Queen of Candesce (22 page)

And now the moment had come. Sarto blinked slowly, looked away from her, and said, “I have here my own list. It is a list of innocent civilians killed last night by Amandera Thrace-Guiles and her men.”

Braced as she was for one outcome, it took Venera some seconds to understand what Sarto had said. He had called her
Amandera Thrace-Guiles.
He was not going to reveal her secret.

And in return, he expected her not to reveal his.

The council members were shouting; Guinevera was embracing his long-lost countrywoman and weeping openly; August Virilio had his arms crossed as he stared around in obvious disgust. Swords had been drawn in the gallery and the ceremonial guards were rushing to do their job for the first time in their lives. Abject, shoulders slumped, Pamela Anseratte stood with gesturing people and words swirling around her, her hand holding a slip of paper that might have been her original agenda for the meeting.

It all felt distant and half-real to Venera. She had to make a decision, right now.

Jacoby Sarto's eyes were drilling into her.

She cleared her throat, hesitated one last second, and reached behind her.

Treble was a musician by day and a member of Bryce's underground by night. He'd always known that he might be called upon to abandon his façade of serene artistry and fight in the cause—though like some of the others in the secret organization, he was uneasy with the direction things had taken lately. Bryce was becoming altogether too cozy with the imposing Amandera Thrace-Guiles.

Not that it mattered anymore, as of this minute. Clinging to a knuckle of masonry high on the side of the Lesser Spyre Ministry of Justice, Treble was in an ideal position to watch the city descend into anarchy.

Treble had gained access to the building disguised as a petitioner seeking information about an imprisoned relative. His assignment was to plant some false records in a Ministry file cabinet on the twelfth floor. He evaded the guards adroitly, made his way up the creaking stairs with no difficulty, and had just ensconced himself in the records office when two things happened simultaneously: the staccato sound of gunfire echoed in through the half-open window; and three minor bureaucrats approached the office, talking and laughing loudly.

This was why Treble found himself clutching a rounded chunk of masonry that might once have been a gargoyle, and why he was staring in fascination at the streets that lay below and wrapped up and around the ring of the town-wheel. He hardly knew where to look. Little puffs of smoke were appearing around the Spyre docks directly overhead. The buildings there hovered in midair like child's toys floating in a bathtub and seldom moved; now several were gliding slowly—and ominously—on collision courses. Several ships had cast off. Meanwhile, halfway up the curve of the wheel, some other commotion had sprung up around the Buridan estate. Barnacled as it was by other buildings, he could never have identified the place had he not been familiar with the layout but it was clearly the source of that tall pillar of smoke that stood up two hundred feet before bending over and wrapping itself in a fading spiral around and around the inner space of the wheel.

People were running in the avenue below. Ever the conscientious spy, Treble shifted his position so that he straddled the masonry. He checked his watch, then pulled out a frayed notebook and a stub pencil. He dabbed the pencil on the tip of his tongue then squinted around.

Item one: at four-fourteen o'clock, the preservationists broke our agreement by attempting to prevent Sacrus from occupying the docks.
At least, that was what Treble assumed was happening. The hastily scrawled note from Bryce that had mobilized the resistance told of arguments during the Sacrus raid last night, hasty plans made and discarded in the heat of the moment. Thrace-Guiles wanted to rally the nations of Greater Spyre that had lost people to Sacrus. The preservationists had their own agenda, which involved cowing Sacrus into letting them run a railway line through the middle of the great nation's lands. Sacrus itself was moving and activating its allies. So much was clear; but in the background of this fairly clear political situation, a greater upheaval was taking place.

Bryce had said on more than one occasion that Spyre was like the mainspring of a watch wound too tight. A single tap in the right place might cause a vicious uncoiling—a
snap.
Many in Spyre had read about the Pantry War with envy; over centuries a thousand resentments and grudges had built up between the pocket nations and it was glorious to watch someone else finally try to settle a score. Everyone kept ledgers accounting who had slighted whom and when. Nothing was forgotten and behind their ivy-and-moss-softened walls, the monarchs and presidents of nations little bigger than swimming pools spent their lives plotting their revenges.

The well-planned atrocities of the resistance were little triphammer blows on the watch's case, each one an attempt to break the mechanism. Tap the watch, shake it, and listen. Tap it again. That had been Bryce's strategy.

Sacrus and Buridan had hit the sweet spot. Shopfronts were slamming all over the place, like air-clams caught in a beam of sunlight, while gangs of men carrying truncheons and knives seemed to materialize like smoke out of the alleys. It was time for a settling of scores.

Item two: chaos in the streets. Maybe time to distribute currency?

Treble peered at the line of smoke coiling inside the wheel.
Item three: Sacrus seems to have had more agents in place in the city than we thought. They appear to be moving against Buridan without council approval. So…Item four: council no longer effective?

He underlined the last sentence, then thought better and crossed it out.
Obviously
the council was no longer in control.

He leaned over and examined the flagstoned street a hundred feet below. Some of those running figures were recognizable. In fact…

Was that Amandera Thrace-Guiles? He shaded his eyes against Candesce's fire and looked again. Yes, he recognized the shock of bleached hair that surmounted her head. She was hurrying along the avenue with one arm raised to shoulder height. Apparently she was aiming a pistol at the man walking ahead of her. Oh that was definitely her then.

Around her a mob swirled. Treble recognized some of his compatriots; there were others, assorted preservationists, soldiers of minor nations, even one or two council guards. Were they escorting Thrace-Guiles or protecting someone else Treble hadn't spotted?

Item five: council meeting ended around four o'clock.

He sighted in the direction Thrace-Guiles's party was taking. They were headed for the Buridan estate. From ground level they probably couldn't tell that place was besieged. At this rate they might walk right into a crowd of Sacrus soldiers.

Treble could still hear voices in the room behind him. He tapped the file folder in his coat pocket and frowned. Then with a shrug he swung off his masonry perch and through the opened window.

The three bureaucrats stared at him in shock. Treble felt the way he did when he dropped a note in performance; he grinned apologetically, said, “Here, file this,” and tossed his now-redundant folder to one of the men. Then he ran out the door and made for the stairs.

 

Garth Diamandis staggered and reached out to steady himself against the wall of a building. He had to keep up; Venera Fanning was striding in great steps along the avenue, her pistol held unwaveringly to Jacoby Sarto's head. But Garth was confused; people were running and shouting while overhead even lines of smoke divided the sky. This was Lesser Spyre, he was sure of that. The granite voice of his interrogator still echoed in Garth's mind, though, and his arms and legs bellowed pain from the many burns and cuts that ribbed them.

He had insisted on coming today and now he regretted it. Once upon a time he'd been a young man and able to bounce back from anything. Not so anymore. The gravity here weighed heavily on him and for the first time he wished he was back on Greater Spyre where he could still climb trees like a boy. Alone all those years, he had reached an accommodation with himself and his past; there'd been days when he enjoyed himself as if he really were a youth again. And then the woman who now stalked down the center of the avenue ahead of him had appeared, like a burning cross in the sky, and proceeded to turn his solitary life upside down.

He'd thought about abandoning Venera dozens of times. She was self-reliance personified, after all. She wouldn't miss him. Once or twice he had gotten as far as stepping out the door of the Buridan estate. Looking down those half-familiar, secretive streets, he had realized that he had nowhere to go—nowhere, that is, unless he could find Selene, the daughter of the woman whose love had caused Garth's exile.

Logic told him that now was the time. Venera was bound to lose this foolish war she'd started with Sacrus. The prudent course for Garth would be to run and hide, lick his wounds in secret and then…

Ah. It was this
and then
that was the problem. He had found Selene, and she had turned him over to Sacrus. She was theirs—a recruit, like the ones Moss claimed had left many of Spyre's sovereign lands. Sacrus had promised Selene something, had lied to her; they must have. But Garth was too old to fight them and too old to think of all the clever and true words that might win his daughter's heart.

Selene, his kin, had betrayed him. And Venera Fanning, who owed him nothing, had risked her life to save his.

He pushed himself off from the wall and struggled to catch up to her.

A man ran down the broad steps of the Justice ministry. He waved his arms over his head. “Don't go that way! Not safe!”

Venera paused and glanced at him. “You're one of Bryce's.”

“That I am, Miss Thrace-Guiles.” Garth half-smiled at the man's bravado; these democrats refused to address people by their titles. Venera didn't seem to notice, and they had a hurried conversation that Garth couldn't hear.

“There you are.” He turned to find the preservationist, Thinblood, sauntering up behind him. He grinned at Garth. “You ran off like a startled hare when she came out of the council chamber.”

Garth grunted. Thinblood seemed to have decided he was an old man who needed coddling. It was annoying. He had to admit to himself that it was a relief to have him here, though. The rest of this motley party consisted mostly of Venera's other freed prisoners and they made for bad company, for much the same reasons as Garth supposed he did. They all looked apprehensive and tired. It didn't help that their presence at council didn't seem to have made a dent in Sacrus's support.

Garth and Thinblood had been talking under an awning across the street when Venera Fanning appeared at the official's entrance to the council chamber. She backed out slowly, her posture strange. As she emerged further it became clear that she was holding a gun and aiming it at someone. That someone had turned out to be Jacoby Sarto.

Before he knew it Garth was by her side. “What are you doing?” he heard himself shouting. She'd merely grimaced and kept backing up.

“Things didn't go our way,” she'd said. Past Sarto, the council guards were lining up with their rifles aimed at her. At the same time, the commoner's doors around the long curve of the building were thrown open. A hoard of people spilled out, some of them fighting openly. Venera's supporters ran to her side as Bryce's agents appeared from nowhere to act as crowd control. And then a gasp went up from the watching crowd as Principe Guinevera and Pamela Anseratte pushed the council guards aside and came to stand at Venera's side.

“The lines have been drawn,” Anseratte said to the council guards. “Sacrus is not on the council's side. Stand down.”

Reluctantly, the guards lowered their rifles.

Garth leaned close to Venera. “Did he tell them your…secret?” But she shook her head.

Maybe it was having Thinblood's reassuring hand on his shoulder, but as Venera argued now with Bryce's spy, the fog of fatigue and pain lifted enough for Garth to begin to wonder about that. Jacoby Sarto had
not
told the council who Venera really was? That made no sense. Right now Amandera Thrace-Guiles was the darling of the old countries. She was the resurrected victim of Sacrus's historical arrogance; she was a champion. If Sarto wanted to deflate Sacrus's opposition all he had to do was reveal that she was a fake.

“Why did she do it?” he wondered aloud. Thinblood laughed.

“You're trying to second-guess our Amandera?” He shook his head. “She's got too much fire in her blood, that's clear enough. Obviously she saw a chance to take Sarto and she went with it.”

Garth shook his head. “The woman I know wouldn't see Sarto as a prize to be taken. She'd think him a burden and be happy to be rid of him. And if he's a prisoner why doesn't he seem more concerned?” Sarto was standing with his arms crossed, waiting patiently for Venera to finish her conversation. He seemed more to be
with
her than taken
by
her. Garth seemed to be the only who had noticed this.

“Attention!” Venera raised her pistol and for a moment he thought she was about to fire off a round. She already had the attention of everyone in sight, though, and seemed to realize it. “Buridan is under siege!” she cried. “Our ancient house is surrounded by Sacrus's people. We can't go back there.”

Garth hurried over. “What are we going to do? They've moved faster than we anticipated.”

She nodded grimly. “Apparently their ground forces are moving to surround the elevator cables.—The ones they can get to, that is.”

“Most of our allies are on Greater Spyre,” he said. If Sacrus isolated them up here in the city, they would have to rely on the preservationists, and a few clear-headed leaders such as Moss, to organize the forces down there.

For a moment that thought filled Garth with hope. If Venera was sidelined at this stage, she might be able to avoid being drawn into the heart of the coming conflagration. A checkmated Buridan might survive with honor, no matter who won.

Clearly Venera had no intention of going down that road. “We need to get down there,” she was saying. “Sacrus doesn't control all the elevators. Pamela, your country's line, where is it?”

Anseratte shook her head. “It's two wheels away from here. We might make it, but if Sacrus already has men in the streets they've probably taken the axis cable cars as well.”

Guinevera shook his head too. “Our line comes down about a mile from Carrangate. They're an old ally of Sacrus. They could use us for target practice on our way down.”

“What about Liris?” It was one of Moss's men, standing alertly with a proud look in his eye. “Lady, we are the only nation in Spyre that has recently fought a war. There may not be many of us, but…”

She turned a dazzling smile on the man. “Thank you. Yes—but your elevator is above the Fair, isn't it?”

“And the Fair, m'lady, is six blocks up the wheel, that way.” He pointed off to the left.