“If you still had Veli, then you’d have a cure by now.” I have no idea who or what Veli is. The name hasn’t been mentioned in Tila’s notes, or in the SFPD’s brainloading.
“You don’t know that. And he was an imposter. Some little upstart my father plucked from one of his pet projects.” Mantel’s brow draws down. Almost against his will, an image flickers on the wall of a younger man with a strong jaw and angry eyes. It disappears almost immediately, until I’m not sure if I really saw it at all.
“He was a genius and you were a jealous little boy.” She sounds bored, as if she’s said this to him many times before. She swings her legs over the bed and begins to pull on her stockings.
“Be careful, Roux.” Mantel’s voice simmers in anger.
She looks over her shoulder at him. “I always am.”
The dream shifts. Another woman enters the room, and I don’t recognize her. Mr. Mantel looks over his shoulder in my direction, and I worry he sees me as everything fades away. His dream continues, but I leave.
I wake up in the Chair, Malka watching me, unblinking. In the Chair across from me, Mr. Mantel has a hard-on. I avert my gaze.
Malka folds her hands over her knees. “Well, what did you notice?”
I think through it, replaying the conversation over in my mind.
“Be careful, Roux.” Mantel’s voice simmers in anger.
She looks over her shoulder at him. “I always am.”
“Roux knows that Mantel’s not to be trusted.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She doesn’t give him any specifics. She hints that she’s doing things to bring the Ratel down, but that’s all. She chides him about letting Veli go…” Here I falter. “Who is he?”
“He’s the man who truly invented Zeal. Mantel ousted him from Sudice and put a hit on him, so they say.” She raises an eyebrow. “Veli hasn’t been seen since, in any case. What else did you notice?”
“The government still wants to take us down,” I say, though even pretending to be a part of the Ratel sets my teeth on edge, “but we already knew that.”
Malka smiles. “Good girl.”
“I’m right?”
“On the right track, in any case.” She stands, and I mimic the smooth movement. “We already knew you were a fine dreamsifter. We’ll up the stakes a little next time. You’ll have grown more used to his dreams by then, and will be able to make one little suggestion.”
“Of what?” I ask, my stomach twisting in dread as I give her a plastic smile.
“Next time is time enough.” She leans back. “I had my doubts, but I think Ensi was right about you.”
What a backhanded compliment. I stretch my plastic smile. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me just yet,” she says. She drifts closer, puts her hand on my face. I force myself not to stiffen. “I have to show you what happens to little birds who chirp. Just in case.”
She takes my hand and leads me from the room. I take a last look at Mantel before the door closes. He’s panting, low, animalistic, rhythmic. Lost in the throes of Verve, where sex is better, and even memories of threats make you smile.
*
Another soundproof room. Outside the door, Malka takes a sword in a sheath from a hook on the wall with a familiarity that terrifies me. I play with my necklace, turning the brain recording on again.
Inside the room is another face I recognize from Tila’s sketchbook. A woman named Nuala. She’s small, dainty. She has pale skin and her hair is a lilac and gunmetal gray. She looks like a pixie from a fantasy film.
She looks terrified.
“Hello, Nuala,” Malka says, as if they’re about to have tea. “How nice to see you.”
Malka unsheathes the sword. It looks ancient. Nuala squeaks and pushes herself back in the corner, as if that could make any sort of difference. Whatever’s about to happen won’t be pretty, and I won’t be able to do anything to stop it. I clamp down tight on my emotions. The only way to get through this is to be a robot. My knees are still shaking.
“Nuala, this is Tila. Your replacement. Tell her your crime.”
Nuala bows her head. I stare at the straight parting of her hair. Every muscle in my back is so tight I fear if I move, they’ll break.
“I squeaked,” she whispers.
“Yes, you did. And who to?”
“The police.” Another whisper.
If anything, my muscles go tighter. She knows. She has to. I’m not a replacement at all. The Queen is going to kill both of us in this soundproof room and nobody will hear our screams. I force myself to stay quiet, my breathing even. My mechanical heartbeat thrums, steady and strong. I still have the headache and the fist of nausea in my stomach. All of this is recording. Even if I die, Kim will get this. Hopefully.
“That you did.”
Malka hefts the sword.
“I prefer to do this the old-fashioned way,” Malka says conversationally. “This is from the twelfth century. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
It is, in a horrific way. The metal blade is scratched with time, but its edges are still sharp. Emeralds embellish the hilt.