The Essence
Page 34

At that, Zafir struggled against the chains that bound his large shoulders, and the chair beneath him wobbled even more. The legs made splintering sounds, and I thought surely they would crack at any moment, shattering beneath his weight. But they managed to hold, and after a moment of useless writhing, he gave up again, falling still.
“Tell me,” I said simply. “H-how did you know who I was?”
The man made a clucking sound and rubbed his hands together. “We’re Scablanders, Your Majesty, not imbeciles. Well,” he corrected, grinning that horrible decaying grin once more as he jerked his head toward the large man guarding the door, the same man who’d been waiting for us out in the alley behind the tavern. His pitch-colored eyes glittered. “Not all of us, anyway. Jeremiah there’s about as dumb as they come.”
Jeremiah glanced up at the mention of his name, almost on reflex, but didn’t seem to register the words—or the insult. He looked at each of them, his expression glazed, his mouth slack as if it were difficult to keep his lips, overfull like stuffed sausages, closed around his crooked teeth. He scratched his head, his thick fingers finding their way beneath the fitted leather hat he wore, the one with goggles like pilots used to wear back when air travel was still possible in Ludania. Back when fuel was plentiful, and transportation wasn’t as restricted as it was now. He gave an indifferent shrug when he realized he wasn’t actually expected to respond, turning back to his duty.
“News travels out here,” the crooked man continued in his odd version of Englaise. “Especially news that our new queen has skin that shines like the sun.” His black eyes appraised me and I shrank away. “And like I tried to tell your man there”—he turned his accusatory gaze on Zafir—“someone’s looking to snuff out that glow of yours.”
At those words, Zafir’s entire body went rigid. He flexed again, thrashing violently. The chair splintered beneath him, making a thunderous noise as it cracked, its legs finally giving out. And Zafir, no longer shackled to the flimsy legs, shot to his feet just as quickly as he’d fallen.
Before I could blink, he was charging forward, hurling his entire body weight against the bent man with the festering teeth. The man was too puny by half to fend off a giant like Zafir, even with his arms still bound against his sides. The man’s eyes went wide, and I heard him wheeze as he was buried beneath the bulk of the enormous guard. I knew Zafir was crushing—possibly killing—the old man.
“Zafir, stop!” I shouted as Jeremiah hefted his weapon, a wooden club that was no more dangerous than some of the sporting equipment I’d seen used for children’s games. Confusion was evident in Jeremiah’s bewildered eyes. “You’re hurting him. Get off!”
I reached out to push Zafir myself, but he didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, he turned toward me, looking just as perplexed as Jeremiah did.
“Let’s at least hear what he has to say,” I explained, no longer worried about Jeremiah as understanding dawned. Jeremiah was merely a prop. He was harmless.
My hand reached out to the rough burlap tied at Zafir’s mouth, but he jerked his head away from me, turning so I could reach the restraints at his back instead. My fingers fumbled with the lock.
Beneath him, the old man groaned.
I dropped to my knees, so my face was even with his. His black eyes were wide and pleading. “The keys,” I insisted. “Tell me where to find the keys and I’ll have him release you.”
He opened his mouth, and then closed it again, like a fish extracted from water. . . . As if he, too, was taking his last gulps of air. “Zafir, ease up a little,” I demanded. “Let him breathe so he can speak.”
As Zafir shifted, the man’s gasp was audible, and nearly undid me. I wasn’t heartless, but I needed my guard to be free. I needed to know what this man knew, and what he meant when he said someone was out to get me.
“M-m-my . . . p-o—” His breath came out more like a whistle, the sound finding its way from between his decayed teeth. I caught a whiff of that breath, which was exactly how I would imagine it would smell, coming from such a foul place.
I winced, shrinking back. “Your pocket?” I answered for him.
He nodded, or tried to, and I moved lower, my fingers brushing his trousers, searching. When I felt it, my fingers thrust inside the rough filthy fabric, emerging with the small steel key, no bigger than my pinkie. Hard to imagine that something so delicate looking could imprison someone so . . . so mammoth.
My hands trembled as I rushed around to unlock Zafir, before we were interrupted by someone who was brighter than, say, Jeremiah. Someone with a more effective weapon than a club.
When his wrists were free, and he was wholly unbound, Zafir got up, releasing the man pinned beneath him. The man didn’t move at first. He just lay there panting, gasping for breath as his skin changed from a stony shade of gray to a flushed and clammy pink.
When, at last, he regained his composure and sat up, he was facing not just me, but Zafir as well. “We need answers,” Zafir demanded, his voice filling the cramped space and making the walls around us quake.
The man held up his hand in surrender. “Fine. Yes, I—I’ll tell you everything, just don’t sit on me again.”
My lips twitched. I didn’t blame him, really, I wouldn’t want Zafir to sit on me either. “What’s your name?” I asked, my voice infinitely more patient—and less booming—than Zafir’s.