Poor World (11 page)

When we were almost in sight of the parade ground, he said, “I do hope you will enjoy the execution. I had you in mind when I arranged this little demonstration. It would be so disappointing if you were to exhibit weakness. Do note that this will be one of those rare occasions on which the prisoners come forth to witness the diminishment of their number. You'll see your friends right in front, o royal princess. That means they are next.”

We rounded the last building then, and I saw everyone lined up in neat squares, waiting in absolute silence. A quick scan: the girls were nowhere in sight.

Faces in those first few rows were statue-still, but I saw eyes tracking us as Alsaes led me inexorably toward the platform directly behind the two posts.

Adjacent were the prisoners, white-faced, squint-eyed, their clothes grimy and shabby, their hair overlong and unwashed. Rel's tall form stood out. It was the worst shape I'd ever seen him in, but there was no room in me for gloat. I was too scared. The prisoners were surrounded by guards bearing cranked and aimed crossbows. No one moved. No one spoke.

Kessler was alone on the platform. Unlike Alsaes and the prison guards, he wore no uniform. He was dressed exactly like usual. His head turned at our approach, and next thing I knew I was trying to get my watery knees to work as I mounted the three steps up to the platform.

I had to stand next to Kessler. I heard Alsaes's breathing right behind me, even closer than before.

Kessler didn't move, or speak.

I heard Alsaes's gear creak — a signal? Drums, unseen, beat a slow tattoo, the sound making the tension unbearable. It was all so slow, orderly, deliberate; the punishing heat, the white faces of the prisoners, my own empty insides, all made my head start to ring like a clapperless bell.

I sidled a glance at the itchfeet, trying to steady myself; a mistake. They would be next. Christoph looked faintly embarrassed, his mop of yellow hair mushrooming out, and I tried to cheer myself with the reminder that he was technically already dead, or he was as far as we knew, because he'd kind of remembered two versions of his Earth life (and neither was the Earth I knew) — one cut short by execution, and the other dying of old age. If he were killed here, would go away from our world forever? No one knew, not even he.

All we knew for certain was that if you gave your soul to Norsunder, you could come back here — but what a cost! If you gave up your soul to them you also gave up your will.

Still, he did not look frightened. Puddlenose did. I stared at him, wondering why he was so muddy; then I blinked away those heat-tears and realized that what I was seeing were bruises. Old ones, new ones, and lots of them. He was skinny and his jaw was clenched in a way that made it clear he was in pain.

Rel pokerfaced. Of course. But for once I was glad. I did not want to see his feelings.

I knew they could all see me standing there next to Kessler: CJ Sherwood, the ultimate traitor.

What could I do?

Nothing.

The monotonous tattoo continued. I had a headache now; the drums reverberated through my skull into my teeth.

Out came the two prisoners. The two young men looked a little older than Rel. They were dark-haired and skinny, with bony faces. Uniformed soldiers escorted them, and behind them walked some creep dressed all in black, including the black hood that executioners always wore, I'd heard, and hoped never to have to see. He was carrying a long blackweave whip, which meant the victims wouldn't even get a quick death by arrows.

The soldiers fastened the two victims to the posts. Snap! The first stroke fell on the younger fellow. I sucked in my breath, wishing Dejain would appear (she wasn't there) and turn me into a snail. Anything,
anything
but be forced to witness that. To listen to that, because I sure wasn't looking. I stared at the sky above everyone's heads.

Crack! One more. The young man made a noise, and I bit my tongue, hard, to keep from making my own. My head ached worse, and my eyesight shimmered from the heat and my own overwhelming horror.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. Alsaes.

Crack! A third strike.

Awareness came rushing back, and with it rage. I was just about to twitch that mitt off, when a white-hot jab of pain stabbed my neck. I let out a shriek. Fire raced through me, and my vision smeared.

Alsaes's hand shoved against my shoulder and then lifted away.

I stumbled, felt myself falling, but my limbs were too heavy for me to break my fall.

Luckily I blacked out before I hit the dirt.

When I came to, I found myself slumped in a chair in Kessler's office, feeling like a rag doll whose stuffing had been yanked out.

My cheek stung; I lifted a numb, tingling hand, and looked up at Kessler, who stood before me, a frown in his eyes, and his mouth tight with disapproval. He dropped his right hand, which had been poised for another slap.

“You fainted,” he said.

“I didn't,” I exclaimed, memory flooding back. My mouth was dry, and my tongue felt like an old stocking. I worked my rubbery lips and mumbled, “It's not my fault.” It come out sounding like “Nobba-blobba.”

Though even as I said it, I had a sneaky feeling I might have passed right out even if Alsaes hadn't turkeyed me first.

But Kessler did not have to know that.

I straightened up, my words wobbly as I struggled to get control back. “Alsaes stuck a pin. Something. In my neck. Poison. See?” I yanked my hair up, fingering my neck with my other hand. I felt a sore lump.

Kessler looked so disbelieving I wondered if he had somehow heard what I'd been thinking before, or eeeg, did I say it instead? “I've been in that situation,” I said loudly, though my teeth were chattering. “I lasted. Falling down was Alsaes's fault.”

Kessler walked the length of the room, and then turned round with one of those swift movements. “Was it Shnit?”

“What?”

“Had you beaten?”

“Did it himself,” I said, confused. “Who else in the
world
would attack a kid?” Then I remembered where I was — and who was slated for the next entertainment.

“Yes. Who else,” he repeated. “Alsaes. Well, then, Alsaes will regret it. I will in the meantime have it made known that you did not betray us with weakness.”

“What happened to the, the, um, execution? Did you stop it?”

“Yes.” And I saw then what my lot would have been if I
had
fainted on my own. Imagine being grateful for Alsaes' jealousy and nastiness!

Kessler went on, “They've been rescheduled. If the one dies, the other can go with the next three. Works out better. I prefer even numbers.”

He grinned a little, and I realized with a stomach-dropping glomp that he was making a
joke
.

“Uh, when will that be?” I hazarded, hoping I wouldn't somehow move the date up by Showing Too Much Interest.

Kessler made a slight, impatient gesture. “We don't have the time to waste until after the initial phase of the Plan has been successfully completed. We've already lost an entire morning that must be rescheduled.” And with a slightly quizzical sort of smile, “I think Alsaes is going to be too busy to pursue his hobbies in the prison.”

Hobbies?

It was then that I put together Puddlenose's bruises and Alsaes's threats, but still not what it meant. I knew only that Alsaes had been down there tormenting Puddlenose, which was probably why he slept so much.

It was time to change the subject. What's safe? The Plan — always. “When, um, is the Plan to be launched?”

Kessler looked a little surprised. “I thought I told you that. Next week, either Wednesday or Thursday, depending on some information yet to be obtained.” He paused, his hand in his pocket, head slightly averted — that communicator thingie, I realized. It didn't work on electricity. It couldn't. It was powered by magic, but it would give a focus for non-magic people to easily use it. He muttered under his breath, then looked up at me.

“Are you ready for your job?”

“My job?” I repeated — though I already knew what it was. Too many nightmares had grooved it into my brain.

“I thought I told you during our initial interview. When you have a question, or need clarification, you must ask. Think of it as intelligence-gathering, a necessary part of command.”

“Okay,” I mumbled, desperate to change the subject again. Except ...

“I've arranged it so that you can dispose of the queen of Mearsies Heili. A fitting gesture, just like I will be the one to end Shnit's life. You will establish yourself in your old country as your first assignment, and at the same time in the eyes of our colleagues. In return for this position of command, you must give me something.”

Except not talking about it won't prevent it from happening. Do something! THINK of something!

“What?”
Some
how my voice came out normal, though my throat felt like the poison-spot on my neck. “I mean, what is it you want?”

“The white horse, the magical one I saw you riding once.”

So he wanted me to give up Hreealdar, who was a being from another world, and who had adopted us Mearsieans for no reason that we knew — and I was supposed to do this in gratitude for the privilege of killing Clair?

This was the most important conversation we'd had yet. All I could think was that there was no way, ever, ever, that I would kill Clair — but I had to hide that from him.

“But I — I really like — ” I gabbled wildly, and then the words slipped out, leaving me listening in horror, “What if I refuse?”

“That,” he said with a weird smile, “would be stupid.”

My thoughts cartwheeled away from Clair, reaching for excuses.

“But Lightning is magic — ” Then I struggled against giving him more information than he should have about that being who took the form of a white horse. “Um, that is — ” My mouth opened and closed — I couldn't
think
.

He said something — I gabbled something back, not hearing, and understanding even less, because my mind was still wheeling crazily, no it was revolving desperately, like a juggler who finds that her six puffballs have been suddenly replaced with sharp daggers, and that the floor has turned to a rocking boat. A leaky one.

Clair
.

In a week, I'd be expected to do take one of those daggers to her. And if I didn't, dawn had brought a fine reminder of what awaited me — that is, if Alsaes didn't think of something worse.

I blurted, “Do we have to kill Clair? She's awful nice — not at all like Shnit. Couldn't we, well, enchant her or something?” I hated myself as soon as I said it — but if she were turned into a toad, at least she could be unenchanted, right? It was a desperate try to buy time.

And it was worthless.

“You cannot be softhearted,” he said. “Something enchanted can be disenchanted. There is no room for sentiment when you are making great changes.”

And so I tried for a third subject, one that would get me out of there. “Uh, should I do some work, or something?” I was desperately hungry and thirsty, but stronger than that was the urge to get away, where I could rest, and think.

But he wasn't through with me.

“Let's go see how you are progressing at the targets,” he suggested.

He went to the door, gesturing for me to join him.

When we stepped into the street the heat slammed into me. It was actually hard to breathe.

Kessler walked right out as if it was a cool winter's day, and I struggled to keep pace. Tough as my feet are from going around barefoot, they really hurt on that hot, hard-packed dirt. Luckily it was pale beige dusty dirt, not dark loam, or it would have burned like fire.

Down the street we walked, past busily working or practicing people. They took no notice of us, other than quick looks and the stiff necks and shoulders that indicated they knew the leader was watching.

Past Dejain's ... I wondered what she was doing, and I almost wished we could go in, just to feel that cool air.

But we turned the corner, passed Alsaes's building. People were streaming in and out. Kessler didn't give them a glance, just kept going. Whatever he was going to say to Alsaes was going to be in private, then.

He would protect his old friend that much, and expected me to kill mine?

I still did not see the obvious connection, but I was hot, and sick, and scared, and my thoughts were as scattered as bits of glass after a window smashes. And trying to think hurt as much as gathering glass would.

We reached the practice areas, and he passed by the square for sword fighting. I saw an unfamiliar barracks group working away, their clashes and clangs sparking in the roaring heat.

Past the archery area.

He had something specific in mind, then, not just watching my progress. I trotted along, breathing through my dry mouth, wondering if this torture would ever end. I no longer thought about plans — it took all my wits just to endure.

“Here.” Kessler stopped.

We were at the knife-throwing targets. Some people had been practicing; I thought I saw Diana's dark braids among them, but the group was too quickly lined up and taken away, their outlines blurred by my smeary vision and the fierce heat-waves shimmering the air.

The place was now empty.

Kessler walked me to the weapons rack, and I picked up a couple of the plain, wooden-handled knives. These knives were good for their purpose, that much I'd learned from my old antagonist Rel ages ago. They were sharp, well-balanced, and easy to handle.

“I'm not all that great at this,” I said to Kessler.

He looked amused. “You were first seen making quite a noise throwing knives against a tree.”

“I was mad,” I said. “But really, except for the past few days, I haven't done it since Kwenz last tried to take over Mearsies Heili. The tutors even told me I do it wrong.”