Chapter 20: The Music of Bones

Sabine was led away, and Mercedes reflected how strange it felt to be making a semi-official appearance without her uniform. In its place, to look mildly presentable she had donned her best black trousers and matched it with a collared, sleeveless tunic that hung to her calves and buttoned up the front. The buttons matched the handle of the knife sheathed along her waistband at the small of her back, hidden. She smoothed her clothes free of creases as she took a steadying breath in front of the palace.

"You look like you're going to a funeral."

Mercedes' expression didn't change as she turned around. By the time the sun set it may be true, after all. "That's the second time you've said that," she told Valentin. He remained on horseback and waved away the offer from the stablehand to take his reins. "You didn't have to escort me," she added.

He shrugged. "I'll wait." He eyed the gate with undisguised animosity and worry.

She shrugged, too. "Suit yourself."

Mercedes walked to the gate and presented Pixis' medal to the guards there. She'd been surprised - but now grateful - that for some reason Pixis had refused when she had offered to give it back to him. It gave her a much-needed shred of confidence in what she was doing here.

"May we ask the reason for your visit, Warden?"

Mercedes guessed that not only did Historia have something to do with the lack of 'Hollow' in front of 'Warden', but that word of her resignation had not yet reached everyone. "I've come for an audience with the Commander-in-Chief. He should be expecting me."

The port-cochere-like gatehouse opened immediately into cloistered gardens with a fountain in the middle; a lone gardener was doing her best to water the already-wilted plants and smiled hesitantly at her. While another guard darted off down one of the cloisters to inform whomever he needed to inform, Mercedes wandered closer to the fountain. The evening sun cut harsh shadows over the flagstones. She was beginning to feel the burn of the ring in her pocket when familiar voices had her looking right.

Historia emerged from an open hall with a trio of aides, talking excitedly. They were turning to walk through the cloisters when Historia spotted her. "'Cee! I didn't know you'd be stopping by! How wonderful." The aides hovered in the shadows.

Although in truth she hadn't known the girl that well, Mercedes smiled nonetheless. She stood to attention despite herself and managed a half-bow as Historia approached her. "Your Highness," she greeted. "Don't let me stop you - you seem to be on a mission," she nodded at her riding gear.

Historia waved a hand. "It's fine, really. I was about to visit the orphanage. I'm glad I saw you, in fact," she smiled. "I was going to write…"

"Oh?"

"I'm in the market for a physician for the orphanage, you see. I tried to convince Wil Ives - you remember him from the Scouting Legion, don't you? - but he wasn't having any of it. He and Ronan are too attached, I think. Anyhow - will you think about it?"

The suggestion caught Mercedes off-guard and she gave a huff of nervous laughter, "Your Highness I was just a field medic and nowhere near Ives' caliber, for that matter. I wouldn't know what to do with children. I appreciate you thinking of me, though."

Historia put her hands on her hips. "Shit, why is it so difficult to find a doctor in need of their own practice nowadays! I suppose I'll think of something."

Mercedes wanted to comment that most of them were likely dead at this point, but resisted. She smiled again. "I'm sure you'll find someone."

"Warden?" Mercedes turned to look behind her, and across the small courtyard saw the guard who'd gone away earlier gesturing at an open door to another hall. "The Commander-in-Chief will see you."

She nodded at him and turned back to Historia, finding her disguising her curious look over her shoulder. When she met Mercedes' eyes she gave a smaller, more genuine smile, "The title suits you," she said. Something unusual clouded Historia's face for a brief moment as she gazed again at the open door behind Mercedes. Then it was gone. "We'll see each other soon, I hope!"

Mercedes held her gaze for a moment, detecting the disguised request behind the platitude. "Of course," she said, and this seemed to satisfy the Queen.

"Your Majesty," one of the aides was calling. "The hawks have arrived."

Mercedes bowed to her and the two of them parted.

The guard led her into the palace proper, the western wing that contained the throne room and who knew what else. Her natural curiosity to explore the building, illuminate her mental map of it in much the same way Fhalz did wherever he went, was swamped by a cold sweat as they went farther down the cool, checkerboard-tiled hall. Their footsteps echoed. The guard took them off the gilded hall up a set of red-carpeted stairs and the evening sunlight cut across their backs and glimmered in the chandelier crystals from the hundred-paned windows. She began to detect the faint aroma of food, growing stronger. At last they stopped outside a decoratively-plastered door and the guard opened it for her, smiling innocently. She thanked him and ducked into the room. The clack of it closing behind her gave her an odd sort of relief, despite what it contained. They were alone.

Commander-in-Chief Darius Zackly - though how he managed to retain his title following his indictment was a mystery to her - sat in the nook of the generous bay window of the study at a small table. A meal cart was off to one side in the shadows and the meal itself, whatever it was, gave off steam that danced into the sunlight. She was reminded of that evening nearly a week ago when she'd found Pixis in much the same manner, when all of this had started. Two places had been set - the one across from him empty. Only this time, Zackly was not yet eating - rather, sitting back rather expectantly in his chair - and he did not clear away the offending plate and utensils. He was staring at her, a small smile on his face.

Mercedes took slow steps farther into the room, her steps muffled by the rug underfoot. Her peripheral vision noted no other exits than the door she'd entered through and the window, that she could see at any rate. Deep shadows obscured most of the room, but rather than make her paranoid they helped her hone in on her target, her purpose. Every sense felt on edge, alive, even as her memory sung with the image of the two places set in the Special Collections Room, one empty, and Julia's story of how the same had happened to her uncles before they wound up dead. He'd done this deliberately, she knew, to intimidate her. She didn't care. She didn't care at this point if it would end up being more than intimidation. It was her duty to be here.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" Zackly said, drawing out each word in a somewhat mocking fashion.

She came to stand behind the second chair; Zackly gestured to it and she sat. The two of them regarded one another for a long moment, sizing the other up, before Mercedes reached into her pocket. "I came to return something of yours," she said, and placed the signet ring on the empty pewter plate. She watched with satisfaction as Zackly's eyes went to it and sparkled a little with recognition. "Family, I take it? Not that many surnames beginning with 'Z' around, particularly with the heraldry of a laurel wreath. Maybe you never should have given me the seal that let me in."

After the briefest of moments Zackly looked up at her and replied, "I'm not in the habit of taking back or regretting invitations. Evidently neither is Pixis, if you're here now. And I do so like letting you in." He placed one of two napkins into his lap.

Mercedes didn't respond.

Zackly chuckled to himself, leaned forward and tore his bread roll in half, buttering both sides. She could see now that the rest of his dinner consisted of steamed carrots in their own little bowl and, obscurely, two tiny birds roasted whole, heads and all, until their skin was a crispy, herbed golden-brown, sitting on an absurdly decorative bed of lettuce.

Zackly took up his fork and stabbed into a carrot. "I heard you resigned - a real free agent now, eh? One could almost say it looks like you're trying to get rid of as much liability as possible." The carrot disappeared into his mouth. He regarded her with interest, even though she remained silent.

Mercedes allowed herself to lean back slowly in the chair, bracing her arms on it like a throne. Unblinking, she watched him too. She waited. She would wait as long as it took. She would endure anything he tried to say to her, try to get her to think or do, because as much as he likely knew about her she knew one key detail about him - as he'd said so himself, he couldn't resist letting her in. So she would lie in wait until he did.

After a couple more carrots and seeing no response from her to his liking, Zackly's demeanor changed a little. The good humor - mocking as it was - disappeared and the tone of his voice deepened with pretenses thrust aside. "Did you really think you would be the reason I'd be kept locked away forever? No one has that kind of power over me - not Dawk, not Pixis, not Smith, not even the Queen. Surely a sense of self-importance hasn't corrupted you, little cat. That's why I liked you to begin with - there's more to ruin, with people like you." He took a sip of wine, must have noticed the slight compulsive twitch of her hands or the way her eyes strayed to his carving knife. He caught her glance and laughed darkly, knowingly.

Inside, however, Mercedes was smiling darkly back at him.

"By all means, if you feel you can take me, go ahead," he said, and gestured around them at the room, "we're alone. Just be conscious that I could take you, too, and show you the real reason I'm left to my own devices."

He probably knows I'm armed some kind of way, she thought.

As if to emphasize his point, Zackly unfolded his second napkin, leaned forward over his plate, and to her surprise draped the white cloth completely over his head until she could no longer see him or the birds. She saw him breathe in deeply a couple of times to sample the aroma, saw him move one hand under the cloth, and heard the scrape of a wing or ribcage on the plate. It was followed by several loud crunches, every so often interrupted by the patter of tiny bones being spat back on the plate.

Mercedes felt her stomach turn a little. She distracted it with recounting the kind of rumors that had floated around regarding Zackly's skillset - something so at odds with the rather unimpressive figure he cut next to those of his immediate subordinates, the other Commanders, but apparently so significant that not only did they raise him to his current station but kept him there. No one dared go against him but few divulged why. Morbid curiosity wanted her to find out for herself but she knew she couldn't - not yet.

A few more crunches, a few more bones. Then Zackly drew back the cloying, heavy veil he'd cast over himself and placed it to one side, picking up his wine again. He finished chewing, sipped, said, "I thought not. See, you are smart." He took a bite of bread.

Mercedes looked at the pile of bones on his plate as though she and Zackly might soon divine both their fates from them. But there weren't enough bones yet. Not enough had been consumed. She looked back up at him, focusing on keeping her expression unreadable.

He seemed to find this interesting, because his goblet hovered in front of his face and his brow had drawn down slightly. He allowed himself the slightest of intrigued smiles and put down the wine, leaning forward, tilting his head as though he'd caught sight of something new. She could see the predatory gleam of his teeth as he contemplated what to say to her next.

"You're quite the piece of work, aren't you. Maybe that's the reason Smith wanted you to stay here instead of joining the Shiganshina Expedition. I can't imagine why else."

Mercedes refused to react to the prod, to the new information. You're not the only predator. Her head lowered slightly, but still she stared at him just as intently as he stared at her. Still she waited.

Zackly sat back in his chair, took another sip of wine. When he began again his voice was as matter-of-fact as if he'd been discussing the weather.

"You were never meant to make it out of 366 Clock Street that night, you know; not as whole as you managed to remain, at any rate. I had such plans – you should have seen them – a real work of art," he held his goblet to the sun as though in salute, "far more sophisticated than anything I did to your uncles. You were going to be expensive, what with all that gold. I was going to gild your eyes and send them to your grandmother as keepsakes, to remind her that I never stopped watching. Your blindness would have halted your military career, the rape would have both humiliated your family and ensured you were too broken to bear children; your father would have been as good as dead and the Carello line would have ended. And now I learn that you have cousins… I'll have to double my efforts, it seems."

Mercedes ignored the pit opening up in her stomach as best she could. Her hands gripped the arms of the chair. She tried not to have doubts. Tried to assure herself that she'd done right in coming here, that she was going to come out on top.

"Don't get me wrong. You've been very useful and for the time being I have no intention of harming you or your family, provided you remain useful. You'll be surprised to learn that I actually had very little to do with the plot to kidnap Miss Leonhardt. All I did was idly mention the crack in her crystal, which any fool could have seen on their own. It's certainly not my fault that Pixis was taken in by the ruse. That whole business was the sloppy work of amateurs thinking they could fall into good graces. But this does highlight how turbulent our times have become, wouldn't you agree?"

"I wouldn't know. I've never studied theater," Mercedes said, allowing the slight sneer to her voice. It made her feel better - more settled, more in control. It beat back the images he was trying to pull out of her memories.

Zackly took up his fork and finished off his carrots. "Oh come now. Don't pretend that you haven't entered the political arena, though I will confess you did not do so of your own volition. You were born into predisposition and then Shadis and Carlstedt-Gaus began moving you around, trying to keep you out of sight, and then of course Smith stumbled upon you and struck a deal with Pixis and then everyone was moving you around, weren't they?" He put down his fork, wiped his mouth with the napkin in his lap. "You even began to go along with it willingly. This isn't even touching upon your role in the appearance of the Burning Titan. It must have been an interesting time in that head of yours, particularly after I got in there and poked around. And now, you have no choice but to keep playing. You've seen too much and acquired too much collateral and you know it. Resigning from the military altogether...it's too late for that. Nothing can help you now."

Mercedes' head rose as she took in his words, her eyes narrowing. The shadows on and around them were long, the sunset a fierce, fleshy red.

He grinned at her. "And so young…so…angry." He shook his head. "How different your life could have been. But wait – it's not anger, exactly, is it? It's something far worse. I needn't name it. We both know what it is – you and I are very alike, you know."

Zackly disappeared back under his second napkin to devour the other bird. Her knife felt heavy at her back; she could strike him down here and now - surely he'd only been bluffing, before, when he said he could take her down? He was old, after all. But somehow, she knew that was what he wanted her to try, and what he'd meant in a way when he'd commented that they were alike. Were they? Everyone else seemed so insistent that she was a good person, but was she really? Surely the Commanders wouldn't use her like they had if she was truly good, because good people - truly good people - were not capable of the things their world needed them to be able to do. And he was right - it wasn't anger in her anymore. It was too cold for that. It wasn't even hate, precisely, though as she watched him she did feel it curdle in her belly.

The both of us devote ourselves to duty; that's what it is. It's made us into double-edged swords. But our motivations are different - he is driven by hate, and I'm driven by love. We are not the same.

The music of bones drew her attention back to Zackly. He re-emerged in the dim light, plucking a last tiny bone from his tongue and brushing it off on the plate. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, finished his wine.

We are not the same.

"So what's next for you – that's the real question, isn't it?" He drawled, "What else will you be asked to do, who else will grow to hate you or come to harm because of you, how long will you manage to survive when there are few here to protect you, what other names will you acquire? I must confess to being very interested. Aren't you? Doesn't it keep you awake at night?" he tilted his head.

We are not the same.

Zackly stood, tossing his napkins over the shattered carcasses on his plate. He walked over to her slowly; she kept still, though the muscles in her right arm burned in readiness to draw her knife.

Somehow, Zackly seemed to detect this urge. He paused, and then leaned over, drawing her hair away from her ear. Oddly, his voice and grew soft, contemplative, almost grandfatherly, as he said, "While I may know a lot about how our story ends, your role in it is less clear to me. But I do know the game you're playing by being here and I am clear on this: if you tell anyone about our conversation here today – your squad, your friends, your family, any of your lovers – your Queen is dead and everything you hold dear wiped out, and I will be much more thorough about it than I was with your grandmother. You have not seen what I am capable of."

The pit opened in her stomach again and the hate fell into it. Everything fell into it and it simultaneously brought her clarity and muddied the waters even more. We are not the same - we are not the same, she repeated to herself. She felt her hair fall back into place and the Commander-in-Chief take a step back.

Mercedes gathered her wits and stood, too. She looked him square in the eye, the corners of her mouth twitching upward in what wasn't quite a smile, not quite a vindictive grin, as she reached behind her. The scrape of metal on metal, faintly. She implicitly held up the ring between them, enjoyed the slight narrowing of his eyes as she pocketed it once more.

He seemed to gather himself quickly too, and said with a laugh, "I see you understand. Good. How promising you are." A cruel smile.

Without challenge, she stepped past him on her way to the door.

"Maybe next time we meet, Warden, you'll do some talking rather than that inane babbling you did that night."

"I couldn't possibly hope to divulge as much as you, Sir, but we'll have to see, won't we?" Mercedes called back, and let herself out.

She heard him laughing, like he'd swallowed some of the bones and they were rattling around in his empty chest, dissonant, ferociously insistent on their lack of melody.

A Note from the Author: For those not familiar with the practice, Zackly is eating ortolans, small birds that are commonly caught alive and force-fed before being roasted and consumed whole. The placing of the napkin over the head has been speculated to serve several purposes, including to better appreciate the aromas, disguise fellow guests from seeing the act of spitting out the bones, and to hide 'such a decadent and shameful act from the eyes of God'.

That aside - thank you so much for joining me on this ride! We're done! I sincerely hope you enjoyed. Stay tuned for the next installment!