Chiddle, however he managed it, kept the jostling to a minimum. She appreciated that, though by the time they reached Mimstone, her shoulder refused to let her forget her injury. She could move her arm, her fingers, so while it was excruciating, the damage was minimal.
Rebels, Rams and Minq filled the square, standing over clusters of bound enemies or rifling through heaps of the deceased. The number of local rebels shocked her; when Faelan dissolved the Blue Council, she thought he ended the contracts for most of the Jiy agents. Maybe they helped to get back in his good graces?
Or had they seen a chance to plop themselves into history?
No one stopped Chiddle as he whisked to Dov, who stood at the carriage with Mint and Tia, shifting weight. What was wrong?
The khentauree gently set her down, and she bent over, clutching at her shoulder. Damn, even that little bump hurt. He settled his hand on her back, concerned, as she unbuttoned her coat and pushed her shirt away to see the damage. Red skin,flesh, blood, some black bits, met her gaze.
“Do you know who I am? I’ll have you executed!”
She grimaced at the condescending declaration, shaking in sick fury. She pulled her clothing back in place as she slipped around Mint; the two terrons glanced at her, immediately focused on her shoulder, and signed.
“I’m fine,” she assured them—or as fine as a person shot with a tech weapon could be. No one was going to herd her away until she saw Gall in rebel custody.
Chiddle followed, buzzing in worry, but his concern fell away as she stopped, staring, her mind whirling from dark expectation to shock.
The king clutched Patch’s wrist as her partner’s fingers gripped the sleek brown fur collar of the black woolen coat. He grinned, teeth clenched, his eye lit with a delighted, insane flame, his patch spinning. Her chest prickled, every crashing emotion her mind mustered fighting against the others.
She wanted Gall to experience the agony she felt for eight years—but something in Patch’s expression, the way he moved . . . something would break, if he delivered it.
“I know who you are. King of Jilvayna—or should I say Gall, traitor to his country and his people.” Patch dropped him, and the king let go of his wrist as he collapsed back. The man slapped his hand against his throat and struggled to sit up, looking wildly around for non-existent help.
“Arrest him!” he screamed. “Arrest him!”
Patch raised his leg and rammed the tip of his boot into the puppet king’s cheek.
He slammed into the bottom of the carriage, rocking it enough the Minq on top fought for footing before they pulled a screaming woman from the door; her hair had fallen, her bleached strands forming hoops that snagged on the crusty decoration on her shimmering purple coat.
They had dressed up for Faelan’s execution. Guess that didn’t work out so well for them. Was that why they remained in the carriage; too laden with riches to get out on their own?
The king grabbed a sad handful of slush and lobbed it at her partner. He did not dodge, simply strode forward and nailed the puppet in the stomach with his foot, then laughed.
“Patch!”
He either did not hear her, or ignored her. The king sagged to the side, one arm waving in a failed attempt to remain sitting.
“Kill him!” he shrieked, his voice higher, tighter, in panic. No one moved. He looked at the terrons, huffing in fear, at Chiddle, then her, and froze, mouth open in shocked incredulity. He too, believed he saw her mother’s ghost.
Patch kicked his shoulder; he smacked the carriage belly and slumped, his head rolling on his neck as he reclaimed his senses.
“Patch!”
“You will die, you guttershank!” The king screamed the garbled words, wrapped an arm around his stomach and slapped the ground with his other hand. He scooted away from her partner, drool dripping from his lips.
He must like punishment, to goad Patch like that.
Blood flew from his nose as the next kick slammed him against the carriage, spraying the broken back wheels and the undercarriage in bright red. Splats marred Patch’s boot and the edges of his pants.
He snarled and drew the black box that unfolded into his crossbow from his inner coat pocket.
“Patch!” She shuffled to him, each step provoking a punch of agonizing heat from her wound. He dropped the larger tech weapon; it clanged to the ground and rolled away from him, leaving lines in the slush. He pressed the side button and the weapon unfurled. Popping the small chamber open, he grabbed a bolt and notched it—and not a normal bolt, but one with a bulge just behind the point, meant to do explosive damage. “Patch!”
He cocked the string.
“PATCH!”
She stumbled between them, then winced, grabbing her shoulder, whimpering. She bent, clenching her teeth, then looked up; Patch stared at her, shocked alarm puncturing his fury as he beheld the blood. His breath hitched, and the anger shattered, wildness whisking through his eye.
An arm slid around his shoulders and pulled him back; Faelan. Her brother eyed her wound, then met her eyes, distress fighting with rage. Before she could reassure them, Midir strode around them, as hard and emotionless as she had ever seen a person. His eyes flicked to the Minq as they dropped the queen next to her husband, sending a shower of slush around them, then jerked his chin at the two women who retrieved the crying child. They nodded and scurried from the carriage, trailing filmy dress behind.
Tears prickled her eyes, and not from pain; she knew, too intimately the emotional weight of dead parents. The little girl would feel it soon enough, and bear that burden for the remainder of her life.
“Release us!” the queen cried, more interested in Midir than where her child went. “We’ve been nothing but good to you! You owe us!”
“I owe you?” he asked as he clasped the crossbow and gently pried it from Patch’s fingers.
“You,” the king spit, blood leaking down his chin rather than reaching past his broken teeth. “I should have known, you were behind this.”
“This? Do you mean the skyshroud crashing? That wasn’t my hand, but Dentherion neglect. Or do you mean the rescue of your enemies?” He checked the string. “I warned you, Gall, that the next time we met, I would exact revenge for Phaeton and Iolanthe, their children, and their household. I keep my vows.”
“You traitorous—”
“Traitorous?” He half-smiled as Varr took position behind him, arms crossed, a glint of wrath lighting his grey gaze. Lapis limped out of the way, and Midir looked at her.
“How badly are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” she whispered. Patch pulled from Faelan and rushed to her, gathering her up in a tight embrace, uncaring she bled on his coat. She buried her face in his chest briefly, too short for comfort, but breaking down, crying the last eight years away while clutched in his arms, had to wait.
Her brother picked up the large tech weapon, hefted it to his shoulder, and eyed the king, no emotion but for the infuriated gleam in his purple gaze. Rebels and the syndicate shanks spanned behind him and Varr, tech weapons in hand, solemn, expectant. From the western side of the square hustled more Minq, Jo Ban and Shara striding in front of them, intent on the captured prey. Both wore the typical syndicate uniform, no way for the average person to tell they were more important than those they led.
The rats walked with them. She tried to shake her head, to yell at them, but she wavered, a sick feeling rolling through her; no. No. She had to stay standing. She had to bear witness, for her family, for all those lost to Gall’s machinations and hate.
The queen sobbed with pitiful whimpers, fat tears leaving thick trails in her powdery makeup. She clutched her coat collar in both trembling hands. “Y-you can’t do this. The empire—”
“Celem has enough problems. You aren’t one he cares about.” Midir checked the bolt, and a small, malicious smile lit his lips. He notched it and pointed the bow at Gall.
The square quieted but for the distant squeal of horses; not even the wind blew across the paving stones, as if it dared not interrupt history.
“I have metgal, I can pay—” the puppet choked, wiping at his mouth, the plea at odds with the insane fury in his eyes. If Midir were foolish enough to take his offer, the king would end him at the next convenient time.
Over two centuries of rebellion rested in his hands, and the true heir to the Jilvaynan throne would not throw the fruits of suffering away for a few metgal.
“We’ve done nothing wrong!” the queen cried, panicked. She moved to rise, but a Minq knocked her back into place as roughly as Patch treated her husband. She brushed at her muddied skirt, then tried to wipe the brown water off her fingers, mouth pulled down in a disgusted pout.
“Other than support an empire that starved, bled and killed your people?” Midir used his thumb to cock the string back. “You enjoyed your pleasures and cared nothing for how they were bought.”
“We did no such thing!” Her plea, garbled with tears, fell flat. Every resident of the Grey and Stone Streets, every rebel, every rat, every shank, knew the price paid for their indulgences, in suffering and in lives. “We rule this land. It is our prerogative, sanctioned by the Lords’ Council! Our words—” She stuttered to a stop, her eyes bulging, then pointed her finger at the crowd. “We command you to apprehend him!”
How far gone was she in delusion?
The puppet stared at the bow, his defiance leaking into terrified anxiety. He sucked in tiny whines, then attempted to speak; only squeaks emerged. Midir cut him off with a sharp laugh.
“Justice is patient, Gall, and when she finally raises her sword, the wicked fall beneath her might. The people of Jilvayna have slept their last night as chattle.” His index finger curved around the trigger. “Tomorrow, we will rise with the dawn, free of the shackles of empire.”
