Chapter 8 #2
“Renza,” Alfieri says so quietly I go still, my throat feeling tight, “if you need help, if you need protection … please ask me. You have the Barone family behind you. I mean it. You can trust us. No matter how dire, no matter how desperate – if needed, we can even get you out of this city. Please, don’t hesitate, don’t worry, just ask. ”
I blink hard and turn to look up at him, swallowing tightly.
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
I hurry outside before I can crumble. I close the door behind me and suck in a sharp breath, feeling water swelling in my eyes.
I clear my throat. The close analysis of my friends made me feel exposed, vulnerable, like I’m an inch away from collapsing under the pressure swelling over me.
I can’t afford to break. This city can’t afford for me to crumble.
I have to be strong. I have to endure. I have to pretend nothing is wrong.
No matter how I can feel the cracks forming, no matter how badly I’m fraying at the edges.
If I am confident, they can be confident. Poor morale could determine the outcome of this war before it begins.
I start walking, mind swirling and black.
An uncomfortable ringing starts in my ears and a detached numbness smothers me like a fluffy cotton cloud.
The allure of empty nothingness wraps its fingers around my throat.
I walk along, feeling entirely isolated and out of sync with the world around me.
The path moves beneath me, my steps almost floaty and detached from my dark, conscious thoughts.
Guards flank me, but I barely notice their presence.
I stare at the cobbled stones beneath my feet, the bustle and noise of the work around me drowned out.
I gasp, coming to a sudden stop as someone steps into my path. I recognise him as Bosco the steelworker.
“Signora!” Bosco chuckles warmly, sweat running down his brow and small burns fading on his arms. “It’s good to see you here again.”
“Thank you,” I answer, forcing a smile to my face. “It’s nice to see everything in action.”
“Oh yes, a real hive of production here! Come, come, look at what we’re making!” He gestures that I follow him. My guards step forwards but I hold up a hand to stop them.
“I would love to.” I smile as I follow him. “I regret I don’t have more time but please, show me your work.”
I follow Bosco through the weave of people as he shows me the contraptions he’s working on.
The smell of tar, sawdust and molten metal sticks to the air.
I nod and try to look impressed as he explains his work.
The people around us get back to their business, having to mollify their feelings at my presence with either the occasional glare or a rare, flashed smile in my direction.
The sun bounces off Bosco’s work and this particular contraption – a trebuchet – is astounding. Bosco laughs and steps closer to me, folding his arms as the crispy, dead grass beneath our feet crunches slightly.
“Signora,” he whispers quietly, “I need to speak with you urgently.”
I frown, head jumping up to meet this man’s eye.
“Yes?”
“I heard some of the lads talking,” he whispers nervously.
“They heard some of their associates planning, and were warning each other not to be out and about tonight. Apparently, there’s some unsettled lot planning an attack against one of the bridges or one of the refugee centres or something.
Got their hands on explosives, like with the Grand Temple. ”
My throat runs dry, my mouth almost falling agape. My heart drops down to my abdomen, throbbing with cold, poisonous dread.
“Wha—”
“I don’t know any more,” he hisses, trying to look around to make sure no one heard him telling me. “I didn’t tell you nothing. I didn’t mutter a word, you understand? But I don’t like the sound of it. Thought you ought to know, see if you can stop it.”
I nod, reeling from this piece of information.
“Thank you, Bosco. I will try,” I promise quietly. Bosco nods and booms with laughter as he loudly pretends we’ve exchanged nothing more than pleasantries before bidding farewell. I hurry in my retreat, as far as I let myself.
I want to run, I want to curse the gods themselves. Why would Halicians attack their own city? How could that help? What could possibly be causing such awful thoughts in the minds of our own people?
But then I think about Nouis. How I hadn’t seen his wicked lies and treachery under my own roof.
His honeyed words hadn’t seemed evil until I knew the vile motivations they truly came from.
His twisted abject desire for complete and total power.
Dominion no matter the cost. He believed the world belonged to him, that it was his to master and play with.
Myself included. And yet, he was so charismatic.
So charming. He smothered the manipulation behind each carefully selected word and action.
I can wholly believe people might not realise poison is falling into their ears when it’s coming from the right lips.
Hate is more contagious than any plague, springing from ear to lips in a second.
The people spouting the vitriol now are probably so removed from the original Holy States agitators, sent here to sow discord, who knows if we’d even flush them out.
As I walk out of the Garden gates, I’m met with a small, angry crowd of Halicians. They’re screaming, their wrathful voices and insults echoing in my ears as my mind is reeling.
“City-stealing witch!”
“Lying Di Maineri scum!”
“For Patricelli! For Patricelli!”
My heart leaps to my throat as fear forms a noose around my neck.
My pulse skitters under my skin as my veins run cold and my limbs tremble.
I gasp in shock at the fury burning in their eyes as they try to get at me, to swarm me and claw at me.
Two guards rush forwards, swords drawn to beat back the small mob, two guards try to clear a pathway and the other guards stay at my side.
I stumble back in horror, wanting to run. Wanting to retreat back to the Garden.
A sticky, wet red tide slams into my head and drips over my face and shoulders.
The thick liquid stains my dress and clumps my hair, errant trails attempting to invade my nose, eyes and mouth.
Shuddering in shock, the crowd jeers and laughs at me, praising my attackers.
I try to wipe my eyes but my fingers slip over my slick, stained skin as I look down at my crimson hands.
Blood.
I am coated in blood.
Horrified, I turn my gaze up, back to the Garden walls. An artisan waves at the crowd from his balcony, empty bucket in hand, like he’s a freaking hero.
“Pigs blood for the pig! For Patricelli!” he roars to the crowd. “For Patricelli!”
My stomach bottoms out as fear wells like diamonds in my eyes and my gut quakes. The guards’ rough hands drag me away as people start to throw things in my direction. Nothing else hit me – the guards too good at their jobs – but the loathing is clear, the attack more than effective.
The guards get me into the carriage before battling off the crowd. With nothing but thin wood between me and the angry mob, I sit quivering against the cushions, blood streaking down my limbs and dripping off my dress to forever mar the plush seating underneath.
The carriage starts to move and I am alone inside, pressing my hands to my face in vain to supress the sob that breaks free. Water mingles with blood as tears spill forth as though from behind a dam.
The city hates me. I never thought it was possible that this city, this Halician city would do something so heinous against one of their own. But they attacked me. They really wanted to hurt me.
There’s no doubt in my mind that the people might attack each other.
Bring about another explosion, like the one that started all this mayhem and madness.
A disaster that almost broke the city. Another attack like that would be a disaster.
Fear and panic would lace the streets; people would turn against their neighbours.
Riots and anger would pour from every direction.
Halice would be ripe for the taking, and the Holy States would waste no time in doing just that.
I have to stop it; it’s my job and my duty.
Who knows how much time I have.