Paragaea (37 page)

Hieronymus and Leena reported the next morning for their first day of work at the municipal laundry. Their overseer was a Helean woman of advanced years and considerable girth named Shafan, who pointed them towards vats of lye, powdered borax, and grease, explained the rudiments of making laundry soap, and then left them to their labors.

The pair of them were, for all intents and purposes, invisible. The other laundry workers were mostly low-ranking Heleans—their green skin marred by scars and burns on their hands, arms, and faces, the result of carelessness with hot dryers, irons, and acidic compounds—for whom any immigrants, human or otherwise, were beneath notice.

There were few in the laundry who did not bear the marks of their employment somewhere on their exposed skin, and Leena knew that if she and Hieronymus remained there too long, they would prove no exception. But Leena had no desire to remain there for long.

In the days that followed, the pair of them cycled though a number of different responsibilities. When they had manufactured a sufficient
amount of detergent for the cycle, they were assigned to cleaning out the traps on the enormous steam-driven dryers, and when that was done, were put to work unclogging the drains beneath the huge tubs. When the traps were all clean, though, and the drains all unclogged, Shafan felt that they had proved their aptitude sufficiently that she put them to work on sorting the incoming laundry into piles. The combinations and permutations were near endless—white linens, white linens with red highlights, red linens with white accent, blue linens, blue wool, white wool with blue linen trim, and so on, and so on—but Leena could scarcely complain. This was the position they had wanted, the reason they had decided to accept the posting at the laundry in the first place. Now, it was just a matter of time before the right articles came through their hands, and in the meantime, they had planning to do.

Once Leena and Hieronymus had proven themselves dutiful, diligent workers, Shafan warmed to them, slightly. When Leena started bringing in little baked treats for the overseer, and Hieronymus flattered her shamelessly at every opportunity, in short order Shafan was the best friend they'd ever had. They'd already learned what they needed to know about the schedules and processes of the laundry. What they needed to know now were the habits of the palace staff and, most importantly, the security protocols employed in the palace spire itself.

Shafan had worked in the municipal laundry for most of her life, starting as a rug beater when she was not yet nine summers old. Now, with her wrinkled hands greedily unwrapping the sweets and confections that Leena plied her with, Shafan happily explained to her two young friends all about the guards in the palace spire, to which she had once been invited for a dinner, a few years before, when she'd been awarded a special merit for productivity. Shafan stared wistfully into the middle distance when
recounting the grand ballrooms, and the fine lords and ladies, and the guards with their tridents and ceramic cuirasses, and pointed with pride to the yellowed parchment tacked up to the wall over the overseer's desk.

Hieronymus took careful note, while Leena prompted the old woman with questions about how a visitor's identity was verified, about how many guards patrolled the grounds, and so forth.

Within a week, their plan was nearly ready.

The plan, considering how much effort went into researching it, was fairly straightforward. Leena and Hieronymus would keep working at their posts as laundry sorters, waiting until they came across the uniforms of members of the palace household staff. They would purloin a set of the appropriate size and rank for each of them, and once they could both be outfitted in the livery of the palace staff, they would sneak into the coregents' palace.

The plan was simple. Timing was everything. They'd found that the southern entrance to the palace spire was manned by only a single guard, who periodically slipped away for romantic dalliance with one of the younger women from the laundry. When they saw the young lover leave her position at the dryers, they'd dress themselves in their purloined livery, dash up the steps to the first ring, and then slip through the unguarded entrance. Once inside, they'd stick to the less-trafficked routes, behaving just like two members of the palace staff about their business, and with any luck could reach the royal throne room without anyone asking them for identification.

“But what if someone
does
ask us for identification?” Leena asked as they reviewed the plan late one night, in whispered conference in their rooms at the tavern.

A cloud passed across Hieronymus's features. “Then we will do what is necessary,” he said darkly.

Leena knew he was remembering the calif's daughter, that long-ago night in Masjid Empor.

“I shouldn't worry,” Leena said, reaching out and taking his hand in hers. “Once we're inside, no one will give us a second look.”

Hieronymus smiled, but it didn't quite reach to his eyes, and Leena knew that he was no more convinced than she was.

“Good news, Balam,” Leena said, sliding onto the bench across from the jaguar man while Hieronymus sat down beside him. “Yesterday we found a woman's uniform in the laundry from the palace, which we've secreted behind a loose brick in a corner of the laundry.”

“Yes, indeed,” Hieronymus said, thumping the Sinaa on the back. “As soon as a uniform for me comes along, we'll be ready to make our move, and then we can be away from here.”

“I'm not going,” Balam said, eyes still on his plate.

“What?” Hieronymus asked, pulling back his hand in disbelief.

“I've scarcely been able to exchange three words with Menchit,” the jaguar man explained. “Whenever I draw near her, she runs away, and has her followers block my path. I'll not leave her here—not until I've made things right.”

“Then you might just have to bring her along, my friend,” Hieronymus said, “because once we've got that little rock in our hands, we're not going to be sticking around for long.”

“Don't worry, Balam,” Leena said, poking at her bowl of cold porridge with a ceramic spoon. “It'll be a few days before we can locate a uniform for Hero, after all, so you'll have time yet. Today is a citywide rest day, so there'll be no laundry today.”

“Speaking of which,” Hieronymus said, glancing around the room. “Where is everyone?”

The tavern was strangely empty, especially considering that it was time for the morning meal on a rest day. What was more, of the few patrons that were there, none of them were metamen.

“No doubt the same place Benu is.” Leena tried not to grimace as she ate a spoonful from her bowl. “Missing.”

“Yes, I've seen nothing of Benu in days. Balam, how about you, have you seen our wandering friend?”

Balam just shook his head, his attention on his untouched plate.

A waiter drifted by, hoisting a tray of clean mugs and plates.

“Ahoy,” Hieronymus called out, motioning the waiter over. “Where has all your custom gone today? Is everyone ill?”

“No,” the waiter said, shifting the tray to his shoulder, balanced on one hand, “there's some sort of big protest in the offing up on the second ring, at the Ministry of Justice. Those bunch of Black Sun fanatics are going to be agitating for their coreligionists' release, and if they don't get what they want, there's going to be blood spilled on both sides.”

“What?!” Balam jumped to his feet, knocking the bench clattering to the floor. “If there's a protest, it's a surety that Menchit is involved. And if there's to be bloodshed, I need to be there to stop it.”

Without another word to his companions, Balam raced to the door, pushing past the waiter, who staggered comically and dropped the loaded tray to the ground with a resounding crash.

Hieronymus, climbing to his feet after being toppled backwards by the falling bench, dusted himself off. “Well, we better follow him. If we don't, he's bound to get himself into a considerable mess.”

“I suppose you're right,” Leena answered, sighing. She dropped her spoon into the cold porridge with a dull thwacking. “I've no appetite for this muck, anyway.”

Leena and Hieronymus did not catch up with Balam until he had almost reached the steps of the Ministry of Justice, high on the second ring of the city. Above the stalwart arches of the building rose an enormous ceramic representation of the trident, Helean symbol of justice, which was also carried as badge of office as well as weapon by the green-skinned constabulary gathered around the building's entrance in their dozens.

There were hundreds of metamen in attendance, swarming over the steps, held back only by the serried ranks of the city guard, who clutched their tridents in white-knuckled fists, waiting for their orders.

“Release our brothers and sisters,” rose a voice above the tumult, “or face the dire consequences! The children of the Black Sun Genesis will not be caged, and the word of Per the Holy will not be mocked!”

Leena and Hieronymus stood on either side of Balam, just beyond the edge of the crowd, and could see the jaguar man immediately stiffen.

“Menchit,” Balam said, his eyes pleading, his voice as wrought as only a parent's can be.