The next day, under the Theater, Jon wandered the ancient parts of the catacombs, where bones were stacked and displayed, instead of boxed and put away. Skulls stared at him with restful eyes. “Jon!” Alyssa’s voice echoed through the tunnels, prompting him to go back the way he came. He rounded the corner, finding Alyssa going down the wrong way. She was still walking awkwardly with the new prosthetic.
Jon coughed, grabbing her attention. She turned around. “There you are. Come back up. I need to introduce you to a few new faces.”
He followed her back up the stairs. “By the by,” Alyssa said, “please don’t make me come down here again. I absolutely loathe it.” More or less, she was pulling her leg up one step at a time; it took them ages to get topside.
There, they excused themselves between Quill’s men, who were busy pasting crystals and all sorts of magical death traps up and down each and every corridor.
These men were the best trappers Damian could scrounge up. A healthy amount of the Theater’s stowed-away treasury was being released to make sure they did their best today.
They reached the lobby, and there, sitting on the floor in a tight group, were four young men and five young women — this world’s code for mere teenagers — all clothed in repurposed flour sacks, all members of the catkin tribes of the east, at the end of the Middling Sea.
Their dirty, hair-frazzled appearance, and meek disposition forced a moment of pause on Jon. He recognized them. They looked a lot better now, but not by much — well, it had only been a few days since then.
“Someone from the Order handed them off to me just a while ago,” Alyssa said. “Said Lord Humble” — the lord of the city — “personally requested it. Of course, that was strange, so I asked why…”
Jon looked over the slaves, catching eyes with one: the oldest among them, she sat front and center of the group, keeping them behind her.
“Said they requested it,” Alyssa continued, gesturing to the group.
Jon nodded, memorizing their faces with a glance — then turned around, disappearing in the direction of the catacombs.
Alyssa approached the group of slaves. “Well, that’s the kind of man he is. Do you still want to be here?”
The eldest spoke up. “We want to repay our savior somehow…”
Alyssa sighed. “Lady Ravena has no need for slaves” —
Their hearts dropped.
— “which is why,” Alyssa continued, “I offer you choices, ones you must choose. One, return to the Order, and they will take care of you much better than I. Two, help me maintain this place, and after three years, you must leave and make a life of your own. Three, become a follower of Ravena, and learn the Theater’s ‘arts.’ You understand, don’t you?”
The eldest turned to her friends, passing hushed whispers between each other. There was some argument — some sniffling, some curses being exchanged.
— It’s not worth it.
— I have to.
The eldest turned back to Alyssa. “We each have our own choices,” she said.
Alyssa smiled. “So you do understand.”
***
The next day, Jon was doing his rounds checking the backstage corridors. He spotted the new girl making her way down one of the narrower hallways, armed with a pail and a mop. He was about to pass her, when he realized the way she was going was into the maw of a magical death trap meant to turn a man into red mist.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
She’d scarcely taken three steps forward — just a step away from certain death — when a hand pulled her back by the collar of her new shirt.
Her instincts told her to fight; she whipped the mop around to hit the would-be intruder who dared touch her. Jon stepped into a blind spot, putting her in a chokehold. “You almost died,” he said.
She recognized his voice. She almost smacked him! “Wh — I’m sorry!”
Jon released her, already starting to walk away. “Wait,” the girl said. Jon stopped and turned back to look at her. She wasn’t sure if he was impatient or just always like this, but she had to say what she had to say. “By the customs of my people, I owe my life to you” —
“You don’t owe me anything,” Jon interrupted, already turning around and starting to walk again.
“I am a warrior!” she said. “My people are conquered! I have no one — nothing to fight for! The honor of my life is all I have to live for!”
“Find something better to live for,” Jon said, disappearing around the corner. His tone was too flat to be mocking her — too apathetic to mean much of anything at all.
His words grated at something inside her. “What do you live for, Jon Fuze!” she shouted down the hallway, chasing him with the hope and echoes of her voice. “Let me fight for it! Let me be something! Let me be anyone at all!”
Her shoulders slumped. Maybe her voice reached him. Maybe it didn’t. She picked up her mop and pail, and walked on and out of the kill corridor. She stopped to lean on the corner and wipe the tears from her eyes. She wouldn’t be able to find her way out of this maze of death traps without clearing her mind first.
But her voice did reach Jon…and he didn’t have an answer. This was the first time that anyone had asked. As he walked on, he considered — for just a fleeting moment — that perhaps he was looking for hope in all the wrong places.
***
More days passed, and more businessmen disappeared from the city. Rumors of brutal murders and corpses strung from bridges made their way to the ears of the Houses’ associates, who then went and confirmed that these were people whom they knew, and they all had their connection to the Houses in common.
The message was clear: dissociate from the Houses or die. Most preferred to live.
Time was running out. The Houses themselves tacitly knew who had set these events in motion. Before their power could diminish any further, they sold their stocks and heirlooms to hire the best killers they could, in the shortest notice possible. Many rejected their offer, no matter how lucrative, upon being told who the target was. Nevertheless, in the sea of the underworld, there would still be those desperate enough to bite the bait.
Meanwhile, nights passed, nights when it was just Jon, Alyssa, and the new girl. She refused to give her name when asked, insisting that Jon give her that new name. Jon, of course, kept quiet.
Each night, the three would gather in silence near the stage. Jon and Alyssa would sit a seat apart among the audience seats, front and center, and the new girl would be mopping the floors, mopping the stage, and wiping the seats, just trying to keep herself occupied with anything at all. She would glance towards Jon, hoping for some kind of acknowledgement.
Alyssa’s attempts at friendship with either of them bore no fruit. Talking to a duck might be more entertaining than talking to Jon — which was to be expected, so there wasn’t much of a loss there. She’d hoped for more from the new girl, though, but she was just far too obsessed with Jon and her “honor” schtick to even think about having a decent conversation.
At least, if it weren’t for the new girl being up and about, cleaning everything all the time, Alyssa would’ve thought this place to be deserted again, and herself to be once again alone.
Jon, meanwhile, remained on high alert, anticipating the arrival of the Houses’ forces in the dead of night. He’d managed with four hours of sleep the first night, but it wasn’t enough, not after many other sleepless nights prior.
On the second night, he slipped into a 10-hour sleep. “Thank you,” Sleiss told him. He woke up with a gasp, and then alarm as he realized there was sunlight filtering between the boards barricading the skylights. There was a tray of hot tea, steamed fish, and bread on the stage in front of him.
When he touched the bread, he realized it was French toast. He couldn’t believe it. When he bit into it, it was...just as he’d remembered how his wife made it. “Oh, you’re up early, Jon,” Alyssa greeted from the doors up the aisle. “Don’t worry, no errands or anything for today, either. Enjoy your breakfast.”
How did you make this, Jon wanted to ask Alyssa, but the words only bounced around in his mind, and she turned and left. If it wasn’t about business, he found himself unable to speak to his heart’s content. He didn’t know why.
By the third eventless night, they all dreaded the silence. They dreaded it, but they didn’t have the spirit to break it. Jon wished their enemies would come sooner, so at least it wouldn’t be so quiet.
On the fourth night, Jon and Alyssa sat a seat apart among the audience seats of the Theater, taking front row. “Jon,” Alyssa called. Jon turned to her, then away. “If you’re bothered,” Alyssa continued, “you can” —
Jon raised a hand. “Save it.”
It was a little frustrating, but she knew better than to press.
On the morning of the fifth day, one muffled blast after another shook the theater. The stage’s curtains rippled.