Page 127 of Alchemised
Helena shrugged. “Even when we’re losing?”
“Yes, even then,” Crowther said, speaking at last through clenched teeth.
“I know you want to help,” Ilva said, “but we’re not only fighting for ourselves, but for the soul of Paladia. As Principate, Luc cannot allow the principles of his forefathers to be betrayed.” Ilva looked down at her hands, folded before her on the desk. “However, the country has been exhausted by this war. The moral outrage towards necromancy has only dulled further with time. There are many people like you in the city who prefer the idea of necrothralls fighting instead of their sons. The Undying do not ask for food or soldiers, or for their citizens to do without, and that has allowed their Guild Assembly to legitimise themselves and claim that they are the ones for the people.”
“So what do we do?” Helena asked.
Ilva pursed her lips, drawing a deep breath. “Do you remember Kaine Ferron?”
Helena stifled an incredulous laugh. Everyone remembered Kaine Ferron. He’d murdered Luc’s father by ripping out his heart at the foot of the Alchemy Tower.
Ferron had been sixteen, just another student, and without warning he’d committed the worst crime in Paladia’s history.
He was never arrested or charged, even though the investigation had yielded multiple witnesses positively identifying him as the murderer, because he’d disappeared.
There were a few reports later listing him as likely among the Undying, but little else was known since.
“Yes, I remember Ferron,” she said, realising that Ilva was waiting for an answer.
“Kaine Ferron has offered to spy for the Resistance,” said Crowther.
Helena’s head swivelled sharply. “What?”
Crowther’s upper lip curled. “He says it’s to avenge his mother.” He inclined his head. “A strange motive, given that Enid Ferron died peacefully in the family’s city residence a year ago. When he was reminded of that, he admitted he has a few—conditions for the services he’s offering.”
Helena stared at him expectantly, but it was Ilva who spoke.
“He wants a full pardon for all of his wartime activities.”
That seemed an obvious demand, although entirely out of the question. Luc would never pardon his father’s murderer.
There was something about the way Ilva said it that made Helena feel that a pardon was not all Ferron had asked for.
“And …?”
“He wants you, Marino,” Crowther said. “Both now and after the war.”
Crowther said it casually, but Ilva’s lips went white.
Helena sat looking between them, certain she was misunderstanding, but there was only silence.
“His information would be invaluable to us,” Ilva said without meeting Helena’s eyes.
Helena shook her head slowly, not ready for the conversation to move on to estimates of value.
Crowther and Ilva were seated too far apart to look at simultaneously. She had to keep glancing between them; Ilva was not looking at her, while Crowther studied her with a look of impassive curiosity.
Helena’s voice failed twice before she managed to speak. “But—why would he—I don’t think Ferron knows who I am.”
Crowther gave a slow reptilian blink. “The two of you were academically competitive, weren’t you?”
“W-Well, yes, technically, but—it was just the national exam scores. We never—never spoke. He was guild, and you know how they were—and I was—I was …”
The thirty-six-hour hospital shift had dulled her brain to the point that it was only then that she realised Ilva had not brought her into the office to censure her at all.
She looked between them again. “Are you asking me to—”
“We need that information,” Crowther said. “We have spies, but none at the level Ferron can offer. This would be direct access to intelligence we often spend months trying to piece together.” He tilted his head, studying her sideways. “Given your impassioned advocacy today that the Resistance do whatever is necessary to win this war without thought to personal cost …” He smiled. “We thought you might be interested.”
