14.
 Yafi rose.
"What is it?" Jory asked, noticing his own voice sounded funny—distant.
Yafi ignored him, stepping away as if expecting someone.
Jory knocked his tray of his lap in an effort to rise quickly, but he was paralyzed. He could not even speak in his anger and betrayal. He sat as if glued on the rock, and watched as several shadowy figures stepped out of the darkness.
Through blurry eyes, he saw the cloaked and hooded Yafi extend his hand. He saw a hand come out of another's cloak and place a bundle of imperial road money in Yafi's hand—the rustling paper notes tied with a string were unmistakable. Jory could not distinguish who the several big, cloaked figures were but he did notice two things—they all carried swords hidden by their cloaks, and the sleeve of the arm that had paid off Yafi was dark velvety brown, with silver Obayyo police officer's cuff-buttons indicating the Imperial service.
If Lord Ramyon's agents suspected a conspiracy, Jory thought as the light in his head faded, they had been right. But they had been wrong about the nature of the conspiracy—it wasn't about Jory escaping to Kusi-O or meeting with the Twelve Moon Society. If this involved the road police, it surely involved the Imperial palace.
No matter anymore to me, Jory thought dimly as he slipped helplessly sideways, landing on the damp gravel that smelled of horse droppings and rotting vegetables. No matter anymore to me or Ramy, he thought as her pale face shimmered in his memory, never again to be approached. The last things he was aware of were the bottoms of Yafi's feet as the latter ran away, having done his work, and a stick being roughly pushed into Jory's ribs. The Imperial police would treat him no better than would Lord Ramyon's soldiers, had they caught him first. He slipped into darkness, welcoming death if it should choose this moment to take him.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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