Shadows

Shadows of Zenith (Roran Curse #6)

Chapter 1. Last Days on Corizen

When Bren finally dragged himself into his room and collapsed on his bed, Mikal was nowhere to be seen, for which he was profoundly grateful. After being detained by the Palace Guard and grilled over and over again for days, the last thing he wanted was to confront a roommate eager to ask him the same questions. He closed his eyes and exhaled heavily. He could still see the blackened body of Madam Morten, see the crazed man raising a knife above his head, hear the shouts of “For House Kruunde!” It haunted his dreams—at least when he was able to get any sleep. There hadn’t been much in the cramped cell the Palace Guard had kept him in. They didn’t let him speak to anyone from the university, much less contact his father. Apparently on Corizen, “rights” were whatever the guards decided to give you. It clearly didn’t include the concept of innocent until proven guilty.

It had taken a final interrogation with Arueban truth serum to convince them that he was telling them the truth, that he hadn’t conspired with the dead assassin. After that, they finally decided to let him go.

Bren wondered if anyone had noticed he had been missing since the night of the inaugural ball. Well, he was certain Mikal had noticed, but beyond his roommate . . . had Kendra worried about him? He wouldn’t blame her if she hadn’t noticed his absence. After all, her aunt had been murdered, and her cousin was missing. Even in the bowels of the Palace lockup, his guards had made sure he learned those two horrifying facts. The last thing on her mind was probably talking to the boy who ran out on her during the ball.

What about his professors and his mentor? Possibly they never even realized he wasn’t in class. Judging by the funereal air downstairs, the university was in almost as much chaos as it had been when Morek-Li Damato had been assassinated. Apparently Sirra Bruche was at least as well loved, and even the Citizen students seemed to be in shock—probably just now starting to realize that being a Citizen wouldn’t protect them from the terrorists.

Bren had known that for months.

He wasn’t blind to what Mikal was mixed up in. He didn’t think Mikal had actually joined the Brotherhood—they probably wouldn’t take him—but he had fallen for their ridiculous ideas like a meteor plummeting to the ground. It would end in the same kind of fiery destruction—for Mikal, if not the Brotherhood. Using violence to scare people into driving all the Citizens off the planet and overthrowing the elected government wasn’t going to end well, especially for the brainless stooges the Brotherhood convinced to be the frontline sacrifices.

Once he’d rested for a bit, he stripped off his tattered and stained formal suit and stuffed it into the recycler. There was no saving it, not after scuffling in the dirt and then three nights of sleeping on mildewed stone in the cell. Then he headed straight for the shower. No matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn’t get rid of the lockup smell. It was probably in his head, but Bren had never in his life spent any kind of time in jail, and his skin crawled with shame at the thought. On Krati there was a very strong demarcation between the prisoners and the free residents. His father repeatedly emphasized the difference between convicts and Kratian Citizens. Every free child of Krati knew the line. To commit a crime—to be sentenced as a prisoner—was a fall from grace with no return.

Even though things were different on Corizen and Bren had surely committed no crime, he shuddered at the thought of telling his father about his stint in the lockup. What kind of reaction would he get? Regardless, his father had to be told, and right away. Who knew how long it would take to get through in the interstellar message queue, and he needed someone to make sure he didn’t disappear into the swamp of the Denicorizen justice system again.

In the student lounge he logged onto one of the terminals and checked his interstellar inbox. He didn’t have any messages, but that wasn’t a surprise. He just received a batch from home a week ago. He typed up a message for his father, explaining the political situation on Corizen and what had happened to him, and then checked the standard calendar and added the code words that would tell his father the message was genuine. Once the message was electronically winging its way to the interstellar queue, he set out to find something to eat. The Palace Guards hadn’t starved him, but plain gruel with cracker bread was not exactly satisfying.

In the cafeteria he loaded a tray and looked for a familiar face at one of the tables. He didn’t see Kendra’s golden head, but he didn’t really expect to. Not at a time like this. But he spotted Zara sitting by herself in a corner table. He swallowed. Zara had grown slightly less hostile toward him during the last month or two, but that still didn’t make her condescending attitude pleasant. Still, if anyone knew what was going on with Kendra, Zara probably did. Holding his tray in a death grip, he edged his way through the tables, trying desperately not to trip on anyone’s chair or dump his food on someone’s head. Luckily, today the cafeteria was relatively empty, and he made his way to Zara’s table and slid into a seat without any disasters.

Zara looked up without meeting his eyes. She raised a hand at him.

“Good afternoon, Brennan Westley,” she said, her tone as formal as ever. They might as well be strangers meeting for the first time. Irritating Motambique mannerisms.

“Hey, Zara,” he said, knowing the casual address would get a rise out of her. It did; her eyes actually flashed up at his face and narrowed for a moment. Then she dropped her gaze back to her tray, studying a dish of Denicorizen dumpling stew as if the orange chunks of carrot were fascinating.

“I have not seen you recently,” she finally said.

Bren raised a shoulder, unwilling to delve into the details with Zara. No doubt if she learned he had been arrested and questioned about the attack on Madam Morten, she would treat him with even more disdain.

“It’s been a crazy couple of days. Have you seen Kendra yet?”

At this, Zara did meet his eyes. She frowned, her forehead wrinkling. “No. I was hoping perhaps you were with her. I have not seen her since before the ball.”

Bren scooped a spoonful of his own generous helping of the stew and blew on it.

“Have you gone by the Ambassador House?” he asked. His first sip of the stew nearly made him choke. Someone in the kitchen had been free with the spices again.

She snorted, a very undignified reaction from Zara. “Obviously you have not. The Ambassador House is surrounded by additional security now. I was only able to leave a message with an Armada guard who promised to pass it on. However, since I never heard back from Kendra, I do not know if she even received it.”

“I haven’t heard from Kendra either. I haven’t seen her since the ball,” Bren admitted.

“You were at the inaugural ball?” Zara said. Was that a look of horror or disbelief? Or maybe envy? Bren couldn’t decide—Zara’s face was impossible to read. Not that he was terribly good at reading girls in the first place. How many times had he messed up spectacularly with Kendra?

“Kendra invited me as her guest,” he finally said. He toyed with the small loaf of dipping bread, breaking a bit off and shredding it into tiny pieces. “I . . . got separated from her before the attack on Madame Morten. After that, there was a lockdown, and it was too chaotic to find anyone.” The words were true, even if he wasn’t telling the full story. It wasn’t the lockdown that kept him from going to look for Kendra that night. Unless he counted the visit to the underground jail cell as his own personal lockdown.

Zara folded her napkin into precise quarters and dropped it onto the center of her tray.

“Perhaps it is a mourning custom on Zenith to go into seclusion,” she mused. “There have been no public appearances from the ambassador either.”

“Yeah, that would make sense.” He exhaled in relief. He didn’t know what people from Zenith did when someone died. Bren dipped some of the bread in the soup and took a bite. It was better now that he knew to expect the spicy kick. His appetite returned in a rush, and he gulped at his stew.

“I expect we will be able to see her tomorrow, at the latest,” Zara added.

“Wh—mmphf?” Bren managed around his mouthful of stew. Zara grimaced at his poor manners. He shrugged and swallowed.

“I’m a Kratian clod, remember? We aren’t known for our upper-crust table manners.”

Zara merely sniffed, looking down her nose again. Nothing new there.

“Why will we be able to see her tomorrow?” he tried again.

Zara sighed deeply at his ignorance. “The memorial service for Madam Morten is tomorrow, of course. It will be held in the large assembly hall. I do not think students will be allowed in; according to my mentor, every Denicorizen of consequence will attend to honor Sirra Bruche. However, they will broadcast the service, as they did for Morek-Li Damato, and I expect that we will at least get a glimpse of Kendra.” Her voice dropped. “Perhaps that will be enough reassurance.”

Bren’s gut twisted. How was Kendra doing? He had a sudden desire to dash over to the Ambassador House, force his way past the guards, and pound on the door until he could see her.

Zara’s face was pinched. Was the stoic Motambiquer actually fighting back tears? He squirmed uncomfortably; watching Zara struggle to get control of herself felt painfully intrusive. He dropped his eyes to his plate, trying to give her what privacy he could under the circumstances. After a couple of moments of silence interrupted only by Bren’s spoon scraping his dish, Zara spoke, her tone as measured and controlled as ever.

“Did you know that Madam Morten was Sirra Bruche? I had not the slightest idea.”

Bren shook his head. “Kendra never said a word. Either she is the world’s best secret keeper . . .”

“Kendra? Doubtful. Every emotion is always plainly written across her face.”

“Then I bet she didn’t know either.” Bren tried to remember if Kendra had ever hinted that her aunt had a connection to the Denicorizen revolution. He couldn’t think of anything.

When Zara rose from the table, Bren checked the time and realized that if he hurried, he just might make it to his afternoon seminar. He shoved a last chunk of bread into his mouth and pushed back his chair.

“You are able to attend the seminar today?” Zara said as he fell into step beside her. “You have resolved the business that kept you away since the inaugural ball?”

Bren ignored her subtle probe for details about his missing three days. “Yes.”

Zara pursed her lips in frustration and refused to speak to him for the rest of the walk to the seminar.

Bren didn’t mind the silence; he was hastily planning what he was going to say to Mikal. Like Zara, he was in Bren’s seminar and would be curious about Bren’s disappearance. But Bren did not want to discuss it in front of all his classmates.

As it happened, he didn’t need to worry. Mikal was not in the seminar, and Bren didn’t see him at dinner either. It wasn’t until late that night, when Bren was sitting at his desk, hastily trying to finish up an essay on the trade dispute between Corizen and Nubia, that Mikal trudged through the door into the room. Bren braced himself and turned to his roommate.

“Hey, Mi—” he broke off, staring at his roommate. Mikal’s face was deathly pale and haggard. He looked like he was suffering from the world’s worst hangover.

“What happened to you?” Bren asked, half rising from his chair.

“Nothing.” Mikal attempted a smile. It looked like a twisted grimace. “I am quite well.”

“You don’t look well. Did you spend the day in the city?” At a long procession of bars? Bren added silently. Mikal took two dragging steps and dropped onto his bed.

“Yes, I was at a meeting that ran longer than I expected,” Mikal said vaguely. “I am afraid I haven’t eaten all day.”

“Here, I’ve got something,” Bren offered, digging around in his small storage locker. “It’s not much, but it will help.” It was a Strix biscuit, Corizen’s version of a ration bar. (They were tasteless, even worse than the Kratian ration bars that Bren had known growing up. But old habits died hard, and he always had a couple of ration bars and a water packet on hand—just in case.) He stepped over to Mikal, who reluctantly took the proffered bar.

“Thank you,” he said listlessly.

Bren frowned. He couldn’t smell any alcohol, and he knew from plenty of previous experience that when Mikal came home after a bar run, he positively reeked. “Are you sure you’re not sick?” he asked, retreating back to his side of the room.

“I don’t quite feel myself,” Mikal admitted. “But I am sure I will feel better by tomorrow afternoon.”

Bren cocked his head, processing that odd statement. Did Mikal have some kind of gastro virus? He pressed a little farther back. He didn’t want to catch anything.

“I will just get some rest,” Mikal said, turning over so he faced the wall.

“I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” Bren said hurriedly as he gathered his materials for his essay. He fled from his room to the lounge, grateful that Mikal was too indisposed to ask awkward questions.

Later Bren would wish he’d asked a few awkward questions of his own.

***

The next morning Bren left his dorm building intending to grab a bite of breakfast before the memorial service for Kendra’s aunt, but he stopped short just outside the front doors.

“What in the name of the stars?” he said, looking from side to side at the sea of people moving sluggishly past on the walkway. Many of them were students, but a lot were not. They were older Denicorizens—some he recognized as workers from around the International Complex, but the vast majority were completely unfamiliar.

“Don’t tell me you forgot about the memorial service,” said a snide voice. Bren turned to the right to find Hugo perched on a retaining wall, his trademark white robes missing. Instead he wore a somber navy suit set.

“Of course I didn’t forget about the memorial service,” Bren retorted. “I just didn’t expect our campus to be invaded two hours before the service by all these strangers. How do they all have clearance to be in the complex?”

Hugo shrugged. “Some of them work here. Others are prominent Denicorizens who have security clearance. My roommate’s father is a well-regarded member of the Denicorizen Planetary Congress. He will be attending the service in the main assembly hall. He invited both of us to join him.” Hugo smiled smugly. “The congress representatives all have reserved seating, so I don’t have to waste my time with that.” He waved his hand at the crowd that was slowly making its way toward the assembly hall. Bren swiveled away from Hugo in disgust. Hugo seemed to consider the memorial service as some kind of status event. But Bren could still remember the assassin’s crazed shouts and Madam Morten’s deathly still form. This was a tragedy, not a game. How was Kendra doing?

Hopefully he would find a way to see her during the memorial service. Or maybe afterward.

He was just about to step into the mass of people and fight his way against the flow toward the cafeteria when Hugo spoke again.

“Are you wearing that to the memorial service?” he asked in disbelief.

“Yeah, my white robes are in the laundry. Like yours apparently are,” Bren said drily. He was hardly going to tell Hugo that his maroon slimsuit was the nicest thing that he currently owned now that his dress suit was nothing but recycled shreds.

“White robes?” Hugo snorted. “You rubes are so backward you don’t even know what to wear to a mourning service?”

Bren couldn’t resist. “Sirra Bruche is having a Denicorizen memorial service. According to Mikal, any clothing that is clean and neat is appropriate. Besides, she was born on Zenith, so I think us ‘rubes’ would have a better idea of appropriate dress in this situation than snobby Terran aristos.”

Hugo gasped at the insult. “How dare you call me an aristo?” His cheeks darkened almost to the color of Bren’s slimsuit.

“It fits. If I were to search aristo in a dictionary, I would probably find a picture of your face,” Bren added recklessly.

Hugo lunged off the wall toward him, but Bren didn’t flinch backward. He was aching to take a swing at someone. He was so angry, angry at the man who had murdered Kendra’s aunt, livid at his treatment at the hands of the Denicorizen Palace Guard, and most of all, furious at himself for being just a little too late to save Madam Morten.

Hugo was a convenient target. Bren was sick of all his taunts and unsubtle jibes.

But just before Hugo could throw a single punch, the door slid open and Mikal strode out.

Hugo froze, his eyes flicking nervously between Mikal and Bren.

“What is going on?” Mikal asked, looking from Hugo’s raised fists to Bren’s wide stance and pulled-back arm. Bren dropped his arm and sighed.

“Nothing. Hugo’s just being his typical charming self.”

Mikal raised an eyebrow and looked Hugo’s direction. “Is that so?”

Hugo’s eyes didn’t leave Mikal’s face, but Bren could almost see him shrink into himself. Ever since the day when Mikal had sliced up Hugo’s robes, the annoying berk had been not respectful of Mikal but was certainly cautious around him.

“Well, Hugo,” Mikal said, his voice devoid of emotion, “I have a message for you from your mentor.”

“From Pasna?” Hugo was nonplussed. “She sent you with a message?”

“I happened to run into her earlier this morning.”

Bren frowned. As far as he knew, this was the first that Mikal had been out of their room. He had still been asleep when Bren woke up.

“What did she want?” Hugo asked. Bren noted that his tone was still subdued, not a hint a derision or mockery.

“She has a meeting in the Union embassy with her Crossroads Institute sponsor about an hour after the memorial service. She’d like you to meet her there in case she needs some help with translation.”

Hugo frowned. “Pasna speaks adequate Basic.”

The corner of Mikal’s mouth lifted. “If by adequate you mean barely comprehensible.”

Hugo didn’t argue. Bren could almost see the eager thoughts crossing his mind. Here was a chance to make contacts at the embassy. Hugo was all about networking with the “right” people. If he was hoping to move on to the Crossroads Institute like Pasna, he would jump at the chance to introduce himself to a sponsor.

“Fine. I will meet her at the embassy, assuming that I am at liberty to do so. I am attending with Representative Manat, you know,” Hugo finally said, his self-importance returning. Then, without another word, he turned and hurried back into the dorm. Probably anxious to get away from Mikal before he snapped and did something crazy again.

Unpredictable as his roommate had become, Bren had to admit that occasionally erratic viciousness had its uses.

Mikal didn’t even turn to watch Hugo’s retreat. He stared blankly out over the slowly moving mass of Denicorizens on the walkway.

“Brennan, will you meet me for lunch?” he asked finally. “I am finding the day . . . difficult. Some company would alleviate that.”

Bren looked at him in surprise. “Sure.”

“Let’s meet at the Jolly Ox Pub. At midday. That will give you time to reach it after the memorial service.”

Off-complex? Would it be safe? But Mikal turned and stared at him with feverish eyes.

“Please, Bren?”

“All right,” Bren relented. “Where are you planning to watch the memorial service? I can just sit with you and then we can head over together.”

Mikal’s gaze flicked away. “I am not going to the memorial,” he said at last. “But I will meet you at the pub. Right at midday. Don’t be late,” he said over his shoulder as he plunged forward into the milling crowd.

Bren watched his roommate force his way between the press, he wrinkled his brow in concern.

***

Bren ended up watching the memorial service in the dorm lounge as it was broadcast from the assembly hall. Frustratingly, whoever had control of the camera saw no reason to focus on the mourners, except for a brief close up of Ambassador Morten. There was no way to tell if Kendra was even at the memorial service, let alone get a read on how she might be doing, as Zara had suggested.

As for the service itself, he was at first curious to see how a Denicorizen memorial service would go, but then quickly he was bored. The entire service was conducted in Denicorizen, with a parade of Denicorizen speakers. Bren only recognized one of them—an energetic, middle-aged man with close-cropped black hair and piercing brown eyes. His name, if Bren remembered correctly, was Bret Ka, a congressman who had once been the lowest rank under the old caste system. During his seminar on the Revolution, his professor had profiled the congressman. Ka had a life story worthy of a novella stream. He started life as a slave on Urok, led an uprising on his master’s estate, and joined the Resistance early in the Revolution, eventually climbing to lead a local unit. He met Sirra Bruche while leading the Resistance in Kruundin City and devised the plan that used her as a decoy to overthrow the last king on Corizen. After the Revolution, he met and married the beautiful daughter of a formerly rich landed family before being elected to the Planetary Congress. Bren’s professor had waxed eloquent about how Ka’s life was proof that castes did not determine destiny.

Representative Ka at least aroused Bren’s interest long enough for Bren to try and concentrate on the difficult Denicorizen phrases. Bren understood only the general idea of the speech—mostly stuff about how brave Sirra Bruche was and how much she loved Corizen before adding some stuff about the deplorable actions of the Brotherhood—until Ka thundered, “This must stop!” Bren understood that crystal clear. (Actually, that line seemed to wake up several of the Citizen students who must have dozed off in the lounge.)

However, after Ka finished, an old man rose to speak who mumbled his way through his entire speech, and Bren’s mind wandered to his roommate’s puzzling conversation with Hugo earlier. Mikal loathed Hugo. Well, pretty much anyone who wasn’t part of Hugo’s inner circle of Terran friends loathed him. But in Mikal’s case it went much further. So why would Mikal do any favors for Hugo at all? He had to be setting Hugo up. But for what? And why? Mikal didn’t seem to be in his normal swaggering mood, one where he might pull one of his notorious pranks. Bren had learned early in the first term that what the dean called “Mikal’s high spirits” was actually a cruel streak as long as a comet. Since it was clear that Mikal’s connections would shelter him from any consequences, Bren chose to stay in his roommate’s good graces as much as possible. But he had no illusions about Mikal’s propensity for violence.

The question was, what should he do about it? What could he do about it? Whatever Mikal was planning, he intended to be far away from the embassy, with Bren as an alibi. That was the best explanation for why Mikal had insisted on meeting Bren off-complex. So what had he planned? Bren couldn’t exactly go to security with such a vague suspicion. Going to the dean was laughable. And Hugo probably wouldn’t even listen to him.

Maybe Mikal just wanted Hugo to embarrass himself by showing up at the embassy uninvited. Hopefully.

***

When the memorial service ended Bren waited a full ten minutes, watching the camera pan across the visiting dignitaries as they spoke with each other. The camera did focus on the ambassador for a while as one mourner after another gripped his hands and spoke with him, presumably offering condolences. The camera pulled just far enough away for Bren to see the empty chairs around the standing ambassador. No Kendra anywhere. Had she already escaped the assembly hall? Or had she never been there in the first place?

Not for the first time, Bren wished for his flipcom. If he just had his flipcom he could try and contact her himself, without all this guesswork! Stupid Corizen and its stupid lack of a mobile comm net. Even Krati, as backward as it was, had a comm net. Then he nearly slapped his own forehead. Kendra had her own personal terminal in the Ambassador House. Why didn’t he just send her a message on the student network? Maybe she had already sent him one herself!

Most of the other students were standing around discussing the memorial and what the assassination of a Citizen would mean for complex security, so the lounge terminal was free. He dropped awkwardly into the chair and logged onto his account. He didn’t have any messages from Kendra, though he did have two from Zara asking if he had heard from her, sent while he was still in the lockup. The only other message was from his mentor, reminding him that all classes had been canceled for the day because of the memorial service.

He started a new message to Kendra and then stopped after his greeting, at a loss for what to say. Tell her he was sorry about her aunt? Tell her that he had tried his very best to save her aunt’s life but had been too late? Tell her that he was an idiot for walking out on their dance? He deleted that sentence as soon as he typed it. It seemed unimportant now. Finally, he just typed a question: Are you OK? I’m worried about you. But then he agonized over what to say next.

Just when he had given up and decided to send it as it was, an accented voice spoke from behind him. “Excuse me, will you be using the terminal for a long while?” Bren startled, turning to look up at the young woman standing behind him. He recognized her—Pasna Nu was well known as one of the gifted Denicorizen seniors. Bren’s mentor Ictus spoke in awe about her brilliant mind for economics. She was planning to attend the famous Crossroads Institute on Terra next term, and even some of the Terrans were jealous. Like Hugo.

If Mikal’s message to Hugo was real, why was Pasna waiting to use the terminal? Shouldn’t she be heading to the embassy to meet her sponsor?

Bren suddenly realized that Pasna was staring at him expectantly, still waiting for an answer. “I’m—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I’m almost done, just logging out.” He quickly sent the message to Kendra, hoping that it wasn’t too abrupt, and then tapped at the screen to sign off. Then he carefully tried to extricate himself from the chair without toppling the terminal. It was a close one—he did bump the table, jarring the terminal hard enough that Pasna’s hand shot out to steady it.

“Thanks,” he said, his cheeks warming. He wished for the millionth time that there were nanobot injections that would make him more graceful. How he was ever going to be the diplomat his father needed was anyone’s guess. People who caused devastation everywhere they walked tended to create diplomatic problems, not resolve them. He sighed, moving carefully back from the terminal while Pasna slid into the chair.

“Miss Nu?” he said hesitantly.

“Yes?” She turned back toward him and cocked her head to the side. She clearly was trying to decide if she knew Bren from somewhere.

“My name is Brennan Westley,” he said hurriedly. “I’m Mikal Duren’s roommate.”

“Oh.” Her immediate frown made it clear exactly what she thought of Mikal.

“Did you happen to give him a message this morning for Hugo?”

Her forehead creased. “A message for Hugo? Hugo Serageldin?” Her voice was thick with disbelief.

“Yeah.”

“No. I last saw him before the memorial service, but I did not speak to him. I do not talk with Mikal.” Her tone had grown decidedly chilly and her posture stiffened. Bren wondered what Mikal had done. Her dislike seemed pointedly personal.

“Where did you see him?” Bren asked anxiously. A growing sense of unease made Bren’s gut twist. Mikal was up to something, he’d already guessed that, but some sixth sense was warning him that this something was dangerous. He just didn’t know what.

Pasna pursed her lips. She was about to tell him to shove off. Bren couldn’t blame her. He was being very pushy for a stranger, he knew. How could he get her to help him?

“It’s just that I’m worried that there may be another . . . confrontation between Hugo and Mikal. I’d like to prevent that if I can,” he explained.

Pasna studied his face for a long moment, no doubt trying to decide if she could trust him. Nobody wanted to get on Mikal’s bad side, not least because he was permanently on the dean’s good side. Finally, she sighed. “I saw him walking past my dorm when I was coming to the lounge for the memorial.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes.”

“Was he heading to the senior dorm, then?” Bren was pushing his luck, and he knew it.

Pasna’s hands had tightened into fists. “I did not wait to find out.”

It was easy to read between the lines. Clearly, Pasna had seen Mikal and fled the opposite direction. It was possible that Mikal had stopped by the senior dorm to visit someone before he left campus. Nothing sinister about that . . . and yet, the senior dorm was farthest from the main university campus. Continuing down that walkway led to the Union embassy and the small cluster of buildings that surrounded it.

“Thank you, Miss Nu. I’m sorry for taking so much of your time.” He hastily dipped his head and backed away, stepping right onto the foot of a student walking behind him.

“Watch it, Westley,” the boy growled.

“Sorry!” Bren stumbled forward, nearly whacking Pasna in the head. She flinched away. “Sorry!” Bren said again to everyone, and then he turned and fled the lounge.

He knew what he had to do, though it was the last thing he ever thought he’d voluntarily do. It was time to find Hugo.

***

Trying to find Hugo in the mass exodus from the main assembly hall was a fool’s game, so Bren decided to find a spot along the walkway leading to the embassy and just wait for him. If Hugo had fallen for Mikal’s implausible message from Pasna, then he would most likely pass right by. However, Bren hadn’t realized that most of the visiting dignitaries, if not all, would be leaving through the embassy gate. The walkway was crowded with people. Bren left his first spot under a tree just past the senior dorm and joined the crowd, breaking off when they passed a nearby summer garden. Summer gardens were unheard of on Krati, but Kendra brought him here once, explaining that the small cobbled square with a sculpted fountain in the center had been a common feature of upper-caste homes in Roma before the Revolution. Summer gardens were meant for a small group to sit and chat about meaningless things like gossip about the royal family or the latest fashions. However, a small group of friends sat one afternoon in a summer garden belonging to Morek-Li Damato, discussing political philosophy and justice and Denicorizen rights. Thus had the Resistance been born, or so the story went. After the Revolution, people built summer gardens all over the planet in honor of Morek-Li and the Resistance. Bren wondered if Kendra learned about summer gardens in one of her seminars or if her cousin Tiran told her the story.

Where was Kendra’s cousin? The million-senine question on everyone’s lips. The Corizen Protection Force had offered a substantial reward for information leading to her return. He overheard several of the local students speculating about where she might have gone and what they would do with the money if they were the ones to find her. However, the general opinion seemed to be that Tiran Morten would never be found. They believed that the Brotherhood took her, and those the Brotherhood chose to abduct were gone for good. Kendra was probably half crazy with worry, and there was nothing he could do to help.

Bren sat heavily in one of the wrought-iron benches and stared at the busy walkway, scanning heads for Hugo. He kept reminding himself that Hugo would be wearing navy robes instead of the glaring white ones, but even still, a boy with white-blond hair would stick out radically in this group of dark-haired, blue-skinned locals.

After twenty minutes of waiting, the stream of people heading toward the embassy died out completely, though a straggler or two occasionally passed by. Bren was about ready to give up. Either Hugo had beaten him to the embassy or he hadn’t fallen for Mikal’s “message”—in either case, Bren was wasting his time. He wondered whether he was getting worked up over nothing. After all, he had promised that he would meet Mikal for lunch. If he left right now he might not even be that late.

Suddenly, Hugo hurried into view. His dark robes were flapping against his ankles, and his cheeks were red with exertion. He was almost running down the walkway. Obviously, he had believed Mikal’s story in the end. Or at least he didn’t want to risk missing such an opportunity.

Bren leaped off his bench and staggered a bit, pins and needles stabbing his feet. He’d been sitting awkwardly for too long. He tripped over a protruding cobblestone and smacked his shins against the fountain, plunging one arm in all the way to the elbow. Hugo had almost passed the garden altogether. Bren was going to miss him. “Hugo!” he shouted.

Hugo skidded to a stop, staring at Bren with his mouth open.

“Westley?” he said in disbelief. “What are you doing in the fountain?”

Bren yanked his arm out of the freezing water, slime trailing from his sleeve. “Nothing—it was an accident—never mind, I was hoping to catch you.”

Hugo’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “I am late, rube. I don’t have time for your clumsy antics.”

“Look, you shouldn’t go to the embassy.” Bren tried to rub the slime off, only to smear it all over his sleeve. He sighed.

Hugo snorted. “I expect that you saw this as a golden opportunity to humiliate me and hold me back. You overheard what Duren said this morning and knew where I would be. Now you are trying to convince me to avoid a potentially important meeting and offend my mentor.”

“What?” Bren gave a half shake of his head. “What are you talking about? That’s crazy! Since when would you trust Mikal’s word over mine?”

Hugo didn’t answer; he just started walking again, though now at least he wasn’t dashing down the walkway.

“Wait! You don’t honestly think Pasna Nu would use Mikal as a messenger, do you?”

Hugo froze. Even he had to recognize what had been obvious to Bren in just one meeting. Pasna would walk around the whole perimeter of the complex to avoid speaking to Mikal. Hugo turned around slowly, his eyes flashing.

“If you are lying to me, rube, I will...”

Bren never heard the rest of Hugo’s threat.

It was as if the ground suddenly heaved. Bren pitched back into the fountain, smacking the back of his head against the stonework. Time seemed to stretch, an endless moment where Bren struggled to make sense of what was happening. Everything was utterly silent. He stared absently at Hugo, who was on his knees on the walkway. Is Hugo praying? Bren thought disjointedly. Why?

Then the cold wetness seeping through his clothes penetrated the fog, and he realized he was sitting in the pool of water at the bottom of the fountain. Sound rushed back into his ears, and he could hear shouts and an alarm blaring. Hugo was still on his knees, staring over in the direction of the embassy. Bren followed his gaze and saw massive billows of charcoal-gray smoke or ash completely obscuring the embassy from sight. He scrambled out of the fountain and started running, only vaguely aware that Hugo was behind him. There were people dashing toward him, their faces blank with shock or panic. One tall Denicorizen man barreled right into Bren before he could dodge out of the way, and he didn’t even seem to notice. He just kept moving, as if he were being chased by demon hounds. Bren staggered, the breath knocked out of him. Hugo moved past him, swerving around those fleeing from the embassy. Bren took one deep breath and then pushed on, overtaking Hugo easily. When he reached the break in the tall line of trees separating the embassy section of the complex from the university, he stopped abruptly, Hugo smacking into him from behind. He stared at the eight stories of open offices facing the courtyard, piles of smoking rubble and bodies all around.

The Union embassy had been blown apart.