22 – 4
Why don't I react more strongly?
I thought I would. I thought the sight of her would ignite a rage that burned so bright and hot that it was the same as madness. I thought it would take every last scrap of my self-control to keep it at bay, to keep myself still and my weapons hidden.
Merigold talks and talks. She says some tings outright; others, she implies. Pike stands shadow behind her, a thin, dark cut of a man I should well fear.
What am I feeling?
There is hatred. First and always, there is hatred. It's cold. Glacial. There can be no fiery rage while it is whole. There can be no breaking it until it's done, until the both of them are dead.
Is it the sound of her own voice that she loves so greatly, I wonder, or the ability to have an audience for it whenever she wishes? Is it herself she's so enamored with, or is it having power over others?
She pauses in her oration, hands clasped at her stomach. She looks down at her audience with sparkling eyes and a flushed face, expecting adulation that is slow to come. Applause starts reluctantly in some distant corner of the crowd, spreading until we're all infected by it. A few dozen pairs of gloved hands clapping dully in the winter morning. She's beaming from it, drunk on it, and there's my answer: it's both.
She lets the applause drag out until she's had her fill, then gestures for quiet. Once she has it, she promises not to waste much more of our time. She gives a little laugh after she does, falteringly echoed by those nearest to the watchmen. She's had someone arrested at one of these speeches, I'm sure of it. She's had them beaten. She's not going to keep her promise.
What else do I feel?
I look up at her, hooded and hidden, hands loose at my sides. I look at Pike stood shadow behind her, a thin, dark cut of a man. I breathe in the winter morning, deeply, and let it out slow. I think there isn't anything else, that the glacial cold is it, but I'm wrong. Laid over it, like falling snow, is what I name relief. It's the knowing that this is almost over, that what's been driving me for weeks and weeks is right in front of me, that the end is in sight.
The sun nears its zenith. Merigold is still talking. Her audience is getting impatient, muttering to each other about missed work, sore feet, or the cold. In a moment of irony, I might be the only one still paying full attention to her. Even her watchmen, who’ve worn the same look of stoic boredom since I arrived, now veer away from the former and towards the latter.
I watch her notice these things and how it affects her. She has the gall to look wounded by them, her smile faltering and her clasped hands clenching. I watch her strain to keep her wounded pride hidden and wonder if the anger roiling beneath will lead to violence. I wonder if it has before.
Her lip twitches, a sneer's curl threatening to break free. She hoarsely thanks her audience for their time as if they gave it freely and turns away, descends the platform with her stood shadow following behind. The watchmen move to stand between her retreating back and her captive audience, now freed. They needn't have; the people filter away, returning to what of their lives she's allowed them to keep.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
I move parallel within the crowd, watching her progress from the corner of my eye. She stomps across the emptied half of the square like a petulant child, stopping at the entrance of a side street. Only a few buildings separate us. I turn my eye to a nearby alley; try to measure if going down it will lead me closer to her. It runs straight for a few strides before turning out of sight to the left, towards her and Pike.
It's worth trying; and with the thinning crowd and the dispersing watchmen, I can't stay here.
I slip into the alley, hurry quickly down the straight, and take the turn. The alley turns to a winding, cart-rut lane flanked the featureless backs of buildings. The sounds of people filter away, the drip of melting icicles and the squelch of snow-slush under my boots taking their place. I grip the hilt of my knife, try to strangle a rising panic. I should've heard her by now. Did I choose wrong?
“...the – least – they could do is listen!”
An electric thrill runs down my spine. I know that voice.
“I don't think I'm being unfair, do you? After all I do for them, after all I've – given – them, you'd – think – they could lend a patient ear when their Mayor asks for one! I'm not asking for a lot here!”
I stop in my tracks, fearful of being heard, and listen.
- - -
“They – did – listen,” Pike's voice chills me to the bone. I remember the last time I heard it: telling me to walk until I felt the water. I remember his flat, indifferent eyes before that, their emptiness as he watched Juliana die. He sounds tired. Frustrated. Annoyed, when he adds, “Madam Mayor.”
A sullen silence becomes a begrudging admission, “I – suppose – they did.” A contemplative moment. “Should I hang someone again? They – really – loved it last time, couldn't get enough of me! Everyone was there that time!”
“Because you made them,” Pike says on a sigh, then, even more annoyed, “Madam Mayor.”
“No, I didn't; I just told everyone that they had to be there. It's completely different. We're getting off topic, anyway.”
They start walking, sloshing through the snow-slush loudly enough that I feel confident I won't be heard following. We reach an intersection, a corner the only thing separating us. My heart drums in my throat.
“What topic would that be,” Pike asks; then, openly derisive, “Madam. Mayor?”
She doesn't hear it. Somehow, she doesn't. “My Windrunners,” she answers, “Obviously. How am I doing on profits? How's the smuggling going?”
“Not so loud!” Pike snaps, “Someone could –”
Merigold interrupts him, “Hey, don't talk to me like that! I'm your boss, remember? That means you respect me! I'm the Mayor, I'm in charge of the Windrunners, I'm the one with all the money, and –”
There's a sudden shuffle of steps, a woman's shocked yelp and a deathly silence. Pike breaks it, cold and keen as a knife's edge. “And – I'm – the one with the knife to your throat.”
Merigold sounds choked, outraged. Panicked, “You can't –”
“I can,” he drives over her in a furious hiss, “I will. I swear on sunlight I'll cut your throat if you don't shut the – fuck – up.”
He will, Merigold. You should listen if you want to live.
On second thought: be yourself. Talk.
Lamentably, she doesn't.
Pike goes on. He's breathing hard, unburdening himself after who knows how long spent in silence, “I'm here because you pay me to be. I put up with you because you paid me well. Don't think I haven't noticed you trying to cheat me.”
Merigold makes an offended noise.
He snorts. “Yeah, I said 'trying', because you're so, unbelievably shit at it. You're shit at – everything – you do, and it's because you're a fucking idiot. I have no idea how you got as far as you did. I can only assume it's by finding people even dumber than you. Now, I don't care about – any – of that. Really, I don't. We're not friends, I don't – respect – you, and I'm only here because you're paying me a shitload of gold. Keep trying to cheat me? I'm gone. Send some of your idiots after me? They're dead, and so are you. Do you understand?”
Silence.
“I want to hear you – say – it, Madam Mayor.”
When it comes, it's through a wall of teeth: begrudging, angry, and prideful. “I understand.”
“Good.” He sounds pleased. I start breathing again. When had I stopped? “Have a nice day, Madam Mayor, I'll see you in the office tomorrow. I'm taking the rest of the day off.”
Pike rounds the corner.
He looks at me.
He recognizes me.
And he keeps walking.