Realization settled in like a cannonball in a cannon. The four of them turned to face the king.
Vit pushed the stone door, but it didn’t budge. They pressed the trigger tile with their foot. It shifted and clicked, but nothing happened.
Azriah spoke first. “What is this?”
“Insurance,” said the king. “We made a deal. I’d aid you in your efforts—I’d get you into the palace. I’ve given quite a bit more, in fact. I’d say my added assistance has been nothing short of charity. I get you into the palace, you free me from this prison of possession, this brick. I thought this might be a good spot to pause and collect.”
“We’re not out yet,” said Root.
“Ah. That was never part of the terms, but certainly I’m more than happy to help you out there as well. I’ve been nothing if not helpful. I will guide you out—and unlock this door. And I will do it by leading the way.”
“We didn’t get the halo.”
“Also not part of the terms.”
“You’re fucking crazy if you think we’re going to uphold our end of the bargain when we have nothing to show for it.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you have just come into quite a lot of money. More than enough for a human lifetime.”
“Root,” said Azriah, strong and clipped. “Excuse her, she’s overtired.”
“I’m not—!” Azriah’s hard glare shut her up. He was so infuriating.
“No apology needed, I’ve come to understand your individual quirks and shortcomings.” The king clicked his stony tongue and continued. “In any case, I do still hope you all have the integrity to follow through on your promises even if everything didn’t pan out exactly as you’d hoped. Do you, oh, you know, refuse to pay for a chocolate if you decide that you aren’t a tremendous fan of the flavor? Don’t be foolish; I’ve done exactly as you asked. It’s your turn. And a simple choice, I should hope, and not only in the name of integrity. Either we all walk free, or none of us do. Not much sense in the latter, hm?”
Root, Azriah, and Vit shared a long sequence of looks. Vit still wore the weary mask of failure, now only deepened. They’d been the one leading the way, following the king’s instructions. They’d been the one to trip the door. Root didn’t feel it was worth pointing out; judging by their expression, they were well aware of that fact. Beel, on the other hand, had found himself a nice spot in the corner to sit and whimper, face in his hands as he shook his head and muttered about tagging along with people who made terrible decisions.
“Well, hold on,” said Root. “How does that work? We break the brick so you can escape, right? And then what? Don’t you just go zooming away to that big puddle of goo to make a new body or whatever? How are you supposed to lead us out?”
“Ah!” The king’s face came alight. “Right you are. So sorry, I seem to have gotten ahead of myself. On your left there—you see those barrels?”
Root turned. There were two—a pair of huge metal drums each big enough that she could sit inside with plenty of space to lay out a picnic, if that picnic was mostly hors d’oeuvres and other bite-sized samplers. The metal was unlike any she’d seen, with a rough finish and a strange luster. The lids were hinged, firmly latched in four places, and with a tight rubber seal eaten by time but still intact and seated around the lip.
“Straight from Yg Balta—the ‘big puddle of goo,’” said the king. Beel’s whining ceased in an instant and he looked up, eyes wide. “Had them carted out here when I thought, oh, this could be good in case of an emergency. Kind of a novelty, really. Hard to make proper use of—hard to know when you’re going to die, after all. But, ah, what a keen eye for the future I had! This is just perfect.”
“Those are…” started Beel. He eyed the barrels with mounting horror. Vit’s own expression was rapidly shifting in an effort to keep up, but it had a biological disadvantage in such a competition with Beel, who had the added benefit of being on his home field. “You can’t be serious. How…?”
“Oh, a lot of experimenting. And a lot of money.” He turned back to the others. “So, let me explain how this is going to work. I see you’re somewhat familiar with the sequence that ensues after a spirit dies. Yes, the will goes to Yg Balta to reform. But really, all it needs is the right substance to form a new body. A will is attracted to any significant quantity—if that will can reach it. And a will can get into or out of nearly anything.” The king sighed. He looked down at himself, then back up. “These barrels are sealed extremely tightly. They have to be, or we’d have come in here to find some other sorry sap who’d been sitting around for a few centuries—or gotten himself killed wandering my tunnels. As soon as that seal is broken and the barrel opened, any nearby wills en route to Yg Balta will home in on this spot to come brew up a new form. I’d really like for the will arriving there first to be mine. You all would appreciate the same, or else you’ll have a while to wait. So it’s got to be a quick thing: unlatch the lid and break the brick at the same moment. Oh, don’t look so worried—it’s nothing compared to the finesse of working with a skip snare. Even if you don’t get it exactly right, my will will double back as long as it hasn’t gone too far. Best hope something frightening doesn’t swoop in and claim it in the meantime, though!”
Root stared at the barrels. She didn’t know what to do.
“And we have to unlatch both lids simultaneously?” asked Azriah.
“Oh, one will do it. So you’ve got two tries if the need arises.”
If possible, Beel had squashed himself farther into the corner. Root suspected if he turned around, he’d be sporting a corner-shaped, pointed ass.
“So?” asked the king.
Azriah cleared his throat. “I understand the care for self-preservation, but really, this all seems excessive. We’re true to our word. We will let you go free. But we’re also short on time. This sounds… finicky at best. Those latches are how old? Do you know the contents are still… uh… good? If something goes wrong, you end up back at that lake, and we’re done for—trapped, discovered, or dead. Even if it works, the time we’ll spend here jumping through the hoops…” He folded his hands. “We get back out onto the streets, and we break your brick, first thing. You have my word.”
“And what leverage would I have then?”
Azriah began to pace. There wasn’t much room for it, but he managed. Vit placed the king’s brick on a shelf and joined Root at the far end of the room clear of Azriah’s path.
“We can’t let him go,” said Root quietly. “I don’t know about you guys, but I figured we’d just… go back on our promise or something.”
“Really?” asked Vit.
“I mean.” Root shrugged. “He was a tyrant. Capsoul snapped him up to free the city or whatever, right? We can’t just set him loose.”
“Still…”
“I don’t know.” Root drummed her fingers on the lid of one of the barrels. “I just can’t… I don’t know, but something’s wrong here.”
“A lot’s going wrong, I think.”
“I don’t mean it that way.”
Vit shrugged. “We have to let him go though, don’t we? Doesn’t sound like he’s going to cave to our terms, and we can’t stay in here forever. Plus, uh…” They scratched their head. “I mean, the longer we go back and forth about it, the more suspicious it looks, right? If we intended to keep our end and let him go all along, we wouldn’t be so hesitant. Which is exactly what he already suspects. If we confirm those suspicions, it might just make him mad. And if we have to face him anyway…”
“Shit. Yeah, you’re right.”
Azriah dropped his bag on the floor. Beel jumped. Root and Vit turned away from their conversation in time to see him pulling on one of the stolen gauntlets.
“What are you doing?” asked Vit.
Azriah shrugged. “How strong do you think this door is, really?”
Root grinned, but Vit leaped up.
“No!” They put up a hand. “Have you seen this place? These walls are hundreds of years old. You want to bring the ceiling down on top of us?”
Beel grabbed at Azriah’s shin with his stubby hands. “Excellent point, excellent point, no punching please. Please.”
“Every guard in the palace would hear it anyway. And then what? We can’t navigate out without the king.”
“You’d die in a trap within, oh, a minute twenty at your average walking speed,” confirmed the king.
“Then we’re doing his plan,” said Azriah, tugging off the gauntlet. It was a question, punctuated with an expectant look.
Vit thought for a moment. Then they nodded.
Root let out a long breath. “Yeah.”
Beel gave them each a turn at the opposite end of his wild, pleading eyes. Azriah took up the king and repositioned him to a small crate. He drew Orne Tyn.
“How do those latches feel?”
Vit tested one. “They’ll move.”
“Be ready, then. Both of you.”
Vit took two latches, and Root the other two. She wiggled them under her fingers. But it still felt all wrong. Her mind was moving faster now, faster than it had all evening in its cloudy stupor. There was something she wasn’t seeing. There had to be.
“Are you sure…?” started Beel.
Azriah swung his sword, a clean arc with no shortage of force. The blade struck the brick with a clang that split Root’s ears. Fuck. If only she didn’t have that stupid headache…
As the ringing explored every corner of the room, the four of them turned to peer at the brick.
It was whole and undamaged.
Azriah examined Orne Tyn in the low light off Vit’s arms. The blade was equally unmarred, as if the two had never collided.
“That should’ve done it…” started Azriah.
“Guess we’ll have to figure it out later after all,” said Beel. “Time’s ticking and all.”
“You’ll need a lot of force,” said the king. “More than a simple strike. A huge amount of power. Those gauntlets will do the trick. Or you could have Root take care of it.” The king looked sidelong at her with his beady carved eyes. He winked. Root ignored it. It was too hot in that stuffy little room.
Azriah sheathed his sword and put the gauntlets on again, one and then the other. He lifted the brick in both hands.
“Ready?” he asked the others. Vit nodded. But Root’s mind was elsewhere.
With both hands, Azriah started to squeeze.
Renkeston put one meaty hand on the desk, barring the escape route of the tiny spirit before him. It was a sniveling thing, like a Setoterran mouse, sandy-brown and copper with eyes like marbles stuffed into too-small holes and six legs expertly built for running but a brain incapable of wrangling them all to do it in the same direction. It darted all around, blocked easily by his large hands and forearms.
It looked up at him with a fearful expression. A lesser spirit, it couldn’t talk. Renkeston was grateful for this, as it would probably have been crying and being tremendously annoying.
“Mm, all right, let’s see…” He consulted a notebook beside him while absently continuing to corner the scampering spirit. “Trial fifty-eight. New capture method. Come on, stop that.”
He pinched the thing by its scruff and held it aloft to peer into its eyes. He placed the spirit on a small metal mesh and pinned it beneath one finger.
Then he took up a knife and stored it smoothly between the spirit’s shoulder blades. A shriek, a wriggle, then a poof. The body collapsed. Goo dribbled through the mesh as a will jumped into the air.
Renkeston was ready. A third arm pushed down on a lever and a vat opened just beside him. The will altered its course and dove inside.
A second later, Renkeston fished the spirit out of the thick fluid and deposited it back onto the desk, as meek and scamperative as ever. He quickly released the lever and the vat closed with a fwuhh.
Renkeston fanned away the stink of death as he watched the goo of the previous body dribble into the pan beneath the mesh. Watertight, made of glass, it had high enough walls and no draft. Volume lines etched the side, making the progression clear. The liquid diminished, shrinking as if evaporating rapidly. It had nowhere to go, and yet it was going.
He clicked one of his tongues. He just couldn’t make it work—he couldn’t get the will to repurpose the same material. He couldn’t save the old material, no matter how he collected it, captured it. Perhaps if he added it to the vat? But it trickled so slowly, and he’d have to leave the lid open. He didn’t want another incident like the one last week; it had taken days to clean up the lab afterwards.
“Oh, hush,” said Renkeston to the spirit on the desk. “We’re spirits. Immortal. There’s nothing to be afraid of! You’ve been through this—” He glanced at his notes again. “Fifty-eight times! Plus the ones before we started keeping track.”
The spirit pawed at its big eyes, cowering, nose twitching.
Renkeston sighed. “Really, I don’t know what the issue is. You’ll come right back. You always come right back, so there’s nothing to fear. All right?”
He shook his head and plopped the thing back into a nearby cage. He had to experiment with something, of course. He’d do it himself if he could—it wouldn’t be that bad—but he couldn’t very well die and work the lever. Plus there was so much note-taking, which really was the worse end of the stick when you got to thinking about it. And the little thing certainly couldn’t manage a pencil with tiny paws like those.