4. The Assembly Will Provide #2
I sit straighter. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” Softer, I ask, “Why be scared of it? It’s just the dark.”
“The dark is not the same for me as it is for you. I…”
The white light threatens to blind me. I squint to send it away.
“You, what?”
“I spent a lot of time in the dark, once.”
The distant way he says it makes me realise whatever that means, it must be something highly personal to him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, quietly. “I shouldn’t have pushed you to talk about it.
” To lighten the atmosphere – calm him, because I can feel he’s still trembling – I add, “If it’s any consolation, my brother is afraid of much worse than that.
Watchers, soldiers, spiders, crane flies. Suspicious-looking cutlery...”
He snorts. “Anyone would be wary of that."
I grin, leaning into him a little. “So you do have a sense of humour. I was starting to think you were a machine.”
“Obviously I have a sense of humour. You just hadn’t said anything funny until now.”
“Hey!”
A moment passes between us. A moment where all I can hear is the faint sound of water trickling down from somewhere in the ceiling.
And his breaths. I like listening to them. They’re regular, and a perfect speed. Not too fast. Not too slow.
I hope he can’t read minds, because I’m very aware what a ridiculous thought that was.
To force myself to think about something else, I ask, “What do you think they’re going to do with us?”
His answer is quick. “Keep us alive. For now.”
“Are you always an optimist?”
“Only when the facts allow it.”
“Right,” I say. “And what facts are you currently going by?”
“The fact we are still breathing is a good one.”
“That’s because they will want our executions to be public,” I point out.
“No. They have something else planned. They are waiting for someone.”
I think back to what I heard before I fell unconscious.
“They are. Someone called Dezeeves. You know – same name as the last Hevallan king. That’s why I remembered it.”
“They are waiting for Dezeeves? You are sure that is what they said?”
“Yes.”
I want to ask him why. What he knows of this person.
But he’s pulling away from me. Tense. Like his world is crashing down around him.
It tugs at something in me. A need to protect.
I slide my hand across the stone floor until I find his. Gently, I prise open his clammy fingers and thread mine into them.
For a second, all is calm.
Then a shooting sensation rushes up my hands and along my arms – so violently my whole body jolts.
“Did you feel that?” I gasp, snapping my neck to him.
“Feel what?”
Maybe I was mistaken?
“Nothing.”
He inhales, then shifts back to where he was, close to me.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, his breath tickling my ear.
We wait.
A loud knock from above startles me. For a terrible second, I picture bombs.
But no. It can’t be. No bombs. Yet.
I’m fully awake now, but my bones are heavy, like I’ve come up from beneath the sea. I realise I must have dozed off again. I’m resting on something soft.
It’s Drake’s shoulder.
Instantly, I move away, heat warming my face. Thank the Sisters it’s dark.
The sound comes again, and this time, Drake jerks, too. Three firm knocks – before a voice I don’t recognise calls down to us. “Is it safe to come down?”
My brain tries to make sense of this.
A man is asking us – the prisoners – if he can come down?
“Come in?” I reply, conscious of how absurd it sounds.
Drake and I stand up at the same time. It’s soothing, knowing he’s beside me again.
There’s groaning metal, like bolts are sliding. Then the trapdoor creaks open and a rope ladder is tossed down. It sways in the air before a tall, trim man in a long, flowing coat descends it.
He’s carrying a torch in one fist. His height, angular physique, the sharp way he moves; I’m already recoiling from him.
Vikemy.
But the torchlight flickers over the profile of his face just as his small feet neatly and soundlessly hit the ground, and I realise that though there is a resemblance between the two men, this man is someone else.
He has all of his hair, for a start, which is long, silver, and tied back from his wide forehead and pointed face with a thin cord.
He’s a decade or so younger, and looks far sprightlier, and he’s not in State Craftsman robes, but a soldier’s uniform, complete with a leather coat so long it almost touches the floor.
The high collar of his red shirt is embroidered with letters and strange symbols.
He lifts his torch higher, illuminating us.
I cast a glance at Drake. His short dark hair, which had been wet and slicked when we met, is now sticking up and almost curling. His eyes look bloodshot and wild.
I realise I can’t look much better, and I flinch from the light.
“Good,” the man says brightly, as if we’ve passed some kind of test he’d set for us. “Everyone is awake and in good state of dress.” He snickers to himself. “I’m sure you can forgive me for needing to check when I heard there were two young people down here, alone in the dark.”
“We—that’s…” I say, flustered, at the same time that Drake demands, “Are you Dezeeves?”
I gawk at Drake.
He’d spoken in Hevallan. I wouldn’t have thought he’d know the tongue. Maybe all soldiers are taught it.
The stranger smiles. “Here,” he says, producing two small waterskins from two baggy pockets in his coat. He throws them at our feet.