Free Illusionarium by Heather Dixon Page A

upslick stone stairs, to a jutting tower in the wall. Here they unlocked a groaning door, and a musty-smelling dank rolled over us.
    â€œYou’ll have to share this cell,” the head yeoman said wearily. “I really don’t want to hear of any trouble, is that clear?”
    I cautiously entered. My eyes adjusted, taking in stone, wood beams, an old empty fireplace, names carved into walls. A figure in the corner separated from the darkness. I noted the blue uniform, the glint of medals and buttons, a handsome figure with light hair and an eye patch—
    Lockwood recognized me the exact moment I recognized him. A feral cat couldn’t have pounced on me faster. My head hit stone and his hands gripped my throat.
    â€œYou little maggot!” he snarled. “You disgusting flap of cut-off flesh, you murky chunk of filth ! Thanks to you I’ve been stripped of my rank!”
    I kicked him off and dove, raining all my frustration and anger of the past four days upon him. He threw fists into my stomach and face. A crunch sounded in my head. I sputtered as blood poured down my lips.
    I didn’t care what I hit, so long as it was made of Lockwood. My glasses knocked off my face and skittered at our feet as he soundly thrashed me.
    Yeomen’s hands dragged us away from each other. Blood dripped down my chin as they held us apart, threeyeomen keeping Lockwood from dismembering me. The head yeoman stood at the door, looking duly unimpressed.
    â€œGentlemen, please ,” he said. “Quite enough, what! I assure you, outside my office there is a lovely museum of torture instruments heartily used hundreds of years ago and I have always wondered what exactly they do. So unfortunate to have to use them on fellows so lithe and young, what! Shake your barking hands. Right now.”
    Lockwood and I glared at each other with concentrated loathing. His one eye had swollen up, giving me great satisfaction. With unexpected friendliness, he suddenly straightened and offered his hand. I grasped it to squeeze the life out of it, and was confused when he shook it firmly and fairly.
    â€œThere. See? Aren’t we all so happy now?” said the yeoman.
    Grinding glass sounded against the stone. Looking down, I saw Lockwood’s boot driving my glasses into the floor with his heel.
    I dove at him.
    Five minutes later, Lockwood and I stood at opposite ends of the tower room, nursing our wounds as the head yeoman, still threatening us with all shapes and sizes of torture, locked us in. I fumed, face pulsing, as I examined the crack on my broken lens and slid them back on. I could hardly see without my glasses, so it appeared I’dspend my time in prison with the world half-broken.
    Through the slit of the window in our cell, I watched the Valor discharge from the long line of airships above us and sail away. Back to Fata. I couldn’t sit still after that; I paced the cell, and eventually settled on scratching the Venen’s chemical makeup on the floor with a piece of broken stone.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Lockwood’s voice broke the silence from the other side of the room, the first words he’d spoken in hours.
    â€œMapping out the Venen,” I said, and added, “not that you care.” I doubted he had any family that would die from it. Most of the airguardsmen—especially Northern airguardsmen—joined because they were orphans and could be on duty for months at a time with no one to miss them. That explained, anyway, why he was so miserable. 10
    Church bells an hour later startled me from my work. They rang from the White Tower in the center of the courtyard. On top of those, bells began to chorus all over the city in symphonic discord. The dissonance filled our cell.
    â€œWhy are the bells chiming?” I said, alarmed. “It can’t be Sunday already! It’s only just Monday, right? Wait—how long was our journey to Arthurise?”
    I scrambled to