Fejak looked around dejectedly, his shoulders drooping, then helped her out to the corridor, carrying the bag they’d filled with soiled cloths. She shut the door behind them, the noise cutting out immediately. Thank the Gods. Had Fejak been able to speak, she was sure he’d have implored her to hurry.
Fejak had cleaned her and Makkdarm’s bloodstains from the floor with an alcohol-based cleaning solution.
“You lead,” she said, her voice wavering. It was hard to speak clearly.
Fejak held the door, then locked it with his code. She followed him, pushing at the wall to stay upright. Her helmet lenses flickered on again, bathing her world in cold green light. The lenses had never been at fault; they operated on vibration energy, and she’d entered a hotbed of unholy energy.
Fejak peeked through a spyhole at the garage-end of the passage, then opened the secret door. Into the dim garage, where soft grey light leaked from outside. Only minutes until the shift rotation bell and the chapterhouse would awaken. Gods, they’d taken so long! She stumbled from dizziness and blood loss. She waited for Fejak to open the internal garage door and slide it closed behind them.
She removed her helmet and looked into Fejak’s eyes, which darted nervously in his horrified face. If he looked like that, she’d look worse. She sprayed his face with the memory solution.
“Head Fejak,” she said. “Thank you for your expertise with the surgery kit. You are very good at field surgery. I would be close to death without you, right now.” She was not supposed to speak so directly, but it felt wrong not to acknowledge him. “You will give me your gloves, return to your apartment, undress, and go to bed with your wife. You will forget all our interactions, and all you have seen and done tonight. You will return discreetly to your apartment, ensuring you remain unseen. You will erase, completely and utterly, all memory of this night, and when you wake, you will believe utterly that you slept an unbroken sleep from bedtime to waking. If your wife mentions your absence, you will recall that you listened to the waves in your floor’s lounge room and did not go to the garages. Repeat these instructions.”
He did, perfectly, with a sigh of relief. Fejak might remember this night as a dream—or nightmare—but wouldn’t consider it real. Holder Moorcam said the subconscious needed to work out what it had seen, and so Fejak might have strange emotions or flashbacks. But he was unlikely to do anything other than wake up feeling oddly tired in an hour or so.
Without a backward glance, Fejak walked up a nearby staircase, his footsteps fading to nothing.
Once again, Terese was alone. With her thoughts, her memories. Her deeds, and her conscience.
18
Almost safe. Her lips were dry, and she was hot all over. So close. In full plate armor, she tottered unsteadily from the garage with the soiled bag of surgical remnants and her satchel over her shoulder. The anesthesia was wearing off and the bag’s weight made the scar above her hip angrier. The sun would be nearing the RimWall. In seconds the bell would tell the guards to change duty.
She couldn’t return to her room in stolen, damaged plate armor with a bag of bloody cloths. There was every reason to believe someone would find Makkdarm’s corpse within the hour, see through Fejak’s clean-up operation and spark an emergency chapterhouse-wide inspection. She could keep the surgical equipment, spare dressings and painkillers she’d taken—a med kit was standard in an officer’s apartment.
Two destinations before she was safe.
First, the spare property room to ditch her damaged Sumadan plate. Second, the incinerator to dispose of the bag of bloody cloths and surgical swaddles. If either were found on her, she was good as dead.
She waited in alcoves as footsteps passed by. She hid under staircases. The more she walked, the more her side ached.
The spare property rooms were open all day and night. The bulb lay in its tray, waiting to be placed on its coil. She left it off. The room was stacked with shelves on every wall, with free-standing shelves in the center. She stripped off her arm, leg and groin plates, then her helmet and boots, then finally the broken chestplate that had saved her life, leaving her clad only in underclothes. Each item was unceremoniously hurled behind other discarded plate, used blankets, spare boots or old sharpening kits. Hopefully, no one would ever realize a full fresh set of head’s plate had been distributed around the room. She pulled simple, casual clothes and shoes from her satchel, grunting at the pain of stretching an arm through its hole in her clean shirt.
Movement in the corridor. Footsteps, mutterings. She pushed against the wall, too tired to think. If she were found, it was over. No strength for another fight. She held her breath, willing the guards to keep going.
Waited…
They passed by, although surely her heartbeat had been loud enough to give her away.
Of course they didn’t come in. They’re on the way to change the guard. Relax, Terese. Act normal! Get rid of the rags.
The cloth bag and the clothes inside would burn easily. The bell sounded as she approached the incinerator room, surprising her and crumpling her to her knees. The day had begun. The bell echoed down corridors and across courtyards. Had it rung longer and louder than usual? She pushed herself up and into the incinerator room, checking to ensure the room was dark. She put on the bulb and hurled the bag over the rail, into the incinerator with her good arm. Pressed the ignition. She winced at the pain in her side. She shook her head and pressed a hand to her temple. The orange firelight spread, burning bag and rags. The light of safety. She leaned back, pushing her hot face against the room’s cool stone wall. She allowed herself a minute’s rest.
Nothing
