Vanya reluctantly let him go and Soren extricated himself from the bed. He knew full well if he didn’t put some distance between them, he’d find himself tumbled back onto the sheets, weapons and clothes discarded, with Vanya’s hands keeping him there.
He left before Vanya could convince him to stay.
The palace bustled with servants still preparing for the gathering ahead. Soren had requested his velocycle be ready for him in the morning, and he found it resting on the stand in the forecourt, the metal polished to a shine. He slung a leg over the seat and started the engine, kicking the stand up and driving out of the palace.
Heat was baked into the city as he drove through the twisting roads and past inner-city walls. The trees lining the streets and dotting the public parks and squares he passed could only provide so much shade. The air was already warm by the time he braked to a halt in front of the resupply station, gaze lingering on the door. It was closed, and the shutters were drawn over the windows.
Soren turned off the engine, settling back in his seat as he took in the building. The rooms above the resupply station on the first floor all had their windows closed as well, when usually they’d be open if occupied to let in a breeze.
He got off the velocycle and approached the door, ringing the bell there. Wardens arrived at resupply stations at all hours. While the doors were sometimes locked to keep the supplies secured, the warden on duty would always answer if the bell rang.
No one came.
Soren gripped the doorknob with tight fingers, frowning at the wood. He glanced at the street on either side of him before retreating to his velocycle and digging through the storage box behind the seat. He pulled out his tool kit, flipping open the flap and rummaging through it for the set of lockpicks he always traveled with.
He hadn’t needed to pick a lock in quite some time, but he hadn’t forgotten his training in that area. It took a couple of tries, but Soren eventually got the tumblers and gears to move, and the mechanism unlocked itself with a soft click. He pocketed the tools and kept one hand on the grip of his pistol. The door opened on silent, well-oiled hinges, the chime from the bell echoing in the empty room.
Everything looked in place, no signs of a burglary or fight. Soren did a circle in the shop, unease crawling through him. It didn’t go away when he climbed the stairs to the rooms above meant for traveling wardens.
They were all empty.
He stood in the hallway at the top of the stairs, frowning at all the open doors that led to empty rooms. It was as if everyone had left and locked up behind them when resupply stations were never to sit empty.
Soren returned to the ground floor and went to the small telegraph room all resupply stations had. It doubled as a records room, folios lining bookshelves of supply inventories over the years, along with copies of maps.
Soren approached the telegraph machine, the notepad used to write down messages sitting beside it, the cover open. Nothing was written on the top page, but there were faint indentations on it, as if someone with a heavy hand had copied down a message and ripped that page free to take with them. He picked up the notepad and a nearby pencil, holding it at a slant to gently rub graphite over the indentations until the shadow of words appeared.
“Recalled wardens meet in Veran,” he read out loud. “Governor’s orders.”
That wasn’t a city in Solaria. It had an Ashionen name, and when Soren found a folio of maps on the shelf that included one of Ashion, he located the town after reviewing the legend. He set the map down and stared at the notepad in his hand. Wardens weren’t recalled all that often, not without another replacing them.
He bypassed the telegraph machine in favor of the telephone on the other desk. He lifted the receiver off the metal cradle and used the rotary dial to call a number every warden memorized when they were tithes. The line to the archives on the Warden’s Island always had someone manning it, day or night. A call always went through.
His didn’t.
Soren pulled the receiver away from his ears and stared at it, a knot forming in his gut. He tried calling again and got the same response, nothing but a dead line. The next time he stuck his finger on the dial, Soren called a different number, the governor’s direct line, which few wardens were privy to.
It connected, but the warden on the other side wasn’t Delani. “Station warden, you were given your orders already. Why aren’t you on the road?”
“You aren’t Delani,” Soren said.
“No, but I’m authorized for her jury-rigged line. Who is this?”
“Not the station warden. I’m Soren. I’m the warden assigned to the border around Calhames in Solaria. The resupply station was unmanned when I arrived for my updated reports to manage my assigned border.”
There was a brief pause before the warden on the other side of the line cleared their throat. “Your border isn’t on the recall list.”
“Whatrecall list?”
Another pause. “Daijal attacked the Warden’s Island. Significant damage was sustained.”
Soren’s knees went weak, and he caught himself against the side of the table. “What?”
“No warden is to guard a border in Daijal until the governor says otherwise. Available wardens who can leave their borders or stations are being recalled. Replacement wardens will come from the poison fields to take over the resupply stations within the next week. The secondary list will find out in the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours. Now, you’re holding up the line, and I have other stations to call.”
He swallowed dryly. “Am I recalled?”
“I don’t have your name on my current list.”
