The Chronicles Of Ixia (Books 1-6). Maria V. Snyder
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be inconspicuous. As Brazell recited a formal greeting, I surveyed his office. Lavish in its decoration, the room had a heavy, brooding feel. Black walnut wood framed hunting scenes, and crimson and purple velvet draped the windows. Brazell’s oversize ebony desk seemed a barrier between his high-backed leather chair and the two overstuffed, velvet seats facing it.
“Gentlemen, you must be tired from your trip,” Brazell said to the Commander’s advisers as a tall woman entered the office. “My housekeeper will guide you to your rooms.”
She motioned for them to follow her. As the advisers exited the room, I tried to slip out with them, but Mogkan grabbed my arm.
“Not yet,” he said. “We have special plans for you.”
Alarmed, I glanced at the Commander, sitting in one of the chairs. The abundant purple fabric of the cushion exaggerated his pale face and slight build. No expression touched his features; he stared into the distance. A puppet waiting for his master to pull the strings.
“Now what?” Brazell asked Mogkan.
“We put on a show for a few days. Take him to see the factory as planned.” Mogkan gestured toward the Commander.
“Keep his advisers happy. Once everyone’s hooked, then we don’t have to pretend.”
“And her?” Satisfaction bent the edges of Brazell’s mouth.
I kept the picture of the brick wall in my mind.
“Yelena,” Mogkan said, “you’ve learned a new trick. Red brick, how mundane. But…”
I heard a faint scraping noise like stone grinding on stone.
“Weak spots. Here and here.” Mogkan pointed a finger in the air. “And I do believe this brick is loose.”
Mortar crumbled. Small holes appeared in my mental wall.
“When I have a moment, I’ll smash your defenses into dust,” Mogkan promised.
“Why waste your time?” Brazell asked, drawing his sword. “Dead. Now.” He advanced with murderous intent blazing in his eyes. I flinched back a step.
“Stop,” Mogkan ordered. “We need her to keep Valek in line.”
“But we have the Commander,” Brazell whined like a child.
“Too obvious. There are seven other Generals to consider. If we kill the Commander while he’s here they would be suspicious. You’d never become his successor. Valek knows this, so any threat to the Commander won’t work.” Mogkan turned his calculating eyes on me. “But who cares about a food taster? No one except Valek. And if she dies here, the Generals will agree that it was justified.”
Mogkan leaned over the Commander, whispering in his ear. The Commander opened his briefcase, withdrew a flask and handed it to Mogkan. My antidote.
“Starting now, you’ll come to me for your medicine,” Mogkan said, smiling.
Before I could react, someone knocked on the door. Two soldiers entered the office without waiting for permission.
“Your escorts are here, Yelena. They’ll take good care of you.” Mogkan turned to the guards. “She doesn’t need a tour. Our infamous Yelena has come home.”
29
I SCANNED THE TWO MUSCULAR guards. Swords, short knives and manacles hung from their belts. They were well armed, and wore grim expressions of recognition. I was outmatched. I touched the familiar lump of the switchblade strapped to my thigh, but decided to wait until the odds were more in my favor.
The guards gestured for me to accompany them. I shot a final beseeching look at the Commander, but nothing so far had roused him from his oblivious stupor.
I felt a small surge of hope when the guards led me to a tiny, barren room in the guest wing instead of the underground cells in which Brazell housed his prisoners. Having spent a week in those dank, rat-infested chambers after I killed Reyad, I loathed the thought of ever going back.
After the door was locked behind me, I took comfort from removing the picks from my hair. The lock was a basic pin-and-tumbler type, which would be easy to open. Before springing it, I slipped a small pick with a mirror on the end under the door. With the mirror, I spied a pair of boots standing on either side. Those overachieving guards had stationed themselves outside my room.
I went to the window. The guest wing was on the second floor. My view included the main courtyard. I could jump to the ground if I was desperate, but for now I would wait.
The next day, I was permitted out of my room only to taste the Commander’s meals. After breakfast, Mogkan waved a small vial of antidote in front of my face.
“If you want this, you must answer a question,” he said.
I steadied my nerves. With a calm voice, I replied, “You’re bluffing. If you wanted me dead, I wouldn’t be standing here now.”
“I assure you, it’s only a temporary condition.” Anger burned in his eyes. “I’m merely offering you a choice. Death by Butterfly’s Dust is a long, ugly and excruciating experience, while, say, slitting your throat is quick—a moment of pain.”
“What’s the question?”
“Where’s Valek?”
“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. I hadn’t seen Valek since the fight in the woods. Mogkan considered my answer. Taking advantage of his distracted state, I plucked the vial from his hand and drained it in a single gulp.
Mogkan’s face reddened with fury. He seized my shoulders then shoved me toward the guards. “Take her back to her room,” he ordered.
Once there, I wondered what mischief Valek was creating. I doubted he was sitting idle. Mogkan’s questions on Valek’s whereabouts confirmed my suspicions. Restless, I paced the small chamber, longing for a workout with Ari and Janco.
During my brief visits with the Commander over the next few days, I began to recognize that my presence was part of Mogkan’s show. In order to keep the Commander’s advisers from becoming suspicious, Brazell pretended the Commander was still giving orders. At one point, Brazell leaned close to the Commander as if they were having a private conversation, then proclaimed that, per Commander Ambrose’s request, a factory tour would be scheduled for the next day.
I was allowed to join the group going to the plant. This surprised me almost as much as the fact that none of the Commander’s advisers made a protest or comment about Brazell manufacturing Criollo instead of the livestock feed he had reported on his permit. They munched on bars of Criollo, content to nod and agree with Brazell that the factory was a marvelous invention.
As we walked through the building, sweltering heat pulsed from the gigantic roasters that were continuously fed with Sitian beans. Workers, streaked with sweat and black dust, shoveled coal into the massive fires under the ovens. Once roasted, the beans were conveyored to a large area where other workers cracked their shells with mallets, extracting a dark brown nib. Steel rollers crushed the nibs into a paste. The paste was spooned into a five-foot-wide metal container to which sugar, milk and butter were added. Using steel pitchforks, workers stirred these ingredients until the mixture became a smooth, thick liquid, which was then poured into square and rectangular-shaped molds.
A veritable shop of delightful smells and flavors, the place was, however, a joyless environment. The dour employees, uniforms soiled with Criollo and sweat, grunted and strained under the physical exertion. During the tour, I searched the various work areas for poisonous or addictive ingredients that might be slipped into the mix but found none.
When the group returned to Brazell’s manor house, I watched the animated expressions on the advisers’ faces leak away, leaving behind the same blank look that had taken over the Commander’s face. Which meant that there must be a link between eating Criollo and succumbing to Mogkan’s magic. Mogkan’s show would end as soon as he had gained control of