“What’s with her?” Ruane asked as she and Lojen marched into the room. The big drakken heir sullenly watched the bikrome rush by, the soft sounds of tears swallowed back.
“It’s going to be a long day,” Emre responded as he undid the silken bag hanging on a peg next to the mirror, revealing an immaculate three-piece black suit.
“So, what’s the plan, humir?”
Despite the ache in his heart, his fingers deftly buttoned up the white shirt. “Solanine throws a party each year in commemoration of the Fallen’s victory in Drenth.” With the collar popped, Emre began to braid an intricate knot with his silken tie. “All the Houses under their thumb will be in attendance.”
“Bugger them all,” Ruane spat. “Why not just blow Gargantua from the sky, take out all those sympathetic to the Imperium in one fell swoop.”
“And kill more of my people? No, that won’t do, Ruane.” With the knot tied, Emre pulled on the tailored waistcoat and buttoned the three silver studs. He then slung his pocket watch into one of the vest’s thin pockets. “As long as Gargantua is tethered above the city, I won’t allow it to be blown apart. Besides, we want Solanine and the Fallen to suffer. A quick death is too good for them.” He shrugged into his topcoat. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t still bring it to the ground.”
Ruane’s snout bristled in a pointy-toothed grin. “Tasty. Where do we fit into all this?”
“A few fireworks will be your task, Ruane. All the guests will be checked for any weapons upon their personages. You’ll need to carry the bombs aboard and place them in carefully determined locations.” Emre drew forth another container with false lenses. Staring back into the mirror, he placed them into his eyes, covering the emerald center. He blinked a few times as the aether spelled within took root onto his eyes. Finn was correct, they were uncomfortable. “Lojen, with all focused on the party, you’ll have reign to find the Seal and Hammer. Your father’s horns should be there as well.”
“Guarded heavily, I would fathom.” Lojen seemed a tad more reserved than his sister, more realistic in what was being asked of them. It wasn’t a simple task, and the drakken heir knew it.
“Undoubtedly. With our showing at the aethecite factories and the rumors of the Fallen readying his war upon Kalderim, we expect the guard to be doubled. If not more.”
“Why even throw this party then?”
Because they know I’m coming for them. “Solanine’s ego won’t allow it otherwise. I’ve never been, but from what I understand, Solanine goes all out. The Fallen shows his face, maybe makes a speech, but then retreats back into his spire.”
“And the others?”
“Aside from the bombs you two will carry as you climb the tethers, Val and myself will need something to play with. We have other spies within Gargantua. Wick will meet up with them and then with you, Lojen, to help you find the Seal and your father’s horns. Finn will be our distraction.”
“And what will you be doing?”
Emre pulled at the cuffs of his sleeves, smiling. “Enjoying the party.”
The look on Ruane’s face did little to keep Emre from laughing. Lojen growled a deep guttural bark that Emre realized was a laugh. It felt good, the laugh.
Ruane, however, didn’t seem amused. “What of the scourges? Of Solanine and the Fallen?”
Is this where my betrayal comes to demand its tithe, Cad? “Leave them to me and Val. Especially Lu Har.” Ruane’s anger stole across her face. “Ease, Ruane Tevunsdotyr. You’ll get your chance. You just need to focus on setting the bombs and finding the Seal.”
“And where will we be planting these bombs, humir?”
“The tethers.”
“But you said not to blow them.” A coarse tongue licked her snout in eagerness.
“After the tethers are blown, chaos will ensue. Once we secure the Seal, the Hammer, and the horns, we’ll lead Lu Har and his floating city toward the mines. If we’re going to fight the Imperium, I want it far in the desert.”
Lojen stared at him in a manner that reminded of Tevun. Calculating the odds of success, no doubt. Finally, he spoke, “What of your catalyst?”
Brynn… “In due course, Lojen.” Emre tucked a kerchief into his breast pocket. “Let’s get you prepared; we leave soon. We have a diversion to create so you can get on the tethers.”
XXIII
Ashe
PLEASE, ZENITH, NOT her.
People were nothing but blurs as her Shard Form filled her as she sped from Bar Stock all the way to Slag’s End. The streets were choked with warehouse workers, miners, vagrants, and Imperium soldiers. She saw nothing, only thinking about her destination. Curses met her aether-enhanced hearing as she bumped into people, but she ignored it all.
The mist had found her the moment she’d stepped outside of the prison, swirling around her like a pack of wolves. It raged inside of her, felt her hurt, fueled her pain. Swam beside her as she ran, keeping in tune with the beat of her heart.
Time was nothing until she finally slowed, her legs churned acid as The Colosseum came into view. It had taken her hours, far longer than it should have. The city was chaos due to the bombings and the coming party on Gargantua.
There were streaks of blood upon the ill-kempt doors. Stifling a pulmo cough, Ashe pushed them open on their old hinges. What greeted her was the sight of nightmares.
Blood—fresh and dripping—covered everything. The walls. The floorboards. The broken tables and chairs. The bartop cleaved in twain by aetheurgy, bottles broken behind. Liquor and offal cloyed her aetheric senses.
Numb and unable to grasp any sort of emotion other than raw fear as it climbed up her back like spider’s legs. She should have been there with them. She could have protected them with her aetheurgy. Instead, she’d gotten drunk and captured by the vicars. Her knees felt weak, and she should’ve slumped to the ground, but instead forced herself to look at the bodies. To survey each. To remember them.
There were over twenty bodies. Men and women she knew, drank with, laughed with. Olaf and others of Slag’s End hung limply from frayed ropes, their skin flayed from their corpses, lying in piles at their feet. Gaping, burnt holes in exposed muscles by Ignis. Bones blackened and protruded as if forcibly ripped free with aetheric strength. Pools of crimson cruor mixed below, bullet casings littered the floor, stuck to the gummy claret. Each face tortured. Whoever had done this had taken their time.
Her heart skipped a beat when she realized Wren wasn’t amongst the dead. Neither were Elian nor Evander. Nor were any of Neenah LeFleur’s crew. Thank the Pentax. Her pulmo burst from her breast so hard she retched.
“Bloodbath, innit?” someone said from behind with a raspy lisp.
Ashe spun to find Red Tulio leaning against the doorway, Quick Fingers Cyrus squatting next to him. Visions of Red Tulio bathing in the blood of his victims ran roughshod through her benumbed mind. Anger started to rise from the depths, the mist curling up her leg in blackened furor.
“Did you do this!” She sprang toward the flame-haired orcirish thug. The faithful mist surged, darkened, and demanded justice. Red Tulio sidestepped her swinging arm with surprising gracefulness.
