by Sabaa Tahir
Page 8
My hand goes to my armlet, as it always does when I need strength. It’s nearly black with tarnish, but I prefer it that way; it draws less attention. I trace the pattern in the silver, a series of connecting lines that I know so well I see it in my dreams.
Mother gave me the armlet the last time I saw her, when I was five. It’s one of the few clear memories I have of her—the cinnamon scent of her hair, the sparkle in her storm-sea eyes.
“Keep it safe for me, little cricket. Just for a week. Just until I come back. ”
What would she say now, if she knew I’d kept the armlet safe but lost her only son? That I’d saved my own neck and sacrificed my brother’s?
Set it right. Save Darin. Find the Resistance. I release the armlet and stumble on.
Soon after, I hear the first sounds behind me.
A whisper. The scrape of a boot on stone. If the crypts weren’t silent, I doubt I’d have noticed, the sounds are so quiet. Too quiet for an aux soldier.
Too furtive for the Resistance. A Mask?
My heart thumps, and I whirl, searching the tarry blackness. Masks can prowl through darkness like this as easily as if they are part wraith. I wait, frozen, but the catacombs fall silent again. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I hear nothing.
Rat. It’s just a rat. A really big one, maybe. . .
When I dare to take another step, I catch a whiff of leather and woodsmoke—human smells. I drop and search the floor with my hands for a weapon—a rock, a stick, a bone—anything to fight off whoever is stalking me. Then tinder hits flint, a hiss splits the air, and a moment later, a torch catches fire with a whoosh.
I stand, shielding my face with my hands, the impression of the flame pulsing behind my lids. When I force my eyes open, I make out a half-dozen hooded figures in a circle around me, all with loaded bows pointed at my heart.
“Who are you?” one of the figures says, stepping forward. Though his voice is cool and flat as a legionnaire’s, he doesn’t have the breadth and height of a Martial. His bare arms are hard with muscle, and he moves with fluid grace. A knife rests in one hand like it’s an extension of his body, and he holds the torch in his other. I try to find his eyes, but they’re hidden beneath the hood. “Speak. ”
“I—” After hours of silence, I can barely manage a croak. “I’m looking for. . . ”
Why didn’t I think this through? I can’t tell them I’m looking for the Resistance. No one with half a brain would admit to seeking out the rebels.
“Check her,” the man says when I don’t go on.
Another of the figures, slight and womanly, slings her bow on her back.
The torch sputters behind her, casting her face into deep shadow. She looks too small to be a Martial, and the skin of her hands doesn’t have the dark hue of a Mariner’s. She’s probably either a Scholar or a Tribeswoman. Maybe I can reason with her.
“Please,” I say. “Let me—”
“Shut it,” the man who’d spoken before says. “Sana, anything?”
Sana. A Scholar name, short and simple. If she were Martial, her name would have been Agrippina Cassius or Chrysilla Aroman or something equally long and pompous.
But just because she’s a Scholar doesn’t mean I’m safe. I’ve heard rumors of Scholar thieves lurking in the catacombs, popping through grates to grab, raid, and usually kill whoever is nearby before dropping back into their lair.
Sana runs her hands over my legs and arms. “An armlet,” she says. “Might be silver. I can’t tell. ”
“You’re not taking that!” I jerk away from her, and the thieves’ bows, which had dropped a notch, come back up. “Please, let me go. I’m a Scholar. I’m one of you. ”
“Get it done,” the man says. Then he signals to the rest of his band, and they begin to slip back into the tunnels.
“Sorry about this. ” Sana sighs, but she has a dagger in her hand now. I retreat a step.
“Don’t. Please. ” I knot my fingers together to hide their tremor. “It was my mother’s. It’s the only thing I have left of my family. ”
Sana lowers the knife, but then the leader of the thieves calls to her and, seeing her hesitation, stalks toward us. As he does, one of his men signals to him. “Keenan, heads up. Aux patrol. ”
“Pair and scatter. ” Keenan lowers his torch. “If they follow, lead them away from base, or you’ll answer for it. Sana, get the girl’s silver and let’s go. ”
“We can’t leave her,” Sana says. “They’ll find her. You know what they’ll do. ”
“Not our problem. ”
Sana doesn’t move, and Keenan shoves the torch into her hands. When he takes me by the arm, Sana gets between us. “We need silver, yes,” she says.
“But not from our own people. Leave her. ”
The unmistakable, clipped cadence of Martial voices carries down the tunnel. They haven’t seen the torchlight yet, but they will in just a few seconds.
“Damn it, Sana. ” Keenan tries to go around the woman, but she shoves him away with surprising force, and her hood falls back. As the torchlight illuminates her face, I gasp. Not because she’s older than I thought or because of her fierce animosity, but because on her neck, I see a tattoo of a closed fist raised high with a flame behind it. Beneath it, the word Izzat.
“You—you’re—” I can’t get the words out. Keenan’s eyes fall on the tattoo, and he swears.
“Now you’ve done it,” he says to Sana. “We can’t leave her. If she tells them she saw us, they’ll flood these tunnels until they find us. ”
He puts out the torch with brute swiftness and grabs my arm, pulling me after him. When I stumble into his hard back, he jerks his head around, and for a second, I catch the angry shine of his eyes. His scent, sharp and smoky, wafts over me.
“I’m sorr—”
“Keep quiet and watch your step. ” He’s closer than I realized, his breath warm against my ear. “Or I’ll knock you senseless and leave you in one of the crypts. Now move. ” I bite my lip and follow, trying to ignore his threat and instead focus on Sana’s tattoo.
Izzat. It’s Old Rei, the language spoken by Scholars before the Martials invaded and forced everyone to speak Serran. Izzat means many things.
Strength, honor, pride. But in the past century, it’s come to mean something specific: freedom.
This is no band of thieves. It’s the Resistance.
VI: Elias
Barrius’s screams blister my brain for hours. I see his body fall, hear the rasp of his last breath, smell the taint of his blood on the flagstones.
Student deaths don’t usually hit me this way. They shouldn’t—the Reaper’s an old friend. He’s walked with all of us at Blackcliff at some point. But watching Barrius die was different. For the rest of the day, I’m short-tempered and distracted.
My odd mood doesn’t go unnoticed. As I trudge to combat training with a group of other Senior Skulls, I realize Faris has just asked me a question for a third time.
“You look like your favorite whore’s caught the pox,” he says when I mutter an apology. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Nothing. ” I realize too late how angry I sound, how unlike a Skull on the verge of Maskhood. I should be excited—bursting with anticipation.
