Meritorium (Meritropolis Book 2) (18 page)

A cunning smile stretched the emperor’s thin lips across his gleaming white teeth.

“I’ll pass on the drink.” Orson sniffed the air, looking reproachfully at Charley. Charley realized that the juice must be mildly alcoholic.

“Suit yourself.” The emperor accepted a flagon for himself, but only took the smallest of sips. “It’s actually not alcoholic, at least not in the traditional sense. It’s made from a particular type of berry harvested in the Bramble that has some very unique properties. Think of it like a mild form of laughing gas, but in liquid form. It’s a big hit at the Venatio; they call it the ‘merry berry’ juice.” He raised an eyebrow at Charley. “Most people don’t drain an entire flagon so quickly, though. In small quantities, it’s just perfect to lighten any mood.”

“Water.” Grigor’s gravelly voice rumbled between bites of meat dripping with gravy.

Hank nodded to a servant. “Same.”

Charley looked around: it appeared that he would be the only one ill prepared for whatever type of discussion this was shaping up to be. “Same for me, too, please,” he said quietly to a servant standing attentively at his elbow. He hoped he could water the merry berry juice down a little.

Seeing Grigor return his empty platter for the last time, the emperor spoke. “Well, now that we’re all pleasantly full, shall we begin?” He made a motion of dismissal to the numerous staff in the room, each of whom quickly exited, leaving only a handful of his personal guards.

“So, allow me this opportunity to formally welcome the four of you to Meritorium. We get many visitors, for the Venatio and other goings on in the amphitheater of course, but it’s quite a hike from Meritropolis. Or, so the czar tells me …” At this, he eyed Orson carefully.

Orson refused to take the bait and remained silent. The emperor continued. “Anyway, to get the Commander of Meritropolis—well, the former commander, that is—along with such notable High Scores as you, it’s a true pleasure. Our previous, umm, introduction notwithstanding.” He looked at Charley with a look of healthy respect and a tinge of fear, but surprisingly no malice.

“You don’t want to kill me?” Charley blurted out, cursing his lowered inhibitions as he did so.

The emperor’s pinched lips puckered into an expression between a grimace and an aborted laugh. “Why, I don’t wish to kill anyone. As our esteemed Commander Orson here can attest, we who are tasked with enforcing the System of Societal Merit do not wish death on anyone. We simply enforce the law to the benefit of the greatest number of people. It’s quite common for people to not quite grasp this subtlety, however. I am quite used to there being attempts made on my life, many much more—ahem—well thought out than yours. I bear no ill will.”

Charley’s mind scrambled for an answer. He thought of Alec, and with his reduced filter was unable to keep himself from responding. “Life is cheap under the System. Here in Meritorium, as in Meritropolis.”

The emperor shrugged. “Here’s the complicated reality in which we live: all life is not equal.” He took another sip of his drink. “If we had a magic wand that would provide for everyone, sure, who wouldn’t wave it? But we don’t.” He looked at Orson. “In Meritropolis, you put Low Scores out of the gates. Here in Meritorium, we put them into the arena.”

Orson uncrossed his legs and looked directly at the emperor. “In Meritropolis we honored those who were Low Scores. We put them out of the gates, that is our pact with each other, but we treat them with respect; we don’t cheer on their deaths as wild beasts tear their flesh for our amusement.”

“We allow Low Scores to contribute to society by having their deaths mean something; they die in the arena and it benefits all who are living. Their very deaths provide an economic benefit to all they leave behind; the revenue from the crowds in the amphitheater see to that,” Titus said.

Charley could feel a vein in his neck bulging. “Neither of you gets to decide! The System doesn’t get to decide! No one gets to decide who matters, and who doesn’t. Everyone matters.”

The emperor paused for a moment, looking from Charley to Orson and back again. “I can see that the lot of you must have had some interesting campfire discussions. But I believe we can put our philosophical differences aside and come to a mutually agreeable solution to this whole ‘overthrow the System and take down the czar’ master plan that you seem to have.”

Grigor and Hank remained silent, eyes on Orson and Charley.

“What do you have in mind?” Orson said, fussing with his chained wrists, and at that moment reminding Charley very much of a cat having encountered something distasteful.

“Well, not to ruin the surprise, but Daddy Dearest is making a visit to us.”

“The czar is coming here?” Hank interjected, dismay etched on his features.

Emperor Titus continued speaking as if he hadn’t heard Hank. “The czar is coming for the final event of the Venatio, the day after tomorrow. It will be a reenactment of his founding of Meritorium. Well, technically, the water-battle portion. Whatever it was that happened during the land battle reenactment the other day, well, we won’t get into that right now.”

“The czar founded Meritorium?” Charley asked.

“Didn’t I just say that?” The emperor’s eyelids twitched in annoyance. “Yes, the czar founded Meritorium after defeating a band of Circumcellions in a mighty battle atop a volcano, blah, blah—just between you and me, I don’t know if the volcano part’s true, but he wants it in there, so it’s in there. Anyway, and now the czar thinks he has special claim to Meritorium.”

A sinister smile stretched across Orson’s face. “Ah, now I see what your game is here. You want us to kill him.”

“Well—”

“You want Meritorium for yourself,” Charley added.

“I am the emperor,” Titus said, a coy smile playing on his face.

“So, why don’t you kill him?” Charley asked.

“Why, I can’t be involved in anything of the sort.” the emperor said. “But if I were to, say, dump the lot of you in with the Low Scores who will be participating in the water-battle reenactment—as a punishment for your actions in the arena, of course—then I would have no way of controlling anything else you might choose to do out there.”

Grigor shifted his great bulk with a clank of chains. “How is that going to work, exactly? If the czar will be up in the royal boxes with you, we can’t exactly get close to him while we are in the arena.”

“Ah yes, didn’t I tell you?” A devilish smile tugged at the corners of the emperor’s mouth. “The czar will be playing himself in the reenactment.”

Charley’s head swam. He would be in the arena with the man who was responsible for the System, the man who had put Alec out of the gates in Meritropolis. It was all coming together—was it possible his plan for revenge could be this wonderfully simple? A muscle bunched in his jaw, and he fought the urge to fantasize about what he would do upon meeting the czar.

The emperor took another sip of his drink. “Of course, I’m not naive. I have no illusions that you don’t intend to see me hanged myself.” He looked at Charley. “Or, run through with a javelin,” he said mildly, crossing his legs at the ankle. “So, our little arrangement is simple: I get you on the arena field with the czar, and he is yours to do with as you wish. I won’t help, but I won’t interfere either. What you do on the arena field is up to you. Then, if you escape the arena alive, you leave Meritorium.”

Suddenly, an image of the little hand in the arena tunnels, desperately reaching between the cage bars, flashed unbidden into Charley’s mind. If he were to make this Faustian bargain with the emperor, Charley wondered what would that say about all of the others in Meritorium—others just like Alec.

Heat crept up the back of Charley’s neck. His face flushed, as he looked at Grigor, Hank, and then Orson in turn. Each of them watched him intently. Whether they cared to follow his leadership was a matter of some debate, but each one seemed to hold his explosive temper in a measure of wary respect.

Charley sighed. He wasn’t sure: It couldn’t be wrong to welch on a deal with the Devil, could it? He pushed away the real question: if you welch on a deal with the Devil, is it still possible to reclaim your soul? He would worry about the emperor later.

Charley looked at the emperor. “Deal.”

The emperor searched the eyes of the others. Finding their consensus to his satisfaction, he rose from his chair and moved to the door with a rustle of silk. He stopped, turning back to them with a glint in his eyes. “Oh, there is just one thing. Once we get your scores doctored.” Seeing the looks on their faces, the emperor waved a hand dismissively. “Temporarily changing your scores won’t be a problem. It won’t stand up to close scrutiny, but you won’t be checked out too closely. There are certain advantages to, ahem—” he made a little bow—“having me on your side. You will officially be Low Scores for the next two days, so you’ll have to survive in the pen with them—”

“That won’t be a problem,” Orson said.

“And if you want to make it to the battle reenactment the day after tomorrow, then you’ll have to survive in the arena tomorrow as Low Scores.” He paused, studying them carefully. “During pankration.”

“
Pankration?
” Charley asked.

Orson looked steadily at the emperor. “A fight to the death.”

“Yes, it’s a huge hit with the crowd. Low Scores versus High Scores with all of the scariest animal combos thrown in for good measure. It’s a delicious bit of fun—but only for those watching, of course. A little tip: it’s almost always rigged so that the Low Scores lose.”

Hank moaned. “And we’re the Low Scores.”

“Yes, you are—or you will be, that is. Someone will be in shortly to modify your scores and then ship you off to the low-Score pen. They won’t truly be changed; even I can’t do that.” He looked meaningfully at Orson. “Anyway, the faked Low Scores won’t fool a guard, but they will fool a casual observer and should last for a few days.” He laughed. “Besides, who would ever guess that a High Score would actually want to be a Low Score? It’s only the High Scores that ever receive more than a passing glance.” The emperor got up and walked to the door. “Survive tomorrow, and you’ll get your shot at the czar in the arena.” He smirked at Orson. “Or, Daddy Dearest.”

The emperor walked out of the room, his robe billowing behind him with a gust from the closing door.

Turning to the others, Charley opened his mouth to speak, but abruptly shut it.

Orson’s face held an expression that Charley had never seen before—and it sent a chill down his spine. The emotion on Orson’s face was clear: raw, naked fear.

CHAPTER 12

Pankration

A
n ant crawled over his foot. Charley kicked his leg out, wiggling his toes inside of his shoes to discourage the little explorer from setting up camp. He sighed. They were now Low Scores, at least according to the new markings on their arms, which had been reconfigured by a bevy of royal helpers wielding complex little instruments, some of whom Charley guessed had just been sent to confuse the process. But the biggest safeguard they had was not the authenticity of their fake scores, but their stamp of approval from the emperor, freeing them from close scrutiny by his guards.

In the fenced-in holding area, little more than a cattle pen, Charley and his three companions were now adjusting to life as a Low Score. As the sun slipped across the skyline in purples and oranges, its beauty contrasted with the harshly putrid smells. He was quickly finding out that the humiliation of being treated as a Low Score, no better than an animal, paled in comparison to the overall feeling of neglect.

As much as he hated the System, he had come to rely on his standing as a High Score in ways he hadn’t fully realized. This self-realization of privilege startled him: those who have it are blind to it; those who don’t, see nothing but their lack of it.

Charley, Hank, Grigor, and even Orson—they were all suddenly nobodies. It had only been hours since they had been feasting with the emperor; now no one cared that they had to sleep in a dirty pen on gritty sand with hundreds of other filthy and half-naked Low Scores. Besides a less than joyful reunion with Sven earlier, the only attention they received was from the ants. Sven refused to talk about what had happened in the arena and now seemed interested only in staying on the opposite side of the pen with his new circle of friends: a pretty dark-haired girl and a number of heavily muscled youths with the demeanor of hardened hoodlums.

Charley sighed again. Ah, the ants. He realized you couldn’t really know what it was like to have someone else decide your worth until you had experienced it firsthand. Things like having to skulk off to the corner of the pen to relieve yourself; having to drink rust-colored water from an old hose, likely teeming with bacteria or worse; and the ants. Charley slapped his elbow at the perceived trek of an ant. Immediately, the little hairs on his knee prickled up. He wondered why it was that seeing one ant on you made you imagine an army of them traversing your body for the next hour.

“At least they aren’t crants, eh, Charley?” Grigor smushed two ants at once with a large blunt thumb.

Despite the circumstances, Charley let out a small grin at Grigor. “That was the first animal combination I ever saw.” He thought back to his first hunt in the forest beyond Meritropolis and the crow–ant hybrid that had dive-bombed his head and taken a bite out of his neck.

Grigor flicked the remains of an ant carcass. “I remember.”

“And now look at you,” Orson said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Whatever.” Charley ground an ant into oblivion with the knuckle of his index finger.

Hank looked up from his own skirmish with the miniature invaders. “I wonder what kind of animal combos we’ll face tomorrow. It sounds like that’s what they’re saving all of the really dangerous ones for.”

“Who knows …” Orson said, his thoughts elsewhere.

Charley thought of the look of sheer terror on Orson’s face when he had let his guard down, just for the briefest of moments, after the emperor’s mention of his father’s upcoming visit. Seeing that look, Charley was certain that their most dangerous opponent wouldn’t be an animal combination.

“I’ve heard talk that there might be some alligator and crocodile combos.” Grigor smacked his palm flat onto a troop of ants. “Probably vulcodiles, vulture-crocodiles, and maybe even a wolverator, a wolverine–alligator hybrid—now those are some mean little critters.”

“A flying crocodile?” Hank froze in place, not even noticing as an ant resumed its cross-body voyage.

Grigor chuckled. “Imagine a baby dragon. That’s a vulcodile. They can’t fly all that fast, but if they get close enough, a snap of their jaws is an unpleasant experience.” He eyed Hank’s slack-jawed face with amusement. “Oh, but they don’t breathe fire or anything, so don’t worry about that.”

Orson suddenly jolted back to reality and joined the conversation. “Didn’t you catch a wolverator once before, Grigor? By that place you used to get all those gobster?” Despite their recent feast with the emperor, Charley’s stomach grumbled at the thought of the delicious, buttery goose–lobster hybrids, Grigor’s favorite food.

“It was more like one caught me.” Grigor turned over his massive forearm to reveal a jagged pink scar on the underside, which snaked from elbow to wrist amidst the tributaries of veins. Tracing the scar with his finger, Grigor grimaced. “Now that bite hurt.”

“Wow,” Charley said softly. He had always thought of Grigor as virtually impervious to pain. In their many hunts, various altercations, and even in captivity, Charley had never once seen Grigor display an ounce of discomfort, let alone admit to being hurt. If this creature could do that to Grigor, Charley resolved to stay as far away from any wolverators as he could.

Orson nodded. “Bugger got away, too, if I remember correctly.”

Grigor clenched and unclenched his fist, the scar pulsing white over the sinewy cords of his rippling muscles. “Yep.”

“Well,” Charley said, “maybe you’ll get another shot at one of its family members tomorrow.”

Grigor turned his arm back over as if to dispel the memory. “Yep. If you come across one, the important thing to remember is to grab firmly behind its ears. That’s the only place you can securely hold on to it where it can’t turn and bite you.”

“Then what do you do?” Charley asked.

Grigor shrugged. “I still haven’t figured that part out.”

Hank moaned. “Great …”

“We can worry about that tomorrow.” Grigor flattened a dirty blanket on the ground in the semblance of a bedroll, one of a number of items that Grigor had received from one of the emperor’s attendants. “I think we should try to get as much sleep as we can tonight. And, as for the ants …” Grigor walked a few paces away, opened his hand to reveal a few pieces of hard candy he made appear like magic. Crunching them into little pieces, he sprinkled them in a trail leading away from their pitiful campsite. “This should give them something better to occupy themselves with for a while so we can grab a few hours’ rest.”

“Ah, now that’s a good idea,” Hank said.

Not for the first time, Charley wondered what they would have done without Grigor around.

Brushing his hands together, Grigor stepped over his newly created candy lane, already populated by sugar-crazed insect sightseers. He hopped onto his jacket-bedroll. “There.” He looked at Charley with a smile of satisfaction. “That should do it.”

Even Orson looked at Grigor with a look of appreciation on his face. “Well done.” He sniffed the air. “Think you can do anything about the smell of urine?”

Grigor laughed. “Afraid not. I have used up all my tricks.”

Orson harrumphed and rolled over to face in the opposite direction.

“Well, I think it was genius. Thank you.” Charley settled down into the dirt. He curled his knees up to his chest, trying to get comfortable, and then settled for laying flat on his back, his arms crooked behind his head for a pillow. It would be a long night, but he was thankful that at least it was warm.

Long after Grigor’s breathing had slowed to the point that Charley thought he had fallen asleep, Grigor spoke softly. “You know what they say, Charley, about the honey-versus-vinegar thing for catching flies? You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, right? Well, it works for ants—and for people sometimes, too. Not always, but sometimes. Violence isn’t always the answer.”

“Yeah, I know what they say.” Charley kept his eyes on the stars, as they twinkled their undecipherable Morse code above. “But in order for non-violence to work, your opponent must have a conscience.”

Grigor paused before speaking again. The night air was thick with the sound of rustling, smelly bodies and the stickiness of humidity, but the silence between them lay thicker still. “That’s true,” said Grigor, his deep voice a soft murmur, “but I refuse to believe that anyone is too far gone for grace. Each of us knows that we’re more than just animals; we’re different than a simple beast. We all have a conscience deep down inside somewhere.”

“Even the emperor? Even the czar?”

“Well, look at how Commander Orson has changed, at least somewhat, since Meritropolis.” Grigor paused. “I mean, look at me—look at both of us. I’ve done many things I’m not proud of, and I’m still alive. God doesn’t owe me anything, and yet I’m still breathing air I don’t deserve. That’s grace.”

Charley thought of the people who had died because of the revolution he had helped to start in Meritropolis—they had deserved it, hadn’t they? He shifted uncomfortably, rolling onto his side and drawing his knees up to his chest again. He couldn’t help but wonder what he deserved. He found himself speaking out loud. “I don’t think I have any grace to give.”

“Maybe.” Grigor’s voice was like distant thunder over the horizon. “But maybe not. You might just surprise yourself. At least I did. Remember, the grace doesn’t well up from within, it comes from above.”

Charley grunted. “Well, when it comes to the czar, I think he will never respond to the carrot, only the stick.”

Grigor sighed, the sound of a freight train releasing steam. “Yes, I am afraid you may be right: he is beyond reasoning with.”

“Is he beyond grace?” Charley didn’t dare to look at Grigor.

“I trust in God,” Grigor said simply. “That is for Him to decide. But all I do know is that there was a time when many would have said that I was beyond His grace, and yet here I am. Here I am, Lord …” Grigor’s voice trailed off, a whisper slipping off into the night breeze and susurrating like a ship among the currents, unceasingly pulled upward into the inky blackness.

Charley scrunched his eyes shut. He sensed their conversation was over and the only whispers that remained for Grigor to utter would be petitions directed heavenward. At this point, they could use all the help they could get.

Tomorrow, pankration—with wolverators and vulcodiles and who knows what other horrible beasties intent on devouring him before the roaring applause of the crowd. Then, if they survived, on the following day, he would meet the creator of the System, face to face at last.

Sometimes he wished he had Grigor’s faith, he really did. But when he stepped into the arena with the czar, there would be no grace, no honey, and no carrot.

Only the stick.

***

Sven woke early. The sun was threatening to peek over the horizon, and already it was sweltering. Looking around, he found some reassurance in being the first one awake in the pen, as if that fact alone made him better prepared for pankration and all that was in store for them. At least, that’s what Sven told himself.

But if he was honest, he was scared to death.

Sven was fast learning a crucial secret of every good leader: you can be as scared and uncertain as any of your followers—you just can’t ever let them know. Sven had learned that people will often blindly follow a bold and confident, although misguided, leader before a timid one. He knew that if he was to continue using his quasi
-
mastermind status to direct Rico and his gang in the arena, then he certainly needed to keep up the pretense of having a plan.

He looked across the pen. It was littered with huddled bodies, many sleeping in the very dirt that would be their permanent resting place before the day was up. His eyes rested on Charley. He was happy to see Charley alive, he really was. And Hank and Grigor, too. Even Orson. At least he was a valuable sword to have on your side—not that Sven was expecting swords or much in the way of any weapons to be thrown their way during pankration. But, as glad as he was to see the four of them alive, a mix of other emotions had flooded his mind as they strolled into the pen last night and immediately claimed the southwest corner, already acting as if they owned the place.

But faux low scores or not, one look at Grigor alone was enough to cause anyone to defer to the four. Even Rico, as scary and downright homicidal as he had proved to be in the arena, was no idiot; he gave Grigor a wide berth. Besides, he must have realized it was in all of their best interests to work together. During pankration, the death toll would be high; they had to be realistic.

Sven sat cross-legged on a blanket that had doubled as his bed. All things considered, he had slept well. He even had a rolled-up jacket for a pillow, the blanket and jacket procured by Rico, who had last night deposited the bundle at his feet with a grunt.

He knew it was far from charitable; Rico had his own semi-comfortable bedding, and who knows what poor Low Score he had jacked the clothing from. But Sven hadn’t refused the gift.

Guiltily, he pushed the thought out of his mind. He couldn’t help but wonder did those Low Scores, robbed of their clothing, think of him the same way he thought of Charley and the other High Scores? As a taker; a person with connections, someone not concerned with those beneath him? Was that how they saw him? Sven cringed.

He was coming to understand privilege. It’s all relative. You resent those with more, you don’t notice those with less, and yet you don’t even realize that in the midst of your resentment, you are being resented in turn. An instant realization hit: we are all haves, and we are all have-nots—it just depends on who’s doing the evaluating.

Sven stood to his feet, slowly. He surveyed the landscape, his eyes narrowing. He had found himself responsible for each of the Low Scores sleeping in the pen. His planning coupled with Rico’s brutal implementation had seen to that. Now they looked to him. He wondered whether they would follow him even unto death—and before the day was over, many would.

He exhaled slowly. Now was not the time for any moral reservations; he would do what he had to in order to keep as many of his people alive as he could. The fact that Orson had likely told himself the very same rationalizations while Commander of Meritropolis was an irony not lost on Sven.