The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  Mae urged Poppy Seed Muffin into the public mews of Dalyson. Arlow dropped down from the gig, clutching the side of the carriage to steady himself.

  Three days without food had rendered him well and truly bad-tempered. Yesterday, he’d been nauseated and his head had ached. By that morning, his stomach actually hurt with hunger—he supposed that was why they were called ‘hunger pains,’ though he’d never previously considered the term.

  His vision blurred and he blinked.

  “You alright there, fellah?” a stable boy asked.

  Arlow’s forehead creased, confused for a moment by the lad’s informality. Then he recalled that he wore common trousers and shirt. Mae had laughed herself to tears when he’d donned the costume, so he imagined he looked fairly ridiculous.

  “He’s just fine,” Mae said.

  She seized Arlow by the arm and towed him out into the streets of Dalyson, casting him a side-long glance.

  The town bustled, inordinately crowded, with a general air of merriment. The sidewalks were lined with food and drink vendors. Music—lively country tunes—drifted from several directions, and dancers whirled in the avenue. Not being a holiday as far as Arlow knew, he guessed it must be a local festival of some kind; the sort of public event he would not normally deign to attend.

  He stumbled and Mae steadied him. “It’s almost over,” she said, and patted his hand.

  They passed a bakery, and the smell of yeasty, fresh-baked bread sent him almost wild, mouth salivating.

  “Do you have any advice for a novice crime-doer such as myself?” he asked.

  “Well, different people’ve got different ways. Waiting on a distraction and pocketing something is a classic for a reason—as is creating the distraction.”

  “Are you offering to be my distraction?” he asked.

  She smiled benignly up at him. “’Fraid I can’t be helpin’ you. It’s against the rules.” She squeezed his arm. “I’m just here for…ah, moral support.”

  He snorted derisively. “To verify I actually do the deed, more like. Is conning a valid form of theft?”

  “Sure,” she said. “But it usually takes more time. More skill too. You ain’t an over-good actor, you know.”

  He gave a laugh that sounded more like a cough. “You’ve no idea what I’m capable of.”

  As they strolled up the lane, Arlow paused before each purveyor of food. He stopped and watched the owners for a time, shook his head, then moved on without explanation.

  After half an hour of this, Mae’s lips compressed into a tight line. “What’re you waitin’ for, then? A ‘come nick from me’ sign? You’ll not find one.”

  He opened his mouth to reply but his attention wandered, snagged by a small girl lingering near a butcher’s cart. Four years old at the most, her dress was mere tatters, her limbs skin and bone. The girl’s stomach had a bloated curve and her eyes shone with animal-like hunger. She crept to the cart on bare, silent feet, ravenous gaze fixated on a link of sausage.

  The butcher caught sight of the girl and swung a kick. She danced out of the way, melded back into the foot traffic. “Stay away, rat,” the hulking man shouted after her.

  The word rat echoed in Arlow’s mind. A memory, a long unthought-of thing, sprung to the fore of his thoughts: himself, as a boy, driving with his parents through a poorer district in Accord. A group of street urchins had clamored around their gig, reaching forward with dirty hands. Arlow had had half a meat pie left over from his own lunch, so he’d tossed it down.

  He’d laughed as the children mobbed, fighting each other over his meager, half-eaten offering. His father had said, “Arlow, don’t feed the rats.”

  He’d laughed at that too. They’d seemed like rats to him, then. Less than human.

  Arlow swallowed, feeling distinctly ill.

  “You alright?” Mae asked.

  He shook himself, realized he’d been staring at the space of road where the waif had been. “Yes.” He swiveled his gaze to the butcher. “I think I’ve found my target.”

  “’Bout time.”

  Arlow approached the meat cart with a swagger, stumbling deliberately. “Hello, my fine fellow,” he slurred.

  The man grinned, revealing a missing tooth. “Someone appears to be enjoying the revelries.”

  “Oh, aye.” Arlow said, affecting a hiccup. “It’s been a marvelous time. I’m having a very lucky day, you see. Lady Fortune’s been on my side.” Arlow withdrew a gold mark from his pocket, tossed it in the air, and caught it again.

  The butcher’s eyes followed the bounty. “Is that so?” the man asked. “Come to purchase some of my quality meats with your winnings? I’ll make you a good offer.”

  Arlow teetered—this time without intention, but it helped his ruse all the same. “I thought I’d keep the good luck going. So I’ll make you a wager. You toss this coin three times and if it comes up heads all three, I get two of your family platters free of charge. If it comes up tails just once, you keep the gold.”

  The butcher held out his hand for the mark and Arlow placed it in his meaty paw. The man tested the weight, examined its ordinary appearance, and finally bit it. Though the mark passed his inspection, he regarded Arlow distrustfully.

  Mae stepped up. “No, honey. You can’t be riskin’ all that—we need that coin. Think of the children.”

  Arlow could have kissed her he was so grateful, but instead he assumed a look of belligerent annoyance. “Don’t you tell me what to do with my own hard-won coin, woman.”

  Mae leaned in and, in a carrying whisper, begged, “But, honey, you’re drunk. You aren’t thinkin’ straight.”

  “Now madame,” the butcher said. “You should let your husband do as he likes. It is, after all, his lucky day.” He smirked at Arlow. “I’ll take your wager.”

  A crowd had begun to gather around them, ready for a show. “The bloke is sotted,” someone nearby whispered, chuckling.

  “Here we go,” the butcher said, addressing the growing audience and seeming to enjoy the attention.

  He flipped the coin up in the air, caught it in his palm, and slapped it down on his forearm. “Heads.” He smiled at Arlow.

  “Number two.” The gold flicked up once again and the assemblage held its breath. “Heads.”

  A murmur spread through the audience. Arlow pumped his fist stupidly, suppressed a smug smile.

  The crowd counted down for the butcher. “One, two, three.”

  With a flick of the thumb the mark flipped up. The sound of the coin slapping down on his beefy arm resounded. The butcher frowned for a moment before grudgingly announcing, once again, “Heads.”

  Arlow felt several thumps on his back. “Really is his lucky day.”

  The butcher could do no more than feign good-feeling as he returned the gold and loaded up two platters, though the merriment did not touch his eyes. The man who operated the next cart, of apparently a jolly disposition, gave Arlow and Mae each a free pint of ale as well. “To Lady Fortune!” Arlow shook several hands, took his winnings, and then he and Mae slipped away to find seats.

  A quick scan determined all of the chairs and tables occupied, so Arlow plunked down on the curb, far too hungry to find better accommodations. He tore into a sausage viciously, the juices running down his chin. It made him think of Ko-Jin and Yarrow, cooking out in the summers.

  He’d never eaten with less decorum, and food had certainly never tasted so good. It took little time for his head to clear, for the festivities around him to gain appeal.

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to help me,” he said, bumping Mae’s shoulder conspiratorially.

  She shrugged. “Was hungry,” she said through a mouthful of food.

  A band set up across the street, two fiddles and a drum striking up a fast, rustic tune.

  Mae, without warning, reached into his pocket and snatched the coin. She examined it, then flipped it a few times with varying results. “I don’t get it. It ain’t rigged. How’d you do it?”
>
  Arlow winked. “It’s like I said. It’s my lucky day.” He downed the remainder of his ale. “Tell you what—you toss that mark three times and should it be heads each time you give me a kiss.”

  She rolled her eyes. “If it’s tails do I get to kick you?”

  He laughed and returned the coin to his pocket. Mae’s foot tapped to the beat and she gazed at the dancers who’d sprung up around the band. Then she turned back to him. “It’s some kind o’ Chisanta magic, ain’t it?”

  Arlow tipped his head in confirmation. “As far as gifts go, it’s a rather piddling one, but it’s gotten me out of a few scrapes.”

  He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and sighed, never so glad for a full stomach. “Now that you know one of my secrets, it’s only fair that you answer a question of mine. Why are you suddenly so eager to leave your brother’s…ah, organization?”

  She folded her arms and pushed her weight back against a street lamp. “What do you care?”

  “Let’s call it disinterested curiosity.”

  She pursed her lips, and he thought she might actually be blushing. “Well, I’m gettin’ to that age where, if I want to marry and start a family, I need to get crackin’. And thieving ain’t a good life for a little ’un, I can tell you.”

  “Ah.” He began, unconsciously, to tap his foot to the beat. “And do you have a husband in mind, or just an inclination towards the institution as a whole?”

  She stared down at her lap, her cheeks turning steadily redder. “I’ve had an offer. Haven’t answered it yet.” She stood abruptly and held her hand out to him. “Let’s dance.”

  “Why?” he asked, slightly scandalized at the idea of dancing some country jig in the street. But then, who’s likely to see?

  “Cause I want to.” She lightly kicked his boot and brandished her hand before him.

  He accepted with a forced, beleaguered sigh and she hauled him up off the curb, pulling him to where a fair number of other couples were already feverishly stepping and twirling.

  “You know this one?” Arlow asked.

  “Course,” she said. “It’s just a South Dalish step-dance.”

  “You’ll have to lead then.” He took hold of her hand and waist. “It hasn’t come to the ballrooms of Accord just yet.”

  She took him at his word. They spun and stepped, Arlow blundering now and again. Mae laughed heartily at his errors, and for some reason he could only smile in response. They danced until they were red in the face and short of breath.

  And then they danced some more.

  Chapter Eight

  Bray tsked, leaning close to Yarrow’s neck. “Keep still.”

  “It’s cold.”

  She gripped him by the nape, the tip of her tongue poking between her lips. “There.” She let her fingers linger at the base of his neck.

  The concealer wasn’t quite the right match for his complexion, but near enough. He raised his fingers, as if to touch his hidden mark. She batted his hand away. “Let it dry.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Bray placed an unfashionably long-billed bonnet on her head and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. “How do I look? Ordinary?”

  He eyed her up and down in a way that made her face flush. “I wouldn’t look twice,” he finally said, smiling archly. He placed a top hat on his head. “And myself?”

  She smirked. “Perfectly pedestrian.”

  “Thank you.” He grinned, and she couldn’t help but return his smile. Then he held out his hand. “Ready?”

  She laced her fingers with his and steeled herself. He glanced down one final time at the map of Accord unfurled on the table. They’d decided that if Peer was indeed in Accord, as Arlow had said, Quade would likely be keeping him on the palace grounds. Jo-Kwan had told them that the lowest level of the palace used to be a prison.

  “Here we go, then.”

  The cottage disappeared in an instant, blinking into blackness. They rematerialized in a bare alleyway between two shops—stark, grimy brick walls. Bray scanned her surroundings and found they were alone.

  She trembled beneath her shawl, the rank odor and sudden plunge in temperature enveloping and offensive. She spun, not entirely sure of their location.

  “North.” Yarrow pointed up the alleyway. “Two blocks from the palace.”

  They hustled to the mouth of the alley and merged with the foot traffic beyond. Bray bowed her head to conceal her face, but from within the cowl of her bonnet she swept the crowds.

  The neighborhood, neither fashionable nor poor, was instead home to the better-off of the working class: women wearing new but simple cotton dresses, men sporting wool coats rather than fur. Vendors peddled typical street foods along the cobbled roads. Bray’s mouth watered as they passed a cart of candied pecans, the scent like a dream drifting on the chill air.

  She slipped her hand in the crook of Yarrow’s arm and they matched the leisurely pace of the crowds around them. In appearance, just another couple out for an afternoon stroll.

  A merchant called to Bray, foisting fistfuls of colorful silken scarves. “Beautiful kerchief for a beautiful lady?”

  She softened her negative with a smile and promenaded onward. The couple walking ahead of them hailed an acquaintance, a smiling young man sporting an undercoat in an alarming shade of red.

  “Mr. Tellman, how do you do?”

  The young man doffed his hat. “Excellently, old chap. Have you ever seen such a fine day this time of year?”

  “My word, no! It’s been uncommonly fair all week. In fact—”

  Bray glanced up at the drear sky above, then down at the standing puddles on the streets. She shivered, chilled by more than just the wind.

  It all seemed normal enough, yet, for reasons she couldn’t quite name, something felt…off, eerie. She had that hot feeling on the back of her neck, like being watched.

  Yarrow bent low to speak in her ear. “Noticed the posters?”

  She followed his gaze and her mouth fell open. Wanted posters were a common sight in Accord—they plastered the building sides and notice boards like wallpaper, most commonly featuring the Pauper’s King. The constables might have made an error there—the Pauper’s King posters had become something of a trend. Pubs frequently used them as decor.

  But it was not the Pauper’s King’s eyes peering down at her now. It was her own: hers, Yarrow’s, and Ko-Jin’s. Decent likenesses printed on recycled paper, with the bold words ‘Wanted on charges of treason and regicide.’ The corners of the paper flapped in the wind, waving at her.

  That prickling feeling at her nape intensified. She shrank deeper within her bonnet and, in her inattention, trod right into the man in front of her.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she said.

  The man smiled, and there was an odd glazed-over look in his pale eyes. “Not to worry, Miss.”

  Bray bobbed her head, but her unease heightened. Looking around, all of the faces smiled, but blandly—ubiquitous, hollow cheer.

  She swallowed. What city crowd had ever been so good-tempered?

  Yarrow tugged the fringe of her shawl in warning. She saw them, too—a pair of Quade’s Chisanta, his Elevated, wearing the crisp navy uniforms of constables. The sight stole her breath like a punch to the gut. Rogue Chisanta operating as public officials.

  The two Elevated stopped a young Chaskuan man and rubbed a cloth to his neck. The man smiled, apparently unperturbed, and was dismissed.

  Bray hooked her arm around Yarrow’s elbow and guided him down an alley as inconspicuously as possible.

  “That bloke didn’t even look put out,” Bray said, shaking her head.

  “No, he certainly did not,” Yarrow agreed. “Quade seems to have had an effect on the entire city…”

  They exited the alley on the other side and melded back into the herd. The traffic halted at a rail line crossing, and Bray ground her teeth at the bad timing, rocking on her boots. The train blared across the road, car after car flitting by in seemingly end
less succession. The coal smoke made her eyes burn, but she didn’t avert her gaze from the windows.

  “Did you see how many Elevated were on that train?” Yarrow whispered.

  She sighed. “Taking the rail lines was likely his first move. It would be mine.”

  “It’s all so much worse than I imagined,” Yarrow said. “Only days have passed. How could he have done so much, so soon?”

  Bray grunted her consensus, too demoralized for words. She imagined Yarrow was contemplating the same unanswerable question as her: how could they possibly fight something so intangible, so insidious, so far-reaching? It had only just begun, and they had already lost. She was, for one of the few times in her adult life, truly afraid—not for herself, but for the world.

  The palace grounds came into view and the foot traffic slowed. Bray found herself behind two older gentlemen having a conversation seemingly intended to carry. “If it were put to a vote?” one of them was saying. “There would be no question.”

  The other, a short man clutching an expensive cane, bowed. “I’m all agreement. Mr. Asher has been just the tonic this city needed. I read in the Times yesterday that there hasn’t been a single incident of crime since his arrival.”

  Bray’s brow dimpled, if possible her thoughts growing bleaker. She scanned the crowd, but lower this time, searching for the poor of Accord, realizing abruptly that she had seen none the entire time they had been walking the streets—not a single beggar or pickpocket.

  A young man distributing political pamphlets was stationed near the palace gates. “A manifesto on governance! Get your manifesto, here!”

  Yarrow steered them in that direction and accepted a leaflet, tucking the slip of paper in his coat pocket, and then they strode further up the drive.

  The palace rose before them, a great, white, gleaming monument sitting high on a grassy slope.