Gail wanted what was best for everyone, he was sure of it, and he would do everything in his power to help her succeed.
THE CAROUSEL OF FACES
Mehta looked out of the window of the detention tower, tilting his head to find a vantage point not obscured by oily streaks. Across the Barnyard another tower was being built. It was draped in scaffolding with workmen toiling away on each level. Dozens of men and women also continued their hammering and sawing in the yard below. Along the nearby train tracks the locomotive was no longer stalled. It was pushing diligently southward, pulsing black clouds into the sky in powerful exhalations.
He reopened the window and welcomed a chill breeze into the small office. With the train finally moving away, the noise and smoke would at least be tolerable.
He extended himself to a push-up position on the floor and began his routine. The push-ups, squats, and sit-ups were all he could do to maintain some form of physical discipline. What he really needed, though, was a proper hike to work off his sedentary existence. Unfortunately the twelve-hour shifts Thorpe imposed on him would only allow for brief jogs through town.
And nothing against the Spokes, but he really hated riding bikes.
It was on his third set of squats that he saw her face again. This time it was after the tribesman with the purple hairpiece. Last time it was after the boy hanging from the fork-shaped post on top of the old grocery store in Asheville. Her face was an interloper into the carousel of faces. The others were with him always, as familiar as the back of his hand, revolving through his mind. He could accept their hideous grins and pale complexions, and he could accept the force of their souls weighing down upon him. But hers didn’t belong. Hers was a misplaced gear in the machinery of his mind.
Frustrated, he wiped the sweat from his brow, stalked out of the office to the circular staircase, and descended aggressively with harsh footfalls on the metal steps. When he reached the detention cell level he could see Cecile sitting up, ready with her latest volley of questions.
“Hey, when is Thorpe supposed to arrive?” Cecile asked.
He batted her question away with his hand and walked past her to Flora’s cell. Flora was lying on her cot, eyes closed. Her right eye was still discolored, red marks striped her forearms, and her fingertips were covered in bloody bandages. Her clothes were ragged and worn. It was the only outfit they had provided for her besides the clothes she travelled with.
Despite her haggard appearance, her face was peaceful looking, as if her mind had taken her to some distant memory, far away from here.
“Are you going to wake her up again?” Cecile asked, her face against the bars of her cell. “Is this some other form of torture Thorpe asked you to perform?”
“She confuses me.”
“Confuses you?”
Mehta remembered the day in the clearing when he tried to warn Flora away. Why didn’t she just go home? He should have killed her then. Maybe that’s why she was in the carousel of faces, because she should be dead.
He turned to Cecile in the adjoining cell. Thorpe had said Cecile was being held on suspicion of treason—that she might have killed a hunter named Jakson at the satellite, and then divulged secrets to the Essentialists. It was a hard string of logic, especially since Mehta was with the Essentialists and knew what had really happened. But he couldn’t breach the confidentiality provision of his contract with the curator, so he had to stay silent.
“Why did she come?” Mehta asked Cecile.
“Are you going to torture me as well?” Cecile asked.
Mehta flashed her a look of warning, but it would likely have little influence on Cecile. Threats seemed to have no effect, although perhaps if he answered her original question she would be more limber of tongue.
“Thorpe should be back soon,” he said. “You’ll be on the next train to Syracuse. Then the next day you’ll be able to make your way up to Kingston.”
“Tant pis pour moi,” Cecile said. “I will certainly miss this fine establishment, especially the concierge. I can’t wait to come back for a visit.”
Mehta shook his head in warning. “I wouldn’t push your luck with the railroad. You weren’t far from having an unfortunate accident. Be thankful you aren’t going back in a coffin with a note of apology.”
“Oh bien sur, I wouldn’t be so impolite as to push my luck,” Cecile said. But her sarcasm lacked energy. Cecile wasn’t stupid. She had to know his comment wasn’t far from the truth. “And now because you’ve offered to speak to me for once, you think I’m going to be friendly, is that right?”
He shrugged.
“Don’t you think it’s strange that they have had me, a free citizen of an ally to the Spoke people, in a jail cell for almost a whole week?”
“Not my business.”
“I’m just saying, let’s be clear. You may be fulfilling your contract, but it’s not with the Spoke people, or the lords of Seeville. It’s quite at odds with them, in fact, whatever Bartz or Thorpe tells you. It is honorable to live up to your agreement, but not if your agreement is with the devil.”
Mehta wasn’t sure what a devil was, but he suspected it was something derogative. “I will fulfill my contract.”
“Of course you will.” Cecile rolled her eyes.
He began walking back to the stairs.
“You are from the Smoky Mountains, yes?” Cecile edged in another question behind him.
Mehta turned back around slowly. He was wary of any probing into his past. Unfortunately Rosalie had told Cecile about where he was from. “Yes, what of it?”
“I’ve heard that it’s a tough place, full of warring tribes. Must have been a hard life.”
Mehta didn’t expect her to try to sympathize with him. It only made him more suspicious. “Where are you heading with this tripe, Quebecker?”
She looked around her cell, as if doing a casual inspection of it. “I don’t know. I’m just trying to understand why you could be so obviously malevolent.”
“I’m fulfilling my contract. Mercs aren’t malevolent. We do as others ask.”
“But my question to you is, if your client is malevolent, doesn’t that make you malevolent?”
“There’s no evidence what the railroad is doing is any worse than what the lords of Seeville are doing, or what the Essentialists are doing.”
“Look at Flora. Look at me. I’m not even an enemy.”
“Sometimes life isn’t fair,” Mehta said.
“Wow,” Cecile said, raising her eyebrows. She sat back in her chair.
Mehta stared at her for a minute and then moved back to Flora’s cell. He was about to get his stick out to poke her when Cecile said, “She’s not here for the reasons you think.”
Mehta paused and turned his head to Cecile. “And what are the reasons I think?”
“She’s not here because she wanted to exchange prisoners. Or rather, she did want to exchange prisoners, but not on behalf of the SLS.”
He waited, stick still in hand.
“She wanted the Spokes to release a specific prisoner. Her cousin was captured in a raid. She thinks he’s being held here in Seeville, as a slave. That’s why she insisted on coming.”
Mehta stared at Cecile. There was no reason to believe she was lying. The words made him feel uncomfortable, as if they didn’t fit—as if they weren’t right for the world he knew. It reminded him of something, something that tickled at his memory.