Queen of faces, p.36
Queen of Faces, page 36
It had worked. Wes was safe. No matter what happened now, he would live. I gazed out at the crumbling vista. And I let myself feel grateful.
I yanked myself back with my magic, slowing as I aimed myself between the rows of storefronts, towards Nima. The street drew close, pavement rushing beneath me like a train. It moved slower and slower, as I drained away my momentum, inching towards the ground. Slower, I thought. Just a little slower.
I landed on my feet, staggering to a stop, gasping. My legs ached from the impact. My shaking fingers unzipped Adam’s wingsuit, then yanked it off, its purpose served. Left-Nima sat in a stolen black buggy, revving the engine. Right-Nima sat in the back. My chest burned, and I coughed, catching my breath.
I clambered into the car and Left-Nima floored it. The acceleration jerked in my chest, and we shot down the sloped pavement.
The automobile sped through the streets of Elmidde, following the rails of an inactive trolley. We raced east, from Hightown to Midtown to Lowtown, wheels thudding on the road as the sun rose over the city. We passed squads of riot police, closing in on protesters. Further down, Caimorian tanks streamed over Fuller Bridge. Troops from the mainland, securing the city from Commonplace.
We skidded to a halt at a seaside street. A grey seawall bordered the water, waves crashing against the stones. I recognised it in an instant. This was Clementine’s neighbourhood, her house in view with its white cedar walls and spotless windows. The street where I’d got my rejection letter. The staircase where I’d climbed out of the water, gripping my sliced hair in my fist.
That had been almost a year ago. Twelve short months for everything to change. It seemed almost impossible.
Below us, a pitch-black submarine steamed forward, away from the shore. ‘We’re too late,’ I said.
Nima’s bodies ran out of the car. ‘Jump for it!’ They leapt over the edge of the seawall, dropping out of sight. I pulled open the car door, stumbled out and sprinted after them. Every bone in my body ached, and every muscle felt ready to snap.
As I’d done nearly a year ago, I shut my eyes and jumped off the edge of the seawall.
My eyes snapped open in mid-air, and I stretched my Pith into my clothes just in time to yank them upwards and slow my fall. I landed on top of the sub with a clang, grabbing a railing for support.
The sub sped forward, rumbling beneath us, the crimson sunrise shining off its hull. ‘It’s going to dive!’ shouted Nima, both bodies sprinting to the hatch.
My legs burned, but I limped after them, stretching my Pith downwards. ‘Two Black Arrows below!’ I said, erasing our presence from them with an illusion.
My stomach jerked with a sudden movement. The sub was starting to sink, frothing the waters around it.
Nima used their magic on the lock, yanked open the hatch and jumped in. I slid in after them, and they caught me just before I crashed to the floor. Water trickled in from above, and Nima slammed the hatch shut, sealing it as the sub dived.
We stood in a narrow, squat hallway, surrounded by metal pipes, lit by pale bulbs overhead. Two crew members chatted beside us, oblivious to our presence. I recognised one of them: the masked Edgar from the fish market.
‘Korin’s in danger,’ said Right-Nima. ‘No time to waste. What’s the play?’
‘Simple ambush,’ I said. ‘Khaiovhe fought half of Paragon, plus Adam Weaver. You saw how tired she was. In her exhausted state, you can probably beat her with the element of surprise and a few Voidsteel bullets. Then we force the sub back to the city.’
‘After everything you learned this year,’ Nima grumbled, ‘your grand strategy is “let Nima do the work?’’’
I limped after them, and we moved through the sub’s claustrophobic hallways, past wires, pipes and levers. Rainbow Veil kept us hidden from the crew. The lights glared from above, and the cold bit into my grey skin, making me shiver. My eyes ached, and I wheezed, a numbness spreading through my muscles. I’d been winded since I landed, and it wasn’t getting better.
We descended a staircase, walked past the crew quarters, and flung open a door marked as the head office. I stepped in, and Left-Nima shut it behind me, flipping on the lights.
Then I gaped.
A glowing hole had been cut in the back wall, shining bright green. Its border flickered, looking like the shadow of a heatwave, or a curved lightning bolt.
And the hole didn’t lead to some other room in the sub. It led to another world.
A frozen lake sat before me. A snowy island rose from the centre, with a three-storey building surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. It looked like a prison of some sort, or a military camp. Thick fog covered the ice, and snowy peaks surrounded it. A stone bridge stretched across the lake, illuminated by the faint blue glow of twilight.
Nima gaped with me. ‘Either this transports you somewhere in the mountains, or—’ Her voice caught in her throat. ‘This is a whole world. A world she can keep in her pocket, some kind of passive enchantment like Paragon.’
Passive magic was almost unheard of. Yet more evidence of Khaiovhe’s power.
‘There could be anything in there,’ I said. ‘Traps. Black Arrows. Magic we’ve never seen before.’ I swallowed. ‘And even if it does none of those things, Khaiovhe is in there.’
‘Yeah,’ said Nima. ‘But so is Korin.’
I stared at the portal. Death was waiting for us beyond that flickering border. In all the battles I’d fought over the last year, it had never felt closer, more intimate.
If these feet walked on to that island, they would be taking their last steps.
I inhaled, exhaled and strode through the gateway.
As I did, I felt something pass over my Pith. A presence, scanning me, feeling me.
My stomach wrenched. The witch knew I was here.
‘Nima!’ I spun round.
Left-Nima ran towards the portal, her black hair swirling around her.
Before she could pass through, an opaque green barrier flickered over the hole, covering the gateway. The world went silent.
I punched the wall of light. ‘Nima!’ I shouted. ‘Nima!’ No response.
I stabbed the barrier with my knife, and the blade bounced off. An icy wind blew into me, and I shivered, my body aching. No sound came from the other side of the portal.
Nima, our only shot at taking down Khaiovhe, had been locked out. And Korin would be unconscious, injured. So, it was just me. Against the witch who had slaughtered a quarter of the Eldritch Guard. The witch who now knew I was here. Anabelle Gage, a dying wretch who could barely stand.
My breaths quickened, fogging before me in the frigid air. Panic began to creep at the edges of my mind, threatening to tip me into a spiral. I wrenched it away. Focus. I needed a play. A gambit to turn the tables on the Black Wraith. Think. Think. She was stronger than Adam, faster than Wes and far smarter than I could ever hope to be. But she was vulnerable. She was human.
My hand felt for the Kraken’s Bone in my pocket, the tiny metal pillbox. There was more than enough here to kill Khaiovhe, to leave her coughing up blood until she choked on it, until her brain haemorrhaged. In theory, I could slip it into her drink, but no doubt she would be watching for that sort of trick.
My knife, then. I could hide it with illusions, float it behind her and stab her in the back. But Khaiovhe knew about that too. She would be feeling for it with her magic, and that was a sense I couldn’t fake. Getting that blade within ten feet of her would be a miracle.
If only Nima were here. The Black Wraith could kill me, but exhausted as she was, in this rare circumstance, Nima could probably beat her in a fair fight. Even when locked out, Nima was an important factor. If Khaiovhe hid here to regain her strength, Nima would hijack the submarine and force it back to Elmidde. Back to the Eldritch Guard.
Khaiovhe had to deal with them somehow. If the Black Wraith couldn’t win in a fair fight, she’d fight dirty.
Think ahead. What would I do in her shoes? How would I beat Nima if our positions were swapped?
Something clicked in my mind.
I clenched my teeth, summoned my strength and pushed myself forward.
The witch would be on the island, inside the three-storey building. But the bridge to get there was exposed. If I crossed it, I was begging to be ambushed.
The frozen lake was my only option. I limped towards it, dizzy, my breaths fogging before me. My shoes sank into the snow, getting my socks wet.
Then I stepped on to the lake. The ice creaked beneath me. I gripped my knife with a shaking grey hand, and took slow, tentative steps into the mist, inching towards the island.
The fog gathered around me, obscuring my vision. Beneath me, the ice was black, then white, then black again. It was like limping over a giant chessboard. Poor little pawn.
Voices whispered to me from the mist. At first, they sounded like the wind, soft and distant. As I dragged myself forward, they grew louder, forming words and sentences. Men and women, young and old, in Common, Shenti and Kshatran.
‘If peace were easy, we’d never have to fight for it.’
‘The world was never simple. You just thought it was.’
The fog swirled around me, forming cars, buildings and cobblestone streets.
I fell on to my back, skidding on the ice, and held my knife up. Was this some kind of attack? Somehow, it didn’t feel like it. I was the illusionist, not Khaiovhe.
Through the haze, I made out a girl and a man crouched next to each other, both Shenti. My shoulders grew heavier, and the chill spread in my bones. The shapes grew clearer, the voices sharpening, a scene gathering in front of me.
Then the mist flowed into my mouth, and the lake vanished.
Xia’s father lowered the match, and flames sprouted in the pile of dry twigs. It grew, lighting up the dark, empty room.
Xia shuffled forward, crouching on the dusty stone floor. She extended the tree branch in her hand, a tiny, plucked chicken impaled on the end.
Her father kept the fire going with one hand. He turned the stick in the other, cooking the skin crispy and gold. It took all of Xia’s willpower not to stuff the raw meat into her mouth. Droplets of fat rolled off the chicken. She scraped them off the dusty floor and licked her fingers, willing the hunger pangs to fade. She hadn’t eaten in a week.
Every day, the guards burned bodies in this room. The prisoners who fell asleep and didn’t wake. The ones who caught fever or failed to keep up at the factory. But at night, it was empty. Xia could fit through a window and unlock the door for her father.
‘Where did you get the chicken?’ whispered Xia. Talking made her throat hurt.
‘A trip to the camp storehouse,’ said her father. ‘The guards won’t mind.’ His smile widened. ‘Back on the outside, we would have this every week, with scallion sauce and big bowls of rice. Once or twice we made so much we threw out the leftovers, so they didn’t go bad.’
Xia’s eyes widened. Sometimes, she couldn’t tell which of her father’s stories were true.
When he finished cooking, Xia ate every scrap of the chicken. She picked the bones clean with her brittle nails. It was the first time she’d ever eaten meat that wasn’t a rat or a snake. It was the most delicious meal she’d ever had.
Xia’s father was even skinnier than her, his ribs bulging under his tattered shirt. Still, he refused to eat. ‘I’m not hungry,’ he murmured, smiling. ‘I’m not hungry.’
A week later, the guards marched the prisoners down a frozen dirt path, leading them to a snowy hill. Xia marched alone. Through the tall prisoners standing in front of her, she caught a glimpse of her father being dragged up the slope to a tree stump at the top. Bruises covered his face, but his chest still rose and fell, his eyes darting round. They looked into Xia’s for a moment.
There was no speech, no lead-up. One guard forced Xia’s father on to his knees, pushing his head over the stump. A second guard raised a sword and brought it down on his neck.
‘This was a locust in the guise of a man!’ shouted the second guard. ‘A symptom of your treacherous sloth! Do not steal!’
Xia didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She was too exhausted for grief, too tired for rage. She didn’t think about her father’s kindness, his bravery, his love.
His blood poured on to the snow, and all she could picture was her next meal.
It had taken Xia three more years to escape the redemption camp. She’d fled Shenten, sailing to Caimor, the nation battling her home. She’d discovered her latent magical abilities, and was approached by Caimor’s secret mage college, Paragon Academy. The proctors had changed her legal name to Sophie, saying it’d help her fit in. Xia was left on that hill with her father, just another corpse in the snow. This was years before the Babel Curse, when all Shenti would be forced to choose a foreign name.
She’d enrolled at the school as a Grey Coat, to help reclaim her country from the conquering Shenti emperor. From the blood-soaked dictator choking her people, invading half the world. Her father had spread pamphlets arguing against the war, and they’d thrown him in a camp. Sophie’s weapons would be far more potent.
But even across the ocean, there were some things she could not escape.
Blood dripped on to the Lowtown cobblestones. A young woman stood under a streetlamp, grocery bags spilled next to her. Her shirt blossomed with red, where the knife had punctured her stomach.
Roger Cobbe, the baker’s son, gripped the dagger in his fist, his eyes wide with shock. His nose was a dark purple, broken at the middle and bent in a sickening direction.
Waves washed against the boardwalk, soft and quiet. Neither of them moved.
Roger’s arm shook, tears running down his face. His father was a pastry chef who sometimes cooked for Paragon. Since they were Humdrums, their memories got wiped after every job. On campus, other students and Grey Coats would keep their distance, but Sophie would strike up conversations with them. Roger always gave her a free pie when she visited, flashing her a smile. It never failed to make Sophie blush.
Now he was stabbing a woman. A red streak ran down her skirt, pooling under her shoe. They’d been standing there for some time. This isn’t right. Why were neither of them moving? Why couldn’t they speak?
Sophie had seen Roger flinch at a mouse once. This wasn’t like him at all.
‘Roger?’ she said, her voice unsteady.
Roger’s eyes stared at her, wide with horror, the rest of his body frozen.
Sophie’s blood turned to ice. Nudging. Someone was hijacking him.
‘Hey, Sophie.’
She spun round. A man strode down the street with an easy smile. His skin shone in the moonlight, pale as bone, and flecks of gold dappled his eyes.
Professor Tybalt Ebbridge. Her assigned boss at Paragon. And the fifth-wealthiest mage in Caimor. Unlike most people at the academy, he actually looked his age, wearing a vintage body in its sixties. He sported a tweed blazer, hooking his thumbs in the pockets, and a silver watch glittered on his wrist. ‘Sorry for the mess.’ He gestured his head to the stabbing.
Sophie choked. Professor Ebbridge had stabbed the woman. No, he’d Nudged Roger to stab her. He’d hijacked her friend.
Her stomach ached, a cold sensation like icicles puncturing her belly. Why would Ebbridge do this? He was so sweet in Paragon, so considerate. He baked teacakes for his class once a month.
‘So, Sophie.’ Ebbridge flashed her a winning smile. ‘What brings you to this part of town?’
‘I—’ she stuttered. ‘You asked me to grab a package from a warehouse.’ She pointed down the street. ‘Sir.’
Ebbridge snapped his fingers. ‘Right. I plumb forgot. I came here to grab that myself. That’s when those two Humdrums tried to mug me.’ He jabbed a thumb at the pair behind him.
‘The woman – she has groceries,’ said Sophie. ‘And she mugged you?’
‘That was part of the act,’ Ebbridge said. ‘She asks for help, lures you in, then ambushes you.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, they picked the wrong target.’ He turned to them. ‘Piss yourselves.’
Roger closed his eyes. A dark spot grew on his trousers.
‘That’s – that’s my friend,’ said Sophie. ‘This is mental hijacking, this is murder.’
Professor Ebbridge rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t be dramatic. It’s self-defence.’
The woman collapsed, unconscious. Roger held the knife steady, still frozen.
Sophie was frozen too, torn. She couldn’t fight Ebbridge. The man didn’t have a Codex but was still a trained battle mage. Sophie was a Grey Coat and knew all of two spells. Even if, by some miracle, she defeated him, the Guard would hunt her down and throw her in prison.
Ice flooded her veins, chilling her entire body.
‘You look troubled,’ said Ebbridge. ‘Let me help.’
‘What?’
‘You work hard, and have been blessed with a first-rate pair of thighs. In a year or two, you’ll be a real student, with or without my approval. But I can fast-track you. Get you past all the red tape. The Ebbridges are one of Caimor’s eldest and most powerful families. Our lineage descends from Westyn Aethelyn himself.’
‘A rumour.’
‘A truth. Secret, but true nonetheless. We have the blood of stars in our veins. By all rights, I should be wearing a crown.’
‘And yet here you are,’ said Sophie.
Professor Ebbridge shrugged. ‘The rabble love their little Parliament. They are not ready to crown us. Not yet.’ He smiled. ‘The kings of old valued loyalty, and so do we. You and I can call a doctor for these muggers. And your loyalty will be rewarded.’
‘If—’ If Sophie kept her mouth shut. Ebbridge could wipe his victims’ memories, but she’d had defence training for her mind. If she spoke up, Paragon would investigate him.
Roger shook, tears staining his cheeks.
‘Roger,’ said Sophie. ‘He’d go to prison for attempted murder.’
‘He’ll be fine,’ said Ebbridge. ‘He can waive his sentence by agreeing to a mental cleansing. A magical reset of his memory and personality. We can put him to work at Paragon, have him scrubbing the toilets or whatnot.’
