Page 97 of Kingmakers, Year Four

I’m sitting on my cot, back against the wall, readingThe Devil In The White Cityfor the third time.

I hear the clanking of electronic locks and the groan of heavy doors creaking open. Then the tramping tread of Marko and his men approaching.

“Dobroho ranku, ser,”Borys greets him with an audible salute.Good morning, sir.

I already knew some Ukrainian, similar as it is to Russian. Now I know more from listening to Borys and Ihor shoot the shit outside my cell. I know far more than I ever cared to learn about Borys’ rotten luck with the ponies, and Ihor’s persistent foot rash.

Marko’s men are not permitted to marry or even maintain long-term relationships. They have no children, and he deliberately recruits those without close family. He is a jealous god who tolerates no other loyalties.

It does create a cult-like bond between him and his men. They depend on him entirely. But they also squabble bitterly amongst themselves, vying for his approval in petty, backstabbing ways.

Marko thrives on this. He loves to pit them against each other, doling out compliments and mockery in arbitrary and capricious ways.

I can feel Marko’s bulk standing outside the door to my cell. I hear the grit of gravel as he leans forward, pressing his eye against the retinal scanner.

Only Marko and his lieutenant Kuzmo can enter my cell. Marko doesn’t trust his other soldiers, not with his favorite prisoner. They might be vulnerable to threats or bribes.

The door swings open, Marko’s vast bulk filling the frame.

I mark my place in the book before setting it down next to me.

“Another call already?” I say. “How time flies.”

It never flies. I count every second, every minute, every hour.

But this is part of the game Marko and I play, where I refuse to let him see the overwhelming hatred that wells up inside of me at the sight of his face. He wants me to rage and howl and beg.

I will never fucking do it.

Marko steps into the cell, looking around as if he’s never seen it before.

It’s a plain space, blank walls, stone floor. A capsule carved out of the rock, windowless and lit by a single electric panel set in the ceiling. The only furniture is the metal-framed bed and a single folding chair, currently collapsed and leaning up against the wall. My books sit in a stack on the floor.

“Are you done with those?” Marko says, nodding toward the tower of books.

“Yes,” I say.

He snaps his fingers, ordering one of his soldiers to exchange the books for a new supply.

My own personal library.

“Any requests for the next month?” Marko says, unsuccessfully trying to hide his smile.

“Yes.Wolf Hall,” I say.

“I thought you didn’t care for fictionalized biographies.”

“A man can always learn to appreciate something new.”

“I brought this one for you,” Marko says, tossing a paperback down on the bed.

The Count of Monte Cristo.

His teeth glint as he grins.

This is a tired joke: he already broughtLittle Dorrit, Rita Hayworth And Shawshank Redemption, The Man in the Iron Mask, andThe Green Mile.

“Really, Marko,” I say quietly. “I almost think you’re trying to give me ideas.”

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