Blightborn (31 page)

Balastair thinks to remind the peregrine that
he
is the one who invited Arthur McAvoy’s daughter into his bed. But that
would earn Balastair nothing except a far earlier death than scheduled. A “botched escape attempt” is how the peregrine would surely spin it.

For now Balastair keeps quiet.

Of course he knew who Arthur was. Though that the man’s own daughter was here on the flotilla—that, admittedly, slipped by him.

“The conspiracy’s margins have been darkened,” the peregrine says. “Arthur. You. Merelda. Gwendolyn Shawcatch, too, is part of the conspiracy and has been from the beginning—it seems one of her lovers is
Cael
McAvoy. And so”—he clears his throat—“we mean to execute you. Publicly, as is the way with those who threaten the sanctity and safety of the Empyrean as a whole.”

Balastair says nothing. He merely nods.

“What? No bluster? No threats to kill me now?”

“Would they do any good?”

“No.”

“You’ll not hang me today. The festival and all. But soon, yes?”

“The praetor wishes to wait. Until we have at least another traitor in hand. Give the whole event a little more . . .” He appears to search the air for the word.

Balastair gives it to him. “Spectacle.”

“Yes. There you go. Spectacle.”

At the base of the birdcage tower, the praetor waits for him. Surrounded as usual by a small swarm of worker bees striving to
get their every wish on paper, executed properly, lest they be chastised in front of the others. Attachés and assistants, flashing visidexes, obsequious gestures and pleading faces.

It’s easy to see why. Praetor Garriott cuts an imposing figure. She’s not particularly tall. But her shoulders are broad. Her jaw firm and tight. That nose sharp and pointed, her gaze always seeming to look down it at you—like a hunter staring over a nocked arrow.

As the peregrine approaches, she makes a hand-swipe gesture, and the small crowd of assistants and administrators backs away.

“Percy,” she says.

“He more or less admitted everything,” the peregrine says. “The fear was plain to see. He knows his foot’s in the trap.”

“You think he’ll try to gnaw it off?”

Percy draws a deep breath. “I don’t. He’s not the type. Too scared. Where’s he going to go? To whom will he speak? No, he’ll stand there and tremble and break down inch by inch, a flinty rock chipped away by the hammer of his own copious anxiety. We should put a watch on him. He’ll tear his hair out. Fingernails. Maybe try to kill himself.”

“Let’s walk. I have a meeting with the engineers that I’m already late for. The architect wants a new art district, the engineers say they can’t accommodate a bigger ship, and I’m in the middle.” They continue down one of the the narrow, redbrick walkways of the Birdcage District—the white prison towers rising high around them like, well, Percy always thought they looked a bit like polished finger bones. As they walk, the praetor says, “Regarding Harrington: a breakdown is fine. But suicide, that leaves us with nothing in terms of a public example.”

Example.
Yes. That’s a better word than
spectacle
, isn’t it?

“Let’s carry the example further,” she says.

“What do you have in mind?”

“In going over your notes, it’s plain to see that all this orbits a particular hornet’s nest down in the Heartland—”

“Yes. One town. Boxelder, I believe.”

“Mm. Inform the proctor there—Who is it again?”

“Simone Agrasanto.”

“Right. Inform her that we’re looking at Boxelder for the Initiative.”

“She’s likely unaware of what that means.”

“Feel her out then. Bring her into the fold on it if she seems solid. If not, then quietly reassign her to some other dustbin.”

He nods. “Boxelder. The Initiative. Of course.” He only hopes the good proctor hasn’t “gone native.” Her field notes suggest she would not be the type.

He begins to break away down a sidepath, heading toward the east elevator.

“And Percy?”

The praetor’s voice stops him short. “Yes, Praetor?”

“You failed me. My tolerance is a very small cup, and it fills up fast.”

The assistants and administrators shuffle about, suddenly nervous. They’re all trying not to look at him.

A very public dressing-down among the gossips and natters of the lower echelons. It gets across a very clear message:

You, Percy Lemaire-Laurent, are on notice
.

TOGETHER, AT A DISTANCE

“IT’S HAPPENING,”
Lane says, pulling Cael up out of the cot. Cael was finally able to fall asleep come early morning, and no dreams or nightmares waited for him—just an uncomfortable nothing.

Lane wasn’t in the room when he fell asleep.

But here he is now. Grabbing Cael by the hand, yanking him upward.

Doesn’t take long for the fog of interrupted sleep to part.

Doesn’t take long for Cael to pop Lane in the gut with a fist.

Lane doubles over. Coughing.

Cael hops off the cot. He sniffs. Wipes sleep crust from his eyes with the back of his hand. Rolls his head on his neck, hears his vertebrae pop. Then he puts up both fists.

“Come on, Moreau; let’s dance this out.”

“This is about . . . what I told Killian,” Lane says, looking up while still bent over, clutching his breadbasket.

“This is about
you betraying me
.”

“I had to tell them.”

“You had to do no such thing. You still got stars and moons in your eyes over this whole Sleeping Dogs thing. Like you’ve been a raider in your heart all your life. Like I wasn’t the one who saved your scrawny ass from Boyland’s fists back in school—”

“Well,” Lane says, straightening. “Technically you got in the way of his fists more than anything, but I suppose, yeah, that saved me a few blows.”

Cael shoves Lane. Grabs his collar with one hand and rears back with his fist. “We’re supposed to be friends, Lane. What was that bullshit from earlier?
Oh, Cael, you and Rigo are my true home
. I made a call, and it was to keep this secret. Wanda might’ve been on that boat. Blast like that—”

“They just took out the sails.”

“You don’t know that.” The fist trembles. Like a beast held at bay. Hungry. Angry.

“I trust Killian. I trust he’s a good shot.”

“I don’t trust anybody here except Rigo and—Well, now, just Rigo, I guess. Because you’ve thrown your gear in with another crew. Friends or not, I always figured you still had me pegged as your captain.” Cael scowls. “But I’m not your captain anymore. Your trust lies with someone else.”

Lane doesn’t deny it. All he does is look at the fist and ask, “Are you gonna hit me?”

Cael thinks about it.

Lane is his friend. His family. His crew. But Lane lying to him like that? Betraying him to a raider? He should bust Lane’s pretty-boy face.

But all the hot air goes out of him. Suddenly he just feels tired. Worry fills the space. Worry over all the things and people that have been plaguing him. Worry with teeth, like dogs biting at a fell-deer until they bring it down.

He lets go of Lane and steps back. “What in King Hell did you wake me for?”

“Killian. He said you could sit in on the parley.”

“Parley? What parley?”

“They’re planning their next move. He said he told you—”

“That I could come. Yeah. Fine. Lead the way, raider boy.”

In the hall, Rigo sees Cael and Lane. And they see Rigo, who brightens as they approach—poor Rigo tries to wave but almost falls and instead just lifts his chin and looks a little embarrassed.

“Hey, guys,” Rigo says. “I was told I could sit in on the meet.”

Cael almost claps Rigo hard on the back but then softens his camaraderie at the last moment to a gentle tap. “Hey, buddy. Yeah, I guess we’re allowed to sit at the big boys’ table for today. Though I’m sure some of us will get better chairs than others.” He shoots Lane a look.

Lane rolls his eyes.

“What’s going on?” Rigo asks.

“Nothing,” Lane says.

“Everything,” Cael says. “This long-legged shuck rat over here betrayed me,
as rats are wont to do.
”

“What?” Rigo asks. “Is this about what happened last night?”

“It’s
nothing
,” Lane says. “We’re late for the thing—”

Already they can hear people murmuring down the hall
through a closed door somewhere. The smooth twang of Killian. The gruff mumble of some other raider. No words made out, just the sounds of voices.

“It ain’t nothing,” Cael says. “Rigo, there’s a lot you don’t know.” And so he starts telling him the story.

“Lane,” Rigo says. “Whoa. Man. Hey. Not cool.”

“You remember Boyland Barnes Junior?” Lane asks him. “Was he our buddy? Our pal? Seems to me that him following us should be a red flare in the sky, not something to keep under our hats. His father was all tucked away with the Empyrean. No reason to believe he isn’t, too.”

“That’s a good point,” Rigo says.

Cael cocks an eyebrow. “A good point my ass. The point is that I asked Lane to keep it quiet, and he said he would and then he didn’t. It’s the . . . the principle of the thing we’re talking about here. The only point Lane has is the one at the end of the knife he stuck in my back.”

Rigo nods. “Lane, you shouldn’t have told Cael you’d do something if you weren’t planning on doing it—”

“Who’s side are you on?” Lane asks.

“I’m on both of your sides,” Rigo says, always the diplomat, the negotiator, and it occurs suddenly to Cael why that probably is: two parents, one who’d take the back of his hand to his wife and children, and there’s Rigo in the middle of it, trying to talk everybody down, trying to keep everything okay and make sure nobody’s upset.

So that’s when Cael decides to drop the bomb:

“Rigo, your dad was on that boat.”

Rigo’s face goes slack. “Wh . . . wait, what?”

Lane winces. “Shit.”

Cael nods. “Boyland, Wanda, and your father formed some kind of . . . posse, I guess it was. He was on that boat when it got hit. No idea what happened to him.”

Rigo stands there. Looking like he’s a motorvator on short circuit—his mouth forms words he doesn’t speak. His eyes pinch, then go wide, then his hands flex into fists. Finally he stiffens up and gives both of the other boys a long, hard look.

“He deserves what he got,” Rigo says with some finality. “He should’ve been smart and just let me go. To King Hell with him.”

Lane looks at Cael and shrugs.

Cael’s about to say something, about to protest—

But then something catches Cael’s ear. A sound. No. A
voice
. From behind closed doors.

He turns. Starts to wander toward it.

The other boys call after him, but he feels almost hypnotized by it. Like the sound is an invisible rope wound around his neck and he’s just a goat being led to the water bucket or the feed bin or, worse, to slaughter.

Because he knows that voice.

It can’t be
.

He reaches out.

Opens the door.

Inside, a room of raiders. All around a big wooden table sitting on proper chairs. Killian’s at the head of it, not sitting but standing, looking not at the projection on the wall but rather facing a visidex that sits propped up behind a stack of books. It’s
the visidex that projects the image on the wall—shaky, staticky, flickering like the light from a loose bulb.

That image is a face.

And that face is Gwennie’s.

For a moment Cael can’t speak.

He hears gasps behind him as Rigo and Lane come into the room.

Killian’s in the middle of saying “You did just fine, Miss Shawcatch, no worries about them wiping the visidex. We anticipated such a maneuver, and we have very talented people in place who know how to crack that particular nut. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

He reaches out, taps the visidex.

Gwennie’s face is gone. Another woman’s face appears. Older. Square head. Leather wrapped around a couple of bricks.

“Gwennie!” Cael cries out. He hurries into the room. “No, no, c’mon, put the girl’s face back up.” Everyone just stares at him as if he’s got a pig’s nose and dog ears. He raises his voice louder. “I said, put the girl back on the godsdamn screen, Killian.”

There—a little look between Killian and Lane. Killian’s look is a question. Lane’s short nod is an answer. Cael files that away for later, but for now it does the trick. Killian says, “Hold on, Mary Salton; I have a curious development here in my war room.”

And with another tap of the button, Gwennie’s face appears anew.

She’s not looking at them. She’s half turned around, talking to someone unseen. Cael says her name once, then louder the second time, and he sees someone on-screen—the same woman
he just saw, with the deep, furrowed lines in the tanned leather of her face—whisper in Gwennie’s ear, and suddenly she’s turning.

“Who?” she asks. Eyes searching. As if she’s blind.
She can’t see me.
But then Killian takes the visidex on the table and plunks it around the other way, on the other side of the book stack.

And suddenly Gwennie’s face is frozen in slack-jawed shock.