Page 77 of Vilest Things
Another round of shrapnel strikes the ground right beside the ditch. This time, it’s not an accidental misfire; it’s an intentional projectile, dispersing plumes of smoke into the ditch. Though Anton turns, thinking they must move now or else be spotted, it’s already too late.
A man lands in the ditch. He’s followed by ten others, each one of them clutching a blade.
“Hands up,” he says.
They’re surrounded.
Calla strains against the bindings on her wrists, but she can’t find any give in the rope. If she were in her own body, her arms would be more limber, enough sothat she might be successful getting her hands in front of her. Then she could untie her ankles and run. Galipei, though, is muscular for appearance, his wide shoulders more a burden in this moment than any privilege.
“Will you stop squirming?” a voice hisses beside her.
Although Calla has been blindfolded, they set her and Anton apart from the councilmembers in a quick rush, so it could only be him telling her off. After they were pulled from the ditch, they were rapidly bound and set down. Calla doesn’t understand why they’re not being killed. She can hear one of the councilmembers near the carriages protesting: the blindfold is too tight, the binding is too tight, the ground is too hard. Whoever keeps yapping doesn’t understand that these people could take a knife to their throat in a heartbeat.
So why don’t they?
“I’m trying to get us out,” Calla replies lowly. “Maybe if you tried squirming too, you could get your skinny arms out of those binds.”
That shuts Anton up for a minute. Perhaps he’s wondering whether he ought to be offended when, technically, she’s insulting August’s arms.
“We’re about to die and you’re thinking about my arms.”
“I’ll kill you myself if you say one more word.”
Anton snorts. “Galipei Weisanna, when did you develop such an attitude?”
That jolts Calla back to her senses. She tries to push her face against her shoulder, but it doesn’t move the blindfold.
“Look,” she says. “I don’t know what they want us around for, but they won’t keep us alive long.”
There’s chatter among the attackers, somewhere in the vicinity. Laho boasts the sort of flat plains made of rock and grass. Sound travels without restriction. Though Calla can’t pick out exactly what they’re saying, she knows they’re deep in debate.
“There’s an easy way out of this,” Anton says suddenly. “Your shoulder isstill bleeding. Focus on drawing qi out of the wound, and you can jump blindfolded.”
Her chest pulses. The sigil is still there. She can hear the horses by the carriages too—itwouldbe a quick escape.
“Why don’t you do it, Majesty?” she asks. “You’re a skilled jumper, after all.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Don’t be difficult on purpose.”
“Am I? Surely you understand the hesitation to lose a powerful body, Calla.”
Calla freezes midmotion, her wrists straining against the ropes. So he’s figured it out.
“Look,” Calla says slowly. “I did what I needed—”
“Did Otta even attack you?”
“Yes!” Of course the first question he asks is about Otta’s guilt. “She lured me off the campsite, practically bashed me over the head with qi, and then left a map to a location in the borderlands. I don’t know what her goal is. But I know where she’s going, even if it’s a trap.”
Anton makes a low sound. “Classic. I wouldn’t expect anything less from her.”
That response infuriates her even more than him asking whether Otta actually attacked. Calla tugs hard once more on the ropes, but there is clearly no chance of getting free. The argument among the attackers is starting to quiet. Though Calla isn’t putting her full attention toward eavesdropping, it occurs to her then that it’s nevertheless strange she isn’t picking upanything.
They’re not speaking Talinese at all.
The field goes quiet. Something shifts. When Calla hears a rapidly nearing stride cutting through the dried grass, she knows they’re coming directly for her, and that’s before the fist slams hard into the side of her face.
