23 - A WAYWARD RIB

The world froze. Time slowed. My breath caught in my throat and my heart skipped a beat. The Autarch’s eyes were so bright, as though twin, emerald flames burned behind them. They seemed to see through me, into me, exposing my soul, my mind, my intentions. Fear injected itself into my veins, flooded my body, paralyzing me.

And then the Autarch looked away, kept turning, sweeping that terrible gaze across the rest of the crowd.

I nearly collapsed.

Felice steadied me with a hand on my shoulder, whispered, “Are you okay?”

I closed my eyes for a moment. “I’m fine.”

“Smug cunt,” Justinia hissed. “Thinks he’s real good just because he can fly. Motherfucker wouldn’t last a minute on the floor with me.” This last part was spoken slightly too loudly because the soldier seated in front of us twisted in his chair, eyes narrowed furiously, and glared.

Justinia glared back. “What are you looking at?”

“Say what you just said again,” said the soldier. “Come on. Say it a little louder.”

“...finally,” said the Autarch, “I wish to thank Politarch Jahavir Atas, who has governed Tymora for the last six years, for his service to the Autarchy. In that time., Javahir has continued to rebuild and expand Tymora, making it one of the many shining jewels of our glorious empire.” Another benevolent smile from the Autarch, and then, “You will hear from me again, sons and daughters. Remember these parting words: our strength dwindles when corruption within is allowed to thrive. We must, at all times, root it out. We must stay vigilant.”

A flash of golden light, blinding me.

I covered my eyes, wincing. There came a boom, not dissimilar to thunder, and then a wave of warm air striking me in the face, bringing with it fine grains of sand and dirt.

When I opened my eyes, the Autarch was gone, and everyone else was madly blinking, attempting to clear their vision.

Except for the soldier in front of us, who hadn’t turned, who was, in fact, still staring at Justinia, despite his wife tugging on his sleeve in an attempt at reeling him back in.

Now Justinia had recovered her own vision.

And now she spat in the soldier’s face.

The soldier recoiled as though burned. Fury twisted his expression.

He leaped to his feet, reaching for his sword.

Down in the arena, the gates were once again reopening, more combatants marching out solemnly to their deaths. I got the sense that whatever happened next would be the grand finale, the closing act.

Justinia was up, reaching for one of her hand-axes.

Things were going badly. Felice and I exchanged a look; she looked distraught, frozen, unsure what to do.

I could relate.

The soldier drew his sword, growling, “I’ll take your head, you fucking traitorous bitch.”

Heads were turning all around us, attention focusing in on the conflict. Extremely bad. The Terarch Guard would be alerted at any moment, and then Akios, or at the very least his security detail, would become aware of what was happening, entirely destroying our attempt at taking him, and possibly resulting in our immediate capture and, soon afterward, violent demise.

Justinia’s posture changed. She lowered her ax, said, “Alright, alright, my apologies. I didn’t mean—”

The tip of the soldier’s sword came to rest against Justinia’s throat. “Repeat it,” he demanded. “Whatever you said just before.”

Justinia gritted her teeth. I couldn’t claim to know her so intimately that I knew everything she’d do and say, but I knew her well enough to know that she wasn’t going to tolerate an Autarchy blade at her throat and some young, arrogant soldier thinking he could push her around. Even if her actions resulted in a disastrous bloodbath, she was simply incapable of de-escalating. Probably she was insane.

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So, I had to act.

I could only think of one thing to do, and so, without hesitation, I did it.

I focused on the soldier. I shattered one of his upper rib bones, breaking it off, rotating it, and then propelling it at a high speed in the direction of his heart—impaling the organ a moment later, and resulting in instant death.

The soldier dropped without a sound, falling backward, sword tumbling from his hand. His wife gasped and tried to catch him. His head smashed the edge of the chair in front of him, cracking his skull. Someone else cried out. Justinia immediately sat back down, putting her ax away, and casting a glance in my direction.

“Maybe we should go,” I whispered.

Felice was staring open-mouthed at the dead soldier. Justinia, however, simply looked vaguely satisfied. “You’re probably right,” she said, then gestured to the arena floor. “Seems like this show is about to come to an end anyway. Let’s get into position.”

The soldier’s wife started to scream.

Justinia, Felice, and myself rose from our seats and started to awkwardly shuffle our way down the stands, and in the direction of Akios’s box. It was difficult to move, since there wasn’t much space between the rows of seats, and most of the spectators were largely unwilling to move their legs for us. Meanwhile, the wife was still screaming, and now pointing at our retreating forms.

But when I glanced back, it didn’t seem like anyone actually cared. The crowd was roaring, jeering, then gasping as the action unfolded below them. They were so fixated on the fights that a single screaming woman was of little consequence to them. Plus, if anyone had seen what had happened, they would have merely observed a man collapsing, seemingly of his own accord—heatstroke, they might assume, or some kind of illness.

I found myself at that moment grotesquely grateful for how engrossed the citizens were.

I focused on my breathing. In…out. Slow. Rhythmic. I knew thirteen different breathing exercises, all taught to me by my old tutor. The ability to control one’s own breathing was a crucial part of all magic, not because it was directly connected, but because you need to be calm, focused, and disciplined.

Right now, I felt like I was panicking.

I glanced back down at the field below. The main event was ten gladiators against one. The one just so supposed to be a monstrous giant of a man clad in heavy, iridescent green armor, wielding a sword so massive that it was difficult to imagine I could even pick it up. I wished the titanic bastard luck and then when, a second later, he cut two of the gladiators in half with a single swing, I wished the remaining eight luck instead. It looked as though they’d need it.

“He’s already moving,” Justinia said through gritted teeth, pushing her way forward with greater haste.

My gaze returned to Akios, and I saw what she meant. The governor had risen from his chair and was being shepherded out of the box by his security detail. Golden, mid-afternoon light glinted off of the armor of the Sun Knights, making it almost look as though they were glowing. They seemed inhuman, like artificial, metal constructs. They seemed like death, clad in armor, relentless and merciless. Doubt flooded me. How could we even get close to the governor? How could we get past the Sun Knights, let alone the Seeking Hand operatives?

I became suddenly convinced that we were all about to die.

Justinia had been right. This was a mistake—and I’d been too eager, too naive, to see it.

Camillan had reliable information that the private viewing box was connected to a secret tunnel that joined up with the northernmost exit, allowing the guests of honor to slip out of the arena without needing to worry about wading through the audience. My job was to alert Camillan once Akios was about to exit the arena. Since I couldn’t see him once he entered the tunnel, and thus couldn’t time his exit perfectly, I figured I ought to simply send the message now.

And so that’s what I did.

I accessed the spiritual link between myself and Stumbles.

Abruptly, my vision changed.

I saw through the cat's eyes, temporarily inhabiting his body. The world was painted in monochrome, dark where shadows fell, white where direct sunlight caressed the smooth stone streets outside of the Golden Amphitheatre. Stumbles sat still and upright fifty feet away from the northern exit, which was protected by a dozen Terarch Guard, faces concealed behind their expressionless steel masks. Camillan—or one of the other Thorns—would have their eyes on Stumbles at that very moment.

I commanded Stumbles to roll over on to his back, showing off his belly, as though eager for a rub. I kept him like that for twenty seconds, sure that by then, the message had been clearly conveyed.

And then I withdrew from the cat, returning to my own body.

I pushed past a seated couple, climbing and stumbling over legs. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck. Something didn’t feel right. Felt like I was being watched. I’d fallen behind Justinia and Felice, my brief excursion into Stumbles’s body slowing me down. Justinia was eight rows below. I hurried to catch up.

Four steps separated each row. I descended one set, then another.

And then, purely out of instinct, I glanced back toward the private box.

A woman was staring right at me.

She was dressed plainly, like a servant, or some other kind of attendant. Young. Short, dark hair, with a fringe that stopped just above her eyes—eyes which were such a bright, vivid blue, that I could see their color even from such a distance.

She could’ve been anyone.

But I knew immediately that she wasn’t.

I knew that she was an operative.

And I knew that somehow, she had sensed what I’d just done.