Chapter 83:
Three diurnals or so later, Vek was once again sitting in a cafeteria, this time alone. Half dozing, he listened to a conversation between two servies in Chenmay. Normally it took only a diurnal or so after Queen Rathi Day – no, First Day – for the castle to switch back to using the castle serf pidgin, but it was five diurnals into the rainsoon season now and it seemed like the village languages were here to stay. “The Xhota are starting to pull away,” one of the servies was saying. The other shook his head, as if in dismay. “I hear the stalls elected a single representative for the whole urb. They’ve never done that before, are they even allowed to?” “Allowed to or not, they did it. And the first thing she did was put every Xhota soldier out there on patrol duty.”
Yawning, Vek rubbed the back of his head. He’d shaved it again, recently, and had nicked himself in the process. Oh, well, that was what happened when you had to do it yourself. Vek yawned again. I hope #9 shows up soon, he thought. It’s getting late.
“You done?”
Vek blinked, then sat upright. “Sorry?”
The aproned servie passing by jerked his thumb at Vek’s empty plate on the table in front of him. “You done eating?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Then put it up. Who do you think you are, a goldskin?”
Vek laughed. “No, not a goldskin. Happy to put it up.”
He got to his feet and stretched. The cafeteria was pretty much empty, it was just him and the two servies talking about Stoneset Quinter. Grabbing his plate, Vek made his way to the conveyor belt and placed his plate, cleared of food, onto a tray passing through. He wiped his hands on his pants – a blue and black triangle patterned member – and began to return to his table. Come on, Vek thought, a little irritated. I received good information this time, that this kitchen right now would be the time and place to find you!
Then it hit Vek. Maybe his mark was coming into the kitchen down through the serf staircase.
Vek glanced at the line of hot cupboards in front of him. The kitchen was beyond the line of cupboards; the door into it was to their right. This was one of the smaller cafeterias, originally designed for senior doctor-priests and regents only. He’d definitely get noticed if he tried the door beside the hot cupboard line, but Vek could probably get onto the serf staircase and into the kitchen through the back without attracting too much attention.
Well, if he was going to do it, he had to do it now. Making up his mind, Vek walked quickly to the lift in the back of the cafeteria. One level up and a quick jaunt to the end of the hall and then Vek was outside – and oh, it was raining.
Vek stared at the rain for a whole second before coming to his senses. What, was he worried about his pants? He could raid another closet if he needed to! Rock-god, this wasn’t like him, he had to get his head straight. #9 was an important mark, the last one on Vek’s list, Vek’s last chance to get information on the Promised Daughter. That meant Vek couldn’t screw this up. Into the rain and get wet, it doesn’t matter, go!
By the time Vek got to the door one level below, he was soaked through. With slippery hands he turned the door’s wheel. It was locked; Vek had to thrust the wheel to the side to unlock the mechanism. Once inside, he began shaking himself dry, sending the droplets on his head flying. Thankfully, it was warm inside, even hot. It seemed quiet, too. Had all the kitchen servies finished up and left while Vek was out on the serf staircase?
He peered through half-cleaned dishes stacked into several upright carts, then eased his way between them. Now he was in the wash-up area. Garbage and broken glassware littered the floor; it was disgusting, but Vek ignored it. These days filthy was the way it was everywhere in the castle. At least the cleaning tables on either side of him were mostly wiped down, as were the basket runners that ran through a dish washing machine and sink. And there, straight ahead, along the length of the kitchen, were the hot cupboards, the ones Vek had seen from the dining room. Vek peered over them back into the cafeteria. It was empty. As was the kitchen, it seemed.
Vek frowned. He scratched the back of his head. There should’ve been a few lingering servies in the kitchen at least pretending to be cleaning up. Where were they? Why was nobody here?
Wait. Why was nobody here?
Slowly, almost hesitantly, Vek did a lap through the empty kitchen. Stories he’d been hearing over the past several diurnals started coming together in his mind. I was attacked, shared Seone once, and then someone from her squad had chimed in, My dorm was raided, I came back while they were doing it and they beat me up. Another one of Vek’s friends had confessed to stealing from the kitchens, and Anzana had shaken her head when she heard. The crime rate has been going up, it’s getting more and more organized, and it’s not just Rajas who are being killed.
Instinct was now hissing at Vek: weapon, weapon, you need a weapon. But what could he use? Was there a knife in the drying cart? Maybe he could detach a spray arm from a sink? Or pick up a big piece of glass from the floor? Rock-god, Vek had been thinking for ages that he should start carrying a serf prod around with him, but he’d kept delaying and delaying and now –
Vek spun around. He was back by the upright carts. That noise, though, that soft suction of a bioplastic seal being peeled open, that was the door. Not the serf staircase door, that one was behind him, but the door Vek had decided against using, the door that led from the cafeteria into the kitchen, that door was being opened, and someone was coming through it, someone was coming through it into the kitchen, and Vek’s hands, both of them, the mutilated and the whole, they were both empty, they were both terrifyingly empty –
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
A smothered scream rang out. Then a muffled pidgin word: “No! No!”
Vek raced around the end of the sink, sliding past the hot cupboards, grabbing as he ran a burner grate from a stove. But he was too late. Right by the doorway leading in from the dining area was a Chenta serf holding an Eenta by her hair. He was sliding a knife across her throat. He was killing her right before Vek’s eyes.
Vek didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to fight a Chenta over an Eenta!
Then, when the man straightened up and lunged forward, Vek realized, oh rock-god, he’s going to kill me next!
Vek’s mission habits kicked in with a jolt. He heaved the burner grate at the other serf. When the other serf stumbled back, recoiling, Vek turned and raced down the kitchen aisle past the stoves all the way to the twin basket fryers. Good, the oil was still hot! He grabbed a basket by its front hook and swung it just in time to block a knife thrust. Drops of oil sizzled against skin – the other serf jerked away with a growl. Vek leaned back against the refrigerators facing the fryers, and, with one swift motion, yanked one of the doors open and knocked it into his attacker’s face.
His attacker reeled back. Vek dropped his basket, stepped forward, and grabbed his wrist with both hands. With his thumbs Vek tried to push his attacker’s hand backward in order to loosen his grip on his knife. But he was too strong. Vek had been in enough fights to be able to tell at once that Vek would be the one overpowered before long, and damnit, now the serf was using his other hand to scratch at Vek’s face, his long powerful fingers trying to get hold of Vek’s stubble and rock-god, he had grabbed Vek’s ear, it felt like he was trying to yank it off –
Thankfully, Vek had enough presence of mind to not let go of the man’s knife hand. Instead of trying to free his ear, Vek kicked out with his foot at the man’s groin. When the man doubled over, Vek wrenched his ear loose then headbutted his attacker right in the chest, letting go of the man’s knife hand at the exact same moment.
Then he ran.
Past the ice maker and around the fryers, Vek soon found himself back at the serf staircase door. For a moment he considered escaping out through the doorway, but he didn’t want to. He had to bring in mark #9 and if the Chenta trying to kill him right now wasn’t his mark, then the Eenta had been, and in that case it was worth bringing the Chenta in anyway to find out why he’d done the murder. In any case, Vek had to bring in someone!
Pausing by the door, Vek saw what he’d missed before: a knife, a hefty butcher’s knife, hidden right up against the end of a dish cart. Perfect! Vek grabbed it and swung it forward. The butcher knife slid against the other Chenta’s hand, scraping his knuckles. The other Chenta jumped back, and Vek did too.
They faced each other, both panting. The other serf was sweating. His short straight hair, typical of a Chenta servie, was glistening. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Vek straight in the face. “Eenta,” he spat.
At that, Vek froze.
He came to life only after he found himself ducking out of the way of a crashing-down dish cart. After it was down, Vek realized that his back was against a wall and that his elbow was in the basket runners, while the other serf was – no – he was opening the serf staircase door –
Ignoring the plates and cups breaking under his feet, Vek clambered on top of the upturned dish cart and leapt for the closing serf staircase door. He managed to ram his shoulder into the door just as it closed; it pushed open a tiny bit. Vek thought about sticking his fingers into the crack to hold it open so the other serf couldn’t lock the door on him but thought better of it. Instead, he thrust his butcher knife blade-first through the crack and swiped.
A cry rewarded Vek’s efforts. The pressure on the door released and Vek was able to thrust it open. Of course he was immediately slapped in the face by a wave of wind and rain but by then Vek’s adrenaline was soaring. He felt hot, almost feverish. Through the rain he could see the other serf scrambling up the serf staircase. Good! Strength meant less out here on the rain-slick steps. Speed and quick footwork could win this fight, and that meant things were in Vek’s favor.
Sure enough, Vek soon caught up to the other serf. This time he didn’t swipe. Tightening his grip on the butcher knife, Vek raced upwards and tackled the serf around his waist. With a jerk, Vek was able to bring him to his knees. Another jerk caused the man to slip and fall face down onto the wet steps. The man began flailing backwards with his knife. Pain bit Vek’s arm, his shoulder, the side of his face, but rock-god, Vek had him now and he wasn’t going to let go!
Together they slid down, step by step. Vek could tell they were getting closer and closer to the edge of the serf staircase. He didn’t want to chance a glance – if he loosened his grip on the man he would lose the fight – so instead Vek tried to twist the butcher knife around so that its blade would be perpendicular to the man’s belly instead of flat against it. But the knife scraped against the steps. Vek would have to wait until it was between steps so that there would be enough room for the blade to turn…
But now they were starting to slide down faster – and faster – they’d hit a wet patch – uh oh – the man had stopped trying to stab Vek and was now pushing them both down the steps with his hands – faster and faster – Vek was almost at the edge now –
With a grunt, Vek twisted the blade at just the right moment. It slid into the man’s belly. To the man’s credit, he didn’t scream, he didn’t even groan, but he did stop trying to push Vek off the edge of the serf staircase. Vek could feel the man shuddering beneath him, could hear his gasps. Cautiously, slowly, Vek began to let go, to crawl over the man, to get away from the edge that was now not even a handbreadth behind his heels.
Then the man shoved him.
Thank the rock-god Vek hadn’t been standing. Even so, he was still knocked off balance, and his feet slipped off the edge – rock-god – Vek’s feet were now dangling over the precipice – his hands were scrabbling but they were wet, wet, everything was wet, his clothes were wet, and all Vek could grab onto was the other serf’s leg but the serf was shaking him loose, he was kicking Vek off by shoving his foot into Vek’s face –
There was only one thing left to do. Vek opened his mouth and bit down, hard, on the serf’s foot. Toes between his teeth, Vek hoisted himself up onto the staircase, opening his mouth only after he was on his hands and knees on the steps. Immediately he rolled to the side, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the edge. Half-laughing, half-gasping, Vek got to his feet and touched his hand to the castle’s bark to steady himself. He was alive. He’d brought his mark down. He’d done it.
Standing tall, his back straight, his heart thudding and his face flushed, Vek looked over at the weakly-stirring body of the other serf. Vek didn’t have to worry about him anymore. Well, he didn’t have to worry about him attacking Vek anymore, at least. Vek did probably have to worry a little about the man bleeding out or falling off the edge of the staircase himself. Because then Vek wouldn’t be able to question him. And what a lot of questions did Vek have for him!
First, though, a clinic. As Op always said, the healthier the mark, the more creative your interrogation could get.