The news spread like wildfire that there had been an attempt on the prime minister’s life. Countless hands on every street corner, greedy for the latest gossip, snatched up newspapers emblazoned with the headline. The newsboys grew rich. People began questioning the safety of reinstating an elite force like ESAIC in peacetime. Vitriolic letters poured into Thierry’s and Zarael’s offices, and passersby crossed to the opposite side of the street when any figure in uniform approached. Toragon waited impatiently for the trial, thirsty for the would-be assassin’s blood. The biggest news that month had been a case of arson, but this was far more exciting.
There weren’t many who didn’t like Prime Minister Clade, after all. He, along with King Cillian, had managed the recent war relatively well; it was largely thanks to him that it had ended as soon as it did. All of Norgath simultaneously held its breath as he fought for his life, and roared for the unnamed killer to lose his, as violently as the law would allow.
Tariq, locked in prison, waited silently for his trial and inevitable death sentence. Thanks to publicity, his case was heard within a couple days. He pleaded guilty—he didn’t want to put up a fight anymore, he wanted it all over with as soon as possible. The court found him guilty of attempted murder and he was sentenced, as he expected, to hang. After the trial he was marched straight back to prison and informed that the execution would take place in a week.
Tariq tried very hard not to feel anything, to go back to his comfortable emotionlessness, but as soon as he was alone again, the fear and the anger came crashing in, and no matter how he writhed on his hard cot and swore and pummeled his head with his fists, they wouldn’t go away.
He hadn’t been back long from his trial when Zarael arrived to visit him. The general had been at the trial, of course—he’d testified on Tariq’s behalf, though it hadn’t done much good—but he had been stony-faced and hadn’t made eye contact. Now, though, he was in a towering rage. Tariq suddenly had more pressing fears than execution.
A young guard brought Zarael down to Tariq’s cell. He was clearly nervous; Tariq pitied him.
“Open the cell,” Zarael snarled at the hapless guard.
“Sir, I—it’s not really allowed.”
“Open it!”
The guard dithered and obeyed.
“Now leave. I want to talk in private.”
“I have to stay, sir. It’s the rules.”
“Leave!”
“Sir, I’m sorry, but—but—”
“Get out!”
“Sir,” Tariq said from where he slumped on the wood bench that served as his bed, chained to the wall. Zarael’s head snapped around to glare at him, but he listened.
“Sir, we won’t be in private anyway. There are other prisoners across the hall.”
“Since when are you concerned about the rules?” Zarael asked; but Tariq had made a good point, and he had to relent. The guard stayed, locking them both into the cell and waiting outside the bars to let Zarael out when he was done.
Tariq braced himself for the inevitable beating.
“Stop cringing, I’m not going to hit you,” Zarael snapped. “But, dammit, am I going to give you an earful. Why? Why would you do such a fool thing?”
“The voices in my head told me to do it,” Tariq said dully. “Same as they told me to kill myself.”
“That’s not even an excuse!”
“I know.”
“Then why? Why? You promised me you wouldn’t hurt yourself again! You promised! And you were doing so well!”
Tariq shrugged, a link of his chain clinking.
“I could kill you myself.”
Tariq gave him an odd smile. “You won’t need to. Next Tuesday, ten in the morning. You’re invited.”
Unable to contain his rage, Zarael swore and kicked Tariq in the shin. Tariq just laughed.
Zarael tried to calm down. He sat beside Tariq on the bench, staring at his folded hands.
“I can’t save you this time, Tariq.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to.”
“Still. I don’t think you understand fully. I’ve come to consider you a friend. I feel somewhat responsible.”
“You’re not. You’re not even my officer anymore.” A formal part of the sentence, he’d been discharged from the military.
“Oh, shut up! It’s not as easy as that.”
“No, it is.” Tariq shrugged. “You care too much, that’s your problem. You’ll only get hurt. Go get a life.”
“Excuse me?”
Tariq flinched, as if expecting Zarael to hit him.
“Stop cringing, dammit! I hate it when you do that! What did you say? Did you just tell me to get a life?”
“I did.”
“Me, get a life? You know who needs to get a life? You. You need to get a life. All you’ve ever done as long as I’ve known you is sit around wallowing in self-pity.”
“Sir, I’m going to be executed next week.”
“So? What are you going to do during that week? Sit here feeling sorry for yourself instead of your room? Nothing’s changed! And what have you done with your life? Nothing!”
Tariq went pale.
“I’ve not done nothing,” he said.
“So what have you done then? Tell me? Besides plod through every day like it’s a chore? Sleep away every minute of your free time because being awake is too much work?”
“I’ve fought a war,” Tariq growled.
“And? I’m sorry, but that’s not exactly a personal achievement.”
Furious, Tariq gestured to his leg. “I can walk! On my own! Is that not an achievement?”
“Everyone walks. Same as everyone breathes.”
“Sure, but me? I was born without a leg! I wasn’t even expected to live, much less join an elite corps. And you think I’ve done nothing?”
“It’s not what you do that matters,” Zarael said. “It’s what you made of yourself. What did you make of yourself, Tariq?”
Tariq cast about for an answer and realized he didn’t have one, that he really hadn’t made anything of himself. Frustrated, he kicked at air and tugged on his chains.
“You think I like this?” he screamed. “You think I’m excited to hang? I wanted it to end, sure, but not like this! I’m barely old enough to be on death row! You think I thought about this when I stabbed him?”
Zarael realized he’d pushed the boy too far. Backing off, he said, “I’m sorry.”
Tariq threw up his hands. “For what? For what are you sorry? Sorry that you met me? Sorry you had anything to do with me? I don’t blame you. I’m sorry I had anything to do with me, too. I shouldn’t even be here. I shouldn’t be alive.”
“No,” Zarael said uncertainly.
“You want to know why I killed him? Fine, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything. He said he’d kill me if I told, but it doesn’t matter—I’m dying anyway, now. He’s my father. He had twins and one of them was a cripple, and he was ashamed to have a son who was a cripple, so he left me in a gutter and hoped I would die. I should have, but I didn’t, and he found me again just about a month ago. Since then I’ve been abused and threatened and blackmailed and insulted and told all sorts of degrading things and looked at like a piece of horse shit he just stepped in. Can you blame me for being angry? For wanting to kill him? For stabbing him when he locked me in a room and tried to shoot me? So I’m gonna hang now. Big deal. I’d do it again. I’m not sorry. I hate him. I hate him and I would happily do it again. He's the only person I’d rather kill than myself.”
Tariq ran out of words and sat glowering. Zarael was dumbfounded.
“Well? Say something,” Tariq snapped. His face was growing hot and he was beginning to wish he hadn’t said all that.
“Tariq, I—”
“I’d, I’d, I’d do it again,” Tariq insisted, beginning to panic.
“Tariq, I’m sorry I said all that.”
“I don’t care. I don’t. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop it! Stop apologizing. I don’t want your damn apologies. Apologies don’t matter.”
“Tariq.”
The boy looked darkly at him.
“Why didn’t you plead self-defense in court?”
“I couldn’t, not without telling them everything. And I don’t know why, but I’m even more ashamed of all this than my father seems to be. Anyway, do you think they would have listened? I didn’t just stab some moronic drunk on the street. I stabbed the prime minister. And I am a nobody. No one would have listened.” His voice cracked.
“I can try and pull some strings. Get you out of the death sentence, at least. If I got you re-tried and you pleaded self-defense—”
“No.”
“Tariq, it can’t hurt to try—”
“No. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter!”
“To you and who else?” Tariq said, angry again. “I don’t care. Leave it be. I’m telling you it doesn’t matter. In a month you’ll forget this happened.”
“It’s not that simple,” Zarael said, and he reached over and hugged Tariq. Tariq tried to push him away, but he wouldn’t let go.
“Get off me!”
Zarael let go, and Tariq shot up off the bench and backed into a corner of the cell.
“I don’t want your pity or your help. Just leave me alone. I’m the one who’s dying and I say it doesn’t matter, so it doesn’t. Just leave. Go feel sorry for me if you must, but don’t tell me about it.”
“Tariq—”
“Please leave.”
If it had been anyone else, Zarael might have snapped at him for disrespecting a senior officer, but this wasn’t a conversation between an officer and his subordinate. He got up silently and glared at the guard until he unlocked the cell to let him out.
Outside the cell, he turned to say goodbye, but Tariq ignored him.
~
If it had been a horrid couple of days for Tariq, it had been at least almost as bad for Phineas. From the moment he’d walked in the door that day there had been a thousand problems—a doctor to call for his father, curious visitors to fend off, a trial to attend. The trial had been the worst part. It would have been bad enough to testify against anyone who’d tried to murder his father. That it was his own twin brother he was testifying against made it even worse. Hektor testified too, though he seemed to rather enjoy it.
As soon as he had a moment to himself, he shut himself in his room, drew the curtains, and lay on his bed without even bothering to change out of the clothes he’d worn to the trial.
He didn’t fall asleep right away but stared at the dim canopy above him. He’d thought, when he’d come home what felt like ages ago, that he’d spend the few days they were home with Cass, looking after his brother. He hadn’t even seen Cass or Sutton during this whole affair. Thanks to all the gossip, they certainly knew about his father, but he wished he could tell them himself.
He didn’t feel like it mattered now, that Tariq’s identity was supposed to be kept secret. He wanted to tell Cass and Sutton. He wanted to tell someone. It hurt too much not to.
Merciful sleep was just beginning to mist over his turbulent thoughts when someone knocked on the door, jerking him awake again.
He sat up, straightening his collar, and said, “Come in.”
Hektor opened the door and looked in. “Phineas? Can I come in?”
There had used to be a bit of an unspoken hostility between them, but they’d grown closer out of necessity the past couple days. Phineas nodded, and Hektor came in, shutting the door and pulling the chair out from Phineas’ desk to sit down. Phineas slid off his bed and took the armchair by the unlit fireplace.
“More journalists?”
“No, I wanted to talk to you.” Hektor shifted, eyeing him a bit awkwardly. “I hope I’m not disturbing you too much. I know you haven’t had much time alone. I can come back later.”
“It’s fine.”
“I—” He hesitated. “You knew about me?”
Phineas shrugged. “I’ve known for a year or two. It was a pretty certain guess, anyway.”
“You know, Father didn’t cheat on your mother. I was already two when he married her.”
“Oh. No, I didn’t know any details.”
Hektor nodded.
“I’m sorry. I’ve always been a bit rude,” Phineas said. “I think it would have been better if Father had just acknowledged he had an illegitimate son and raised us together. I hate that he kept it a secret. But, I don’t know, maybe you preferred it that way.”
“Usually. I don’t have to deal with the drama I would have if I debuted as his son. But sometimes I wish he acknowledged me, too.”
The conversation lapsed awkwardly.
“That’s all I wanted to ask,” Hektor said at last. “I suppose…are you doing alright? He’s…your twin.”
Phineas shrugged.
“So not really,” Hektor guessed.
“Naw.”
“No, you’re fine, or no, not really fine?”
“Not…really fine.” Phineas kicked at a fold in the rug, miserable. “Like you said. He’s my twin. I—it’s—I hate this. I was happy he was alive for a split second. Now he’s dying anyway and I have to go through losing a part of me I didn’t even know was there.”
“Are you even angry at him at all?”
Phineas tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling.
“I don’t know.”
Hektor waited.
“I was angrier when we weren’t sure if Father would live. He’s controlling and I don’t like being controlled, but overall he hasn’t been a terrible father. ‘Specially when I was younger.”
“I’m still angry.”
Phineas smiled. “I’m not surprised. I’m less angry now, I think. Now that Father’s stable, I don’t really blame Tariq for doing what he did. If anyone has a right to be angry at Father, it’s him. He could have grown up in luxury and be going to school with me, and instead he’s had to grow up in poverty, probably, and he has to work a job now.”
“I suppose.” Hektor was grudging to look at it from Tariq’s perspective. “It can’t have been that bad. Father had me investigate him. He was in an orphanage, but not for long—he was apprenticed when he was nine, I think.”
He remembered then, about the war, but that would only stoke Phineas’ anger, so he held his tongue. Safer to let Phineas assume Tariq had joined the army after the war, like most of the young men his age.
“Hektor?”
“What?”
“I don’t feel it was completely fair to give Tariq the death sentence.”
“He’s dangerous. The point of the death sentence is to control dangerous people.”
“I…maybe I’m stupid, but he was defending himself. I doubt he goes around stabbing people regularly.”
“The fact that he reverted to violence, though—”
“Father got violent first.”
“True, but…”
Hektor sat back, frowning.
“Do you really think he deserves to hang,” Phineas asked, “or are you just saying that because you’re angry at him?”
Hektor scowled at him. “You remember the trial. There was a judge and jury. I wasn’t the one who decided he should die.”
“They completely ignored it when I told them Father shot at him first. They never even stopped to ask why Father was shooting at him—they just assumed it was a random attack, and Father shot because he was being threatened. They completely twisted the context. And you helped,” Phineas accused.
“You didn’t stop me.”
“Oh, come on. I wasn’t allowed to speak except to answer questions.”
Hektor stood. “I’m sorry, but I actually have a job to do. I’m sorry I disturbed you from your nap.”
He left Phineas sitting in his armchair glaring after him.
The door shut. Phineas got up and flung himself back onto his bed, wishing even more for his friends.
He couldn’t go back to sleep, so at last he got up and went downstairs, past the parlor and down the back stairs to the servants’ quarters. He found Jeremy in the scullery shining shoes.
“Jeremy,” he said, and the old servant looked up.
“Master Phineas. How can I help you? Are you doing alright?”
“Can you drive me in your cart to the prison? I’d just go myself, but there’ll be reporters all over me as soon as I stick my nose out in public.”
Jeremy put down his shoe and brush. “Why do you want to go to the prison?”
“I want to visit someone.”
“It’s not the man who stabbed your father, is it?”
Phineas shrugged.
“It is, isn’t it? Master Phineas, why do you want to see him?”
Phineas didn’t care who knew. “He’s my own brother,” he wailed. The scullery maid, who’d just come in, eyed him and turned around to leave again.
Jeremy sat in silence, but he didn’t seem much surprised. He picked up his brush and kept polishing shoes.
“Jeremy? Did you know?”
Jeremy didn’t look at him, but his grizzled cheeks turned red. “I was the servant your father told to get rid of him. I’m sorry, Master Phineas.”
“Oh.”
“I did what I could for him. I made sure he was warm.”
“I…”
Phineas rubbed his eyes. He’d almost lost the ability to be shocked.
“It’s not your fault,” he said. “If anything, you’re probably the reason he survived. Father didn’t mean him to.”
Jeremy shrugged and polished harder.
“Did you hear the outcome of the trial?” Phineas asked.
“All I’ve heard is gossip. Nothing for sure.”
“He was sentenced to death. The execution is next Tuesday.”
“Oh.”
There was a short silence.
“I’m sorry.”
Phineas shrugged bitterly. “He stabbed the prime minister. What other outcome was there for him?”
Jeremy put down his shoe again and stood up, wiping his hands on a cloth. “I’ll take you to the prison. Come along.”
Thank you for such an intriguing plot to this story...LOVING IT!!!!!