Outlier: Rebellion (58 page)

“Say it,” she murmurs, expecting the worst.

“He’s fallen ill,” he explains, “again. But this time, I fear it is not fast improving. Ruena … I think it’s time. He requests to speak with you. I’m here to take you to Cloud Tower.”

Sedge is already there, squinting suspiciously at the Marshal of Peace. “Where are you taking us?” he asks defiantly.

“Me.” Ruena gives Sedge an irritated smirk. “He’s taking me, and you must go home now.”

“I’ll protect you!” He throws himself into a stance, wielding some mighty, imaginary weapon. “I can hold a sword!”

“We’ll see if you’re still holding it in a few years.” Ruena draws a ruby-colored cloak around her that glimmers with the passion of fire, throws a silk of purple over her hair, then tells the guards she’s ready. Following Janlord and his own party, Sedge’s bold assertions fade behind them as they proceed to Cloud Keep.

The night sky is a pox of demon-white stars and the air in the Cloud Keep smells of loathing. When she braves the steps of the ever-too-tall Cloud Tower, she feels her feet gain weight with her every step. Sluggish by the time she reaches the door to the King’s Chambers, she gives an honest thought to whether she wants to see what’s on the other side.

Janlord is with me. Everything is going to be fine.
She lets herself inside. The aroma of the room should be death, but all she smells are the fresh flowers from the Greens lined along the balcony, the lazy night breeze bringing the scent into the room. Her grandfather Greymyn has blankets pulled up to his chin, lying in the bed and wheezing. When she draws close, that’s when she sees the blood about his whole mouth.
The price of your screams,
she thinks dolefully, pained by the sight.

A suited man steps from the shadows, emblem of Sanctum worn on his breast. He is Ironby, the speaker and representative of the Court of Elders. He has no emotion and his every word carries the droll of a person joyless, a man of only duties, a robot of flesh.

Ironby lifts a tomb to his chest. “The Court and Council must make their words to Ruena Netheris, in the presence of the King, Greymyn Netheris, and the Marshals present, of which we only keep the Lord of Peace Janlord. The Court speaks and the heir of Atlas listens, all others to pay a witness’s duty.”

“Witnessing,” says Janlord flatly.

Ironby splits the tomb’s pages, then reads in nauseating monotone. “The King of Atlas, Greymyn Netheris, father to Kael Netheris, married by Eddis Thrin of Prone Mirand and Aurole Thrin, thereby Kael Mirand-Thrin Netheris, missing, assumed deceased, their only child Eddison Netheris, also deceased. The King of Atlas, Greymyn Netheris, also father to June Netheris, married by Ever Almont of Unity Sunsong and Euge Almont, survived by one daughter, Ruena Almont-Sunsong Netheris.”

Her head spins from all the names. She knows them, each and every one, from her dead cousin Eddison to her dead parents June and Ever to her missing-and-presumed-dead aunt. Ironby continues the droll, naming Ruena, by extension of all the names of the deceased, the rightful heir of Atlas.

“And so the words have been made, witnessed, and known. The Court will keep hold and honor the procession of throne, in the chance of the King’s untimely passing.”

“Oh,” croaks the King from his sweaty bed. “Quite timely, in fact. Quite tiiiiimely.” And with half a chuckle and half a death rattle, he makes awful noises.

Ironby humbly nods, then retreats back into the shadows.

When she looks on her King, Ruena finds she is nothing without her humor. “If you dare think you’re leaving me that ugly throne just yet,” she says to her grandfather, “I’ll put an electric charge in you so fast you’ll wake right back to life.”

The King laughs, though his effort is sad and the sound is unsettling and grotesque. “Too bad,” he mutters, not bothering to even try and clear his unclearable throat. “I fear I’m to find my first sleep, whether you liiiike it or not. I’m ever tired, Ruena.” His frog eyes move from person to person in the room. The phlegm comes up and bothers his voice as he says, “I must … tell you something,
Ruuuuena
. Something only you … the heir of Atlas, may know. Clear … Clear the room.”

At once, the occupants of the room depart. Janlord remains, and the King lifts his chin to say, “Even youuuu, Peacemaker.”

Ruena frowns. “Even Janlord?”

The Marshal of Peace makes a gentle nod and says, “It is no matter. A King deserves time with his granddaughter alone. I will be outside.” He nods to Ruena, bows to the King, then leaves the room.

After the door has shut and they are alone, she waits patiently.

The King reaches both his hands and spreads his beard apart like a curtain, his frail, leathery hands quavering.

“The Facility is a project your own mother, Lady June prior heir of Atlas, began. Your own father, even your ever-sweet Lady Kael Mirand-Thrin did not know of it, when they were alive.” He unsuccessfully clears the gravel from his throat, then goes on, careless. “Your mother and I conducted the great work in the Facility. The only ones privy to its existence are the researchers. Not even the Marshals. Janlord, for all his compassion, is too weak to appreciate the necessity of the Facility, or why the work must go on after I have long expired … but you will be Queen soon, dear Ruena, and you will
seeeeee
its necessity.” He reaches for her hand, paying no mind to the bewildered expression on her face. “There is a necessity in studying the origins of Legacies and how they can be manipulated, extracted, enhanced, dehanced … Oh, Ruena, the city has
turned
and
turned
and
turned
, and every time it’s at the hands of an Outlier who turns up from the slums. The balance is so delicate, the uphold of a King over his people. Do you realize how many Kings were overturned just by a simple man, a simple woman, with a cleverer Legacy? Outliers are dangerous. Anyone with such power is dangerous. There are no good hearts left, none, and anyone with such power will wield it with the darkest parts of their soul. It is the only part of one’s soul with which great power
can
be held. This isn’t pessimism, this is human hunger … humanity at its best and its very, very worst.”

There are good hearts.
But regardless of her feelings toward the King’s coldblooded, secret war against Outliers, she cannot help but feel a part of him is absolutely right.
I am not safe with an Outlier who covets the throne. No amount of kindness can coax a heart from darkness.
“It’s too bad you have so much life still left in you.” She smirks, humor in her eyes. “Though significant and heavy, these are not your dying words. You and I both know that.”

He laughs, though it sounds more like the creaks of hinges to some ancient door. “Yes, you’re right. I know … The Kingship is kind. The Kingship is
dramatic
.” He gives another chuckle, or perhaps a gag. “Just another of my bleeding mouths. These near-death nights, they give me such clarity. But I know one of them will be my last.” His eyes become murky as storm clouds. “Granddaughter, I must warn you of one last thing.”

Ruena prepares herself, pulling back her hair and leaning forward on the bed to listen as his voice draws quiet.

“Impis.” The name comes out in a gurgled, revolting grunt, but Ruena understands it. “He is the key to your safety. Marshal of Legacy, he has his fingers first in all the powers of Atlas, all at his disposal. He is your key to finding the Outliers and keeping yourself safe … and alive. The Lord’s Garden fell by the hand of a person with a formidable power, and it is not a power held by the two boys we threw into the Combs. Impis will help you find this person, but do not deceive yourself; Impis himself is a force that must be managed. The two boys in the Combs, they still may serve quite a purpose yet in snuffing out our little slum rebellion. Those two boys … An example must be set … A fear must be made to ripple over the slums … The boys cannot symbolize the power of the slums, they must symbolize the price of
rebellion
.”

Ruena understands what he means, but the image of Dran, naked and calm and witty of tongue, sends a jostling of electricity down her hair. It may literally have done just that.
Surely the boys may serve a better purpose … than that.
Her eyes grow cold. Her fingers grow warm with energy, pulsing energy, buzzing energy.
What does
Queen
Ruena do?

She kisses her grandfather on the brow. Her lips are met with a clammy sheen of sweat. “I’ll see you on tomorrow’s throne.”

Outside the King’s private chambers, Janlord wears a look of concern. “Is all well? Has the King—? Have you—?”

“We still have a King yet,” she mutters, strolling by his side as they make the slow descent down the smooth, chrome steps of Cloud Tower, “and he wishes me to rule with a strong hand.”

“Yes,” Janlord agrees, his breath soured by mounting anxiety in his stomach. “Yes, strong hands have their purpose. Ruena, promise me that nothing rash will come of whatever he’s told you. Please. The Queenship is just as kind, just as good as the King’s. Don’t let his ambitions—”

“It should be expected of you to say this,” she says, taking care with her every ringing step that her heel doesn’t give beneath her, that she does not fall down these steely stairs that so graciously support her.
How my legs are killing me—These heels were a very stupid choice, and I blame Sedge.
“You are, after all, the Marshal of Peace, and your duty of maintaining the peace has never been more vital.”

“Sweet Ru—Ruena.” His voice carries the fretting titter of a man losing grip of something important. “Please consider. Hands are used to strike people down.”

They reach the bottom of the countless stairs of Cloud Tower, and Ruena finds herself thinking of the thing Aunt Kael once told her about tools and servants, and she smiles, running a finger along the smooth chrome banister.
Thank you,
she thinks of it.

“Yes,” Ruena agrees. “They’re also used to help them up.”

00
63
Wick

He opens his eyes. The dreams have abandoned him, too. With his father gone, he doesn’t seem to dream as intensely.
The worries have taken with them my only escape. I’ll soon be as crazy as my dad.
With a glance upward, he finds that too many hours have passed, as the room’s only light is a dim amber wash from the streetlamps.
No father to wake me. Only streetlamps.
Athan is by the window, staring wistfully into the night sky.

And him.
Wick shifts himself to a seated-up position, leaning against the hard wall. Athan turns, smiling when he sees him. “Took yourself a nap?”

“A well-needed one.” Even the nap didn’t push away the problems far enough. He debates telling Athan the recent updates, wonders how he’ll word it.
Athan did so like Rone’s sister, too.

Instead, an entirely different thing comes out of Wick’s mouth. “Do you miss your home?”

A look of unease crosses Athan’s face. “I’m … I’m not sure.”

“I imagine there’s more space up there,” Wick responds, looking for a smile.

Athan, for once, doesn’t. He seems troubled, wrapping his arms around his knees and hugging them in. His biceps bulge in the effort, pulling on the small grey t-shirt Wick lent him. “I knew what you were fighting for as members of Rain,” he explains. “I knew what your group did, hearing it from Yellow and … and the others. But I don’t think I realized until your … argument … with your brother Lionis how deep your hatred is for those above.”

“Athan,” he starts, feeling horrible. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Athan gives him a smile of reassurance, though it’s halfhearted. “It just makes me wonder, like … if you and I hadn’t met down here, circumstances aside, would that hate you carry for the Lifted City have included … me?”

Wick draws closer to Athan, shaking his head. “It isn’t so simple. You have so much up there in the Lifted City. I mean, you don’t need me to tell you that. You’ve been with us for weeks now, seen how little we have, what our prospects are … We cling to Legacies in hopes they’ll bring us fortunes and recognition, but they only seem to get us in trouble. Most the valuable things we make, we hand off to the sky, but where’s our comfort and joy? All of it is up there in the clouds, Athan. You’re born with it all. It’s not your fault,” he adds, feeling his stomach making a knot of itself, “but it’s the nature of things. You have it all.”

“Had.” Athan chuckles dryly, meeting Wick’s eyes. “And maybe we are different in some ways. Maybe I don’t see the King as all bad. Maybe I don’t see Sanctum as all evil.”

Wick sneers. “You think the King is good?”

“Have you met him?”

The two of them lock eyes, and Wick feels his insides flipping over. Is Athan
defending
Sanctum, now? Freed from the company of Rain, is he finding it easier now to come out with this horrid, pro-Sanctum, Kingship-is-good, Kingship-is-kind shit? “That King can make a thousand broadcasts, send a thousand people his good wishes, I’ll never be convinced of his goodness or his kindness until he’s screamed his last.” Wick’s temper is lost, the fury building in him so quickly he finds he can’t even look at Athan anymore, the teeth in his mouth rattling from his contempt.

“I know,” whispers Athan. “Living in the sky looking down, the world certainly looks very different than if you’re born on the ground and spend all your life looking up. In the sky, sure, I guess I had it all, in a way. So, Anwick, tell me why do I feel like I want more? Why do I feel like, even with everything in my grasp, I still have nothing?”

Wick takes his hand, reminding himself anew how soft the Sanctum boy’s skin is. He strokes the boy’s palm with a finger, idly tracing the veins of his hand, going up his forearm. “Don’t be a fool,” Wick finally says, quiet as a breath. “You know you’re the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me.”