“No,” said Scorio. “Because as far as I can tell, you really are all screwed. Don’t get me wrong. I lived in the ruins for a good long while. I ate from the gruel fountains and wore rags. I’ve no illusions about how hard life is in the wards. But what are you hoping to achieve? Do you think Praximar and the other Autocrators will really sit down with you and listen to your demands? Your people are armed with clubs and spears. You might as well wield spoons for all the good they’ll do you.”
Abentha drew herself up with immense dignity. “Sometimes a fight needs fighting, regardless of the outcome.”
“Easy to say,” said Jova from the side, “while you hide down here.”
Abentha glared at Jova, but Scorio raised a hand. “Listen. None of us here are sympathetic to the way things have been. We all chose to walk away from the Houses. We all know the Empyreal Prophecy was a sham. We know the ruins are encroaching ever faster on the wards. That we have at best ten years before all is consumed. For crying out loud, we just killed a House Enforcer. But how does marching in the streets change anything? There’s never, in almost a thousand years, been a successful revolution.”
“No,” said the older man with the huge mustache. “But we are the lifeblood of the city. We servants, we tradesmen, we merchants, we guards, we families and citizens. If we speak with one voice they can’t just kill us all. They might give the commands, but we’re the ones who actually run Bastion. They must listen to our demands, or rule over ashes.”
Scorio shook his head. “Then you’re more naïve than I thought. Praximar would rather starve than give you a seat at his table, and would happily slaughter people for daring to ask for more.”
“This time will be different,” said Abentha. “We have no choice. If the streets must run red with the blood of innocents, then they shall. This is our battle. We will fight it, for what remains to us if we don’t?”
The other four strangers nodded in agreement.
“You’re willing to die just to prove your point?” asked Jova, her skepticism plain.
“No,” said Abentha. “We’re willing to die in the hopes of opening the Great Soul’s eyes. Otherwise, their blindness will doom us all, regardless.”
“And what exactly do you want?” demanded Jova. “For the Imperators to attack the Pit with renewed vigor? I’m pretty sure they are already doing their best.”
“We’ll leave the Pit to the Imperators,” agreed Abentha stiffly. “But matters in Bastion can be much improved. Poverty is on the rise, and the Houses tax us into perdition. We’re expected to fulfill traditional obligations that hearken to centuries past with the meager resources available to us today. The ruins are squeezing our poor into ever tighter living quarters, but the rich won’t open their wards to us. We live like rats while there are empty manors in the fanciest areas. We want changes in the law code, we want reduced taxes, we do want a seat at the Council Table, and we want to help improve Bastion’s odds of survival at any cost. That’s what we fight for.”
Jova glanced at Scorio and shook her head.
“That’s a tall order,” said Naomi softly. “Like I said, I was born in Bastion, just like you. If I thought there was a chance of convincing the Autocrators to listen, I’d fight eagerly by your side. But they won’t. They’re greed and stupidity personified.”
“Then we’ll die,” said Abentha simply. “We’ll die regardless. Might as well do it with dignity.”
Scorio shook his head. “There has to be a better way.”
Nissa was slowly peeling a long scab off her forearm, revealing pink, tender skin beneath. “Oh? We’re all ears.”
Scorio bit his lower lip and stared out into the middle distance.
They wanted to change how the city was run.
But the people running the city would never agree to a change.
There the matter should rest, deadlocked, but…
“What if we appealed to someone outside the city? The Autocrators are just Pyre Lords. Anybody ranked higher could overrule them.”
“And to whom would we appeal?” asked Abentha archly. “And how? And why would a Blood Baron or Charnel Duke even care about our plight?”
“I…” Scorio trailed off. Sol the Imperator could set matters straight with but a word, but he was impossible to reach. Whom else?
The name came unbidden to his lips. “The White Queen. Of course! She’s the authority on call in case Bastion is ever attacked, right? She could order the Autocrators to listen.”
“That answers the ‘whom,’” said Abentha reluctantly. “But how would you reach her? The beacon that alerts the Fiery Shoals is carefully guarded by the Council.”
“She lives close by, doesn’t she?” Scorio tried to recall. “How far away are the Fiery Shoals?”
Lianshi snorted. “I mean, relative to the tenth layer of Hell, yes, she’s close. The Fiery Shoals are on the outskirts of the Rascor Plains. It would take…”
“At least ten days on foot to reach,” said the mustachioed older man. “If you ran into no trouble and had a guide.”
“Ten days isn’t bad.” Scorio warmed to the idea. “And we want to get out onto the Rascor Plains regardless.”
Abentha’s smile was cold, her tone wintry and supercilious. “And the White Queen would listen to you?”
“She might.” Scorio raised his chin defiantly. “She knows who I am. Knows I helped save Bastion and that Sol spoke for me. She’s the one who personally ordered Praximar to let me into the Academy. If I could get to the Fiery Shoals, I’m sure I could get an audience and explain what’s happening here.”
For the first time, Abentha looked uncertain. “And you believe the White Queen would side with us?”
“Not completely. But she seemed…” Scorio pictured her. A woman defined by her sense of calm confidence and ineffable control. Her hair a blonde so pale it was nearly ivory, her skin alabaster and flawless, her gaze a washed-out blue. Recalled her poise and consideration, her thoughtful, regal nature. “I think she might be willing to listen to both sides, however, and come up with a compromise.”
“Not good enough,” said the young man with glossy hair.
Naomi laughed bitterly. “Better than thousands dying in order to become a historical footnote.”
Nissa hissed as she peeled another long scab off her arm. “Ssssss. The Fiery Shoals is a good ten days away. Whatever’s happening here will be over by then.”
“Not if you agree to stop,” said Scorio, then raised both hands. “Look, it’s your best bet. The White Queen is a Charnel Duchess, and she’s in charge of everything in Bastion and the Rascor Plains, right?”
Everybody nodded.
“If I can reach her, talk to her, convince her that this rebellion is as big a threat to the city as Imogen’s attack was, I’m sure she’ll come. And I’ll be able to present the situation to her first, frame it just right.”
“That’s assuming she doesn’t already know and simply doesn’t care,” said Abentha.
“True,” said Scorio reluctantly. “It’s a bit of a gamble. But fighting in the streets is worse than a gamble. That’s plain suicide. This way you have hope. You have the hope of far greater power than the Autocrators giving you a chance to speak your piece. Ten days. We’ve got ten years till Bastion dies. You can give me ten days.”
“Why?” Abentha’s eyes glittered with fierce emotion. Curiosity? Disbelief? Anger? Resentment? Scorio couldn’t tell. “Why would you do this? You don’t know us. You may have lived in the ruins but the first chance you got you ran to the Academy. Why risk your life for what your kind calls the rabble?”
Scorio smiled tiredly. “It’s like Nissa said. I was cast into beyond the Final Door for being a Red Lister. I’m not good at doing what I’m told, and I’ve already made a true enemy out of Praximar. We killed the Enforcer because it doesn’t sit right with us that regular folks should be made to suffer for asking for peace and justice. So why? Because it’s the right thing to do.”