrinkles that curved down his ghostly face, stepped out of the circle toward us. His matted white hair fell around his shoulders, his soulless eyes the same pale color of his skin.

“The girl is mine,” he said to the group. The pack grumbled, but no one moved to challenge him. “Nice to see you again, Erik. It’s been far too long.” Erik’s muscles tensed. I raised my eyebrows, but he ignored me.

“What’s happening?” Aaron’s weak voice reached my ears. I crawled over to his limp body. The hard floor scraped at my knees.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” I whispered. All I wanted was to grab him into a hug, feel his bones crunch under my arms. But I smiled weakly instead.

Erik cleared his throat. I looked back to see the Specters circle closer. Their white hair looked like flames in the dark.

“Can you get us out of here?” I asked and encircled Aaron’s wrist with my hand.

“He’s far too weak. There’s no telling what could happen,” Erik said.

“I can do it,” Aaron said, his voice soft. He pulled himself off the floor, wavering against my body.

I looked back up at Erik. “I’m no coward, but I’d rather not be eaten by a bunch of blood thirsty, revenge-seeking, unhappy-they’re-stuck-in-an-in-between-state ghosts.”

Erik hesitated.

“Fine,” he said.

“Where to?” the boy asked. I’ll send him a mind picture of the hut,Erik’s voice resounded in my head and I nodded in agreement. If only I’d been born as a mind reader, I thought wistfully.

Pressure crushed the air out of my lungs. I forced my lips into a smile. A good picture to leave them with while we escaped. The Specters dove at us, choked with rage.  One reached toward us just as the lair tunneled away into calm darkness. With a loud bang, we landed on the dirt floor of Erik’s hut. Aaron struggled into a sitting position, his face pale. Before he could say anything, I wrapped my arms around his thin frame and squeezed him hard.

“Don’t ever, ever, do that to me again,” I whispered.

He nodded weakly and then fainted in my arms. Picking him up, I laid him on the couch. His snores filled the room.

Erik stood against the wall, his eyes vacant. I focused on the blade at my hip with stinging eyes.

“Thank you,” I finally said.

He shrugged away my words. “It was part of our deal, wasn’t it? Save Aaron so I can take you both back to the Order where you belong. So everything can go back to normal?”

“Normal? I don’t think anything is ever going back to normal. You said so yourself. The Specters will never stop.”

Erik took a deep breath and sighed. While I didn’t know how old he was, I could feel the experience behind his steel eyes. “I mean the part about you going back to society. Me staying here. Just bring the stone to the Mages so we can be done with all this.”

“But the Order could use you, with all your powers” I pressed.

“I am not wanted by the Order for that purpose,” he replied bitterly.

I wasn’t going to let up that easily. “The Specters seem to recognize you. If you know something that could help stop the war,” I stopped.  I rubbed my temples. It wasn’t as though I was ungrateful or anything. But he acted as though we were some sort of burden. A newly formed bruise hammered away at my ribs.

“At least help me understand,” I said.

His eyes were as hard as flint. He gestured toward the back room and held the flap aside. I stepped through the arch. An earthy smell filled my nose, like herbs and soil kept in heat for too long. Walking in after me, he sat down on a wicker chair at the center of the room and pointed at a stool that leaned against the far wall.

I sat down. My mind buzzed as I remembered the way his eyes turned white, how we had passed through the walls of the fortress like ghosts. Like Specters. I scratched at my leg. Myths were all I knew, stories the Order had told me, about beings that were far more powerful than your average magic holder.

“Are you from the other world? The dead one?” I whispered. My breath caught in my throat.

He didn’t blink, just continued to stare at me. “Something like that.”

I could feel magic sizzle under my skin. “How can you expect me to trust you if I don’t know what’s going on?”

“Not everything about me is relevant. My job is to deliver you and the stone safely to the First Circle and that’s all I must be concerned with,” he said, his voice firm. The firelight flickered across his face and cast shadows over the scars on his cheek. I sighed.

“The Order needs you. To help them save everyone.”

“I owe no debt to humanity.”

“Neither do Aaron or I. Our parents abandoned us. They hurt us because we were different. Erik, we are more alike than you think.”

“Melody, do not speak of what you do not know,” he said quietly. He glanced at the chest and then looked down at the large brass ring on his forefinger. I closed my eyes, the heat from the fire warming my cold body.

“Please. I will understand,” I said.

He continued to toy with the ring. “You would not speak this way to me if you knew what I was. What the Order did and what they will not undo even to save us all.”

The fire crackled and he rose from his seat. “We will leave tomorrow. I suggest you get some rest.”

“But – ”

“Melody, please,” he begged. “Just leave me alone.”

I wanted to reach out and tell him he didn’t need to feel so alone. That we could all be alone together. But the look in his eyes was one I had known far too well, one I had experienced too often.

“Thank you again,” I whispered and walked out into the common room.

***

Chapter Nine

Erik led the way through the underground tunnel that was hidden at the back of his cavern. As if the lair wasn’t far enough in the ground to begin with. The air was cool and smelled like wet earth. Water dripped down the sides of the passage, the drops thick and fat like clear beads. The dirt walls were decorated with roots from the trees above. I trudged after him, followed by a still-weak Aaron. The tension of the day, of the knowledge that the Specters were most likely on our trail, reverberated through the earthen walls. I shivered and pulled Aaron along beside me.

“The First Circle is only a mile from here,” Erik said.

Why he lived in such close proximity to a place that he was ardently trying to avoid was beyond me, but I held my tongue. No need to create more conflict at a point where we needed him. Not that I was particularly thrilled about our return to society. I kind of liked the solitude of the wilderness. The lack of people who judged me or used me.

“Why can’t we teleport again?” I asked as I ducked my head to avoid the low ceiling. My body was still sore from our last expedition.

Erik sighed. “You can’t teleport into a Mage zone. It’s spelled against any unwanted visitors. You can try if you want your body to be turned inside out.”

“What about that other thing you do? The whole passing through wall deal. There are so many easier ways to get to the Circle without having to walk,” I said.

“Melody,” Erik warned. Aaron raised his eyebrows and I shook my head.

“I’ll take you to the end of the tunnel. From there, it should be less than one-hundred yards to the first base. I’ll protect you,” he said.

“But you’re not coming to the base with us?”

His jaw hardened. “No. It’s not safe for me. It would be a poor move on my part.”

“Why?” I asked. He said nothing, but I couldn’t let this go.  “If the ruby is useless, why are we even going to the Mages? Why can’t we just stay here?”

“That’s out of the question. You’d be in too much danger.”

“Stop saying that. From what you’ve told me, nothing is safe anymore,” I pressed.

“Melody, stop,” Aaron whispered next to me. I shook him off and stared straight into Erik’s silver eyes.

“Erik. You have to tell us what’s going on. If there’s no hope to save anything, why are we going back?”

“There is a way to save everyone from the Specters, from the darkness, but it’s too difficult.”

“For the world or for you?” I said.

Silence. Water dripped from the cavern walls onto the floor in a measured beat. The air felt thick again and I tried to breath. Aaron wheezed beside me. He was never one to handle tension very well.

“What are you?” I whispered.

Erik breathed in and pressed his back against the wall. His face looked weary, older. I tended to have that affect on people. Wearing them down until they finally caved.

“A Specter Child,” he said.

I swayed under his words. But it didn’t surprise me. His eyes had told me something had been different about him back in the lair. The way the specters had spoken to him. Still, chills slid across my skin. “What side are you on?” I asked.

“I consider myself a free agent,” he said. He brushed an impatient hand through his hair. “I broke from the Specter’s magic long ago, sixteen years to be exact. They ceased bothering me after I became neutral. They kept my heart and I kept my life. I care nothing for my own species,” he said. He leaned against the wall.

“You can’t be a part of their world and then renounce it without aligning yourself to something else,” I said.

“I can do whatever I want with my life,” he said.

“How did you break from their magic?”

“A Mage helped me transition back into a human.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. Frustration bubbled in my core. Nothing made sense. Why were we bringing his heart now to the Mages? To the Order?

“It’s better this way. It’s better for the Order to feel as if they have some control. We have to go.” His voice was icy. Traces of red flickered through his pupils.

Aaron let out his breath. I looked down at my pocket where the ruby burned against my leg. Disgust bubbled in my throat. Hopefully, the heads of the Order would know what to do with it.

“Are you sure you don’t want your heart back?”

“It is useless to me, Melody. Just keep moving,” Erik said, his back tense.

Our pace quickened. The only sound in the tunnel was the water against rock as it ticked off precious time. Erik stopped, signaling us to halt. He turned around and removed his pack from his back.

“Okay, through this door is the entrance to the First Circle. It has a shield, an invisible one, which surrounds the camp, so you won’t really be able to tell when you are in the safe zone. The second you get out the door, I need you to take Aaron and run. I can only protect you so much.”

I nodded. “Take this,” he said and handed me a short blade. It had symbols of protection written all over it.

“I have my own knife, thank you very much,” I responded.

“You’ll need more than one,” he said and wrapped my fingers around the hilt. Great. He thinks we’re going to die, I thought bitterly as I stowed the knife inside my boot. He tossed another weapon to Aaron. The boy’s eyes widened as he stared at the blade. I rolled my eyes. The kid should have spent more time studying combat instead of pouring over nonsensical runes.

“Stick close or the Specters won’t be the ones who’ll kill you. Understand?” I tried to sound stern, but Aaron’s pale, frightened face nearly broke my heart. I nodded to Erik who stepped aside and motioned to a large wooden door. He grabbed the handle, my feet poised to run.

“Come with us, Erik,” I said. “Into the circle. You can help them. Help everyone. This will all be over and then we’ll be free to live.”

“I’m already free to live as I like,” Erik said. He placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it lightly.

“Please,” I whispered.

He pushed the door open. Mist seeped through the hole and meandered into the tunnel. I peered through the fog, Aaron’s breath hot on the back of my neck.

“Stop it,” I whispered to him. “You’re making me nervous.” He inched away and I continued my surveillance. Tall blades of grass stretched up toward the sky, covered in frost. Underneath all the white haze lay a meadow. Erik stepped out first, his weapons drawn, his eyes glowing red.

“C’mon, Aaron. Run!” I said and took off into the stiff stalks. They whacked against my face as I pulled him forward. The ground was uneven, sharp divots and climbs disguised by the fog. My foot connected with a rock and I tripped, my hands bracing for the impact. We slammed into the hard soil. I tried to scramble to my feet when the ground began to shake.

“Melody!” Aaron screeched.

From the mist, a horse and rider galloped toward us. I pushed Aaron to the ground and unsheathed my knives. Ice filled the air. They had come.

I leaped and stabbed the rider in the side. Blood gushed from the opening onto my hands, soaking my skin in red liquid. In horror, I backed away. He was human. Humans had joined the Specters? My fingers slipped through blood as I grabbed Aaron and stumbled toward the campsite. The ground trembled with the threat of splitting open. More riders. Aaron fell again and I scrambled over to him.

“Go,” I yelled and shoved him in the direction of the camp. Aaron’s face twisted with fear, but he knew better than to wait. With that, he sprinted into the safety net. I turned to follow when a sharp pain split across the back of my head. My skull ached as the world spun. Deftly, I rolled onto my back in time to see a rider raise his saber. I flipped aside just as the tip of his steel spike slammed into the ground. Grabbing his weapon, I shoved it into his chest. He fell from his horse as the mare screamed. Its shrieks echoed in my mind as I ran toward the safety area. As I passed through the magic boundary, a pair of hands wrapped me in an embrace.

“Melody,” I heard Aaron cry out in relief.

A deeper voice accompanied Aaron’s and resounded through the space, “Fetch a healer.” Someone grabbed me roughly by my coat, pulling me from my friend. A thin, tall man with a shock of red hair looked down at me.

“Do you have the ruby?” he demanded, his voice gruff.

Goodness, how many times were people going to ask me that question? I nodded, reaching into my leather pouch that wrapped around my waist. My nerves spiked as I emptied the bag. Nothing. It wasn’t there. Frantically, I looked back at the battlefield. It must have fallen out. It had been my duty to bring it here. How had I failed such a simple task? I sprinted toward the opening. As I reached the edge, Erik burst through the magic line.

“What are you doing here?” I cried.

Pain distorted his brow, his mouth set in a grimace. Long gouges had been torn across his sides. Blood stained his white hair, plastered against his face and neck.

“I told you not to lose it. To bring it to them,” he panted. He opened a gritty palm. The ruby floated a few inches above his hand. “Take it,” he gasped. “I cannot be here. They cannot see me.” His skin was charred beneath the garnet. I snatched the gem from him and his eyes closed.

He staggered back toward the barrier, away from us, but shouts rang in my ears. I reached for him, called for him, told him not to leave. Arms wrapped around me and darkness clouded my vision. Oblivion pulled me under.

***

Chapter Ten

“Order. I said, order,” the red-haired man from the battlefield commanded. Sergion, the Head Mage, I recalled his introduction. The din in the room settled to a low growl as the members of the First Circle turned their attention toward him.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, wincing as the bruise on my thigh collided with the wooden table.  The healers had given me salves and other medications after I passed out. They had taken the ruby. Here I hoped he would tell me I could go, that Aaron and I had been released from our service. I couldn’t help but wonder where Erik had gone, if the Specters had seen him save us again and taken him captive. After all he had done for us, he may have perished. I could not live with that.

Representatives from the other forces of the living surrounded me. Sprites and nymphs mainly, their gorgeous bodies punctuated by blue skin and green scales. Aaron gaped back at them. He, somehow, had managed to reach the Circle unscathed.

“Stop staring or they’ll turn you into a toad,” I whispered. He jumped, looking over at me sheepishly.

“Sorry, I can’t help it. They’re just so cool looking,” he said. I smiled and squeezed his hand.

“Bring forward the prisoner,” Sergion stated.

Prisoner? A captured Specter? One who would tell them what to do with the ruby? I remembered my first failed mission and a blush rose in my cheeks.

The doors to the chamber opened and my breath caught in my chest. Erik stood in iron chains, his face still bloodied, his clothes torn. I made to rise from my seat but a hand pressed me back into the cushion. Two guards led him to the center of the room. His shoulders hunched forward, his eyes refused to meet mine. A hush fell over the Circle and Sergion stepped forward.

“It was our fault that the Specters exist,” he began. “It is our fault that these beings have continued to live. Have bred,” he pointed at Erik. “The specimen before you is a Specter Child. The ruby is his heart. He was created with the potential to help end his race. But he betrayed us.”

“He betrayed nothing,” I said.

All eyes focused on me and Erik raised his head. Sergion shook his red hair, his green eyes wide.  He ran his hands over the rough wood of his desk.

“By refusing to help us, he betrayed us. He was created to serve the Order, to help us stop the darkness,” Sergion said to me coldly.

“Why is he of importance? We are here to save humanity, not try some guilty war criminal,” a short, bearded man with pointed ears jumped to his feet.

Sergion looked down at his hands as the room buzzed. “I think you are all forgetting how this happened. How the Specters came to be. Why they are still here and have not passed on,” Sergion said.

I frowned. I thought the Specters were merely the undead, those who refused to pass on. Sergion made it sound as if they had no other choice. Erik’s chains clanged as he shifted his weight.

“Long, long ago, Mages created limbo in an attempt to understand death. To keep the dead with us longer. By returning this Specter Child to its original form, we found a way to get rid of the in-between phase that has been haunting us for centuries. His heart is the source of their energies. As long as it beats, so does theirs. We all share the blame for letting them stay in this world for so long,” Sergion finished. The hall rang with silence.

I wanted to reach out and touch Erik, to tell him that we had all been betrayed, that none of it was his fault. He seemed to have heard my thoughts because a weak smile lit across his lips.

“He is the answer to end the war. To ease the Specters’ pain, to ease our pain,” Sergion said.

“What are you saying?” I demanded. My chair grated against granite as I rose from my seat. “He has done nothing but desired life. Life that your committee gave to him.”

“Each must serve his purpose, Melody. Just as you must serve yours,” Sergion said. “The Specter Child and the Ruby must be returned to the Land of the Dead.”

“Sacrificed?”

Sergion nodded. Erik’s face paled. He had known all along. That coming to the Circle endangered his life. But he had done so to save me from their wrath of not completing my mission. Again, I was to blame.

“The Child and the heart must be reunited and destroyed. And you, Melody, are the one who must take them.”

“Why me?” I asked. “I cannot take his life. I refuse to.”

“Consider it penance, my dear,” Sergion said.

“Penance? For what? I have done nothing but serve the Order. I owe the Order my life. But I have done nothing wrong.”

“I know,” he said sadly. He glanced at Erik. “It is horrible how the sins of a mother must be visited on her later generations.”

Silence.

“All you want is a martyr to die for your sins,” I said with a steady voice.

“Not mine, my dear. Not completely mine. I may have helped but it was your mother who got us into this entire mess. Over her dead husband.”

“My mother?” My heart skipped inside my chest. I looked toward Erik but he did not meet my gaze. “What does my mother have to do with this?” I didn’t even know her, had never met her. She’d just left me in the streets of Brita to die, to fend for myself.

“He can explain everything to you,” Sergion said. “It is not my place.” I tried not to roll my eyes. No one explained anything here. That was why everything became so complicated, how everything got to be so screwed up. Specters ran amuck in limbo as the Mages tried to right their mistakes. It made no sense. I had had enough of humanity’s poorly played games.

“I will not do it,” I said and crossed my arms in front of my chest.

“I don’t think we are giving you a choice,” Sergion said, his tone hard. “Take the Specter Child and Ruby to the land of the dead, complete your penance, or Aaron will perish.”

I reached out to grab Aaron’s arm, but my hand fell through air. He was gone. “Is this what the good side does? Blackmail people into submission? This is not what we stand for,” I sputtered. I could feel my magic sizzle up into my pores and flash from the hairs on my arm.

“No, Melody. This is not what you stand for. We, on the other hand, have been doing this for centuries. You are doing good. You will save the world from the Specter wrath and allow the dead to finally rest in peace. Now go, you are wasting time.”

Anger threatened to bubble from my throat, but I pushed it back. I apparently had been destined for disaster since birth. But I could not let them take Aaron from me. He had done nothing.

“Fine. I will take the prisoner,” I said.

“Much better. Cooperation is good,” Sergion nodded. “You won’t have to travel far. The First Circle was built above the entrance to the Land of the Dead. It’s been empty ever since we created limbo and allowed them to roam the Earth. Pack your belongings. You will leave within the hour.”

The members of the room stood, shuffled out of the meeting place. All avoided my eyes, even Erik.

“Aren’t you going to look at me? Say something?” I asked as I approached him.

“What am I supposed to say?” He asked. My stomach flipped and I shook my head. I didn’t even know what I was supposed to do. Reach out? Comfort him? Tell him that it would all be okay even though it wasn’t?

“I don’t know,” I sighed. My eyes burned and I glared angrily up at the white columns that supported the dome. “I just don’t anymore.”

His chains clinked as he moved toward me. The guard by his side, a thin mage with green eyes and a sallow face, nodded at him and left his post. They put too much trust in me. So much it scared me.

“They don’t have a Mage with powers to see the future here, do they?” I asked, watching as the mage exited and left us alone in the dome.

He snorted and shook his head. “If they did, they could’ve foreseen this mess and stopped it from happening.”

“I highly doubt they would’ve done anything of the kind.”

A laugh crinkled the corners of his eyes. It faded gradually, but he didn’t appear altogether too sad. The runes on the walls sparkled in the midday sun. I traced the symbols edges with my eyes. Aaron would know exactly what they said. He always did.

“How did my mother fit into all of this?” I asked. Light danced across the dried blood on his forehead. He shrugged.

“She was a Mage of the High Order. Both her and your father. I didn’t meet them until they came to the Land of the Dead. The Order gave them instructions for taking our species out of limbo. But visitors are usually not welcome,” he said and shook his head sadly.

I wanted to ask him what she looked like, what she had said, if she had mentioned me, but I held my tongue. I had waited sixteen years. A few more moments would matter little.

“Your father was turned to Specter before they could complete the spell.” He paused. I felt his silvered eyes plead for understanding. “I did not know them, if at all. But I could tell they loved one another. We all know that weakness of love is in our hearts.”

“She could not destroy the Specters without losing my father forever,” I said slowly.

“She would have lost him anyway. He was dead. But it’s so hard when you see your loved ones that have died in breathing form. It is so hard to be rational.” He fell silent and picked at the threads of his torn tunic.

“What did she do then?”

“I stepped forward. I did not completely understand what was going on. I had never lived, you see. I was born inside the limbo walls. And I yearned for life. I saw her power, her magic. In her agony, I stepped forward and asked her to help me to become human. To live the life I had been deprived of because I was born from the undead. It is as much fault hers as it is mine.”

“So she bound the destruction magic to your heart.”

He nodded. “And then she let the Specters take her.”

My mother. I wanted to scream, to demand why she had forsaken me. How she had left me in the world without her or my father. I squared my shoulders and breathed out slowly.

“Why did the Specters have your heart then?”

“In order for me to leave, they asked for protection. By retaining the heart, they could remain in the world of the living. It mattered little to me. I just wanted to be free.”

His cavern rose in my mind, its empty walls, its desolate hiding space. He had not been living. Separate, alone, removed from the rest of humanity. But then again, neither had I.

“Man is selfish, Melody. We all are. We understand it. But we can’t let it outshine our other qualities,” he spoke quietly, but his voice reverberated in the hall, bounced off the age-old stone. I reached for his hand and squeezed, his skin cold. “You and Aaron still have much life to live.”

So do you, I wanted to say, but my throat closed. A low hum resounded through the archway.

“They are coming to tell us to leave. To bring us to the Land of the Dead. We have to go.”

I nodded and kept my hand on his fist. “Thank you,” I choked out. “For everything.” For telling me about my mother, my history, my fate. The Order. For saving us.

A stream of soldiers in Order colors of red and black filled the doorway. Erik set his eyes ahead, his hand clenched.

“It’s time to go home,” he whispered.

***

Chapter Eleven

“So how, exactly, am I supposed to get in there?” I looked down at the gaping black hole. “Jumping into abysses isn’t quite my thing.” Sergion stood above where Erik and I sat at the edge. I intended on making the Head Mage’s last few moments with me his least desirable.

“Fall,” he said simply.

“That doesn’t sound too promising,” I replied.

“The Land of the Dead isn’t supposed to hold promises,” Sergion said.

I’d had enough of his truisms, his turns of phrase. His silly, unhelpful advice.

“And how am I supposed to get out when I’m through with the binding?”

The crowd around us grew silent. The nymphs tittered, their wings swishing like Specter satin. I shivered.

“You’ll find a way,” Sergion replied.

“That’s just supposed to mean you have no idea,” I said. He nodded at the soldier at his side who stepped toward us, bayonet raised.

“Do your duty. The rest will follow,” he said shortly.

Erik’s hands were still chained and it didn’t look as though our captors had provided a key. I was beginning to feel less like an Order member and more like a convict. Then again, that wasn’t out of the ordinary for how I’d been feeling ever since the village burned down. I wanted to grab Erik’s hand, to hold it as we fell into the nothingness, to not have to be alone in our final moments on Earth, but I couldn’t look weak in front of the Order head. The breeze rustled a few wisps of my hair that had come untied from its bun. I breathed deeply, the scent of lilacs tinged by rotting flesh. Great memories.

“If I do find a way out,” I whispered, “I intend on changing a few things here.”

Sergion shrugged. “Just do what you are told. Like I said before, the rest will follow.”

I rolled my eyes and lowered myself into the hole. Pebbles on the ground bit into my palms but I refused to flinch. My feet dangled into the open air as I searched for a foothold. Nope. Nothing. With a deep breath, I closed my eyes and let go. The dank air rushed by me as I plummeted into the depths.  My breath froze in my lungs as goose bumps sprouted on my uncovered arms. The wind whistled to a stop and I put my arms in front of me, ready to brace for unforgiving gravity. But I felt nothing.

Slowly, I opened my eyes and looked around. I floated, suspended in mid-air, inches above the ground. Erik’s silver irises glowed white beside me through the darkness, but no familiar fear snaked up my arms.

Whatever kept us alight gently set us down on the floor. I arched my neck back to glimpse the abyss entrance. The cavern stretched up above us, the opening a mere pinprick of light. Sun slivers slid across the blue walls. A weaving, stone path led away from the light and I motioned for Erik to follow.

“Any of this look familiar?” I asked.

“Was that supposed to be a joke?”

I shrugged. “I guess I’m just trying to lighten the situation.” As if on cue, the sun disappeared above us.

“They closed the opening,” Erik said. I could feel panic poison his words and I threw my shoulders back. My magic coursed into my palms, forming itself into small orbs of light. They had no intention of letting me back into the world. Not with the danger I posed for them, the knowledge I had about their corruption. Their mistakes. The mistakes of my mother. I followed the path, Erik close behind. My shoes crunched across the pebbles and filled the cavern with lengthy echoes. Curiously enough, we didn’t see a corpse, which seemed kind of strange since this was supposed to be the Land of the Dead. A dusty speck floated into my light. It sparkled brightly in my line of vision.

“They’re coming,” Erik whispered. I clenched my jaw shut, more of my magic burning the tips of my fingers. More specks glittered from the shadows and filled the air with shining dots. Their light outshone my orbs as the dots gravitated together. I shaded my eyes. Air crackled, electric, and then the glitter subsided. A gray old man stood a few feet in front of us, his back bent, his body supported by a crutch. I tensed and reached for my knife.

“Melody. We’ve been waiting for you for so long,” the man said. He had wrinkles that made some of the three hundred year-old dwarves I’d seen look like youngsters. He glanced at Erik. “Welcome back, our child. We knew you would return eventually.”

“It was not originally my first choice,” Erik said. I wanted to tell him to be quiet. Who would want to live on the surface anyway? Death, as far as I could tell, was much closer to freedom.

Shrugging, the man twirled a lock of his grey hair around his finger. “Choice matters little now since your fates are clearly laid before you,” his eyes smiled up at me, mischievous.

My mind raced as it recalled the story of my mother. “You knew a female mage of the High Order, did you not?”

“Your mother?” He asked. It was more a statement than a question.

I nodded vigorously, my throat dry.

“Melody,” Erik warned. “Think of what you are doing.” But I shook him off.

“Is she still here? Among you?” I asked.

The old man nodded gravely. “Yes. She resides in limbo. With your father.”

My throat burned, my eyes ached. If I was sentenced to die here with Erik, I could be granted a last wish, correct? A last rite of sorts?

“Can I see her?” I choked out.

“Melody, don’t do this,” Erik said behind me, but he did not move forward to stop me, did not move to take the gem from my hand. He understood this was the end, for both of us.

The old man ignored Erik and hobbled toward me. His gums, rotted, stank of age and decay. “You have the ruby?”

I nodded. “You know what I have to do. That I have to free you from this place.”

He nodded. “I have been waiting for centuries to cross over my dear. To finally rest. My back has grown bent from holding my breath. Waiting for another to try to free us from the curse your people placed upon us all centuries ago.

“Show me my mother and then I will free you” I replied.

“Very well, very well. But even when you see her, understand she is dead. She will try to turn you over to us. You must resist. There are members of my kind who wish to remain in the world, who do not understand that we do not belong here,” he said slowly.

“This is a horrible idea,” Erik whispered behind me. I squeezed the ruby in my palm.

“Trust me. I’m stronger than you think,” I replied.

Wind whistled through my ears. Erik stood beside me now, his silver eyes glowing.

“She’s here,” he whispered.

I turned around and lit my orb once more. Light threw itself around the interminable cavern. I inhaled sharply. Floating inches above the ground, her auburn hair unkempt, stood my mother.

***

Chapter Twelve

It took me a few moments to realize I had seen her before. In the alley in Brita, she’d chased after me for the gem. I’d captured her and she’d escaped my magic. I knew now why. The same powers that coursed through my palms had once run in her veins.

“Melody, Melody, my sweet child,” she sang and stepped toward me. Erik moved to block me from her, to stand between us but I pushed him aside.

“You have finally come home,” she whispered.

Home? The word felt foreign to me. I had thought Brita had been my home, that the Order had been my home. But I had been wrong just as she was now.

“I do not live here, mother,” I said. I wanted to reach out and grab her hand but I remembered the way she’d scraped my skin with her nails. The way she had meant harm for me.

“You have come to join us then? Your father and I? So we can be a family again.” She still moved toward me. I could feel the chill of her breath on my skin. I feel no fear, I reminded myself.

“I cannot join you,” I said.

“You have the ruby though. You’ve come to return it to its rightful owner” she smiled, her teeth pointy.

I turned to Erik now. “My mother was the keeper of the ruby?”

“Yes,” he said. His eyes focused on the floor at his feet.

“She made you give it to her in exchange for your freedom,” I asked slowly.

“Yes. But she set me free,” he said as if he pleaded for his life.

My mind buzzed. It was too much. Too much knowledge for one day, for one lifetime. A lifetime I would soon end. Erik had been right. It was a mistake to bring her here. But questions clicked inside me and I opened my mouth to spill them into the stagnant air.

“Why did you leave me?”

“Leave you? Darling, I’ve never left you.”

“Yes you did,” I insisted. “You abandoned me to Brita before you even passed to the world of the dead. You did not want me.”

A frown creased her ageless face. She leaned away from me. “I did not want you to have my fate. To be controlled by the Order.”

“But that’s where I ended up anyway,” I said.

“You don’t understand – “”

“Will everyone stop telling me I don’t understand! I understand perfectly well, mother. You were not controlled by the Order. You let your body control your actions. I understand that and I forgive you. We all make mistakes. But we have to own up to them.”

I clutched the ruby to my heart. My magic burned on my fingers as I searched for the crack in the gem. Closing my eyes, I could see the plains around Brita. I could see Aaron’s black curls rustle in the wind. I could feel myself on the edge of it all. The ruby against my chest, its surface like a hot coal, I knew how to end it.

“It’s over, mother,” I whispered. “I forgive you. I will see you on the other side.”

“No!” Erik shouted behind me, but my power built up, encased the stone in blue light. Bind it to myself and it would end once and for all. It was never about binding it to the Erik. It would only perpetuate their existence. A sham. I had to bind it to the blood of the maker. Blood that ran in my veins.

Fire ripped through my soul, pulled at my hair. Behind closed eyes, I could see symbols erupt in golden curls. The cavern exploded with light. Air sucked at my clothes. Pressure built on my arms. I felt fingertips try to pry open my fist but I held steady. It would end soon.

“Melody!” a voice cried.

I opened my eyes and blinked through the whirlwind. Millions of Specters stood before me, their hollow eyes focused upward. Their ugly mouths were curved into something that resembled a smile, nearly peaceful. One by one, they faded to dust. Pain throbbed behind my temples as my light swallowed them. I could feel it engulf me now, bit by bit, my body imploding.  I could only hope that on the other side, I would find some peace. That we would find some freedom.

***

Epilogue

My surroundings no longer existed. I floated through darkness, a never ending pit of blackness. I had no knowledge of body, of space, of time, of substance. I just was. Everything slipped by me, around me, went through me. A sensation that was both liberating and eerie. Then, the voices started. Many, all familiar to me, whispered in my ears. Order members, Erik, my mother. I am dreaming, I thought. I liked the warmth of the darkness, the inability for me to see the others around me, the specks of dust. None addressed me directly. It was just a hum of familiarity. But it was always dark.

Through the darkness, my name echoed out to me. It grew louder until whoever uttered it was nearly on top of me.

“Melody!” it cried. Something hard collided with me and I could feel my body and muscles and joints again.

“Aaron?” I asked. My head spun (now that it seemed I possessed a head). “How did you get here? I’m supposed to be dead.”

“I really have no idea. I teleported I guess,” he answered and wrapped his arms around my waist like a little kid.

“Did you die?” I asked, alarmed. Tears stung my eyes as I buried my face into his shoulder.

“Die? Why would you say something like that? I’m too young to die,” he whimpered.

“Oh don’t be so dramatic,” I said. “It’s just, I’m not supposed to exist.” I told him how I bound the ruby to myself, sent the Specters to their resting place. I could tell he wanted to ask about Erik, but I avoided his gaze.

“I mean technically I nearly turned into one of them when they froze me to stone,” he reminded me. “I guess I’ve got some leftover afterlife in this body.”

I wanted to hold him to me, to kiss his cheek and tell him how happy I was to see him.

“Do you think we can teleport back?” I asked.

“Well, I got here, didn’t I?”

I wanted to ask him if he could see others around us. As if reading my mind, he looked into my eyes, his expression grave. “You’re alone here. I’m assuming you’re stuck in limbo of some sort now.”

If there was one thing I’d learned from the entire adventure, everything was hard to grasp, hard to understand. “Just try and get us out of here,” I sighed.

With a smile, he grabbed my hand. The age-old pressure pushed down against my chest. I welcomed the familiar weight. We spun upwards. The dark slowly faded to light as we landed with a thump at the closed entrance to the Land of the Dead.  The smell of flowers overwhelmed my senses. Sun breathed life into my limbs. Aaron sat beside me, glasses askew.

“How did you escape the Order? What had they done to you?” I asked.

“Put me in a division of their teleport training unit. Some new mission about recon on the sprites. Apparently they may have stores of black magic we don’t know about.”

“It’d be a bad idea to get involved,” I said.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he replied.

The grass tickled my bare legs and I lay down among the blades. Even though the sun’s heat pounded against my skin, my chest felt cold. A parting gift from the underworld.

“So,” he began. He pushed his glasses farther up on his nose.

“What?”

“What’s death like?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I said.

“That’s why I’m asking.”

I fell silent, recalled my mother’s emaciated form. “Better than limbo,” I said finally.

The wind wrinkled his hair and he wiped his forehead.

“It’s nothing to be afraid of,” I continued. “We’ll get there eventually.”

“And Erik?” he asked.

“He’s where he belongs,” I whispered. Floating somewhere, free and at peace.

“What do we do now?” Aaron asked.

“Disappear,” I said. “That’s one thing we’re both spectacular at. Get away from the Order, from the villages. Try to be normal or something like that.” A smile tugged at the edges of his lips.

“Sounds like a plan to me.” He wrapped his fingers around my wrist. I closed my eyes, letting my skin absorb the sun’s rays. Freedom had never felt so beautiful. I looked into Aaron’s dark mysterious eyes. Together, we still were outcasts, but at least we had each other.

“Take us away,” I said.

“Where?” he asked.

“Anywhere. Anywhere in the whole world. It’s ours now.” I took a deep breath as the pressure returned. Maybe someday the others would understand. But for now, it was our turn to find our own way. The world we knew tunneled away, left the darkness behind. I smiled. This was how one was supposed to live.

• Continue Reading

Published by Karl Rademacher on June 29, 2014. This item is listed in Novellas, Serial Novellas

We Apologize for the Interruption

by Eliyanna Kaiser

We Apologize for the Interruption was originally published by Silver Blade Magazine in May 2012

Peg was tucked snugly in bed in the coma ward, but the blankets itched. They felt heavy too, like they were pushing down on her, pinning her to the mattress. A nurse buzzed around the room at a dizzying pace, hooking up monitors and re-arranging equipment. Peg knew they would try to get this part over with quickly. “Under ten minutes from scan to snooze” was the gold standard.

Nana kept trying to distract her with small talk, but right now, all Peg could do was gape at a length of catheter tubing, attached to some kind of drainage bag. She had a vague sense of its purpose and it completely grossed her out.

“There, there,” the nurse said. “You won’t remember any of this and Mt. Sinai is excellent. You’re in good hands. See? Your mother knows.” The nurse smiled at Nana, who was nodding. “Cross my heart, dear, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“She’s not my mother,” Peg said. Her head was swimming. Correcting this small technical error was all she could manage.

Nana took Peg’s hand and squeezed it. “I’m her grandmother,” she explained, “Her mother passed a few years back. Early Alzheimer’s.”

The nurse stopped what she was doing and regarded Nana with sad understanding. “Skeptic or uninsured?”

“Skeptic,” Nana spat the word with bitterness. “My daughter was a stupid, selfish, irresponsible bitch. But it’s not too late for my Peg.”

Did she really just say that? Peg stiffened, and even the nurse looked shocked. When Peg finally found her words, her voice cracked. “Just because I won’t remember this, doesn’t give you the right to say whatever the hell you want.”

Nana looked down, fixing Peg with a cold, challenging look. As long as Peg could remember, she had never talked about her mother with such callousness. What the hell was happening?

The nurse looked back and forth between them with a panicked expression. They were all saved from this downward spiral of events by a strawberry blonde in green scrubs entering the room. The newcomer strode up to Peg’s bedside, oblivious to the tension.

“Doctor Lamonde,” she said, saluting with a manicured hand. “I’m the anesthesiologist who is going settle you into your three-day R&R. Just waiting for verification on that scan from the good folks in New Jersey… Nancy, any word?”

The nurse checked her handheld and gave a relived go-ahead nod. The doctor tied an elastic around Peg’s arm while the nurse flipped on the vital monitors. The wetness of an alcohol swab began to evaporate, spreading a chill over her body.

“Make a fist and hold it,” Dr. Laomnde ordered, unwrapping a butterfly IV. With her other hand the doctor kneaded her flesh in search of a suitable vein.

Peg thought she might vomit. Now that it had come to it, three thoughts drowned everything else into white noise.

First: Somewhere in Weehawken, New Jersey, Biomimetics techs had just confirmed transmission of the brain scan taken just minutes ago. The scan was their blueprint for her syn, an exact copy of her brain.

Second: If the docs were to scan her again, right now, the two scans wouldn’t match, nor would her neuro-algorithm spit out in the same combo of 1s and 0s. New memories had formed, new neural pathways had been drawn, and who she was had irrevocably shifted.

The third thought: She had been avoiding this one. But it had been there all along. It pulsed even louder now, demanding Peg’s absolute and immediate attention: They are going to rip out your brain.

Beeps and flashes of light announced the fight-or-flight heart rate that was churning Peg’s blood pressure.

“No!” she shouted, pulling her arm away. The effect was immediate. As soon as the word had left her lips, a word she hadn’t even realized she was going to say, the vital monitors sounded longer pauses between heartbeats. Less unsettling blood pressure numbers displayed on the screen. She could breathe.

“What do you mean, ‘No’?” Nana, red-faced, was first to break the silence. “Do you have any idea—”

“Ma’am, please,” Dr. Lamonde held up a hand to quiet Nana, and searched Peg’s face, a bit fearfully. “Young lady, are you refusing the coma?”

Peg nodded.

*          *          *

 “What happened?”

Peg stared at the blue sky projected on the office ceiling, searching for an answer. She winced at the brightness of the digital image, a veritable Rorschach of fractal clouds, changing shape by the second. Last night, after leaving Mt. Sinai, she’d been told to go straight home and to report to Sonar’s office first thing. She hadn’t slept well.

Why had she done it? She owed no one an explanation more than Sonar. For an entire year they had met here, an hour every week, to make sure she was ready. At first she hadn’t liked the idea of talking to a shrink, but anyone who got the syn upgrade had to get mental health clearance. Much to her surprise, she’d actually come to like therapy—and Sonar. But she hadn’t done her friend any favors yesterday. A neuro-psych’s reputation was built on a low In-Between rate and Peg had blown her perfect record.

“Peg, we have to talk about this.” Sonar tapped her fingernails impatiently.

“I know,” Peg said quickly.

The easy way out was to blame Nana, but Peg knew that the real reason was bigger. Not just bigger, but more upsetting, and harder to put into words. And should she have to? Refusing the coma was her right.

Peg had always thought of herself as pro-choice. Why should anyone be forced into the coma? Of course the issue had always been a little more theoretical. The choice to refuse was far worse in the long run; she knew that. There had been mere minutes between the scan and the walk to the coma ward. Now she was facing the loss of three whole days—the time it would take Biomimetics to construct the syn. The construction was so expensive that insurance companies only gave you one shot at it once the syn was in production. If she didn’t go through with this three days from now, she might never be able to afford to. The coma was the solution to all the anxiety this caused, but she had refused it.

Not quite absently, Peg held her head in her hands and found that succumbing to the urge to rock back and forth was somewhat comforting.

Sonar coughed and shifted in her chair. Peg thought about saying that she knew Sonar was uncomfortable around her. No one wants to be around an In-Between.

Peg opened her mouth to say so but closed it again abruptly. The first sign of Generalized Dissociative Dysphoric Mania was relaxation of social filters. Like telling people what you really think of them. It was exactly what Sonar would be looking for, and Peg needed to get cleared, get the hell out of here. Her last pre-syn moments would not involve being forcibly strapped to a hospital bed and put down like some kind of rabid animal.

Even if she wouldn’t remember it.

“You’re worried that if you say the wrong thing I won’t give you sign-off, aren’t you?” Sonar asked, not unkindly.

Peg nodded, heart pounding.

“Well,” she sighed. “I don’t think you chose an easy path for yourself. But so long as I think you’re not going to harm yourself—or anyone else—I won’t stop you from leaving. Fair?”

Peg withdrew her fingernails from her head and felt pain where the skin depressed. “Fair,” she agreed.

“You don’t know why you did it, do you?”

“No.”

“Not unusual, I guess.” Sonar tilted her head in examination. “You having any regrets?”

“No,” Peg said. Sort of. She had a headache.

“What’s going on in there? Talk to me, Peg. No self-editing.”

“It hardly seems worth spending so much time processing. What if I have some major life-changing break-through? Total waste of effort on both our parts.”

“Remember what I said about keeping a diary? Sometimes people in your… situation become obsessed with certain experiences or realizations and are afraid to lose them after the surgery. That’s normal. A diary could help with that.”

There was a silence until Peg realized that Sonar was waiting for her to confirm she had absorbed the suggestion.

“Right. Diary. Got it.”

Sonar sighed. “We just need to get you through these next few days. Humor me. I’m on your side.”

As it went, humoring the only person standing between her and freedom did seem like a good idea. Peg moved her hands away from her head and sunk her nervous energy into stroking the velour of the sofa. Maintain eye contact. Normal posture. Normal thoughts. Normal behavior.

“I’m thinking about how everyone will be weird around me.” I’m thinking that if you decide I’m unwired they’ll take me to Mt. Sinai in a straight-jacket. When I wake up I’ll never know what you did. Or what Nana said.

“Good,” Sonar said, nodding eagerly. “What do you think other people will be thinking?”

“That In-Betweens are dangerous.” Peg didn’t feel dangerous. She’d never felt more vulnerable. “Or that I’m turning into a religious freak or a technophobe, which is stupid since I’ve had every other upgrade for my age group.” The syn upgrade wasn’t anything like a regular tissue replacement, even a major one. But it’s what you want to hear, so I’ll say it.

Sonar was staring at her. Damn! She had trailed off mid-sentence. Peg brushed off all tangential thoughts with a hair flip.

“Anyway, c’mon, it’s me. I understand about the upper limits of cell replication—the Hayflick Limit, all that.”

She did, too. Peg had done the Hayflick proof in cellular biology as an undergraduate. For half a semester she watched her worm cell culture divide. The goo kept chugging along, happily doubling its mass in her Petri dish, until one day the cells just …stopped. Cells aren’t immortal, that was the lesson, and each organism’s cells were programmed to count down to their own end. Divide. Divide. Divide. Divide. Die.

And while you could replace your organs, derm upgrade, and swap out your bones and muscles until you never thought you’d see the outside of an OR again, the brain was the limit. It wasn’t exactly replaceable. One day your ridiculously healthy body would find itself home to a geriatric brain. Game over.

That is, until Biomimetics invented the syn.

“Do you think their worries are unfair?” Sonar asked.

The distinct scent of chocolate tickled Peg’s nose, and her mouth watered. It reminded her of being a fat teenager, before she’d traded in her thyroids for ones with a metabolism to match her eating habits. She frowned distastefully at the culprit, a monstrous purple flower set in a simple brown planter on Sonar’s desk. It was engineered to release this particular aroma when it was dehydrated.

Peg wrenched her attention away from the flower.

“It’s like every post-syn I meet is looking at me and thinking about their In-Between moments—and I don’t care what the definition is!” Peg yelled. Only people who refused the coma were considered In-Betweens. “You can’t remember, so you can’t argue with me about it.”

Sonar raised an eyebrow and Peg flinched with the realization that she was acting defensively.

“I feel,” Peg started again, “that post-syns know, on some level, that they lost something.” She took a deep breath. “It messes with you people to look at me.”

Sonar dropped the section of hair she had been twisting, her expression thoughtful. “You think I’m projecting? That I’m secretly upset about the memories I lost walking to the coma ward?”

“Look, I want to go.” Peg stood up and retrieved her coat. “Is that okay?”

It was Sonar’s job to make sure that she wasn’t dangerous. That was the point of these morning evals for these next three days. By the stats, Peg had 50/50 odds of keeping her sanity. It was a controversial law, but after Ginger Louis shot a corporate heavyweight at Biomimetics three years ago, no one was taking chances with In-Betweens, even the civ lib hard cases. Hell, most other states had banned the In-Between option.

It was hard not to think about Ginger Louis, hard not to question every stray thought or passing urge for breaches from normality. You could drive yourself crazy waiting for the crazy to come.

Sonar frowned. “What are your plans for today?”

“Head to campus? I can teach the pre-calc tutorial instead of the sub.”

Sonar hesitated, but signed her tablet with a quick flourish.

Peg hadn’t reached the door when a queasy feeling in her stomach took hold. Everyone she knew expected her to be in a coma. And everyone else would get a zap to their handheld within yards of her approach, warning of an In-Between. The police had tagged her.

Maybe this was a mistake.

“Second thoughts?” Sonar sounded hopeful. “You don’t have to do this. I can call Mt. Sinai.”

Peg took a step away from Sonar, even while her mind toyed with the offer.

“I’m fine, really.” She swallowed to soothe the dryness itching her throat. She searched for something to sound casual about. “Your fly-trap-magnolia monster wants water. It reeks like cocoa in here.”

***

The walk from East Midtown to the West Village was familiar. It took time too, which was positive. Everyday things. Peg recited her new mantra. Simple things. Unimportant things.

She soaked in the pulse of the crowd as she made her way down the avenue. The touch of the shoulders and legs that brushed her felt gentle, like all of humanity giving her a hug. She was probably setting off thousands of In-Between alerts, but the mass of commuters was too dense for anyone to figure out who the In-Between was. It felt good. Anonymous.

Before long she was back on campus, circling the perimeter of Washington Square Park. She stopped to take in the beauty of the towering trees. Usually, she didn’t look up, didn’t notice. Annoyed faces maneuvered around her stationary form like an inconveniently placed human bollard. A few, paying more attention to their handhelds, crossed the street to get away from her. Oh, God. She tried to imagine walking into her classroom and teaching a room full of terrified undergraduates. It was beginning to seem like a terrible idea.

Her handheld buzzed, zapped by an unknown user, immediate proximity. Her dating service flagged him as a poor match. She looked around to figure out which one he was of the milling strangers. Off the path, a guy with long dreadlocks arranged red and black pamphlets on a plastic foldout table. He winked.

What the hell, she thought, and answered his zap. Normally she avoided the doomsday radicals like every other sane person. Changes in base personality. She nearly groaned. Symptom number two of Generalized Dissociative Dysphoric Mania.

She was about to go over and flirt when he sent her a micro-ad: The Zombie-Capitalists Want to Eat Your Brain – Resist! Wednesday, 19:00, Judson Memorial Church. Zap RobertNeville@NYU.

She flinched, but had to smile at the timing. Her dating service had not misled her. Dreadlocks boy might be cute, but this was definitely a bad idea.

“You got somewhere to be?” he called out in a disarmingly smooth Euro-African accent.

“You Robert Neville?” The name sounded familiar.

“Nah. Just my handle. He’s a character from this old movie I saw. Last guy standing in New York, post zombie apocalypse.”

“I Am Legend?” Peg remembered the book.

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“I think it was vampires.”

“Oh.” He looked puzzled about what to do with that information. “Well, I saw the movie.” He stuck out his hand. “Jayden.”

A girl named Peg had to like retro names. And his was cute. It fit.

“Peg,” she said, accepting the handshake. She took in the broadness of his shoulders. Screw the math tutorial.

How did this Jayden guy get a shirt that tight over his head and past that neck? What was the elasticity of what seemed to be a regular cotton shirt that it didn’t tear whenever his arm muscles flexed?

“You thinking about coming to the meeting?”

“Uh huh,” she managed. He was beautiful.

*          *          *

They decided to get a drink at the Delta. The greetings the staff gave Jayden zeroed him as non-random for the spot. A few of the wait-staff glanced nervously at the In-Between alert, but they were clearly the more progressive types. They smiled with professionalism and took her order.

By the time she had taken her first sip of beer, Peg had played out the scenario where they fell in love and she decided not to go through with the surgery, unwilling to lose this catalytic moment forever. She ignored the insurance company’s warning: one ridiculously expensive syn construction per policyholder, per lifetime—no do-overs.

Of course, she was never able to raise the cash to build another syn. Eventually her brain rotted with age in bitter contrast to her stubbornly youthful body. But: She died knowing love.

Very romantic. Unforgivably stupid. There was no excuse in this day and age for allowing one’s brain to waste away. Nana just didn’t have to be such a jerk about it.

With three days of nothing to lose, she decided she was in this for sex. Peg opened her stance and focused her mind on nothing else. She uncrossed and crossed her legs and made her lips pout just a little bit. She lit a cigarette.

“So, you’re a communist,” she said. “What’s that like?”

He laughed, a good throaty chuckle, and grinned back at her, cheeks puckering into dimples.

“I’m an anarchist. And it’s just okay. What are you?”

“In-Between,” she admitted, a bit surprised with her own candidness. She blew a perfect smoke ring. “And it sucks.”

“Yeah, I know,” he smiled, indicating his handheld.

Jayden was easy to talk to and with the awkwardness of the whole In-Between thing finally out there, everything else was fair game.

Jayden was amused by her derm upgrade. She’d selected a milky latte color so her skin would keep longer. Skin cancer ran on her father’s side, and since her parents hadn’t gone in for the whole designer-baby craze, Peg was predisposed. Insurance didn’t usually cover a derm upgrade until your mid-40s, but for people with her genetic markers they made an exception. The truth, Peg confided, was that she’d just not wanted to look so pasty.

In trade, he confessed to blowing an entire summer’s tips to get his eyes swapped, just for a color change. Dark brown to sea-foam green. Peg examined them as he did his best not to blink. She liked how he did that, making a point of letting her know he’d also had cosmetic work, just to make her feel better about her derm job.

“I’ll bet they were fine brown,” said Peg.

Jayden twirled the foam on the head of his beer with a slow circling finger. His smile was crooked and sad.

“What is it?”

“It’s none of my business, but I wish you weren’t getting it done.”

“Why?” She sighed and crossed her arms. Better to get this over with. Let him drone on about the soul so we can get to the part involving clothing removal.

“You’re going to die,” he said, pulling apart bubbles of foam between fingers. “I just think that’s sad.”

Peg set down her beer too forcefully and it sloshed over the brim, spilling over the table. Jayden soaked it up with a napkin while Peg fumed. What was she supposed to say now? My mother died of early-onset Alzheimer’s. You were probably a designer baby, but, surprise! I have the markers for Alzheimer’s. If I don’t do this, and soon, I’ll die way too young and it won’t be pretty.

But there was no way. She’d just met this guy and, as he’d said, it was none of his goddamn business. Taking a page out of Sonar’s book, she decided to answer with a question.

“So what’s your solution? Let your neurons rot until you wink out?”

“Better that than letting the zombie docs carve out your brain, turn you into Frankenstein. You’re going to die and some other chick who is almost you is going to check out extended life in your place.”

He reached across the table to hold her hand. Hell, no. She jerked away.

“Look, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No,” Peg said, zapping the bar to pay her tab. “You shouldn’t have.” She snatched up her coat from the back of her chair. “I was going to let you fuck me.”

Peg was about to turn and leave when she saw the look on his face.

“Have you actually read any books?” she scowled. “Frankenstein was the doctor.”

***

Faking her way through the pre-meeting small talk at Judson Memorial Church a few hours later, Peg considered taking the train to Mt. Sinai hospital, racing to the coma ward, and begging them to put her out of her misery. These people were far worse than religious freaks or communists or even civ lib hard-cases. This was a gathering of the seriously stupid.

When she’d arrived, Jayden’s mouth had dropped open in surprise. “I needed a distraction,” she’d said, brushing by and making it clear she wasn’t there to talk to him.

Unfortunately, this had left her alone to be hit on by Jayden’s leering co-conspirator, Darien. Darien was polite enough not to make a big deal about her In-Between status, but that was the limit to his manners.

“You wanna get wicked high after this?” he’d asked. He was a redhead, too pale and too thin, and he talked to her chest. She had never liked bony white boys, and Darien the tit-whisperer was not about to become her exception. She’d groaned as he tried to put his arm around her.

“Not interested,” she’d said firmly.

Hot-cheeked, she was now pretending to be interested in her handheld. She actually felt like tossing it through one of the stained-glass windows. She hadn’t been able to reach any of her so-called friends. Although, to be fair, they hadn’t exactly expected her to be available tonight. But she still pictured them, each taking one took one look at the In-Between alert, and ignoring her. Assholes.

Meandering through the packed room, she decided that being here, at Jayden’s radical anti-syn meeting after storming out on his ass, was proof positive that she wasn’t thinking straight. She’d floated around Manhattan, shopping and trying to keep herself occupied. Everywhere she’d went she was greeted with wide-eyed looks and suspicion. Security at two stores had searched her for weapons. This was officially the most messed day of her life.

“Hi,” said a short balding guy wearing glasses. Peg tried to smile politely. Hair implants weren’t that expensive and corrective vision surgery couldn’t even be called a proper upgrade. The anti-tech freaks were so bizarre. Why would anyone want to look like this?

“I saw the alert,” the man said spitting his words with a stutter. “Did you know, um-um-um, that Biomimetics covered up a secret study that proves the syns aren’t accurate? Did you know that? Did you?”

“Nope,” said Peg. “Excuse me.”

She turned and found herself facing a priest holding hands in a circle with three girls. Their eyes were firmly shut, but the girls all looked close to tears, hands white-knuckled in each other’s fists.

“In the name of the Lord our Savior, Jesus Christ, we ask your forgiveness for our trespasses,” the priest intoned.

One of the girls nodded emphatically, and Peg could see she was wearing a red pin with the words: “Suicide and Murder. Two Sins for a Syn.”

That’s it—I’m done. Peg looked around for the nearest exit. But it was then that Jayden called his meeting to order and Peg was pushed into the pews.

“Why do so many post-syns change their names after their surgeries?” he began, his voice projecting to the back rows with grace and ease. Peg was already irritated. It was such a leading question.

Jayden paced back and forth, and stopped in front of a young woman with a violet complexion.

“When we alter the human body, we change who we are,” he said. “And that’s okay. You’re beautiful, lady-friend. What’s your name?”

“Ocean,” the woman said, standing up to reveal a cascading mane of blue hair, which she tossed proudly. Peg had once considered a similar shade, cerulean, but decided it was too cartoonish. This girl didn’t have the bottle-dye variety; those locks were engineered.

“Ocean,” he announced, holding her hand up in the air like she’d won a race. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

Peg clapped politely with the room.

“We have nothing to fear from change. Those who are gathered here aren’t anti-science. We love life, in all forms. That is exactly why we must resist the syns.”

Jayden paused and looked contemplative. “I met a girl today, an In-Between.”

There was a murmur. A few people who had taken the time to ID her when they’d first seen the alert turned and looked, trolling for a reaction. Peg felt herself go clammy. Was he really going to use her like this?

“This girl, she’s beautiful too, smart and witty. Put me in my place real fast.” He smiled to himself. “Meeting her reminded me of the old com for Biomimetics. The ‘Knock yourself in the Head’ spot—remember that one?”

Peg knew it. A happy looking woman running to keep up with her overly energetic rat-dog bumps her head against a wall. The camera zooms into her brain and shows a few neurons dying and then her brain compensates, forming alternative pathways. It was relatable and comforting. The idea was that if the nanobots messed a few neurons, or the algorithm was a bit off, it didn’t matter. Biomimetics’ margin of error was still less than the damage done by knocking your head against a wall while chasing a rat-dog. Negligible.

Peg found herself nodding with the room.

“So this girl I met, let’s call her Sunshine, she’s still got her brain, right? But right now the zombie docs in Jersey are busy making a copy, the syn. But what if we were to stick her syn into someone else’s body?”

The tabloids were always feeding the fear that a newly constructed syn could be switched in transit—so you ended up in the wrong body. It had never happened, of course. This was kind of disappointing. She had sort of expected more.

“Okay. So now, some unfortunate random has been body-snatched by Sunshine.” Peg stole a glance at the rows of people listening in rapt silence.

“Now, let’s wake up our two Sunshines, the original and the syn. Hell, let’s sit them down for tea together. No big whoop, right? After we finish serving scones we’ll just put both Sunshines under again and fix the mistake—do as we should have the first time—incinerate Sunshine’s brain and put the syn in her body. No harm, no foul. Right?” He took a deeper breath and punched his words. “Am I right?”

Peg sunk into her seat. Her heart was beating so fast. She took loud, shallow breaths through her mouth.

“Imagine seeing your syn staring right back at you in another body. Would there be any alternative other than to admit that the syn is a distinct person?”

He shook his head in answer to his own question, and thumped his fist on the dais. “No! The fantasy, the story you tell yourself about going to sleep and waking up to live forever is broken, shattered, vaporized the moment you face your copy and acknowledge its separateness.”

“So what’s left?” Jayden asked his audience, extending his hand to recognize anyone with the answer.

“What’s left?” Jayden still demanded, his voice increasing in volume, building in the crescendo of his finale.

“Excuse me.” Peg pushed past the people seated in her pew. “I feel a bit sick.” It was no excuse; she was both dizzy and nauseous. She hurried down the aisle.

“Sunshine!”

Peg froze mid-step. Everyone in the church had turned to watch her, wide-eyed. Jayden was pointing in her direction. “What’s left, Sunshine, when the mirage is gone?”

Peg ran for the exit. She ignored the excited whispers, ignored Jayden.

***

At their morning appointment, Sonar’s expression was hard and unreadable. Peg was hung-over from a night of drinking alone in her apartment.

“I’m just saying that I might change my mind. I’m allowed to change my mind. It’s my right.”

“It is,” Sonar said carefully, eying her tablet. Was she thinking of having Peg taken in? No! She couldn’t do that, the regs were clear. An In-Between could change her mind.

“Do you remember why you wanted to do this in the first place?”

“Of course.”

“When you first stepped through that door you wanted the surgery right away. You were furious you had to do twelve months of therapy to qualify. You had just watched your mother die,” Sonar said, tempering her tone. “Do remember what you said?”

“Yes,” Peg was crying now and it was hard to get words out. “I remember.” She remembered all right. “Some people say that maybe you lose a few minutes of time, or that it’s not you, not exactly, on the other end. But I had… I had just watched my mother break into a thousand pieces. She was completely stripped away, and it wasn’t an upgrade that did it. That was all natural, and no matter what an upgrade would have done, at the end… that—wasn’t—her.”

Sonar settled on to the cushion next to her. A comforting arm slipped around her, and Peg melted. She buried her face in Sonar’s shoulder and tried to catch her breath.

“Peg, you only get one shot at this being covered by your insurance. I don’t want to watch you make a mistake you’ll regret.” She passed Peg a tissue, and continued. “Honey, don’t think that I would ever stop you if you were sure. Talk it through with your grandmother before you make a final decision.”

“Nana’s not even taking my calls,” Peg said. The bitterness in her tone was impossible to cover. “No one is. I’m a social pariah. I’ve had to hang with randoms. Loser randoms.”

Sonar clasped her hands together. “That’s my fault, actually. One of the ways we try to prevent In-Betweens… What I mean is, meaningful interactions—positive or negative—can be very stressful.”

Peg’s tears dried in an instant. “So can being isolated,” she hissed. “Did you geniuses ever think of that?”

“Of course we have.” Sonar returned to her own chair, putting her infuriatingly detached expression back on. “These are hardly ideal circumstances.”

***

“Hey, it’s the walking dead!” Darien called out. He and Jayden were handing out leaflets at their foldout table. “Brains… Brains…” Darien outstretched his arms like a movie zombie and bust out laughing while Jayden looked on, horrified.

Tossing her head like she hadn’t seen either of them, Peg kept walking. Behind her, she heard Jayden shout something that sounded like an admonishment.

“Ignore Darien. He’s a dick,” Jayden said, a moment later. He had run to catch up with her. “Shrink cut you loose for another day, huh?”

“Leave me alone.”

“If you really wanted to be left alone, Sunshine, you wouldn’t be in Washington Square Park where you knew I’d be.”

“My name is Peg.”

“Sorry, just trying to cope.”

Peg had a bad feeling she knew the punch line, but set him up anyway. She threw up her hands. “Cope with what?”

“The imminent death of my new friend, Peg. I don’t think I’ll be able to call the syn by that name. Too weird.”

Peg rolled her eyes. “Luckily, you’re not her type.”

“Right.”

She pretended not to notice he still followed her, and was about to tell him to find someone else to use for his next meeting, but when she turned to say so, he was standing on top of a park bench.

“I am alone and miserable; man will not associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me.” He performed the impromptu soliloquy with exaggerated theatrical form. His accent made Mary Shelley sound like Shakespeare.

Jayden hopped down, knelt beside her, and extended a finely toned arm in her direction. Passersby pointed and whispered to each other from behind cupped hands, grinning. Either they hadn’t noticed the In-Between status alert on their handhelds or they were just caught up in the moment. The pose he was striking made it look like he was about to propose.

“My companion must be of the same species and have the same defects. This being you must create.”

Peg laughed, surprising herself. “You read and memorized lines from Frankenstein. In the twelve hours since I last saw you?”

“And discovered that I am the monster.”

She took his arm when he offered it and they began to walk through the park.

“I do read you know,” he muttered.

Something warm in her took over and she gave him a quick peck on the cheek. Jayden arched his neck at the opportunity. He cupped her chin and she was surprised to find his tongue parting her mouth. She kissed him back, biting on his lower lip.

“I’d hate to think of you forgetting that,” he said wistfully. His breath tickled her neck. It might have been romantic, were it not the most inappropriate thing he could have said.

She felt her body shake. What exactly was he playing at? Was kissing her a tactic? Was she his save-a-brain project for the week?

“Other than giving speeches, what is it you do exactly?” Peg demanded.

“I’m …working on my philosophy dissertation.” He looked at her with a confused frown.

She couldn’t hold back a groan. Of course he was.

“No, I mean, what is your little organizing effort doing?”

“Our coalition builds consciousness about the threat that Biomimetics poses to individual life.”

“Wait a sec.” Peg halted.

Jayden faced her uncertainly. “What? What is it?”

“I just want to be very clear about this. Are you saying that you really believe that at hospitals every day people are being conned by an evil world corp into offing themselves like a bunch of lemmings… and you’re not doing anything but working on your oratory skills?”

Peg was disgusted. If she believed people were being murdered she would do something about it. Who wouldn’t? This guy’s pretty speeches had one logical, actionable direction or he was a bullshit coward.

“I’m a pacifist,” he said, looking at her oddly. “Our collective welcomes disparate perspectives united towards our common goal. That’s the key: building a plurality toward democratic reform.”

What crap, Peg thought and turned to leave, even as he asked: “What’s a lemming?”

She walked faster, and skipped into a jog. She could feel his presence at her back.

“Don’t follow me,” she called back. “I want to be alone!”

“I’ll be at the Delta!” he called after her.

Peg slipped into a subway station and boarded a train. It lurched out of the station as she tried to hold back tears. The car was crammed, but the benefit of being an In-Between soon became apparent as everyone gave her a wide berth. Peg couldn’t help but think about how, by the stats, a third of these people were syns.

Her handheld blinked with messages. Nana had tried calling. A sizable sampling of her friends. Half the math department at NYU. Sonar worked fast.

The familiar, soothing projection of the abstract purple and pink lines of the Tri-State Transit Authority cut into a com spot. No escape, she sighed. The spot was for Biomimetics’ syn line.

It was the fountain of youth spot. An old couple drank from the fountain. They ran the length of the car and shot out of view, picking up speed and youthful appearance as they ran, laughing.

A disembodied, womanly voice spoke: “Augustus and Golda just celebrated their one-hundredth anniversary. Here’s to the next hundred years. Here at Biomimetics we believe…” Peg stopped listening and called up the transit map on her handheld.

She got off at Moynihan Station and switched to a New Jersey line.

***

Biomimetics Labs was headquartered in downtown Weehawken with all its tightly packed spiraling glass and steel buildings. The property stood out amongst the suffocating density. It had a dated quality: real mason-built brick, manicured lawns, and an enormous fountain that sprayed blue-dyed water, just like the company’s logo.

A tiny woman with thick-rimmed bedazzled, lens-less glasses was filing her nails at the reception desk. Glasses that weren’t for sun-protection were the ultimate in ironic accessory for a biotech worker. Peg almost got a giggle out of watching the woman’s welcoming smile morph into panic-stricken terror at the In-Between alert.

“Hi. I’m Margaret Gallagher—but people call me Peg. I’m an In-Between and I want to inspect my syn in-production.” The reception’s jaw dropped, and Peg added, “please.”

“JD?” the receptionist called out. “JD, can you come over here, please?” She didn’t take her eyes off Peg as she typed into her console. “Right now, JD!”

JD, the no-nonsense security thug, gave Peg a pat down.

“She has a phone and some cigs. That’s it,” he reported. The receptionist was still checking in with her superiors.

Peg’s handheld signaled that Nana had been zapping her madly for an hour. With resignation, she asked permission to make a call while the receptionist awaited instructions. JD relented with a pig-like grunt.

Nana answered immediately.

“Peg! I’m so glad you called. Why does my thing say you’re in Weehawken?”

“Because I’m in Weehawken.”

“But what are you doing in… Oh.” She clicked her tongue in disapproval. “You shouldn’t be there. You should be asleep. You’re so fragile. You have no idea how worried I’ve been.”

“Asleep?” Peg snapped. But JD was hanging on to her every word with suspicion. This was the worst moment to really have it out with Nana.

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Nana bit back and Peg almost jumped. “Just tell me this. If you are so sure that you want to throw your life away, why schlep out to Jersey?”

“I… I just want to see it.”

***

Peg pressed her nose to the glass and looked where the man was pointing. There on the stainless steel table was her syn.

It was in pieces.

It didn’t even look like a syn, not the way they looked in com spots. There were piles of glassy beads stuck on to graphite-colored sticks with dark wires. It looked like someone had taken a hammer to a console.

“It’s a trifle messy, I’m afraid,” the tall, overly affected administrator said. “It’s still unassembled, you see. There are–”

Peg purred in imitation of the voiceover lady from the com spots. “Millions of tiny robots building perfect copies of billions of neurons and trillions of synapses.”

“Quite right.” The man seemed uninterested in eye contact. “Tomorrow’s a busy day. We’ll put all the bits together and test the plasticity response. We wipe anything that comes from the testing, naturally. After that it’s we plug in the neuro-algorithm; that’s when our programmers get their turn. Then we head to the hospital and she goes on with her life.” He continued to look straight ahead, blinking at his own glass reflection.

Peg said nothing, but itched to leave the company of this strange man and his dubious habit of anthropomorphizing bits of man-made polymers. Looking at the syn, laying there in pieces had settled this. That pile of silicone nothingness was not her.

“I read the syn’s file, you know,” he said, and there was a measure of distaste in his words. “I did the checks twice. It was… surprising that someone with such a clean pre-eval like Margaret would have chosen In-Between status.” He shook his head in disapproval.

“You know, this third person crap is seriously offensive.” Peg snapped, and without waiting for permission, she ran down the hallway. She heard him shout after her, but didn’t stop. She thought she knew how to get back to the elevator.

Turns out, the sub-basements were a maze. After several wrong turns she reached a dead end with some kind of utility room, its door propped open. A sign barked warnings against unauthorized entry and a security camera was clearly visible. She waved at it in irritation. If she just stayed put undoubtedly someone would come to collect her.

While she waited, she peeked inside the open door and whistled, impressed. They were using huge, sparkling super-oxide crystals to generate breathable air for the underground levels of the building. That was pretty cool.

And pretty dangerous.

She looked around, nervously. One hand found her pocket and fingered her pack of cigarettes. She had matches just under the rim, tucked into the plastic. JD, the security troll, hadn’t noticed.

Leaving the door propped was stupid. This room was nothing more than a massive stockpile of explosive crystals…

The thought lingered, more tempting than chocolate or sex had ever been. It would be one final, brilliant, storm. And it would be final. She would be no Ginger Louis to face trial and punishment. If she walked into that room, opened up one of those canisters, and set fire to those crystals, Peg would be the first to die.

Her pack of cigarettes was out of her pocket now and she fingered her matches, ripped one of them out, and held it in the palm of her sweating hand. She remembered what she’d said to Jayden in the park, just hours before.

She was nothing to these people.

Their Peg was in pieces on a stainless steel table in this windowless tomb in mother-fucking Jersey. She was nothing but another payday from a health insurance company. One more lemming-mark.

She took another step forward, but froze at the sound of footsteps. Before she could even wonder about how easy this all was, she realized it wasn’t easy at all. She looked up at the security camera and gulped uneasily.

She was still holding the match. She needed a reason to have it out, something that didn’t seem so obviously criminal. She lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply as the administrator approached.

“Uh, you can’t smoke in here,” he said.

“Sorry,” she said, dropping it to the concrete floor and stomping it out.

“Miss, I apologize,” he said. “I hope you understand that the kind of In-Between that comes here is often on the verge of doing something… unfortunate.”

“I’m not Ginger Louis,” she said, teeth bared. No, she wasn’t. Ginger wouldn’t have hesitated.

He gave her an appraising look. “I only meant that In-Betweens that come here often don’t go through with their upgrades.”

“Right,” Peg said. Get a handle. Stop acting so guilty.

“And I’m sorry I used the third person in your presence. I can understand why that upset you and I want to explain. At Biomimetics, all staff, top to bottom, are trained to refer to syns, even in-production, like they are already people. It’s critically important because it’s so easy to get detached, look at these abstract parts in the assembly labs, the scans, the programmers modeling on their computers, and forget that we are re-creating someone’s sentience. Some people say it’s like looking at an impressionist painting, you know, where you can’t see what it is until you step all the way back.”

“I’m not getting the analogy right, but the point I’m making very badly here is that this is human life—the very essence of it—and deserving of all the respect a doctor would give to a live human patient. Can you understand that?”

“I think so,” Peg said with faint surprise. She felt suddenly relieved not to be a suicidal terrorist, which was the most depressing thing she could think of to be thankful for. With a whimper it came to her: Lack of consideration for social mores, including violence and criminal acts. The third symptom.

The administrator adjusted his tie and smiled awkwardly. “We don’t often get visitors here. I wasn’t thinking, Margaret.”

“My name is Peg,” she said hoarsely.

***

Sonar ordered her to a mandatory eval in two hours. Not surprisingly, Biomimetics had reported her visit to the New York authorities, including the little stunt where she ran away from the administrator. Even though she had less than a day left, no one was taking any chances.

Just one quick stop on the way.  She stumbled into the Delta.

There was definitely a chance that Sonar would decide she was unwired and she’d be forced into the coma early. Or she’d clear the eval.

Either way, time was running out, and she knew for certain that she wanted to talk to Jayden one more time before it was all over.

She had zapped him that she was coming, but hadn’t gotten a reply. She looked hopefully at the two-seater they had occupied the day before, but he wasn’t there. The music was painfully loud and Peg covered her ears, stood on her toes, and strained her neck searching for dreadlocks.

The only person she recognized was that dick, Darien, sitting at the bar drinking a line of shots solo. With a sigh, she wove through the drunks and tapped his shoulder.

“Well, if it isn’t Little Miss In-Between,” he said, grinning.

“Know where Jayden is?” She tried to keep her voice pleasant as he groped her bust-line with his eyes. “I fucked up and I think they’re going to put me under early.”

“Sucks.” He took another shot. “He was here for hours. You just missed him. Seriously, some hours you keep, babe. Insomnia somewhere on the list for Generalized Dissociative-whatever?”

“I’m not your babe,” Peg scowled, and started towards the door.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” he said, catching up to her and abandoning the last of little shot glasses at the bar. “C’mon. I’ll take you to him.”

***

On the fiftieth floor of an unremarkable NYU graduate student residential complex, Darien and Peg approached the last of a long corridor of identical white apartment doors, and knocked.

“He had a few waiting for you. Might be asleep.” Darien leaned into the access window and waited for the red light to pass over his iris. A click and a hiss unlocked the door.

“I don’t think I should just bust in,” Peg whispered.

“Sounds like you don’t have a lot of options.” Darien shrugged. “But whatever.”

Peg thought he was trying to act like he didn’t care either way; he was acting really weird.

“How do you have privileges to Jayden’s room?”

He took a second longer than he should have to reply. “He keeps the fold-out table and pamphlets here. Sometimes I go to the park without him.”

Darien motioned for her to enter ahead of him and Peg hesitated. In the short time since she’d met this guy he’d managed to creep her out pretty consistently. But if he tried to hurt her, someone would be able to see the footage of them walking into the building together, right up to this door. He wasn’t that stupid. Or that drunk. She allowed herself a few cautious steps into the darkness.

“Jayden?”

He pushed her square in the center of her back and she tumbled face-forward. Her nose smacked into the cheaply carpeted floor. It burned from the friction.

“Shit,” she moaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

All light vanished as Darien closed the door.

“What is this?” she demanded, trying not to sound frightened.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. She knew exactly what this was and in the dark she couldn’t fight him off.

“Ligh—” she tried to get out the vocal command but he was there too fast, covering her mouth with one hand, and pinning her arms with the other. He started kissing her neck as she thrashed, stomach souring at the mismatched scents of rum, mint gum, and cologne.

“Letmego.” She couldn’t catch her breath.

“C’mon, babe. Just a few hours to zombie doc time, right?” She felt him shrug his shoulders. “We can do the nastiest shit and you won’t remember. Like it never even happened.”

“I’ll tell the police,” she screeched.

“You’re manic, remember? As in unreliable? Relax, Sunshine.”

It was worse that he called her that, Jayden’s name for her. He let loose his hold on her left wrist and it went under her shirt. She hadn’t realized how numb and frozen she was until the feel of him touching her rebooted her adrenaline. She aimed her knee for his nuts, missed, but got his gut. He collapsed, howling and retching.

“Oh, man. Oh, man… Oh, man.” He began to sob as he heaved. “Just get the fuck out. Lights!”

When they came on, there was a baseball bat, leaning against the wall, right beside her.

She picked it up.

In the infinitesimal moment that existed before she swung, Peg’s mind froze in brutal, perfect awareness of the irreversibility of her actions.

The sound was horrible, but it was over soon, and there wasn’t as much blood as she thought there might have been.

***

Peg remembered how crazy everyone was the day the jury reached a not-guilty verdict in the Ginger Louis case. Post-syn Ginger couldn’t remember committing the crime.

The question no one wanted to ask was had she committed them? Peg understood the problem better now, the layers of mass delusion slick as oil on the whole mess. If post-syn Ginger wasn’t responsible what happened to the real criminal?

The psychiatric community unveiled a new category of mental illness: Generalized Dissociative Dysphoric Mania. Like labeling something, putting it into a neat little package, means it’s all under control.

Peg had called the police. Following the advice of every movie she’d ever seen she demanded to speak to a lawyer before giving a statement. She called Nana and Sonar for help.

Nana got her a lawyer who met her at central booking. He explained that the post-Ginger legal reforms meant that the District Attorney’s office had to decide whether or not to bring criminal charges against an In-Between before a scheduled upgrade—in Peg’s case, immediately. If they were going to charge her, there wouldn’t be any surgery. They’d lock her up until the trial.

Peg repeated to the Assistant DA what she’d rehearsed with her lawyer.

“I was on my way to meet my shrink, but I stopped at a bar looking for a friend—Jayden. Darien was there, and he said he knew where Jayden was, so I followed him, but he didn’t take me to Jayden. He tried to rape me and I fought him off.”

She knew what she was leaving out. Knew what it meant about her.

She waited outside the big oak doors as her lawyer and the Assistant DA conferred. NYU must have supplied them the video from the building’s hallway. Even in the next room she could just recognize her own muted scream as Darien pushed her into that room.

Peg watched the sunrise through an antique, wood-framed window. Her thoughts settled on her mother and what Nana had said about her. Nana had been dead-on.

“You stupid, selfish, irresponsible bitch,” she whispered. “I needed you. I need you.”

For what seemed like the hundredth time that day, Peg let herself collapse into hopeless tears. How had she become this… person who hated the memory of her own mother—the kind of person who could kill another human being?

A sunbeam curved through the window momentarily blinding her and she closed her eyes.

“They’re cutting you loose.” The voice of her lawyer startled her. She hadn’t heard the door open. She looked up. He looked tired, his eyes tinged with curly-cues of red veins rising to the surface of the whites. Just like Darien’s had been.

What did he want her to say? Thank you for helping me get away with murder.

“He had priors for sexual assault. You’re not being charged with anything. You get it?”

She nodded, exhausted, and saw Sonar step into the corridor. Knowing at last what she needed to do, Peg rose to meet her. But first, she zapped Jayden a message: Tell Peg what she needs to know. See you on the other side.

***

“I was an In-Between?” Peg laughed and waited for Sonar to crack a smile. But her shrink was barely making eye contact. Oh, holy shit. “Did I say why?”

“You said you didn’t know.” Sonar hesitated. “I told you to keep a diary. Maybe you’ll find some answers there.”

There was something worse than what Sonar was saying. She had come to think of her shrink as a friend, but now she was barely making eye contact.

“Where’s Nana?” Peg asked, looking around the room. Her grandmother had promised she’d be here when she woke up.

Sonar blinked a few times and sat down. She was clearly exhausted and worn out.

Peg took a sharp breath. “Sonar, what did I do?”

***

The undergraduates in her pre-calc tutorial were uncharacteristically quiet when she entered. She could hardly blame them; she had been all over the talkies, probably would be for a month or more. There had even been reporters outside the building this morning. She strode to the front of the classroom and tried on a bashful smile.

“I suppose some of you may have heard that I was an In-Between.”

Every set of teen eyes stared at her, unblinking. A few giggled nervously.

“Well, I don’t remember any of it. Not even the exciting bits.” Their faces paled. Peg had been having a lot of these moments since being released from Mt. Sinai. She cringed at her words. Exciting bits? What was wrong with her? This Darien guy had been an NYU grad student too. Someone in this class might have known him, and even if no one did, an In-Between killing someone wasn’t funny. Especially when she was the In-Between.

“Okay,” she clapped her hands. “I see that Professor Harris kept you busy in my absence. Let’s start with the first example from your practice set.”

Keying the console behind her, with way too much enthusiasm, Peg displayed the first graph.

“Piecewise functions! Chapter 9! Can someone provide an equation for this curve?”

She smiled at Jaisel as his hand shot up. Good, back to normal. Unimportant things. Everyday things.

“F of x equals -1 as long as x is greater than or less than -2, and F of x equals 2, as long as x is greater than -2,” Jaisel said. A few other kids rolled their eyes.

“Right.” Peg smiled. “Questions?”

Jaisel’s hand shot up again. She didn’t usually call on the same kid twice in a row like that, but he was frowning, like he actually had a question.

“I know the answer, but I don’t get how it’s all the same equation. It looks more like two different functions.”

“A piecewise function,” she explained, “is continuous on a given interval. It doesn’t experience any discontinuity at its sub-domains. But it isn’t continuous throughout its domain. It’s interrupted. Just like this gap here at x=-2.”

Peg stretched the display to focus on the interval where the function diverged. The gap in the curve seemed to stare back at her.

The room regarded her with a mix of concern and renewed unease.

“The jump discontinuity…” she trailed off again. Why couldn’t she make sense? “It’s one function,” she said. “Don’t let it fool you on a test.”

***

She looked everywhere for a diary. Her handheld didn’t have any memos for those dates and her tablet was dusty from non-use.

The rest of her studio provided no more answers. An empty bottle of scotch seemed simple enough to explain. She had to smile at the pile of unlaundered clothes. Leave it to an In-Between to save the laundry for the syn to do.

But what really troubled her was her handheld’s GPS and zap history. It was a puzzle that painted an uglier picture the more she dug into it.

An accepted zap from a stranger, Robert Neville—a familiar name that she couldn’t place—inviting her to some radical anti-syn meeting on day one. And then, day two, she had looked up the address of Biomimetics in Weehawken and had actually gone there. The strangest thing was that after that guy, Darien, had tried to rape her, she had sent a cryptic message to the same random, Robert Neville. It looked like—and this was disturbing, even imagining herself as a manic In-Between—that had she referred to herself in the third person.

Tell Peg what she needs to know. Holding her breath, she zapped Robert Neville. He answered almost immediately.

“Hey there, Sunshine.” The voice was sad but disarmingly charming, a smooth Euro-African accent.

“My name’s Peg,” she said, confused all over again. “Is this Robert Neville?”

“Right, I forgot. How does this go?”

There was a pause. What was with this guy? Making up his mind about something Peg couldn’t fathom, he finally continued. “Robert Neville’s just my handle. He’s a character from this old book, I Am Legend. It was zombies in the movie version, which is what most people remember. Nobody reads anymore,” he complained. “My name’s Jayden.”

She felt her lips curl into a smile, but she was still pretty confused.

“Why did you just call me Sunshine? Do we know each other? Did we…?”

“It’s my nickname for you,” he explained, ignoring the sexual suggestion, which was gentlemanly of him. He chuckled. “I started calling you Sunshine and you sort of went with it.”

“Oh.” She tried to think what to make of that. She did like the name. And, come to think of it, lots of people changed their names after getting the syn upgrade. Why shouldn’t she? She was feeling increasingly uncomfortable with the multitude of Pegs that existed in her imagination. There was the Peg of before, the Peg of now, and the ghost of the Peg of In-Between.

“Okay,” she said. “Hit me. What is it I need to know? Did I tell you what happened with that guy?” She didn’t know who else to ask who wouldn’t give her a sanitized version. “The guy I… killed?” She hadn’t said the words out loud before and it was shocking to put them together.

“Sure,” he said, with a softness that touched her. “He was someone I knew, I’m sorry to say. It never would have happened if you hadn’t met me. He attacked you and you fought back and thank god you were able to defend yourself.” He stopped, and cleared his throat. “It wasn’t your fault and that’s all there is to it, Sunshine. All there is to know.”

His certainty was the sweetest kind of relief. She exhaled. “Thank you,” she said. It was what Sonar, the police, and everyone on the talkies were saying, but she hadn’t been sure. “Did I… do anything else? I mean, did Peg tell you anything else? Did I, I mean, did she tell you why she refused the coma?”

“I want you to know, I understand the pain you’re in.”

“I guess.”

“No, I do. You’re grieving her. It’s normal—no matter what they tell you. Nothing,” he said grandly, “is so painful to the human mind than a great and sudden change.”

That sounded familiar.

“Mary Shelley?” she ventured.

“You read books too?”

Sunshine had to admit that she liked this guy. She settled into her sofa and lit a cigarette.

“So,” she said. “You’re a communist. What’s that like?”

• Continue Reading

Published by Karl Rademacher on June 29, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 16, Novellas, Serial Novellas

The Guild of Swordsmen

By Kristin Janz

Kristin Janz’s stories have appeared in several other print and electronic publications, including On Spec, Futurismic, and Imaginarium 2012.  For a complete list, please visit her website, http://www.kristinjanz.com.  Kristin is a 2008 graduate of the Clarion West Writers Workshop, and lives in Boston with her husband, writer Donald S. Crankshaw.

The Guild of  Swordsmen was first published at Silver Blade Magazine in November 2012

* * *

The night before the Emperor’s birthday, someone tried to kill Lida in her sleep.

She woke, lying on her left side, the hilt of her naked sword under her right hand.  There was someone in her room.  Not Alzadin.  Not Saulius.  Definitely not Merolliay.  The door was closed, the window open.  Moonlight flooded the room.

She flipped over and pushed herself up, brandishing her sword with her right hand and flinging the extra pillow with her left.  A dark figure leaping at her from out of the shadows collided with the pillow.

Lida’s feet hit the floor.  She swept the loose blanket off the bed with her free hand and threw it in her assailant’s face.  She lunged and felt his abdominal muscles clench around the point of her sword as it thrust into him.

He grunted as Lida twisted her sword free.  The knife from his right hand clattered to the floor in the folds of the falling blanket.  His left hand came up from the sheath at his hip with a second knife.

Lida stabbed her sword into that hand.  As the second knife fell, she slashed across her assailant’s face with her long, narrow blade, then across his throat.

The assassin stumbled backwards through a pool of moonlight into an end table.  He and the table both went down.  The unlit lantern on the table crashed to the wooden floor.  With a loud crack, the glass chimney broke, and the reek of kerosene filled Lida’s nose and throat.

She froze in place, listening.  No sound of breathing to give away a possible second assassin hidden in the room or clinging to the wall outside her third floor window.  Only the usual night sounds:  the occasional creaking of the old wooden house around her, the rattling of a mule cart on the badly-paved street some distance away.  And then of course there was the irregular thumping of the assassin’s twitching body against the floor and wall, and the loud gurgling of his desperate attempts to draw air into his lungs.  Until those stopped.

A quick search of the corpse’s pockets by the light of a hastily-lit candle revealed nothing of interest and no clues as to who might have sent him.  But Lida thought she already knew the answer to that question.  She hauled the body back over to the open window through which the man must have entered and heaved him out.

#

“Someone tried to kill me last night,” she announced in the morning.  She made her voice casual for better effect, but was sure to speak loudly enough that everyone in the room would hear.

No one showed any surprise.  Merolliay didn’t even look up from his book, which disappointed her.

“I heard,” Saulius said from the couch.  He had his feet up and pastry crumbs down the front of his tailored jacket and in a small pile on the floor.  “I considered coming up to make sure you were all right but didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

One night, soon after Lida had started renting the top floor of the house, Saulius had broken into her bedroom with a carafe of chocolate hoping to seduce her.  He had learned firsthand that she slept with a naked sword and preferred to strike first and ask questions later.

Alzadin said something in his own language.  Despite having served as an officer in the Imperial Nemesde Army, he did not speak a word of Nemesde, or pretended not to.  Nor could he speak Lida’s language, or Saulius’s, or Merolliay’s.

Still without glancing up from his book Merolliay said in Nemesde, “Alzadin says he recognized the sound of your footsteps after the commotion, and that he could tell you didn’t need help.  As could I and no doubt Saulius as well.”

Saulius shrugged and shoved the last bite of his pastry into his mouth, licking black currant preserves off his fingers.

“I didn’t need help,” Lida said.  She opened the tap at the base of the urn on the sideboard, watching the black coffee fill her cup.  She had never tasted coffee before coming to the Imperial City two years ago, but now she didn’t think she could live without it.  “I guess I shouldn’t sleep with the window open.”  It was hard for her to sleep without fresh air, having slept outside almost every night for three years before circumstances brought her here.

“Not as long as Helena Dareshna wants you dead,” Saulius said.  “How many times is that now?  Three?”

“Yes.” Lida took a sip of the coffee then made a face.  “Alzadin, this is the worst coffee I’ve ever tasted!  I don’t even understand how you made it taste so awful.”

Alzadin was at the table oiling his sword.  He made a lengthy retort that Merolliay didn’t bother to translate.  But from the way Alzadin gestured at the stairs leading to Lida’s rooms, she suspected it was something along the lines of “If you don’t like my coffee, you’re welcome to get up early and make it yourself.”  Alzadin always seemed to understand anything any of them said in Nemesde, which made Lida think that not speaking the language of their conquerors was a choice, not a limitation.

“Have you thought about offering to sell Helena Dareshna the estate?” Merolliay asked from his chair by the unlit fireplace.  Whenever Merolliay spoke, Lida’s heart beat faster.  Had Merolliay ever crept into her bedroom in the dark of night, she wouldn’t have greeted him with live steel.

“If she’d ever asked, instead of hiring people to kill me, I’d have given her the estate.  I don’t even want it.”  After the destruction of her home village five years ago by Imperial forces, Lida had traveled around the countryside with Andraikos Dareshna, a renegade officer and Imperial nobleman.  When he died, Lida was horrified to learn that he had named her his heir and adopted daughter, bequeathing to her all his titles and lands.  Helena Dareshna, Andraikos’s estranged wife, who had expected the estate to go to her, had been even more horrified.

“So sell it to someone else,” Saulius suggested.

Lida shrugged.  “Too much trouble.”  Andraikos’s lands were a thousand miles away.  She had never even seen them.  “What’s this?”  She lifted the sheet of fine linen paper from the sideboard, rubbing at a patch of gooseberry jam that had leaked onto one corner.

Alzadin said something.

“Alzadin found it at the pastry shop,” Merolliay explained.

The paper had been block-printed in black, blue, and red, and bore the Imperial sigil, a fire-breathing horse with the sun and moon under his feet.  Some sort of proclamation took up most of the page.  Lida squinted and tried to figure out what it said, but both language and script were too ornamental for her to make much progress.  After a moment she glanced up and saw Saulius watching, eager to help but unwilling to anger her by drawing attention to her poor reading skills.

She felt angry anyway but swallowed it down and took the paper over to Saulius on the couch.  Andraikos had tried to make her learn to read, but unlike swordsmanship, she hadn’t seen the use and had not been able to force herself to acquire the skill.  In the Imperial City though, all except the poorest of the poor could read.

Saulius took the paper with a flourish and sat up.  He attended the Imperial University on a scholarship before becoming a swordsman-for-hire, but had to drop out after only one year, apparently because he drank too much and never studied.

“Ahem. ‘Let it be known that as the twentieth year of his most glorious reign approaches, the Divine Emperor Valtseharu Tahevas the Fifteenth, Incarnate Avatar of the Lord of Heaven, High Priest and Intercessor, Savior and Defender of Mankind–‘” Lida glanced over to see whether Saulius’s recitation of the Emperor’s titles and attributes was having any effect on Merolliay, whose people rejected all divinity including the Emperor’s.  But if Merolliay was aggravated he was not letting it show.  “–et cetera, et cetera . . . ‘let it be known that the Divine Emperor, may he live forever, has chosen to swell the ranks of those permitted to serve him in the Imperial Guard, to bask in his holy radiance and the light of his countenance.’ Et cetera.  ‘Therefore, anyone who wishes to serve in this way shall wait without the East watch Gate of the Imperial Compound before sunrise on the last day of the tenth month of this, the nineteenth year in the reign of the Emperor Valtseharu Tahevas.'”  The tenth month in the Imperial Calendar ended three days after the fall equinox; today was the thirteenth day of the tenth month.

Merolliay had set his book face-down on his lap, and Alzadin was looking up from his sword even though he must have read the broadsheet himself back in the pastry shop.

“What does that mean?” Lida asked.  “Anyone who wants to join the Imperial Guard can just join?”  Imperial Guardsmen were selected from the ranks of the City Guard and from the officer corps of the Imperial Army.  They underwent rigorous screening to establish their loyalty. And despite the official policy that all positions and professions were open to men from anywhere within the Empire, most guardsmen were of the Emperor’s own people, the Nemesde.

“No,” Saulius said.  “There’s more.  Listen.  ‘There shall be twenty places made available, one for each of the Emperor’s twenty years.'”  Twenty years on the throne obviously; today was the Emperor’s thirty-eighth birthday.  “‘Entrants shall be matched one against another and shall compete with the weapons of their choice to first blood.  At the conclusion of each round the victors shall be matched with other victors, and this process shall continue until forty contestants remain.  Each pair will then engage in one ultimate match, this time to the death.  The twenty champions shall receive lifetime membership in the Guild of Swordsmen, and their membership dues shall be waived.  They shall enter into the service of the Emperor as honored members of the Imperial Guard with all the responsibilities and privileges thereunto.'”

Saulius held the paper back out to Lida.  But she didn’t take it.

“That doesn’t make sense,” she said.  “How do they know the new Guardsmen will be loyal?  What if someone who hates the Emperor gets into the Guard just so he can try to assassinate him?”

A wide grin split Saulius’s face.  “Why?  Are you thinking of trying?”

“No!”  Lida snatched the paper back and crumpled it in her hand.  She did hate the Emperor for invading her homeland and destroying her village but not enough to do anything so clearly suicidal.  “Anyway, I couldn’t try out for the Guard even if I wanted to.  I’m a swordswoman, not a swords-man.”  As the Guild of Swordsmen made clear each time she petitioned for membership.

Alzadin spoke.

Merolliay seemed surprised at first, then nodded slowly.  “Interesting.  Alzadin points out that the proclamation never once specifies that the entrants must be men.”

Saulius chuckled.  “Maybe the Emperor is specifically trying to recruit you, Lida.”

Lida frowned.  No one tried to recruit swordswomen.  Lida, Merolliay, Alzadin, and Saulius had to convince each potential client that Lida was as capable as a man at whatever job they were being considered for:  guarding a noble family traveling between cities, maintaining order during a wedding or other festival, or perhaps fighting other swordsmen for the entertainment of wealthy patrons.  Sometimes Lida wished she was a man.  It would have made her life much easier.

“If I know anything about the Emperor,” Merolliay said, “this isn’t about adding twenty new Guardsmen.”

Merolliay had not only been inside the palace, but spoken with the Emperor face-to-face.  It was easy to forget who Merolliay was: the Lion of the West, the exiled ancestral leader of a hundred tiny kingdoms now under Imperial occupation.

“Then what is it about?” Saulius asked.

Merolliay shrugged but Alzadin said something from his chair at the table.  Merolliay raised an eyebrow, thought for a moment, then nodded.  “Alzadin makes a good point.  Imperial Guardsmen currently are not members of the Guild of Swordsmen.”  He seemed troubled.  “There are rumors that the Guild has been pushing for all Imperial Guardsmen, Palace Guardsmen and City Watchmen to be required to join.”

“So?” Lida asked.  “What’s wrong with that?  All three of you are Guild members.  I would be a Guild member, if they’d let me in.  The Three Gallant Rogues is registered with the Guild.”

Their company paid a tenth of their earnings to the Guild as dues, above and beyond what Merolliay, Saulius, and Alzadin each paid as individual members.  Lida knew that Merolliay resented the portion of dues that went to support the Guild shrine and the temples of their patron deity, but he seemed to accept it as a necessary evil.

Merolliay frowned.  “Not everyone needs to be in a Guild.”

***

Outside, men in identical rough gray tunics and leggings were lifting the assassin’s body into an ox-drawn wagon of unplaned wooden boards.  The sides of the wagon were high enough that Lida could not see the contents as she passed by, but the rising stench suggested that the assassin’s was not the only corpse.  One of the men in gray watched Lida and the others as they started off down the street coming out of a house from which a body had been thrown, but he didn’t say anything.  None of the corpse gatherers were armed, and Lida had never seen City Watchmen in this district.

“I should give the corpse gatherers Helena Dareshna’s address so they know where to return the body,” Lida said.  Alzadin chuckled, Merolliay didn’t react, and Saulius just looked uncomfortable.  He did not like it when they made jokes about killing people.  In fact, Lida wasn’t sure Saulius had ever killed anyone.

It was one of the last few days between summer when the paving stones were hot enough to burn your feet, and winter when the wind was cold enough to freeze your skin before you walked to the next corner.  Lida found it too warm for her long-sleeved woolen doublet, which she started carrying rolled up under one arm before too long, but not so hot that she secretly wished she were wearing women’s skirts instead of a man’s shirt, breeches, and knee-high boots.  In truth, her clothes were not really cut for men despite their appearance.  Saulius’s tailor, when Saulius introduced them almost two years ago, had been thrilled by the challenge of designing clothing in a masculine style but cut for a woman’s figure.  Lida was thrilled to have functional clothes that fit properly.

The district they lived in was far from the heart of the Imperial City and carriages-for-hire were impossible to find.  They had to walk about two miles to a sufficiently well-traveled crossroads.  The price to hire a carriage today was even more outrageous than usual since everyone in the City wanted to participate in the Emperor’s birthday festivities. But it took half the day to get anywhere interesting on foot.  In many ways, the Imperial City was not a true city at all so much as ten thousand villages loosely clustered on the steppes.

The carriage let them out in the Kavanian District where Saulius had grown up.  Of the four of them, he was the only one born in the Imperial City.  His great-grandparents had been brought here as part of the Imperial policy of forced resettlement, but there weren’t many Kavanians still living in the Imperial City who remembered their homeland.  As a consequence, their celebration of the Emperor’s birthday was much more enthusiastic than in districts inhabited by more recent exiles.

“Saulius!”  Almost as soon as their feet touched the ground, an old woman passing by had recognized Saulius and hauled him down to her level to be kissed on both cheeks and exclaimed over in Kavanian.  Lida didn’t understand much of it and she didn’t think Alzadin did either, but of course Merolliay listened along, smiling every now and then.  Lida had not yet encountered a language that Merolliay did not understand.

Some sentiments didn’t require words.  At one point the woman turned to Lida, looked her up and down as if she were a goat at the market, and sniffed disapprovingly before speaking again.  Lida crossed her arms and scowled.  Men were condescending enough about her choice to live the life of a swordsman, but the contempt she earned from other women was in a different realm entirely.

And this was just fine, as far as Lida was concerned. Put the old Kavanian woman on a dark street with four drunken thugs and she’d either be shrieking for the City Watchmen to come rescue her or dead.  Not Lida.  Andraikos had rescued her once, a long time ago, when the Imperial Army destroyed her village. That was the last time she’d had to rely on a man to save her life.

“Who was that?” Merolliay asked, once the old woman was out of earshot.

“My second cousin’s great-aunt,” Saulius said.  Saulius was apparently related to everyone in the Kavanian District and always knew the precise degree of their relationship.

“Wouldn’t that be your grandmother?” Lida asked.

“No, my second cousin’s great-aunt by marriage,” Saulius said.  “Zuvius!”  He waved to a tall young man on the other side of the street, who waved back once he’d caught sight of Saulius, and started to make his way over.  “Zuvius is my cousin Vesnia’s brother-in-law,” Saulius explained.

Lida tried to exchange exasperated glances with Merolliay, but he didn’t appear to notice.  She knew better than to look to Alzadin for support; she’d seen him with people from his own homeland.  Right now he was beaming, as if they’d come to the Kavanian District not to drink and watch the festivities but to become reacquainted with all Saulius’s distant relatives.

There was a settlement of Thousand Lakes folk on the outskirts of the Imperial City, but Lida never went there anymore.  It was too depressing and there wasn’t anyone from her own village–it was possible that everyone else from her own village was dead. No one trusted her.

“Saulius!”  Zuvius exclaimed upon reaching them.  “How goes it?”  He was tall, blond, and blue-eyed, like almost all Kavanians, but wore his hair longer, tied at the back of his neck instead of in a short, stylish cut like Saulius’s.  He looked a lot like Saulius though, and eyed Lida with the same sort of friendly lust.  “Here we have the Four Gallant Rogues, no?”  Unlike Saulius, he spoke Nemesde with a noticeable accent and excessively formal phrasing as if he had learned it in school but didn’t speak it often.

“It’s the Three Gallant Rogues, actually,” Saulius said.

“But you are four!” Zuvius protested, gesturing at Lida.

“Yes,” Saulius said, “but once your company of swordsmen is registered with the Guild, it’s an enormous hassle to change the name.”

“Oh, Guilds!” Zuvius said.  “Such trouble.  Senli Ozius has to join the Distillers of Spirits Guild. Did you hear?”

“What’s this?” Merolliay asked, suddenly interested.

Saulius and Zuvius exchanged glances.  “I hadn’t heard,” Saulius said.  “Senli–or Grandpa–Ozius makes the best Kavanian fruit brandy.  But he doesn’t make very much of it, maybe only three or four gallons each month.  After seeing the shed he uses, I’m surprised he even manages to make that much without burning the entire block down.”

“Yes,” Zuvius said, “and the Guild is saying he must clean up the shed.  Drive away the rats and such.”

“No rats!” Saulius exclaimed.  “I’ll wager that the occasional dead rat in the brew is what makes the brandy taste so good.”  He and Zuvius both laughed uproariously.

“It doesn’t sound as if this gentleman can afford Guild membership,” Merolliay said.  Lida wondered why Merolliay was so concerned.

Zuvius looked vaguely embarrassed.  “Well, no, it is not possible.  We are all paying the dues for him, some concerned friends and neighbors.”

“Ha!” Saulius said.  “Concerned most of all about the potential loss of fruit brandy.  Here-”  He rummaged inside an inner pocket of his jacket, surfacing with several copper coins.  “Let me show my own concern.”

Zuvius grinned.  “Many thanks.  I will be sure that a small bottle is held aside for you.”

Down the street some distance, past a clot of jostling merrymakers, an explosion like a tiny thunderclap sounded followed in quick succession by three more.  Lida had her sword partway out of its sheath before she realized that they were only firecrackers, not cannon or musket fire.

The crowds in the street, few if any of whom had been born when the Empire invaded their homeland, sent up a cheer and began chanting in Kavanian.  Merolliay made a sour expression.

“What are they saying?” Lida asked him.

“‘Long live the Emperor, man and god, god and man,'” Merolliay said.

Lida wondered why Merolliay had agreed to come if reference to the Emperor’s divinity was going to bother him so much.  What did he expect at the Emperor’s birthday celebrations?

Zuvius, who must have overheard Merolliay, said, “Who knows if the Emperor is divine?”  He had to raise his voice to be heard above the approaching crowd.  A parade seemed to be making its way towards them, and the cheers and whistles were growing louder.  “We have many gods, and why should they mind if we add one more?  If a man might be god, maybe it is not safe to demand proof before worshipping.”

Saulius gave Zuvius a friendly punch in the shoulder.  “Three tasks are undertaken only by fools!” he shouted over the excited shouts of the people around them.  “To walk between a bear and her cubs, to carry a burning torch into the Imperial Gunpowder Magazines, and to argue philosophy with a Libanian.”

Another rapid series of bangs, each punctuated by a shout from the crowd and a cloud of smoke, made further discussion impossible.  Lida caught a glimpse of the two men at the head of the procession turning the corner onto their street pulling a small cart.  One of the men marching alongside the cart reached in for some object that he handed off to another.  People were in the way, all pushing to see, and even though Lida was unusually tall for a woman, she could only see a bit of what was going on here and there past the heads and shoulders of everyone between her and the middle of the road.

With a hiss and a crackle, the object from the cart sped down the street ahead of the procession, paper streamers unfolding in a burst of wind just before it exploded.  Lida tried not to cringe at the noise.  She did see the fully-unfolded paper around the firecracker before it blew apart. If one squinted hard and had a vivid imagination, it bore a vague resemblance to the Imperial fire-breathing horse sigil.

***

Zuvius left them soon after the parade had passed by.  From that point on the afternoon passed in a blur of drinking, snacking on street food, and being accosted by Saulius’s relatives, friends, and ex-girlfriends.  Towards evening, Saulius and Alzadin left to attend the Swordsmen’s Guild feast in honor of the Emperor’s birthday, leaving Lida alone with Merolliay.

Alone, that is, in a cellar tavern full of strange Kavanian men, a dish of cabbage parcels stuffed with seasoned minced pork on the flimsy table between the two of them.  Most of the other men were laborers; their holiday finery faded and mended, dirt under their nails and in the creases of their hands and faces.  Lida wondered if her father looked like that.  He had gone away when she was a young girl, gone to work in the coal mines or the kerosene factories, and they never saw him again.

There was no lamp on their table, only a couple of squat smoky tallow candles.  Lida watched Merolliay in the dim light, watched it reflect off the angular planes of his face and short neatly-trimmed beard. She watched him lick the juice from the cabbage parcels off his fingers.  She had drunk too much to worry that he would notice her staring at him.  He was like Andraikos sometimes, quiet and thoughtful, as if considering some great mystery that he believed only he could understand.  But I might understand, if you only told me, Lida used to think then and thought now.

“Liban!”  The word was a drunken slur, harsh and angry.  Lida and Merolliay looked up together and saw the speaker looming over their table, swaying back and forth.  He was not someone Saulius had introduced them to.  In fact, as Lida glanced around the smoky dimly-lit room, she realized that no one left in the tavern had seen them with Saulius.  No one except the tavern keeper and his three assistants.

“Yes?”  Merolliay’s dark eyes were wary.  Out of long habit, Lida shifted her leg to check that the knife inside her boot was ready to be drawn, keeping her hands above the table so as not to alarm the tall Kavanian leaning over them.

“You!” the man said.  At a table behind him, three other men, just as tall, were getting up.  “No want you.  Here.”

Merolliay answered him in Kavanian.

The other man slammed both palms on their table.  The dishes rattled.  One of the candles fell over and spluttered out.  The man answered Merolliay in a rapid-fire onslaught of which Lida understood one word in five, and they were all obscenities.

The man’s three companions were closing in.  None of them carried swords, but one had a knife out in his hand.

The tavern keeper called out at the men urgently.  Lida heard Saulius’s name but understood little else.  Their assailants acted as if they hadn’t heard.

The table upended itself into the drunken Kavanian, all Merolliay’s weight behind it.  As he released the table Merolliay drew his sword.

Lida needed no encouragement.  Her sword was out only a moment after Merolliay’s.  Teeth bared, she sprang after the drunken Kavanian who had started the fight and slashed her blade down the side of his face, shearing away the flesh.  He hollered in pain and reached blindly for her.  She struck away his hand with her sword then drove the point into his throat.

She turned.  The three other men all had knives out.  One was down on the floor, but Merolliay was bleeding from a gash across his upper arm.  Not his sword arm, but the sight still enraged Lida, and she flew at the men with both sword and dagger, slashing at face and chest.  The day’s drinking had made her clumsy but it didn’t matter.  Neither of the men had ever faced anything more serious than a tavern brawl, and they couldn’t even scratch her.  Thousand Lakes men were famous for their skill as swordsmen.  Lida might not be a man, but she’d had four older brothers to spar with, and then Andraikos had forced her to practice for hours each day until the sword felt like an extension of her arm, until she could block and parry without having to think.

Lida yanked her sword out of the chest of the fourth downed man and slashed his throat open.  She stepped back breathing hard and looked around for further threats.  Everyone in the room was watching her and Merolliay with hostility, even the tavern keeper who’d tried to stop the fight.  But no one else carried a sword.

Out on the street, it was almost dark.  Hardly anyone was around.  A couple of boys, around the age Lida had been when her father left, watched them from the entrance to a tall, grimy house of apartments.  A stray dog at the end of the street sat down on its haunches to watch them wipe the blood from their swords.

“Your arm’s bleeding,” Lida pointed out.

“Mm hm.”  Merolliay poked at it with one finger and winced.

“I hope they weren’t too closely related to Saulius.”

Merolliay replied with a humorless grin.

“Do you know where we are?”

Merolliay looked up and down the street.  “No idea.”

The Kavanian District wasn’t as friendly when they weren’t with Saulius.  No one was as hostile as the men in the tavern, but even when they saw young men to whom Saulius had introduced them earlier that day, they were ignored.  From a distance across a street, Lida thought she saw Zuvius. But if it was him he turned his back after catching one glimpse of them.

Eventually, after a long succession of wrong turns and backtracking, Merolliay and Lida found their way to the District’s central plaza where their carriage had originally dropped them off.  Lida saw a doctor’s sign hung over an open door, light spilling out onto the street. When she pointed out the cup and flame symbols of the Healers’ Guild to Merolliay, he agreed to go in.

The doctor cleaned and stitched Merolliay’s arm.  He had no laudanum, only the clear, distilled grain alcohol he used for sterilizing the wound and his needles and thread.  Merolliay drank three tiny glasses of it but still clutched the smooth wooden stick the doctor gave him so hard that Lida thought his knuckles would crack.  The doctor, while not unfriendly to them, muttered to himself in Kavanian the entire time.  Lida heard Saulius’s name but didn’t understand what was being said, though she noticed that it brought a smile to Merolliay’s face.

“What was the doctor saying?” she asked, once they were in a carriage headed for home.

Merolliay’s head lolled against the wall of the carriage, and at first Lida thought he hadn’t heard her.  Then he laughed as if sharing a joke with an invisible friend.

“What?” she said.

“You don’t want to know,” he said, eyes half-closed.  “It might embarrass you.”

“Why?” Lida had the uncomfortable feeling that Merolliay was teasing her, and she didn’t know if she could stand it.

He laughed again, shading his eyes with the back of his hand even though the only light came from a candle in the wall behind a pierced metal screen.  The driver was on his seat in front, and the two of them were enclosed in the passenger box where he couldn’t see them.

“Do you know that Saulius is in love with you?” Merolliay asked.

Nothing he said could have shocked Lida more.

“He’s not,” she said.  Then, “How do you know?  Is that what the doctor was saying?”

“I already knew.”

Saulius might be older than her, but he knew nothing.  He was an innocent boy playing at being a swordsman.  He hadn’t seen his mother face-down on the ground, blood all around, maybe she was dead and maybe not, but you didn’t wait to find out–

And you didn’t think about things like that.  Lida made the memory go away.  “Saulius is in love with all women.”

“Not like this.”

“I’m not in love with him.”  It had never occurred to her to think of Saulius in that way.  In fact, the more he flirted with her, the less seriously she could take him.

“No,” Merolliay said.  “Of course you aren’t.”

She wanted to say, Because I’m in love with you, but she didn’t.  Maybe he already knew.  He was the same age Andraikos had been when he rescued her from the Imperial Army.

Merolliay didn’t love her any more than Andraikos had.  Not the way she wanted him to.  But they were both men.  Lida wasn’t the prettiest girl in the Imperial City, but she wasn’t the ugliest either.

They had to pay the coachman double to get him to drive them all the way home, knowing that he had no chance of picking up a passenger past the crossroads.  Lida considered threatening him with her sword, but that was the sort of thing that could get the Three Gallant Rogues thrown out of the Guild of Swordsmen.

She supposed that killing unarmed men in a tavern brawl might also meet with their disapproval.  But it wouldn’t be the first time in the Imperial City that a drunken fight between members of different ethnic groups ended with one or more combatants dead.  And on the rare occasion that such a case went to court, the magistrates almost always decided in favor of whichever party was on unfriendly ground assuming that they would have been outnumbered.  Official Imperial policy promoted the vision that they were all citizens of the glorious Nemesde Empire and that citizens should be able to move safely across all ethnic enclaves in the Imperial City.

Merolliay was less steady on his feet than Lida had ever seen him, but he made it into the house without having to lean on her.  In the pitch-dark entryway, which led either to the large two-storey apartment that Merolliay shared with Saulius and Alzadin, or to Lida’s rooms on the third floor, Lida listened to him fumble with the lock for a long time before reaching to help.  Her hand touched his and she felt a spark of static jump through her entire body from fingertips to toes.  He didn’t draw his hand away.

Inside the large common room, Lida found the covered bowl of glowing coals on the hearth by feel. She opened it and used the coals to light one of the candles they kept on the mantelpiece.  In the warm flickering light she saw Merolliay standing halfway between her and the door that led up the stairs to his bedroom, watching her.

She took a step towards him.  He didn’t move away or turn his back on her.

She tried to think of something to say, but her tongue felt swollen and useless after all the beer and liquor she’d drunk.  Merolliay was the university-schooled son of a noble house.  He was the one who knew how to use words, not her.  She was just a village girl who could barely read.  She pretended to be experienced in the ways of the world, but she’d never had a lover.  She and Andraikos used to share their blankets for warmth and sometimes he would kiss her when he’d drunk too much and even touch her breasts under her shirt. But every time he would turn away before he could, as he put it, “take advantage of her.”

Merolliay took a step towards his room, but backwards, so he was still facing Lida as he moved away.  She followed with two steps of her own.  Another backwards step and she followed.  She felt like a fish on a line being hauled out of a lake, hand-over-hand.

He stumbled over his feet into the door when he reached it, clutching at the wall to keep himself upright.  By then Lida had closed the distance between them.

Merolliay’s hand darted out and caught a fistful of her shirt, hauling her against him.  His back was pressed into the lintel of the door.  Lida gasped at the delicious feel of his hard lean body against hers, his fingers digging into her buttocks to grind her hips against him.  His other hand released her shirt and slid behind her head, taking her hair in a painful grip and pulling her mouth down to his.  She was taller by almost the width of her hand.

His kiss was fiercer than anything she’d shared with Andraikos. It was like he was trying to devour her soul through her mouth, whether he believed in souls or not.  Lida tried to respond, tried to remember the way Andraikos had kissed her, but it didn’t seem to matte, because she wasn’t sharing a kiss, she was being kissed.  It still felt good mostly, but as it went on she started to feel a rising sense of panic.  She might be taller, but Merolliay was physically stronger, and she was at his mercy.

She tried to pull away, but it was as if he didn’t even notice.  He drew his tongue down the side of her neck, and she shuddered at the sudden rush of heat between her legs, and shuddered again when his teeth bit hard into the skin over her collarbone.  His hand had torn her shirt out of her breeches, and he slipped his fingers up inside, up her back, gently at first, and then his fingers turned into claws, his nails raking down her back in long scratches.

She wasn’t sure if she pulled away or he pushed her away, but suddenly she was free of the iron grip that held her.  They were still close enough to touch without reaching and his breathing was as shallow as hers.  She could see how aroused he was.  But he didn’t reach for her.

His dark eyes went from her chest to her hips and crotch and back again.  The top three buttons of her shirt had come undone, and one of them had fallen on the floor between them.  He noticed the button on the floor and met her eyes with his.

“Are you coming upstairs with me?” he asked.

Lida didn’t answer.  She couldn’t form the words.  But when Merolliay went through the door and started up the stairs, she followed him. Her heart was pounding like it did the last few seconds before a duel.

It was painful, which she had heard it would be, and awkward, which she hadn’t.  She wasn’t afraid of pain, though, and few things in her life had ever not been awkward.  In the moments after they finished she thought she had never been more content lying close enough to Merolliay to feel the heart beating in his chest, feeling the whisper of his breath against her cheek.

When he pulled away from her, she reached out a hand to try and touch his sleek dark hair, but he shook his head and pushed her hand back.  His expression was grim, and he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Merolliay?” she said.  “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head, still not looking at her, and lay down again on his back, far enough away that they weren’t touching.

“This was a mistake,” he said.  “It can’t happen again.”

Just at that moment, as Lida was searching for what she could possibly say in response, loud thumping footsteps sounded on the stairs–footsteps she recognized–and a few seconds later Merolliay’s bedroom door was flung open by a laughing Saulius and Alzadin, arms around each other’s shoulders.  But not before Merolliay put an exasperated hand over his eyes, muttering, “Oh, for the love of Liban!”

“Mero–” Saulius exclaimed, before noticing that Merolliay was not alone, and then noticing who was with him.  “Oh,” he said.  The disappointment in his voice would have been evident even without what Merolliay had said earlier.

It occurred to Lida that if this had been a theatrical farce, the audience would have been falling out of their seats.  But it wasn’t funny as one of the players having to see the hurt that Saulius was failing to hide, Merolliay lying next to her in the bed but not even wanting her to touch him, Alzadin eyeing Saulius to see if he could extricate himself from Saulius’s arm and escape this awkward situation without Saulius toppling over.

Alzadin said something and started nudging Saulius, attempting to tug him back out onto the landing.  But Saulius seemed rooted to the spot.

Merolliay, who still had his hand over his face, shook his head and groaned.

That was enough for Lida.  She shrugged back into her shirt and started buttoning it.  “We can all leave,” she announced.  “I seem to have done whatever I was needed for.”

She thought Merolliay’s mouth twisted in a slight grimace, but she might have been imagining it, wishing desperately for him to show some reaction, any reaction at all.

Unfortunately, her dramatic exit wasn’t as dramatic as she would have liked because her breeches and smallclothes were hopelessly twisted around one ankle. And she must have been more drunk than she realized because it took her several false starts to get them back on properly.  Then she looked down and realized that she had only fastened about half of the buttons on her shirt and all of them into the wrong buttonholes.  As the final glory, Saulius and Alzadin had apparently taken her announcement that she also intended to leave as an instruction for them to stay until she was ready to go.  Or else they just didn’t want to miss the opportunity to watch her dress and were willing to cling to the flimsiest possible excuse.

She left her boots because they were a nuisance to put on at the best of times, and she didn’t want to risk further embarrassment by dropping them.  She did stoop to gather her sword and sword belt from the floor next to Merolliay’s bed.

Saulius and Alzadin still hadn’t moved out of the doorway when she got there.  She glared up at Saulius.

“Do I have to stab you again?”

He just stared at her, struck dumb, until Alzadin thrust an elbow in his ribs and the two of them flattened themselves back against the edge of the door and the wall of the landing outside to let her by.

Thanks be to the Three, and the god Konendas, and yes, even to the Emperor himself, Lida did not trip and fall down the stairs but made it to the bottom and out into the common room with the last scant shreds of her dignity intact.

Both windows were closed and locked when she got up to her own room.  She thought for a couple of seconds, then threw them both open before tumbling into her bed despite the chill in the breeze that threatened frost.

She hoped Helena Dareshna would send another assassin before sunrise.  She desperately wanted to kill someone.

***

The conspirators were all upstairs, six of them, in a small stuffy room smelling of sweat, dry rot, and kerosene.  Three blazing lanterns provided plenty of light.  Merolliay hoped that the gap under the creaking door was letting in enough fresh air to keep everyone from passing out.

“Took you long enough!” Filipe growled in Libanian from one end of a dusty couch.  “What’d you do, stick it in every tavern girl from Kulkarni District to here?”

Merolliay gave him a tight smile and sat down in the seat they left for him on the other end of the couch.  He took the wine they’d poured for him too:  a well-aged Ortellay from the steep slopes north of Liban.  Refusing to drink anything except Libanian wine at their meetings was a point of pride for these men.

“Enough of that, Filipe,” Sharolen said.  “We’re here for a reason.”  He took a sheet of paper from the satchel at his feet and laid it on the low table that they were all using for their drinks.  “You’re a swordsman,” he said, addressing Merolliay.  “No doubt you’ve seen or heard of this.”

Merolliay stared, recognizing a copy of the same broadsheet Alzadin had brought back from the pastry shop yesterday morning.  The one advertising a chance to try for a place in the Imperial Guard.

“He’s speechless,” Filipe said.  “Which means either he has seen it, or he hasn’t.  Hard to tell with our Merolliay here.”

“I’ve seen it,” Merolliay said.

“Well?” said Sharolen.

“Well, what?” Merolliay retorted.

Sharolen, angered, opened his mouth to speak but Filipe cut him off.  “You know what, Mero.  Your Guild.  Twenty new swordsmen for the Imperial Guard and the Guild of Swordsmen grants Guild membership to each one.  What if some don’t want Guild membership?”

Merolliay set his wineglass on the table, surprised to hear his own concerns hinted at by these men.  “I assume those swordsmen won’t enter the contest.  Since the contest rules are clear about Guild membership being one of the prizes.”

“So anyone who doesn’t want to be in a Guild better not try to get into the Imperial Guard through this contest, is that it?”  Filipe used a fork to sharply stab a chunk of sweating cheese on the tray between them as if the cheese were responsible for the contest rules.  “How long before Guild membership is a ‘prize’ no matter how they qualify for the Imperial Guard?  How long before the only thing you can do without joining a Guild is work in a factory or a mine?”  Filipe was the only man in the room who had not joined a Guild; but there was no Guild of University Professors for him to join.  Not yet.

Tierry shifted on his perch on the high three-legged stool across from them.  “I have heard from multiple sources that the Guild of Yogurt-Sellers has been harassing independent vendors who can’t afford membership dues.”

That might explain the sudden absence of the stooped little Kulkarni man from whom Lida used to buy yogurt at the edge of the park near their house.  “I have heard similar stories about the Distillers’ Guild,” Merolliay admitted, remembering what Zuvius in the Kavanian District had told them about the old man and his fruit brandy.

“They don’t allow women in the Guilds either,” Filipe said, “so even if some widow with a goat wants to sell extra yogurt to her neighbors and can afford to join, they won’t let her.”

“It’s a problem,” Sharolen said, “and not only for Libanians who don’t want their dues money going to fund pagan temples.”  He glanced at Filipe.  “It’s a problem for all ordinary men and women living in the City.  They’re being forced out of their professions into factories and other menial jobs.  Long hours, low wages, and no chance for a better life.”

Merolliay shook his head.   Filipe taught Engineering at the Imperial University but none of these other men ever left the Libanian District except to attend these secret meetings, shop for cloth and spices, or participate in political rallies.  They were drunk on the fantasy that all subject people of the Empire suffered in bondage, waiting for the purity of Libanian atheism and the Libanian message of the equality of all men to liberate them.  He’d have liked to see his countrymen try to start an anti-Imperial political rally among the oppressed Kavanian factory workers from last night.

“I’m not trying to argue that it isn’t a problem,” Merolliay said.  “But I’m not sure what you want me to do about it.”

The other six men exchanged glances as if they couldn’t agree on whose responsibility it was to answer him.  Eventually, Sharolen spoke up.  “Our thought is that the contest might be an excellent opportunity for you to introduce a person whom you can look upon as an ally into the Imperial Palace.”

Merolliay stared at him.  “How, exactly, am I to ‘introduce a person’ into the Imperial Palace?  I assume you read the part about it being a contest of arms.”  He didn’t understand what Sharolen’s suggestion had to do with people being forced out of their professions due to tighter Guild control.

“We realize that the candidate would have to earn a position in the Imperial Guard by his or her own skill,” Sharolen said.

Merolliay froze.  Oh, no, he thought.  Absolutely not.

“However,” Sharolen continued, “you might have a colleague who trusts your advice and who you think might be useful to you.  If they could be stationed inside the palace.”

“‘Useful to me,'” Merolliay repeated.

“A colleague who would be willing to take an oath of allegiance to the Emperor, of course,” Sharolen continued unfazed.

“But remain loyal to me,” Merolliay said.  “Someone who’s willing to swear falsely.”

Sharolen glowered at him.  Filipe chuckled.

“Yes,” Filipe said, “and if that colleague happened to be a woman, to set a precedent that women should be permitted to join the Guilds–”

“I know what he’s digging for,” Merolliay said, “and the answer is no.”  If they thought Lida was willing to swear a false oath, they were fools.  Not that that was his only consideration here.

“Surely you have some influence with Lida Dareshna,” Sharolen said.

Possibly not after last night.  “I have no intention,” Merolliay said, “of attempting to convince Lady Dareshna to compete for a place in the Imperial Guard.  My friends are not game pieces in your misguided plot to overthrow the Emperor.”  Nor am I, he wanted to say, angered by their latest attempt to manipulate him with their speeches about the plight of the working class.  Perhaps it would have angered him less had any of these men actually belonged to the working class.

“Shove it up your ass, Mero!” Filipe retorted.  “Along with that stick you’ve already got shoved up there.  You have a responsibility to your own people.”

Who are my people? Merolliay wondered.  There was no one in this room whose company he preferred to that of Alzadin, Saulius, or even Lida.  No one he trusted to watch his back in a treacherous situation.

Filipe wasn’t finished.  “This is going to spread throughout the Empire, these Guilds taking over everything.  It’ll come to that even back home in Liban.  You don’t get a choice about using people as game pieces, Mero, Lion of the West.  All the western kingdoms that the Nemesde Empire has tried to subjugate look to you to give them hope and all you want to do is hide out in the ass-end of the city and play at being a hired sword.”

Merolliay thought of the Kavanian District, of the man in the cellar tavern.  “Burn in hell, Libanian!” he had spat across the table.  “All you godless atheists, I hope your city falls into the sea.”  Merolliay didn’t think that westerner had been looking to him for hope.

He stood up.  “Don’t complain to me about the Guilds taking over everything and then try to ride on the coattails of their latest scheme.”  He still wasn’t entirely convinced that the contest was a Guild scheme, but these men all seemed to believe it was.  He locked eyes with each of them in turn:  with Tierry, a member of the powerful Silk Weavers’ Guild.  With Sharolen of the Founders’ Guild, owner of a foundry that supplied cannon bodies to an Imperial Army he professed to hate.  With Remy, Vierre, and Zhiell, all of artisan guilds that allowed them to practice the trades of their fathers and earn enough to live comfortably and send their children to the Imperial University.  Even Filipe, who had never had to choose whether to pay dues that might be used to fund superstitions, or give up his profession and take menial employment.

“Lion of the West,” Merolliay said, his voice venomous with scorn.  “We all know what that title is worth.  I remember you and my father, Filipe, laughing at the latest ambassador come begging my family to lead them against the Emperor.”  Perhaps if they’d taken those appeals as seriously as the Empire had, Merolliay’s father would still be alive today. And Merolliay would be in Liban where he belonged instead of an exile in an unfriendly city fifteen hundred miles from home.

“If my title does mean anything, then one thing I do not have is the responsibility to be used as your game piece.  If I’m the Lion of the West, you take orders from me.”

He had expected anger or indignation at his audacity, suggesting that he should have the right to command men older and better-educated based on some half-remembered mythology about his ancestors.  He had not expected the shrewd, appraising look Filipe gave him.

“I probably would take orders from you, Mero, if you gave them,” the older man said.  “Are you the Lion of the West?”

They were all giving him that look now, every one of them.  Men old enough to have brought gifts to his birth celebration.

He backed away, towards the door.

“No,” he said.  “No, I’m not.”

*

Merolliay brooded all the way back to the house, sick with longing for all that had been left behind in Liban.  He wasn’t sure his countrymen even realized all the ways they had been corrupted by the Imperial City.  He knew all the men at that meeting employed paid servants for menial work in their houses, instead of hiring the near-adult children of friends and neighbors to teach them the value of hard work.  Even worse, despite Filipe’s complaint about the exclusion of women from Guilds, Merolliay had yet to see a female face at one of these meetings.  The real meetings, not the university rallies or the lectures in cafes.  Even at those, the women and girls attended primarily to meet young men, rather than taking an active role in planning and organizing.

And now this.  They weren’t Nemesde, to choose leaders based on ancestry instead of ability.  What next, shrines and sacrifices in his honor?

It was in this dark mood that he walked into the foyer of the house, hoping the others had gone out and wishing for the hundredth time that he did not have to pass through the common room to reach his own private room.  Unfortunately, he could hear raised voices beyond the door, the loudest of them female.

Steeling his courage, and hoping he was not the subject of the discussion, Merolliay walked in.

As always, Lida was the focal point.  She was standing in the middle of the room fully dressed from boots to doublet, except for the lack of a sword, her straw-colored hair in its usual pinned-up braids.  He had interrupted her mid-gesture, and the look she turned on him as he entered the room reminded him that he would be regretting what happened last night for a long time to come.

Saulius and Alzadin were side-by-side on the couch, both looking grim.

“What happened?” Merolliay asked.

“Some officers from the Guild of Swordsmen came and took Lida’s sword,” Saulius said, gesturing.

Merolliay frowned.  “Why?”

“Because I’m not a member of the Guild!” Lida said, the rawness in her voice betraying her emotion.  And no wonder; Andraikos Dareshna had given Lida that sword.

“But–” Merolliay started to say, then stopped.  It had never been a problem before for Lida to work as a swordsman–or swordswoman.  But if all the Guilds were starting to harass those who practiced a trade without Guild membership…

“The Guild officers mentioned something about a tavern brawl,” Saulius said.  He frowned.  “I hope you didn’t end up killing my fifth cousin or one of his three sons.”  His tone was deliberately light.

“If your fifth cousin is the man running the place, then no,” Merolliay said.  Saulius relaxed.

“That’s a completely made-up reason!” Lida protested.  “We were the ones on hostile ground.  And I don’t even remember how many men I’ve killed in tavern brawls.  Who cares about three more?”

To spare Saulius from having to argue with Lida about the value of human life, Merolliay said, “The Guild of Swordsmen doesn’t care.  This is about something else.  Lida has been a member of our company for two years, and the Guild of Swordsmen has known about it since the day she joined.  Why are they doing something about it only now?”

“It’s that bitch!” Lida said.  “Andraikos’s wife.  She knows she can’t hire an assassin good enough to kill me so she paid off the Guild to come after me instead.”

“What happened, exactly?” Merolliay asked.

Saulius waved an arm at the door.  “These three men showed up and knocked on the door about an hour ago.  They were all in Guild livery–you know, the black hose with no breeches and the silver-trimmed black doublet that barely covers your ass.”  Merolliay allowed himself a faint smile.  None of the Three Gallant Rogues had ever purchased Guild livery.  “They gave Lida some official-looking document that said it was a violation of Imperial law for anyone ineligible for Guild membership to carry a sword.”

“‘Official-looking document’?”

Saulius shrugged, and gestured over at the roll of parchment on the table.

“It was signed by the Guild of Swordsmen’s First Captain, and the Imperial Minister of Commerce,” Alzadin said, in his own language.

“Signed by the Imperial Minister of Commerce?” Merolliay said, switching to Nemesde so that the others could understand.  “That’s not good.”

“Why is that particularly bad?” Lida demanded.  “Does that mean Helena Dareshna is sleeping with the Minister of Commerce, to get him on her side?”

Merolliay found himself too irritated to answer.  Sometimes Lida seemed to think that every intrigue in the Imperial City revolved around her relationship with Andraikos Dareshna and his estranged wife.

When she saw that he didn’t intend to reply to her question, Lida gave Merolliay a dark look and stalked across the room to his overstuffed chair, which she then flung herself into in a dramatic sprawl..

“How am I going to make a living if I can’t work as a swordsman?  The only thing I know how to do is work as a guard, or fight.”

“If Helena Dareshna is sleeping with the Imperial Minister of Commerce,” Saulius said, grinning, “there’s only one solution.  You’ll have to seduce the Emperor himself.”

Lida shot back an obscene suggestion involving Saulius, the Emperor, and some goats.  Saulius’s grin only broadened.

Lida’s scowl grew darker; but then she looked up, suddenly a shade more hopeful.  “I know what I could do for the Emperor.”

Merolliay froze.  Oh, no, he thought.

Saulius leaned forward.  “Whatever it is,” he said, his voice dropping into a seductive purr, “you should practice on me first.”  He seemed to have recovered from his disappointment over seeing Lida in bed with Merolliay, and was back to the way he usually interacted with her.  Merolliay sometimes wondered if he should warn the young Kavanian that Lida would never take him seriously as a prospective lover as long as he carried on that way.  But he feared that Saulius wouldn’t appreciate such advice any more than he would have at Saulius’s age ten years ago.

Lida was making a disgusted face.  “I still have all my knives, you know.”  She gestured meaningfully at her left boot where they all knew she kept one of those knives every waking moment.  “Anyway, I wasn’t thinking of anything like that.  It’s not something I could practice on you.  You’re not looking for twenty new members for your Imperial Guard.”

It took a moment for Alzadin, then Saulius, to follow where she had gone.  Alzadin merely looked thoughtful.  But Saulius was dismayed.

“You can’t do that!” he protested.

“Why not?” Lida shot back.  “Alzadin said the rules never specify that the entrants have to be men.”  She looked to Alzadin for confirmation, and he nodded.

“See!” Lida crowed.  “If I win a place in the Imperial Guard, they’ll have to let me into the Guild of Swordsmen.  The Emperor said so.”

Merolliay could contain his own dismay no longer.  “It isn’t a good idea.”

“Why not?” she demanded.

One of the things that didn’t make sense about the contest being part of the Guild’s attempt to extend its influence over the Imperial Guard was that the contest actually gave the Guild of Swordsmen less control over its membership.  It was possible that swordsmen who won places in the Guard through the contest were not permitted to decline Guild membership, as Sharolen and Filipe had surmised.  But the rules of the contest seemed to indicate that the Guild also had to extend all the privileges of membership to whomever won.  Even if some of those winners had not been eligible for Guild membership before.  Lida, for instance.

What if the question Filipe and the others should have been asking wasn’t, “What does the Guild of Swordsmen gain from this contest?” but rather, “To what lengths will they go to keep certain people from entering?”

The latest attempt on Lida’s life had come only after the Guild officers and Minister of Commerce would have known about the contest.

Lida was still staring at him, expecting an answer.  Instead of trying to dissuade her with theories he hadn’t had the chance to think through he said, “It’s too dangerous.  Have you forgotten that the contest includes a battle to the death?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lida said.  “Because I’m going to win.”

She might win.  She was a better swordsman than any other member of the Three Gallant Rogues.

“If you do win, you’ll have to take an oath of allegiance to the Emperor,” Merolliay said.

“Maybe I won’t mind doing that.”  Lida’s cheeks were red, as if she had been sitting too close to the fireplace, and her fingers dug into the worn fabric of Merolliay’s chair.  “Maybe I’d be happy swearing my allegiance to someone who actually wants it.”

Merolliay noticed that Saulius and Alzadin were trying hard not to look at the two of them.  He drew in a deep breath, exasperated.  She had other swords, but she didn’t seem to realize that she could be arrested on sight for carrying one in public, now that a Cabinet Minister had signed an order forbidding it.  She might not even be allowed to enter the contest.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said.  “I’m sure there’s plenty of income from Andraikos Dareshna’s estates in the south if you wanted to live off of that.  In fact, if you went there, I doubt anyone would even care–”

—that you carried a sword, was what Merolliay had been about to say.  But Lida was on her feet, blue eyes blazing like the Dog Star.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?  If I went a thousand miles away.”

He had only the briefest moment to realize that the glint in her eyes came from the tears she was trying not to shed.  Then she was gone, fled from the room, the door slammed behind her.

***

By the last day of the tenth month, the weather had changed.  A light dusting of snow had fallen on the streets around their house, reminding Lida of the powdered sugar in a box of her favorite sweets.  Another luxury she’d grown accustomed to living in the Imperial City.  The Thousand Lakes region had snow but very little sugar.

Here, on the plaza facing the Eastwatch Gate, near the river, cold drizzle had fallen instead and still fell intermittently.  Sunrise had come as a gradual thinning of the night’s gloom. It was over before Lida even noticed its approach.  Around her, swordsmen by the hundreds crowded the plaza, singly or in groups of two or three, all eyeing the tall gate to the palace compound and the guard towers on either side.  Some muttered about the gate not having been opened, wondering why they were being kept out in the cold.  Others waited in silence, huddling into hooded cloaks or turning up coat collars against the freezing mist.

Saulius and Alzadin had offered to wait with her, but what kind of guardswoman needed her male friends to accompany her wherever she went?  Every time she thought about it, she could see those worried expressions on their faces, the looks they exchanged when they thought she didn’t see.  It made her angry all over again with a rage that made her face prickle with heat, and her hands itch to throw someone to the ground and kick his teeth in.  If only the gods had made her a man instead of a woman!  Then no one would assume she was frail.  Neither Andraikos nor Merolliay had been able to love her as a woman, except in moments of drunken weakness; what good was it, to be female?

A sudden flash of silver along the river walk jolted Lida out of her brooding.  She froze in place.  Two black- and silver-clad men were stepping purposefully along the river walk.  One of the men who had come to the house to take her sword, and another.

Trying to make the movements look as casual as possible, Lida turned around so that her back faced the Guild officers. She took a few steps farther away from them, putting a few additional swordsmen between her and the river walk.  One of those swordsmen was a good size to hide behind:  well over six feet tall and probably at least three hundred pounds.  He glanced at her curiously as she stepped around him.

“Where is she?” a man’s voice called out.  Lida forced herself not to look.  She took another step away from the edge of the plaza.  From behind her on the river walk, snatches of dialogue reached her ears.  “…Lida Dareshna…” she heard, and “…woman….”  She stared up at the enormous gate, thick slabs of weathered oak cut lengthwise from mature trees, then joined and banded together with iron.  Why wasn’t it opening?

“Hey, Slant-Eyes!”

That was one epithet that couldn’t have been meant for her.  Nemesde didn’t really have slanted eyes either, but some looked as if they did because of the way their eyelids folded.

“Hey!”  It sounded like a child’s voice.  “Hey, give us yer swords, then ye have no pricks!”

Scattered laughter rose throughout the plaza.  Lida turned her head to see what was happening.  Just as she was doing so, the call of a horn rose up from atop one of the two Eastwatch Gate guard towers, followed closely by a second.

The attention of the two Swordsmen’s Guild officers had been distracted by two boys farther down the river walk, both around eleven or twelve years old.  They were westerners, possibly even Libanian, dark-haired with light brown faces.  As Lida watched, one of the boys threw a stone at one of the Swordsmen’s Guild men, then turned and fled with his companion.

The stone hit the shoulder of the man who had taken Lida’s sword–who, although Nemesde, did not, in fact, have the sort of eyelids that the boys had mocked.  The man said something to the nearest guards along the river walk and gestured in the direction the boys had run.

Lida couldn’t hear what they were saying, though, because the gate was swinging out into the plaza. And although the mechanisms were so well-machined as to be almost silent, a cheer had risen from the men all around her, and everyone was moving in a rush towards the entrance.

“Long live the Emperor!” a man hollered, and was answered by a second cheer.  Not everyone joined in, but many did, and as Lida was carried towards the entrance in the tide of contestants who were prepared to fight each other to the death to join the Imperial Guard, she wondered if that first man had meant the words, or just said them for effect.  She wondered if she could say those words and mean them.

#

The Hall of Mirrors showcased the wealth of the Empire.  Its floor was an unbroken expanse of gleaming lapis lazuli tiles fitted seamlessly together, polished until Merolliay could almost see his face reflected back when he looked down.  On either side, the curve of the mirrored walls swept out, reflecting over two hundred courtiers in their jeweled finery, each reflection doubled and redoubled.  The tall silver-backed mirrors were all of glass, an extravagance even now but unheard of a hundred years ago when the Hall was first built, and they reached almost from floor to ceiling.

Saulius had his head tilted back to look at the carved stucco figures ornamenting the vaulted ceiling high overhead, his mouth open slightly.  Alzadin was having better success at not looking like a village rustic, though Merolliay knew he had never been at court, either.

“You’ve been in this room before?” Alzadin asked, in his own language.

Merolliay shook his head.  “The palace complex is enormous.  I’ve heard that there are five separate audience halls.”  The more austere hall in which he had last encountered the Emperor had emphasized the Empire’s military and spiritual might, its only ornamention a geometric pattern of floor tiles and idols of the Emperor’s ancestors.  He preferred this one, despite the extravagance that would have horrified his own practical Libanian ancestors.

“I wasn’t sure I should believe you when you said you could get us admitted to court,” Alzadin said.  “Now that we’re here, I’m starting to wonder how wise this was.”

Neither he nor Saulius had asked any questions when Merolliay offered them the chance to accompany him.  Something about that unnerved Merolliay.  Perhaps because he had spent his life denying that there was anything special about him, only to find that men he considered his equals were ready to follow wherever he led.

“Three gods and the Emperor bless us,” Saulius swore, unexpectedly.  He was staring across the room at a small, dark figure in red silk.  “Is that Helena Dareshna?”

#

One of the hallways down which Lida and the other swordsmen were led was covered in marble from floor to vaulted ceiling, the walls inlaid in graceful floral patterns of jade, jasper, and onyx.  Another hallway had been paneled in mahogany with alcoves for finely-detailed wooden statues of gods, demons and heroes. The alcoves were ornamented by carvings of ivy, climbing rose, and songbirds almost as intricate as the larger figures.  Lida tried not gawk like a village girl.  She knew what the Empire did to maintain its power and wealth but couldn’t help to be impressed.  When he was drunk, Andraikos used to talk of how he wanted to burn the Imperial Palace to the ground. Lida listened to him, never having seen the palace, and agreed.  But now that she was here, to know that he had seen this and still wanted to destroy it … she didn’t know what to think.

She wondered if it would have gone as badly as with Merolliay had Andraikos taken her as his lover.  Would Andraikos have tried to pretend nothing happened, but always find some pretense to avoid being alone with her?  Perhaps it would have deterred him from leaving his estate to her, and she wouldn’t have had to keep fending off assassination attempts from Helena Dareshna.

If nothing else, she would have been better prepared for Merolliay’s callousness had she experienced it from Andraikos first.

#

“Lord DeLyon,” Helena Dareshna greeted Merolliay.  All eyes in the Hall were on the two of them, the Lion of the West, and the most famous beauty in the Nemesde Empire.  “May the Emperor and his divine ancestors grant you a pleasant morning.  I see the Three Gallant Rogues are three again.”

“The Three Gallant Rogues are always three,” Merolliay said.  “Three Rogues and one Lady.”

Helena smiled, showing perfect teeth like tiny white seashells.  “I am afraid I’ll have to disagree with you, if you’re going to call that girl a lady.  Have you taken her to bed yet?”

It was easy to engage in this cruel banter with a woman whose feelings he didn’t care about.  Not so easy to know what to say to Lida.  “No,” Merolliay said.  “The other Lady Dareshna is more particular than some.”

Helena showed no reaction to his use of Lida’s title, the title Helena’s own estranged husband had bequeathed to the Thousand Lakes girl.  She shrugged as if he had commented upon the weather.  “Perhaps about that one thing,” she said.  “But tell me.  How did the three of you escape that house of yours without her tagging along after?”

“Oh,” Merolliay said, “Lida had already gone out for the day.  She had to be outside the Eastwatch Gate before sunrise, you see.”

The smile on Helena’s face froze.  “Indeed.”

Back where he had left them, Saulius and Alzadin were trying not to stare.  Merolliay had never told them–or Lida–that he knew Helena Dareshna by more than sight and reputation.  It had seemed irrelevant when he first met Alzadin and Saulius, a shameful episode of his life best forgotten.  Who needed to know that as a young man newly exiled to the Imperial City he had been befriended by Andraikos Dareshna and seduced by the man’s wife?  He hadn’t mentioned it when Lida came along either, and each time Helena Dareshna hired an assassin to kill her, it became more impossible to say anything.

“Someone doesn’t want her to compete though,” Merolliay said.  “The night before the contest became public knowledge, another hired killer showed up at the house.”

“I didn’t send that one,” Helena said.

Merolliay couldn’t tell whether she was lying.  Not like with Lida, whose every emotion showed on her face before she was even aware of it.

“You knew, though.”

“Not before.”  She shrugged.  “I hear things.”  Her red gown was cut lower than was strictly appropriate for court attire, but Merolliay suspected that the Emperor enjoyed a good view of Helena’s bosom as much as any other man at court did.

“What sorts of things do you hear?”

A servant approached with a tray of refreshments, but Helena waved him off.  Glancing over to where he had left Saulius and Alzadin, Merolliay saw that Saulius already had a drink in each hand and a third balanced in the crook of his elbow, and was considering the assortment of tiny savories being held out to him.

“Rumors,” Helena said.  “Nothing more.”  She eyed him as if this were not entirely true, and she was measuring how much to tell.

“I hear rumors myself,” Merolliay said.  “I’ve heard that Lida winning a place in the Guard might set a precedent for allowing women into the Guilds.  If a woman can join the Guild of Swordsmen, what possible reason is there for excluding her from the Guild of Yogurt-Sellers?”

Helena’s gaze drifted across the room.  At first Merolliay thought she was watching the servants sprinkle sand over the floor within the large, roped-off area where the contests would take place.  Then he realized that she was looking at a heavy-set Nemesde man standing at one of the corners.  The man was watching the two of them more openly than most of the other courtiers were.

“The Guilds are no concern of mine,” Helena said.  “I can’t have my estates returned to me by joining a Guild.”

The estates came from Andraikos’s family, not hers.  And yet by marrying Andraikos Dareshna, Helena had given up any claim on her father’s property.  Once married, a Nemesde noblewoman’s status came from her husband.  Merolliay suspected that gifts from Helena’s many admirers allowed her to live in relative comfort; but when he had known her, she never went out with fewer than a dozen servants.  Today at court, she’d brought only one.

“You’re a woman,” Merolliay said.  “Don’t you feel any kinship with the women being kept out of Guilds on no other basis than the bodies they were born with?”

Helena narrowed her eyes.  She was darker than most Nemesde, favoring her mother’s people from the south more than her Nemesde father’s.  “Such as that northern girl?  The only thing I have in common with her is having bedded my husband.”  Merolliay had come to suspect, since that regrettable incident on the night of the Emperor’s birthday, that Lida and Andraikos Dareshna had not actually had the relationship everyone assumed.  But he couldn’t tell Helena that without letting her know why he suspected.  And he’d dishonored his friend and colleague enough already.

Instead, he said, “You know, Lida once told me that if you’d ever asked her for the estates, rather than trying to have her killed, she’d have given them to you.”

“It’s too late for that now,” Helena said.  She took a step back, away from him, inclining her head in a polite dismissal.  “I didn’t have anything to do with trying to kill her this last time.  But the people who did won’t give up as easily as I have.  She’s earned herself some dangerous enemies by showing up here today after all the times she was warned not to.”

“Perhaps,” Merolliay said.  He drew the folded invitation from his coat pocket, showed her the Emperor’s seal, still recognizable despite having been broken.  “Perhaps she also has some dangerous allies.”

***

The swordsmen were taken to a large dining hall, where a simple but generous breakfast had been set out on long tables.  Lida sat at a corner of one table, hoping no one would try to talk with her.  No one did.  The big man she had tried to hide behind out on the Eastwatch Plaza sat near the other end of the table, and he nodded politely to her once but left her alone.

Lida didn’t see any other women in the room, although she did see representatives of most of the people ruled by the Empire:  yellow-haired northerners, narrow-eyed Nemesde with black hair and golden-brown faces and hands, dark men from the southern deserts, olive-skinned westerners from the mountain kingdoms towards Liban.  Most men appeared to be alone, although those who were seated with apparent friends or acquaintances were as likely to be with companions from other parts of the Empire as from their own.  Just like her and the Three Gallant Rogues.

She didn’t recognize more than a handful of the swordsmen there, and it seemed that few of the Imperial City’s most elite fighters had chosen to enter, which made sense.  The best-known swordsmen–those who were male, at least–had more offers of work than they could accept  Who would want to be an Imperial Guardsman, serving in obscurity for room, board, and a very modest stipend, when one could have wealthy clients fighting over one’s services?

Lida washed down a mouthful of bread, cheese, and ham with black tea.  Why did she want to be an Imperial Guardsman?  Merolliay had been right.  If she left the Imperial City for Andraikos’s estates on the southern coast, no one would care if she carried a sword.  The estates brought in enough income that she wouldn’t have to work for a living unless she wanted to.  She would be far from her friends, but maybe it would be easier now if she were hundreds of miles away from Merolliay. And she didn’t think that she would be free, as a member of the Imperial Guard, to go out drinking very often with Saulius and Alzadin.  So why was she doing this?

She was about to take a bite from the flaky crescent pastry she’d added to her plate, then stopped, holding it halfway between the table and her mouth.  She could see fig jam leaking from the center.  She imagined trying to explain to the village girl she’d been, five or six years ago, how a pastry of white flour and exotic fruit counted as part of a simple breakfast.

She looked up from her breakfast again at men sitting elbow to elbow with those their ancestors would have considered enemies.  The Imperial policy of harmony between its entire subject people didn’t always work, as her experience with Merolliay in the Kavanian District had shown.  And any of these men might have to fight any other to the death.  But they were all here for one purpose as citizens of one Empire.  They ate food from every corner of the Empire carried on roads built by laborers of every race.  Lida remembered a story about two villages in her homeland that had agreed to build a road between them but neither side could agree on where their responsibility ended. So because of this a short stretch in the middle remained impassable.  She had always heard the story retold with pride but now it seemed pitiable.  What had the fabled Thousand Lakes independent spirit accomplished against an Empire of a thousand nations?

What would she be, without the Empire?

#

“From the look on her face when you showed her that document, I thought she’d bitten into a lemon!”  Saulius was already in high spirits.  Merolliay wondered how many drinks he’d consumed in the short time they’d been separated.

“Or else she wanted to distance herself from you as much as possible before we all get arrested,” Alzadin said in his own language.  Merolliay opted not to translate, but Saulius didn’t seem to notice.

In all Merolliay’s theorizing about whose idea the Imperial Guard contest might be and who stood to gain from it, Merolliay had considered various roles and motivations for the officers of the Guild of Swordsmen, the Imperial Commerce Minister, even his fellow Libanians.  But there was one very significant character he had not thought much on at all.  Until the invitation was delivered to their house.

Admission to court for one Merolliay DeLyon, also retainers, it read in elegantly hand-scripted Nemesde.  Upon the last day of the tenth month of this nineteenth year of His Divine Majesty.  No accompanying letter or explanation; nothing except the implication that someone in the palace thought he might have an interest in watching the Imperial Guard contest.

The other thing that didn’t make sense about the Imperial Guard contest being some scheme of the Guilds and Commerce Minister was the contest announcement’s ambiguous language.  If the Guild of Swordsmen wanted to ensure that no women entered the contest, the rules should have read “any man who wishes to serve” not “anyone”.  Why use vague words then go to the trouble of hand-delivering official documents and confiscating women’s swords?

Unless someone higher than the Swordsmen’s Guild officers, higher even than the Imperial Commerce Minister, wanted women to enter the contest.  Or, considering the invitation Merolliay had received, one particular woman.

And yet Alzadin’s concern was not unwarranted.  The last time Merolliay had appeared at court he had entered in chains, and the Emperor had threatened to execute him when he refused to kneel and swear allegiance.  Just because he now carried an invitation to court bearing the Emperor’s own seal did not necessarily mean that all had been forgiven.

The stout Nemesde man who had been watching him and Helena from the edge of the lists had gone over to speak with her, presumably at her invitation.  He was obviously upset and trying not to show it enough to draw attention to himself.

“Do either of you–” Merolliay asked, wondering if either Alzadin or Saulius knew who the man was, when a loud gong sounded from the hallway.

The tall rock crystal doors through which they had entered the Hall began to swing outward.  All conversation in the room fell silent as the courtiers turned to face the doors through which the Emperor was about to enter.

First came twenty of the Emperor’s wives, each attended by two or three fluttering servant girls.  The women arrayed themselves on either side of the dais at the far end of the room, turning back to the entrance again once they had found their places.  Next came armed men in Imperial blue livery, about two score of them, in two columns.  In a silence punctuated only by the thumping of their soft-booted feet, they made an aisle between the entrance and the dais facing outwards to watch the courtiers on either side.

The gong sounded again, twice, and another two score guards marched into the room, two abreast down the aisle formed by the Palace guardsmen.  These wore black from head to foot:  narrow trousers and velvet jackets reaching halfway to their knees, smartly tailored with turned-up cuffs and a short standing collar.  The Imperial fire horse had been embroidered in red, gold, and blue thread down each sleeve.  These were the Imperial Guard Lida sought to join, entrusted with the safety of the Emperor’s person day and night.

The Imperial Guardsmen surrounded the dais and the Emperor’s wives and their servant girls, striking relaxed guard positions.  The gong then sounded three chimes.  Four more Imperial Guardsmen entered and behind them, the Emperor on his throne carried by eight barefoot servants in blue livery.  The Emperor’s face was veiled, the veil suspended from the towering Imperial headdress that added a second and third head of height to the Emperor’s stature.  Merolliay found it ridiculous and not even the precious stones glittering in the headdress and throne could impress him enough to make him think otherwise.  He wondered if this was how the western kingdoms who looked to him to liberate them from the Empire believed he should be comporting himself.

Surrounded by additional Imperial Guards, the throne bobbed its way to the dais, was carried to the platform at the top, turned around to face the Hall, and lowered.  The throne bearers hastily withdrew the poles used to carry the chair, stashing them behind it.  Then all eight prostrated themselves around the base of the throne, their foreheads touching the floor of the dais platform, before descending the steps backwards–so as not to turn their backs on the Emperor.  Finally, the Emperor’s favored wife of the moment ascended the steps to the foot of the throne, prostrated herself as the servants had–despite the fine embroidered silk of her gown–and then rose and lifted the veil from the Emperor’s face.

A collective sigh rose from the assembled courtiers.  Saulius’s and Alzadin’s eyes were wide:  perhaps because the Emperor they worshipped, and whose face they would never have seen before in the flesh, looked so unremarkable?  The face revealed upon the lifting away of the veil was one at which no one would have looked twice, had it not been surmounted by the uncomfortably ornate headdress.  A thirty-eight year old man of mixed ancestry, dark hair and slanted eyes suggesting a predominance of Nemesde blood–like so many in the Imperial City, noble and commoner alike.  Handsome enough, neither tall nor short, fat nor thin.  Merolliay found it odd that the Emperor’s ordinariness could make one feel more awestruck rather than less, but he supposed that a person’s reaction would probably depend on how they had viewed Valtseharu Tahevas the Fifteenth before seeing him in the flesh.

A man in an embroidered robe of heavy Imperial blue silk ascended the dais and, unsurprisingly, also knelt on hands and knees and touched his forehead to the floor. Merolliay barely stifled an exasperated sigh.

“Greetings, lords and ladies of the Empire!” the man in the robe called out once he had risen.  “His glorious and divine majesty, our Emperor Valtseharu Tahevas, Fifteenth of that name, may he live forever, bids you welcome.  His beneficent eye shines with blessing upon all who come before him with reverent hearts and marks for judgment all who enter his presence with ill intent.”

Not a few eyes in the room flickered to Merolliay at that.  Perhaps more troubling, the eyes of the Emperor himself did not so much flicker towards Merolliay as settle upon him.  A slow smile formed upon the Emperor’s lips.

“The Emperor declares that the contest for the Imperial Guard has begun,” the robed man announced.  “May all the gods strengthen the hands and sharpen the swords of the Emperor’s most loyal and capable servants that they may be chosen to serve as Imperial Guardsmen.  Swordsmen and swordswomen, enter!”

A sudden buzz of chatter rose from the audience. Everyone relaxed and began to resume some version of the conversations they had been carrying on when interrupted by the Emperor’s entrance.  Saulius and Alzadin caught Merolliay’s eye, and Saulius, grinning, mouthed “Swordswomen?”  Judging from his expression alone one would think Lida had already won.

#

Lida unbuckled the scabbard from her belt, withdrew her second-best sword and handed the empty scabbard to a waiting attendant.  The attendant darted off with it, leaving Lida facing her opponent, a handsome, unshaven man around the same age as Saulius–older than her, but much younger than Merolliay.  He shifted his weight from foot to foot with a confident swagger.

“I’ll go easy on you,” he promised with a smirk, leaning in.  “Just a scratch to get me in the next round.”

Lida met his eyes briefly with as much contempt as she could muster.  If he didn’t know her skill by reputation, he was either new to the Imperial City, or not much of a swordsman.  Or both.  He didn’t hold his blade as if he’d had real training, and he didn’t seem all that aware of what was going on around him.

Unlike Lida, who was aware of her opponent and could tell what kind of attack he was preparing to strike at her with, but had also noticed that Helena Dareshna was at court today.  That a tall bearded man who looked like a Libanian was watching Merolliay from near the door as if trying to decide whether to approach him.  That the Emperor had his eyes fixed on the swordsmen preparing to fight, and particularly, on her.

A whistle blew.  Lida’s opponent drove forward with an uncomplicated thrust aimed at her left arm.

Lida knocked his sword aside, pivoted around, then snatched the man’s sword hand with her left and held him long enough to whip a long gash across his midsection before shoving him away.

She didn’t even watch him finish falling.  She stepped back a few paces, tugged a handkerchief from her belt, and started wiping his blood from her blade.

“Bravo!” she heard, from across the hall.  Saulius’s voice, of course.  His lone cheer stood out in a room of polite clapping.  She waved to Saulius with the bloody handkerchief.

She dared to glance over at the Emperor once more.  He was far enough away that she might be mistaken.  But it seemed that he was still watching her.

#

“Fights well, doesn’t she?” said a gruff voice at Merolliay’s shoulder, as Lida sent her second opponent’s sword clattering across the sanded floor.  Blood dripped from the loser’s wounded hand, but unlike Lida’s first opponent, he stayed on his feet.

“Filipe.”  Merolliay acknowledged his countryman.  “How did you get in here?”

“Wrangled an invitation from the Master of the University.”  Filipe nodded to each of Merolliay’s companions then gave Saulius a harder look.  “You.  Weren’t you in one of my classes at the University?”

Saulius turned red.  “I might have been, sir.”

Filipe looked him up and down.  “Hmmp.  I hope you’re a better swordsman than student.”

Saulius muttered something unintelligible and signaled to a passing servant that he needed a drink.

“Are you only here to insult my colleagues?” Merolliay asked.  “You could have just come by the house for that.  No need to dress up.”

It was Filipe’s turn to look sheepish. Nothing he was wearing had holes or food stains, but none of it fit, either.

“I’m here to protect your colleagues, Mero.  Your little protégé wouldn’t have gotten past the Eastwatch Gate without Tierry’s boy and his friend.”

Lida and her unfortunate opponent stood at a safe distance from one another, waiting for the other matches in their round to be decided.  Lida was too obviously not watching Merolliay and his companions.

“My protégé?” Merolliay said.  “I’m not sure I’ve taught her anything.”

“Well whatever,” Filipe said, “your Guild figured correctly that she owns more than one sword and was going to enter anyway so they sent a couple officers to arrest her.  The boys put a stop on that.”

“How did you know in advance what the Guild of Swordsmen was going to do?”

Filipe snorted.  “Same way the Minister of Commerce knew that Andraikos Dareshna’s widow got some useful information from you.  We guessed.  They’re not stupid, we’re not stupid.”

“The Minister of Commerce.”  The heavyset man Helena had spoken to was now standing with two other Nemesde men watching the contest–watching Lida–with a sour expression on his face.  “That’s who she was talking to?

“Who else?”  Filipe looked around, snatched a pastry from a passing tray.  “Who else has been accepting bribes from the heads of all the Guilds?  The Commerce Minister will have some explaining to do if Lida gets into the Guild of Swordsmen.  Some of the Guilds might even want their money back.”  He took a large bite out of the pastry in his hand, spilling crumbs and jam filling down the front of his doublet.  “How’d you get in here, Merolliay?  Last I heard the Lion of the West wasn’t exactly welcome at the Emperor’s court.”

Merolliay showed him the invitation with the Emperor’s seal.  Filipe raised his eyebrows.

“Well,” he said.  “Isn’t that interesting?”

***

Longsword

Lida suspected that her fourth match was not going to be won as easily as her first three.  She had the bad luck to have been paired against the big man she had hidden behind out on the plaza, the tallest and heaviest swordsman in the entire competition.

The whistle blew.  All around the two of them steel rang on steel as the other pairs of swordsmen clashed.  But Lida didn’t move.  Neither did her opponent.

Watching him, Lida shifted more weight onto the balls of her feet.  Breathing evenly, she channelled all her nervous energy into the center of her body, riding the wild horse rather than trying to subdue it.  She could do this.  She had beaten three other swordsmen today.  Most of the men she had fought since meeting Andraikos Dareshna had been taller and stronger than she was.

The man glanced to his left, looking surprised.  Lida glanced in the same direction, as she knew she was supposed to, and then danced out of the way when he rushed her.

She lunged at him but jumped back when she saw he was going to intercept her.  Nothing in the contest rules had said that contestants’ swords needed to be evenly matched, and the big man brandished a sword that would have taken Alzadin, the strongest of the Three Gallant Rogues, both hands to swing.  Lida’s sword was slender and light, a weapon more for slashing and thrusting than for hacking.  She didn’t want to take the chance that it would shatter if she caught her opponent’s sword on it, or that her arm would give way under the force behind his blow.

They danced.  He was fast for his size but Lida was faster.  Each time he attacked she was gone:  behind him, too far to the left, too far to the right.  Around them, the other contests came to an end as one man after another bled his opponent.  One went down with his sword hand sheared off; another two crumpled to the floor with slit throats.  Servants swooped in to carry away the fallen and swab away the blood.  Lida was aware of all this but only in a corner of her mind.

Their pace quickened.  Usually when fighting a much larger opponent, Lida would simply duck away from each attack until the other wore himself out and started making mistakes. Or until he got so angry at being unable to best a woman that he rushed her in a blind rage.  But this swordsman was better than that.  He was big, but not fat, and Lida suspected that he might last as long as she would.  If she didn’t do something decisive she was going to lose.  Even if she survived, her life as a swordsman would be over.  The Guild of Swordsmen would never let her retire quietly to the southern reaches of the Empire with her sword now that she had so openly defied them.  What was left?  Relying on men to take care of her like Helena Dareshna did?

Lida skipped away several paces well out of reach.  Her opponent relaxed, waiting for her to come back.

With her left hand she plucked the knife hidden in her left boot and threw.

It stuck in the man’s left shoulder.

There was a moment of stunned silence from the audience, followed by rapid, hushed murmuring.  Lida glanced over at Merolliay, Saulius, and Alzadin, who were still talking with the bearded Libanian man.  They looked as shocked as anyone else.

The man Lida had wounded didn’t say a word.  He plucked the knife out, ignoring the sudden rush of blood, and tossed it to her hilt first.  She caught it.

On the dais at the end of the room, the Emperor rose to his feet as a shroud of silence fell over the room.  He raised his right hand.

A blue-robed man at the Emperor’s side called out in a loud voice, “The contestants shall approach the Divine Throne!”

Lida and her opponent gave their weapons over into the outstretched hands of attendants before approaching the Emperor.  Lida wasn’t sure what to do when they got to the dais at the end of the room, but her opponent started to get down on his knees, so she did the same, and she also copied him as he leaned forward and rested his forearms and forehead on the floor.  The floor was cold against her skin, and she could feel the grit of dirt.

“Rise,” a voice said.  Was the voice tinged with amusement?

Lida and her opponent straightened and returned to their feet, and when Lida saw that the big man dared to lift his eyes to meet the Emperor’s, she did so as well.

The Emperor was amused.  “How many more knives have you hidden upon your person, Lida Dareshna?” he asked, once more speaking to her directly without using the blue-robed official standing next to him as an intermediary.

And he knew her name.  “None, Sire,” Lida replied.

“And will the victors of this contest be entered into the Guild of Swordsmen, or the Guild of Knife-Throwers?”

“The Guild of Swordsmen, Sire.”  Her heart thudded in her chest.  She kept her hands at her side.  If any of the Emperor’s guards thought she might have lied about other hidden knives, she was dead.  She already might be.

“And so?”

She took a deep breath.  “Sire, the rules stated that combatants might use the weapon of their choice.”

The Emperor did not immediately answer.  Lida looked down at her boots, not daring to continue meeting his eyes.

At last he said, “When you compete in the final round–” a fierce joy rose in Lida’s heart, so bright that it seemed to sing, “–the weapon of your choice will be the sword and only the sword.”

Lida exhaled deeply.  “Yes, Sire.”

“There are three places available in the final round for swordsmen who did not win their matches but fought well,” the Emperor said.  “Both of you shall fight in the last round, and not against each other.  I leave it to each of you to decide who won this match.”

Lida spared a glance for the big swordsman standing next to her.  His attention was fixed on the Emperor’s face with none left for her.  It occurred to her that in all the times she had encountered the big man that day, she had not once heard or seen him speak.  She wondered if he was dumb, or even deaf, and what had brought him to try for a place in the Imperial Guard.  She suddenly found herself feeling pleased by his renewed chance of success, a feeling that surprised her, since she didn’t even know him.

“You may go,” the Emperor said.

With Lida once again following the other swordsman’s lead, both of them bowed deeply from the waist, then slowly backed away until they were beyond the circle of Imperial Guardsmen surrounding the raised throne.

Although he didn’t smile, the swordsman gave Lida a very slight bow as they left the Hall together. And maybe she was imagining it, but it seemed like a nod of respect such as one of considerable skill might give to an equal.

She returned the bow.

#

“What if this contest was never something the Guild of Swordsmen wanted?” Merolliay suggested as they watched Lida and her much larger opponent leave the Hall of Mirrors together.  “What if it was the Emperor’s idea?”

“I don’t remember the exact words,” Saulius said.  “But don’t the contest rules actually say that it was the Emperor’s idea?”

“All sorts of documents claim to have been the Emperor’s idea,” Filipe growled.  “It never means anything.”

“If it was the Emperor’s idea,” Merolliay said, “that might explain the wording of the announcement.  ‘Anyone’, ‘any entrant’–never ‘any man’.  Never even ‘any swordsman’.”  He glanced at each of the other three men in turn.  “I think the Emperor wants Lida to win.”

Saulius dared a quick glance over his shoulder at the Emperor on his throne.  They had all heard the Emperor’s words to Lida, the amusement in his voice as he brushed aside any notion that she had cheated.

“Why?” Saulius asked.  “Just because it’s exotic to have a woman in the Imperial Guard?”

Merolliay was about to respond that an opportunity to flaunt the exotic tended to be sufficient reason for an Emperor to do anything.  But, before he had the chance, Alzadin tugged at his sleeve and said, “Look!”

The urgency in his voice was enough to grab Filipe’s and Saulius’s attention as well as Merolliay’s, whether they understood Alzadin’s language or not.  They all looked in the direction Alzadin had pointed, towards the Hall entrance.

Three black-and-silver clad men stood against the far wall, near the entrance.  Officers of the Guild of Swordsmen.

“Well,” Filipe said.  “I wonder if the Emperor invited them too.”

#

The whistle sounded.  Lida and her final opponent circled one another, taking slow, measured steps.

By some cruel chance, the swordsman she had to fight to the death was a young Thousand Lakes man, no more than four or five years older than she was.  The same age as one of her older brothers, one of the ones who had gone to war against the Empire and never come back.  It wasn’t her brother, of course, it wasn’t anyone she recognized, but she knew she was still betraying her homeland.

Her opponent attacked.  She caught three blows in rapid succession on the guard of her sword.  He backed away again.

Hadn’t she already betrayed her homeland?  Hadn’t she lived, since coming to the Imperial City two years ago, as if she loved the Empire better?

She slashed at her opponent’s legs.  He caught her blade up and tried to carry his into her side on the return.  She danced away.

The words he had murmured to her as they walked to the contest hall together still felt like a sword in her gut.  “If you kill me, at least I know that one of my countrymen will be able to take revenge on the Emperor for what he did to our homeland.”  Spoken in their own language, so that no one else would understand.

How could she explain that she was both a Thousand Lakes girl, and a woman of the Empire?  When it had taken so long for her to realize it herself?

She looked at his head and cut at his side.  Blocked.  Every boy in the lake country knew that trick.

She flew at him, her sword flashing.  Blocked.  Blocked.  Blocked.

Then the point of her blade pierced his right shoulder.  He gasped, and stumbled away.  She jerked free and slashed for his throat.

He struck the flat away with his palm.

A sting burst in her right thigh.

She drew her lips back from her teeth.  She pushed herself forward, letting the narrow sword slice deeper into the outside of her leg.  In his moment of unguarded surprise, she cut off his sword hand.

Blood sprayed from the stump.  Lida sprang forward off her good leg, sliced a deep cut across his belly, then drove her sword into his heart.

#

Saulius threw back his head in a wordless Kavanian victory yell.  The liquid in his cup went flying behind him, narrowly missing Filipe.  Alzadin, laughing, punched the Kavanian’s free arm.

Merolliay couldn’t help but smile, though he worried about the wound Lida had taken.  She was still on her feet, but leaning heavily on two physician’s assistants while the physician inspected her leg.

Victors with less serious wounds were moving out of the rope-delineated competition floor, as palace servants in deep blue livery approached with stretchers to carry off the dead and dying.  None of the champions looked particularly happy, and most looked back at the dead men they had left behind, some shaking their heads.  Even Lida, who had never shown regret over a kill as long as he had known her, seemed unable to tear her gaze away from the tall blond man lying in the pool of blood she had spilled.

Few of the spectators shared the grimness of the competitors.  As Merolliay glanced around the room, he saw groups of courtiers talking animatedly, a few miming moves they no doubt remembered from their favorite matches.

He shook his head.  Members of the Guild of Swordsmen were often paid by wealthy patrons to fight one another for the entertainment of the patrons’ guests.  Occasionally, a swordsman was killed in one of these matches, sometimes deliberately laid down by an opponent with a grudge, sometimes dying later of his injuries.  But matches to the death were illegal, and anyone participating in one was subject to immediate expulsion from the Guild.  Of course, this match was an exception, because the Emperor was the law, and the contest rules had stated that any victorious swordsman not presently a Guild member would be admitted to the Guild.  Still.  Illegal did not mean non-existent, and if the Emperor’s contest were to set off a fashion for death matches….

“What are you so gloomy about?” Filipe asked him, catching the attention of both Saulius and Alzadin.  “Your girl won.  She’s in.  Assuming the Emperor isn’t playing some colossal trick on us all.”

“Yes,” Merolliay said.  “Assuming that.”

***

“Henceforth,” the official in the embroidered blue robe was saying, “the Imperial Palace is your home, the Emperor’s protection and pleasure your guiding purpose.”

Lida leaned heavily on the crutches she had been given.  She could almost feel the eyes of the palace doctor who had inspected the wound in her leg.  He had practically ordered her to report to the sickroom the moment the Emperor dismissed her, to have it cleaned.

“You shall call yourselves men of the Imperial Guard–” he glanced at Lida “–and any of you who are not presently members of the Guild of Swordsmen shall be entered upon the rolls.”

Lida heard applause from the spectators behind her and from the other victorious swordsmen.  Some of the women standing or seated on cushions on either side of the dais also clapped their hands.  Whether they applauded or not, the women around the throne were all staring at her, not at any of the male swordsmen.  While some regarded her with the same scorn Lida was used to from other women, others just seemed curious to see a woman swordsman, and a few seemed delighted by her.

As the official finished speaking, a boy in the same Imperial blue worn by all the servants came to the edge of the dais.  He knelt and kissed the floor, holding a parchment scroll above his head in one hand.  A robed official came to take the parchment, and as soon as it had left the boy’s hand, the boy kissed the floor again, and darted back towards the audience.  Lida didn’t see where he went.

The official ascended the dais to place the scroll in the Emperor’s hand.  The room was very quiet as the Emperor opened and read the scroll.

He read quickly, re-rolled it, and handed it back to the official.  Lida couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

He lifted his head, scanning the room.  “Those responsible for this message may approach the throne.  Lida Dareshna, remain here.  My new guardsmen are dismissed.”

The big swordsman Lida had fought in the next-to-last round nodded to her as he moved off with the others, and she nodded back.  She felt too anxious to smile.

She felt all the more anxious when she saw the faces and garb of the three men in silver-trimmed black who approached the dais at the Emperor’s request.  Officers of the Guild of Swordsmen.

#

“Come,” Merolliay said, taking a step towards the throne at the end of the Hall.

Filipe caught his elbow.  His grip was surprisingly strong.  “I wouldn’t draw attention to yourself right now.”

Merolliay shook his arm free.  “The Emperor invited me here.  If I didn’t want his attention on me, I shouldn’t have come.”

Saulius and Alzadin followed him across the Hall.  Filipe did not.

How much of this had the Emperor planned?  He must have known that the Guilds would try everything short of openly defying him to ensure that no woman won the Imperial Guard contest.  But did he know what the Libanians wanted, precedent for other women to join other Guilds, and a woman in the Imperial Guard whose true loyalty was to the Lion of the West?  Merolliay’s invitation, stamped with the Emperor’s own seal, suggested that he did.

If that were so, Filipe was right.  In fact, not only should Merolliay not be drawing attention to himself, he should be walking in the opposite direction, away from the throne and out the door.

But if Merolliay’s suspicion as to how the Emperor might want to test Lida’s loyalty was correct, it might be too late for that.

His only chance was to offer a better solution, one that assured the Emperor that Lida’s loyalty–and his–were to the Imperial Throne.  Not to Libanian schemes, nor to a title that had been meaningless a hundred years ago and was even more meaningless now.

He hoped Lida would forgive him.

#

“I am informed,” said the Emperor, “that the Guild has forbidden you to carry a sword.”

Lida glanced at the three Guild officers to her left, who had just risen from their obeisance.  All three gazed respectfully upwards at the Emperor, neither to the right nor to the left, but the one closest to her had his lip curled in the barest hint of a triumphantly smug grin.

“Yes, Sire,” Lida said.  She felt her dream slipping away again, just as she had gotten her fingers around it.  How could this be happening?  She had killed one of her own countrymen to enter the Emperor’s service, to prove that her loyalty was to the Emperor alone.

“And was the order to put aside your sword not signed also by my own Minister of Commerce?  A member of my Cabinet?”

“Yes, Sire,” Lida said.

“My Cabinet ministers are my hands and feet and mouth.  To act and go and speak when I cannot.  For me to countermand a decree of one of my Cabinet ministers, it would be as if I were countermanding my own authority.”

Was Lida in even worse trouble than she had imagined?  Her chance of winning back the right to wield her sword had seemed to be melting away, but if she had made the Emperor look bad….  Would she be beheaded?  Or worse?

For one frantic, furious moment, she considered trying to wrest a weapon from the Imperial Guardsman closest to her.  Even with her injured leg, maybe she could kill one of them before she was taken down.  But she dismissed the idea almost as soon as it entered her mind, and she tamped down her anger as if she were packing powder into a cannon.

“Sire,” she said.  “That wasn’t what I meant to do.  I only want to serve you.”  Close enough to the truth, she thought.

“It pleases me to hear this,” the Emperor said.  “But if I allow you to join the Guild of Swordsmen and carry a blade, I must overrule my own Minister of Commerce.”

From behind Lida, a familiar voice said, “Perhaps I may offer a solution.”

It was Merolliay.

Her heart began to race.

She didn’t dare turn to see Merolliay, but behind her, she heard two men get down on their knees and kiss the floor.

The Emperor’s eyes narrowed.  “Lion of the West.”

“I’ve never called myself that,” Merolliay said.  He was still standing, his voice nearly level with Lida’s ears.  Of course, he would not kneel to the Emperor.

“Indeed,” said the Emperor.  “I hear that you call yourself a swordsman, of late.  That you are the leader of a company of swordsmen that includes this young woman.”

“Our company has no leader,” Merolliay said.  Lida heard an odd quaver in his voice.  “But yes, Lida Dareshna and I are members of the same company.”

The Emperor leaned forward.  “I have heard that the bonds of loyalty within companies of swordsmen are strong.”  A note of excitement had entered his voice.  “Perhaps one final contest is required, to assure me that this young woman’s loyalty is undivided.”

Lida gasped.  The Emperor wanted her to fight her friends?  She looked back over her shoulder at Merolliay, before she could think not to.  His face was grim.

She opened her mouth to say that she wouldn’t do it, but Merolliay spoke first.

“I have a very different proposal for you, Your Majesty.  One that is almost guaranteed to solve several problems at once.  Will you hear it?”

The Emperor sat back in his throne.  His eyes glinted with amusement.  “I hear that my Libanian subjects are masters of the clever solution that appears to benefit those around them, and in fact benefits them most of all.”

“I have also heard this.”  Merolliay’s voice was grave.  “But I’ve lived in the Imperial City since I was hardly more than a child.  I may have lost that gift.”

The Emperor’s lips curled into a smile.  “Speak.”

“Your Majesty,” Merolliay said, “it appears that the root of all these problems lies in the fact that Lida Dareshna is a woman.  The rules of the Guild of Swordsmen–the rules of all Imperial Guilds–forbid the admission of women as members.  As our renowned Minister of Commerce is no doubt aware, allowing Lida to join the Guild of Swordsmen might set a dangerous precedent, encouraging women all across the Empire to petition for membership in all sorts of Guilds.  And yet, it seems to me that the solution is simple.”

The wry smile on the Emperor’s face deepened as Merolliay spoke.  Lida didn’t understand what he found so amusing.  Merolliay’s suggestion, that her example might encourage other women to try to join other Guilds, had never even occurred to her.

“What would this simple solution be?” the Emperor asked.

“Your Majesty,” Merolliay said.  “Forgive my ignorance if I am mistaken, but surely his Divine Majesty our Emperor, living avatar of the god Konendas, need only declare that Lida Dareshna is in fact a man, and it will be so.  He will then be eminently qualified to join the Guild of Swordsmen and enter your service as a member of the Imperial Guard, and I see no objection that your Imperial Minister of Commerce, or anyone else, might raise.”

The Emperor’s eyes glinted, and he chuckled briefly.  But the officers of the Guild of Swordsmen, to Lida’s left, were not so amused.

“Sire,” one protested, “this cannot–”

All amusement vanished from the Emperor’s face.  “You cannot be proposing that I lack the authority to make such a proclamation,” he said, his voice mild.

Lida glanced at the three furious Swordsmen’s Guild officers.  The one who had spoken was red-faced, and his mouth worked as if he were trying to formulate an answer that both he and the Emperor would find acceptable, and not discovering the words.  The other two were tight-lipped, staring straight ahead with expressionless faces.

“No, Sire,” the officer said at last.  “Of course not.”

“I thought not,” the Emperor said.  He lifted his eyes to Merolliay’s again.  “Your proposal interests me.  But perhaps you can explain how it provides reassurance on the question of loyalty.”

“If Lida Dareshna were a man,” Merolliay said, “he would be dependent on you for sustenance and support.”  The quaver in his voice was back.  “As I’m sure everyone at court knows, the will of the late Andraikos Dareshna left his estates and titles to his adopted daughter.  If Lida is a man, Andraikos Dareshna had no adopted daughter.”

Lida dared another look behind her, at Merolliay.  He was looking at the Emperor instead of at her.  But Saulius’s and Alzadin’s eyes were wide with shock.

“Dependence for sustenance and support does not guarantee loyalty,” the Emperor was saying.  Lida hardly heard him.  She’d wished so many times that she was a man, but it had been an idle, impossible wish, and now the gods must be laughing at her.  She could have what she wanted, a place in the Imperial Guard and the Guild of Swordsmen, but not as a woman.  And Helena Dareshna would have her inheritance.

“Nothing guarantees loyalty,” Merolliay said.  “Every other man who won a place in the Guard today has friends, or family, or lovers.  They can say that their loyalty is to you above all else, but it’s impossible to know until they’re tested.”

The Emperor was nodding.  “This is true.”  He turned his eyes to Lida.  “What do you say, Lida Dareshna?  Would you become a man to enter my service?  Would you give up your titles and estates?”

She felt that she had a thousand thoughts, and couldn’t settle on a single one.  What did it even mean, to become a man?  Some people said she might as well be one already, the way she lived and dressed.  She might have agreed; only she couldn’t stop thinking about the way some of the younger women around the dais had looked at her, a woman achieving something everyone had always told them only men could do.  She kept her eyes fixed on the Emperor, so she didn’t have to see if those women were disappointed in her.

“I never wanted the lands and titles, Sire.  The only thing I want that Andraikos Dareshna gave me is my sword.  The one the Guild took from me.”

“Is the sword still intact?” the Emperor asked the Guild man.

The man choked back an angry response to say, “Yes, Sire.”

“Then you will return it.”

After a moment, the man nodded.

The Emperor leaned forward.  “So?  Will you give up the sword and continue as Lady Dareshna?  Or will you live as a man, and serve me as a Swordsman of the Imperial Guard?  The choice is yours.”

It was a bad choice.  Give up everything she’d ever wanted, or deny that she was a woman and serve an Emperor who had considered making her fight Merolliay to prove her loyalty.  She hadn’t even thought that her example might encourage other women to demand the right to join Guilds; but it couldn’t, if she had to become a man to join hers.  For a moment, she was angry with Merolliay all over again.  For this, and for his coldness after what had happened the night of the Emperor’s birthday.  For not being able to accept her as both comrade and lover.  For having to rescue her.

But her anger lasted only a moment.  He wouldn’t have come forward and faced down the Emperor unless he cared about her, even if it wasn’t in the way she’d hoped for.  And he’d helped her win her place in the Imperial Guard.  Exactly what she had said she wanted.

Maybe all real choices were bad ones.

“I will serve you, Sire,” Lida said.  “No other man will serve you better.”

• Continue Reading

Published by Karl Rademacher on February 3, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 18, Novellas, Serial Novellas

The Greatest Shade

By Bryan Wein

Bryan  Wein lives and works in New York City. Some of his free time is spent trying and failing to write a novel. The Greatest Shade  was first published June 2013 on Silver Blade Magazine.

* * *

David Dressen had lost track of how long he’d been at the Vauxhall by the time old Orvar came staggering over to his table. Dressen could smell the formaldehyde from the neoprene wetsuit the man wore out on the ice. He also caught a whiff of gin.

“Does Malanga really let you get away with drinking on the job?” he asked.

“You think my bosses pile into an ice breaker and come wandering the floes to check? Hell, they’re drunker than we are half the time.” Orvar put his rack of chips on the table and sank into the vacant seat beside Dressen. “Forget them. Can you believe Reconciliation’s almost here?”

Everyone at the table murmured their disbelief. Dressen sighed. The last thing he wanted was to discuss Reconciliation.

“If you’d told me even ten years ago that Mars would be on the verge of reopening contact with Earth, after all that bloodshed, I’d have laughed in your face,” Orvar said. “And now look at us. My dad’s probably twisting in his grave.”

Dressen tilted back the last of his whiskey and set the glass down heavily on the zinc furnish of the card table. “Didn’t your father drown out in the polar sea?”

Orvar laughed. “So he did. Well, then his frozen corpse is scaring the hell out of some fishes on the sea bottom. And don’t start in on how there’s only plankton down there, Dressen. You don’t see me being a stickler for updates on your case. Closing in on a decade you’ve been at it now, right?”

“Only seven years,” mumbled Dressen as he squinted at his cards. He was almost blind in his right eye, and his left was so sensitive to light that he kept his shades on at all times, even indoors. The bloodsuckers that ran the Vauxhall kept the glow lamps dimmed and the windows shuttered, but Dressen wore his glasses here nonetheless. He liked to pretend they added to his mystique.

He waved over the nearest waitress, a young woman whose unlined face and cheerful smile suggested that she had not worked here long. “I’ll have an Olympus Mons with a splash of vermouth,” he told her, pressing a worn red chip into her palm.  She gave him a little grin as she turned to leave. Unbidden, another woman’s face rose in his mind, one that looked remarkably similar, albeit a bit more heart shaped, with less pronounced cheekbones and a sharper nose. The face of the woman Dressen had spent the past seven years scouring northern Mars for without success.

The gaunt dealer coughed politely, then louder when Dressen did not react. He gestured with needle-marked fingers and rasped, “Just cause you’re in no hurry doesn’t mean the rest of us aren’t.”

Dressen scowled and flung his cards into the muck. He could still remember when he first came to Capricorn City. He’d been treated like royalty back then, one of the famed heroes of the rebellion that won Mars its independence. It had been three years before he’d been able to buy a shot. But with enough time even the greatest reputations withered away, something he had learned all too well. Now even opiate addicts like this dealer talked down to him. Dressen slumped in his chair, trying to find a position where his back didn’t ache. After twenty-odd hours that was as fruitless as everything else in his life.

Orvar pushed a heap of chips forward with rough hands still white from his shift out on the ice. “You ever wonder if you’ll face any repercussions once Isolation ends?”

“It’s been thirty years. I’m sure they’ve forgotten all about me.”

Orvar nodded absently, his flinty eyes intent on the player across from him. His opponent, a rattled youth who’d been losing money all night, shoved the last of his chips into the middle. The throng of railbirds went quiet with anticipation as Orvar studied the young fellow. Probably just a rich kid from the south, Dressen thought, who chased a bad gambling habit up here to Capricorn, to the bitter end.

The waitress brought Dressen his drink. He sipped it quickly, grimacing at the bitter taste of cheap vodka. He wished he could still afford the vintage stuff from Earth. Dressen breathed heavily into his drink, churning the dregs into an amber froth. Then he glanced up at the expectant faces of the railbirds. With the right amount of alcohol, he felt a certain affinity for the haggard degenerates who crowded the card tables of the Vauxhall. But most of the time they just repulsed him.

Orvar matched the kid’s wager and flipped over the winning cards.  The sight of them sent the kid rocking back in his chair. The railbirds applauded as he stumbled away, their faces aglow with vicarious success. Dressen was amusing himself with watching them when he locked eyes with a young, unsmiling Oriental man. Dressen wondered what he was doing there. He hadn’t seen an Oriental in the Vauxhall in weeks, not since tensions started rising between the east and west sides.

Stacking the chips with his beefy fingers, Orvar said, “It’s those damn lictors’ fault. We elected them to govern for us. But you can bet, when Reconciliation comes a week from now and the lictors get replaced by the provisional government, they won’t be going home empty-handed. You know what I mean?” he asked, nudging Dressen with a bony elbow.

“I suppose.”

“How can you not have an opinion? You really just come here to gamble?”

Dressen shrugged. He came here to whittle away the hours, but he had a hard enough time admitting that to himself.

The Oriental kid took the now empty seat at their table. No one said anything, but he drew more than his share of curious glances. He carried a mahogany cane; when he rested it against the side of the table, its knob protruded from above the green felt, an expertly crafted silver wolf, no doubt imported at enormous cost from Earth or maybe Ganymede before Isolation. The scent of soap and what Dressen guessed might be perfume clung to him the way most men here stank of alcohol and ammonium.

Orvar nodded to himself, his long, thin face reminding Dressen of a descending ice pick. “Those immigrants will put us all out of work, see if they don’t. But I’m forgetting who I’m talking to. The only man who can fail at his job for seven years and still get paid.”

Dressen did not reply. The man had a point. Dressen had been hired by a larger detective agency in the south to find Ashley Flood, the missing daughter of a wealthy farmer from the midlands. He’d followed a thousand leads into the ground in his search for her. He had rented skiffs that took him out into the far reaches of the polar sea. Twice he’d hired guides to escort him to the lawless outposts in the desert. He had wandered down a thousand Capricorn streets to no avail.

But his employers never grew impatient with him. Each month they transferred hefty sums into his account. During their monthly briefings, they scarcely ever chastised him for his failings. At first, he had attributed it to his reputation, but as the years slipped by he had simply accepted his good fortune. Nowadays he scarcely looked for Ashley at all. It was easier to gamble.

Except the new kid was making even that impossible. He didn’t say a word, just kept throwing sidelong glances at Dressen when he thought he wasn’t looking. When Dressen could bear it no longer, he shoved his chair back, flicked one of his last chips to the dealer, and headed for the exits. The glaring sunlight spilling through the sliding doors provided a painful reminder that it was morning. Again. He’d been here upwards of thirty hours. From the huge throngs that still crowded around the tables, he’d never have guessed. At least he wasn’t alone. A lot of men, rough men, shared his appetite for games of chance. Many of them were skipping their shifts out on the ice to be here. He didn’t blame them. Life was hard in Capricorn. Even with the near constant dark of winter behind them, the days were short and bitterly cold. The Vauxhall might reek of alcohol and unwashed men, but it was warm and full of life.

Dressen felt depressed as he stepped into the blinding sunshine. Almost immediately the light proved too much for his weak eyes. He threw up an arm over his face and leaned against the cold, yellow plaster of the Vauxhall. When his eyes began to adjust, he checked his pocket to make sure he had his sound amplifier. You couldn’t be too careful these days.

At that moment, the Oriental kid came limping through the electric doors. “Excuse me,” he said as he reached into the folds of his pocket and removed a gas mask. “Are you Dave Dressen?”

Flurries of black dust swept down the unpaved street, kicked up from the desert plains far to the east, and stung the exposed skin at Dressen’s face and ankles. Grimacing, he said, “I don’t do autographs or pictures anymore, if that’s what you’re after.”

“I’m not,” the boy said, looping the straps of his gas mask over his head.  “Actually, I disagree quite strongly with your role in Mars’ history. I’m a Conciliator, you see. My name’s Xiao Tian Lang.”

The name meant nothing to Dressen. “That’s a sentiment I’d keep to myself if I were you. Maybe you’re new to the east side, but people here tend to dislike the idea of having their jobs stolen by immigrants. And these days even the sight of an Oriental’s likely to inflame them.”

“I’m not here to discuss politics with you, though I do find it amusing that you use the term ‘Oriental’ to describe my ethnicity when it hasn’t been applicable for centuries. The reason I spent the past three hours in that filthy casino is because I’m interested in your work.”

“My work?”

“You are searching for a Miss Ashley Flood, are you not?”

“Oh. Yeah, I am,” he said. It had been a long time since he’d thought of his search for Ashley as work. If anything, the hunt had become a nuisance, a source of shame that only surfaced on the rare occasions when he strayed from the Vauxhall too long.

“I have evidence that might help you locate her.”

“I bet you do,” Dressen said sarcastically. “What did you find? The address of a former lover? The name of a hotel she stayed at in Capricorn? Maybe what she was doing out in the plains? I’ve gotten a thousand tips. They never lead anywhere.”

“This one might,” the boy said as he produced a crumpled newspaper and handed it to Dressen.

Dressen unraveled it and blinked until the blurred characters came into focus. He held an obituary notice for a woman named Lily Flood; she had died three weeks ago at the age of 107, leaving behind four children, six grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren.

“Lily Flood’s her grandmother. What’s the point?”

“If you’d read the names of her descendants carefully, you’d have seen that no Ashley is listed. According to my source, that’s because she doesn’t exist.”

Already reeling from too much alcohol and sunlight, Dressen could only shake his head. “That’s impossible. My employers gave me a detailed biographical profile of her. Hell, I interviewed her brother half a decade ago.”

“She didn’t have a brother. I believe her identity was misrepresented to you, Mr. Dressen.”

“Do you know how much I’ve been paid to investigate her disappearance?”

Before Tian Lang could reply, a thunderous explosion sent him sprawling onto the steel sidewalk. A few hundred meters down the street, flames had engulfed a row house. Bits of aluminum and silvery-white nickel smoked on the sidewalks and in the black dust of the street. An old man trembled amongst the fragments, screaming and clutching his face. Tian Lang rose clumsily, both hands wrapped around his cane.

“What was that?” he gasped. Tian Lang’s gas mask was dangling from his neck, leaving his face naked and strangely vulnerable in the billowing dust.

The force of the explosion had flattened Dressen against the side of the Vauxhall, and he slowly peeled his limbs from the cold plaster. “That’s life in Capricorn, boy.”

“Should we go help him?” the kid asked, his eyes fixed on the white smoke that poured out of the building’s charred skeleton.

“Somebody will come by later.”

“Somebody? That man’s going to bleed out on the pavement.”

“Dust.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He’s going to bleed out in the dust. It doesn’t matter. Give me one good reason why someone would bother to contact you with this information.”

The boy seemed torn between helping the injured man and not letting Dressen walk away unconvinced. “I’m a student in the south, in Cancer, but I help organize pro-Reconciliation demonstrations and write political commentary on the Net sometimes.”

“So?”

“To be honest, I don’t know what my source’s reasons were for bringing this to me. But my father is Xiao Bi An. He owns-”

Dressen interrupted him. “I know who he is. He owns the Malanga Corporation, making him one of the most powerful men on Mars.” He sighed and ran a dusty hand over his cropped head. “I don’t know if I believe you or not, but I’ll meet your source. Just not today. I need to sleep.”

“It’s not even noon!”

“I know.”

They made plans to meet along the southern promenade of the Bridge the next morning. Then Dressen stumbled home, drunk on alcohol, fatigue, and the lingering thrills of the Vauxhall. Before he turned the corner, he glanced back at the distant house that still sat smoking and crackling like a cooking pan left untended. Tian Lang was stumping toward the wounded man, but he was alone. No one else had come.

 ***

The next morning Dressen smacked his hand against the water sensor three times before the shower finally gurgled to life. A few seconds later the fluorescent tube overhead came on as well, thanks to some problem with the circuitry. Dressen cursed and dimmed the light with blind, groping fingers.

When he opened his eyes, he could see his naked reflection in the mirror. He shuddered. Some narcissistic bastard had lined the wall of his shower with a full-length mirror. Dressen sometimes wondered whether the mirror was to blame for his dislike of showering. It wasn’t just the extra flab that dismayed him. He’d gained quite a paunch in Capricorn, to be sure, but the changes went past that. In the mirror, he could see the deep furrows left by a thousand improbable and soul-crushing defeats at the card table. Shadows encircled his eyes, deep purple bags that lent him a haunted appearance he was only too thankful to hide behind his shades. Dressen hit the soap dispenser, but it was empty. Probably had been for months. Thin lines of congealed soap ran down the wall beneath it. He scraped them with his fingernails and rubbed the white flecks over his arms and neck.  How had he come to this?

Dressen left for the Bridge early in case he ran into a demonstration. Firearms had been banned for years, so he grabbed his stub-nosed sound amplifier and slipped it into his trouser pocket. He fitted his earpiece into his left ear and muttered a brief prayer the battery would hold up. His old gas mask lay in the corner, but he left it there; he was too old to worry about trifles like overexposure to carbon dioxide.

But there was no denying that the atmosphere was going to hell. Theories abounded as to why the artificial atmosphere was finally failing after three hundred years. Some said certain Earth-backed interests were intentionally emitting pollutants to destabilize it. Others claimed it was inevitable, given the lack of abundant oxygen-producing vegetation. Dressen doubted he’d live long enough for it to matter.

The streets were dangerous enough. More than a few ruffians were out on the corners, faces shrouded by masks, hefting steel bars, ice picks, wrenches. Dressen even saw a fat man with a beam cutter slung over his shoulder. Dressen couldn’t imagine how he’d acquired it. Such items were the prized property of Malanga, the corporation which monitored ice concentrations in the polar sea and operated the Grand Canal.

Many of the men recognized Dressen, nodding at him and bidding him good morning as he passed. Dressen felt absurdly glad. At least in these quarters his reputation remained intact. He wondered whether the bombing he’d witnessed yesterday had gotten everyone riled up. Something sure had. Six days until contact reopened and Mars’ second largest city was on the verge of civil war. You could see signs of it everywhere. Wary faces pressed against every window. Newscasts filled with demagoguery. Shopkeepers outfitting their storefronts with iron bars and electrical cables ahead of the inevitable riots. Food had been running low in Capricorn for weeks as merchants grew increasingly reluctant to ship their wares up north for fear of the violence. The floating gardens that drifted throughout the city could hardly produce enough to accommodate the demand.

So it fell to the churches to tend to the masses. They had risen to the occasion. Seeing the recent famine as an opportunity to attract new converts, the Yoruba and Christian branches had transformed their churches into makeshift soup kitchens. For the price of a sermon, you could get a pretty decent meal at them, provided you were willing to wait. This Dressen knew all too well. He often ate at a local Catholic church when he was between paychecks. He’d been raised Catholic and still wore a silver crucifix in remembrance of his dead mother, but that didn’t make him feel any less humiliated when he filed into line behind a bunch of beggars and alcoholics.

The lines were especially long that morning. Dressen had to skirt queues that stretched for half a dozen blocks on his way to the Bridge.  Even the Zoroastrians had managed to draw quite a following, he noted with a wry smile. He soon reached the cobbled walkway that bordered the Grand Canal. Fed by the cold waters of the polar sea, the canal flowed due south, irrigating the farms of the midlands and nourishing the parks of Cancer, the capital. The shimmering waters before him were responsible for a hundred miracles on Mars. None here though, Dressen reflected. He had never seen so much as a blade of grass in Capricorn that wasn’t encased behind a thick sheet of glass.

But for all the canal’s beauty, it was the Bridge that truly captured his attention. A massive granite structure that spanned the length of the canal, the Bridge was a city unto itself; its multicolored buildings and spires loomed four and five times higher than the hunched aluminum dwellings that dotted the east and west sides of Capricorn. Throngs of people, many fleeing the recent violence, filled its wide streets. Red uniformed officers marched amongst them, carrying stun guns that sparkled with bluish light.

Dressen made his way through the press of passersby until he found the little restaurant where Tian Lang waited. The boy sat with his cane in his lap, sipping on some milky white drink. He smiled when Dressen entered.

“I’m glad you made it. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Yeah, what’re you having?”

“Horchata. Would you like one?” Dressen caught the sweet aroma of almonds and coconut. Artificial flavors, of course.  You couldn’t find specialty items like those in Capricorn nowadays. Hell, you probably couldn’t find them in Cancer either, given what the recent atmospheric fluctuations were doing to crops in the midlands.

He wrinkled his nose. “God, no.” He looked at the barista behind the counter and gestured at the deserted bar. “I’ll have a Valles Marineris. Make it a double and put a little vermouth in it.”

Tian Lang shook his head. “On second thought, we need to leave now. Adewale’s expecting us.”

Dressen doubted this immensely. “Adewale?”

“My contact. And I’ve only ever spoken with him via the Net, so your guess is as good as mine.”

They left the coffee shop and set off down the bustling street. Dressen kept a slow pace for the boy, who had trouble navigating the swollen crowds. “You always use that cane?”

“Am I that clumsy?” the boy smiled, showing better humor than Dressen expected. “No. A year ago I was at a pro-Reconciliation rally in Cancer when things got out of control. Riot police charged the protestors and people began to run. I fell and was almost trampled to death. If I was on Earth, the doctors could have fixed my leg, but we don’t have the proper equipment.”

Dressen nodded. “That’s a nice cane though. Does the wolf have any significance?”

“It was a gift from my father. In Mandarin, my name means wolf howling at the heavens.”

“Doesn’t sound like a traditional Oriental name.”

“My father cares little for tradition. He had something of a wayward upbringing and wanted me to follow in his footsteps. I’m supposed to take over his company someday, but only after a rebellious youth spent getting in and out of trouble, strange as that sounds.”

“Have you been obliging him?”

Tian Lang smiled wistfully. “No, I’m afraid not. I had some regrettable experiences with drugs during my first few years in Cancer, but no problems since then. I’m rather boring now, apart from my involvement in the Reconciliation Movement. And if there’s one thing my father despises, it’s Reconciliation.”

“So are you two estranged?”

“To a degree. He still pays for my education, but we rarely speak. I doubt he even knows I’m in Capricorn.”

They left the main thoroughfare for a side street that was still terribly crowded.  Red uniformed men were everywhere. Tian Lang gestured at one of them with his cane.

“Why don’t you see more of those guards on the east side?”

“You really don’t talk to your dad much, do you? His company runs security for both the east and west sides, or it’s contracted to. With all the violence lately, it’s hard to say Malanga runs anything now. These red uniformed men work for the lictors in Cancer, for the government. They don’t leave the Bridge.”

“Why don’t the lictors assume responsibility for the whole city?”

“They don’t have the influence. The Bridge is a neutral zone, under the lictors’ direct authority, but the rest of Capricorn functions as a more or less free city. The lictors might have been democratically elected, but they don’t rule much outside of the capital. You don’t really appreciate that until you get out of Cancer, but anarchy is Mars’ true ruler. For the next week anyway.”

Tian Lang’s source lived in a basement apartment tucked beneath a hashish shop. When they rang at the door, Dressen noticed small black globes lining the underside of the lintel and felt uneasy. The last time he’d seen such precautions, he had been interviewing an arms dealer on the west side.

The man who opened the door was tall, slender, and dark-skinned, with bloodshot eyes and a heap of greasy dreadlocks adorned with pink ribbons. “Xiao Tian Lang,” he said, bowing low. He extended a small, almost dainty hand to Dressen. “Mr. Dressen,” he said, his tone flavored with what might have been amusement or pity. “My name is Adewale Akogonnaye. I’ve been observing your progress on the Flood case for some time now.”

“Progress is a kind way to describe it.”

“Indeed it is, but we’ll discuss that later. Please come in.”

Adewale’s quarters were dimly lit, to Dressen’s relief. A luminescent layout of the Milky Way Galaxy clung to the ceiling. On the near wall hung a hand-drawn map of old Earth. It was curiously incomplete along the margins, with only some strange lettering to represent the missing continents. “Here there be lions,” Tian Lang read aloud. “Lions? Shouldn’t it say dragons?”

“Anyone who thinks that is a slave to superstition and if there’s one thing I despise, it’s superstitious fools.”

“Oh,” Tian Lang said quietly. He backed away from the map.

Adewale led them over to a computer rig, replete with half a dozen monitors, that he’d set up on an aluminum table pushed against the far wall. Vials of blue and red pills lay scattered across the tabletop. Dressen recognized them as synthetic opioids.

“You keep those here for anyone to see?”

“I have a few clients coming by later.”

“You knew I was a detective. What if I’d been with the local police?”

Adewale smiled broadly, revealing two rows of huge yellowed teeth. “You’re no more a detective than I am. You’d never have been hired for this case if you were. You really think the people paying you want you to succeed?”

Dressen’s lip curled. He looked significantly at the pills spread across the table, but said nothing.

“While I boot up my rig, take a look at this,” Adewale said. He handed Dressen a dust stained newspaper. It contained a list of Mars’ concessions as part of Reconciliation.

“I’m familiar with the terms of Reconciliation,” he said with more than a trace of irritation.

“One requirement is that Mars must surrender its heavy weapon caches to Earth.”

“I know.”

“Then you’re aware that’s behind a lot of the tensions in Capricorn. People feel betrayed by the lictors. They’re supposed to be looking after our interests, but now we’re hamstrung if Earth decides to scrap the treaties and invade.”

Tian Lang began to protest, but Adewale silenced him with a gesture. “I’m not saying I agree, I’m just trying to provide a little background for Mr. Dressen, whose extended stays in casinos may have prevented him from keeping up with current events. In order to be sure Mars held up its end, Earth sent a number of weapons inspectors to investigate potential arms caches. Your Ashley Flood was one such inspector.”

Dressen shook his head in bewilderment. “That’s impossible,” he said. “It’s been seven years since Ashley vanished; negotiations with Earth began less than three years ago. How can there be any correlation?”

“From what I hear, certain lictors opened secret talks with Earth almost a decade ago.”

Dressen’s bloodshot eyes widened beneath his dark glasses. “Those are some wild claims you’re making. If they were ever substantiated, people would be clamoring for blood. How do you know this?”

“I’ve been intercepting transmissions from the government offices here in Capricorn for years.”

“You’re telling me this apartment has a Net connection? I thought the lictors banned private access thirty years ago, when Earth pulled the satellites.”

“Why do you think I live on the Bridge, if not to steal the signal from the municipal buildings? Here, you need to read this transmission,” Adewale said, motioning at a monitor. The screen showed instructions to an unemployed engineer to masquerade as Garth Flood. The man was to arrange a meeting with David Dressen and relay information listed below. Dressen went cold. Some phrases had been repeated to him verbatim over the course of their interview. So he truly had been set up.

Dressen’s eyes hurt from staring at the brightly lit screen. He pulled off his shades and rubbed his eyes as the sheer pointlessness of the last seven years washed over him. He’d known he’d wasted them, what with the countless hours of drinking and smoking and whoring. But even in his darkest moments he’d been able to assuage his guilt with the knowledge that he was investigating the disappearance and likely murder of an innocent girl. Now didn’t know what to feel. He couldn’t imagine what came next. Besides a drink, he thought with equal parts humor and despair.

“It’s very persuasive, isn’t it?” Tian Lang asked Dressen, who could not bring himself to respond. “Show Dressen the timeline.”

Adewale made no response. He was focused on another monitor; this one showed only black and white schematics of a massive spaceship, and as his hands flickered over the keyboard, the lines of the ship rose and fell like waves.

“Adewale, the timeline?”

Adewale shook his mass of dreadlocks as though awakening from a dream. He flipped open one of the little red vials, popped two pills in his mouth, and washed them down with flowerwater.  Then he activated another screen. On it he summoned up a detailed map of Capricorn, the polar sea, and the surrounding desert. A series of teal arrows began to traverse the region, from Capricorn to the polar sea, to half a dozen locations out in the desert, and then back to Capricorn. Then a second grid appeared, this one composed of dotted crimson lines; the red lines overlapped the teal ones until near the end of the route, at which point the red line terminated just north of Capricorn.

“The teal grid represents Ms. Flood’s planned itinerary, the one she’d arranged with her inspection team. The crimson line shows her actual route, insofar as I’ve been able to piece it together from personal contacts, video surveillance, and Net messages.”

“You will notice, Mr. Dressen,” Tian Lang added. “That the actual route ends after Ms. Flood reaches an address on the shores of the polar sea.”

Dressen nodded, but could not bring himself to meet the kid’s eyes. This drug dealer had put together an infinitely better reconstruction of Ashley’s last days than Dressen himself had managed to do in seven years. Assuming it was accurate, of course, but for all his quirks, the man seemed extraordinarily competent. And Dressen had more than a few regrettable habits of his own. He spied a fridge on the kitchen counter, blue vapor pouring through its opened doors. Not much chance an opiate dealer drank alcohol, but he went over to inspect it anyways.

“Mr. Dressen? Are you paying attention?”

“Yes, of course,” he said, taking what he hoped was a surreptitious look at the fridge’s contents. No luck. “So what’s the significance of that point of divergence?”

Tian Lang glared at him. “You should be taking this more seriously. That point happens to be the headquarters of Malanga. My father’s corporation.” He leaned in closer. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find that my father has a hand in all this.”

Dressen raised his eyebrows.

“Don’t lose sight of the bigger issue here,” Adewale warned. “If your girl was killed, then she must have stumbled across something she wasn’t meant to see. And that means someone up in Capricorn has been stockpiling a lot of illegal weapons ahead of Reconciliation, weapons that could end up killing thousands of people and maybe even ignite another conflict between Earth and Mars.”

Dressen could only shake his head. Tian Lang tore a page from a nearby notebook and began jotting down a rough approximation of the maps.

Dressen turned to Adewale, whose attention had already begun to wane, or so Dressen judged from the spaceship diagrams that filled every monitor. “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you helping us? I mean, I’m getting paid. The kid’s a diehard Conciliator. Why do you care?”

Adewale gave him a look of disdain. “I don’t care at all about your case. I am interested only in its implications. I don’t need to tell you that Mars has grown stagnant these past thirty years. If anything, we are regressing; the atmosphere’s a mess, technology’s failing, living conditions are scarcely better than they were during the colonial era.”

Adewale rose to his feet and gestured at the ceiling, his voice growing more impassioned as he went. “Human ingenuity should be aimed at preparing colony ships for expansion into the adjacent systems, searching out habitable worlds. But we hamstring ourselves with factionalism and petty grievances. Instead of looking forward, we dredge up obsolete terms from the past, lictors and archons and all the rest. We name our cities in a dead language.  And yes, these are trivial things, but they are symptomatic of a much larger problem. I believe the disappearance of your missing girl was intentionally covered up by the very men and women who are paralyzing our society for their own interests. And I intend to see them gone from power.”

Slowly, as if remembering he was not alone, he shifted his gaze from the glimmering map of the galaxy to his guests. “You’re going to run into difficulty as your investigation continues. The kid’s ties to Malanga should see you through there without trouble, but out in the desert you’re liable to run into drug runners, pirates, death cults, and worse. I’ve contacted a few associates of mine to see you through.”

“That’s not something I’m worried about.”

Adewale’s fingers drummed the aluminum table. “It should. That little noise amplifier you’re holding is a puissant enough thing in the streets, with all the arms restrictions, but you’ll find that when it’s pitted against rail guns and flechette pistols it will seem a good deal less reassuring.”

A harsh banging at the front door interrupted him. Adewale frowned and with a few keystrokes brought up surveillance footage of the hallway. Three men in grey jackets clustered around the doorway. The tallest of them was smashing the butt of his lightstick against the doorframe.

“Is that the police?”

“You see any red uniforms?” Adewale replied curtly as his fingers flew across the keys. The glow lamps along the walls dimmed, as did the luminescence on the ceiling. “Those men could be with anyone.”

Dressen had a hard time believing they were in serious danger. Tian Lang seemed to share that view.

“This is ridiculous,” he said as the battering at the door continued. “I’ll just go explain to them who I am and put a stop to this.”

“I wouldn’t advise that,” said Adewale as he rummaged through one of his drawers.

Tian Lang tapped the access panel and cleared his throat as the door slid open. Before he could utter a word the lightstick caught him across the shoulder, crackling blue. Dressen heard a short cry of pain as Tian Lang buckled and fell, his cane giving way beneath him.

The other two men stepped into the room, holding what Dressen guessed were antiquated nail guns. Dressen lifted his hands in a halfhearted gesture of surrender.

“Shut up and hand over that little sound pistol we know you’re holding,” one of them said. “This gun’s aimed at your head, and even with iron sights, I won’t miss.”

“Good thing I keep little of worth up there.” When this elicited no reaction, he switched up his approach. “Listen, I’m David Dressen. You know, the hero of Ares Plaza.”

“You recognize him?” asked the man to his comrade. He shook his head.

“How can you not know me?” complained Dressen, lifting his glasses to show his face. “Remember, thirty years ago in Cancer, I was the one who took out that riot squad.”

The man with the lightstick pushed the others aside. He had high cheekbones, a sharp nose, and would have been very handsome were it not for a bad harelip that extended from the corner of his upper lip to his nostril. The scar there rippled when he spoke.  “Yeah, I’ve heard of you,” he said. “I hear you’re a degenerate gambler now. You know, there’s only one cure for that.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” Dressen asked as he reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around the noise amplifier.

The man swung his lightstick in a lazy arc that caught Dressen full in the chest. As electricity coursed through his body, Dressen could feel his heart freezing, then slamming repeatedly into his chest. He slumped to the floor amid loud shouting and the tinkling sound of shattered glass, and then he found he could no longer breathe.

***

Dressen woke to the strange sensation of metal shifting on his skin. A robed figure leaned over him, adjusting three shiny metal patches on his chest. Thin wires looped from them into a cylindrical, glowing device in the man’s hand. When the man stepped back, Dressen was overcome by the hard pinkish light of sunset that came streaming in through the window and forced his eyes shut.

“I’d recommend keeping your eyes closed and holding a deep breath for the next minute,” the man said.

Dressen jerked uncontrollably as the device gave off a low whine. Tremors wracked his body and then gradually subsided. He opened his eyes to see the man thumbing a button on the device. The green patches on Dressen’s chest retracted silently back into the machine.

“I’d hoped to finish while you were still unconscious, but it makes no real difference. You were showing symptoms of arrhythmia and Xiao Xiansheng wanted to have it corrected immediately.”

Dressen’s head throbbed from alcohol withdrawal and about ten thousand more jolts of electricity than he was accustomed to receiving. “Who’s Mr. Xiao?”

“I am,” said a high-pitched, melodious voice. Dressen craned his neck to see a man sitting behind an enormous steel desk on the far side of the room. Dressen shook his head. He’d thought he was reclining in a hospital ward, but he appeared to be in a richly furnished study.

“I could scarcely believe my eyes when Uther brought you in with my son,” said Mr. Xiao. “I have looked forward to meeting you for a long time. I was hoping you might be persuaded to sign your hologram.”

“My hologram?”

Mr. Xiao tapped his ear. “Speak up, my hearing’s not so good.”

“What do you mean my hologram?”

With the wave of his hand, Mr. Xiao indicated the rows of holograms that lined both walls of the study. In one corner hung a three dimensional representation of Dressen as he had looked thirty years ago. Dressen stared at his sharp, angular nose, restless blond hair, and horizon eyes not yet dulled by years of darkness and whiskey.

“I have all the heroes of the Revolution on these walls,” Mr. Xiao said proudly. As he spoke, the physician placed the rest of his equipment inside a velvet case and left.

Dressen threw on his shirt that lay neatly folded on the floor beside him and stumbled unsteadily over to the bank of windows that lined one wall. Beyond them sprawled the frozen blue waters of the polar sea, its ice floes shimmering in the sunset. He wondered if old Orvar was out there even now.

“What you see is the lifeblood of Mars, Mr. Dressen. Without it, without my company, the fertile midlands would return to desert and all seven hundred million residents of Mars would slowly perish. Even Cancer would be overcome in time. We keep Mars alive. I keep Mars alive. And in a few short days, all my efforts will have been for nothing.”

“You’re speaking about Reconciliation, I presume?”

“Reconciliation,” said Mr. Xiao, injecting the word with thick venom. He picked up a jade figurine from his desk and rubbed his thumb across its worn, pocked surface. “A misnomer if there ever was one. Honest men and women secured Mars’ liberation thirty years ago. Those insidious lictors have undone all their sacrifices, and for what? Higher balances in their already swollen accounts? Access to the anti-senescence drugs that will be prohibitively expensive for the common people? But I digress. The reason I directed my physician to see to you before my wayward son is because I understand he’s fallen in with you and I wanted us to have a private chat before this becomes a scene.”

At that moment a tall man dressed in grey body armor appeared at the door. Dressen recognized the man from Adewale’s apartment, the one with the bad harelip.

Oblivious to Dressen’s presence, the man said, “Sir, we totaled thirty-seven targets tonight. I think we can safely double that-.”

“I have a guest, Uther,” Mr. Xiao said tersely.

Uther did a double take. Then his lips twisted into an expression of pure loathing.

Dressen smiled coldly. “I’ve been enjoying Mr. Xiao’s hospitality.  If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to Adewale?”

The man said nothing.

“My apologies,” Mr. Xiao said. “I requested that he bring my son in for questioning with all haste. My staff can be a tad overzealous at times.”

“Like when he almost killed me?”

“That was a grievous error on my part,” said Mr. Xiao. “Although that man, Adewale, murdered two of my men when no real harm was intended. So forgive me if I do not reek of pity.” He turned toward Uther. “I will debrief you later. If you could retrieve my son, I would be most appreciative.”

Layers of hatred and rage bunched together on the man’s face as he stalked out of the room.

Mr. Xiao leaned toward Dressen. “So, I understand you’re investigating the case of a Ms. Flood.  I met with her in the last days before her disappearance.”

“You spoke with her?” Dressen asked, his voice sharpening with interest.

“Yes, of course. Surely you’ve gleaned that much.”

“All I know is that something she learned here led her to change her itinerary.”

“Ms. Flood interviewed me briefly. She expressed her concerns about certain warehouses on the west side. I did my best to allay her suspicions, but the sad truth, as I told Ms. Flood, is that my company is hardly capable of monitoring all the goods that pass through this thriving metropolis of ours.”

“So what did you tell her?”

Mr. Xiao placed the jade figurine on the coarse steel of his desk with a strange reverence. “I advised that she speak with Song Tai Ruan.”

“The de facto head of the west side?”

“Yes. A very clever man, Tai Ruan. Perhaps the most clever in all of Capricorn. Besides me, of course. Song Tai Ruan has been stockpiling weapons for years in preparation for a possible escalation in tensions between the east and west sides. If you’ve been following the recent news reports, the number of people wounded or killed from the east side is nearly triple that of those from the west. A striking coincidence, would you not agree?”

“So you’re saying it was Tai Ruan who she went to see next?”

Mr. Xiao nodded. “I’m afraid so. This Ms. Flood was a smart girl. Too attractive by half, and lacking certain social graces, but I suspect that may all have been part of her guise.  I believe she puzzled out the truth from Tai Ruan and met a quick end as a result. The man has more than a few ways to permanently dispose of unwanted, ah, problems.” He cleared his throat. “Now, I would like to speak with my son in private, Mr. Dressen. I wish you luck in your search, though I don’t approve of my son assisting you. His trimester begins next week and he should be back in Cancer, not wandering Capricorn’s hazardous streets.”

Dressen nodded. He passed Tian Lang on his way out. “Wait for me,” Tian Lang mouthed as he limped into his father’s study, defiance and anxiety mingled on his face.

Dressen idled away the next twenty minutes in a waiting room, reading over a brochure on Malanga’s stringent safety protocols. He thought of old Orvar drunk out on the ice and chuckled.

“How’d the reunion go?” he asked Tian Lang when the kid finally came limping down the stairwell.

“About as well as you’d expect. He got angry when I said I wasn’t leaving till the case was solved.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. We haven’t had a civil talk since I was twelve. In the end, I think I might have swayed him. He gave me a few west side addresses to check out.”

“Really?” Dressen asked. “When I talked with him, he seemed oddly insistent that I leave you out of this.”

“He was at first, but I made it clear I had no intention of returning to Cancer until after this was resolved. Speaking of which, I want to investigate those locations my father gave me tonight.”

Dressen smiled. “Not a chance. This old body of mine’s suffered enough for one day.”

“Do you think another drinking binge at the Vauxhall will improve that?”

Dressen had the good grace to blush. “Don’t push me kid.”

“Can’t you see that whoever killed Miss Flood was stockpiling weapons to use against Earth and all the immigrants that are going to arrive in less than a week? If we can find her killer, we can alert the authorities, maybe put a stop to a guerrilla war that will claim thousands of lives.”

“What authorities?’ Dressen asked. “You think the lictors will do anything?”

Tian Lang did not back down. “They will mobilize their soldiers if needed. They won’t let anything derail Reconciliation.”

Dressen shrugged. He gave Tian Lang his contact information and promised to call the following day. There was nothing more to be said, so he just walked away.

***

Someone was rubbing Dressen’s arm. Bewildered, he opened his eyes and almost fell from his seat as the green felt of the card table seemed to lurch toward him.

“Your move, sir,” said the splotchy-faced dealer. Dressen cast a wary glance at his small pile of chips. He ran a hand over them. They felt sticky and smelled of whiskey. In the dim recesses of his mind, they had been far more numerous. He’d made a mansion out of them for his amusement, but he couldn’t say whether he’d finished it. Now everything was spinning and his head felt much the same way his heart had yesterday. Was it yesterday? He shuddered.

“What happened to me?” he asked the man beside him.

The man clapped him on the shoulder with a three-fingered hand. “A great deal of alcohol,” he said. “I’ve been here since yesterday morning and you were curled up like a baby around one of the toilets in the men’s room, or so I hear. You rallied a few hours ago, took this seat here. We’ve had this conversation before, but you seem a bit more sober now, so maybe you’ll remember this time.”

The room was a haze of shadows that stretched and grew whenever he moved his head. Dressen stayed very still, trying to gather himself. Then nausea overtook him and he vomited, to the amusement of the railbirds who laughed and pointed at him mockingly. Someone took him by the shoulder and helped him to a plush leather couch near the entrance.

“My chips,” he slurred.

“I’ve got them.”

Dressen froze. He recognized that voice, that undercurrent of disapproval. He rotated his head a few centimeters to his left, unwilling to risk another bout of nausea. Tian Lang’s unsmiling expression swam into view. Dressen let his head flop back onto the cushion.

“Why haven’t you answered my calls?”

“My earpiece . . .” Dressen tried. He rubbed his eyes with the base of his palm. “Battery’s dead.” Then he felt fingers digging into his left ear. He jerked away too late.

Tian Lang held up the earpiece, inspected it a moment, then tossed it onto the couch and said, “You turned it off. You said you’d call the next day.”

“Still . . . It’s still Tuesday.”

“No, it’s Friday. Have you truly been here all this time? Reconciliation’s less than two days away. We were going to investigate those addresses on the west side that my father gave me. Don’t you understand how important this is? We could avert another war.”

Dressen nodded almost imperceptibly, before his head fell back once more and this time he said nothing. Before long he began to snore and Tian Lang threw up his arms in disgust.

When Dressen woke, Tian Lang sat beside him, examining the map he’d drawn in Adewale’s apartment. Dressen groaned. His head ached, but he could feel himself sobering up a little. “How long was I out?”

“Four hours and twenty four minutes,” Tian Lang replied without lifting his gaze from the notebook. “Can we please leave now?”

“In a minute,” Dressen said. He ordered a hazelnut coffee and drank it slowly. When he finished, he turned to Tian Lang. “You know,” he said slowly. “The people who hired me gave me these photographs of Ashley. Only a few, and all they show is her face.” He laughed humorlessly and sifted through his pockets till he found it. He passed it to Tian Lang. “They probably wanted to conceal the fact that the photos were taken back on Earth. But there’s this one picture where it’s just her face and neck against a cloudy sky. The sun’s full in her face, making her brown eyes look radiant, like there’s a thousand constellations of stars in them. Her mouth is open like she’s shouting. But there’s so much humor in her face you can tell she’s not upset. That’s the image of her I see the most. I see it when I leave the card table, when I close my eyes. You know, if I didn’t, I think I would gladly walk away from this. But I can’t escape it, and my stupid conscience will eat away at me if I let it go. I’d like to be able to tell her family, tell whoever took that photograph, how she died. Tell them the truth.” He paused for a long while. “Or maybe the whole photo was doctored and I’m just a sucker.”

“We can find her family. I know she’s probably dead, but we’ll be able to tell them what became of her.”

“Yeah. But maybe even that doesn’t mean that much to me. I rarely think about her family, to be honest. It’s all just for me. I’d feel free, from everything, really, if I could just solve it. I’d have an excuse to leave Capricorn, return to Cancer, maybe get away from the gambling and the drinking. Maybe take on a new case.” He laughed. “But now that Reconciliation’s almost here, I’ll probably wind up dead some night. Retribution for my actions during the rebellion.” He felt nauseous just thinking about it. “Maybe you should let me stay here.”

“How can you say that?” the boy asked, his voice tinged with outrage. “Are you really that selfish?”

Dressen looked at him sadly. “Are you? What are your motives for throwing away your studies and coming here? It’s not all just high minded principles with you, is it? You’re trying to show up your dad, I expect. Do you think solving this will put him in his place? Make him respect you? Let me tell you something. Men like that don’t ever change kid. Even if we do succeed, it won’t make any difference to him.”

He knew he’d struck a nerve when Tian Lang did not respond. It didn’t take Dressen long to feel bad. “Alright, let’s go. I suppose I’d like to be remembered for more than what I did one afternoon thirty years ago.”

Tian Lang did not reply for a few minutes. When he spoke again, his voice was scarcely more than a whisper.  “You know, I really do care about learning the truth. My father is only part of why I’m here, but I get your point and I’m sorry for insinuating that you were selfish.”

“Oh, I am. And don’t worry, you’re going to be just fine kid. You’ve got a long ways to go before you’re stuck like me.”

They caught a rotorcab outside the Vauxhall. Dressen regarded the rusted vessel warily. He’d piloted a few tilt rotors himself back in his youth. Even then they had a tendency to malfunction. Nowadays they were death traps, but that didn’t stop him from climbing inside. The boy told the driver to take them to 3303 Jintian Lu. Then the rotors began to thrum and the rotorcab pitched up and into the night.

Dressen always felt like a stranger when he visited the west side. Though the buildings relied on the same prefabricated aluminum frames as their counterparts on the east side, they looked nothing alike. Here thin wood paneling adorned the building facades in nostalgic homage to their ancestral towns. Fluorescent Chinese characters shone brightly on the walls of restaurants and tea shops.  Gorgeously wrought temples rose from the centers of the roundabouts, decorated with jade, ivory, and other precious stones, their surfaces a liquid shimmer in the ruddy light of the glow lamps.

The tilt rotor dropped them off at a tea shop. Haggard old men sat at the long aluminum tables, playing cards and devouring the soup-filled dumplings colloquially known as xiaolongbao.

“This is ridiculous,” Dressen complained as they piled into a booth. “What are we going to do, ask the owner to casually open up his basement to a pair of strangers?”

A creased newspaper lay on the table. Tian Lang took it and began to read the latest accounts of violence in Capricorn. Dressen couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten and went up to the counter. He ordered some green tea and two racks of xiaolongbao from an older woman with short, dark hair. She handed him a porcelain cup of steaming tea and extended two fingers to indicate how long he would need to wait for the dumplings.

“I don’t see an alternative to being honest with the proprietor,” Tian Lang said once Dressen had returned. Then he froze, his mouth agape in a way that made him look even younger than his twenty years. “Do you know who that is?” he whispered, nudging his shoulder forward as though he dared not extend a hand.

Dressen saw only the older woman who had taken his order. She had piercing amber eyes and strange markings on one cheek where the skin had burned away and not wholly healed. Despite that, she was a very handsome woman who moved as lithely as a cat through the narrow confines of the kitchen. Dressen shook his head.

“That’s Chang Bei Ning. The widow Chang.”

“The woman who led all those hijackings on the Grand Canal?”

“Yes, originally it was her husband’s crew, but he drowned when one of their vessels collided with a trading ship. She carried on raiding ships for years before retiring. Last I heard she’d fled to some refuge out in the plains, but clearly not.”

A loud rapping on the aluminum counter made them both start. A tray of steaming dumplings sat there; the widow Chang was already retreating into the kitchens. Dressen kept his head down as he collected his tray and carried it back to the table. Dressen thought Tian Lang was right, though he had only a vague recollection of the widow Chang from old newscasts. Her gang had taken advantage of the power vacuum that emerged after Isolation. Unable to hire adequate protection, merchant vessels sailing the Grand Canal had been vulnerable to marauders and pirates. The widow Chang’s crew had been the most notorious of them all. Her hijackers would overcome the often hapless crews with ease and escape within minutes. Then they would detonate charges at vulnerable points along the Grand Canal, creating enormous spillways that their slender hybrid crafts could ride for tens of kilometers before activating their treads and returning to their desert hideouts. Dressen could not recall the circumstances that led to her retirement.

He bit into one of the dumplings. The boiling, fragrant liquid inside sprayed all over his clothes, face, and glasses. Cursing, he wiped them on his dark coat, blinking away the tears that welled up from the dim green light of the tea shop. Then he spotted a folded piece of paper tucked beneath the little saucer of soy sauce on his tray. He unfolded the stained paper to find an inscription in Mandarin.

He passed the note to Tian Lang, who read it aloud. “A mutual friend of Adewale Akogonnaye requests our presence in the back alley.” They exchanged a long look.

Outside, a slender alleyway curved along the left side of the tea shop. Dozens of nylon cables stretched overhead, encumbered by drying clothes and bedding. They wandered down the forking alley until it emptied into a hollow between the buildings. A little garden flourished there, dappled silver with moonlight. Dressen’s weak eyes made out a few sickly banana trees and a layering of thick grass surrounding a crumbling porcelain fountain.

A warped wooden door swung open on its hinges. Through it stepped the widow Chang, her movements smooth and precise.

Tian Lang asked her a question in Mandarin. She responded in heavily accented, but quite discernible English. “Your friend Adewale is recuperating in a hospital on the west side. He is doing well.”

“What happened to him?”

“Someone shot him with a nail gun. Were you not present?”

Embarrassed, Tian Lang scratched his head. “We’d already been, ah, overcome.”

Dressen could almost taste the scorn in her words. “Adewale used a revolver to kill two of the intruders. He is a difficult man to kill. But you did not come here to speak of him.”

“No,” Tian Lang said. “We need you to open up your basement and the rest of your property for our inspection.”

“On whose authority?”

Tian Lang’s look of indecision might as well have screamed that they had none. Before it became unmistakable, Dressen interrupted. “The lictors of Cancer sent me here. There is no higher authority.” Then he grinned. “Well, I suppose you’ve been pissing on their authority for decades, so you might not share that view.”

“We’re looking for a missing woman who may have been buried on the premises,” Tian Lang added.

Dressen winced. Subtlety was not one of the kid’s strengths.

The widow Chang turned away from them and pressed a long finger against her ear. She nodded her head a few times, muttered something inaudible, and then gestured at them. She led them to a corner of the garden where the shadows pooled. She pried up one of the heavy ornamental stones and dragged it onto the cool grass. A narrow tunnel flecked with red light lay beneath it, curving in the direction of the tea shop. Without waiting for a reaction, the widow Chang dropped the three meters down onto the rusted steel flooring and disappeared from view.

Recognizing the difficulty the fall would pose for Tian Lang, Dressen went first. The kid tossed down his cane and then froze on the edge of the hole, bracing himself with both hands as he slowly lowered himself over the side.  Dressen tried his best to catch him, but he’d never been strong, even before the drinking, and they both collapsed to the ground. Dressen rose smiling ruefully, helped the kid up, and risked a quick look at the widow Chang. She was close by, for the tunnel did not stretch very far, but she showed no sign of having seen. Dressen rubbed his thinning scalp, grateful that he’d been spared at least one indignity on the day.

Then he whipped his head back. Beyond the widow Chang was a massive underground garden. Bright heat lamps hung from the ceiling, suffusing the room in a sweltering glow. Dressen took off his glasses in wonder and immediately regretted it. The fluorescence seared his vision and ignited what felt like a thousand migraines behind his eyes.

Head throbbing, he replaced his glasses and followed the widow Chang past long rows of green plants. She swept her arm about the room with palpable indifference. “If weapons were the object of your search, you see we have none.”

Tian Lang seemed equally astonished, but he gathered himself enough to say, “This is a terrarium. These are illegal. ”

“They are frowned upon, as I understand it.”

“No, they’re highly illegal.”

“A law that cannot be enforced means nothing. Do you expect the lictors to send troopers here to regulate a terrarium when they can scarcely maintain control of the capital?”

“So what is the purpose of this place?” asked Dressen lightly.

“Contingency plans in case of food shortages. Tai Ruan ordered this one and many others built decades ago.”

“A cautious man, Song Tai Ruan,” Dressen said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “We were hoping to speak with him.”

“What more must you see? The weapon stores, the atomized launchers and chemical weapons you sought are clearly not here.”

Tian Lang had gone limping down the broad aisles, inspecting the strangely colored leaves that flattened against the glass walls like the outstretched hands of despairing prisoners. He paused in front of a purple flowered plant full of vines that reminded Dressen of the orchids that grew in Ares Plaza in Cancer.

“You say these plants are for agricultural purposes?”

The widow Chang’s face grew masklike. “Primarily.”

“What about this one here?” Tian Lang waved his cane at the plant. “I recognize it from biology classes. It’s harmless enough normally, but if you spray it with a saline solution, its leaves grow rigid and its buds emit a toxin strong enough to contaminate a thousand liters of water.”

“Just contingencies, right?” asked Dressen.

“Of course.” She held a finger to her earpiece again and abruptly walked away.

“You do know why these are illegal, don’t you?” asked Tian Lang.

Dressen shook his head.

Tian Lang gave him a look of wonder and pity. “It’s been one of the underlying principles of Martian colonization since the beginning, not to repeat ancient mistakes. That’s why you never see animals on Mars. Even the plankton that fills the polar sea was barely allowed, though everyone agrees now that it’s an essential part of maintaining the atmosphere. There are too many examples throughout history where a new organism is introduced to a foreign climate and takes over.”

“Sounds like we’re about to repeat that mistake.”

“How so?”

“With Reconciliation,” Dressen said with a smile. “All those immigrants.”

Tian Lang frowned, but before he could say anything the widow Chang returned.

“Song Tai Ruan will see you now,” she said. She tapped the control panel near the door, and Dressen turned to see a thin ladder unfolding from the tunnel wall. “Make your way up. I will be along presently.”

Tian Lang went first, grumbling about this era’s lack of appreciation for the handicapped. The widow Chang stood before one of the workbenches he’d noticed earlier. She fitted a large metallic sleeve over her left arm. It unfolded down the middle, and she seized a few of the plants Tian Lang had pointed out earlier and tossed them inside. Then she strode back toward them, her face darkening when she realized he’d seen her.

“Up the ladder,” she snapped.

 ***

Chang drove them to a sprawling, rust-scoured tenement on the western outskirts of Capricorn. Traditional Chinese characters glowed green on the walls. From the diamond shaped windows leaked a livid red light. A knot of ten or twelve old men with graying hair sat outside. Tian Lang spoke with them while the widow Chang went inside. After a brief conversation, he turned to Dressen. “They say they’ve never heard of a Song Tai Ruan.”

“You Orientals are a cautious bunch, eh?”

Tian Lang shrugged. “I’ve studied Song Tai Ruan in school. He came to power during the rebellion by preaching neutrality. It worked. The Orientals got through it mostly unscathed.”

“So you’re saying he isn’t behind all those bombings on the east side?”

“All I’m saying is that guerilla warfare goes against his modus operandi. It doesn’t fit.”

The widow Chang soon returned, as unsmiling as ever. She guided them through a welter of sloping corridors to a black door at the end of a hallway. A banner of flaming crimson hung above it, stitched with Mandarin characters.

“What do those mean?”

“The sky is high and the emperor is very far away,” Tian Lang said, shrugging.

The widow Chang led them into an austere room with a bare cement floor, two shelves full of books, and little else. Torches lined the far wall, guttering in their primitive sconces. A hulking mound of a man who must have been Song Tai Ruan sat on a bamboo cot in the center of the room. He had saggy jowls, an ashy beard, and red rimmed eyes that suggested he’d suffered his share of sleepless nights recently. He wore the long orange robes so popular in the monasteries out in the plains and his shadow seemed enormous.

“Would you care for anything to drink?” he asked in a gravelly tone.

Tian Lang requested tea and gave Dressen a significant look. Dressen wavered under the force of his gaze, weighed his options, and decided he didn’t care. “I’ll take the strongest drink you’ve got.”

Unblinking, Tai Ruan motioned at a young woman who stood in the doorway. Then he rose ponderously, like a granite statue groaning to life. He took a teapot in the shape of a monstrous elephant and filled two cups with apple scented tea. He extended one gracefully to Tian Lang and kept the other for himself.

“Is this that famous apple cinnamon tea from those old canal towns north of Shanghai?”

Song Tai Ruan nodded his great head like a crumbling mountain. “We honor our ancestors through these small reminders of the past. Nothing good can come from losing touch with our roots. The last thirty years of Isolation stand in solemn witness to that.”

“So what does it mean that on the eve of Reconciliation, Capricorn’s going to hell?” Dressen asked, realizing too late that this was not the place to be flippant.

Laughter shook loose like phlegm from Tai Ruan’s beefy throat. “Perhaps that some people do not wish to be saved. I see you wear a crucifix. You are a Christian?”

Dressen inclined his head. “Non-practicing, though.”

“Then you know very well what it is to let salvation lie untouched at your fingertips. But to the matter at hand. I assume you believe me responsible for the violence on the east side?”

Tian Lang spoke up. “There were three attacks last night alone.  Seven people dead in an electrical fire down in the tenements along the Grand Canal, fourteen from phosphorous grenades lobbed into a Szechuan restaurant. Sixteen drowned when a houseboat foundered off the Grand Canal. Singed marks along the bottom suggest a beam cutter was used. A lot of people died last night. It’s hard to believe they weren’t retaliatory strikes from your people.” Upon hearing these words, Dressen felt a nagging sensation that he was missing something.

“My advisors have yet to identify a likely perpetrator. But believe me when I say that I have no wish to feed the smoldering flames that threaten to engulf our city. I have ordered nothing besides a mobilizing of our local guard. And yet, I have awoken each of the past five mornings to the news that more people on both the east and west sides have been injured or killed. So what do I make of this?”

Apparently drained by his brief time on his feet, Tai Ruan sank onto the bamboo cot. He rested his gnarled, hoary hands on his knees. Crudely tattooed characters curled up his forearms. “Do I think rogue agents have the ability to carry out these attacks? No. Do I think the lictors in Cancer are likely to be responsible? No, they have too much to gain from Reconciliation. As things stand, your father is the most likely culprit, Tian Lang.”

To Dressen’s surprise, Tian Lang looked far from outraged. In fact, a low smirk creased his boyish features and he gave a conspiratorial nod. Dressen decided to point out the obvious. “You know, we spoke with him recently, and he pinned the blame on you.”

Tai Ruan smiled. “I am not surprised.”

Dressen suddenly realized what had been bothering him earlier. “Wait. How many people died on the west side last night?”

Tian Lang did some quick calculations. “Thirty-seven altogether.”

“Last night your father’s man Uther interrupted us while we were speaking. He said he’d gotten thirty-seven targets. He must have meant people.”

Tai Ruan smiled sadly. “Tian Lang’s father and I were allies during the rebellion, bound by our mutual concern for Capricorn. But he’s lost sight of that in the intervening years, and much more, I’m afraid. He certainly has the resources and the drive to carry out the attacks. I am ashamed to admit I cannot challenge him directly. His security forces would easily overcome whatever feeble resistance I could muster. But there may be another way. As I understand it, you are searching for a missing woman named Ashley Flood. Is this true?”

Dressen nodded.

“I also spoke with her. Xiao Bi An warned her that I kept heavy weapons caches scattered throughout the city. I showed her the secrets I have buried throughout the city and so won her trust. Then I directed her to Xiao Bi An’s own hiding spots, the ones he used during the rebellion.”

“Where are they?”

“Scattered across the polar sea.  I can direct you to one of them, a monitoring station I told Miss Flood about seven years ago.” Tai Ruan crooked his finger at the young woman who lingered at the doorway. She entered and hesitantly thrust a small bottle of baijiu, a foul Chinese liquor, into Dressen’s arms. “Qing ni wen Chang furen lai ba.” Tai Ruan turned back toward Tian Lang and Dressen. “Miss Chang will see you safely brought to the station. We stand on the precipice of a better Mars. Don’t lose sight of that, whatever these next few days bring.”

***

When he walked outside, Dressen could scarcely believe his eyes. A skimmer sat idling on the cracked streets outside the tenement.  It was only a six-seater, hardly impressive compared to some of the ones he’d flown in his youth, but such crafts were extraordinarily rare nowadays. They relied on fusion reactors that nobody left on Mars could recharge or replicate. Tai Ruan must have paid a fortune to acquire this one. They would probably need it before the end. Tilt rotors would be too noticeable; the skimmers relied on close contact with the ground to function, and so would be much harder to detect. Dressen couldn’t resist climbing into the front seat and running his hands over the controls. Vehicles had always intrigued him. They’d been the reason he’d pursued a career as a pilot in his youth. He glanced up at the stars. It was still dark enough that he could probably pilot the skimmer himself if need be. He ran his hands lovingly over the control panel.

His pleasant reverie was cut short by the cool voice of the widow Chang. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She stood at the door, her thin frame blotting out the red light from the tenement windows. Dressen shrank back in his seat and began contorting his body to join Tian Lang in the back. The cramped confines of the skimmer made this an agonizingly slow process, and by the time he was sitting up straight, a look of sheer bemusement had replaced the widow Chang’s normally grim features.

When she activated the skimmer’s engine, its thrusters rattled as though they hadn’t been ignited since the colonization era. Which, Dressen reflected, might well be the case. But they still worked. Growling and shaking, the skimmer tore down the deserted street and in moments they were out of Capricorn and into the desert.

They sped across a fractured landscape where great slabs of black rock conjoined at strange angles. Far overhead, Phobos and Deimos loomed brighter than Dressen could ever remember. He realized that their star ports were back in operation, awaiting the first trickles of immigrants that would no doubt begin tomorrow, the harbingers of the long awaited flood of Reconciliation. But for all their light, the desert wastes north of Capricorn seemed as dark and inhospitable as ever.

Dressen shivered beneath the synthetic wool coat and neoprene suit he’d been given by Song Tai Ruan prior to their departure. Temperatures ranged from freezing to life-threatening out on the polar sea, as Orvar and many other ice cutters could attest, and taking a small craft, even a skimmer, out on the waters was immensely dangerous.

He nudged Tian Lang and gestured out at the pitch black dunes. “You know, before Mars was settled, these plains were albedo formations. These sands were white as dried bone. That was the problem, because you need heat to create atmosphere, and white sand doesn’t trap a whole lot of heat. So they took massive amounts of ammonium nitrate from the moons and spread them all across the northern deserts in order to increase heat absorption from the sunlight. That’s one of the main ways they got the artificial atmosphere working.”

Tian Lang smiled. “Yes, I know. That’s Martian geology 101, believe it or not.”

“Oh,” Dressen said. “I probably should have guessed that.” He paused. “Do I figure in any of those textbooks? I always wondered if my name was one of those big, bold-faced terms that students had to memorize.”

Tian Lang laughed. “No, but you do warrant a few footnotes.”

“What did you do?” asked the widow Chang.

Dressen had told the story so many times that its rhythms came to him as easily as the Christian prayers he said in Mass as a child. In many ways, it was the story of his life, or at least the only story people ever cared to hear.

“When I was young, I piloted a thresher, one of those big ones with the huge turbines they use out in the midlands to scatter seeds and fertilizer. As irrigation improved in the midlands, most thresher pilots found themselves out of a job, but I wound up in Cancer, helping maintain Ares Plaza and a few other parks. During the height of the rebellion, about twenty thousand protestors went marching on Ares Plaza. The government called in the riot squad and things got ugly fast. Protestors were firing rail guns and throwing dry ice bombs along with whatever else they could find. The riot squad countered with sound amplifiers. Way I understand it, a good portion of the rioters lost their hearing permanently that day, that’s how bad it was.”

“My dad was in that crowd,” Tian Lang said. “That’s why he’s nearly deaf.”

Dressen nodded. “So I was working that day, trying to fertilize a grassy plot along the margins of the riots, when I realized just how badly outnumbered the riot squad was by all the protestors. And, you know, I’d always sympathized with the independence movement, so I brought the thresher in low, right over the riot squad. Now there were about five, six hundred of them, all clad in that black armor which made the dry ice bombs about as dangerous as snowballs. I activated the turbines, throttled them up to full-bore, and started swerving left and right. You’ve got to realize, those blades can attain speeds upwards of a hundred thousand rotations per second. The force they generate would shock you. Well, they sure stunned the guards that day. They got blown away like chaff. Their weapons went skittering down the pavement. Most of them ended up in the hands of the protestors.”

“Was it dangerous?”

“You better believe it. The thresher’s whole underside was scored and nicked by rubber bullets and electric bolts, but I was lucky, you see. Because they were in riot mode, they didn’t have any heavy weaponry. And you know the rest of the story. The protestors swarmed the riot squad, overpowered them, and flooded the government district. I’m sure you’ve seen that iconic picture of the protestors flooding up the steps of the embassy, tearing down the sun and stars banner of Earth and replacing it with the orange plain of Mars. That’s my legacy.” He grinned wryly and leaned toward the widow Chang. “What’s yours, again?”

She did not reply.

His grin fading a little, Dressen shrugged and watched the heaps of black rock flash by. He always presented himself in a good light when he told the story, but the truth was very different. Dressen had never had any especially strong political convictions, and the day of the riots he’d been innocently going about his work when a poorly aimed dry ice bomb smashed against his windshield. The frozen smoke reduced his visibility to about five meters, making him lose control of the thresher. Only the wildest chance had led him to not only survive, but fly directly over the riot squad. The truth was that he could just as easily have swept away the protestors and become a hero for Earth. Of course, he’d kept all that quiet in the aftermath of the riots, when he was lauded as one of the champions of the rebellion. He’d turned that into a lucrative speaking career and a brief (albeit not terribly successful) stint as a detective. The only meaningful case of his career was his current one, the one that had driven him here to the edge of the polar sea and sapped him of whatever promise he’d once held.

The skimmer floated up a steep rise. The shallows of the polar sea glimmered blue in the distance. Steam poured off the waters from the submerged reactors scattered along the sea bottom. Dressen felt very grateful the skimmer was enclosed. Powerful winds battered the small craft as it drifted across the waters. Overhead, the sky was beginning to lighten, tingeing the darkness with a faint pink that made Dressen cover his face with his arm.

“So what made you stop flying?” Tian Lang asked.

“You know the nuclear reactor that detonated on the slopes of the Olympus Mons?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, at the end of the rebellion, the newly appointed lictors wanted to take control of key infrastructure. I volunteered to pilot the team that took control of the nuclear reactor on Olympus Mons. There was only a skeleton guard on duty that night, and the soldiers I flew in took control real easy. Only it was jury-rigged it to blow if the facility was compromised. I could hear my men yelling in my headset, and I almost got out of range. But like the fool I am, I turned to watch the detonation.” Dressen’s voice was hoarse with regret. “It was the greatest light I’d ever seen. And then the greatest shade.”

 ***

They reached the monitoring station by mid-morning. Dressen felt uneasy just looking at it. Balanced precariously on massive steel beams that rose from the sea floor, the platform leaned crookedly to port, so much so that waves lapped against the girders. The widow Chang ignited the skimmer’s thrusters when they drew near, sending the craft soaring up onto the platform.

Dressen felt bitterly cold as soon as he stepped onto the windblown deck. Freezing spray lashed his face and drenched him within moments. Tian Lang’s cane had trouble finding purchase on the soaked metal, and at last Dressen gave him his arm. Chang tried the console on what appeared to be the only door, but to no one’s surprise it was dead. Unflappable as ever, she produced a slender bundle from her coat pocket and wedged it against the bottom. She took one step back. The package began to hiss and burn white. Dressen heard the crackling sound of iron melting.  Then, the widow Chang crouched low and threw her shoulder against the door. The door peeled away from the bottom like a drape being swished aside.

Tian Lang sighed as he tossed his cane through the little aperture and slid forward. Dressen followed on his hands and knees. He felt unspeakably grateful to be out of the wind. Once inside, the widow Chang began to fiddle with the mess of gears and knobs that occupied one side of the dark, narrow room they’d entered. A shadowy corridor extending from the far side of the room was the only exit Dressen could see. He followed it a little ways before it led to a creaky stairwell he dared not descend in the darkness.

“I wish we had Adewale here,” he reflected as the widow Chang searched for the power switch. She found it after a few minutes, bathing the room in red and yellow light.

“Look for the surveillance footage,” she barked at Tian Lang, who had been massaging his leg. He jumped, and immediately began stumping through the facility in search of it.

Finding himself alone with the widow Chang, Dressen couldn’t repress his curiosity. “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you helping us? No offense, but I haven’t heard much about you that suggests you care a whole lot about Mars or its people.”

“I respect Song Tai Ruan and Adewale Akogonnaye. They are the only reason I am here.”

“So you really don’t care about learning the truth, or getting justice for Ashley?”

“Is that her name? I did not know, nor do I care. I have never cared about principles or the general wellbeing of my people, Mr. Dressen. I care solely for my friends, and the shape of my life has left me with precious few of those. But for them, I would do anything.”

Dressen nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose I can relate to that. I’m much the same, in my own way. Though I’m not sure what it says about me that the only person I care about is almost certainly dead, and my motives there are suspect at best.”

The widow Chang’s cool gaze seemed to thaw for a moment. “You seem to care about the boy a little.” She paused and almost said something more, but the words froze in her mouth as the distant whine of an engine grew audible.  She hastened to the ruined door and peered out. “Men are coming in that motorboat. Grey-coated men. Three of them. You and the boy need to hide yourselves.”

She tossed her overcoat onto the table. Dressen saw that the mysterious bulky sleeve from earlier still encased her left arm. It opened along a seam, revealing a row of little green plants rooted in dark soil. She tapped a button on the side, and a faint mist covered the drooping plants. Almost immediately, the leaves came to life, stiffening and gaining a shiny reddish tinge that had been completely absent moments before.

“Not just for agricultural purposes, I take it,” Dressen said. She did not reply.

“I found it,” Tian Lang’s muffled voice sounded from the corridor. He limped around the corner clutching a pair of discs.

“We’re past that now.”

Metal boots clanged their way across the platform. Hushed voices conferred and then someone said, “Make sure no harm comes to Dressen or the kid. Kill the other one.”

The widow Chang’s smile curved like a scimitar across her face. Dressen leveled his sound amplifier. Tian Lang looked queasy as he brandished his cane. They crouched behind an aluminum table, their anxious breaths mingling in the cold air.

A white beam sheared off the top of the door. Then a man wearing a grey coat jumped over the charred wreckage, a black rifle in his hands. Dressen dialed up the setting on his amplifier and clenched the trigger. The man threw his hands over his ears, the rifle clattering to the floor. Then he lost his footing and collapsed, twitching violently.

There was a thirty second pause, and then someone flung a shiny cylindrical object into the room. The whole room flashed red and Dressen heard the crackling of gunfire. By the time he could discern shapes again, he and Tian Lang lay on their backs. Two men with rifles stood over them. The widow Chang was nowhere to be found.

Uther took off his black mask and chuckled as he inspected the sound amplifier before tossing it aside. Tian Lang groaned. His gloved fingers were wrapped around his stomach. Black blood oozed between them. Uther cursed when he saw. “You’ll be fine, kid. We’ll get you to a doctor real fast.” Then the third man, the one Dressen had shot, staggered to his feet. He moaned as he massaged his ears. Uther lifted Dressen bodily to his feet, kicked his legs apart, and searched his pockets. “Not even a bottle of whiskey? I’m disappointed in you.”

Dressen’s smile soured a little. “I had a bottle of baijiu. I’m not sure what happened to it. Anyways, Adewale sends his regards,” he said.

“Is he here? Thermal readings showed there were three of you, so don’t bother lying. I was hoping to see him again.”

“Sorry, he’s resting comfortably back home. But I suspect our new companion will introduce herself before long,” Dressen said.

Uther laughed, his harelip twisting hideously in the harsh glare. “You brought a woman here? Don’t tell me it was to provide security.”

Two projectiles came whirring from the far side of the room. Uther’s comrade instantly clasped his fingers to his neck. They came away bloody, holding a slender red leaf with edges sharp as blades. Before he could utter a word, he slipped, grabbed at the table for support, and fell heavily. The second leaf buried itself in Uther’s thick coat. He swung his rifle toward the corridor. Electric bullets sprayed the wall, flickering blue as they ricocheted off the metal. Then, realizing the rifle was set to stun, Uther flicked a lever and immediately the discharge turned white.

But by then the widow Chang had vanished. Uther motioned at his fellow soldier to investigate. The man crept into the corridor warily, and though Dressen half expected him to be ambushed, he soon returned. He held up his hands and shrugged. Then there was a flicker of motion at the ruined door. Dressen blinked. Surely the widow Chang couldn’t have looped around so fast. Then she dove through the entranceway, rolling into a somersault and hurling two more leaves. One embedded itself just beneath the eye of the tall man. Whatever poison laced its edges took immediate effect; the man screamed and dropped to the floor. The second leaf that had been aimed at Uther nicked the side of his rifle and went wide.

He held the rifle at his hip, spraying wildly at the darting woman who dove and lunged from table to table, trailed by a blur of white fire. At last she charged up one of the tables and leapt toward him, a short, curved blade in one hand. She struck down with the knife even as he tilted the rifle upwards and fired. They collapsed together, remaining still for such a long time that Dressen thought both were dead. Then, slowly, Uther shuddered and pushed the widow Chang off him. Her thin coat was burned straight through in two places. Dressen’s heart sank.

“So,” Uther said as he grabbed his rifle. “Where were we?” Then, as though he’d been stung, he grabbed at his neck. Dressen saw a long, thin scar sweeping across his throat. “Oh no,” Uther said, his voice faltering.

“Looks like a pretty shallow cut to me,” Dressen said regretfully.

His eyes wide with alarm, Uther could only shake his head. “Not-not for me. I have hemophilia. Christ, I better not die from a scratch like this.” There was a long silence. “We need to hurry now. You’re both coming with me. Dressen first.” Uther marched Dressen out to the ice breaker he’d anchored off the platform. Dressen shivered as the howling winds tore at his naked face and hands. Uther pinioned Dressen’s hands with a spool of razor-wire and told him not to move.

But when he reentered the station, Dressen could hear cursing from inside. “That bitch, I swear to God I’ll kill her. How . . .” When he emerged, red-faced and furious, he was empty-handed.

Dressen smiled. The widow Chang had lived up to her reputation. There was no chance Uther would pursue her and the boy down that stairwell in the darkness, not alone.

“I don’t know what you’re smiling about,” Uther said as he climbed into the boat, one hand clamped around his cut that had already begun to ooze blood. “The physicians back at headquarters will take care of this just fine. I wish I could say the same for you and your friends. Even the boy took a pretty severe hit to the stomach. I’m not sure he’ll make it.”

“You better hope he does,” Dressen replied coldly. “His father might have something to say about it otherwise.”

Uther glowered at him, then turned the boat around and aimed it toward the distant spires of Malanga’s headquarters.

***

Dressen drew a lot of stares from the guards and receptionists as Uther marched him through the facility at gunpoint. Uther brushed past Xiao Bi An’s secretary, opened the door, and shoved him inside. He followed close behind, closing the door abruptly behind him.

Xiao Xiansheng sat behind his desk, leafing through the contents of a thin folder. He looked up from them and frowned. “Where is my son?”

“I wasn’t able to bring him in. He escaped with some woman who might well have some bio-augmentations. I truly don’t know how else to explain it.” Uther applied some pressure to the gauze bandage he’d secured around his neck during their trip back.

“Is he alive?’

“Yes.”

“Speak up.”

Uther scowled. “Yes, he’s alive. His injury was not life-threatening.” He shot Dressen a warning look.

“So, as I understand it, you went with two men to apprehend a drunk and a cripple. And, for the second time in as many days, you return to me without the men. And this time you have failed to bring me my son as well, though he can scarcely walk. Get out.

“But sir!” Uther protested.

“See to your wound. I wouldn’t want you dying on account of a little scratch.”

Once he’d gone, Mr. Xiao bade Dressen sit on the same couch where he’d woken up five days earlier. “So, have you uncovered the truth of what befell Miss Flood?”

Dressen began to shake his head. Then he stopped. “You killed her.”

“Just so. I’d been stockpiling artillery and other heavy weapons for years in case Earth attempted to invade. One of the largest caches was stored in the support legs of the monitoring station you visited today. Miss Flood was an extraordinary investigator. She discovered it. I felt truly sorry for having to order her death, but I could not risk her reporting back to the authorities.”

“To the lictors?”

“What do I care about the lictors? My sole concern was that she would inform her superiors on Earth. At the time, I was afraid of being discovered. Seven years ago Reconciliation seemed impossible. I felt confident I could stop it.”

“Only you failed.”

“Yes. I bribed lictors, assassinated pro-Reconciliation leaders, promoted my own candidates. None of it was enough.”

“The fact that Mars is on the verge of collapsing may have something to do with it.”

“Collapsing?” Mr. Xiao laughed incredulously. “It is only now that we have become truly free. We have the chance to determine our own destiny. But like the prodigal son from that old Christian parable, we are returning humbled and cowed to our father, to Earth.”

“You believe in Christianity?”

“I believe in Mars, Mr. Dressen. No more, no less. I want my son to live in a Mars which is not beholden to corporations and greedy leaders. A Mars of free hearts.”

“Your own son despises the prospect of Isolation. Hell, he became crippled in a pro-Reconciliation rally. And the only reason his injury can’t be healed is because our technology, your technology, has regressed. Who are you to make that decision for him?”

Mr. Xiao moved from behind his desk, but he did not stand. For the first time, Dressen realized the old man was bound to a wheelchair. “I know well what it is to be a cripple. I was born with horrifically twisted feet. I could fix them surgically if I chose, but I have accepted my limitations. My feet are a symbol of Mars, Mr. Dressen, warts and all. I endure them because I know we all must suffer to secure a brighter future.”

“Well, Reconciliation’s almost here. The first transport ships should be arriving by daybreak tomorrow. Is this what you’d envisioned?”

“No. If I must be frank, nothing has unfolded the way I foresaw. I am left with no other choice, but to rely on you, humiliating as that is.”

“You’re relying on me?”

“Yes. I need you to publicly admit that you have solved your case, that you have found me responsible for Ashley Flood’s death, and that you have uncovered massive arms caches as part of your search.”

Bewildered, Dressen could only shake his head. “Why don’t you do it yourself?”

“I will, but at this late hour such accusations will reek of desperation. You still command respect both here and on Earth. As an objective third party, you will lend credibility to my claims. You may find it hard to believe, but most people remain unaware that you are a drunk and a degenerate gambler.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Dressen said offhandedly.

“That’s why the lictors hired you. And yes, it was the lictors who ultimately chose you to investigate Miss Flood’s disappearance, even though they engaged a detective agency to contact you in their stead. They knew if they hired a lower-profile individual they would risk seeming indifferent, thereby angering Earth. But if the case was solved and a well-connected individual or corporation was behind Ms. Flood’s death, that might hinder negotiations with Earth as well. But you, you’re incompetent. You’re a degenerate and an addict. And you’ve been everything they could have asked for. Only now, as fate would have it, I need the case solved. And I need you to do it.”

Mr. Xiao slid a laminated folder across the table. Dressen picked it up and leafed through it, only to look away in disgust. The folder contained high resolution photographs of Miss Flood’s corpse.

“I had the photos taken in case I ever needed to frame someone for her death. As it turns out, I will be using them to affirm my own guilt. So here’s what you are going to do. When you leave here, you will call up three newspapers in Capricorn and one in Cancer, and tell them everything you’ve learned. You’ll even hand over these lurid photos as proof.”

“And then?”

“That should be enough. The knowledge that the head of the Malanga Corporation is stockpiling weapons should inspire enough fear to delay Reconciliation for months, if not longer. That will provide me with the time to make the delay indefinite.”

“Why didn’t you tell me all this from the beginning?”

“I was unsure of your loyalties. I took considerable measures to learn the truth, believe me.”

“Did you pay Orvar to ask me those questions?”

“Him and others. Your man Orvar leapt at the chance to earn a little more money to throw away at the card tables. But to be honest, I had hoped that you would solve the case yourself, and then go public with your discoveries of your own accord. That would have saved us all a great deal of trouble. But you wasted so much time, and precious little now remains. Will you do as I ask?”

“Why would I help a man like you? You’re no better than the corporations you’re so afraid of replacing you.  Hell, I see now that you’re the one behind all the violence in Capricorn, staging bombings on east side and west side alike just to make the place seem more destabilized, maybe scare off Earth from restoring contact. All those innocent lives . . .”

Mr. Xiao adopted a look of such wounded dignity that Dressen wanted to punch him. “I feel for each of them as if they were my own son.”

“I’ve seen how you treat your son. That means less than nothing.”

“Let’s be honest, Mr. Dressen. You are broke. With your case ending, there will be no more money. Should you call the press conference as I ask, I will see to it that you receive a substantial stipend for all the rest of your days, enough to ensure you never run out of funds to play in your Vauxhall. Yes,” he smiled. “I know where you spend all your time. I was the one who fed the information to that man Adewale in the first place, because I knew he’d funnel it to my son, and that my son would in turn engage your services. I have manipulated you at every step, Mr. Dressen, and you’ve been quite obliging, so please don’t do anything rash now.”

Dressen picked up the folder slowly, as though drunk with regret, and stood. He owed nothing to the girl. He owed nothing to anyone, now, and that was the way he preferred it. The holograms that lined Mr. Xiao’s wall drew his attention, all those cheerful faces, and even his own in the corner, with his bright smile and wide eyes. What had happened? Nothing, he realized. Nothing had happened, because he’d never been a hero, only a pretender and a fool his whole life. A victim of circumstance. He couldn’t change that now. “Yes,” he told Mr. Xiao quietly. “Yes. I’ll do as you ask.” He turned to leave.

“Mr. Dressen,” Mr. Xiao called from behind him. Dressen stopped. “You forgot to sign your hologram.”

“I know.”

 ***

An electric car was waiting for him outside. The driver asked Dressen where he wanted to go and he said home without thinking. But when he got there and unscrewed a bottle of whiskey, he realized he couldn’t go to sleep just yet. Slipping the bottle into his pocket, he left and began to wander the streets. They were quiet and strangely empty. Dressen scarcely watched where he was going, his eyes intent on the vault of stars overhead.

Then his earpiece began to buzz. He held a finger to it. The voice that crackled from the speaker was that of Tian Lang. “Dressen, are you doing okay?”

“I’m just fine, kid,” he said. “How are you?”

“I’m cooped up in a hospital on the west side. I took a stinger to my left side, but I’m going to be okay. It might be a few weeks before I’m up and running again. What happened with my father?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Dressen said. “I’m glad you’re alright. You’re an awful fighter, but you’ve got some heart.”

Tian Lang laughed. “Good night.”

Dressen strolled down the darkened streets, feeling oddly numb. A massive garden came floating overhead, trailing its leafy tendrils, and Dressen stepped onto the sidewalk to avoid being soaked by the sprinklers. He looked up to see that he was only meters from the Vauxhall. Perhaps he should have guessed he would wind up here. He walked over to the entrance. Then he hesitated. He wondered, absurdly, what Tian Lang would think if he knew where he was. Then he wondered what had befallen the widow Chang, and cursed himself for not asking.

The doors to the Vauxhall slid open. The roaring of drunken laughter and a gust of heat greeted Dressen like a long lost brother. He froze there, watching the dealers and the card players and all the spectators. He ran his hands through his coat pockets, groping for the whiskey. His fingers brushed the cold silver crucifix that hung around his neck. Then he smiled and looked up.

Countless arcs of white light lanced toward Phobos and Deimos, which burned like reborn stars in the night sky. Beacons of change. Who was he to determine the fate of Mars, to determine whether Reconciliation came or not? He was an old man who’d squandered most of his life. He’d give the photos to Tian Lang, to do with as he chose. Let the future generations decide. Dressen raised the whiskey bottle to his lips and took a long swallow. Then he turned away from the warmth of the Vauxhall and set off towards home, his way lit by the incandescence of the night.

***

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