31. The Traitor and The Spy
The Traitor and The Spy
I ring the bell for The Bridge with violence.
It’s Meg who opens the door. I push past her. She says my name, but I charge straight to Dezeeves. He’s sitting opposite Riss, papers strewn on the table in front of them.
He jerks up. “What is the—”
I crash down onto the seat next to his, stabbing my finger at what I recognise is my Integration book.
“Integrate me,” I order him, invading his personal space the way he’s been invading my mental one. “Right now. No more tests. No more games.”
“Ara, calm down,” Riss says, flicking her eyes as if to say or you’re going to get yourself killed.
“No,” I say. “No, I’m not going to calm down.”
I get out of my seat again. Start pacing.
I’m aware there isn’t a single officer not staring at me at this point, but I plough on.
“I’m angry Dezeeves,” I say, letting the hatred I feel for him, for Drake, for my entire situation, heat my gaze. “You have had me dancing around you. What you just made me endure was utterly degrading, and—”
His brows go heavy over his pale eyes. “What did I just make you endure, Ara?” He rolls his hand, relaxed. “A bath with a friend, without your keepers? I thought you would appreciate the freedom.”
I’m shaking my head.
He’s not going to mess with me like this.
“That’s not what you offered me, and you know it.” I shoot around to Meg, who I’m aware has slunk behind me. “And you. You’re no better.”
“What have I done?”
“You know what you’ve done.”
No one is reacting. It’s aggravating.
I turn back to Dezeeves. Stand over him. “I know what Integration really is.” I slam my fist on my book. “So, Integrate me!”
He seems concerned. “Are you quite sure, Ara? Correct me if I am wrong, but you and Drake had seemed – to me, at least – adamant to begin with that you didn’t want to Integrate at all.”
I’m panting. “I can’t do it anymore,” I say.
“All the tests. You’re just going to keep putting me in the same room as him.
” I shake my head again. “It’s done, Dezeeves.
End it, so I can be part of the crew – and be with Cosmer, when he’s free.
You want me in your crew, don’t you? You got what you wanted. You’ve converted me.”
Dezeeves gathers the papers to himself. Places my book on top.
When he speaks again, his voice is as soulless as I believe he is. “Let’s take this conversation to my quarters.”
“I’ll go with you,” Riss says, getting up.
“That won’t be necessary. Riss, Meg. Please attend to your duties.”
Dezeeves leads the way. I follow, looking just like the loyal servant to Hevalla anyone would think he has made me.
The Captain’s Quarters aren’t far beyond the grate over Deck 7.
We enter a room that reminds me of the inside of Temple, a kind of office with shelves overflowing with books.
The furthest wall has two large portholes – right by them is a large telescope.
A map of the world covers one of the internal walls, and I see an assortment of things on the long desk.
Papers, pens, a globe, a drawing compass, a clock.
The whole room has a faint but undeniable smell of rum.
It would be fascinating, if it wasn’t so utterly overwhelming. Is this what the inside of Dezeeves’ mind looks like?
I prefer my miserable, smoky one. At least I’d be able to think in it.
Dezeeves sits behind his desk, indicating the seat opposite.
I take the seat. And, as more items on the desk come into focus for me, I notice the small silver flask, almost hidden by a scroll.
“Is that Cosmer’s?” I ask, baffled. I’d seen it only this morning, in the satchel. Could Meg have brought it up to Dezeeves since then?
Dezeeves’ bushy white eyebrows gather up like clouds. “No, no. That is mine. I am aware Cosmer has a similar one.”
He pushes it to one side, in a way that makes the scroll cover it more.
I seethe.
Even from here, I can see the flask isn’t similar. It’s identical.
But before I can question him about it – demand to look at it – Dezeeves rummages in his drawer. He pulls out an item and places it on the desk. An oxygen – or, I suppose, it could also be for osimidite – mask. It isn’t attached to anything. Its tube hangs freely from it.
“The symbol of self-saviour,” he states. He peers at me. “Do you know what the polar opposite to the oxygen mask is?”
It’s like hearing an echo. I know this.
I’ve seen this.
In one of my very first dreams on the ship.
I answer him at once. “The gun.”
“Correct. The gun. The symbol of power over others.”
He had that ready, too. He puts a small revolver on the table. Straightening up, he closes the drawer, his attention back on me.
“I said, no more tests,” I remind him.
“The last one,” Dezeeves says. “And, I believe – the most important one.”
“The mask represents Rhavna,” I guess. “And the gun represents Hevalla.”
He inclines his head. His greasy ponytail falls over his shoulder.
“You know what you must do.”
I do.
The real question I am being presented with is, do you think I am a traitor for Rhavna, or a spy for Hevalla?
I could use my power. Make him simply tell me what the right answer is. Spill all of his secrets.
I don’t think I need to.
“Give me a moment,” I say.
“Take your time.”
I shut my eyes. Imagine my memories as something I can view, just as I did in the maze Meg prepared for me.
Rike, being so reluctant to talk to me. You’ll learn quickly, he’d said.
Meg’s immunity to blood magic.
Drake, who must have found the torture he experienced here a massage compared to the very real torture he experienced elsewhere, in his past.
Even…
Even the flask.
I open my eyes.
“Sisters,” I whisper.
“Tell me what you are thinking.”
“I couldn’t understand it. Why I was taken to Hevalla in the first place,” I say. “I could have been killed. Bled for my magic.” My words taste like dirt.
“Everything you are thinking.”
“I wasn’t taken to just anywhere in Hevalla. I was taken—”
Dezeeves completes my sentence. “To the village now known as Vikemy. Of course, it was known by other names, when Vikemy himself and I were growing up. Brent, Kellery, Lorence.”
“The empty house we moved into…”
“Go on.”
“It was yours,” I say. “Our house was yours.”
I stare at the flask. My hand shakes as I reach for it.
He winces, as if bracing himself. But he allows me to take it.
I flip over the beautifully crafted item to view the inscription I know for certain will be on its base.
Don’t lose this one. –D
I drop it like it burns me. The clatter it makes as it hits the wood is thunderous.
“But you didn’t lose it. You gave it to Cosmer, who—”
Waited too long to be promoted. Could that have been for his protection?
Could find stashes of food. Like the cans in the military base.
Was not killed – IES – when he was armed and shooting in The Bridge.
Kira’s voice. He sees something in you…
Dezeeves’ own voice. If there is one single person on board this ship I would not let starve to death…
“My son,” he says, nodding meekly. “Though he doesn’t know it. And I would appreciate it if you would keep that particular piece of information to yourself.” He sighs, deeply. Pain seems to pang off him. “It was, in many ways, a mistake. Sal raised him well in my absence—”
“Your absence?” I accuse. “Or your abandonment?”
Dezeeves shakes his head. “There are some duties that must come before anything else – you should, very soon, understand that better than most. Now, as I was saying – I had hoped he would look after you, be a friend to you, when I offered the Queen my home as your safe house. I did not realise it would get to the point it did.”
The point it did. Of course. Dezeeves, even being Cosmer’s father, won’t condone the union. Not when it would go against The Soulmates fortune. The wishes of the Queen.
Dezeeves isn’t the mild, harmless man he acts. He’s the opponent, with his ability to change people with his words. Play both sides of battles. Gain people’s trust, and the loyalty of queens.
D. D for Danessa.
The Rhavnan Queen. The Queen of Hubris. Drake’s mother. They share a first initial. He must have been named after her.
I have no words.
“Now you know who I am.” His pale, tired eyes linger on me.
They are wise beyond his fifty or so years.
They have seen things people probably don’t even know they have seen.
Know things about people they do not even know about themselves.
“It is time,” he continues, in a commanding voice so unlike his usual airy one, “to show me who you are, Ara Merran. Make your choice.”
He motions again with his long, bony hand, to the mask, and the gun.
The Card of the Choice.
How many other Rhavnans have been presented with this choice?
The chance to choose Rhavna, even knowing – as corrective instruction would have shown them – that they’ve been lied to, and that the Queen’s reign is no better than Hevalla’s Assembly, or to choose war-hungry, Provision-system Hevalla – maybe having actually become converted – just to lose their lives?
Dezeeves may be on my country’s side, but he isn’t a hero. He’s the supporter – enabler – of a tyrant, and the cold-blooded murderer of many.
In my dream, I chose the mask. Now that I think of it, Old Mother must have instilled that dream in me. Her way of warning me of what was to come, through her own premonition. Choose it and save yourself. Live.
But I’m stronger than I’ve ever been.
I can face consequences.
I can do what’s right.
I can choose my country, and not choose him. This. The same way I can choose Cosmer, and not Hevalla.
The cold metal fills my hand. It’s like it belongs there.
Dezeeves is incredulous.
When he speaks, each word is stunted. “You wish to make an enemy of me. Of the Queen.”
I shrug, looking up at him. “What did you expect, Dezeeves?” I ask. “When the both of you have yet to make a friend of me?”
My hand is steady as I aim the gun at his chest.
And I fire it.