Prodigy (13 page)

Then the most curious thing happens.

The servant pouring Anden’s champagne brings the bottle too close to his glass. It
tips over, and the liquid spills all over the tablecloth, then the glass rolls off
the table and shatters on the floor.

The servant lets out a squeak and drops to her hands and knees. Red curls tumble out
of the neat bun tied behind her head; a few strands fall across her face. I notice
how dainty and perfect her hands are—definitely an upper-class girl. “So sorry, Elector,”
she says over and over. “So sorry. I’ll have the cloth changed right away and get
you a new glass.”

I don’t know what I expected Anden to do. Scold her? Give her a stern warning? Frown,
at least? But to my shock, he pushes back his chair, stands up, and holds out his
hand to her. The girl seems to have frozen. Her brown eyes go wide, and her lips tremble.
In one motion Anden leans down, takes both her hands in his, and pulls her up. “It’s
just a glass of champagne,” he says lightly. “Don’t cut yourself.” Anden waves a hand
at one of the soldiers near the door. “A broom and tray, please. Thank you.”

The soldier nods in a hurry. “Of course, Elector.”

While the servant rushes away for a new glass and a janitor comes in to sweep the
broken one safely away, Anden takes his seat again with all the grace of royalty.
He picks up a fork and knife with impeccable etiquette, then cuts a small piece of
pork. “So tell me, Agent Iparis. Why did you want to see me in person? And
what happened
on the evening of Day’s execution?”

I follow his lead, picking up my own fork and knife and cutting into my meat. The
chains on my wrists are exactly long enough for me to eat, as if someone had taken
the trouble to measure them out. I push the surprise of the champagne incident out
of my mind and start planting the story that Razor made up for me. “I
did
help Day escape his execution, and the Patriots helped me. But after it was over,
they wouldn’t let me go. It seemed like I’d finally gotten away from them when your
guards arrested me.”

Anden blinks slowly. I wonder if he believes anything I’m saying. “You’ve been with
the Patriots for the last two weeks?” he says after I’ve finished chewing a slice
of pork. The food’s exquisite; the meat so tender, it practically melts in my mouth.

“Yes.”

“I see.” Anden’s voice tightens with distrust. He dabs his mouth with a cloth napkin,
then puts his silverware down and leans back. “So. Day is alive, or he was when you
left him? Is he also working with the Patriots?”

“When I left, he was. I don’t know about now.”

“Why is he working with them, when he always avoided them in the past?”

I shrug a little, trying to feign puzzlement. “He needs help finding his brother,
and he’s indebted to the Patriots for fixing his leg. He had an infected bullet wound
from . . . all this.”

Anden pauses long enough to take a small sip of champagne. “Why did you help him escape?”

I flex my wrist so that the cuffs don’t leave imprints against my skin. My shackles
clank loudly against each other. “Because he didn’t kill my brother.”

“Captain Metias Iparis.” The sound of my brother’s full name sends a wave of anguish
through me. Does he know how my brother died? “I’m sorry for your loss.” Anden bows
his head a little, an unexpected sign of respect that makes a lump rise in my throat.

“I remember reading about your brother when I was younger, you know,” he continues.
“I read about his grades in school, how well he performed on his Trial, and
especially
how good he was with comps.”

I spear a strawberry, chew it thoughtfully, then swallow. “I never knew my brother
had such an esteemed fan.”

“I wasn’t a fan of
him,
per se, although he was certainly impressive.” Anden picks up his new champagne glass
and sips. “I was a fan of
you.
”

Remember, be obvious. Make him think you’re flattered. And attracted to him.
He
is
handsome, for sure—so I try to focus on that. The light from the wall lamps catches
the wavy edges of his hair, making it shine; his olive skin has a warm, golden glow;
his eyes are rich with the color of spring leaves. Gradually I feel a blush growing
on my cheeks.
Good, keep going.
He’s some mix of Latin blood, but the ever-so-slight slant of his large eyes and the
delicateness of his brow reveal a hint of Asian heritage.
Like Day.
Suddenly, my attention scatters, and all I can see is me and Day kissing in that Vegas
bathroom. I remember his bare chest, his lips against my neck, his intoxicating defiance
that makes Anden pale by comparison. The subtle blush on my cheeks flares into bright
heat.

The Elector tilts his head to the side and smiles. I take a deep breath and compose
myself. Thank goodness I still managed to get the reaction I was aiming for.

“Have you thought about why the Republic has been so lenient, given your betrayal
of the state?” Anden says, toying idly with his fork. “Anyone else would already have
been executed. But not you.” He straightens in his chair. “The Republic has been watching
you since you scored that perfect fifteen hundred on your Trial. I’ve heard about
your grades, and your performance in Drake’s afternoon drills. Several Congressmen
nominated you for political assignment before you even finished your freshman year
at Drake. But they ultimately decided to assign you to the military instead, because
your personality has ‘officer’ written all over it. You’re a celebrity in the inner
circles. Your being convicted of disloyalty would be a tremendous loss to the Republic.”

Does Anden know the
truth
of how my parents and Metias were killed? That their disloyalty cost them their lives?
Does the Republic value me so much that they’re hesitant to execute me despite my
recent crime
and
traitorous family ties? “How did you see me around the Drake campus?” I say. “I don’t
remember hearing that you visited the university.”

Anden cuts into a heart of palm on his plate. “Oh no. You wouldn’t have heard it.”

I give him a quizzical frown. “Were you . . . a student at Drake while I was there?”

Anden nods. “The administration kept my identity a secret. I was seventeen—a sophomore—when
you came to Drake at twelve. We all heard a lot about you, obviously—and your antics.”
He grins at that, and his eyes sparkle mischievously.

The Elector’s son had been walking amongst the rest of us at Drake, and I didn’t even
know it. My chest swells with pride at the thought of the Republic’s leader taking
notice of me on campus. Then I shake my head, guilty for liking the attention. “Well,
I hope not
everything
you heard was bad.”

Anden reveals a dimple in his left cheek when he laughs. It’s a soothing sound. “No.
Not
everything.
”

Even I have to smile. “My grades were good, but I’m pretty sure my dean’s secretary
is happy I won’t be haunting her office anymore.”

“Miss Whitaker?” Anden shakes his head. For a moment he drops his formal façade, ignoring
etiquette by slouching back in his chair and making a circular gesture with his fork.
“I’d been called in to her office too, which was funny because she had no idea who
I was. I’d gotten into trouble for switching out the heavy practice rifles in the
gym for foam ones.”

“That was
you
?” I exclaim. I remember that incident well. Freshman year, drill class. The foam
rifles had looked so real. When the students had bent down in unison to pick up what
they thought were heavy guns, they’d all yanked the foam ones up so hard that half
the students toppled over backward from the force. The memory gets a real laugh out
of me. “That was
brilliant.
The drill captain was so mad.”

“Everyone needs to get in trouble at least once in college, right?” Anden smirks and
drums his fingers against his champagne glass. “
You
always seemed to cause the most trouble, though. Didn’t you force one of your classes
to evacuate?”

“Yes. Republic History Three-oh-two.” I try to rub my neck in momentary embarrassment,
but my shackles stop me. “The senior sitting next to me said I wouldn’t be able to
hit the fire alarm lever with his training gun.”

“Ah. I can see you’ve always made good choices.”

“I was a junior. Still kind of immature, I admit,” I reply.

“I disagree. All things considered, I’d say you were well beyond your years.” He smiles,
and my cheeks turn pink again. “You have the poise of someone much older than fifteen.
I was glad to finally meet you at the celebratory ball that night.”

Am I really sitting here, eating dinner and reminiscing about good old Academy days
with the Elector Primo? Surreal. I’m stunned by how easy it is to talk to him, this
discussion of familiar things in a time when so much strangeness surrounds my life,
a conversation where I can’t accidentally offend anyone with an offhand class-related
remark.

Then I remember why I’m really here. The food in my mouth turns to ash.
This is all for Day.
Resentment floods through me, even though I’m wrong for feeling it. Am I? I wonder
if I’m really ready to murder someone for his sake.

A soldier peeks through the chamber entrance. He salutes Anden, then clears his throat
uncomfortably as he realizes that he must’ve cut the Elector off in the middle of
our conversation. Anden gives him a good-natured smile and waves him in. “Sir, Senator
Baruse Kamion wants a word with you,” the soldier says.

“Tell the Senator I’m busy,” Anden replies. “I’ll contact him after my dinner.”

“I’m afraid he insisted that you speak to him now. It’s about the, ah . . .” The soldier
considers me, then hurries over to whisper in Anden’s ear. I still catch some of it,
though. “The stadiums. He wants to give . . . message . . . should end your dinner
right away.”

Anden raises an eyebrow. “Is that what he said? Well. I’ll decide when my own dinner
ends,” he says. “Deliver
that
message back to Senator Kamion whenever you see fit. Tell him that the next Senator
to send me an impertinent message will answer to me directly.”

The soldier salutes vigorously, his chest puffed out a little at the thought of delivering
a message like this to a Senator. “Yes, sir. Right away.”

“What’s your name, soldier?” Anden asks before he can leave.

“Lieutenant Felipe Garza, sir.”

Anden smiles. “Thank you, Lieutenant Garza,” he says. “I will remember this favor.”

The soldier tries to keep a straight face, but I can see pride in his eyes and the
smile right below the surface. He bows to Anden. “Elector, you honor me. Thank you,
sir.” Then he steps out.

I observe the exchange with fascination. Razor had been right about one thing—there
is definitely tension between the Senate and their new Elector. But Anden is no fool.
He’s been in power for less than a week, and already he’s doing exactly what he should
be: trying to cement the military’s loyalty to him. I wonder what else he’s doing
to win their trust. The Republic army had been fiercely faithful to his father; in
fact, that loyalty was probably what made the late Elector so powerful. Anden knows
this, and he’s making his move as early as possible. The Senate’s complaints are useless
against a military that backs Anden without question.

But they
don’t
back Anden without question,
I remind myself. There’s Razor, and his men. Traitors in the military’s ranks are
moving into place.

“So.” Anden delicately cuts another slice of pork. “You brought me all the way here
to tell me that you helped a criminal escape?”

For a moment there’s no sound except the clinking of Anden’s fork against his plate.
Razor’s instructions echo in my mind—the things I need to say, the order I need to
say them in. “No . . . I came here to tell you about an assassination plot against
you.”

Anden puts his fork down and holds two slender fingers up in the direction of the
soldiers. “Leave us.”

“Elector, sir,” one of them starts to say. “We’re not to leave you alone.”

Anden pulls a gun from his belt (an elegant black model I’ve never seen before) and
places it on the table next to his plate. “It’s all right, Captain,” he says. “I’ll
be quite safe. Now, please, everyone. Leave us.”

The woman Anden called Captain gestures to her soldiers, and they file silently from
the room. Even the six guards standing next to me leave. I am alone in this chamber
with the Elector himself, separated by twelve feet of cherrywood.

Anden leans both of his elbows on the table and tents his fingers together. “You came
here to warn me?”

“I did.”

“But I heard you were
caught
in Vegas. Why didn’t you turn yourself in?”

“I was on my way here, to the capital. I wanted to get to Denver before turning myself
in so I’d have a better chance of talking to you. I definitely wasn’t planning to
be arrested by a random patrol in Vegas.”

“And how did you get away from the Patriots?” Anden gives me a hesitant, skeptical
look. “Where are they now? Surely they must be pursuing you.”

I pause, lower my eyes, and clear my throat. “I hopped a Vegas-bound train the night
I managed to get away.”

Anden stays quiet for a moment, then puts down his fork and dabs his mouth. I’m not
sure if he believes my escape story or not. “And what were their plans for you, if
you hadn’t gotten away?”

Keep it vague for now.
“I don’t know all the details about what they had planned for me,” I reply. “But
I do know they’re planning some sort of attack at one of your morale-boosting stops
along the warfront, and that I was supposed to help them. Lamar, Westwick, and Burlington
were places they mentioned. The Patriots have people in place too, Anden—people here
in your inner circle.”

I know I’m taking a risk by using his first name, but I’m trying to keep our new rapport
going. Anden doesn’t seem to notice—he just leans over his plate and studies me. “How
do you know this?” he says. “Do the Patriots
realize
you know? Is Day involved in all this too?”