LEGACY RISING (12 page)

He opened his bedroom door and slammed it shut in his wake, leaning and loosening, eyes turning blindly over everything sprawled before him. The empty luxury of the personal fireplace, the lonely bed that could fit five if it wanted to, the writer’s desk with its ink and quill, both antiques from Heliopolis which seldom saw use.

Kaizen flung himself into its cushioned chair, sighing deeply and sinking.

What the hell
is
wrong with me?
he wondered.

Sprawled across the wooden desktop was Flywheel, Legacy’s mechanical dragonfly, unwound and dormant.

Kaizen plucked the tiny assistant by one emerald wing, examining its limp coils of brass, the speaker irises and flexible joints. He had intended to return it to her, but now . . . maybe it could answer the questions which Legacy would not.

He rolled open a drawer in his desk and rifled, then extracted a bell and rang it.

A moment later, one of the automata from the corridor came coasting in. They were, in many ways, much better than “real” servants. This robot had no hesitation in its step, no hint of a leeriness as it entered the room. The robot had no knowledge of the way the earl had just destroyed his own footman, Newton-2. Now that the errant node had been removed from the system, its fellow nodes were unaware of its existence.

“Yes, sir,”
the automaton piped, bowing and extending one hand.

“There you are.” He scrawled a list of his requirements: the thinnest screwdriver, sharp miniaturist’s hook, and a radio coil linked to the keep frequency. “Bring me these three items from Master Addler.”

While he waited, his forehead sank into his palms, and he tried not to think about the girl in the tower dungeon less than a hundred meters away. Even more than her beauty, there was her strength. Purity and honesty and the way, even barefoot in a prison cell, even hungry and staring down the barrel of execution, she had the integrity to reject him . . .
Damnit. Damnit.
Kaizen peered up from his hands. Would she deserve anything that his vindictive father might be poised to do to her?

Duke Malthus Taliko had migrated to the throne room in order to mull over these very issues with his attentive cabinet of advisors. Sentries lined the wall, various models of firearm weighing down their holsters. The only automaton present was Valkenhayn-2, the Duke’s personal footman.

“There’s the matter of these prisoners, now,” the Duke began, casting his gaze about the assembled court of six. “It’s most important that I must not look weak. Or be a fool. It’s also most important that I send some kind of statement which . . . really and truly disembowels that idealistic hogwash Chance for Choice has been spouting.” Malthus nodded to himself. “And I do have Trimpot right here . . .”

“But they’re so young,” the Steward, Claude, hawk-nosed and black-haired, spoke up. He looked for confirmation from his colleagues, though none vouched for the truth of this, regardless of its truth.

Hm. I suppose he believes that I am insinuating an execution is in order.
And, in all honesty, Malthus had considered it. Just cut the head right off the snake; why not? But then, what if its spasming tail whipped around and caught him? What if another head grew in its place, and one not so easily bought? As the old saying went, the evil which he knew was better than the evil which he did not. But could he trust Trimpot?

“Hmm, yes,” Malthus grumbled. “He’s doubtlessly beloved by someone or other, isn’t he.”

“And only guilty of vandalism in any provable capacity,” Claude went on. “It would seem harsh and unfounded, perhaps--” Again, he looked for support, even from the Chancellor, who was bound to see the tenuous legal position an execution would place on the judge. Still, he found no quarter, and forged on. “Perhaps it would seem imbalanced.”

“Though, certainly, the leap to treason and conspiracy is not a vast one,” the Duke’s primary advisor, Abner, added caustically.

“I’m losing my grip on the people, you see,” the Duke said to him, idly massaging a temple. “So I wonder if, perhaps, a display of leniency is necessary to calm the masses. But how to appear gentle without appearing also weak, or strong without being a tyrant?”

    “Well, that’s all an issue of how to frame the incident,” Claude chirped. “Completely reasonable! I suggest we contact Dyna. She’s always been quite the resource in a public image crisis.”

The door to the throne room was flung open, and every sentry along the wall drew their death rays without pause, only hesitating as they recognized the lanky stalk and billowing blond mane of the Earl of Icarus.

Malthus raised his eyebrows, only partially interested as his insolent son strode purposefully across the room.
What is it now?
he had to wonder with a grimace.

“I know what you’re talking about and you simply can’t!” he barked dramatically.

Malthus fought the urge to roll his eyes. He couldn’t remember ever being so young as his son was today.

“Can’t what, Kaizen?” he asked dully.

“You can’t just
decide
what to do with Legacy, like she’s some rag doll who’s fallen into your possession!”

Leg--? Oh yes. The girl. Forgot about her. Should send someone to feed her, I suppose.

“So that is what you need to become interested in the responsibilities of a duke, is it?” Malthus asked darkly. “A pretty young thing to be at stake. Leave us, counsel. You have been much appreciated. Thank you.”

The Duke steepled his fingers and regarded his petulant progeny thoughtfully as his court filtered from the throne room. “What would you have me do, Kaizen?” he murmured, glowering. “If you were in my position, what would you do?”

“I-- I suppose I would listen to her complaints!” Kaizen said.

Malthus could have laughed if the answer weren’t so completely without the lightness of humor. “Truly, Kaizen?” he asked, making his sense of superiority clear.

“She’s a smart girl!” his son cried. “And she’s strong! I would consider her an ally, an advisor, the voice of the . . .”

Well, it’s clear that Kaizen has gotten his first crush,
Malthus thought as his son went on and on about the girl in the tower.
And on a rebellious peasant . . . That figures. It’s a shame I can’t use the boy to make my statement. He’s certainly weak enough to throw himself onto the blade of the monarchy in my stead. Certainly would do anything his little heart desired--so long as it displeased me. But, for once, I’ve actually got that worm in my grip. That’s not half a bad idea.

“. . . isn’t even the real problem, you know, but only a symptom of the problem! She’s not a bad woman!” Kaizen paced, ranting, oblivious to the shrewd glare in his father’s eyes. “She’s just unhappy with the lack of options, and honestly, the hallmark of a doomed society is one which refuses . . .”

But how could I use Kaizen to make my statement? What kind of statement can someone as minor as an Earl make? None, really . . . None except to clarify the lineage of the crown. Solidify things . . . Hm.

“I might be persuaded,” the Duke interrupted his son. Kaizen came to an immediate halt, raising his eyes to peer back at his father. “In return for a show of loyalty and dedication.”

“Well.” Kaizen frowned. “I think it’d be a bit transparent, but I’m sure she’d be willing--”

“Not from her, son. From you.”

Kaizen’s frown deepened. “How could I show you loyalty and dedication?”

The Duke smiled. “Let’s hold a coronation ceremony for you. It won’t mean anything, technically. The responsibilities of the duchy will remain with me until I pass. But the gesture will be meaningful in its symbolism.”

“That’s not exactly customary,” Kaizen replied suspiciously. “Don’t coronations usually get held to avoid the crown being contested by, like, some illegitimate heir?”

“And, in another way, that crown is being contested,” the Duke said. “This will tell Icarus something subtle, yet pivotal. It will tell the people of this city that the Taliko blood is here to stay. Unshaken. Continuing with our customs as if they have done nothing in the streets but jabber as unintelligibly as the birds in the conservatory. To the likes of us, their little demonstrations may as well be death throes.”

Kaizen winced and broke eye contact. “So you want to parade me in front of all the dignitaries, and make sure everyone knows that I’m your little apprentice. That nothing is any different than it was before. And I am as much yours as is Icarus.”

The Duke rolled his eyes. Was he ever this dramatic? “It’s the only way I’ll spare the girl,” he replied, allowing himself a touch of fatalistic flourish to match his son’s.

Kaizen stood there for a moment, not even really thinking so much as seeming to not hear, and then, without looking at his father, he bowed deeply and exited the throne room.

              Night had fallen, and still Legacy had not eaten. She’d been taken twice to the washroom, where she’d been forced to urinate in full view of a sentry and his stun gun. Trimpot still hadn’t returned, and she feared he was dead. No one came to speak to her. Now she curled into the pile of mildewed rags beneath the window and tried to talk herself into sleeping.
It’s going to be all right. No matter what happens . . . it’s going to be all right, because . . . because . . .

              A hopeless tear slid down her cheek, and she buried her face into the rotten cloths. Letting one fall was like allowing a crack to form in a dam, and she cringed into herself, more and more hopeless tears pouring down her face.

              “So, I’ve been thinking.” Kaizen’s voice filled the tower. A diffused yellow light crept across the floor as Legacy jerked away from the pathetic nest of old rags. “And I might be willing to coerce my father for you.” Legacy pushed herself to a stand and tried to assume her earlier demeanor before she dared to face him. She hated being interrupted in moments of weakness. Taking a deep breath, she turned. “For a price—Are you all right?”

              “I’m just hungry,” Legacy responded, her voice pitchy and ragged from lack of use. “Otherwise, I’m okay.”

              Kaizen looked at her and sagged, his brow denting. He sat the oil lamp at his feet and jammed a hand into his oddly bulging pocket. “I’m sorry, you’re right—here. Hold on.” He extracted a large brass key and stuck it into the lock, twisting, and Legacy’s eyes widened as the tumblers fell. Seeing her expression and vastly misinterpreting it, Kaizen beamed and explained, wrenching open the cell door. “Took it from the guard, terrible guard. All he needed was one good threat to give it a—” Legacy impulsively threw her chained arms around his neck, and Kaizen went speechless and still until she relaxed her grip and moved away again. “I’m sorry,” he blurted nonsensically. “Anyway, I grabbed this from the kitchen for you.” He extracted a pale yellow, misshapen ball, waxy in appearance, from that bulging pocket, extending it to her as if this was some sort of solution. “I didn’t figure anyone would miss it. Here. Take it. I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner. I should’ve bought more. I can get more. I’m sorry.”

              Legacy tentatively took the thing, manacles clinking. “What is this?” she asked, turning it over in her hands and glaring with distrust.

              “It’s—It’s a pear.” Kaizen’s expression was a mixture of notes of amusement and pity. “You eat it. It’s soft. You can bite it.”

             
Bite it . . .
Legacy had grown up on a diet of synthetic vitamin pills. She’d never bitten into anything, really. But she did. She understood the concept of biting, after all.

              Her teeth sank into its savory flesh, and a sweet nectar sprang into her mouth from the wound. Legacy moaned as she chewed, its juice rolling down her face. She buried into it with ferocity. Had never tasted anything so . . . good.

             
This was the taste in his mouth,
she realized dimly, one tiny portion of her brain not lost in the ecstasy of the fruit, but in memory.
When we kissed, and his breath was smoke and something else . . . It was smoke and . . . pears.

             
When she looked up to thank him—really, truly thank him—he was staring back at her in complete rapture.

              “Kaizen—thank you,” Legacy said, now holding only the stem of a pear.

              “I’m sorry,” he repeated, as if she’d said something else entirely. “I should’ve been here sooner. I was mad. But anyway, I talked to my dad, and he said he’d let you go in the morning. With a
warning,
” Kaizen clarified. “So he’d better not catch you with the CC again or anything, you know. This better—” He winced, the joke bringing a fresh welt to his heart. “This better be the last time I have to see you.”

Legacy smiled sadly and lifted her chains with trembling arms, hugging him again. The brief realization sifted through her thoughts that he must’ve really trusted her, to recognize her connection to a rebel faction and yet allow her to wrap heavy iron chains around the back of his neck.

She stood on the tips of her toes and closed her eyes, allowing herself this simple, fleeting exchange with the Earl of Icarus, whom she probably never would see again, whom she couldn’t be with, even if she did, whom she wouldn’t ever be with, anyway, because of Dax. But, for just this second, she allowed her body to relax, allowed her face to tilt against the warm curve of his neck, allowed herself to smile.