Poor World

I turned up the main street, thought of the itchfeet, and angrily pushed them from my mind. I needed a plan, something to rescue us all, to prove that I’d done the right thing. To snap a finger in Rel’s heroic face without having to actually do it, which would only net me one of those annoying pokerfaces.

  I’d been lucky in my adventures so far. I knew that. Lucky, but also imaginative. When I’d managed to squelch a villain’s plans, it was always by doing the unexpected. I wasn’t bigger or stronger or faster than any adult, and I was smarter than only a few, but I had lots more imagination, especially when compared to the Chwahir, who did everything by rote. Even Shnit, who had had utter control for so long that few things ever caught him by surprise. Until he encountered us. Shnit had lived for so long that Clair said he’d become a kind of caricature of himself, a knotwork of grudges and fanatical dreams of vengeance.

  How to find a way out of this mess?

  So thinking, I stepped inside Kessler’s building, and saw the office door open. It was never locked — if he was gone, he just closed it.

  I wondered who would ever have the nerve to go in there unwanted.

  He was busy at his desk, which worsened my sour mood. Part of my reason for going out to practice all morning had not just been to get a chance to see the girls, though that was most important, but also because the past few mornings Kessler had wanted to do map work. Afternoons, he’d gone out doing whatever it was that he did.

  Well, the only thing I’d accomplished on this particular morning was sweating out all that practice at sword fighting, knife-throwing, and the rest, in the hot sun.

  “Cherene,” came The Voice. “We can work at the maps right now.”

  I was beginning to hate the sound of my own name.

  I went in. Kessler was already restacking papers in order to make room for his maps. I couldn’t think of any excuse to avoid it, especially as he was obviously setting aside his own kafuffle in order to train me in this stuff.

  With a quick gesture he unrolled one of his maps, spreading it over the desktop. I felt a yawn threaten and stifled it, blinking back tears as I looked down.

  I did not recognize the kingdom; the outline of the continent was vaguely familiar from another map session. Some cryptic notes in Kessler’s neat, small Chwahir print lined the top.

  The horrible thing is that I wasn’t supposed to learn where the kingdom lay. I think he believed I already knew. ‘Studying maps’ didn’t mean learning about interesting faraway places — about magic races or ancient forests or beautiful cities from Old Sartoran days, about interesting people and places.

  ‘Studying maps’ meant planning wars. Nothing more.

  Nothing less.

  “There are three points of entry,” Kessler said. “Show me.”

  I fought the urge to scream pocalubes, and ransacked my aching head in order to parrot back what he’d said before on ‘entry points.’ “Here, here, here.” I pointed.

  “No,” he said when I was done. “Look again. See it from the occupants’ perspective, then. Where must you set up defenses, and where are your natural defenses?”

  “Natural defenses,” I repeated, recalling one stray fact I was sure of. “High mountains. Lakes. Bogs ...”

  We went on until I said what he wanted me to say about that stupid map — I can’t remember what. I didn’t really listen. He was very patient, even though he had stacks of stuff awaiting his attention; I was bored and angry by turns, and fought to keep it hidden. Who cares about all that conquering junk? I kept saying inside my skull. I will never, ever in my life use it.

  But once I’d managed to gabble back what he wanted to hear he went right on, this time expecting me to ‘name my resources’ — which meant what kind of army and weapons and related flummery that I’d want to take there. Wow. You can just imagine how useful and interesting I found all this idiocy. It was torture to sit there and keep my face bland and not say things like It’s easy — I wouldn’t attack them in the first place! or I’d put together a spell, turn everyone — on both sides — into hop toads for ten years, and save us all a lot of bother. Except maybe for the local flies.

  When it was finally over, Kessler said, “Once you know how to assess what you are seeing I will take you on some field maneuvers.”

  “Here?”

  “No, we practice in various terrains,” he said.

  “Oh, that will be interesting,” I responded — thinking of escape.

  “You can tell me what you are seeing. What you’d do. Perhaps even give commands so you can learn to assess action as it happens, and test your tactical ideas. So you must study the map here that I’ve set out for you, and consider these things, so that when we reach the field ...”

  I didn’t hear the rest of his plans for a Fun Outing, Kessler-style. Disappointment made my head pang: if we left, he’d be right at my side. No chance of escape there.

  He finished by saying he was pleased with my progress. I felt like the world’s worst phony, for there I was faking along — and still no closer to figuring a way to defeat his plans.

  He stacked his papers and tucked them under his arm as he left. I stood at the window and watched him splat up the street, thinking drearily that every broiling hot, boring, tense day I lied my way through brought us closer to the day of attack.

  My only breaks were at night. I’d discovered that I could go climb the wall at the parade ground and perch, for there were no wards on the walls. The geography was enough to keep everyone in — nothing but flat desert land baking in the merciless heat as far as the eye could see. Anyone who went over the fence would die out there in a day. Kessler wouldn’t have to bother sending a search party.

  But at night I could ignore that and look up at the stars, which were peaceful and beautiful as a treasure-trove of jewels. Up on the wall there was even a breeze.

  I sat and brooded, thinking and rethinking everything I knew. No chances of sneaking out. The gates were never opened. All transfers were done by magic, everyone carrying some kind of token with half the transfer magic on it — I still don’t know how Dejain managed this particular trick. And if the tokens were accidentally dropped or left behind, Dejain had a tracer spell on them.

  I returned inside and to my room for another night of bad dreams — interrupted, as often happened, by that flickering candle and Kessler checking on me. I always pretended I was asleep, and he went away again.

  This time I sat up, gulping for air — I’d been dreaming that Shnit was about to assassinate Clair — and I yelled, “Go away!” before I could even think.

  The candle had already vanished.

  I flopped back down, whimpering into the cot. Why did he do that? It was always the same time of night, that I knew instinctively. I did not sleepwalk, nor had I ever left the room, so why check up on me?

  But moments later he was back again, and this time carrying a glass of water.

  “Drink that.” He put the glass in my hand.

  “It’s okay,” I said, trying to hand it back.

  “Drink it.”

  If I refused would he strangle me again?

  Then I thought: why refuse? If it was some kind of sleep drug, well, maybe I would at least escape the bad dreams, even if he ordered his entire army to tromp through the hallway.

  So I downed the liquid, not even tasting it, and Kessler silently took the glass back. Without speaking he stood there, waiting.

  My vision smeared suddenly, and I dropped face down onto the cot.

  When I woke up — lying in exactly the same position in which I’d fallen — I realized it was barely dawn. In the hallway outside my room came the clatter of heavy boots on the wooden floorboards. Alsaes. Had to be. Kessler’s step was much lighter.

  I whirled up from my cot and yanked the door open, plunging through. The cleanup spell zapped the grime and wrinkles away from me and my clothes, which gave me a sort of minor mental advantage. I mean, it was bad enough to be spied on every night just before midnight by Kessler,
but to be woken up by Alsaes? Eugh!

  We almost ran into each other, for that hall was short. I fell back and glared up at the creep, whose smug glee shot pangs of warning through me even before I saw his getup. When my eyes took in his uniform, all gold buttons and sword belts and gold-hilted hardware, I knew he was up to something extraordinarily rotten, and he was going to do it in public.

  “Ah, the valiant princess has blossomed forth on this promising morn, “ he said jovially.

  The feeling that he had one up on me and that I was about to Get It increased.

  “Knock it off, Prince Charming,” I snarled just as nastily as I could, since it was obvious I was already in for trouble. “And what’s with all the fancy junk? Who’s going to be impressed? Not me, that’s for sure.” I pointed at his costly hardware.

  “We’re having an execution,” he said, smiling. “I’m here as a kind of honor guard, to escort your royal highness there — and to see that you have an unimpeded view of the proceedings. Just as our loyal army will have an unimpeded view of you.”

  He paused, but I said nothing — truth is, I was by now even scareder than I was mad. NOT a good combination.

  He went on, “The uniforms, the formality, all impresses our followers with the value of obedience. Gives the stupids something to think about as well. An entertaining reminder,” he added in a really acid drawl, “just who holds the hilt of power.”

  He meant that the prisoners would be there, watching.

  “Come along, my dear little Citizeness Sherwood.”

  “Of course, my dear little Citizen Alsaes,” I snarled, and when he grabbed for my arm I ducked around him and whizzed out the door.

  Heat hit me like a blast. It was just past dawn, and already the sky was a glare-bright blue bowl overhead, and in the distance the ground shimmered. My nose stung from the hot dryness, and tears burned my eyes from the glare.

  I hardly noticed. My innards were shaking and quaking. How was I going to get out of this nightmare? I did not want to see any helpless victim bumped off, especially in whatever way that disgusting monster Alsaes had dreamed up.

  But he was right behind me. I could hear his breathing, and the creak of his heavy black-weave belt and baldric, as he tromped practically on my heels. I sped up a bit, my bare feet burning and aching from the sharp bits of gravel. Alsaes increased his pace.

  When we were almost in sight of the parade ground, he said, “I do hope you will enjoy the execution. I had you in mind when I arranged this little demonstration. It would be so disappointing if you were to exhibit weakness. Do note that this will be one of those rare occasions on which the prisoners come forth to witness the diminishment of their number. You’ll see your friends right in front, o royal princess. That means they are next.”

  We rounded the last building then, and I saw everyone lined up in neat squares, waiting in absolute silence. A quick scan: the girls were nowhere in sight.

  Faces in those first few rows were statue-still, but I saw eyes tracking us as Alsaes led me inexorably toward the platform directly behind the two posts.

  Adjacent were the prisoners, white-faced, squint-eyed, their clothes grimy and shabby, their hair overlong and unwashed. Rel’s tall form stood out. It was the worst shape I’d ever seen him in, but there was no room in me for gloat. I was too scared. The prisoners were surrounded by guards bearing cranked and aimed crossbows. No one moved. No one spoke.

  Kessler was alone on the platform. Unlike Alsaes and the prison guards, he wore no uniform. He was dressed exactly like usual. His head turned at our approach, and next thing I knew I was trying to get my watery knees to work as I mounted the three steps up to the platform.

  I had to stand next to Kessler. I heard Alsaes’s breathing right behind me, even closer than before.

  Kessler didn’t move, or speak.

  I heard Alsaes’s gear creak — a signal? Drums, unseen, beat a slow tattoo, the sound making the tension unbearable. It was all so slow, orderly, deliberate; the punishing heat, the white faces of the prisoners, my own empty insides, all made my head start to ring like a clapperless bell.

  I sidled a glance at the itchfeet, trying to steady myself; a mistake. They would be next. Christoph looked faintly embarrassed, his mop of yellow hair mushrooming out, and I tried to cheer myself with the reminder that he was technically already dead, or he was as far as we knew, because he’d kind of remembered two versions of his Earth life (and neither was the Earth I knew) — one cut short by execution, and the other dying of old age. If he were killed here, would go away from our world forever? No one knew, not even he.

  All we knew for certain was that if you gave your soul to Norsunder, you could come back here — but what a cost! If you gave up your soul to them you also gave up your will.

  Still, he did not look frightened. Puddlenose did. I stared at him, wondering why he was so muddy; then I blinked away those heat-tears and realized that what I was seeing were bruises. Old ones, new ones, and lots of them. He was skinny and his jaw was clenched in a way that made it clear he was in pain.

  Rel pokerfaced. Of course. But for once I was glad. I did not want to see his feelings.

  I knew they could all see me standing there next to Kessler: CJ Sherwood, the ultimate traitor.

  What could I do?

  Nothing.

  The monotonous tattoo continued. I had a headache now; the drums reverberated through my skull into my teeth.

  Out came the two prisoners. The two young men looked a little older than Rel. They were dark-haired and skinny, with bony faces. Uniformed soldiers escorted them, and behind them walked some creep dressed all in black, including the black hood that executioners always wore, I’d heard, and hoped never to have to see. He was carrying a long blackweave whip, which meant the victims wouldn’t even get a quick death by arrows.

  The soldiers fastened the two victims to the posts. Snap! The first stroke fell on the younger fellow. I sucked in my breath, wishing Dejain would appear (she wasn’t there) and turn me into a snail. Anything, anything but be forced to witness that. To listen to that, because I sure wasn’t looking. I stared at the sky above everyone’s heads.

  Crack! One more. The young man made a noise, and I bit my tongue, hard, to keep from making my own. My head ached worse, and my eyesight shimmered from the heat and my own overwhelming horror.

  Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. Alsaes.

  Crack! A third strike.

  Awareness came rushing back, and with it rage. I was just about to twitch that mitt off, when a white-hot jab of pain stabbed my neck. I let out a shriek. Fire raced through me, and my vision smeared.

  Alsaes’s hand shoved against my shoulder and then lifted away.

  I stumbled, felt myself falling, but my limbs were too heavy for me to break my fall.

  Luckily I blacked out before I hit the dirt.

  Seven

  When I came to, I found myself slumped in a chair in Kessler’s office, feeling like a rag doll whose stuffing had been yanked out.

  My cheek stung; I lifted a numb, tingling hand, and looked up at Kessler, who stood before me, a frown in his eyes, and his mouth tight with disapproval. He dropped his right hand, which had been poised for another slap.

  “You fainted,” he said.

  “I didn’t,” I exclaimed, memory flooding back. My mouth was dry, and my tongue felt like an old stocking. I worked my rubbery lips and mumbled, “It’s not my fault.” It come out sounding like “Nobba-blobba.”

  Though even as I said it, I had a sneaky feeling I might have passed right out even if Alsaes hadn’t turkeyed me first.

  But Kessler did not have to know that.

  I straightened up, my words wobbly as I struggled to get control back. “Alsaes stuck a pin. Something. In my neck. Poison. See?” I yanked my hair up, fingering my neck with my other hand. I felt a sore lump.

  Kessler looked so disbelieving I wondered if he had somehow heard what I’d been thinking before, or eeeg, did I say
it instead? “I’ve been in that situation,” I said loudly, though my teeth were chattering. “I lasted. Falling down was Alsaes’s fault.”

  Kessler walked the length of the room, and then turned round with one of those swift movements. “Was it Shnit?”

  “What?”

  “Had you beaten?”

  “Did it himself,” I said, confused. “Who else in the world would attack a kid?” Then I remembered where I was — and who was slated for the next entertainment.

  “Yes. Who else,” he repeated. “Alsaes. Well, then, Alsaes will regret it. I will in the meantime have it made known that you did not betray us with weakness.”

  “What happened to the, the, um, execution? Did you stop it?”

  “Yes.” And I saw then what my lot would have been if I had fainted on my own. Imagine being grateful for Alsaes’ jealousy and nastiness!

  Kessler went on, “They’ve been rescheduled. If the one dies, the other can go with the next three. Works out better. I prefer even numbers.”

  He grinned a little, and I realized with a stomach-dropping glomp that he was making a joke.

  “Uh, when will that be?” I hazarded, hoping I wouldn’t somehow move the date up by Showing Too Much Interest.

  Kessler made a slight, impatient gesture. “We don’t have the time to waste until after the initial phase of the Plan has been successfully completed. We’ve already lost an entire morning that must be rescheduled.” And with a slightly quizzical sort of smile, “I think Alsaes is going to be too busy to pursue his hobbies in the prison.”

  Hobbies?

  It was then that I put together Puddlenose’s bruises and Alsaes’s threats, but still not what it meant. I knew only that Alsaes had been down there tormenting Puddlenose, which was probably why he slept so much.

  It was time to change the subject. What’s safe? The Plan — always. “When, um, is the Plan to be launched?”

  Kessler looked a little surprised. “I thought I told you that. Next week, either Wednesday or Thursday, depending on some information yet to be obtained.” He paused, his hand in his pocket, head slightly averted — that communicator thingie, I realized. It didn’t work on electricity. It couldn’t. It was powered by magic, but it would give a focus for non-magic people to easily use it. He muttered under his breath, then looked up at me.