other, they looked long and hard and something passed between them. The less-intelligent might have read it as some sort of sibling telepathy, but Trevor knew it for what it was: a dawning realization they shared.
Trevor watched in horror as slowly Cameron crawled to her sister, but instead of striking Shelley, she embraced her. They hugged each other.
From his shadowy perch, Trevor wrung his hands. His heart was beating quickly, his face hot. He couldn’t think what he should do, not yet. He was filled with a shameful fear.
The sisters were crying. Their quarrel had been going on for years.
A loud crack shook the floor, the sound reverberating through the cavernous space of the warehouse. The sisters, still in each other’s arms, both snapped their heads up, eyes darting about. They did not seem to know their peril lay beneath them.
Trevor held his breath.
The sisters were motionless. Slowly, their heads turned downward to look at the floor. It gave way, wood splintering noisily, abruptly, and the sisters fell out of sight, into darkness, in each other’s arms to the very end.
Trevor laughed to himself and shook his head to clear it of his memories.
“I am sorry. I did not understand what you said.”
He blinked, staring. He’d come down the spiraling stairs of the drained pool and had reached the end of the tunnel where one of the doors to the Archon’s chambers stood.
“Please repeat yourself,” the lock on the door said to him.
Trevor cleared his throat. “Open for—”
“Please repeat yourself.”
Trevor gritted his teeth. One had to speak very clearly to the locks on the doors; they were of limited intelligence, although several of them, spread throughout the Ziggurat, knew a joke or two if one had the patience and inclination to converse with them.
“Open for me,” he said.
“Is that you, Trevor Rothschilde?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“How are you today?”
“Fine. I’m fine.”
There was a thud as the bolt drew back on its own, and the door swung slowly open.
“The Archon is in one of his moods, I’m afraid,” the lock said.
Trevor pushed his way through and began to walk down the dimly-lit corridor.
“Have an excellent day!” the lock called after him.
The corridor was straight and very long, lined with tiny orange lights that flickered slightly, as if to simulate candle flames in a light breeze. But there was no breeze, the air still and sour.
After the sisters had fallen to their deaths, he’d gained control of the nova fruit importation business, but only briefly. He had not been interested in such things, unconcerned with the possible financial profits it could have afforded him, and instead sought out greater things. He’d given control of the business to Lloyd Shillinger—a man born of certain privileges, and of limited and easily manipulated intelligence—while he continued to run messages, this time for the heirotimates, sometimes even to the Ziggurat itself.
When he reached the end of the corridor, he stopped for a moment. He cleared his throat again.
Across the arched doorway was drawn a crimson curtain, identical to all of the other tunnels that led to the Archon’s chambers, heat radiating from within, pulsing the fabric rhythmically—the heart of the city.
Trevor pulled the curtain aside. He stepped into the muggy heat, blinking through the hanging steam. For a moment, a sharp thread of irritation rose up to tickle the back of his throat as he thought about what the lock on the door had said. How could that stupid thing possibly know what sort of mood the Archon would be in? It was even more irritating that this particular lock was, more often than not, correct in its admonishments.
The heels of his shoes clapped on the obsidian tile.
“Ah, Trevor, my little bastard. Come forward.”
Trevor pushed his body through the steam.
There was a loud humming sound and the grinding of metal on metal. The Archon’s platform trundled to meet him along its
Trevor watched in horror as slowly Cameron crawled to her sister, but instead of striking Shelley, she embraced her. They hugged each other.
From his shadowy perch, Trevor wrung his hands. His heart was beating quickly, his face hot. He couldn’t think what he should do, not yet. He was filled with a shameful fear.
The sisters were crying. Their quarrel had been going on for years.
A loud crack shook the floor, the sound reverberating through the cavernous space of the warehouse. The sisters, still in each other’s arms, both snapped their heads up, eyes darting about. They did not seem to know their peril lay beneath them.
Trevor held his breath.
The sisters were motionless. Slowly, their heads turned downward to look at the floor. It gave way, wood splintering noisily, abruptly, and the sisters fell out of sight, into darkness, in each other’s arms to the very end.
Trevor laughed to himself and shook his head to clear it of his memories.
“I am sorry. I did not understand what you said.”
He blinked, staring. He’d come down the spiraling stairs of the drained pool and had reached the end of the tunnel where one of the doors to the Archon’s chambers stood.
“Please repeat yourself,” the lock on the door said to him.
Trevor cleared his throat. “Open for—”
“Please repeat yourself.”
Trevor gritted his teeth. One had to speak very clearly to the locks on the doors; they were of limited intelligence, although several of them, spread throughout the Ziggurat, knew a joke or two if one had the patience and inclination to converse with them.
“Open for me,” he said.
“Is that you, Trevor Rothschilde?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“How are you today?”
“Fine. I’m fine.”
There was a thud as the bolt drew back on its own, and the door swung slowly open.
“The Archon is in one of his moods, I’m afraid,” the lock said.
Trevor pushed his way through and began to walk down the dimly-lit corridor.
“Have an excellent day!” the lock called after him.
The corridor was straight and very long, lined with tiny orange lights that flickered slightly, as if to simulate candle flames in a light breeze. But there was no breeze, the air still and sour.
After the sisters had fallen to their deaths, he’d gained control of the nova fruit importation business, but only briefly. He had not been interested in such things, unconcerned with the possible financial profits it could have afforded him, and instead sought out greater things. He’d given control of the business to Lloyd Shillinger—a man born of certain privileges, and of limited and easily manipulated intelligence—while he continued to run messages, this time for the heirotimates, sometimes even to the Ziggurat itself.
When he reached the end of the corridor, he stopped for a moment. He cleared his throat again.
Across the arched doorway was drawn a crimson curtain, identical to all of the other tunnels that led to the Archon’s chambers, heat radiating from within, pulsing the fabric rhythmically—the heart of the city.
Trevor pulled the curtain aside. He stepped into the muggy heat, blinking through the hanging steam. For a moment, a sharp thread of irritation rose up to tickle the back of his throat as he thought about what the lock on the door had said. How could that stupid thing possibly know what sort of mood the Archon would be in? It was even more irritating that this particular lock was, more often than not, correct in its admonishments.
The heels of his shoes clapped on the obsidian tile.
“Ah, Trevor, my little bastard. Come forward.”
Trevor pushed his body through the steam.
There was a loud humming sound and the grinding of metal on metal. The Archon’s platform trundled to meet him along its
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