All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [155]
Eliot didn’t like the Ticket Master’s sudden interest. He twisted around to get a better look at the man’s eyes. Something glittered in them, sharp and dangerous.
The Ticket Master lowered his gaze even more.
Eliot felt an unfamiliar heat build within him.
“How easy it must be to get information along your route,” Eliot said. “And how many must ply you for such trinkets of truth. But I wonder how easy it would be with your tongue removed from your head?”
Eliot blinked, startled at the ferocity of his words. It was as if someone else had said them.
The effect, however, was immediate. The Ticket Master bowed so low, he touched the floor with his giant hands.
“I beg your forgiveness, young Master. The House of Umbra pays for any information pertaining to the Poppy Lands with whom they have sanction to wage open civil war. All know this.”
Eliot was once again in way over his head, but at least the Ticket Master had laid out the major players: Queen Sealiah of the Poppy Lands on one side, the House of Umbra and Mephistopheles on the other.
“Silence can be rewarded, as well,” Eliot said. “Consider discretion an investment should Queen Sealiah prevail, eh?”
Eliot marveled at how much he sounded like his father, and was worried by it, too.
“Thank you, young Master Post.” The Ticket Master rose. “So it shall be.”
The train slowed and entered a station the size of an aircraft hangar made from panes of frosted glass like a hothouse.
“Your stop, sir,” the Ticket Master said.
Eliot slipped out the back. The air was so humid, he could barely breathe. It smelled of decay and freshly turned earth.
After a moment, the train started again to move. Eliot jumped off.
As he landed, his fingers lightly brushed the dirt. As when he had felt the earth of the Blasted Lands, reaching through the Gates of Perdition, it felt alien . . . but as desolate as that place had been, this earth felt full of life to the bursting point.
Eliot spied motion beyond the frosted glass of the station house, a figure whose stride he knew well: Jezebel.
He followed her.
Outside, there were more buildings, and one that looked like a stable, but they’d all been boarded up and abandoned.
The smell of the air was like Jezebel’s perfume: vanilla and cinnamon and a hundred other exotic spices. It was like trying to inhale underwater, only instead of drowning, Eliot felt intoxicated.
A road of worn gray stone wound between hills and through the jungle. On a distant hill, fire flashed. Eliot had seen this before: cannon. The echoing thunder confirmed his suspicion. There was the retort of gunfire and the curling smoke from a hundred rifles that illuminated swords and spears and claws.
It was war. So close.
Was this what Jezebel had to go through every day to get to school?
Eliot no longer saw her.
He’d been a fool, sightseeing while she’d moved on.
He jogged down the road.
As he rounded the first curve, jungle gave way to a field of tall grass and red opium blossoms.
Part of the field, however, had been burned, the soil turned over, and heaps of salt scattered upon it. In those places were shadows—crisscrossing where they had no business being cast.
Eliot was afraid. Not for his own safety, but for Jezebel’s.
There was no sign of her anywhere, and from his vantage, he could see the curve of the road for miles. There was no way she could have gotten so far ahead of him. Something had happened to her.
He ran—
—but made only a few strides before a crushing force hit him from behind, lifted him off the road, and into the tall grass, rolling over and over with him.
Something smashed against the side of his head.
Eliot shrugged off the weight on his chest, scrambled to his feet, and raised his fists.
Jezebel lay before him, her hair tousled over her face.
Next to where she’d pinned him was a pulverized rock. Eliot touched his head, and pebbles of granite fell free.
“You hit me?” He rubbed his head. There was no blood . .