by Evan Fuller
6
The Way Out
“There's no way in hell he knows,” Oliver insisted. “I mean, how many other people have been caught housing mutts in Rittenhouse?”
The question would have made Emery laugh—the idea of his neighbors stumbling home from a night of forty-rai champagne bottles on Locust Point to look after the refugees in their basements was certainly humorous enough—but the question Oliver was addressing was all Emery could think of. He was nauseous with worry. “He knows something,” Emery insisted. “Or at least thinks he knows.”
“The second one,” Oliver says. “If you asking him for the medicine is the only clue he has, then odds are he has some theory that's probably a lot less farfetched than you sneaking paupers into your backyard through the sewer line.”
“Oliver's right.” Lydia laid a reassuring hand on Emery's arm, and Emery wondered if he looked as afraid as he was. “What we should really be focusing on is how we're going to find this Three Dogs, if it's even feasible.” Oliver had known the name: Three Dogs governed Zakarova's poppy production, refinement, and distribution. The collegio's map of New Providence specified the location of the poppy fields, but the tract of land was enormous, and Emery was more likely to be attacked for an intruder than directed to Three Dogs if he just walked into the middle of the fields.
“We don't have much of a choice, do we?” Emery laughed despite himself; it was not a happy sound. “The good doctor has essentially told us that if we want our newest arrival to survive—and we generally try to make sure all our guests here survive,” he added with a glance at Timothy, “then we have to deliver this package, whatever it is.”
“Doesn't this seem a little suspicious to you?” Oliver pressed. “The model Vorteil making deliveries to a drug lord? Something doesn't fit.”
“I thought the same at first,” Emery said, “but pride and prestige don't make someone immune to addiction. If anything, people in positions of scrutiny like that seem more susceptible to it than most. There might be something else going on, but my guess is that the esteemed Dr. Hanssen just has a poppy gum craving he's looking to indulge. And anyway, this is also totally unrelated to the question of how we get to Three Dogs.”
Timothy had remained silent up to this point. “Emery,” he said, “you've been very kind to me. I don't want you risking your life just for me; you've already done more than anyone else has.”
“I don't think I've done much yet,” Emery said. “You came here looking for medicine, and I'm going to find it for you. You're right, I might have to risk my life for it, but your situation isn't a risk. You're definitely not going to make it without this medicine, and if you ask me, that definite weighs more heavily than my risk. And if you're going to feel guilty over this, I want you to remember that you told me I didn't have to, and that I did it anyway out of stubbornness.” He smiled, hoping to put Timothy at ease. “There's no question that we're doing this. We just need to figure out how. So let's review everything we know about Three Dogs and Zakarova.”
“Well,” Lydia said, “we know that Geneva's parents worked in the fields until they were killed taking a shipment.” Lydia shot a glance across the basement in Geneva's direction; the girl had been sent to play by herself, but she could tell that the others were all upset, so she had wandered over every few minutes to listen in on the conversation.
Emery nodded. “Unfortunately, that doesn't give us too much information that we can actually work with. She's too young to remember much, and regardless, I'm not subjecting her to an interrogation.”
“I agree,” Lydia said emphatically. “But that means we still know nothing.”
Timothy leaned forward. “One of Zakarova's people collects a tax from my town,” he said softly. “We aren't in Three Dogs' district, so I don't know how much that helps, though.”
“Not much, unfortunately.” Emery turned to Oliver, who knew more about Zakarova than the rest of them. “Any ideas?”
“Zakarova's manse is in Belmont Arbor, where his richest subordinates also live.” Emery knew that Oliver had been a servant to one of the wealthy landowners in Belmont Arbor and that he had eventually fled his master. Oliver had never been willing to discuss the details of his servitude or his escape; even now, the boy's face darkened as he recalled the place. “Three Dogs owns land there too, but as far as I know, he's never actually there. He probably has another home in his own district. Besides, you wouldn't be able to get within a mile of Belmont Arbor uninvited. Is there anyone in Rittenhouse besides you who knows anything about the outside? We need someone we can ask, because we're not going to find Three Dogs by sitting here discussing it.”
“There are probably plenty of people with connections,” Emery said, “but they don't like to broadcast themselves. Any contact with anyone outside Rittenhouse is illegal, and most people who risk it are probably importing poppy or indulging other appetites. I don't even know how they get in and out. I can't imagine most people using the sewers, and there's never been any sign of them down there. So whoever could potentially help, we're as likely to find them as we are Three Dogs.”
“There's someone,” Timothy said. The other three turned to look at him. “The king,” he continued, much more quietly given the sudden attention. “He'll be easier to find than Three Dogs, and he knows nearly everything that happens in New Providence. But it can take a long time to get an audience with him.”
Emery shook his head. “Not for me. I have an understanding with the king; it's because of him that I got into this business in the first place.” He wondered why he hadn't had the same idea; it was a more roundabout method than he'd been hoping for, but it was better than nothing. “He'll be willing to meet with me immediately, but we might have a problem finding the palace in the first place. I haven't been outside Rittenhouse in a few years.”
“I know how to find one of his gatemen,” Timothy replied. “He knows all the places where the palace can be, and when it gets moved, he has a charm that shows him its position. He'll want payment, though,” Timothy added somewhat reluctantly, “before he gives us any help. He's not as kind as the king.”
“That won't be a problem,” Emery said. “I guess the only question is how we're going to get out of Rittenhouse in one piece.”
Lydia laughed. “Just announce you've been sneaking us in, and you'll be out ten minutes from now.”
Emery's frown cracked for the first time since he had returned home from the hospital. “I don't even know why I make you do things around the house,” he said. “I should be paying you just for your great ideas.”
“You're leaving?” a young voice asked. The four turned to find that Geneva had once again crept up to eavesdrop on their conversation.
“Emery might have to go away, but only for a day.” Lydia waved a hand towards the opposite end of the room. “Now please, go play, Geneva. I'll be over in a few minutes.”
“It's no fun when no one plays with you,” Geneva muttered as she padded off towards the far end of the basement.
“Well,” Oliver said, “there's the obvious way: you could just leave through the sewer.”
“I'm not—” a wide-eyed Timothy began, his tone surprisingly emphatic, before he calmed himself. “I mean, I'll do whatever I have to,” he corrected himself in his usual solemn tone. “But if there's any way besides the sewer, I'd like to not do that again.”
“We're going to have to use the sewers to get back in,” Emery said, “so I'm afraid you will have to put up with them at least once more. But the sewers are a much better entrance than exit: when you came through the first time, you nearly froze to death, but Lydia was here to give you a meal and a change of clothes. We wouldn't last long out in the wastes after being chilled to the bone.”
“I'm out of ideas,” Oliver said. “You could always magick yourselves out—” Emery shot him a stern look. “What, you have something better?”
“I do,” Emery said. “It's a bit dangerous and I was hoping we wouldn't
have to, but here it is: we'll use the train that carries food from Fairmount to Rittenhouse.”
“I see,” Oliver replied with a condescending smile. “And this is better than my idea…how?”
Emery took up the challenge: “For one thing, I don't think anyone here is adept enough to whisk us out of Rittenhouse even if I gave the okay, so my idea is better than yours in that it's not smartass.”
To Timothy he said, “I don't know if you're familiar with Fairmount Farms; it's the agricultural land north of here that provides Rittenhouse with almost all of its food. There's a train that goes from the city to Fairmount and back to take workers out and bring harvests in. The loading platform is near Powelton Market, where most of that food gets sold. Incoming trains are closely monitored to ensure that there are no stowaways, but I don't think the outgoing ones are subject to the same scrutiny. If we wait until it's a bit darker, we can hopefully get from here to there without anyone noticing you, and getting on the train shouldn't be too hard.”
“Which leaves just one small problem,” Oliver said. “Lots and lots of guys with rifles.”
“Oliver's right,” Lydia said. “The Fairmount guards are armed to the teeth, and they're looking for people fleeing the fields. If they see you running off, they'll mistake you for thieves from the wastes and shoot you before they can tell otherwise.”
“You're both right,” Emery said, “which is why we just won't go all the way to Fairmount.” He turned to Timothy. “Have you ever ridden a train before?”
Timothy shook his head.
Emery grinned devilishly, as much to suppress his own terror as to convince the others. “Then I guess you've never jumped off a moving train.”
Lydia's eyes widened. “Emery, you're going to get yourself killed—”
“I figure that between navigating the wastes and finding this Three Dogs, we're not going to be able to avoid danger, so why not start this lovely outing in the right spirit?” Lydia glared; Emery tried a softer approach. “Look, I'm not too happy about this either, but none of our options are very attractive at this point. I told Timothy I'd get him his medicine, and I'm going to do it.”
“Are you sure?” Timothy asked.
“I'm sure,” Emery said, “and not another word about it. You're not going to change my mind, but it looks like you might change Lydia's. She really worries about my health, for some unfathomable reason. She probably knows her paycheck is out the window if I break my neck jumping off a locomotive.”
He felt terrible the moment he had said it; he had meant it to sound gentler than it had. He shot a glance and a little smile her way. Lydia was looking at her hands, and Emery couldn't tell if she was more worried or hurt.
“I'm not conceding that this idea was better than mine,” Oliver said, “until I see you both back here in one piece.” There was a note of genuine concern beneath his usual sarcastic tone. Oliver must have realized this, for he felt inclined to add: “Even then, I might just chalk it up to dumb luck.”
“Deal,” Emery said. “Now, I've only been on my own in the wastes once. It was very brief and a long time ago. So I'm going to ask the three of you: what do you think we need?”
“Flashlights,” Timothy said immediately, “and some way to attach them to us. I dropped mine in the sewer coming here, along with my other things, and it would have been the end of me if I hadn't already been within sight of the exit when it happened.”
“That should be easy,” Emery said. “We should also take a map. I'm sure there are parts of New Providence you know better than others, and we'll want to be able to find our way to somewhere you recognize.”
“I'll pack a bag with some dry food and bladders of water,” Lydia said. She stood up, clearly grateful for something to do. “Geneva, would you like to help me get some things together?”
The young girl, bored almost to tears, looked brightly up at Lydia and fairly ran across the room to assist her.
“You'll also want some kind of weapon,” Oliver said. “You don't know what you'll encounter once you're out there.”
“If I bring a weapon,” Emery said, “I'm more likely to find a reason to use it. I'd rather—”
“Emery,” Oliver interrupted, “don't be an idiot. Trying to save Timothy's life doesn't do him much good if you both get hacked up and harvested for your organs.” With a mind for Timothy, he added, “Don't worry, as long as you're sick, they won't want yours.” Oliver turned back to Emery. “And don't give me some inspirational speech about how Jehovah God will take care of you. He already has; you inherited your paranoid cousin's house and all the fun toys in it.”
“He wasn't paranoid,” Emery countered. “He worked as a fisher, and if there's one job in Rittenhouse where you need weapons, it's on a fishing ship.”
“You told me Michael never took half this stuff aboard,” Oliver said. “He rounded up most of this arsenal after the war in Ambler because he was convinced the same thing was going to happen here. Besides, fishing might have been the most dangerous job in town until just today, but tracking down a poppy king makes fighting raiders on a boat look downright cozy.”
Emery couldn't argue that point. “Fine, but I'm not taking the revolver.”
Oliver smiled. “Or the rifle?”
“I thought that went without saying considering how much of a pain in the ass it would be…forget it.” Emery sighed. “What did you have in mind?”
Oliver stepped into one of the basement's spacious closets where, much to Emery's discomfort, the boy had insisted on collecting and precisely arranging the various implements of violence that Michael Garis, Emery's late cousin, had left scattered throughout the estate. He came back holding an item in each hand. One was a collapsible baton, the other was a machete in a leather scabbard.
Emery looked back and forth between the two. “I'll take the baton.”
“You mean you'll take both.” Oliver's tone was even bolder than usual. “You might not want to kill anyone, Emery, but have we told you about the dogs? They're not the cute little things the women in Rittenhouse keep as pets. They hunt in packs, they probably weigh as much as you do—no offense—and they're generally unmoved by acts of kindness.”
“I'd be willing to bet no one has tested that theory,” Emery said, begrudgingly taking both items. He laid them atop the heavy wool overcoat he had selected to wear for the outing. He crossed the furnished area to find a few of his schoolbooks scattered on an end table; he opened one and carefully tore the first page out. Oliver gasped at the destruction of such a precious possession.
“What's that?” Timothy asked.
“A map of New Providence,” Emery said. It's a copy of the larger one we have hanging in the collegio.” Emery folded the paper into quarters and slid it into the pocket of the coat.
Lydia and Geneva came down the stairs a minute later. Lydia was carrying a black, heavy-looking backpack. “I found the flashlights!” Geneva announced.
“Good job, Geneva,” Emery said, smiling. He crossed the room to relieve Lydia of the backpack. It wasn't quite as heavy as it looked; granted, he probably had less trouble with it than Lydia did. “I packed the antibiotics we have here, which I gave Timothy some of while you were at the hospital. They should fight the infection off long enough to keep him going for a while, at least. There's also food and water enough for three days,” she said, “if you don't eat too much at once.”
“I can't imagine we'll be gone that long,” Emery began.
“Good,” Lydia interrupted, “then you'll have more than enough.” She edged a bit closer. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Emery set the bag on the floor; Lydia grabbed his arm and led him back over to the staircase.
Emery noticed as he sat down beside her that Lydia's eyes were rimmed with red; she was more upset than she had let on. “What is it?” he asked.
“This whole trip is too impulsive,” Lydia whispered urgently. “Don't you have class tomorrow? What are you going to tell your instructors i
f you're stranded outside the city and miss it? If you wait until tomorrow night, you'll have the whole weekend to work with, and we'll have more time to plan.”
Emery shook his head. “We don't know how long it's going to take for the king to find this person we're looking for. What if our best chance is over the next couple of days, and what if we miss it because we waited too long? Timothy is only going to get sicker every day, and we don't know how much time a day's waiting could cost us. It has to be now.”
“You're doing that thing you do,” Lydia replied. “That stupid savior thing—”
Emery sighed. “I'm doing my job, Lyd. I'm doing what I told the king years ago I'd do. Would you be complaining if the medicine was for you?”
Lydia drew back, looking wounded; Emery realized that had probably been the wrong thing to say. Again.
“Idiot,” she said. “You know I didn't mean it like that. I just want you to be safe, and it's going to be dangerous and—” Her eyes pooled with tears again.
“I'm going to be fine,” Emery said, rallying all the certainty he could muster. “We'll probably be crawling up the drainpipe this time tomorrow—” he forced a smile—“and you'd better be waiting with a change of clothes for me.”
“You can't get hurt,” Lydia managed. “I need you.”
Emery couldn't help but chuckle at that. “It seems everyone does recently.”
She locked eyes with him. “I mean it. I—”
Emery was sure she hadn't planned it; the hand that seized his collar seemed to move involuntarily. Her lips met his in a lingering kiss. He reciprocated the gesture for a long moment, then slowly pulled away. He was sure the smile that twisted his lips this time was a pitiable one. “You can't keep doing this to me, Lyd.”
“I'm sorry, I just—”
“It's okay.” Emery rose dizzily to his feet and stood there, cheeks burning, until he couldn't bear to be next to her anymore. He walked back to the ring of couches where the others were waiting; Lydia followed him, but not too closely. “I'm sure it's almost dark enough,” he announced. “Timothy, let's gather our things.”
“I don't want you to leave,” Geneva said.
“I don't want to leave either,” Emery replied, “but I'll only be gone for a little while. Lydia told me you were the one who heard Timothy down in the pipe. Be listening for us; you'll hear us down there sometime tomorrow.” Geneva nodded somberly, somewhat comforted.
The sky was the deep gray-brown of city night when they emerged from the basement. Emery donned his gloves and overcoat; Lydia gave Timothy a similarly heavy coat that was far too large for him. “Here,” Emery said, seeing that it reached almost to the floor, “take mine. I'll wear that one, and then we'll both have something that sort of fits.”
Emery unzipped his own coat and offered it to Timothy—he was unsurprised to see that it was somewhat more suited to the boy—and put on the larger coat himself. Its massive sleeves gave Emery that all-too-familiar feeling of being a child wearing adults' clothing. Emery's frame was so slight that whenever he cared to have an article of clothing that fit properly, he was forced to have the garment tailored. Normally this frustrated him; at the present moment, his mind was on other things. “We should get going before we miss the last train out,” he said.
Lydia approached him with alarming haste and wrapped her arms around his abdomen. “Be safe,” she whispered.
He offered her a chaste kiss on the cheek in parting. “I will,” he promised. Lydia reluctantly released him.
“Don't burn the house down while I'm gone,” Emery said, smiling, and he and Timothy stepped out the front door into the autumn night.
