23. TWENTY-THREE #2
Niklaus tried to lighten the mood. “When were you going to tell me you were cozy with the Nelfinden heir, Cal? Feels like the sort of thing worth sharing.”
It was the wrong decision. Calver’s face darkened.
“I’m sensing a lack of communication.”
Niklaus became suddenly and overwhelmingly aware that Calver could probably snap him in half without breaking a sweat.
“Easy. I’m, I’m—” He wished his words weren’t horrifically slurred. “Fuck. I’m just pissed.” He held out the tiny scroll. Calver snatched it. “And she said something about command seizing a Pilfari and her setting it loose.”
A stick of charcoal rolled out from the small bundle of paper, along with an even smaller scrap. Whatever Calver’s crime, the Ruxian was abetting him. Calver’s eyes darted across the script on the larger piece, then the smaller one. He stuffed both into his pocket, face unreadable.
His hands flew.
Niklaus tried to speak. “Ah. Um. Yes?” How eloquent.
“Might I suggest a bit of sugar?”
Calver’s expression threatened to bite him in half.
Not a time to pry for details, then.
Niklaus turned to leave, but before he reached the door, Calver gasped.
The noise was so unanticipated from the silent man that it raised the hairs on Niklaus’s arms. He spun, half expecting the mute to be clutching a stubbed toe.
Instead, Calver dropped to the ground and shimmied underneath his work table.
The note must have inspired a breakthrough—which meant, should Niklaus still be standing by the time the sun went down and the rally crowds gathered, he might just have some answers.
As Niklaus’s bumbling fingers reached the door handle, Calver rapped one of his tools on the metal shelf for attention. Niklaus turned again.
Niklaus nodded.
Signaled in a way that said it would be the last thing Niklaus ever did.
“I—won’t.”
Niklaus went. He teetered from the wagon like a loose hinge, cursing himself for his timing.
For the fated mute who’d forced him into this withdrawal compensation.
For his mouth, which felt drier than the sands around him.
He pulled from the canteen, but it didn’t seem to help. The need to urinate was overwhelming.
He moved towards the food store wagons. They were closer than the merchants’ quarter, which wouldn’t be staged at this time of day anyway—their tents were raised only in the evenings.
As Niklaus walked, a story fell into place.
Calver was so chaosbent on stopping the ambush because the Ruxian was at risk.
She hadn’t wanted to be seen—she was under Thyatira’s watch.
Was the Ruxian a hostage? How did one even hold a distortionist hostage?
Had she and Calver been forcibly separated?
Fates, he’d been an ass, making light of it.
Stars dotted Niklaus’s vision. He sat heavily on the steps of a sorghum wagon to catch his breath. Kretch. Someone actually needed him, and… what was he supposed to be retrieving again? Tinctured lemon—easy, that was on hand to prevent scorbutus—and something else.
He pulled supplies into a bag and stumbled back to the wagon. One could only guess how long he’d been gone; minutes—hours. He knocked on the door, to no answer. Pushed it open anyway.
“I think I owe you an—”
Calver lunged at Niklaus, tackling him from the wagon. They smacked into the sand, forcing the breath from Niklaus’s lungs. His head rattled. His vision blackened.
Gasping for air, he threw his hands over his face, sure a swing was coming.
The hit never landed, but a set of hands clenched around his ankles, dragging him.
Hot sand scratched angrily at his back. A gurgled scream erupted from his mouth—a pitiful cry for help he knew no one would hear.
His vision began to clear. Calver had pulled him behind another wagon, catty-corner to the mess supply.
The man lunged again, and Niklaus prepared for the blow—
—only to be embraced. The mute huddled over him, hands covering the back of his head, thumbs plugging his ears.
The world split itself in two, the air around them erupting with searing heat and blinding light.
The ground shook as though it were being ripped open by the Fates themselves.
Debris hurled toward them. Niklaus screamed again as a plume of obsidian smoke billowed into the air.
A ringing filled the desert around them, the overture to a backdrop of crackling flame.
Calver sat up slowly, face contorted, breathing ragged.
“What was that?!” Nilaus could scarcely hear his own voice.
Calver’s hands shook as he signaled.
“That little thing did…?”
Calver nodded. He was panting. Sucking air through his teeth.
“Will the rest of them do that?”
Niklaus was pretty sure he and Calver were the factors.
Nameless was the talk of the rally tonight. If he didn’t show up, it would be the fastest way to notify command he had deserted. “There are going to be questions.”
Calver nodded, wincing.
Niklaus’s hands found the sides of his face. “Ahhh, Fates. What’s it done to you?”
A figure skirted around them at breakneck speed. The Azadonian. Calver had said the boy was covering Niklaus’s position. “Shit! You’re alive. Oh shit.”
Niklaus looked at the boy, then at Calver, and realized what had to be done. Amazing, how nearly being blasted into oblivion could give a man a burst of sobriety.
“If they find you here they’ll twist it to make it look like an attack. Dex, get him out of here. Prepare an alibi. Show up at the rally tonight like everything is normal. You can make for Steila when it’s done.”
Calver’s face was expressionless, but those eyes screamed with exhaustion. Niklaus convinced himself that look meant gratitude. It would make what came next easier.
“Go… now.”
The mute nodded, eyes lingering, before turning to flee—and Niklaus saw it. Beyond the shredded tunic, beyond the char, beyond the raw, blistered skin and exposed muscle… Calver’s back was filled with metal.
“What are you going to do?” Dex shouted to Niklaus over the roar of the flames.
“I’m…” He was going to do what he’d always done. “I’m going to set some things on fire.” He had practice taking the blame for things he hadn’t done, after all.
The pair left Niklaus alone with the blaze. Eyes stinging, he found his tent and an empty bottle within. He pulled his shirt from his back. Tore a strip of fabric free. Stuffed it in the bottle. Raised it in the air. Screamed like a madman.
Figures appeared. They came with buckets. They came armed, blades and tankas all pointed on him.
All Niklaus’s life he’d failed. All his life, no one had depended on him. Until now.
“Henceforth your hero comes…” he muttered. “From the bottom of a bottle.” Calver was in the clear. A non-suspect. He’d be free to make this right.
And Niklaus? No one would ever doubt that he had done something very, very stupid.