Crance spares one last look for his fallen Mariners, then draws his hidden pistol. For one brief, blistering moment, I think he might shoot me. But instead he raises his electrifying gaze, staring down the tunnel as it quakes around us. His lips move, forming a single word.
“Run.”
FOURTEEN
Left, right, left again, climb.
Crance’s barked orders follow us through the tunnels, guiding our pounding footsteps. The occasional echoing boom of another collapse keeps us moving as fast as we can—we’ve set off a chain reaction, an implosion within the tunnels. Once or twice, the tunnel collapses so close to us I hear the sharp snap of cracking support beams. Rats run with us, twisting out of the gloom. I shudder when they dash over my toes, naked tails whipping like tiny ropes. We didn’t have many rats at home—the river floods would drown them—and the waves of greasy black fur make my skin crawl. But I do my best to swallow my revulsion. Cal isn’t keen on them either, and swipes at the ground with one flaming fist, pushing back the vermin every time they get too close.
Dust swirls at our heels, choking the air, and Crance’s flashlight is all but useless in the gloom. The others rely on touch, reaching out to feel along the tunnel walls, but I keep my mind fixed on the world above, on the web of electrical wire and rolling transports. It paints a map in my head, fixing over the paper one I’ve nearly memorized. With it, I feel everything with my growing range. The sensation is overwhelming, but I push through, forcing myself to take in everything I can. Transports scream overhead, rolling toward the initial collapse. A few careen through alleyways, probably avoiding sunken roads and twisted debris. A distraction. Good.
The tunnels are Farley and Crance’s domain, a kingdom made of dust. But it falls to Cal to get us out of the darkness, and the irony is not lost on us both. When we dead-end at a service door, welded shut, Cal doesn’t need to be told what to do. He steps forward, hands outstretched, his bracelet sparking—and then white-hot flame springs to life. It dances in his palms, allowing him to grip the door’s hinges and heat them until they melt into red globs of iron. The next obstacle, a metal grate clotted with rust, is even easier, and he peels it away in seconds.
Again the collapsing tunnel shudders like a thunderclap, but from much farther away. More convincing are the rats, now calm, disappearing back into the dark they came from. Their little shadows are a strange, disgusting comfort. We’ve outrun death together.
Crance gestures through the broken grate, meaning for us to follow. But Cal hesitates, one scalding hand still resting on iron. When he loosens his grip, it leaves behind red metal and the indent of his hand.
“The Paltry?” he asks, glancing down the tunnel. Cal knows Harbor Bay much better than I. After all, he’s lived here before, occupying Ocean Hill every time the royal family came to the area. No doubt Cal’s done his share of sneaking through the docks and alleys here, just like he was doing the first time he met me.
“Aye,” Crance replies with a quick nod. “Close to the Center as I can get you. Egan instructed me to take you through the Fish Market, and has the Mariners ready to grab you, not to mention a squad of Security. He won’t expect you to go through Paltry Place, and won’t have anyone on lookout.”
The way he says it sets my teeth on edge. “Why?”
“The Paltry is Seaskull territory.”
The Seaskulls. Another gang, likely branded with tattoos more foreboding than Crance’s anchor. If not for Maven’s scheming, they might’ve helped a Red sister, but instead, they’ve been turned into enemies almost as dangerous as any Silver soldier.
“That’s not what I meant,” I continue, using Mareena’s voice to hide my fear. “Why are you helping us?”
A few months ago, the thought of three bodies crushed by rubble might’ve frightened me. Now I’ve seen much worse, and barely spare a thought for Crance’s cohorts and their twisted bones. Crance, despite his criminal nature, doesn’t look so comfortable. His eyes glare back into the darkness, after the Mariners he helped kill. They were probably his friends.
But there are friends I would trade, lives I would forsake, for my own victories. I’ve done it before. It isn’t hard to let people die when their deaths gives life to something else.
“I’m not one for oaths, or Red dawns, or any of the other nonsense your lot goes on about,” he mumbles, one fist closing and clenching in rapid succession. “Words don’t impress me. But you’re doing a hell of a lot more than talking. The way I see it, I can either betray my boss—or my blood.”
Blood. Me.
His teeth gleam in the dim light, flashing with every barbed word. “Even rats want to get out of the gutter, Miss Barrow.”
Then he steps through the grate, toward the surface that could kill us all.
And I follow.
I square my shoulders, turning to face the echoes and the end of the tunnel’s safety. I’ve never been to Harbor Bay before, but the map and my electrical sense are enough. Together, they paint a picture of roads and wiring. I can feel the military transports rolling toward the fort, and the lights of the Paltry. What’s more, a city is something I understand. Crowds, alleys, all the distractions of daily life—these are my kinds of camouflage.
Paltry Place is another market, alive as Grand Garden in Summerton or the square of the Stilts. But it is dirtier, more harried, free of Silver overlords but choked with teeming Red bodies and haggling shouts. A perfect place to hide. We emerge on the lowest level, a subterranean tangle of stalls crisscrossed by greasy canvas canopies. But there’s no smoke or stink down here—Reds might be poor, but we are not stupid. One glimpse up, through the grated, wide hole in the ceiling, tells me the upper levels sell stinking fish or smoked meat, letting the scents escape into the sky. For now, we’re surrounded by peddlers, inventors, weavers, each one trying to foist their wares onto patrons who don’t have two tetrarch coins to rub together. The money makes everyone desperate. Merchants want to get it, buyers want to keep it, and it blinds them all. No one notices a few well-trained sneaks slip out from a forgotten hole in the wall. I know I should feel afraid, but being surrounded by my own is strangely comforting.
Crance leads, his muscled swagger morphing into a limp to match Shade’s. He pulls a hood from his vest and hides his face in shadow. To the casual eye, he looks like a bent old man, though he’s anything but. He even supports Shade a little, one arm braced against his shoulder to help my brother walk. Shade doesn’t have to worry about hiding his face, and keeps his focus on not slipping over the uneven ground of the lower Paltry. Farley brings up the rear, and I’m reassured to know she has my back. For all her secrets, I can trust her, not to see a trap, but to weasel her way out of one. In this world of betrayal, it’s the best I can hope for.
It’s been a few months since I last stole something. And when I slide a pair of charcoal-gray shawls from a stall, my motions are quick and perfect, but I feel an unfamiliar twinge of regret. Someone made these; someone spun and wove the wool into these rough scraps. Someone needs these. But so do I. One for me, one for Cal. He takes it quickly, drawing the frayed wool around his head and shoulders to hide his recognizable features. I do the same, and none too soon.
Our first few steps into the crowded, dim market lead us right past a signboard. Usually filled with notices of sale, news scraps, memorials, the Red noise has been covered up by a checkered swath of printings. A few children mill about the signboard, ripping up the bits of paper in reach. They toss the scraps at each other like snowballs. Only one of the kids, a girl with ragged black hair and bare, brown feet, bothers to look at what they’re doing. She stares at two familiar faces, each glaring down from a dozen huge posters. They are stark and grim, headlined with big black letters that read “WANTED BY THE CROWN, for TERRORISM, TREASON, and MURDER.” I doubt many of the people swarming the Paltry can read, but the message is clear enough.
Cal’s picture isn’t his royal portrait, which made him appear strong, kingly, and dashing. No, th
e image of him is grainy but distinct, a frozen still from one of the many cameras that captured him in the moments before his failed execution in the Bowl of Bones. His face is haggard, pulled by loss and betrayal, while his eyes spark with unchecked rage. The muscles stand out as his neck, straining. There might even be dried blood on his collar. It makes him look every inch the murderer Maven wants him to seem. The lower posters of him are torn up or covered in graffiti, in spiky, scratched handwriting almost too violently etched to make out. The Kingkiller, The Exile. The titles rip at the paper, as if the words could make the photographed skin bleed. And weaving among the titles—find him, find him, find him.
Like Cal, the picture of me is taken from the Bowl of Bones. I know exactly which moment. It was before I walked through the gates of the arena, when I stood and listened to Lucas take a bullet to the brain. In that second, I knew I was going to die, but worse, I knew I was useless. The now-dead Arven was with me, suffocating my abilities, reducing me to nothing. My printed eyes are wide, afraid, and I look small. I am not the lightning girl in this photo. I am only a scared teenager. Someone no one would stand behind, let alone protect. I don’t doubt Maven chose this frame himself, knowing exactly what kind of image this would project. But some have not been fooled. Some saw the split second of my strength, my lightning, before the execution broadcast was cut away. Some know what I am, and they have written it across the posters for all to see.
Red Queen. The lightning girl. She lives. Rise, Red as dawn. Rise. Rise. Rise.
Every word feels like a brand, searing hot and deep. But we can’t tarry by the wall of wanted posters. I nudge Cal, directing him away from the brutal vision of us. He goes willingly, following Shade and Crance through the swirling crowd. I resist the urge to hold on to him, to try and take a bit of the weight off his shoulders. No matter how much I might want to feel him, I cannot. I must keep my eyes ahead, and away from the fire of a fallen prince. I must freeze my heart to the one person who insists on setting it ablaze.
Winding up the Paltry is easier than it should be. A Red market is of no consequence to anyone important, so cameras and officers are sparse on the lower levels. But I keep my senses open, feeling out the few electrical sight lines that manage to penetrate through the haphazard stalls and storefronts. I wish I could just shut them off, instead of awkwardly avoiding them, but even that is too dangerous. A mysterious outage would surely draw attention. The officers are even more troubling, standing out sharply in the black uniforms of Security. As we climb through the levels of the Paltry, up to the city surface, they grow in number. Most look bored by the rush of Red life, but a few keep their wits. Their eyes dart through the crowd, searching.
“Hunch,” I whisper, gripping Cal’s wrist sharply. The action sends a spark of nerves through my hand and up my arm, forcing me to pull away far too quickly.
Still, he does as I tell him, stooping to hide his height. It might not be enough though. All of this might not be enough.
“Worry about him. If he bolts, we need to be ready,” Cal murmurs back, his lips close enough to brush my ear. He points one finger out from the folds of his shawl, gesturing to Crance. But my brother has the Mariner well in hand, keeping a firm grip on Crance’s vest. Like us, he doesn’t trust the smuggler further than he can throw him.
“Shade has him. Focus on keeping your head down.”
Breath hisses through Cal’s teeth, another exasperated sigh. “Just watch. If he’s going to run, he’ll do it in about thirty seconds.”
I don’t need to ask how Cal knows this. Judging by the motion of the crowd, thirty seconds will take us to the top of the twisting, rickety staircase, planting us firmly on the main floor of the Paltry. I can see the hub of the market now, just above us, streaming with midday light that is almost blinding after our time underground. The stalls look more permanent, more professional and profitable. An open kitchen fills the air with the smell of cooking meat. After ration packs and salt fish, it makes my mouth water. Worn wooden arches bow overhead, supporting a patched and torn canvas roof. A few of the arches are damaged, warped by seasons of rain and snow.
“He won’t run,” Farley whispers, butting in between us. “At least not to Egan. He’ll lose his head for betraying the Mariners. If he’s going anywhere, it’s out of the city.”
“Then let him,” I whisper back. Another Red to babysit is the last thing I need. “He’s fulfilled his use to us, hasn’t he?”
“And if he runs right into a jail cell and an interrogation, what then?” Cal’s voice is soft, but full of menace. A cold reminder of what must be done to protect ourselves.
“He let three of his people die for me, to keep me safe.” I don’t even remember their faces. I can’t let myself. “I doubt torture will bother him much.”
“All minds can fall to Elara Merandus,” Cal finally says. “You and I know that better than anyone. If she gets him, we’ll be found. The Bay newbloods will be found.”
If.
Cal wants to kill a man based on such a terrible word. He takes my silence as agreement, and to my shame, I realize he’s not entirely wrong. At least he won’t make me do it, though my lightning can kill as quickly as any flame. Instead, his hands stray inside his shawl, to the knife I know he keeps tucked away. Within the folds of my sleeves, my hands start to shake. And I pray that Crance stays the course; that his steps never falter. That he doesn’t get a knife in the back for daring to help me.
The main floor of the Paltry is louder than the depths, an overload of sound and sight. I scale back my senses a little, shutting out what I must to keep my wits about me. The lights whine overhead, ragged with a pulse of uneven currents. Their wiring is faulty, flickering in places. It makes one of my eyes twitch. The cameras are more intense too, focused on the Security post at the center of the marketplace. It’s little more than a stall itself, six-sided, with five windows, a door, and a shingled roof. Except the box is full of officers instead of mismatched wares. Too many officers, I realize with a steadily growing horror.
“Faster,” I whisper. “We must go faster.”
My feet find a quicker pace, outstripping Cal and Farley, until I’m almost on Crance’s heels. Shade glances over his shoulder, brow furrowed. But his gaze slides past me, past all of us, and fixes on something in the crowd. No, someone.
“We’re being followed,” he mumbles, his grip tightening on Crance’s arm. “Seaskulls.”
Instincts be damned, I tip my hood so I can get a glimpse of them. They’re not hard to pick out. White ink on shaved heads, tattooed skulls of jagged bone on their scalps. No less than four Seaskulls pick their way through the crowd, following us as rats would a mouse. Two from the left, two from the right, flanking us. If the situation wasn’t so dire, I would laugh at their matching tattoos. The crowd knows them by sight, and parts to let them pass, to let them hunt.
The other Reds clearly fear these criminals, but I do not. A few thugs are nothing compared to the might of the dozen Security officers milling about their post. They could be swifts, strongarms, oblivions—Silvers who can make us pay in blood and pain. At least I know they’re not so dangerous as the Silvers of court, the whispers and silks and silences. Whispers as powerful as Queen Elara don’t wear lowly black uniforms. They control armies and kingdoms, not a few yards of marketplace, and they are far away from here. For now.
To our surprise, the first blow comes not from behind but from dead ahead of us. A bent old crone with a cane is not who she seems, and hooks Crance around the neck with her gnarled piece of wood. She throws him to the ground and removes her cloak in one motion, revealing a bald head and a skull tattoo.
“Fish Market not enough for you, Mariner?” she snarls, watching as Crance lands on his back. Shade goes down with him, too tangled up in Crance’s limbs and his own crutch to stay standing.
I move to help, lunging forward, but an arm grabs me around the waist, pulling me back into the crowd. Others look on, eager for a bit of entertainment. N
o one notices us melt into the wall of faces, not even the four Seaskulls who followed us. We are not their target—yet.
“Keep walking,” Cal rumbles in my ear.
But I set my feet. I will not be moved, not even by him. “Not without Shade.”
The Seaskull woman smacks Crance as he tries to stand, her cane cracking soundly against bone. She’s quick, turning her weapon on Shade, who is smart enough to stay on the ground, his arms raised in mock surrender. He could disappear in an instant, jumping his way to safety, but knows he cannot. Not with every eye watching. Not with the Security post so close by.
“Fools and thieves, the lot of them,” a woman grumbles nearby. She seems to be the only one annoyed by the display. Merchants, patrons, and street urchins alike look on in anticipation, and the Security officers do nothing at all, watching with veiled amusement. I even catch a few of them passing coins, making bets on the brewing fight.
Another smack, this time hitting Shade’s wounded shoulder. He grits his teeth, trying to hold back a grunt of pain, but it echoes loudly over the Paltry. I almost feel it myself, and wince as he crumples.
“I don’t know your face, Mariner,” the Seaskull crows. She hits him again, hard enough to send a message. “But Egan certainly will. He’ll pay for your safe, if bruised, return.”
My fist clenches, wishing for lightning, but I feel flame instead. Hot skin against mine, fingers worming into my grip. Cal. I won’t be able to spark up without hurting him. Part of me wants to, to push him away and save my brother in a single sweeping motion. But that will get us nowhere.
Glass Sword Page 18
