(In which Elizabeth gets caught up in the revolution against Silas, has an altercation with the Black Guard, and brings misery to the Inn)
Nineteenth
Nineteenth
Elizabeth paced her bedroom,
her mind too busy for sleep. Every time she closed her eyes the inn’s
floorboards would creak as they settled, or a cat would move through the dark
night, and her eyelids would fly open in anticipation of Lang’s arrival.
She tried reading, but her
eyes swam without comprehension over the pages of spiral-writing she had
procured from the inn's lounge. She tried making lists of things, a strategy
that always worked for her on those nights when she lay awake worrying about
her mother, but her ability to catalogue had taken a vacation. Finally, she
settled back onto her bed, content to stare at her metal hand.
In the first weeks she spent
in Edge, she could hardly stand to look at it. Of course she knew the hand was there and what it was
capable of, even made use of its points and blades when she could, when the
situation called for it. But intense examination felt too much like probing a
fresh wound, seeing the subcutaneous fat and sinew and bone, being forced to
acknowledge the existence of parts meant to be hidden from one's own eyes.
But now, after spending so
much time relying on the blades for her survival and sustenance, she reached a
state of acceptance. She flexed each finger in turn as though she was a
prestidigitator walking a coin across the knuckles, making the blades go
alternatingly dull then sharp. She bent the wrist back and forth and slowly
twisted the forearm as though her arm was on a jewelry-store display table. The
design of it, if that was the correct word, was nothing short of amazing. It
was as if her bones had been cast in metal, then had been wrapped in a
super-hard foil and then folded to taper to a blade's edge on the palm side of
each finger, culminating in a pointed tip. Both the knife-edges and the points
were unbelievably sharp: she had yet to find anything they wouldn't cut or
penetrate.
Other than routine cleaning
when it got dirty, Elizabeth had not performed any sort of maintenance on the
hand, either. A regular knife would require sharpening to maintain its edge,
but this hand seemed not to need the attention. She had come to think of the
outer surface as less than alive because of the decrease in sensation, but
maybe that wasn't altogether accurate. Maybe the design allowed the energy that
would have gone into sending signals to her brain to work in other ways that
kept the weapon in as effective a state as possible.
What about healing? If she
did come across something hard enough to break or scratch it, would she be left
with that damage forever? Or was there some sort of innate repair mechanism she
had yet to trigger?
She sighed. Hundreds upon
hundreds of stories about Eliza, yet so few contained facts that were actually
useful to her. Elizabeth would have killed for a simple handbook for the care
of the hand melded with metal.
Her thoughts wandered to the
glasses hidden within her face. She had suffered no problems with eye motion or
sensitivity, and her vision remained as sharp as when she wore her contacts or
glasses in Central. She did feel the a hint of stiffness in the lower portion
of her forehead and upper parts of her cheeks where the frame would rest, but
this was noticeable only when she scrunched her face.
Did other migrants from
Central have similar souvenirs tucked within their skin? She supposed so,
especially if they had come through without realizing it. Necklaces, bracelets,
earrings, watches—she guessed all of these things could go through the same odd
merging. But how many of these occurrences resulted in the formation of a weapon?
And how many occurred twice?
Her musing was interrupted by
a high-pitched humming, quickly joined by the sound of a light rapping against
the door...not from the hallway-side of the door, but rather from the side
facing her quarters. She squinted in the dim light to see a small insect making
crazy spirals around her room, bumping against the flat of the door every three
or four revolutions.
She squinted through the
dimness to the clock; it was just after midnight. Maisey had long since gone to
bed. Elizabeth got up to open the door, pulling on a glove in case there was
someone besides Lang in the hallway. Of course, if anyone else was around to witness this, they would
almost certainly get the wrong idea. Though, she considered, the right idea was probably just as
damaging.
She opened the door and
yanked Lang inside, inadvertently banging his head against the lintel. He
yelped his surprise, and the bee dive-bombed Elizabeth’s face. She reached up
to slap it away, a reflexive movement that would have been the first step of a
fiasco, had Lang not caught her wrist midflight. "I wouldn't. She's
awfully touchy, and it took a lot to get her to come to this meeting with just
me. She doesn't like being away from her guards."
"’She’?"
"The Queen. You are in
the presence of royalty, my dear."
"Should I kneel?"
He considered. "It
wouldn't hurt, I suppose, but it isn’t necessary. The Queen doesn't stand much
on ceremony, at least not where humans are concerned. There is a little dance the workers do to
greet her. If you could replicate that, I suppose she would be impressed, but,
lacking wings and feelers and such, I think you would be excused form such
social niceties."
The Queen flew to the breast
pocket of his shirt and landed next to a button. She moved her forelegs in a
back-and-forth motion about her head, some form of preening. Lang continued,
"For future reference, it's best not to strike her. The rest of the hive
would be here before you could blink, and hundreds of injections of poison,
small as the individual doses are, tend to add up quickly."
"It was just a
reflex."
"As would be their
response. But you would be just as dead. If I were you, I would try to keep
those reflexes under control." She wondered if Lang had any vocal tones
that didn't contain condescension.
She waved her hand in the
air. "Do you still need to see it?"
"If you would not mind,
yes."
She held her fingers up in
front of his face, conscious of any motion the Queen might interpret as a threat,
rotating the wrist so he could see the palm and back in equal turns. The smooth
surfaces of the metal reflected the soft candlelight, twisting it into muted
beams.
"Yes," he said, his
voice raspy with some emotion, "yes, this will do." He paused to
clear his throat. “Meet us outside the front door just after dawn."
"Dawn?"
"Yes. In four hours or
so. You'll know it by the light that paints the sky. Usually happens every day.
No promises." She was beginning to hate this man. He let himself out,
ducking beneath the doorway to avoid whacking his head again, and closed the
door quietly behind him.
Elizabeth feared her chances
for sleep were dismal, especially knowing she would have to be up in just a few
hours. But she fell into unconsciousness almost as soon as she hit her mattress,
swimming through dreams restless and fleeting. Upon waking, the only scene she
could hold onto was one in which the ground had started to disintegrate into a
blinding white void. She sprinted to outpace its advancing horizon and, as she
ran, she saw trees, houses, and other people falling away as the emptiness
swallowed the ground on which they stood. When she could run no more and the
destruction overtook her, she looked up to see the cause of the ground's
demise: thousands of moles ripping blindly through the soil, their strong front
paws made of indestructible metal. One turned as she fell, and she saw a
distorted version of her own features where its face should have been.
Upon waking, an overwhelming
dread outweighed her fatigue, but, upon sifting through her emotions, she was
surprised to find a sliver of excitement about the upcoming meeting. Not that
she wanted to be blackmailed, but meeting with people trying to overthrow Silas
could at the very least provide her with information. And, she supposed, if
they were successful she could perhaps claim partial credit with Priest, gaining
passage back home simply for sitting back and letting Edge’s already-existing
political game play itself out.
Guilt swelled with this last
thought. Whatever he had become, Silas was still her brother. Shouldn't she be
trying to meet with him, to explain what had happened to her? Even if she
didn't remember him, he should remember her. Maybe she could talk some sense
into him, influence him to become a better ruler to this strange world. He might
even know of some way for her to return home safely.
Elizabeth dressed as quietly
as possible in the casual pants and shirt she wore on her days off, and her
least conspicuous pair of gloves. She opened the door, gazing down the hall
toward Clara and Winnie’s room. She wouldn't have to sneak past them, as they
would already be downstairs, prepping for the day’s work. Today was hers to do
with what she wished, but it occurred to her that she should have some sort of
explanation ready in case they asked.
Two bees perched on the wall
directly opposite her door, neither of them the Queen. Set as sentries, she
guessed. To make sure she didn't try to run out on her agreement.
As she
started for the stairs, hinges creaked behind her: Maisey's door. The
girl's face was a pale moon in the darkness, floating out of her bedroom. She
was still dressed in her clothes from the night before, and her hair was tousled,
stray wisps popping out of the loose bun she had tied it into.
"What
do you think you're doing?" Maisey whispered. "I heard that man in
your room last night."
Elizabeth
cursed under her breath. She had known the walls were thin; she could hear
practically every move Maisey made when the girl came in at night. But, in her
excitement and worry, she had been careless. Had they said anything
incriminating? She tried to re-create the conversation with Lang, but it was
mixed up with what they had said in the courtyard earlier in the week.
"And
I saw you talking with him the other day. From one of the guest room windows.
You looked upset."
She
thought on her feet. "He--he had news of my old master, from when I was a
child. A cook who recently worked for him just now moved to Aldergate. We have
plans to meet him at the market this morning. I would very much like to hear
about friends from my youth."
Maisey
gnawed on her lower lip. "Elsie, I don't know how to say this, but...we know you're from Central. We don't think
less of you because of it, but that line you feed the guests, about being from
beyond the Obscure Sea...well, you might fool them, but not us." Maisey
stepped into the hallway and knitted her eyebrows with concern. "I don't
like that man. His eyes and his words don't ever say the same thing. It’s like
everything is one big game to him. If you're in some sort of trouble, I know
Clara and Winnie would do whatever they could to help you."
Could they
do anything, though? If she came clean with them, could they somehow get out in
front of this story spreading, protect themselves and the inn? She had the
impression that they had made many powerful connections in their years helming
The Griff, but she didn't see how they could come through such a scandal
unscathed. Not if the Black Guard were as vengeful as they seemed. At best they
could be blackballed; at worst, imprisoned.
A slight
buzzing drew her attention; she had momentarily forgotten about the two
bee-scouts on the wall. She had no way of knowing how much human speech they
could understand or report back, but it would be prudent to assume they were
fluent.
"I
can handle it," she told Maisey, hoping to imbue the words with more
confidence than she felt. Elizabeth turned to walk away.
"If
you don't tell them what is going on, I will."
Elizabeth
was surprised at the girl's resolve; Maisey hadn't displayed anything
resembling a backbone for as long as she had known her. "There's nothing
to tell. I'm going out on my day off. That's all."
Maisey
stood firm, hands on her hips in an almost parental stance. "You had a
midnight meeting in your quarters with a guest. I think that's something they
would be interested in."
"Maisey,
I know you don't trust Lang. You'll just have to trust me instead. I have the
inn's best interests in mind. I can't tell you why, or what...or anything,
really. But I have to go."
"Then
I'm going with you."
"You
can't."
"I
worked all last night. I'm not needed until midday."
"Look,
this is something that I have to do alone. I can't tell you any more than
that."
Maisey
crossed her arms. "Take me with you, or I'm going to Clara and Winnie
right now."
Elizabeth
looked to the window, down at the end of the hallway. The sky grew lighter.
"Look, Maise, just give me a day, okay? One day to sort this out. If I
can't give information to your satisfaction by tomorrow morning, then we'll
both go to Clara and Winnie, okay?" The girl looked hesitant. "C’mon,
one day. How much damage can I do in
one day?"
Maisey
nodded, reluctantly, the bouncing of her disheveled hair discordant against the
grave seriousness of her face. Elizabeth left her in the hallway, praying the
girl would keep her side of the agreement, with no idea how she would satisfy
her own.
She
slipped past the door to the kitchen without being noticed; Clara and Winnie
were walled behind currents of conversation and the clattering sounds of
cooking. Elizabeth let herself out the back door, walking around to the front
through an alley between the buildings.
Lang
waited there, leaning against the door, pipe in mouth and blowing smoke rings
into the dimness of the dawn. He wore a long black jacket whose silver buttons
blazed pink-orange in the morning light, and a top hat that looked as though it
had seen better days. A handful of bees coated the hatband. With an air of
finality, he knocked the pipe against the corner of the building, dropping the
ashes onto the cobblestones. "Alright, then. Ready to move?"
Wordlessly,
they strode through the early-morning streets. The air still carried the bite
of winter, but its teeth had grown dull and harmless, and the walk quickly
warmed her beyond its reach. The smell of fresh bread wafted through the
streets, bakers preparing their goods for the day's markets, islands of good
smells in an ocean of the city-stink of garbage left out the night before.
Elizabeth
tried her best to keep track of the twists and turns they took, but Lang’s path
led into an unfamiliar section of the city, and she quickly became disoriented.
Finally he stopped, in front of a public house whose hanging sign identified it
as The Banging Drum. Closed shutters obscured its windows, but a light burned
within, its glow visible through the slats. Lang opened the unlocked door and
ushered her inside.
Elizabeth
had only been in one other pub since she came to Edge, the Bitter Seed, back in
Foursmith; the Banging Drum's decor put that tavern’s to shame. The wooden
floor and tables gleamed with polish, and the lighted chandelier appeared to be
made of hundreds of multicolored jewels, ranging in color from deep crimson to
burnt orange to hues of molten gold. Oil portraits adorned the walls, and heavy
velvet curtains brocaded with gold filigree festooned the windows.
At a table
in the center of the room sat the pub’s only occupants: a man and a woman, both
edging towards the twilight of middle age. The man sported a shock of grey hair
with the hint of black threaded through it, slicked back from his forehead; his
heavy-lidded eyes and broad nose conferred a leonine air of confidence and
power. His body was the thickened bulk of an aged athlete.
His
companion had the sort of beauty that is magnified by the grace of age; hair
silver rather than grey, the few spare wrinkles accenting an exotic flair to
her facial features. The woman was slim, graceful: the rapier to her hammer of
a companion.
They stood
as she and Lang approached the table, their eyes flicking in unison to the bee
balanced on his collar. Lang took first the gentleman's extended hand in a firm
shake, then the lady's, which he held up to his mouth. None of the three
smiled.
"Walton,
Adri...this is Elsie."
Elizabeth
felt an urge to curtsy but instead held out her right hand. "It’s nice to
meet you both."
"Please,
sit down." The woman's voice was flat and humorless. "We understand
you have something of interest to us. Something about your...person."
"My
hand. Because it looks like Eliza's."
Walton
narrowed his eyes. "No beating around the bush, I see. Yes, your hand. We
may have work for someone fitting that particular description. If the hand
looks close enough to that of legend."
Lang
interjected. "It does. I have examined it myself. A perfect match." His
tone was softer than Elizabeth had heard it; less haughty, more deferential.
Walton and
Adri looked down at The Queen, who had taken off from Lang's coat and was
executing a complicated series of loops. Several bees from Lang's top hat also
took flight, though these simply circled the hat as though in patrol.
"Your
hand does appear to meet our needs. And you, yourself..." Adri paused,
looking Elizabeth up and down in a way that made her feel like a farm animal on
the auction block, "...will do, as long as no one gets too close. A bit young,
and a bit plain, perhaps." Elizabeth thought that last bit was
unnecessary, "But we could use you."
"Use
me how exactly?"
Walton
shot a disappointed look at Lang. "We'd thought you'd been briefed
already." Lang cringed, almost imperceptibly. Walton turned back to
Elizabeth. "We're going to try to do what no one else has been able to.
Free ourselves and our city from the yoke of Silas's oppression."
Elizabeth
inhaled. "I gathered you were some sort of revolutionaries. Lang told me
that much. But I'm not a soldier, and I'm not even particularly good at using
my hand as a weapon." Accidental
murder of a bartending Minotaur aside, she thought.
"Every
revolution needs warriors, Elsie, and we have our share of those. But to be
successful, it needs something more. It needs a rallying cry. We had hoped that
the disappearance of some of our city's young would make Aldergate angry enough
to organize, but, despite our best efforts, we continue to fall short."
Elizabeth
must have looked confused, for Walton stopped and conferred silently with Adri,
their eyes speaking an exchange of paragraphs before he continued. "Four
years ago, there was a demonstration in the main square of Aldergate. Maybe one
hundred people--mostly young, many from prominent families--protested the taxes
and lack of representation of private citizens in Silas's government. The Black
Guard attempted to disperse the crowd. The protesters...well, nothing more than
speeches had been planned, but some of them were armed, and took offense at the
Guard's presence. The situation...escalated. Rocks and bricks from the crowd,
clubs and truncheons from the Guard. Fires broke out, though it's unclear which
side started them. There were deaths. From both sides."
Adri
placed her hand on Walton’s forearm, picking up the story. "The leaders of
the protest, those that escaped, were hunted down. Despite the fact that it was
planned as a nonviolent protest, and that only a few had taken it upon
themselves to even bring weapons, all of the organizers were branded as
revolutionaries, set to overthrow the government."
"Were
they killed?"
"Not
publicly. Silas is too smart for that. Executing protesters tends to ignite
revolutions, give them strength. No, they were taken." Adri’s hand rose to
her face, her thumb and forefinger massaging her temples, her palm hiding her
eyes. "Four years ago, they were taken by the Black Guard, and not a word
from any of them since."
The
exhausted look on Walton's face...the heavy emotion in Adri's voice. It was
beginning to become clear to Elizabeth. "Your child?" Adri dropped
her hand, and her face hardened, fierce electricity sparking behind her pupils;
she nodded, the slightest movement of her chin.
The woman
tried to continue, but shook her head, motioning for Walton to pick up the
narrative. "Our only son, Esteban. He may be in a prison cell, or he may
be dead. We don't know. None of us
know. And we can't get any answers."
Adri found
her voice and started again, more hesitantly than before. "I do not think
my son is still alive. I am not naive enough to hold onto that hope for this
long. And if I cannot free him, then what can I do? I can work to free my other
child: this city. This city in which we grew up, where our families have lived
for generations. Under the Eagle, we ruled ourselves and we prospered. Under
Silas's watch, our land fractured and we slid to a new region of Edge--"
"Was
that his fault?" Elizabeth blurted out. As soon as the words were out of her
mouth, she realized she had made a mistake; she should not be saying anything
that sounded like a defense of Silas. Not to these people. Not now.
Adri's
eyes flashed; if her husband was a lion, Elizabeth thought, then this woman was
a dragon. "It happened on his
watch. And he did damned little to help in the chaos that followed. Protest a
tax, or pay it late? Guards pop out of the cracks in the pavement to collect.
Need to rebuild the roads or find a way to get through those cursed
never-ending woods? Silas's men disappear like they were gods-damned
ghosts."
Lang,
forgotten in this conversation, cleared his throat. "The Queen requests
that you return to the point. The girl asked what her role was to be in your
plans."
"Of
course." Walton's words sprouted frost. "The problem with
disappearances, Elsie, is that they are poor rallying points. Death is
definitive; uniting around a body is easy. It's concrete. A disappearance
leaves room for interpretation. For doubt."
"You
want me to kill people and make it look like the Black Guard did it?"
Walton grimaced.
"No! No, doing that would never remain secret. And when the truth came
out, we would be vilified. Even if those who were killed were willing
sacrifices, our cause would never withstand the bad blood such acts would
generate."
The Queen
vibrated angrily about the center of the table. Adri and Walton considered her
motions. "As you can see," Adri told Elizabeth, "We do not
always agree. Her Highness has a different perspective on the sacrifice of
soldiers, but of course her armies are bred willing to die for her. Nothing
would please them more. There are some cultural gulfs that are more difficult
to bridge than others."
"I'm
sorry," Elizabeth interrupted, "is this bee an active part of your
leadership?"
The
corners of Walton’s mouth twitched. "Her Majesty aids in our intelligence
gathering. She has proved herself an invaluable ally. Even though Silas himself
has birds and the golden insects at his command, his Guard do not seriously
suspect anyone else could do the same. Poor blighters never look up during
their meetings. Her network has saved all of us more than once. We owe her our
lives."
"And
Lang? What is your role?"
Adri
couldn't stop the grin from spreading across her face. "Mr. Lang has the
honor of being Her Majesty's personal valet. And he acquits himself of that
duty very well."
So, the
condescension that Elizabeth had experienced wasn't imaginary...despite his
haughtiness, or perhaps because of it, Lang was no more than The Queen’s butler.
So much for that nonsense about being an 'uncle' to the hive. He was their
servant.
Lang's
face flushed scarlet with his outing, and he dropped his gaze, suddenly finding
something fascinating about his fingernails.
"So
you," Elizabeth asked, "want me to become a symbol? Of the
uprising?"
Adri
corrected her. "Not you, Elsie. Eliza.
You would be helping us take advantage of the people’s superstitions. Surely
you've heard people say that Eliza would return, that her hand was the only
thing that could defeat Silas? We'd like to create a little....what's the term?
Oh, yes...a self-fulfilling prophecy. You're here in the right place and the
right time, and the people, unhappy as they are with their current government,
will believe fate is on their side."
"And
will join your fight," Elizabeth finished.
"That
is what we hope. It may take more than just trotting out an Eliza look-alike,
but we hope this lights a fire in the spirit of the people of Aldergate."
Adri wrung her hands together, gold rings and bracelets glinting in the light
from the chandelier. "Our people are notoriously strong-willed and
independent, and love nothing more than to back a winner. And, after the
fracturing, the city is even easier to defend. Our backside is bordered by
those impassable woods, our flank by those mountains, so we only have to worry
about an attack from sea. And we have enough farmland and food in our
storehouses to withstand a years-long siege, should it come to that. The people
of the Gate are waiting for someone to free them from Silas's shackles, to show
them how to free themselves."
Elizabeth
suspected Adri was minimizing the danger she herself would be facing. "But
wouldn't I be making myself a target? I mean, I know what happened to my hand
makes me a criminal. It's why I've spent all this effort hiding it. But this?
What you're suggesting? The Guard would know my face."
"Your
efforts at hiding would have failed eventually. At least this way, we can
protect you. When you're not making speeches, you'll be guarded. Between our
men and The Queen's spies, you'll be much safer than on your own."
"What
about Clara and Winnie?" Walton and Adri looked confused. "The owners
of the Griff Inn?"
"We
don't--"
Lang
stepped in, fingering at his collar. "I had to...make sure Elsie knew what
we were willing to do if she refused to take this meeting."
Adri
waited a beat, allowing her silence to speak volumes. "And what, dear
valet, were 'we' willing to do? What acts did you threaten in order to get this
girl here? This girl whose loyalty may very well become instrumental in winning
the war we propose to wage? How exactly--"
Walton placed a hand on her shoulder. Adri lowered her voice. "How
exactly, did you convince Elsie to meet us here this morning?"
Lang set
his jaw. "The Queen, with my advice, decided that if this girl refused to
hear our offer, then making the details of her hand public knowledge would be
the best course of action. If this city is to come to war, Adri, then everyone
will have to pick a side. There will be no room for neutrality. There will,
however, be plenty of room for martyrs."
"That
was not for you to decide." Walton shook with rage.
"It
was the--"
"I was talking to her!" He
thundered at The Queen crawling across the table.
Elizabeth
felt like she should leave; this power struggle, while about her, did not
really require her input, or her witness. None of the four were watching her;
Lang was translating for The Queen, and Walton and Adri were talking over him.
She turned towards the door.
And saw a
pair of eyes at the window.
"Lang!"
she shouted before she could stop herself. Adri and Walton spun around and
followed her pointing finger to the window. The hive exploded off of Lang’s
clothes; the man himself had moved with rapidity she would not have believed he
possessed, and had flung open the door. He sprang outside, the tails of his
coat flying behind him like black flags, and shouted "There!" at a
departing figure. The swarm flew off at his command as though they had been
conjured and shot out of his finger, a stream of brightly colored bullets from
his cocked finger-gun.
Elizabeth
rushed outside just in time to see the figure turn the corner, the squadron of
bees gaining on it. She didn't have to see the figure turn to know who it was.
She recognized the dress. She had seen it just that morning.
It was
Maisey.
Twentieth
Elizabeth sprinted down an alley,
past two- and three-story buildings crowded close together. She rounded the
street corner just as the bees dove at Maisey, burrowing into her clothes and
hair. Maisey was still running when the first scream exploded out of her mouth,
her body jolted to the side. With a second howl, she spun to the right, slamming
off a building. She began swatting at her hair again and again, and her screams
started coming so fast that they became one singular, continuous wail.
The windows of the upper floors began
to open, gawkers looking to see what commotion had shattered the morning
stillness. An alarmed cacophony started, rumblings of concerned chatter raining
down to the alley below. No doors opened, however; none of the onlookers were
concerned enough to insert themselves into whatever caused the screaming.
Maisey collapsed onto the ground. Elizabeth
could see bees, damaged and unmoving, threaded in the girl’s hair and clinging
to her clothes. A few lone survivors circled her prostrate body. Elizabeth grabbed
for Maisey’s wrist; her pulse was a drumroll, the heart rate of a hummingbird.
Elizabeth rolled Maisey onto her
back. With the movement, Maisey’s hair fell from her face, revealing her
features as misshapen, made monstrous by the swelling of the multiple stings.
Her eyes had become slits, her lips two sausages ready to overspill their
casings. The breaths that escaped between them were irregular, wheezing gasps.
She felt a hand at her shoulder, and Elizabeth
looked up to see Lang’s gangly figure, his face slick with sweat, and the lenses
of his half-glasses fogged. "We should go," he panted. "The
authorities will be here soon."
"I know her."
"I know you do. She is the other
maid from your inn."
"Then why did you send the bees
after her?" Her accusation came out shriller and more loudly than
intended. The faces in the upstairs window stared in horror at the bees that
continued to crawl across the fallen girl.
"She was spying." He looked
around, impatiently. Maisey had landed at the end of the alley, where it opened
up into a genteel residential avenue. "Really, Elsie, we must be going.
The Guards will be asking questions we will not wish to answer."
"You killed her." She spat
the words out.
He knelt beside her and gripped her
face with both his hands. They smelled like pipe tobacco, an oddly comforting
smell that reminded her of her own father's occasional forays into smoking.
"A stranger was eavesdropping on a political meeting, and likely heard
enough treasonous remarks to get the lot of us killed. I didn't know who she
was at first, and when I did recognize her, it was too late." He
swallowed. "I am sorry. You must know that. I do not relish the
killing of innocents, especially innocent girls with whom I have passed
pleasant conversation."
"She didn't trust you."
"Nor should she have. But when
she decided to spy on our meeting, she entered herself into a dangerous
political game. She--"
"She was following me."
He paused. "Then there's blame
to go around."
Hot tears welled up and spilled onto
her cheeks. "Is there anything we can do to help her?”
"That many stings, in such a
short time...her throat will be closing shortly, and she will suffocate."
He looked over the dying girl, cringing at each wheeze of her breath. "She
will die no matter what we do. We need to leave."
Elizabeth knew he was right. She
could still hear murmuring voices coming from the neighboring houses, and if authorities
examined her, she would be arrested as soon as they saw her hand. But she
couldn't just leave Maisey to die on the street alone. "You go. I'll stay
with her."
Lang's grip was tight on her upper
arm. "I cannot allow that, Elsie. We need you to--"
The authoritative pounding of boots
on pavement sounded through the street. Two bulky figures dressed in black,
skin-tight uniforms beneath equally dark overcoats appeared around the corner
of the alley and marched toward them. The officials' faces and hair were
exposed, but a sort of sleeve encased the rest of their heads, extending from
the top of their shirts like a turtleneck with grand ambitions.
Lang stood, ready to bolt. "Hold
it there!" a tall, broad-shouldered female guard called. "You there!
Scarecrow! Don't move!" She drew a black baton from a holster, and her
companion mirrored the motion. The weapons left their scabbards with a sound
like crackling electricity.
Lang started to back away, but the
lead guard moved with decisive speed, catching the collar of his coat and
slamming him against the alley wall. "I said, hold it there."
She banged the back of Lang's head against the bricks for emphasis, then drew
her club across his throat, her eyes trained on her captive's face. "Is
she dead?"
The other guard had crouched down
beside Maisey. "Still breathing. But doesn't look good." He addressed
Elizabeth, his voice filled with concern. "What happened here? What did
that man do?"
A voice called down from a window.
"She was with 'im! They was both chasing her! Heard 'em say they set bees
on her! Stung a whole bunch, she was!"
The officer's hand shot out and gripped
Elizabeth’s wrist. "Alright. Let's get you away from this girl until we
get this all "No! She's my friend!" Elizabeth protested, but the
guard tightened his grip and pulled her away from Maisey.
Lang tried to explain.
"Officers, this is just a tragic misunderstanding. This poor girl
disturbed a beehive I keep for honey, and the bees attacked of their own
volition; no one set them on her...that isn't even possible! My friend and I
were trying to help her. We'd like to--"
The guard pressed the baton into
Lang’s neck, ending his lies with a guttural swallow. "We'll speak with
people who saw it happen. Don't worry, you'll get a chance to tell your side."
Elizabeth continued to tug against
the Guard, trying to get back down to Maisey. The officer pulled back, hard,
jolting her to her feet, and grabbed at her other hand, dropping his weapon to
the stones.
Confusion lit on his face as his grip
found the sharp surfaces of her fingers, and she saw his amazement as the
points and blades bit into his flesh. He cried out and yanked back. Blood dripped
from his palm.
The baton was back in his hand in a
flash, and he brought it against Elizabeth’s throat, mirroring the submission
hold the other officer had on Lang. Blood streamed onto the shaft where his
palm met the metal. "Cullen, keep your stick tight against that one. This
girl's got a weapon."
"A knife? Better drop it,
girl."
"I don't think it's going to be
droppable." He kept the baton against her neck and reached down with his
uninjured hand for her left one. "Make a move, girl, and I will not
hesitate to burn your throat." As if responding to his words, the stick
thrummed against her skin, buzzing like an electric razor. With his free hand, he
probed the surfaces of her glove and peeled back the fabric.
Amazement thrummed in his voice.
"Cullen...send a Jay. We're taking these two in. We'll need backup."
In response, Cullen used her free hand to open her coat, exposing small tools
strapped to its inside. Among the miscellany rested a small grey bird, one that
resembled a blue jay, with a sharp crest and a black beak. The officer lifted
the bird and whispered into the side of its head.
Taking advantage of the split in the
officer's attentions, Lang twisted and struck her temple with his closed fist,
crying out as the baton glowed into life and singed the flesh of his throat. He
swung out a spindly leg that sent the guard sprawling to the ground. The jay,
wings still bound to prevent premature flight, plummeted and bounced off of the
stones. Lang punted it unceremoniously down the alley.
"Cullen!" The officer
called his partner's name but did not move to help her. Elizabeth felt a hot
pain as the baton began to burn her skin; the sudden searing making her breath
catch in her chest. The guard clutched her left wrist, but his grip was far
enough down her forearm that she was able, with extreme flexion, to puncture
the restraining hand with the points of her fingers. As he recoiled, Elizabeth
slipped her left hand free and struck at the arm holding the baton. Her blades
bit through the officer's coat into the skin and tendons beneath, knocking the
baton to the ground. She could breathe again.
Cullen had managed to tangle herself
in Lang's legs, and he dropped to the stones with a muffled thud. The two rolled
and struck at one another, a flurry of black coats and limbs scratching and
gouging.
Elizabeth had just enough time to
register their flailing before what felt like a train hit her gut, crumpling
her to the ground. The officer fell on top of her, his right hand pinning her
left arm, his other hand at her throat, pushing down but not squeezing. He
looked from Elizabeth to his partner, then back to her, trying to decide
whether she or Lang posed the bigger threat.
Lang had rolled on top of Cullen and bloodied
her nose with a blow from his elbow. Cullen lay sprawled on the ground,
apparently knocked unconscious. Lang extricated himself from her arms and
stretched his length down the alley, retrieving her baton from where it had
landed. He stood and brandished the weapon, his one swollen and
already-blackening eye giving him the ferocious look of a cornered animal, and
advanced on the officer who held her down.
The guard pushed off of Elizabeth as
he rose, grabbing his own weapon as he staggered to his feet. She rolled over and
watched as he parried Lang's clumsy attack, continuing the swing of his arm in
a wide arc that ended against Lang's jaw. She heard a crack and a cry of
pain.
Lang stumbled backward and fell,
tripping over Cullen's still body. The other guard followed, kicking at Lang’s head
when it hit the ground. As Lang scrambled to escape, the guard kept kicking,
delivering blows to the legs, torso, and head, then stomping on Lang's abdomen.
Sickening thumps and moist cracks rent the air with each impact.
His back to her, Elizabeth finally found
her feet and launched herself at the guard before her conscious mind could
intervene. Her left hand led the charge; she aimed it low, catching the guard’s
in the calf. His leg folded, his body rotating as he collapsed so that his
baton caught her right shoulder. The impact radiated down her arm, setting
loose a vibrating pain that settled into shocked numbness. The arm responded only
sluggishly, as though the signals from her brain were garbled.
The guard raised himself on his good
foot, dragging the hobbled one behind him, and advanced on her. To Elizabeth’s
dismay, the other officer, Cullen, had awakened and had begun crawling toward
the fallen messenger bird. Lang remained still, his face a bloody pulped mess.
Stray teeth were scattered on the stones beside him, broken off in jagged
chunks.
Elizabeth began to back away.
"You were going to kill him if you didn't stop."
The guard continued his slow advance,
pushing some unseen button on the baton to make it glow white-hot. "And
just what do you think I'm going to do to you?"
Clutching the retrieved jaybird, Cullen
joined her partner. She put a hand on his shoulder. "Larson." He didn’t
respond. "Larson!" She smacked the side of his head. "We'll need
her alive."
Larson's baton faded to a dull yellow
but still crackled with angry energy. He held it in his left hand; the right
appeared to be useless. Her own right arm was slowly coming back to life, the
numbness gradually replaced by a throbbing toothache of pain.
She backed away, matching him step
for step. "This is all a misunderstanding, just like the man said. We can
all just walk away. It's not too late."
Cullen released the Jay into the air;
it arced upwards and fell on a parabola, then gave two pumps of its wings and
shot off down the alley. "It most certainly is too late, girl. Attacking members of Silas’s Guard? Making the
forbidden changes to your hand? Killing that poor girl? You don't get to walk
away from such things. We'll need to take you in. Now," Cullen had started
to circle around Elizabeth, cutting off the back end of the alley, "We can
do this with less pain,” she grinned, blood showing on her teeth, ”or with less
pain. But we will take you with us."
Larson leapt at her, his baton aimed
at her left wrist. Rather than dodging, Elizabeth raised her left hand to meet
it, fingers instinctively closing around the shaft to stop it mid-swing. The
sudden change in inertia threw Larson off balance, and he crashed into her and
knocking both of them to the ground, screaming through clenched teeth when his
injured leg hit the pavement.
Elizabeth rolled away from him, her
fingers still tight on the now-dull baton that Larson had released. Cullen
stood between Elizabeth and the end of the alley that opened to the avenue, her
weapon at ready. Larson blocked the way behind her, trying and failing to get
up onto his injured leg, skittering like a horse made lame.
Cullen’s nose was swollen and her
face bloodied, but she appeared steady on her feet. "More officers will be
on their way, girl. Your friend will be of no help to you. Best to come
quietly." She brandished her baton to accentuate her words.
Of the five people in the alley, Elizabeth
was the least injured...Maisey was not yet dead, but close, and Lang would be
long in recovering from Larson's boot. There was no way she could carry either
of them with her if she left the alley. She had only one option.
Elizabeth spun away from Cullen and
sprinted down the alley the way she and Lang had come. Voices yelled from the
second stories, incomprehensible, angry words. She deftly avoided Larson's
outstretched arm but felt a rush of air as a projectile flew past her. She glanced
back and saw Cullen's hand repeatedly diving into her coat and emerging with
sharp metal projectiles intertwined between her fingers. Elizabeth increased
her speed, skidding over the stones as she took a turn too fast.
Cullen abandoned her throwing knives
in favor of pursuit, but Elizabeth quickly outpaced her, losing her in the
twists and turns of the narrow streets. When she had gone minutes without
hearing anyone following, Elizabeth stopped, ducking back into a darkened
doorway to catch her breath.
Elizabeth plunged her hand into her
pocket and slowed to a walk, trying to look like someone who was out for a
routine errand. That meant walking purposefully, looking like she knew where
she was going, not checking every street sign and cross street for landmarks.
And hoping that her current state of disarray was not so extreme as to be
notable to the people she passed.
A delivery boy on a bicycle flew onto
the walkway in front of her, running a package into a building, leaving his
ride unguarded. Elizabeth considered for a fraction of a second, then pulled it
off the ground and took off, her legs pumping furiously. She was half a block
away before his angry cries reached her.
Tucking her left hand under her
shirt, she rode one-handed through the early morning traffic, weaving between
pedestrians and steam-powered carriages. Initially she had little idea where
exactly in the city her haphazard path had led her, but she soon found familiar
buildings and re-oriented, pedaling for the inn as fast as she could.
Elizabeth left the bicycle in an
alley on the other side of the block, then skulked through the courtyard and
into the unlocked back door. Winnie and Clara bustled about the table; this was
typical for Clara but uncharacteristic for Winnie, who usually entered the
kitchen only to drop off or pick up food or to chat or argue with Clara. Winnie
wore an apron and looked decidedly uncomfortable in it, though she stirred and
tasted from various pots on the stove with confidence. The two looked up as
Elizabeth entered.
"Oh, thank gods!" Winnie
exclaimed, and started to untie her apron. "Elsie, can you please take over, dear? I've got a hundred things to do before dinner,
and Maisey is nowhere to be found...I know it's your day off, but we can--"
"What happened to you,
Elsie?" Clara came over to inspect her, wiping off her floured hands on a
work towel. "You’re a wreck!"
Elizabeth looked from one woman to
the other. Their earnest concern was too much for her. Tears rolled from her
eyes, and the entire story of her morning, backtracking only to explain Lang's
blackmail, fell from her lips. She tore the tattered glove from her hand, revealing
its blood-caked blades as she told of her conversation with Lang, the meeting
with the revolutionaries, the swarm attacking Maisey, her altercation with the
Guard, and finally her trek through the city to return here.
"I'm so sorry," Elizabeth
finished, wiping her eyes with the back of her wrist. "I know this is
probably putting you in danger, but I had nowhere else to go." Her voice
descended into sobs again as of the terror of the morning caught up with her.
A weighty look passed between Clara
and Winnie. "Elsie, we need to talk. Can you please go up to your room and
pack your things?" Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat. "Oh, no,
Elsie, we aren't abandoning you, dear. We have to find someplace safer for you.
The Guard will be here before long.
"Go pack all your clothes into a
bag--there's a small one in the closet in our room. But you best be quick about
it. Don’t bother to change."
Elizabeth sprinted up the stairs,
located the suitcase among the chaos of Clara and Winnie's room and quickly loaded
it with her clothes, not bothering to organize or fold, just trying to
approximate three or four days' worth of outfits. She found the bag she had
brought with her, from her time in the woods, and packed it full of everything
else she thought she might need on the run.
Before she returned downstairs,
Elizabeth entered Maisey's room; she knew they were short on time, but she felt
compelled to at least peek inside. The room was as orderly as could be--even the
bed had been made with military precision, though the girl had surely hurried
out that morning. Two pairs of shoes were lined up beneath it, reminding
Elizabeth of loyal dogs awaiting their master's return.
Like her own quarters, the room contained
only the bed, a bureau, and a dresser. But unlike her room, which had grown
cluttered with keepsakes collected during her time in Aldergate, Maisey's had no
decorations or knickknacks except for a framed picture dropped face-down on the
dresser top. Elizabeth righted it, revealing a daguerreotype of a serious-looking
young man dressed in a high-collared shirt and a bowler hat. Maisey's brother?
Her father, years ago? A beau, and the reason Elizabeth heard her crying at
night?
Maisey was dead, because of her. Lang
had said that there was blame to go around, but if she had just done a better
job explaining herself, if she had come clean or been able to invent a better
story than just 'I'll tell you later, trust me,' then Maisey might not have
been compelled to follow her, and could have stayed out of this whole mess.
Elizabeth tipped the picture back into its face-down position and stepped out
of the room.
Clara had removed her apron and was
pulling on a jacket over her clothes. Elizabeth started to ask, but Clara cut
her off. "You'll understand when we get there," Clara muttered,
cryptically. "If you've got a jacket in your bag, you might be wantin' to
put it on now." Elizabeth did as she was told.
Clara walked to the far wall of the
kitchen, opening up the door to the pantry. She motioned Elizabeth to step inside.
"I don't know if this is a great idea, Clara," she began. "If
the Guard come, they'll search everywhere, especially the basement. It's the
first place someone would hide."
Winnie ran into the kitchen, out of
breath. “They’re coming. I saw them from the attic window. Gods, at least a
regiment of them. They really want you, girl.”
Clara hurried Elizabeth into the
basement, the girl’s protest forgotten. The stairs leading down were ancient, narrow
and rickety and built of sullen yellow wood, each plank sagging in a way that threatened
to send her spilling forward. Winnie closed the door to the kitchen, and they
were alone in the eerie light.
The basement pantry was lit by the
soft glow, the product of a phosphorescent fungus that had been trained onto
the walls in patches. The light varied from green to blue, reminding her of an
aquarium viewing room. It was almost enough to counteract the claustrophobia of
the low ceilings and tight space. The brick walls lined arched doorways and
long hallways. Winnie had told her once that the basement predated the Inn by
at least several centuries, and Elizabeth had always felt that even the air
down here felt dusty and antique.
The inn’s basement was cool but not
cold, and Elizabeth had started to sweat beneath the extra layer of her coat.
Clara herded her deeper into the subterranean space, into a little-used storage
room, one filled with seasonal things that would not be needed for months.
Clara started moving barrels away
from a wall they had been stacked in front of. "Secret passage?"
Elizabeth inquired, but as soon as the words left her mouth, she realized that
such a thing would be made impossible by the floorplan of the basement. This
wall bordered a hallway they had just walked down, and it was not nearly thick
enough to hide any sore of walkway.
There was a crash from above, the
sound of a door being forced off of its hinges, and then the earthquake
rumblings of heavy footfalls. Indistinct shouts of authority, then a woman’s
scream, cut off with a harsh crack.
“Elsie, there is no time for
explanations.” Clara grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her towards the wall.
Elizabeth flinched as her face approached the brick, and was startled when no
impact came.
She was immersed in darkness, with no
glowing fungus to illuminate the space. Her cheeks felt...cold. Really cold.
Her eyes gradually adjusted to the dimness, and she saw that she was in a
cavern of some sort. But how...
A
pocket, she thought. The inn has a hidden
pocket in its basement.
Elizabeth turned, intending to poke
her face through to whisper thanks to Clara, when a rumbling made her jump
back, sprawled onto the sandy floor of the cave.
In front of her, spilling out of the
doorway, was a pile of broken brick and rubble. She grabbed one of the bricks from
where it had settled and held it in her hand; it was covered in ash. She
reached to the top of the pile, where the fragments sat half in the cave,
transected by the door, and started pulling them off and throwing them behind
her. More appeared, rolling into the cave, as the pieces supporting them were
removed.
The inn had collapsed.
She was trapped.
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