Chapter 87:
Who among us hasn’t heard of the doctor-priest who raised the Promised Daughter? Sukren RockSpire, Sukren Kanari, Sukren the guardian, guardian of the Promised Daughter. Now, we must add another name to his list of titles: Sukren the missing, Sukren last seen with the Promised Daughter, Sukren disappeared – and the Promised Daughter with him.
It’s said that even Lady Nari doesn’t know where he is. If that’s true, does she know where the Promised Daughter is? Is the Promised Daughter even at hand to rescue us? Or did we do the Uprising ourselves, without her, without anything but our own hands, the hands of the serfs?
Lady Nari stopped reading. Placing the pamphlet on the canted table before her, she looked up at Ki. “You wanted to discuss this?”
They were alone in the Green Room; Ki, apparently, had not seen fit to invite Dasgu and Tyr. “Is it true?” she demanded. “You don’t know where the Promised Daughter is?”
Behind Ki the sun was pouring through one of the room’s gold-framed windows. Lady Nari gazed at Ki’s fury-contorted face. What was pretense, and what was real? Was Ki truly concerned about the absence of the Promised Daughter? Or did she already have the Promised Daughter in custody? Was her anger a show, meant to trick Lady Nari into believing the Promised Daughter was still with Sukren across the shelterbelt? Or was it a genuine rage?
“You want to kill her,” Lady Nari replied. “You’ve only ever wanted to kill her. Why would I tell you anything?”
Bluntness was not Lady Nari’s preferred method of engagement, but sometimes it was called for. Besides, Lady Nari had a reason for accepting Ki’s invitation to meet. Without waiting for Ki to sputter out a response, she tapped her finger on the pamphlet Ki had handed to her upon entering the Green Room. “Who is the writer? Is she a magistrate herself? Or did she find a magistrate to print the pamphlets for her?”
Lady Nari watched carefully as Ki blinked. “Why would I know any of that?”
Ki did not have any tells, not like Dasgu did. As closely as Lady Nari observed her, she still couldn’t tell whether or not Ki was lying. Of course, Lady Nari suspected she was. Ki was likely supporting – and quite possibly had initiated – the printing and distribution of the pamphlets. Lady Nari would have to twist the knife in a little deeper to see if she couldn’t provoke a more revealing reaction.
“What I think is that the writer is issuing the pamphlets in response to the trouble you mentioned last time. It seems to me that the writer doesn’t like the way the Uprising is going, and that she’s trying to cast doubt on it. Now who might dislike the way the Uprising is going? Traitors, maybe? Rajas tails? Casteists?”
At that, Ki’s eyes flashed. “The writer argues that the Uprising is incomplete, not that it shouldn’t have happened. You know I’m a Watcher. I won’t believe the Uprising is complete until every Rajas is dead.”
It was a deft answer. A clever sidestepping of Lady Nari’s trap; she rather admired Ki for pulling it off. And if Ki truly was the one behind the pamphlets, well, Lady Nari’s admiration would only increase. What a fascinating idea, she remembered thinking the first time she read the first pamphlet. Not the ideas in the pamphlets – the idea of the pamphlets themselves. They were clearly effective in stirring up emotion. Media meant to reach the masses – what a thought! Most communication was limited in form. At the broadest extent, a patron would write a directive and send it to her magistrates who would send it down to her squad leaders who would share it with her members.
Perhaps Lady Nari should try her hand at a pamphlet or two. Of course, she’d have to silence the current writer first. Why waste resources competing when she could instead have her voice be the only one heard?
Lady Nari picked up the pamphlet once more. Sukren the missing, Sukren last seen with the Promised Daughter, Sukren disappeared – and the Promised Daughter with him.
Sukren Kanari…
With a single movement of her hand, Lady Nari crushed the pamphlet between her fingers. “Thank you, Lady Ki,” she said, evenly, slowly. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
***
Trace it back. Trace the pamphlets all the way back to the writer.
Shouldn’t I be trying to find the Promised Daughter instead? Isn’t that what Lady Nari told me to do?
I have other interrogators doing that. Your job is to find the pamphlet-writer.
But Anzana didn’t have anything to say. She didn’t tell me a name.
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
Then question her again. Until she gives you one.
***
It wasn’t true, what Vek had told Op. Anzana had given him a name.
“You’re so busy these days,” Zedid said. Vek glanced over his shoulder. She gave him a sleepy smile from her bunk, yawned, and pulled her pink-tufted quilt up to her chin. “Lady Nari has me doing –”
Vek yanked on his tunic, and with one step, crossed the space between his and Zedid’s bunk. Bending over, he stopped her mid-sentence with a kiss. After breaking it off, he stroked her cheek with his thumb. “Don’t tell me.”
Zedid gave a muffled laugh. “Are you turning into Anzana or something?”
Vek shrugged, carefully, precisely. “I haven’t seen her around lately, have you?”
“I guess not. She’s not my squad leader though, so I don’t really know.”
“Anyway,” Vek replied, “like you said, I’ve been busy, haven’t really seen anyone these days.”
Vek knew he sounded strange. He knew Zedid was right to give him that look. But still – rock-god, he couldn’t take it – he was going to break down –
“I have to go,” he whispered. “I’ll see you around.”
***
Barhon, Vek repeated to himself as he got into the elevator. Barhon, Barhon. Leader of Squad #459. Currently staying – according to Leem’s friend – in the senior Rajas dorm near the cusped arch on Zone 16, Level 2. Find him, question him, and then think about whether or not to update Anzana’s file. Maybe if Barhon knows something, Op will let Anzana go because she gave up a real name. Or if he doesn’t actually exist, and I have to go back to her and get another name, Op won’t know she lied the first time.
Vek closed his eyes. He felt sick. He’d been feeling sick for at least a diurnal now. Or was it longer? He couldn’t remember.
Barhon, he repeated. Barhon, Barhon.
Vek got off at Zone 16 without any problems, although he was a little surprised to find the elevator bay had been placed on a nursery level. He had to ask the guards on duty – this time a mixed Chenta-Eenta pair! – where the lift was. “That way,” he was pointed. “Around the nursery.”
Vek quickly saw what the guard meant. The nursery took up the whole level like a lounge, but it wasn’t open like the lounges were. It was designed more like a senior Rajas House, except instead of a line of caryatids marking the end of the elevator bay, there was a solid glass wall that turned, then turned again, enclosing the nursery in a rectangle. Vek followed the first turn, and found himself in a hallway, castle wall to his right, solid glass to his left.
It was dim inside the nursery. Vek glanced through the glass and could just make out some toys, shelves, Rajas nursery sort of things. About halfway down the hallway he passed a door on his left, cut out of the nursery’s glass wall. It wobbled when Vek pushed by. Ignoring it, he pressed on. He was almost there, the lift would be at the end of this hallway, and then he could go and find Barhon.
But why were there so many serfs up ahead? It was the start of first nightsleep, shouldn’t they be going to bed?
Vek slowed as he approached the end of the hallway. Another nursery corner was to his left; if he peered around it he could see at least half a dozen serfs just standing there, as if waiting to use the lift. Or maybe they were part of the guard? Not that there should be so many at a lift… actually, Vek couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen anyone standing guard at a lift. Regents generally had done it before the Uprising, but the Uprising had happened now.
“Papers?” one of them asked Vek, turning towards him.
Something wasn’t right. Vek couldn’t say what, but he knew something was off. He reached for his booklet and at the same time pulled loose with his other hand his knife from its belt-sheath. He kept a grip on its handle even as the serf thumbed through his booklet. “All clear?” Vek asked.
“Yes,” the serf said, but not to him. “He’s the one. Get him.”
Vek was slashing out with his knife before the serf was able to finish his sentence. The serf stumbled backwards, a gash across his collarbone. Damn! Vek had missed. And there were too many coming for him now, and he was trapped in this little hallway. Could he go back to the elevator and enlist the guards’ help? No, wait, the door, the glass door in the glass wall, in the hallway!
He turned and raced for it. Please be open, please be open, yes! Vek shoved, then after wasting precious seconds, managed to slide it open, all nine fingers straining with tension. As soon as he was on the other side, he tried to latch it behind him, but only managed to close it halfway before the serfs caught up to him. Giving up, Vek ran for the door on the other side of the playroom. He tripped against a miniature bean bag on the carpeted floor, then stumbled over a knee-high structure of blocks. Rock-god, why was everything in his way!
Vek slammed into the door on the other side of the playroom, hoping beyond hope that it would lead to the main doors and out to the elevator bay. He was greeted instead with screams and wails. Screams – from the women now getting up off the floor and rushing towards him, and wails – from the children and babies who’d just been woken up from their sleep.
“Get out!” one of the women screamed at him. “Get out, you flaring son of a flare!”
One of the other women was more coherent. “You think just because this isn’t a Rajas nursery anymore that you can come barging in and wake up our children? The Uprising’s happened! You can’t take sleep away from our babies anymore!”
The room Vek had forced his way into was too dark; he couldn’t see anything in it but shadows of swings and night-clothed mothers. If there was a way through to the main doors, he didn’t know how to find it. At any rate, it was too late. Behind him, grabbing him now, were rough hands and strong arms, yanking him back into the playroom, cutting off his escape.
In the space of a few minutes, Vek was disarmed and shoved into a tiny chair beside a tiny table. His hands were tied in front of him. Dimly he was aware of the playroom’s lights being turned on, of the irate mothers being mollified, of the door to the sleeping room being closed. “Keep it down, or we will kick you all out,” he heard one of the women say in parting. “Yes, sister, of course,” Vek heard one of his captors say in response.
Then someone was pulling up another tiny chair and settling himself into it. “Vek Kano,” he said in the castle serf pidgin. “Dome, queen and flower are well with you?”
At that, Vek’s head snapped up. “I’m Vek Kanari,” he all but growled.
The man was a Chenta, and much too big for the chair he was in. He was also smiling, to Vek’s surprise. “My mistake, Vek Kanari,” the man replied. “I’m Barhon Kanari. I believe you were looking for me?”