Stiletto (24 page)

Odette suddenly felt unsafe. The abrupt silence was profound — even the various hospital machines seemed to have halted. Several of the nurses stepped back. Both doctors were holding scalpels, not in the surgeon-approved palmar or pencil grip, but rather in a grasp that lent itself to briskly stabbing someone in the trachea.

David Baxter was staring at her with a look of utter revulsion.

“Y’rra
Grafter?
” he slurred, and on the last word, his voice took on that pain-inducing pitch from before. Odette flinched.

“Yes, but I’m a guest,” she said. She would have held up her visitor’s pass, but both hands were occupied on David’s arm.

“Get ’er off me,” said Baxter, his teeth clenched.

“David,” began Odette, “I can —”

“Get it off me!”
he shouted, and this time his voice reverberated through the room like a thunderclap. Odette felt the sound punch through her bones. One of the monitors cracked and shattered.

“I think you’d better go,” said the doctor quietly. Odette nodded. She was shaking, but her hands were dead still.

“Are you ready?” she asked. The doctor wordlessly held up the equipment he would need. “Okay, then. On three?”

He nodded. “One. Two...”

She had to give the doctor credit — he had fast hands. By the time she took her hands off the wound and scrambled off the bed, he had already clamped the arteries. She turned and the nurses and attendants parted before her, opening a path to the door.

Stand tall,
Odette told herself.
Do not show weakness. Do not cry. Do not bring shame upon your family and your people.
She walked out of the room, her head held high as, behind her, the Checquy surgeons began to save David’s life but not his leg.

Odette stood in the hallway, her hands clenched.
This is never going to work,
she thought.
They hate us.
They hate us even more than we hate them.
She realized that she was garnering curious looks from passersby and glanced down at herself. From her elbows down, she was dripping with Baxter-blood. It was splashed liberally across her blouse and blazer, and she had a distressing conviction that there was more in her hair. Plus, despite her best efforts, her eyes were burning and her nose was running.

I look like I just helped deliver a baby walrus,
she thought grimly.
I should find a bathroom and at least wash my hands.

But first, she would find Pawn Bannister. If she was lucky, maybe the sight of her would completely ruin his day.

Felicity had been standing in the lobby of the Rookery in her hospital scrubs and sodden socks for almost ten minutes when one of the receptionists at the central desk waved her over.

“There’s a call for you, Pawn Clements,” said the receptionist. “From the office of Rook Thomas.” Felicity took the phone.

“H-hello?”

“Pawn Clements?”

“Yes.”

“This is Ingrid Woodhouse; do you know who I am?”

“Um, yes.”

“Rook Thomas would like to speak with you. Can you come up to her office?”

“I’m, uh, not really dressed for a meeting with the Rook,” said Felicity. “I don’t even have any shoes on.” She realized that her feet were freezing, and that she’d left wet footprints across the floor of the lobby. Then she remembered that she’d changed into street clothes before going to meet with Pawn Odgers. It seemed like something a different person had done, years ago. “I have a suit at my cubicle, though, if she can wait a few minutes.”

“Really, it would be better if you came immediately,” said Mrs. Woodhouse. “It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing.”

“All right,” said Felicity uncertainly. “I’ll come right up.”

“I’m sending someone down in the executive lift to fetch you,” said the EA. “And Pawn Clements?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t talk to anyone until you’ve spoken with the Rook.”

*

Felicity had not spent much time on the executive level of the Rookery. It was far nicer than the other levels. Rather than carpet tiles, there were polished wooden floors, and the paintings on the walls were much more valuable. The portraits seemed to be looking down at her disapprovingly as she left wet footprints behind her.

“Ah, good,” said Mrs. Woodhouse as Felicity entered the reception area. At that moment, the door to the Rook’s office opened and four people in finely tailored suits emerged. Felicity recognized them as the Rookery’s heads of Legal, Finance, Governance, and Communications. They were all looking rather startled to be leaving.

“I really am terribly sorry to cut this so short, ladies, gentlemen,” the Rook was saying. “But something extremely important has come up. Mrs. Woodhouse will reschedule our meeting.”

The four executives made polite if somewhat befuddled sounds and then noticed Felicity. They took in her hospital scrubs and wet socks, her messy hair, and the unmistakable vestiges of her earlier bout of weeping. Four pairs of eyes and a pair of nostrils narrowed (the head of Communications had unorthodox sensory capabilities). Unspoken was the obvious sentiment that she did not look, in any way, extremely important. Nonetheless, Felicity was beckoned into the Rook’s office, and the door was firmly shut behind her.

It was a large, pretty room with broad windows looking out on the City and imposing portraits lining the walls. A tasteful arrangement of roses in one of the corners filled the room with perfume. There didn’t appear to be any other exits. But it wasn’t the setting that Felicity was interested in. This was the first time that she had seen the Rook close up.

Of late, the Checquy had been rife with gossip about how Myfanwy Thomas had changed. In the past, she’d reportedly had trouble confronting telemarketers, let alone evil fleshcrafting alchemists. The few times Felicity had seen Rook Thomas in person, in the hallways, during all-staff meetings, or at the Rookery Christmas party, she’d gotten the impression of a woman desperate to avoid all human contact. Then, recently, word had trickled down that Rook Thomas was no longer self-effacing or shy. She’d actually been involved in combat and had acquitted herself rather impressively. Now when people did the wrong thing, she called them into her office and shouted at them rather than sending apologetic e-mails.

She looked like the old, unassertive Rook Myfanwy Thomas. In her early thirties, she was shorter than Felicity and had an unremarkable face and shoulder-length brown hair. But something had changed.

Interesting,
thought Felicity.
She holds herself differently. She’s no longer trying to make herself smaller. I wonder what happened to pull her out of her shell.

“Pawn Clements, thank you for coming,” said the Rook.

“Of course, ma’am.”

“You have my sincerest sympathies for the loss of your comrades. This is a horrendous tragedy.” To give the Rook credit, she looked Felicity in the eye and sounded really sympathetic.
None of that stuff where they claim they know how you feel.

“Thank you. I actually haven’t been told anything yet, Rook Thomas. Is it — are they all gone?”

The other woman pressed her lips together for a moment and took a breath. “Our investigators are still examining the wreckage. However, they have found ID tags from six Checquy people, and some remains have already been identified. We have confirmation that Pawns Gardiner, Buchanan, and Cheng are dead. For the others, it may be some time before we can say for certain.”

“Oh,” said Felicity. She felt empty. All the tears inside her had been shed, and the last little flame of hope had just been extinguished. Gardiner and Buchanan had been two of the soldiers who’d stood guard at the entrance to the cube. They had been intended to carry word back to the Checquy if no one emerged from the OOM, but apparently they had never made it. And Andrea Cheng. Her powers had not been enough to save her. “I can confirm that Pawns Odgers and Jennings are also dead,” she said, her voice wavering a little.

“I am very sorry,” said the Rook. “I’d better let the appropriate people know.” She made a quick, quiet phone call and then turned back to Felicity. “You will, of course, be required to undergo an official debriefing from the head of your division and give a formal statement for the record.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But first I want you to tell me about it. And then we will decide just how comprehensive your official debriefing and formal statement will be,” said the Rook.

“I — okay,” said Felicity warily.
Suddenly, this sounds complicated.
The Rook gestured, not to the chairs in front of her desk but to the couch off to the side.

“Please, have a seat. Would you like something to drink?” The Rook put a call through to her EA, who brought in two pots of tea (Earl Grey for Felicity, peppermint for the Rook), a selection of biscuits, and a large fluffy towel for Felicity’s feet. “Thank you, Ingrid. I won’t be meeting with anyone for the rest of the day, and I would prefer not to take any calls.”

“I’ll push anything nonapocalyptic to tomorrow,” promised the EA, and she closed the door as she left.

“Now, Pawn Clements, I need you to tell me everything that happened. I will be recording our conversation and taking notes. We will each retain a copy of the recording and the notes, but I want your word that you will not share that material with anyone unless I instruct you to do so or unless you are called before an internal tribunal.”

“Rook Thomas, what is going on?” asked Felicity.

“We are still gathering information, but it is possible that what happened to you and your comrades has political implications. If so, the details must be kept off the official files. I may need to act on that information in a manner that... is not within normal parameters, which may expose me to formal disapproval. I do not want you left without any protection. This material will demonstrate that whatever action is taken as a result of your testimony, it is my responsibility and done on my orders.”

“Very well...” said Felicity cautiously. This was beginning to sound like the kind of political shenanigans she’d always tried to avoid.
I’m just a soldier,
she thought.
That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.
But her general was there, right in front of her, asking for her trust. “I give you my word.”

The Rook sat down on the couch, set her tablet computer to record, and spoke clearly. She noted the time, date, and location and stated that she, Rook Myfanwy Alice Thomas, was interviewing Pawn Felicity Jane Clements. She asked Felicity if she would confirm those facts.

“Yes, that is the... situation?” she said uncertainly, looking to the Rook. The other woman nodded and smiled.

“Then let us proceed,” said the Rook. “Oh, but look, for God’s sake, take off those socks and dry your feet.”

It was a very odd debriefing, really, not at all like the clinical process that had always followed Felicity’s deployments. Rook Thomas held her teacup in both hands, and kept her notepad on her lap. After a while, she kicked off her shoes and nestled back in the corner of the couch with her feet up. Sometimes Thomas would interrupt to ask questions, and she scribbled notes, but mainly she just listened, nodding occasionally. She was a very good listener. At one point, when Felicity found herself getting a little teary, the Rook provided her with tissues.

As she recounted the events of the day before, Felicity forgot who she was talking to. Unconsciously, she brought her legs up and sat Indian-style on the couch, hugging a cushion.

“So, the uh, Oblong of Mystery — it was a room?” Thomas asked.

“Yeah.”

“And your team just walked into it.”

“Yes,” said Felicity. “Why?”

The Rook leaned back, frowning. “This is not to be shared with anyone,” she said finally. “But in the months leading up to the negotiations, the Grafters deployed several weapons throughout the country. One of them was a gigantic cube of living matter. A flesh cube.”

“And it summoned recipients of organ transplants?” said Felicity, mildly confused.

“No,” said Thomas grimly. “It consumed people — tentacles came out and pulled them in.”

“Well, there were no tentacles, but I think Pawn Odgers had concerns,” said Felicity. “She ordered the team to report to the Rooks — and
only
the Rooks — everything that happened. But they died.”

Thomas nodded, and Felicity continued with her story.

Hours passed as the Rook took her over every detail, again and again. At one point, Mrs. Woodhouse brought in two delivery pizzas, one vegetarian and one that was the antithesis of vegetarian.

“What time is it?” asked the Rook, looking startled.

“Six o’clock,” said the EA.

“All right,” said Thomas. “Thanks, Ingrid, it’s fine for you to go home. We’ll be finishing up soon.”

“I can stay if you need me.”

“No, we’re almost done, but thank you. Give my best to Gary.” The EA nodded and left. As they ate the pizza, the Rook continued to ask questions, and then she drew a firm line in her notebook. “Okay, I think that’s it, unless you have anything to add?” Felicity shook her head. “Then thank you. I’ll make a copy of the recording and my notes and give them to you before you go home.”

“What should I say in my debriefing with the division head?” asked Felicity.

“Tell him everything,” said Thomas. “It will all come out in the investigation of the ruins, or it might prove important for him to know. I just ask you not to mention the possibility of the Grafters being involved. If he figures it out, he’ll come to me, and if he doesn’t, well, even better.” She got up, picked up the tablet computer, and padded over to her desk.

“Do you think Pawn Odgers was right?” asked Felicity. “Do you think it was the Grafters, that they’re betraying us?”

Thomas’s shoulders slumped a little. “I don’t know,” said the Rook. “Maybe.” She sounded tired. “But maybe it was something else, completely unrelated.”

“You need more information,” said Felicity.

“Yes,” said Thomas, plugging the tablet into her desktop computer. For all her authority and confidence, at that moment, the Rook seemed very unsure, almost lost.