All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [212]
Eliot turned. “Why is the League doing this? Why are you letting them?”
It was just a guess the League was involved—but a darned good guess in Eliot’s estimation. All the organized violence. Uncle Henry here, doing . . . whatever he was doing.
“I had not the time or the strength to stop them,” Henry whispered. “They’re right, of course: Balboa must go. But you’re right, too, Eliot; there were other ways for those with patience.” He shook his head. “And I have so few friends left. Even if the Colonel had all those nasty habits—suppression of free speech—communism—a taste for women a tad too young.”
Henry took a deep breath and continued. “Alas, he committed the one unpardonable sin: not following the exact letter of the League’s bidding.”
He studied his empty shot glass, surprised it was no longer full. “And communism—ha!—that has never worked among mortals. Even among the Immortals—Zeus and his ‘fair’ autocracy . . . what a farce. Only the Bright Ones ever came close.”55
Robert’s eyes widened with realization. “Balboa has one of your cars.”
“Yes,” Henry said with a sigh. “The 1970 Shelby. So naturally, the League sent me here to prevent him from spiriting away.”
“That’s why the bike didn’t work,” Robert muttered to Eliot. “Henry’s blocking.”
Eliot didn’t understand completely, but he did enough to know they’d be stuck here until Uncle Henry let them go.
“If this is a League-sponsored revolution,” Eliot asked, “why use the military? Why not just let people vote?”
Uncle Henry wobbled to his feet and joined Eliot by the glass wall. “I do love you, child, and your idealism. It is one of the few fragile joys left to me.”
“You could’ve taken Balboa out neat and easy,” Robert spat out. “The only problem is, it might’ve left tracks—and the League couldn’t have that. Nothing covers tracks like a little blood, huh, Mr. Mimes?”
Uncle Henry sobered. “Yes. And even better than a little is a lot. I do wish there was a way to stop this, but set in motion, these things take on a life of their own, I’m afraid.”
Eliot didn’t know what to think. He detected no lie in Uncle Henry’s words. And he did indeed look remorseful (or maybe he was just drunk like Robert said). Still, this situation seemed utterly wrong.
“Look here,” Uncle Henry said, and fished a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket. It was a stamp, triangle shaped, with a pineapple printed on it. He ran a finger over its perforated edges. “Every conflict between two forces has three outcomes. One side can win. Or the other side can.”
He placed the stamp in Eliot’s hand and closed his fingers over it.
“What’s the third option?” Eliot asked.
“Haven’t a clue,” Henry replied. “But I do know there’s always a third option. People just never seem interested in looking long enough to find it.”
Eliot didn’t understand . . . but his hand closed about the stamp. He’d keep it.
He turned and watched as soldiers moved toward the church. One of them shot at a shadow moving behind a stained glass window. Rainbow fragments littered the ground, out of place in this city of gray.
Eliot stomach twisted. He turned Robert. “I have to get down there and stop them. They’re going to kill those people!”
Robert pressed his lips into a single white line. Through gritted teeth, he told Henry, “Unblock my bike, man. We can save them.”
Uncle Henry hesitated and then, “I cannot. I want to, but the League would know.” Henry then cocked his head and looked at the courtyard. “How refreshingly unexpected!”
Eliot stared unbelieving as a single person strode into the courtyard—blocking the soldiers’ advance on the church.
It was Fiona.
55. “Bright Ones.” A seventeenth-century colloquialism for “fairies.”—Editor.
61
WHAT LITTLE GIRLS ARE MADE OF
Fiona stood on a rooftop and watched soldiers in the courtyard below. They went from building to building, searching, pulling people out into the street. It was awful.
Behind her stood six boys from the Force of Arms class, wide-eyed, also watching with fascination. Among them was also the upperclassman who had given her a tour the first day at