“It was, but Electra has been busy in her laboratory while you were away,” Lovett explained. “I’ve been helping her alchemy experiments.”
She reached into her pocket and tossed a scrying crystal on the table. The surface of it was tinged with black, then the image shifted to the ceiling of the library as Valens emerged from the pocket of Lovett’s uniform. He buzzed onto her shoulder, and for a moment, Fletcher heard the faintest humming from the stone. Lovett turned her head and lowered her mouth close to the Mite. Fletcher saw her lips move, heard her say: “Can you hear me?”
But the words did not just come from her mouth. They also came from the stone, and loudly. The sound was tinny and rough, but unmistakable. Lovett grinned.
“The stone vibrates at the same frequency as my voice, creating sound using the reverberations. It’s like a string on a violin. All it requires is the use of the amplify spell on the corundum crystals, and that they are charged with a small amount of mana. Of course, the charge will run out sometime, but the vibrations use up very little of it.”
“I don’t know why you’re smiling,” Harold snapped. “I wish you’d never publicized your discovery. It’s the perfect propaganda machine for my father. He’s been making speeches every day about how the dwarves are behind the Anvil attacks, how they assassinated poor, innocent Rufus as a warning to us. It makes me sick.”
“I only wish we’d had that ability before,” Fletcher groaned. “Everyone would have heard Jeffrey’s confession.”
Sylva stood. She had been sitting in silence for the last few minutes, but now her mouth was half-open, and her eyes were bright in the dim firelight.
“There is a way,” she breathed. “It could solve everything.”
Fletcher stared at her, unable to believe what he was hearing. What idea could she possibly have?
“You don’t need the generals,” Sylva continued, turning her gaze onto Harold. “Or the nobility. You need the people.”
“What do you mean?” Harold said. “What people?”
“Why do you think Alfric needs to make these speeches?” Sylva asked. “Why did he and the Triumvirate send Jeffrey to frame Cress; why did they set those bombs? Because he needs the people of Hominum on his side. The soldiers, the farmers, the blacksmiths, the miners, the factory workers. They are the sinews of war. Do you think that he could license the wholesale slaughter of the dwarves without their support? Without this lie he has fabricated?”
Harold stared at Sylva, his face expressionless; the only sign of emotion the gentle flexing of his jaw as he gritted his teeth.
“It’s true,” he said finally. “Of course it’s true. If the people thought the dwarves were innocent, that they had been duped, they would never allow this behavior to continue, or the perpetrators to go unpunished.”
He stopped, as if surprised by his own words.
“But what do you expect me to do?” He sighed. “Make my own announcement, show them the journal? My father has his spies watch me at all times, and tomorrow night I am to officially confirm Seraph’s and Didric’s noble houses at a ball. There’s no way I could slip away and get to the Mite undetected.”
“But couldn’t y—” Cress began, but Harold interrupted her sharply.
“And even if I did manage to get to it, what then? My father would know I have turned against him. It would be civil war, with the nobility and generals taking sides once more. No, it would never work.”
“Not you,” Othello said, lifting his head from his hands. He turned his eyes to Fletcher and nodded slowly. It was madness … but it was their only choice.
“So who then?” Harold growled.
“Us,” Fletcher said.
CHAPTER
24
FLETCHER REMEMBERED LITTLE of the rickety carriage ride to Corcillum, or Arcturus ushering them up the stairs and into the dusty beds of the Anvil Tavern. It was a hazy mix of sleeping and waking, of furtive whispers and stolen glances from behind the carriage curtains.
He had slept through the night, and it seemed most of the day also—for the view from his room’s window when he was woken by the scent of cooking was the dim blue of winter afternoon. Othello’s bed was empty, so he stumbled down the wooden steps to find the source, tripping over an abandoned boot he had wrenched off on his way up the night before.
He was ravenously hungry, his stomach cramping like a clenched fist with every mouthwatering sniff of the food downstairs. Leaping the last steps, Fletcher came upon a group of tables in front of the bar, haphazardly pushed together and piled high with platters of steaming food. There were fried eggs with fat, golden yolks, and still-sizzling sausages as thick as his wrist. Crisp, thick cut potato slices sat in bowls, browned to perfection, topped with a garnish of steamed spinach and tossed with fried garlic cloves and sprigs of tarragon. Glass jugs of pulpy orange juice completed the picture, along with pitchers of crystal-clear water.
It was a feast that could feed a small army, but there were only five seated around the table, already halfway through their meal. His teammates did little more than grunt at him, still devouring the food as if it might disappear at any moment. But there was someone else at the head of the table. A figure clad in green robes, who was as short as Othello and Cress.
“Well, look who’s up!” said a familiar voice.
It was Briss, Othello’s mother. Fletcher grinned and bent down to give her a big hug, which she returned fondly.
“Hurry up and get some food inside you,” she said, waving him over to a seat beside the others. “Othello showed me a piece of that jerky you’ve been eating over the past few days. Horrendous!”
Fletcher didn’t need to be told twice, pausing only to grab a knife and fork before stuffing his mouth. The next few glorious minutes were spent chewing and swallowing in silence, until his chin was stained with yellow yolk and his belly felt fuller than it had ever been in his life.
“Your mother has already eaten, poor dear,” Briss chattered, filling the void with conversation. “Thaissa is upstairs looking after her; she’ll be bathed by now and tucked up in bed. The king says he’ll get her the best care in all of Hominum, don’t you worry about her.”
By the end, the food had somehow miraculously been reduced to a few tattered scraps.
Othello unleashed an exaggerated groan and rubbed his bulging midriff.
“You’ve murdered us,” he said, shaking his head. “Death by food.”
“How are you supposed to fit into your costumes now?” Briss teased, prodding his belly. “I’ll have to adjust them at this rate.”
“Costumes?” Fletcher asked.
Briss sighed from beneath her green veil and stood. It was only then that Fletcher noticed the folded clothing on a table behind her, along with a pair of what looked like shoe boxes.
“For the ball,” Cress sighed, her voice glum. “When we sneak in.”