The Select's Bodyguard (Children of the Wells - Bron & Calea Book 1) (2 page)

I let him go and continue on, picking up the pace. Perhaps an hour will not matter. Perhaps it will.

The gate to Section Four is near. Already, the people are massing, pushing, swarming, trampling. They think there is safety there, on the other side of the wall that separates the sections. Section Four--the section she controls. Her domain. If this was an attack...but where are the soldiers? What’s the objective? Her Section, where the common man has wealth to rival the Select. Or soon will.

The immigration offices are hollowed-out shells, walls and furniture and bodies littered on the street. Even from my place, away from the mob, I can see that the wall separating the Grunt from Section Four has fallen.

It does not have to take an hour.

I throw myself into the mass of people, silent among the mad. I claw forward, shoving bodies out of my path. They resist. I press harder. I throw a punch, climb over six as they collapse in a huddle. I am inside the Office of Neighborhood Immigration. The thick flow of humanity stagnates. Men are pressing forward and backward, diving into corners and searching out alcoves. I can tell by their clothes the men of the Golden Streets. If they are seeking refuge in the Grunt, then they have been hit hard.

I hit hard, too. I will not be stopped. I lean forward, head down, shoulder leading, and cleave a path. I am growing angry. Why will they not get out of my way? I must go. I must move.

I am on the other side, in the place we Grunters call the Golden Streets. The road is blackened by explosions, the avenue utterly destroyed. Every building has been blown to pieces. Emaciated frames remain, shivering in the wind. Blood is splattered on the concrete and steel. Behind me, the breach between the Sections writhes, but the scene before me is still. I count three cars, the newest models, twisted like sheets of paper after the flame.

It doesn’t matter. She is not here. She is in the Tower overlooking her experiment.

I spring forward, my legs reaching their full stride. My makeshift shoes have fallen off. I continue. The way is shredded rock. I find my way by honed sense. My feet are beginning to bleed. I take a moment to rob shoes off a dead man. They are too small. I cut a line along the soles to give my feet space. Uncomfortable, but it’ll do.

I stop. I glimpse handlebars just ahead. I take the moments necessary to pull it upright. Every other vehicle in Section Four has been demolished. This remains intact. It’s one of her creations, a bicycle with a battery-powered engine. The key is in it. The driver moans nearby. I turn the key. It starts. I look at the reading. Nearly empty.

But not completely empty.

I rev the engine. Steadying the bike with my feet, I let loose. The front wheel hops over the next mound of rock. I look for the smoothest path; I bump and jolt over riven road. My teeth jar in my body. My insides quake. But I am moving.

It is bone-cracking work. I sweat. I live moment by moment. My body burns. I force myself not to glance at the energy reading. Like my body, I will it to continue on. It sputters, leaps forward, hesitates, dies. I throw it aside, take two or three deep breaths.

I am near enough to see her Tower. The top is gone. A jagged summit fumes black smoke. I can see her balcony below the smoke. I hope for a moment to see her there. She is not there.

I’ll find her.

Chapter 2 - While the City Sleeps

Five Years Earlier

Half of Jalseion lay open to Calea's examination, the wedge-shaped sections of the city clearly delineated. Section Three and Four opened before her like pages of a book, both dark though the sun had set only an hour before. Both sections had labored beneath the economic and social theories of their current Guides, the population of the latter faring better by all metrics available. To the far left, Calea could see the riotous lights of Section Two, a largely lawless neighborhood, but on the whole happier than Three and Four, if the data collected by the surveyors was accurate (which was an ongoing debate). Section Five, to the far right, shone quietly, an obedient child by her bedside with her religious texts open. Alseum, the Guide of that Section, was an odd one, more suited for the theoretical pursuits of an Examiner than for the politics of a Guide, but his citizens were happy and healthy, which was more than could be said for three-fourths of Jalseion.

Tomorrow, that would change. Although she was only seventeen, Calea had been promoted to Guide of Section Four. She would begin to put her theories and inventions to work. Prosperity would follow for its citizens, prestige for her. As it should.

Calea hovered over the city for ten more minutes. Her rooms were halfway up Telmion's Tower--Tower Three to be proper--and the breeze brought her the merest hints of the city's odor and din. She loved to spend evenings upon her balcony, planning how she might mold the city below her. It was an extension of herself, like an arm or a leg, and the merest thought could move it. Or so she dreamed.

She heard a shuffle. They had sent another man to retrieve her.

"Guide Lisan, the Overseer eagerly awaits your arrival."

"I know. I was on my way."

"Of course."

By the time Calea turned away from the view, the servant was gone. He should have asked to accompany her. That was what etiquette required.

She strode inside to check herself in the mirror. She was tall, thin, with sharp features. Her hair was cut short so she didn't have to bother with it. She didn’t bother smiling, either; her smile was usually mistaken for a grimace. Her dark eyes were fierce, and combined with the pronounced nose and chin, she looked ready for a fight. Though it was spring, and the winds off the barren hill lands had warmed, she wore sleeves with her gown, and gloves, so that only her neck was exposed. The gown was indigo, almost black in the night.

Her appearance was ordered and pristine, and that was enough for her. She walked with a slight hesitation, noticeable only if one watched closely. She was certain everyone watched.

In the hall outside her rooms, a tall, broad-shouldered man waited. So, they had followed through with it. She ignored him and headed to the elevator.

The knobbed door opened, meaning the platform had been sent for her. Stepping in, she pulled the door shut before the broad-shouldered man could follow her in. Then, siphoning magic from the Well where it resided, she raised the air pressure in the shaft below the platform, pushing it upward. The act took only the slightest concentration; it was like tensing a muscle, thought and action intertwined--energized by the Well's magic rather than a beating heart.

The elevator box rose until it thumped softly against the end of the shaft. She had reached the roof.

The gala was already in progress. Displays of fire-work lit the area, magic-sustained flames twisted into contorted and fantastical shapes. The broad-shouldered man appeared from the door to the stairwell, but he hung back, blending into the milling Select.

Teacher Almetter noticed her first. The prematurely gray-haired woman grabbed a glass of wine and headed over. "Here, take a drink. You deserve it. And it'll help you enjoy the night, at least a little."

"I'll enjoy it. Where's Essendr? I'd like to see his face."

"He's accepted his retirement from guiding Section Four with grace, Calea. Why rub it in?"

"He’s certain I’m too young."

"You
are
young. But I've never heard him say any such thing. He is quite impressed with you."

"That's what he tells people. It's not what he feels." Calea gulped down the glass, repressing a shudder. It was stronger than she had expected.

"I'm proud of you, Calea. You've come a long way--"

"That's enough.”

"I'm just trying to say this isn't Thyrion. If one of us makes a breakthrough, we all move forward."

"That's not what you were saying. Get me another glass."

"Try to be pleasant tonight. For my sake."

"Of course, my dear, dear teacher," she mocked. "Wouldn't want you to be looked down upon. Now, another glass. Is it my night or not?"

"You’re lucky I don’t take your fits to heart. Marrying a bear of a madman has its advantages."

"Honored. Now, go!"

Calea hung back from the main crowd, waiting impatiently. She could feel their eyes, dissecting her. And his eyes, too, watching her discreetly. After tonight, she'd find a way to be rid of him.

Overseer Piers approached as Almetter slipped away. He smiled genially and moved to embrace her in his grandfatherly way before he caught her look. He was a forgetful, touchy-feely sort of man, the last an unusual trait in an Overseer, but his mind was extraordinarily quick and intuitive when presented with a problem. "I apologize. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. You remind me of my daughter, that's all. She's out there, in Section Eight somewhere. Doesn't like to visit. I tend to forget important things like her birthday, her name--never quite forgave me for all those years." He nodded vaguely. "We won't make a prolonged speech. Everyone's read the research. We'll do a quick little thing then get on with the party. If you'd come along?"

She followed, taking the glass Almetter passed her and finishing it before the Overseer had started his announcement. It didn't taste better the second time down, but she would keep at it until it did.

The Overseer waved a hand at the two musicians, who ceased their manipulation of wind over the many pipes of the panorgan. Those gathered were mostly of the political class, including the seven active Guides and a number of their bureaucratic assistants. Used to social cues, they quieted quickly. A few of the more eccentric Examiners, the theoreticians of Jalseion, had to be hushed.

"My fellow explorers," the Overseer began. Calea forced a smile, her hands curling into fists at her side because she didn't know what else to do with them. Everyone was looking at her, taking stock, deciding if she really belonged. She knew many of them, at least by sight, but how many truly believed in her? None. She wanted to hide; she pressed the thought away, bore their polite smiles, suffered their applause. She was better than they were, and she would prove it.

Then, that quickly, the speech was over, the story of her advances in magic storage and the promotion it gained her told in a few concise words. The Overseer patted her on the shoulder and meandered off. Calea fumbled her way through handshakes and congratulations, fellow Select commenting on her work, or, worse yet, on her gown. At the first lull, she made her way to the food table, giving the cold shoulder to others who wanted to talk. She took another glass and finished it. Almetter reappeared.

"I hate this," Calea breathed.

"People adoring you? I thought you demanded it."

"You're an idiot," Calea said. "You're all idiots!" she shouted. Those nearby looked at her, uncertainly trying to take it as a joke.

Almetter grabbed Calea's arm. "What was that about?"

“It’s the truth, that’s all.” Another glass. Soon, she’d stop caring. “I miniaturized the battery. So what? Wait until they see what I have planned next.”

“Excuse me, Calea?” The voice belonged to a rather handsome young man. “I suppose you remember me?” Rodin had been a Student a level above Calea when he graduated. He had begun three levels above, but Calea had worked hard and fast.

“I do. I have a memory.”

He smiled. “Yes, you do. And an astounding one at that, I recall. Not the only thing you excel at, either, it seems.” He indicated the festivities. “I’ve read the papers. It took me three times, but I finally followed. It’ll take me longer to replicate it on my own. Your magical technique is very delicate.”

“Why bother? Let the Architects bother with the menial labor.”

“No, it’ll be a nice challenge, and I need to keep in practice. I haven’t much reason to practice fine manipulation otherwise. But that’s not important right now. I actually came over here hoping you’d give me the honor of a dance.”

“No.”

His face fell momentarily and what returned was a little less certain. “I’m not sure what I expected. If not yes, then an excuse.”

“I won’t dance. End of story.”

He glanced down at her feet, and she grew angry. “No. And tell everyone. No dancing. I’m here to enjoy myself, so I’d be pleased if you’d leave me alone.”

He gave a little nod, almost a mock bow, but not quite. “I’m sorry.”

Almetter had snuck away at the start of the conversation, to grant them “privacy.” Calea grabbed a glass and a plate of cheese and fruit and headed to the corner of the roof, away from the crowd. A dreadful turmoil raged against her ribcage, demanding tears. She took deep breaths, clenching and unclenching her right fist with slow, deliberate motion. She bottled up the storm, pressed down the cork, and held it firmly in place until the danger had passed.

The dark city lay beneath her, music and foreign acquaintances behind. She floated, unanchored and alone.

She set her empty glass down. Someone was near.

“Go away.”

“I cannot.”

“No one’s going to attack me here. Now or ever.”

“I’ve been informed otherwise.”

“So you insist on babysitting me.”