Vendra loped back out to the general, who was looking at her as if she were a creature transformed. “If you wouldn’t mind leaving out this mistake when you speak to Quade, I would be grateful. I’d hate to disappoint him.”
“No harm done, dear,” Peava said, returning the first recipe she had given him and slipping the new one into his breast pocket. “Be sure to get some more rest. We’ll all be needing it in the weeks to come.”
Vendra nodded and waved him off. She stared at her feet for a time, feeling like the one stationary thing in the center of a storm. When she looked up she found Jorren, Quade’s trusty torturer, staring directly at her. His face, being half covered in a black beard, was difficult to read, but she thought he perceived her nervous state. She made herself nod her head to him, then casually turn away. The heat of his gaze landed upon her back.
She retreated into Quade’s tent once more. She moved to the table and braced herself, palms flat and back arched, breathing. She knew that this had happened before, that she’d had fleeting moments of clarity in the past. She had the vague memory of running to telegraphy offices, of sending letters and writing notes on napkins.
That those memories were so clouded gave her the answer. She had drugged herself, so she could not betray her moments of resistance to Quade. With tremulous hands, she plucked a phial from her collection—the drug that Quade had meant to unleash upon the people of Accord. Vendra unscrewed the minute lid, pinched her nose, and took a careful sip. Undiluted like this, the effect would be strong and nearly immediate. She stumbled back to the cot.
She closed her eyes and sensed the drug leaching into her bloodstream, running through her body like electricity along a wire. She blinked heavily.
What was I doing? she wondered. Where am I?
Déjà vu—she had been here before. She kicked her feet back and forth and watched them sway with a detached mind.
On the other side of the canvas, countless feet crunched against the shore. They were preparing for the conflict to come, for the first true war in centuries.
Vendra lay back slowly, and the roof of the tent swirled. She closed her eyes, her legs still hanging off the side of the cot, and slipped into a dreamless slumber.
Ko-Jin stalked the confines of his cell, clenching and unclenching his fists.
Can't be much longer, he thought. Twenty-two hours or so.
He looked around at the stone walls. There was a dark stain that he did not like to linger on. He glanced back at his cot, where leather straps dangled from the metal frame, corroded buckles seeming to hold ill-intent even in disuse. A shiver raced across his skin.
It had been wise to move the quarantine, as Quade most likely knew its previous location, especially given Vendra’s defection.
Wise, yes. And yet Ko-Jin would have vastly preferred a common prison cell to this. He did not take issue with the general filthiness of his cobwebbed lockup, tucked deep within a defunct madhouse. But that it seemed vaguely haunted was certainly less than ideal. Not that he was superstitious, but the place was downright unsettling. He kept waking in the night, filled with the cold certainty that the wails which had roused him were not of the present.
Ko-Jin shoved this foolishness from his mind. It seemed the only thoughts that crowded the space between his ears were thoughts he would rather push aside. He did not know how to cope with the staggering weight of his failures. Chae-Na. Su-Hwan. Elda.
Ko-Jin dropped down to the cool stone floor, bracing himself on palms and toes. He began counting push-ups—one, two, three—hoping to chase the despair from his mind with a little sweat—twelve, thirteen, fourteen—hoping that the simple distraction of physical exertion might temporarily lessen the burden of his guilt.
Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Ko-Jin sighed. It was not enough, not nearly enough. He paused and pressed his palms more firmly against the ground. He lifted his knees up onto his elbows and then shot his feet straight into the air until he stood on his hands, upside-down.
If normal push-ups would not do the trick, perhaps a more extreme variety would. He began to leverage his body up and down, breathing steadily, trying to keep his balance. Blood started to rush to his head, making him feel a bit ill, but he kept on. Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four.
It had been Zarra, long ago, who had first taught him this particular exercise. She had quite the arsenal of punishing calisthenics. He wondered how she fared, how her training progressed. She was a gifted teacher, but there was so little time, so few supplies, so little hope.
Ko-Jin's mind wandered from Zarra back to its usual focal point—Chae-Na. She was cooped up in one of these horrid chambers, too. Isolated. Dealing, alone, with what had been done to her.
That Quade…that he had dared…
Anger shot through Ko-Jin hot and fast, beginning deep in his gut and zipping down into his fingers. His balance wavered, and for a moment he wobbled, trying to steady himself. He overcompensated and toppled backwards, hard.
Ko-Jin groaned, rolling over onto his side. Idiot. The small slot in his cell door rattled, and his head turned sharply at the sound. He looked up in time to see the tray appear—dinner. He hopped to his feet, eager, desirous of information more than food.
The steel tray held a stone bowl, with a hard-boiled egg and a blob of whitish mush he took for potatoes. Tucked beneath the spoon, there was an envelope bearing his name.
Ko-Jin ripped open the sleeve and withdrew the paper. He stared down at the sheet, reading:
Sung,
The shipment of revolving pistols has arrived. They were distributed this morning, and I have begun marksmanship training. The question I have for you, oh General, is this: should they aim to kill or to maim?
Ko-Jin's eyes flicked up. He frowned. It was a good question, and a terrible one. To shoot at the chest or head was best, easiest. If little-trained soldiers endeavored to aim for shoulders and legs, they were far more likely to miss altogether. But could they live with themselves, having killed people who were operating under someone else's will? Ko-Jin returned his eyes to the slip of paper.
Some are progressing much faster than others. I suggest we begin elevating those with more exceptional abilities to leadership roles. We have much to discuss, so hurry back.
-Zarra
Ko-Jin tossed the paper back down onto the tray. He swallowed his food quickly, tasting nothing, thinking.
No matter how many times he considered strategy, he always came back to the same obvious answer: they needed to find a way to remove Quade’s effect before they could remove him. They needed his followers to see his true face. Su-Hwan had died trying to accomplish this. With her gone, Whythe was their last chance. But he too, could be taken away. He too, could be corrupted. Just as Ko-Jin could be; just as they all could.
His contemplation shifted, as it had again and again over the past four days, to his other obvious problem: Quade had a mole in the palace. Someone had tipped him off to Jo-Kwan and Linton’s location. Someone had drugged the guards who stood watch over Chae-Na. He supposed it could be anyone—a member of the palace security or any of the Chisanta who patrolled the halls. They could have plans to meet Quade at some set location to pass information. He would need to be less trusting and more watchful in the future.
Ko-Jin swallowed the last of his meal. He began to pulverize the discarded eggshell in his hand, savoring the sharp pricking against the flesh of his fingers.
With dinner finished, and some twenty hours of his quarantine remaining, Ko-Jin decided that what he needed most was to relax. Perhaps if he could shake off all of these worries and concerns, he might be able to concentrate properly. He had to stop cycling through these same answerless questions, these consuming bouts of rage and guilt.
Ko-Jin needed to perform the Ada Chae; he needed his body to unwind and his mind to uplift. He relaxed his fists, deliberately easing all the muscles in his arms and hands. He took a calming breath. And then he began.
Warm Hands Over Fire drifted smoothly into Brush
the Dragonfly. Almost immediately he felt himself loosen. His mind drifted, but he remained in the asylum, not allowing himself to enter the Aeght a Seve. He moved through the familiar forms, and they rested on his limbs like the embrace of an old friend. Turn the Sphere yielded to Gracious Offering.
His thoughts meandered purposefully towards Peer Gelson. A snippet of conversation came to the fore of his mind, and pieced together with other, seemingly unrelated, facts. Peer and Whythe shared an uncommon bond, but not a unique one. It was something that many couples had discovered in recent weeks—there existed some invisible link that bound two people, Cosanta and Chiona. Ko-Jin had not experienced anything like it himself; he did not fully understand it. But he believed in things he could perceive with his own eyes, and he had seen the way Bray and Yarrow worked together. He believed in this phenomenon.
Peer said that he had been able, in a moment of extreme need, to affect Whythe’s gift. He had been able to stop it.
Ko-Jin’s hand raised in Slow Lash, but he was moving unconsciously, his mind whirring.
And then, he thought, there was Fernie. Poor Fernie had told him some weeks ago that he too felt drawn to another person—to Quade Asher.
Ko-Jin shifted his weight slowly from one foot to the other, in Floating Down Stream. He inhaled through his nose, held the air inside of him for a long moment, and then exhaled steadily through the mouth.
Was it possible? Could it truly be that Fernie and Quade shared this same kind of link? And if so, could Fernie—a young man with rather more good humor than sense—truly be the key?
Because if Peer Gelson could have such an effect on his other half, it stood to reason that Fernie could do the same.
Ko-Jin was roused from his meditative state by the small slotted door flapping in and out once again. Another slip of paper fluttered down onto the stone floor.
He hastened to it, and brought the words up to the dimming sunlight that streamed through the barred window. He read:
Quade’s forces have begun to land in Daland. He could be at the walls of Accord within the week.
The air stalled in Ko-Jin’s lungs. He had a strong desire to pound on the door, to demand he be released early. He did not think his mind to be contaminated. And the nation needed him.
He exhaled and let his hands fall to his sides. He had only nineteen more hours to wait; it would not make such a difference.
His list of concerns—of tasks to be completed and problems to be solved—swirled in his mind like a dust storm in the desert. But he held onto one new hope: Fernie.
Arlow crossed his arms and glared at the door to his cell. It should have opened two minutes ago. Every additional moment confined within this horrid place seemed a deliberate torture. He had actually missed the common prison cell of his first stint in quarantine.
Heavy footfalls echoed in the hallway, and he exhaled mightily. Finally! His nose wrinkled in distaste upon the inhale—he thought he could smell the madhouse even on his own clothes. An odor that had doubtless settled into the very fibers, and would linger.
The boots trod closer, and at last Arlow heard the rattle of keys. He groaned when that clink and jangle persisted for a time, as if the person on the other side wielded a large ring of keys and was uncertain which belonged to this particular lock. Several were tried without success.
Arlow glowered at the door. Did the man have no regard for his sanity?
At length, the chap managed his simple job, and Arlow pushed immediately out into the hallway. He did not look back at his erstwhile cell—his dearest wish was to never set foot in this horrendous place again.
“Sir,” a young man called after him. He was in possession of a comically oversized ring of keys. “I was told to tell you that the general will be meeting in the—”
Arlow slapped the lad on the shoulder, silencing him. He read the name embroidered on the soldier’s shirt front. “The general is not the person I’m interested in meeting, Briggs. Do tell him I’ve gone, will you?”
Arlow sauntered up the tumbledown hallway, feeling lighter of spirit now that his freedom had been returned. He whistled as he ascended a half-crumbled stair. Peripherally, he caught sight of a chamber that contained nothing more than a massive, rusting tub. The sign above the entryway read “Cold Water Submersion Therapy.” Arlow hastened his step, his cheerful whistling taking on a manic, forced quality.
When he at last found his way back to the entrance and jogged into the darkening evening, the cold air embraced him like an old friend. He drew a deep breath, savoringly. The air in Accord usually tasted acrid in his mouth; now, however, it struck him as fresher than all the gurgling rills in greater Andle. A funny thing, perspective.
Arlow set out at a steady clip, his hands burrowed in his pockets for warmth. A few stars were already visible in the rapidly blackening sky above him, and his nose turned cold. He sniffed and kept moving up a familiar street that seemed somehow totally new to him.
It was the vacancy that made the place appear foreign—all of the boarded-up shops and the nonexistent foot traffic in a part of town that was usually overfull. He craned his head to peek up a smaller alley, to where his favorite restaurant was tucked into a quieter quarter. The windows were dark and a sign had been nailed to the door: “Closed until further notice.”
Arlow sighed. Clams in wine sauce would have been just the thing. As he trod further up the street, a single open shop shone like a candle in the darkness. Without thinking, Arlow stumbled towards it. He wanted to buy something, to have a nice normal interaction—encourage the world to remember how life was meant to be lived. He pushed into the shop, a bell jangling above him. There were no other shoppers, unsurprisingly, but an old woman in a clean apron rose creakily to her feet at his entrance, setting aside her knitting.
“Was just thinking of closing up,” she said to him. “Glad I waited.”
“Not getting much business, I take it. Why have you stayed open? Seems you’re the only one.”
The woman laughed. “When you’re as old as I am, you don’t get frightened off course so easily. What can I get for you?”
The shop apparently sold a little of everything—fabrics, ribbons, shoe polish, Adourran scarves.
“Mind if I browse for a minute?”
“Take your time, young man.”
Arlow meandered around the room. He was tempted to reach out and touch all of the new, clean fabrics, but his hands were dirty. He wondered if the woman could smell him clear across the shop—his own nose was full of his own foul odor.
He chuckled at a shelf of small figurines, roughly-hewn robed little men, apparently performing the Ada Chae. Around the next corner, he found an aisle full of curtains. And he smiled.
“I’ll take these,” he called to the shop owner, pointing.
The drapery in question was not at all to his taste. The fabric was of poor quality, a buttery yellow dappled with white polka dots. And yet it looked just right. He fished coins from his pocket.
“A fine choice,” the old woman said. Arlow was still grinning, and her eyes twinkled at his obvious, if inexplicable, excitement. She wrapped up the parcel in brown paper and tied it off with a plain cord. Arlow tucked the package under his arm and bowed to the woman. “Thank you.”
“Not a bit, young man. You come back, you hear?”
He took off again, a spring in his step, and made his way through the last few blocks of the northern shopping district. He took a corner, training his feet towards the Narrows. It was not an area of town he knew well, and he hoped he would be able to find the abandoned factory again. Though, the Pauper’s Men might well have changed their location already, and then how would he find his wife?
A slight movement in an alley caught his eye, and he made out the retreating back of a thin lad in a rough coat. Likely she’ll find me before I find her. With Linton’s full network of spies and thieves now reporting to her, she had eyes all across the city and beyond.
Arlow had begun to wonder i
f he was lost, until he discerned the shabby, canted outline of The Central Accord Home for Orphans, and knew he was on the correct street. He continued up the lane and around a final corner, then jogged across the road, not bothering to look for carriages—there were none. The factory appeared as unsavory as it had the first time he had approached it: like the perfect place to go hunting for rats.
There were no visible lights within the windows, and his heart sank. He had walked a good ways on a near-empty stomach for nothing, it would seem. The night had turned dark and cold around him. He wondered if Mae might have left him a note, and decided to kip inside.
The door would not budge. He pressed his shoulder to it, gritting his teeth. He moved back and gave it a good ram, then hissed and massaged his arm. Pulling his coat tighter with a shiver, he glowered at the building.
Now what?
“Mister?” A filthy-faced boy emerged from the shadows. “You the Queen’s feller?”
Arlow’s lip twitched at this descriptor. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Show me your mark, then,” the little lad demanded. His eyes were an alarming blue; they glinted like sapphires against his dirt-darkened cheeks.
“Excuse me?”
“They says the chap I’m meant to lead’s got one of them Chisanta marks on ’is neck.” He pronounced it Chee-santa.
Arlow unfastened the top button of his coat and pulled the collar aside to reveal the brick-red brand on his pale skin. The lad squinted at it with an amusing degree of scrutiny, before indicating his approval.
“So, where has my wife taken up? A place nicer than this, I’m hoping.”
But the boy had already turned his back and gestured for Arlow to follow. A cloud drifted across the moon, plunging the street into a truer darkness. Arlow kept close to his guide, feeling increasingly nervous—exposed. He could sense watchful eyes on his back.
They made their way into the heart of the Narrows, a place Arlow had never been before. The streets boasted far more activity in this district, with pairs patrolling the sidewalks, most clutching makeshift weapons. There were more lights in windows, more evidence of people in general. It didn’t quite ease that nervous itch between Arlow’s shoulder blades, but he was glad that all of Accord was not so bunkered down as the richest sector.
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