“Should we go in?” Aisa whispered, but Elston shook his head and raised a finger against his jagged teeth. A hissing, sliding sound came through the doorway; the Mace was dragging Pen across the floor, his breath roughened with exertion.
“You were the smart one, boy. You were supposed to captain this Guard after the rest of us get too old and slow. And here you are, wallowing in misery like a pig in shit.”
Aisa felt a tug on her shirttail and looked down to find her sister Glee peering up at her.
“Glee!” she whispered. “You know you’re not supposed to be down here.”
Glee continued to stare at her, unseeing, and Aisa realized that she was in one of her trances.
“Glee? Can you hear me?”
“Your chance,” Glee whispered. Her eyes were so empty that they seemed hollow. “You’ll see it clear. They turn the corner and you grasp your chance.”
Aisa’s lips parted. She could not pay attention to Glee now, for the business between the Mace and Pen continued violent; she heard more breaking furniture, followed by the thud of a punch.
“Go find Maman, Glee.” She turned Glee around and gave her a gentle push, sending her down the corridor. Aisa watched her for a few seconds, troubled, before turning back to the guard quarters. Elston and Kibb were leaning around the doorframe, and Aisa, screwing up her courage, got down on all fours and stuck her head past Elston’s legs to peek into the room.
Pen was bent over, his head inside one of the basins that lined the far wall. The Mace stood over him, holding the back of his neck, and Aisa had the impression that if Pen tried to come up too soon, the Mace would shove him under. Elston signaled, asking if they should leave, but the Mace merely shrugged.
Pen came up and took a great gasp of air, his brown curls plastered slickly to his head. Aisa winced as she saw his face: a bright sunrise of bruises, both eyes black, and a wide slice of dried blood on his cheek. The Mace did not seem concerned.
“Are you sober now, boy?”
“Why do we not act?” Pen howled. “We stay here, waiting and waiting, while she’s over there being—”
The Mace slapped him.
“You have a nerve, Pen. If you had ever looked past your own misery, you would see it plain. We have a city of people who need to get home. A Church that wants to crack this throne down the middle. And a festering boil under the Gut. You know the Queen, Pen. If we left this mess here, untended, just to get her back, she would kill us both.”
“Without her here, it all grows worse—the Church grows worse—”
The Mace’s eyes flickered. “True. And you could be of great help, but instead you drown your sorrow in drink and brawling. You think the Queen would enjoy seeing you like this? Would she be proud of you?”
Pen stared at the ground.
“She would find you pathetic, Pen, just as I do.” The Mace took a deep breath, folding his arms. “Have a wash and put on some clean clothes. Then get out of here. Do what you need to do, think about whether you want to remain a part of this Guard. You have two days. Come back at your best, or don’t come back at all. Understood?”
Pen drew breath in a sharp hiss, his bloodshot eyes wounded. Aisa hoped the Mace would slap him again, but the Mace merely headed for the doorway, shooing them all out.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Elston repeated.
“Not your fault, El,” the Mace replied, shutting the door of the quarters behind him. “I bent an old rule, and I shouldn’t have.”
“Do you think he’ll come back?”
“Yes,” the Mace replied shortly.
Arliss was waiting for them outside his office, holding his usual sheaf of papers, but now Ewen had joined them, peeping around Arliss’s shoulder like a bashful child.
“We have estimates on the harvest—” Arliss began, but the Mace cut him off.
“Ewen, what ails you?”
Ewen emerged from behind the Treasurer, his cheeks flushed a dull red. “I would like to talk to you, sir.”
“Go ahead.”
Ewen took a deep breath, as though commencing a speech. “I’m not a Queen’s Guard. You have been very kind to me, sir, you and the Queen, to let me wear the cloak and act the part. But I’m not a real Queen’s Guard, and I never will be.”
The Mace looked sharply at Elston. “Has someone been speaking to you about this, Ewen?”
“No, sir. Everyone has been as kind as yourself,” Ewen replied, blushing harder. “It took me some time to work it out in my head, but I have now. I’m not a real Queen’s Guard, and I should like to be useful again.”
“And how would you do that?”
“The same way I always have, sir: as a jailor. You have a prisoner loose.”
“A prisoner—” The Mace stared at him for a long moment. “Jesus, Ewen. No.”
“I should like to be useful again,” Ewen replied stubbornly.