“How much time do I have?”
The Commander refused to answer.
Which meant not much. Valek knew the Commander’s physical body was female, but Ambrose had always identified as male and lived as a man since puberty. No one else was privy to this information except Yelena. Her Soulfinding abilities detected that the Commander’s mother’s soul also resided in his body. When Signe had died in childbirth, her magic transferred her soul to her baby. The Commander had trusted Yelena and Valek to keep it a secret.
“I came to talk to your mother,” Valek said.
He shrank back in his chair. “She can’t talk.”
“She can if you let her.”
“I can’t... Owen...” He pressed his fingers into his temples as if enduring a sudden headache.
“Signe’s the reason for the inconsistencies. Why you could send me and Yelena away, despite Owen’s influence on your mind. Owen doesn’t have control of your mother’s soul.”
“Owen thinks he does, but he can’t know...or all is lost.”
“I’ll be quick so he doesn’t find out,” Valek promised.
The transformation of Commander Ambrose into his mother, Signe, would have been startling if Valek hadn’t seen it before. His features didn’t shift, but from one breath to the next, another person peered from his almond-shaped eyes. Even with his bristle-short gray hair, she appeared feminine.
“How did Owen get to Ambrose?” Valek asked her.
“Owen pleaded for his life. He promised my son barrels of Curare for his army in exchange. It appeared to be a standard business deal, but Owen planted a...seed, I think, during that first meeting.”
“A seed?”
“A powerful suggestion in Ambrose’s mind that Owen was to be trusted.”
Ah, hell. That was over four years ago.
“What happened to the null shields in his uniforms?”
“Owen forced Ambrose to lie about them to you so you wouldn’t suspect he was being influenced by the magician.”
Valek considered. “It worked. Plus, I didn’t notice any change in him. Not then.”
“No one did. It was subtle. In fact, Ambrose wouldn’t believe me—he was too focused on getting Curare for his soldiers. Owen kept the connection hidden until he arrived at the castle. By then it was too late.”
“When is Owen planning to take over Sitia?”
“Once the Cartel has control of the Sitian military, it’s a done deal. They are going to assign military districts and generals to the clans.”
“The Sitian people won’t accept that.” Especially Fisk and his people.
“Owen and the Cartel have a way to change their minds.”
“There isn’t enough Theobroma for everyone in Sitia.”
“They don’t need Theobroma. They have something else,” Signe said.
A cold wave of fear swept through him. “What is it?”
“I wish I knew. Owen won’t tell Ambrose what it is. But it doesn’t matter at this point. My son cannot disobey Owen’s commands.”
“But you can?”
“For now. Owen believes I’m trapped, like Ambrose, and we’ve been careful to keep up the ruse.”
Good to know. Valek focused on the problem at hand. “Do you have any idea what it is?”
“All I know is that Owen learned about it from his ancestor, Master Magician Ellis Moon. It was in the magician’s notes.”
Valek muttered a curse. “Does Owen have those notes with him?”
“I don’t think so. He complained that he could only copy the information, despite being a direct descendant. They’re considered vital historical documents and are kept in the Magician’s Keep’s library. He made an odd comment about how the library wouldn’t let him take the files.”
Muted voices reached them through the gap under the door. The doorknob jiggled.
“You need to go,” Signe said.
9
JANCO
Janco resisted the urge to scratch. No matter what color he dyed his hair, it always caused his scalp to itch something fierce. And the fake ear glued over his scarred one just added to his discomfort. Sweat pooled underneath the putty, driving him crazy. Add in the heat and humidity, and Janco longed for an assignment on the northern ice sheet. At this point, he’d gladly endure frostbite and evade snow cats. Better than dodging deadly Greenblade bees.
The creak of wood and rattle of a harness cut through Janco’s misery. From his hiding spot, he craned his neck, peering around a bush. Sure enough, a wagon rode into view, heading west. Two horses pulled it at a fast trot. Janco waited as it slowed. The driver—a tall, impossibly thin Greenblade man Janco had nicknamed Toothpick—must have spotted the tree trunk lying across the road. The tree wasn’t big enough to halt the wagon entirely, but in order to continue his journey, the driver would have to roll over it with care or risk a broken wheel.
Janco shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. When the horses stepped over the log, he slipped behind the wagon. As the wheels thumped over the obstruction, Janco climbed in and crawled under the tarp, avoiding the sacks of white coal as he wedged his body between the other supplies.
The wagon increased its speed after it cleared the trunk. Janco grinned and pumped his fist. Toothpick didn’t have a clue he’d just picked up a passenger. Not sure how long it would be until they stopped, Janco settled into a more comfortable position.