Paragaea (38 page)

Leena followed his gaze, and saw the young Sinaa woman standing at the head of the assembled throng, standing just a spear's-thrust from the ranks of the city guards.

“I've got to stop this,” Balam said, and rushed forward, swimming through the crush of protestors, trying to reach the front.

Leena took a step forward, as though to follow, but Hieronymus took hold of her elbow, pulling her up short.

“No,” he said. “Look at their eyes, these followers of the Black Sun Genesis. They're maddened, enraged. They don't like humans in the best of circumstances, but if you got in the middle of that mix, you'd come out the worse for it.”

Leena started to object, but then nodded slowly, relaxing. “I just hope he knows what he's getting into. The last thing we need is trouble with the authorities when we're so close to our goal.”

Hieronymus pointed to the entrance to the building, where a well-fed green-skinned man wearing the necklace of a high-ranking ministry
official stepped into view, securely protected by a ring of oversized city guards.

“Return to your appropriate places in the lower quarters,” the official ordered, raising his voice, but still only barely audible over the shouts of the protestors. His green face was tinged with red, and he trembled with barely controlled emotion. “Those still in custody will face trial as soon as the coronation is complete, and I assure you that our new underlord and underlady will give the matter its due attention. But under no circumstances are we prepared to release prisoners to meet the demand of an uncouth rabble.”

“Rabble?!” shouted Menchit, her fangs bared. She turned her head over her shoulder and addressed her followers. “
This
is the level of respect which the Black Sun Genesis receives in these benighted lands. Our brothers and sisters traveled here as missionaries, to bring to all the metamen living here the good word of Per, and to help them stand up to the corrupt Helean authorities, to demand better living and working conditions, as is their natural right!”

Leena leaned over and whispered to Hieronymus behind her hand. “I can't say that I blame them. You know I've no patience for religious zealots, but you can't deny that conditions for immigrants here are appalling, and I don't envy the metamen here for an instant.”

“True enough,” Hieronymus said warily, “but I'm not sure
this
is the way to go about it.”

Hieronymus pointed to one of the Struthio towards the front of the assemblage, who had produced a large chuck of flagstone from somewhere, and was waving it menacingly above his head.

“Free our brothers and sisters!” Menchit shouted.

“Never!” the official shouted back, losing all composure. “I would sooner die than disgrace my high office by capitulating to the demands of an unruly mob!”

“Then die!” shouted the Struthio, and hurled the stone overhand at the official.

The official tried to duck, but too late, as the stone careened off his skull, drawing a nasty gash along his wide forehead.

“Der'mo,” Leena spat, as the trident-wielding guards swarmed into the protestors without warning.

More protestors produced broken flagstones, which they hurled at the approaching guards.

Menchit turned towards her followers, exhorting them to charge the entrance, when one of the guards swung his trident in a long, wicked arc, smacking her solidly in the back of the head and knocking her to the ground. From their vantage, Leena and Hieronymus could not immediately see what became of her, but they had little time to wonder, as a heartbeat later Balam surged out of the crowd. The enraged jaguar man clawed the guard viciously, from navel to neck, and as the guard fell bleeding to the ground, screaming in agony, Balam ducked down, slung his daughter over his shoulder, and ran away from the melee.

Leena and Hieronymus watched Balam fleeing into the twilit gloom, making for the stairs to the lower rings. The guards were mostly engaged with battering the protestors, or were forced to deal with their own wounds, and none appeared to be giving Balam pursuit. It hardly mattered.

“We can't wait any longer,” Leena said, grabbing Hieronymus by the arm and leading him from the crowd. “We have no choice but to make our move
now.
”

“What?”

“If we stay in the city much longer, we run the serious risk that Balam will only end up arrested along with his daughter, and perhaps the rest of us, as well.”

“But we have only the one uniform,” Hieronymus objected as Leena steered them towards the municipal laundry building. “If we make our move now, then you will have to go alone.”

“Like I said,” Leena answered, her mouth drawn into a thin line, “we have no choice.”

Leena and Hieronymus raced round the curve of the second ring, in short order reaching the entrance to the municipal laundry. The door was locked but unguarded—who would waste manpower guarding dirty linens when there were riots in the streets?—and Hieronymus was able to make short work of the lock. Once they were within, the smell of lye strong in the air, they made their way to the far corner, and the loose bricks behind which they'd secreted the purloined uniform.

“I'm not sure of this plan, little sister,” Hieronymus said as Leena climbed into the purple-and-jet livery of the palace household staff. “Our plan hinges on the southern entrance to the palace spire going unwatched while the guard dallies with the laundry girl. We've no assurances that you'll even be able to make it through the door, without that gap to exploit.”

“Possibly,” Leena answered, unconvinced. “But it seems likely to me that, with so many of the city's guards redirected to the steps of the
Ministry of Justice, other areas of the city will be left less well defended.”

Hieronymus nodded, his expression no less grave. “Perhaps. But I still don't like it.”

“We have no choice, Hero.” Leena fastened the gold sash around her waist, and then regarded herself in a silvered glass on a nearby wall. The uniform fit her well enough, though the extra bunches of fabric at the bosom and thighs suggested that its rightful owner was considerably more curvaceous than she. She spun on her heel, her arms out to her sides, turning to face Hieronymus. “Well, how do I look?”

Hieronymus took a step towards her, his brows knitted. “You have your knife, and your pistol?”

“Naturally.” Leena patted the deep pockets stitched into either pants leg, the hard outline of the Makarov visible through the dark fabric.

“Don't hesitate to use the latter, should circumstances require.”

Leena raised an eyebrow. “And waste precious ammunition?”

“Just…” Hieronymus said, and then paused. He chewed his lip, and regarded Leena closely. “Just be safe, understand? Do what you must to complete your task and to leave the tower in one piece.”

Leena nodded slowly. “I understand,” she said. “But don't worry. I'll be fine.”

Hieronymus managed a weak smile, but didn't speak.

As Leena had suspected, the southern entrance to the palace spire was vacant and unguarded. She passed through the high arch, walking swiftly and with purpose, like a dutiful minion about her daily chores, and was not accosted.

Leena and Hieronymus had been able to wheedle from Shafan the information that the Carneol was always kept in the throne room. When
the underlord and underlady were in attendance, the Carneol was held by one or the other of them personally, ensign of their authority, but when they were in their private quarters or otherwise engaged, the gem was kept on display in a crystal case. The plan called for Leena to scale the spiraling stairs of the palace to the throne room, which occupied its highest peak, and once there take the Carneol from the case.

Unfortunately, Shafan had not been able to say with certainty what sort of protection was provided the Carneol, when in the case. Were there guards? Beasts of some variety? Elaborate traps and baffles? Leena did not know. But as she stepped across the threshold and made her way towards the interior stair, her imagination conjured up dreadful possibilities.

As she walked through the opulent corridors of the palace, festooned with tapestries and ceramic statues, Leena passed household servants about their business, but few guards, only a handful standing watch or walking on patrol, their ceramic cuirasses polished to a mirror shine. When she reached the interior stair, and mounted the steps, she found that she was alone, with no one ascending or descending above her. In a few minutes' time, she would reach the top, and the throne room.

It seemed that Leena's surmise about the effect of the protest on the other areas of the city was proving correct. Perhaps, then, this inconvenient acceleration of their schedule would prove a blessing in disguise. Assuming, of course, that something horrible did not await her in the throne room above, for which their plans had no contingent.

The creature beyond the door to the throne room, ancient and bent, was the last sight Leena expected to see. An ancient woman, dressed in the vermilion whose use was taboo for all but the Helean monarchs themselves, stood near a wide window, looking down at the rings of
Hele below, and the innumerable caves beyond, distant and indistinct in the twilit gloom. A brazier burned between a pair of thrones on a dais, casting a faint yellow glow across the room, and set into the wall above was a crystal case, sitting open and empty.

“Underlady Persefonh,” Leena said, breathless both from mounting the countless steps of the interior stair, and from running headlong into the monarch of the hidden city unexpectedly.

The old woman turned slightly, her watery eyes glancing Leena's way. In her gnarled hands was a multifaceted gem the size of a man's fist, scarlet and seeming to glow with an inner light.

“The Carneol,” Leena said in a whisper.

The underlady's green skin was wrinkled, and parchment-thin, veins standing like blue cords beneath the surface.

“They have not returned yet, you know,” Persefonh said in a careworn, husky voice. “If they had survived, we'd have seen some sign of them by now. So Hele is not to have a new underlord and underlady just yet, and I will have to continue to carry my burden alone.” She lifted the red gem until it was only centimeters from her nose, a strange expression on her wrinkled features. “And my burden has become so heavy, of late.”

Leena, hesitantly, took a step forward, playing the part of the dutiful household servant. “Your Majesty, is there…is there anything you require?”

The underlady shook her head, absently, and turned back towards the window.

“I was just a child of seven summers when Akerohn and I were selected from the royal creches, you know,” she said, glancing momentarily at the empty throne across the floor. “Before we even fully understood what was happening, we'd been fed the sacred pomegranates, and sent out into the tunnels, the final tests of the coronation rituals. The future rulers of Hele, after all, have always had to prove their worth by going into the consecrated tunnels, passing a full day and
night, and returning with the gemstones which the ancient religion of our foreparents holds sacred.” She paused, and then turned back to Leena with a rueful smile on her narrow mouth. “Just rocks, really. Don't tell anyone, my dear, but the sacred gemstones were really just rocks, pebbles found down in the caves. Perhaps in ancient days children who returned without the proper gems were denied the throne of Hele, but in recent centuries, we'll crown anyone who returns from the caves half-alive.”

Leena drew closer, her hands held behind her back, her eyes respectfully on the floor. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“There is danger in the caves; there is no doubt of that. Even if the children survive, they can be crippled by falling rocks and the like. Most that fail in the attempt are lost forever to the caves, their bodies never found. So if a pair of children return with a bit of gravel, they ascend to the throne of Hele and are given the Carneol, and no one thinks twice about it.” The underlady sighed, and cradled the scarlet gem in her withered hands. “As history records, in some eras the trials seem to go without incident, the first pair of children who are sent out returning unharmed at the end of the appointed term. In other eras, though, wave after wave of children are sent into the dark caves, two by two, with none returning after the long days and weeks.” She looked back to Leena, her expression weary. “Leaving the surviving regent to occupy the throne, all the while. Alone.”

Leena was now little more than a meter away, her head still bowed deferentially.

“I just want to step down and hand over the signet of office.” Persefonh closed her eyes, and her chin fell to her chest. “I am just so very tired, and I miss my Akerohn, and I just want to sleep.” She opened her eyes again, looking down angrily at the gem in her hands. “And the Carneol is such a heavy burden to bear.”

Leena's hand drifted to her pocket, and closed around the hilt of her knife.

“Is there no one who can take this burden from me?”

Leena lunged forward, and struck the underlady with the butt of her knife's hilt, clouting a blow to the back of the old woman's skull where it met the neck.

The underlady collapsed to the ground in a heap, vermilion gowns swirling around her, and the Carneol clattered noisily to the floor.

“I'm sorry.” Leena sighed, stepping over the still form of the underlady and snatching up the Carneol.

The narrow chest of the underlady rose and fell. Leena had struck hard enough to knock her unconscious, but not hard enough to kill, or so Leena hoped. She slipped the Carneol and the knife back into her pocket, and slipped away to the interior stair.