Syphon's Song (36 page)

“No hands, gardener.”

“Of course.” Dell held both hands up as if he were harmless. “Just getting a piece of paper and pencil out of my pocket, if that meets with your approval.” He reached in slowly and calmly, as if he dealt with guards on a regular basis. He turned to Bronte. “I knew I would need these today. I just didn’t know why.” A simple map took shape on the paper as he narrated. “This road goes all the way into the city and eventually runs parallel to the Scioto River. Three left turns and you’re there. It’s on Whittier. Do you want me to call them so they save your car and don’t crush it?”

Bronte looked away. “Sure. Thank you.” That was a logical action if she were really going to save her car. “Would that be the metallist that you would call?”

He nodded. “He does the crushing.”

“That would be wonderful.” She smiled. “By the way, thank you for the leaf.” She took one step toward Gregor and stopped. “Do you happen to know my sis…Selene Glender?”

Dell paused. “I spoke to Miss Glender last night as she was leaving. She is a solemn lady.” He drew himself up straight again, shoulders back. Power radiated from his frame. “Senator, if there is anything else I can do for you, anything, you need only call out to me. I will hear you.”

“Thank you.” She smiled and tucked the paper in the tiny pocket on the outside of her boot. She’d had no idea what one would put in a boot pocket, never having seen one until this pair, but now she knew—covert directions to secret places where one would undertake daring action to solve deadly problems. “Actually, there is one thing.” She lowered her voice as much as possible but still have him hear. “Do you have a vehicle on the estate?”

He gave her a sideways glance. “Of course, senator.”

“Would you pick me up at the road in front of the gyre at five minutes to three-quarters morning?” She said the words slowly as she calculated in her head. “That would be nine fifty-five standard Non time?”

“Ten twenty-five.” The corrected time rolled off his tongue easily. “And yes, I can pick you up and take you…”

“To the front of the big house.”

He opened his mouth as if surprised. “Is this a dangerous idea, senator?”

“Are you a dangerous driver?”

He shook his head.

“Then, no. Lady Rallis has ordered a new car for me. I want to see it the moment it arrives.”

He crooked an eyebrow.

“Um, that is, so I can make sure I still want my old car instead.” She donned her most convincing smile and prayed he couldn’t sense her lie.

“I’ll have you there by the time the gates open.”

* * * *

Her plan hinged on a half-dozen factors. Almost all of them were beyond her control. If this idea failed as badly as the butter, then she’d figure out something else. For now, Bronte focused on her current strategy. She wandered the stones of the gyre as if it were a labyrinth, and she was deep within a meditation, though a trickle of nervous sweat ran down her back. This was the only place where she had a chance of shaking off her guards.

Dane and Gregor stood guard at opposite points around the circular space. Gregor rubbed his forehead, pain written in his expression. She felt a little guilty about that.

Standing at the edge, the men followed her with their gazes, but there were two places where she was hidden from both. She’d make her exit at the blind spot closest to the road and run to meet Dell.

She peeked down at the hourglass she’d stolen from the kitchen’s smallest stove. It measured one hour. She’d started the countdown at nine twenty. The last few grains slipped through. Though it wasn’t as accurate as a watch, it was the best she had. She had five minutes to run through the forest to the road where Dell would be waiting. Hustling to the spot where neither man could see her, she broke into a sprint and fled straight to the road as fast as she could. Her legs burned, but she pushed on as if powerful senators were flinging life-threatening spells at her back. Dashing around a huge tree, she leaped over a fallen branch just in time to keep from tripping over it. Her breath was so loud in her ears she could not hear Dane and Gregor behind her, but if they weren’t in pursuit already, they would be soon.

The woods went on and on, longer than ever before. Every tree looked the same. How did people ever find their way around in the woods? The best she could do was run in the straightest line possible. She thought she heard a shout behind her. She ran faster. Her legs were on the verge of tripping over themselves. Finally, the break in the trees glimmered just ahead. She shot through it.

Dell waited on a vehicle with four wheels and a bench seat.

“Hi,” she huffed and ran around to the other side.

He sped off the moment she sat down. “I’m going to get fired for this, you know.”

“Oh, no!” she panted. Worry tightened her face. Everything else was already tight from muscle strain and stress. “I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “I don’t want that. I shouldn’t have involved you in this.”

“It’s alright. I’m not needed here anymore,” Dell shouted over the sound of the wind blowing past them. “But I’ll see this through.” He looked at her as he floored the pedal. “Your people need you, senator. We’ll get you out. I can drive you right up to the gates. You can slip out when your new car arrives. William Ansel, the Casteel sentry, is on the other side of the gate. He’s a friend. You can trust him.”

“What? Who are you?” Had she just climbed into a vehicle with an enemy? Vincent’s warning about Double-Wide being on the estate whispered through her mind. She glanced down at the ground. It whipped by in a blur, too quickly to jump out, not that she had any idea how to go about such a stunt.

“I’m just the gardener.” He looked at her, briefly taking his eyes from the bumpy road. The set of his grim lips was somber and determined.

“Take me to the front. Not the gates.” She used her closest imitation of a senator’s commanding voice.

It must have worked. He responded with a, “Yes, ma’am.” They took the circle around the front of the house with such speed she had to hang on to the seat or risk being thrown off. She stopped him. “Here. This is good.” She could just make out the tall, black gates far down the drive. They glided open, and a sleek, white car turned in with an older sedan right behind. The two cars passed under the stately gatehouse.

She looked at the gardener. “Thank you. You should go now. Maybe they didn’t see you.” Though truth was, she didn’t care much about the security of his employment. A friend of the Casteels was no friend of the Rallises. But whoever he was, she needed him gone to carry out the rest of her plan without interference. As he obeyed, she dashed behind the first tree lining the driveway to hide from whichever Rallis servant would greet the delivery service. A horrible thought occurred to her that they would deliver the car to the back of the house.

But luck was with her. The two cars pulled up to the circle in front of the big house and stopped. Bronte snuck out of the trees and climbed into the back seat of the older car, the one that would take the other driver back.

The driver wrenched around. His eyes widened at the sight of her crouched in his backseat.

“Hello.” She waved to him. The medallion twinkled on her right arm. “I’m Senator Casteel.” She sunk down below the car’s windows.

“Uh, uh, Sss…senator.” Beads of sweat popped up around the bald spot on the front of his head. He bowed—a seated, twisted version.

“Thank you so much for delivering the new car.” Bronte tried to sound pleasant and calm instead of breathless with stress. She pushed her wind blown hair into order as she spoke. “What’s your name?”

“Frank Ritzman, Lady.”

“Mr. Ritzman, you are to be commended for your promptness. Excellent service. Since you and the other driver are leaving, would you mind taking me with you and dropping me off around the Scioto River? I have a map.” She twisted around to get the slip of paper out of her boot’s pocket.

“Uh, of course, Lady. Senator.” His eyes hadn’t yet shrunk to normal size. Bronte watched as Jasper came down the steps and took the keys from the driver of her new car. The gray-haired deliveryman nodded to the butler, walked toward Mr. Ritzman’s car and climbed into the passenger seat in front of her. He, too, acquired wide eyes at the sight of her crouched down in the backseat.

“Uh,” the driver began, “we’re going to take
Senator Casteel
to the Scioto River somewhere.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Bronte kept her voice calm and poised despite her awkward crouch below the windows. “I’ll give you the specifics as soon as we get on the other side of the gates. Quickly now. Let’s keep up your record of promptness.” Bronte peeked out the back windshield as they pulled down the drive. Dell stood with his hands cupped around his mouth, his stare intent on the gate. He wasn’t yelling. No, he was too still to be forcing much air through his vocal cords. He was throwing his voice to someone. She could guess his target—the Casteel sentry on the other side of the gates.

Just then Dane and Gregor sprinted around the house and jumped over a row of hedges in their way. Dell’s hands dropped immediately as they came over the hedge. He spun around to face them. Guilt heated through her. Vincent would be furious. But what choice was there? No one here would help her get rid of this thing.

The driver turned out of the driveway. The tall, black gates closed behind. She sat up and took a breath. Her hands were shaking, but she was free. She needed her luck to continue so this medallion would let her free as well.

In lieu of polite conversation, Bronte sent up a steady stream of prayers as the car passed through the countryside. A mix of small farms and woods dotted the land until they entered the city. Block after block of shops and offices lined the streets, city mages at work. The atmosphere deteriorated with a surprising abruptness as they crossed a bridge. The river ran beside them and then disappeared into a thick forest too dense for human eyes to penetrate.

Bronte sat up straighter even as she shivered. “Turn here.” They were close.

“This is the Drainpipe. We can’t take a lady here.” The gray-haired deliveryman whispered the words to the driver with an alarmed glance at Bronte. She caught sight of the driver’s wide eyes in the rearview mirror. He hissed something back to the other man, too soft for her to hear.

Mr. Ritzman decelerated as they approached an old dingy shop on the right. Beyond, stacks of crumpled metal were compacted into rows and rows of towering walls, a looming labyrinth she never wanted to roam.

The driver cleared his throat. “Uh, Lady Senator, ma’am. Are you sure this where you want to go?”

“Yes, Mr. Ritzman. I am.” She needed to project confidence. It was up to her to get the medallion off.

“No offense, senator, but it looks a little rough. See those mages there? I think they’re about to fight.” He pointed toward the building. In front of it, a group of men crept closer together, aggression written in every stance.

They drove by.

“I do believe you are correct, Mr. Ritzman. But this is the place. I need the metallist’s office. Or shop. Or whatever it’s called.”

Mr. Ritzman looked around. “That must be it—that shack—back where those men are.” His words fell slowly.

“Then back we go.” She studied the building behind them. The second half of this plan looked a bit more dangerous than the first. Vincent would throw a fit.

The driver stuck out his chin with a harsh swallow. “Yes, ma’am.” He spun the car around in the middle of the road. The vehicle behind them screeched to a halt. The driver stared at her through the window. The gray of his uniform was visible through the glass. She hadn’t factored the Casteel sentry in her plan.

“You can drop me off in front. Quickly. I’ll hop out and you can be on your way. Thank you, gentlemen. I do appreciate it. Casteel is in your debt.” The car slid into the parking lot. Mr. Ritzman pulled the car so close to the metallist’s office he only left her a few feet to open the car door. She climbed out among broken bits of concrete sidewalk and slipped inside the dingy building.

The interior was a smaller scale of the junkyard outside. Metal hunks of various sizes sat on shelves and tables and spilled onto the floor. Larger slabs of metal engines and tools swayed in the air, hanging from chains and hooks screwed into the ceiling, like a butcher shop with metal carcasses instead of meaty ones. Oil scented the air, heavy and sticky against her nose.

A crash echoed from deep within the building. The noise morphed into a groan, as if the metallist altered the very essence of the metal he was working. The spell crept toward her. Her ears ached. She fingered the medallion as the sound filled the building without end, wringing out the suffering of the material. She wanted to plea for it to stop, but there was no one to ask. She put her hands over her ears. Goose bumps rose along her skin.