She raised her shoulders. “Can’t miss a thing I never had. And don’t take it out on Poppy Seed. She ain’t stole your coin, either.” Mae stopped and grabbed Arlow’s arm to stay his step. “That’s one of my brother’s men.”
Arlow followed her gaze and spied a squat, bald man with the tattoo of the crowned fist just visible beneath his collar. He waved for them to follow, then disappeared up an alley.
“Come on,” Mae said, tugging on Arlow’s sleeve and setting out after the man. Arlow trailed her, none too enthusiastically. He didn’t relish consorting with tattooed criminals in grimy alleyways.
By the time they turned off the street, the man was halfway up the alley.
“Wait up, Ty,” Mae called, breaking into a run. The man paused and allowed them to join him. He smelt in desperate need of a bath and his jacket featured several unsavory-looking stains.
“What’s up, Ty?” Mae asked when she’d reached him, Arlow in tow.
“Your brother wants to speak to this one,” Ty answered, pointing to Arlow with his thumb, as he was missing his index finger. Arlow had thought that Mae’s street-speech was the thickest he’d ever heard, but this Ty fellow put her to shame. He seemed to be the physical embodiment of the word ‘coarse.’
Ty set off again and they had no choice but to jog in his wake. Mae released Arlow’s arm and loped up to Ty’s side. “What’s he want, then?”
The man adjusted his hat. “How should I know? He says to bring ’im, so I’m bringin’ ’im, ain’t I?”
Ty pulled up before the back door of a cigar shop. He knocked a beat—three smart raps, then two slower ones—and the door creaked opened from within.
The thug gestured for them to procede him and Arlow glanced at Mae, hesitant.
“Come on,” she said, and mounted the step. Ty threw out an arm to block her. “He says you’re not to come.”
She snorted and batted his arm away. “Yeah, right. Come on, Arlow.”
He followed her into the dimly lit depths of the shop. The place smelt strongly of tobacco. Arlow rubbed an eye—the smoke was so heavy it seemed to blur his vision. Mae guided him down a narrow hallway and cracked open an office door.
Linton sat, looking regal, in a massive leather chair before a desk, a cigar clenched in his teeth. He made a striking prospect, Arlow thought. In fact, someone should paint a portrait of the man just as he looked then, the exemplar of a criminal king.
“Mr. Bowlerham,” Linton said, and though it was just a name, everything from the expression on his famous face to the enunciation of each syllable served as warning: he was not pleased.
Mae regarded her brother and threw herself into a chair. “Why so tense, brother?”
The Pauper’s King steepled his fingers upon the desk and examined Arlow with shrewd blue eyes that, in that moment, appeared cold and feelingless as ice chips.
He held out a hand, indicating that Arlow, too, should be seated. Then he leaned forward, and the lamplight cast his bone structure in sharp, skeletal relief.
Arlow perched on the chair and met the man’s gaze, not allowing his discomfort to show. He was a Bowlerham and a Cosanta to boot, after all. He would not be so easily intimidated.
“I have received alarming reports from Accord, Mr. Bowlerham,” he said. “Do you know to what I refer?”
Arlow shook his head.
Linton puffed on his cigar, then tapped the ashes away. “As I am sure you are aware, I have a wide network of contacts in Accord. There are hundreds of pickpockets in the capital who report to me.” Arlow tipped his head in acknowledgment and Linton leaned still further across the desk. “They are all, quite suddenly, gone.”
Mae shifted in her seat. “Whad’ya mean, gone?”
He turned a softer look on his sister. “I am not certain, but it seems that Mr. Quade Asher has rounded up all of the homeless in the city.” His blue stare swiveled back to Arlow. “What has been done with them, I do not yet know.”
Arlow was not fool enough to misunderstand this situation—Quade’s actions had placed him in danger. “I had no knowledge of this.”
“You did not?” Linton cocked a single, skeptical brow.
“No,” Arlow said. “He had plans to set up work programs for the unemployed, but I never imagined they would be obligatory.”
“The fact is that I was hesitant to trust this man from the start. Now he has taken my people. I mean to take them back.” Linton shifted his weight into the depths of his armchair, the leather creaking beneath him. “The only question, Mr. Bowlerham, is where your loyalties lie. My sister has given only positive reports. She seems to trust you, though you look like a snake to me.”
“I thought you trusted her judgment,” Arlow said, and regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.
At his side, Mae scrutinized his face, weighing and measuring him. The doubt in her eyes made something within him crumple.
“In truth, I have found myself increasingly unsure whether I made the right choice in following Quade. He has done despicable things, and he has lied to me. I endeavored to extract some mercy for friends of mine and he deceived me about their condition.”
“Why’d you throw your lot in with him, then?” Mae asked. “Richie like you, don’t see why you’d be ’gainst your own kind.”
Arlow licked his lips, his mouth dry. “I have devoted many years to the study of politics, economics, and government. Many of the prejudices I had as a boy, given my upbringing, have long since been reconsidered. I believe that the gap in wealth is not only harmful for the poor, but for the wealthy as well. A society needs a working class to survive—it needs craftsmen, merchants, scientists. I attempted to pass bills to fund public education, and my petitions were resolutely ignored. I became flustered, and eventually malcontented. I wanted a shift in power. I still do.”
Linton considered him. “And Quade offered that power shift?”
“He did,” Arlow said, “though I’ve grown dubious of his honesty. Something I should have anticipated, no doubt. Those who seek power rarely deserve it.”
Linton drew on his cigar, sending a new wave of sweet smoke Arlow’s way. “You have a look of dishonesty about you.”
Arlow frowned. “That’s just my face.”
Linton laughed, but the sound did little to ease Arlow’s anxiety. “I am going to give you two options, Mr. Bowlerham. You may become one of my men and prove your loyalty to our cause…”
“Or?”
“Or I can have you shot and dispose of your corpse. Note that should you choose option A, and your loyalty comes into question, we shall proceed directly to option B.”
“I thought you had a no-kill policy.”
“We do not assassinate, as killing is a poor way to earn public love. This policy does not extend to traitors within our own organization.” Arlow suspected this man meant what he said. There was a steeliness in his gaze that spoke of a willingness to kill to protect his own.
Arlow wetted his lips. Joining a criminal organization had never been his plan, but there wasn’t much for it. “I think you can guess which of those options I’ll choose.”
“Excellent. Now, considering the circumstances, I think we shall skip the second task and move to the last. A proof of loyalty is the final step to joining us. In your case, proof of loyalty to myself over Mr. Asher. You and my sister will continue on to Accord—there is a train leaving tomorrow morning in fact—and you will learn what has become of my people.”
Arlow’s stomach tightened. He’d not like Quade to catch him in the act of betrayal—the man was ruthless—but, looking at Linton, he thought the descriptor ‘ruthless’ might just as easily apply. He held out his hand to Linton, an acceptance of the man’s terms.
The Pauper’s King gave him a tight smile and shook on their arrangement. They stood, Mae hugged her brother, and they exited, Arlow eager to be away.
Back out in the alley, they ambled in silence for a time. Arlow’s thoughts were jumbled and uncertai
n. He shot covert glances at Mae, wishing he could read her better.
When they came back to the main road, Arlow located the closest public bench and took a seat. Mae lowered herself beside him.
“It is hard to believe that the two of you are brother and sister.”
Mae ran a hand through her short hair. “’Cause of our talk? Linton used to talk like me, but he’s real good at imitating people. Figured early on that people liked the gentleman highwayman. Worn that mask so long now, I think it’s a part of him.”
Arlow hadn’t been thinking of their speech, but rather their temperaments. He believed the Pauper’s King was capable of anything, cold and driven. Mae, on the other hand, had a warmness to her.
“You worried?” she asked.
Arlow nodded once. She squeezed his hand, an offer of sympathy, then released him. He turned to face her, studying her features in the evening light. She wasn’t beautiful. Her jaw line was too masculine, her eyes too small for her face, her hair an unappealing color and length. Oddly, he liked those features best.
“Will you let them do it? Shoot me?” he asked, and strove to sound as if he were jesting.
“If you betray my brother?”
“Yes.”
She patted his shoulder. “I’d pull the trigger myself.”
Chapter Ten
Yarrow ran his fingers along the pistol at his side, assuring himself it was still there, then withdrew his pocket watch.
“Five minutes,” he whispered.
Bray wiped her nose for the fifth time in so many minutes, her nostrils and upper lip red and puffy.
“Bray, we could always—”
“No,” she said, and her voice was deep and muffled with cold. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” The train appeared in the distance, a great iron serpent cutting through the hilly landscape, puffing clouds into the air.
“Peer,” Bray whispered to herself, gaze intent.
Yarrow regarded her; his insides squirmed uncomfortably. She was clearly sick—sicker than she was letting on—but there was no persuading her to postpone. Nor could he convince her to allow Ko-Jin to take her place. She insisted it was a two-man job, and that she would not be left behind. All he could do was trust that she knew her own limits.
The roar of the train grew louder. It picked up speed as it made its way further from Dalyson.
“You think you can do it?” she asked, wiping once again at her leaking nose.
Yarrow took in a rallying breath. “I suppose we’re about to find out.”
He removed his glove and she took hold of his hand with her own cool fingers. She squeezed once.
When the train was nearly upon them, he stooped low in the grass.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, squatting down beside him.
“If I do manage to hit a moving target,” he said, focusing intently on the roof of a carriage not yet upon them, “we won’t want to be standing when we land. Ready?”
“Ready.”
Yarrow locked the roof of that carriage in his mind, closed his eyes, and willed himself there.
His success was immediately evident. The train rumbled beneath him and the wind raged in his ears, assaulting his face, yanking on his coat. He hunkered down lower, pulling up the oversized handkerchief tied round his neck to cover his mouth and nose. His eyes streamed.
Bray, her own handkerchief concealing her lower face, crouched beside him, her green eyes slitted, cat-like. Her short hair flew straight back from her head, her shoulders squared.
“You alright?” he bellowed.
She gave one decisive nod, then pointed that he should take the left-hand side of the carriage, and she the right.
Yarrow attempted to rise to his feet, but was almost blown clear off the carriage. He thrust himself back down to the metal roof, squeezed his eyes shut and listened to his heart thundering in his chest cavity.
When his nerves had more or less recovered, he began to crawl to the edge of the carriage, his knees and hands skimming the hard, ribbed surface beneath him. The greenery whipped by so quickly it made his eyes feel out of focus, so he trained his gaze downward.
Inching slowly, he at last came to the edge of the car, where there was a slight handhold in the form of a gutter. The moment he had his hands firmly clasped to that hard lip in the metal, he felt more at ease. He took a steadying breath.
He glanced over his shoulder and perceived that Bray had reached her own side without incident. Thank the Spirits.
Slowly, he released his right hand and reached for the long pole strapped to his back. Grit in the air pelted his face but he held fast, detached the thin bit of metal and brought it forward. The mirror attached was smudged, so he rubbed it against his coat.
Another look over his shoulder proved that Bray had already lowered her own mirror and had moved to the end of the car. Hurry up, man.
Clutching the gutter with one hand, he lowered the pole until, in the reflection, he could see the occupants of the compartment beneath him—or, rather, its lack of occupants. It seemed to be a make-shift storage area. He slid himself sideways, cursed as the strap that held his tail blew off and his hair exploded in his face. Should have shorn the whole lot of it off. Chiona might have it right, there.
In the next compartment he discerned a group of young women—Elevated, by the marks on their necks—but no Peer. He yanked his mirror back up out of sight and crawled further on. When he came to the end of the car—trying hard not to think of just how many more cars there were to search—Bray was waiting.
“You good?” she called, voice barely audible over the roar.
He waved in assent, though he was acutely aware of the tremendous speed at which they traveled, as well as the length of the fall. She focused on the next car and, with a degree of grace that Yarrow felt sure he could never replicate, leapt from one carriage to the next, landing in a crouch.
Yarrow pushed himself from his knees to feet and made the critical error of looking over the edge. He saw the wooden crossties flit by below, the gravel blur past his vision. He gulped.
“Come on, Yarrow.”
He focused on the car, fixed it in his mind, and appeared at Bray’s side with a pop that disappeared in the howl of the wind. She pulled her handkerchief down long enough to stick her tongue out at him. “Cheater.”
He grinned, then set about his task again. Peer was not in the first compartment, nor the second. In the third, Yarrow caught sight of a group of Elevated playing cards. In the reflection, he glimpsed a young man as he turned to the window and locked eyes on the mirror.
Yarrow swore and tugged the pole back, shoving himself away from the edge. Below, he heard the window slide open. “Oy,” a voice called, “who’s up there?”
Yarrow remained silent and prayed they would write it off as a figment of their imagination.
“Let’s go up and check.” No such luck.
Yarrow scrambled across the roof towards Bray.
“What’s wrong?” she hollered, and her eyes did not seem quite focused.
“We’re about to have some company.”
Peer jolted straighter at the sound of raised voices and thumping footfalls in the hallway.
“What’s goin’ on?” he asked.
Su-Hwan shook her head, then glanced up as a thud sounded overhead, followed by the unmistakable bang of a pistol firing.
“We took on a lot of goods in Dalyson,” Su-Hwan said. “It must be a train robbery.”
Peer scanned the landscape out the window, but detected no evidence of anything amiss. He chewed on his lip—if this was bandits, then it would be an excellent distraction. However, if it was Bray…
No, Bray wouldn’t be seen. She’d slip in undetected.
Su-Hwan darted a glance up to the luggage compartment and Peer gave a quick dip of the head in acquiescence. She then shot a look to her left, to the scribe and the Fifth. The Fifth would obviously tell no tales, but the scribe, though ever absorbed in her work, would undou
btedly notice should they leave.
Peer acted quickly, for the first time taking advantage of his unbound limbs. He sprang from his seat, took the scribe around the neck with his arm, and squeezed his bicep until she lost consciousness. Thank you, Sung Ko-Jin, for that lesson.
Su-Hwan’s eyes went wider than usual, but she made no comment on the treatment of her compatriot. “Give me a boost?”
Peer created a step with his hands and she placed her tiny foot there. He hoisted her up and she slipped into the compartment like a fox through a hole.
Peer jumped up onto the seat and launched himself towards the opening. He hung for a moment, with his head and arms within the small space and his feet kicking in the air below. Gritting his teeth, he hauled himself in, leveraging his weight to the side, feeling the edge scrape roughly against his shoulders. Once they had cleared, the rest followed and, with his foot, he slid the compartment shut. The space was dark, tight. He swallowed and tried not to let the enclosed feeling affect him.
“Su-Hwan?”
“Up here,” she whispered.
On hands and knees, compressed like water in a hose, he began to wriggle forward. It was dark and dusty. He suppressed a sneeze.
Even shut in as he was, he could hear the sounds of a fight from above, several more gunshots. If it was bandits, he hoped they’d make off with the lot. Anything to ruin Quade’s day.
He let out an ooaf as he bumped into Su-Hwan. “What’s wrong?”
“A bag is blocking the way.”
Peer sighed. Right, luggage compartment. He squinted as a sliver of light appeared.
“All clear,” Su-Hwan said. She opened the compartment door wide and pushed the bag out, then slithered on.
They crawled in gloom and silence for several more minutes, and Peer found it increasingly difficult to breathe. Wide open spaces, he thought. Picture wide open spaces.
“We’ve almost reached the end of the car,” Su-Hwan whispered.
Peer’s knees had begun to burn from sliding along the wood planking beneath him, and a sharp ache had taken up between his shoulders. Just a bit further…
The Complete Marked Series Box Set Page 50
