Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) (61 page)

Raith Entradi’s father had been a Ministry scientist, but he
himself was far removed from that vocation. It was anyone’s guess what all of
this was for—what all of this
had been
for. There was one group of
objects whose purpose Raith did know: the stack of vaculock crates piled in the
back corner.

“Pretty fancy-looking boxes,” Savannah said when Raith went
over to them.

“In my experience, they’re most often used for storing
sensitive materials,” he said. “The locking mechanism creates an airtight seal
around whatever’s inside. Anything from bodily organs being carted for
transplant to something as simple as clothing stored in an outdoor or
non-climate-controlled space.”

When he pressed the button on the top crate, there was a hiss
of air. The four sealing mechanisms in the corners slid toward the center
panel, freeing the lid. Raith lifted it. Hanging file folders were crammed
inside, thick with stacks of printed white paper. He selected a small stack at
random and pulled it out. What he saw on the front page startled him.

“These are company documents, printed on Glaive Industries
letterhead. This one appears to be a contract for the construction of the
Jerigan Building in downtown Belmond. This one is a project proposal for
something called the Hawk Initiative. This is the kind of thing we’ve been
looking for. There must be something about Decylum in here.”

Savannah helped him search the crates. It took hours to
unlock and shuffle through them all. Not everything they found was as innocuous
as a sales contract or a project plan. Some were one-sheet memos mentioning
their subject matter only by name, or referring to it in enigmatic language.
Huge swathes of text had been redacted with thick bands of black ink. By the
time they got to the last box, they’d discovered the existence of several other
underground facilities, but nothing about Decylum.

Raith inhaled a tentative breath as he pressed the locking
button to release the seal on the last box. The lid came off, and he began
thumbing through the papers inside. Savannah stood and stretched, then took a
stack of her own.

It wasn’t until they’d come almost to the end that Savannah
looked up and asked, “How do you spell Decylum?”

“Here. Give it here,” Raith said.

She handed him the booklet, a stack of papers stapled in
the upper left corner. Raith began to read, flipping through from front to
back. Beneath the official Ministry letterhead, the first page read:

MEMORANDUM OF AGREEMENT

BETWEEN

THE NATIONAL MINISTRY OF THE INNER EAST

AND

GLAIVE INDUSTRIES

Subject: Construction of Decylum Research Facility for
Department of Health, Cellular Research Division

1. PARTIES. This Memorandum of Agreement (MOA) is
entered into by the above parties for the design and construction of a secure
facility at (undisclosed location) for full-time execution of confidential
Ministry research and development.

2. PURPOSE. The purpose of this Agreement is to set
forth terms by which Glaive Industries will provide personnel, equipment, and
oversight for design-build planning and construction according to specifications
provided by The National Ministry’s Cellular Research Division. Implementing
this Agreement will increase the overall capacity and capability of The
National Ministry in its efforts to evaluate the consequences of unexplained
natural phenomena and the potential for global catastrophe in the event of
solar anomaly.

3. SCOPE. Glaive Industries and The National
Ministry agree to collaborate on the Project from concept to completion, its
culmination being a five-story superstructure, primarily subterranean, capable
of housing up to four-hundred (400) personnel in year-round comfort. Closed
environment must include filtered clean-air ventilation, waste and potable
water processing capabilities, and sustainable power, all within a
self-contained, continuous ecosystem.

4. RESPONSIBILITIES.

A. Department of Health

1. Identify and assign, in coordination with the
Cellular Research Division, a Director of Operations for the duration of the
project, whose responsibilities shall include:

The memorandum continued for four more pages.

The next document in the stack showed, in a bulleted list,
minutes from a progress meeting held at a Ministry building in Belmond, dated
several months after the original memorandum was signed. The Ministry had
appointed a man named Harold T. Beige as Chief Scientific Officer and Director
of Operations for the project.

“Hastle’s grandfather,” Raith said.

“Huh?”

“Harold T. Beige. The man named in this document. It’s my
friend Hastle’s grandfather. He was one of the chief scientists for the Ministry.”

“Is he one of the dways who’s here with you?”

Raith shook his head. “He was killed in Belmond the night we
arrived.”

“Oh, I’m… sorry.”

“He was one of dozens the Scarred Comrades murdered in cold
blood. Don’t get me started. There’s more here. We’ve got to keep looking.”

By the time they’d come to the final page, Raith had learned
plenty about how Decylum had been conceptualized and built. He’d discovered
several facts that both intrigued and disturbed him, but only one that might be
of use in getting him and the Sons home. It came in the form of a handwritten
note, scrawled in the margins of a document outlining Decylum’s size
specifications, guidelines for building materials, and cost estimates. In a
loose, unrefined hand, written in red ink, were the numbers
-36.5654,
145.3318
.

Raith dismissed the scribbles at first, until he noticed the
comma between the two sets of numbers.
Coordinates
, he realized.
Someone
at Glaive Industries wrote down the mapping coordinates of the secret facility
they were building for the Ministry
, he thought, laughing to himself.

“What’s so funny?” Savannah asked.

“Do you have an atlas?”

“What’s that?”

“A book of maps and geography. Is there one in your study at
home?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Raith stood. “We’ll put this all back later. We’ve got to go
see.”

“Okay. Did you find something?”

“I think so.”

They picked up their lamps and headed back out into the big
garden chamber. The weeds stirred beneath them as they crossed the suspended
walkway. Up the stairs, down the hall, through the entry chamber, and into the
above-world they went. They closed the shipping yard gates and hurried back to
the Glaive Estate, where a shelf in Savannah’s study yielded a thick atlas
holding maps of every corner of the Aionach.

“Do you know what this means?” Raith said, barely believing
it himself.

“What?”

“If I can get your commscreen to work… there’s a chance we
can get home.”

CHAPTER 48

Judge and Betrayer

“You return with great wealth, Lethari. The plunder and
slaves you sent ahead of you have arrived week after week, filling my palace
with riches and my markets with plenty. Yet I have also heard some news which
distresses me.”

“I know the news of which you speak,” Lethari Prokin told the
master-king. “It is false. A lie told by an expert deceiver who seeks to wield
power in my place.”

Tycho Montari gave a smirking laugh. “In
your
place?
That is hard to believe.”

“Not if you consider the aspirations of every young captain
in every
feiach
under your rule.”

For a moment, the king looked confused. “Oh, that. I mistook
you. You mean Cean Eldreni’s news.”

“Yes, of course. What—”

“You are not helping yourself, Lethari. Though you have won
great victories in my name, your misdeeds have put a cloud over them and all
else. Your fealty rings hollow; your love, untrue.”

“I swear to you, my master,” Lethari said. “I love you well
and truly. I would not have you believe anything else.”

“No, apparently not,” said the king, “as I have recently come
to find out.”

Lethari’s heart was already pounding, but something in the
king’s tone made it skip a beat. “I hope you will tell me what it is you mean.”

“The pale-skin you loved,” Tycho Montari said. “He shared
with you the plans of the traders.”

“Twice,” said Lethari, nodding. “As I have shown you.”

The master-king shook his head. “Thrice. There was another
set of plans. Those he gave to you before he died.”

“No, my lord… I swear it.”

The king raised his voice. “You would swear to me a lie? What
makes you think you are any better than Cean Eldreni, who comes to me in the
night, carping and wailing about how he watched you end the life of your
wounded captain?”

Cean did not lie to the king
, Lethari realized.
He
told the lie to Dyovan and his men so they would set him free, but he told
Tycho Montari the truth
. “If Cean told you I gave Sigrede a mercy, then he
told it true. I do not understand why you think Daxin Glaive gave me a third
skin.” Lethari was glad then that he had decided to bury the goatskin rather
than carry it home with the intention of hiding it later.

Tycho Montari’s eyes narrowed. “I did not say it was a skin.
But I know the pale-skin gave his plans to you.”

Lethari couldn’t imagine how the king had found out. He
thought it through. Could his father have told? No. Eirnan Prokin was the one
who had encouraged him to value his wife above the king in the first place.

My wife
. It could not have been Frayla, either. She
had pouted until Lethari had agreed to keep it for himself.

So Sigrede Balbaressi had let it slip, then. He had told
someone in confidence before he died, and that person had told the master-king.

Lethari’s resolve was weakening. He was on the verge of
throwing down his sword and crumbling to his knees to beg for mercy.

He didn’t let himself. Though he could feel the sweat beading
on his brow and dripping down his flanks; though his nerves sought to betray
him, he stood firm. He cleared his throat and said, “If there was a third set
of plans, they were not given to me.”

The master-king stretched and let out a great yawn. “Your
words trouble me greatly. You are not the loyal servant I thought you were,
Lethari. Surely you did not believe you could experience so much success
without raising suspicion. You are a great warrior, and an even greater
warleader. But all warleaders lose sometimes. All warleaders shift from good
fortune to poor under the winds of the fates. For such a streak of victories to
go unbroken, you would’ve needed help from somewhere. I would have seen that,
even if I had not been told of this third record.”

“There
was
no third record,” Lethari insisted, despite
himself. He did not know why he was continuing with this lie, except it seemed
sensible that he should hold it up. He only wanted to know how the king had
found him out.

“Lethari. Never before has one of my warleaders done so much
to further my dominance over these lands in so short a time. Not even during
Aodhan Mairagh’s rule were we able to cripple the pale-skins so severely. Had
you given the plans to me, I would have split them among my warleaders to be
used to even greater effect. Instead, you kept them for yourself. For your own
glory. That is what I believe to be the truth. As valuable as you are to me, I
will not suffer betrayal. Go home to your wife and think on this. In the
morning, you may return. If you do, the words you speak must be the truth.”

Lethari feigned offense. “I have told you the truth, my
lord.”

“You have until morning. Leave me.”

Lethari exited the throne room bewildered. He had never seen
Tycho Montari behave in such a reserved, mature manner before. If anything,
Lethari had expected him to be harsher. Either the young king was growing up,
or he was determined to give Lethari another chance.

Talk of the goatskin record had thrown him off-guard. They
had barely spoken of the circumstances surrounding Sigrede’s death, over which
Lethari had been poised to defend himself.

Who could have betrayed me to the king?
he wondered.
If he could find out before tomorrow morning—before Tycho Montari had his head
off, or had him thrown in the dungeons for the rest of his days—he would take
his vengeance. A last act of retribution before he met the fates. Strange,
though, he mused, that he should find himself seeking revenge when he was the
one whose selfish untruths had caused this great debacle in the first place.

When he arrived home, his servants were there to welcome him.
Frayla, however, was nowhere to be found.

“
Maigha
Prokin has not been home in several days, my
master,” Oisen told him.

“Have you not sent someone to look for her?”

“I have,” Oisen said.

“And?”

The elderly steward cleared his throat. “I am told she was
found to be staying in a merchant’s household.”

“Her father’s,” Lethari said.

Oisen shook his head.

“Then whose?”

Oisen hesitated. “That of Oale Haelicari.”

Lethari was taken aback. He didn’t like the way Oisen was
acting. “What do you mean she is
staying
there?”

“She did not expect you back so soon. Perhaps she was
lonesome, master.”

“So lonesome she could not sleep in her own bed?”

Oisen said nothing.

“Where does Oale Haelicari live?”

“His household is on the fourth level. Sixth from the
northern stair.”

“When was she last seen there?”

“Yesterday, master.”

Lethari reached back to make sure Tosgaith was still in its
scabbard, a habit he’d picked up since he lost it in the sea. “Have supper
readied. I will return.”

Short of knocking any unsuspecting passersby over the side,
he made his way toward the merchant’s house with no regard for anyone around
him. All that mattered in those few minutes was finding out why Frayla was not
at home.

When he found the dwelling Oisen had specified, he marched
through the front entrance and collared the first servant he found. “Whose
household is this?”

The startled woman squirmed in his grasp. “
Maigh
Haelicari’s,” she said, cringing away from him.

“Where is he?”

She raised a shaky finger toward a door down the hallway.

Lethari let her go and stormed through the den. He drove a
shoulder into the door without checking to see whether it was locked. When it
wouldn’t budge, he pounded on it with a fist. “Open this door.”

“Who is it?” came a man’s voice from the other side.

“Open up,” Lethari shouted.

“Not until you name yourself.”

“This is Lethari Prokin. Oale, is that you?”

A moment passed. Lethari thought he heard the brush of
fabric. When the door opened a crack, he shoved it inward, causing the man
who’d answered it to stumble backward. Oale caught his balance on a long low
dresser as Lethari entered and closed the door behind him.

The chamber was spacious and richly appointed. Evening light
shone through the arched opening, where a small veranda overlooked the western
Brinescales. In a cushioned deck chair, wearing a sheer lavender evening dress,
sat Frayla. Her long legs were crossed, one foot bobbing beneath the table. She
did not move when Lethari came in.

“Lethari… I did not expect you—”

“Back so soon. Yes, I know. What are you doing here, Frayla?”

“Oale is—keeping me company,” she stammered. “We are
discussing business.”

“What kind of business?”

Lethari had done business with Oale Haelicari before. They
had loaned and rented slaves from one another on several occasions. Lethari had
even transported a number of the merchant’s
muirrhadi
back from the
steel city.

“I was telling her my plans for the short year,” Oale said.
“There are many, and since you were not around to attend to the duties of your
household, Frayla was kind enough to step in on your behalf. I was hoping you
would move a few slaves for me on your next time out from the city.”

“There will be no next time,” Lethari said.

“Why not?”

“Tomorrow morning, I will go before the master-king, and the
honor of my household will be taken from me, if not my life as well.”

Frayla was on her feet. “What are you talking about?”

“Why do you think that?” asked Oale.

Lethari drew Tosgaith. The blade flashed as it caught
Infernal’s waning light like a mirror.

Oale tripped over his own feet and went reeling backward to
the floor.

Then Frayla was there, holding her hands out as if to block
Lethari’s path. “Lethari—stop. Take control of yourself. This is not right.”

“Out of my way,” he roared. “You will watch as your paramour
dies.”

“Do not do this, Lethari. The king will expel you from his
grace tomorrow, yes. But if you murder Oale, he will take your head.”

Lethari lowered his sword. “Expel
me
? What about you?”

“I… I meant
us
.”

“No. You did not. You meant
me
. You mean to reject me
in favor of him. A simple merchant.”

“Lethari,” she began. “I—”

“Is the child mine, or no?”

She dropped her arms to her sides. “I could not say.”

“You have been deceiving me for a long time, then.”

Frayla said nothing.

Lethari was numb. He wanted to be angry. Jealous. Wronged.
Instead he felt nothing. All that had once held life and promise was now cold
and stale. “You told him. You told Tycho Montari about the goatskin record.
This was your intent all along.”

She gulped. And then, as if expecting it to be the last
movement she ever got the chance to make, she closed her eyes and nodded.

The blade was heavy in Lethari’s hands. Not too heavy,
though.

He left Oale Haelicari’s house and trudged through the streets,
headed nowhere in particular. In the morning, he would face the master-king. He
would tell him the truth about everything; how he had hidden the record, asked
Sigrede to keep it a secret, and then killed him as soon as he’d had the chance
to do it cleanly. He would tell him about Frayla and Oale Haelicari, and he
would receive the judgment he deserved.

After a few hours of aimless walking, Lethari found himself
on the heights, above where his father’s household and those of the other
elders were hewn into the sandstone of the mountainside. Had Daxin Glaive been
buried in the sky, this was the place where it would’ve happened. Vultures and
carrion birds circled above, sensing the flesh of those soon to be offered.

Lethari looked out over the Calgoar Vale, the place of his
home and his people. He glanced down at his hands and did not like what he saw
there. Did he care nothing for tradition anymore? Had he lost his zest for
life, now that his wife and child were taken from him? He had accomplished much
toward the goal of ending the pale-skin plague, but what did that matter if he
sacrificed his household, his honor, and everything he loved in the pursuit?
Did any of it make the smallest difference?

He stayed there until long after dark, watching until the city
lights burned low and were replaced by the fires of camping travelers and
distant villages. The stars came out and bathed the mountains with their
silvery gleam. Lethari was preparing to leave when he heard a voice behind him.

“What has the world done with my son?”

Lethari turned. “Father.”

“One of my house guards told me you were up here.” Eirnan
Prokin sat beside him, grunting with the effort. “I did not know you had
returned. How was your campaign?”

“The fates could not have favored us with better fortune,”
Lethari said.

Eirnan gave an approving nod. “Is this your first night
back?”

“Yes.”

“I would have expected you to be with your wife right now.”

“I was with her earlier,” Lethari said.

“Did you tire of her so quickly?”

Lethari thought then that if he had splintered into a
thousand-thousand pieces, they would’ve been too few. “I did not leave her
alone.”

Eirnan inhaled, but did not speak. Neither man did, for a
long while.

“Have you come here to pay tribute to those who have gone
before you?”

“I do not know why I have come here.”

“Then let me tell you, my son. It is to consider all this
good fortune you have come into. That would be a lot for any man to endure
without a means of reflection. You can win at everything for a time; you can
experience such victory as to feel invincible. But it never lasts.”

“How much did you love my mother?”

“With everything I was. For without her, I am less.”

Lethari Prokin had not understood his father for many years.
Now, he thought he finally did. “I will not see you again, my father,” he said,
getting to his feet.