Lamentation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 3)

by March McCarron

  Chae-Na smiled slightly, though her hands had tightened in her lap. “I had never imagined you so interested in base gossip, Veldon. I confess myself disappointed.”

  Some emotion flitted across his features but was quickly hidden. “You mistake me, Your Highness. I care not for the prating of wagging tongues, but that such talk is growing louder amongst the titled of Accord is, you must agree, a problem for my old friend and king. It does him harm, too, that this enemy—this Asher fellow—has been so unrealistically characterized. People say he controls minds and can move thousands of leagues in the blink of an eye.” He sneered, plainly skeptical.

  “Were you not present at Quade’s would-be execution, then?” Chae-Na asked.

  His brows rose in a look of mild offense. “I do not find myself so deprived of entertainment as to seek such bloodthirsty diversions.”

  Chae-Na licked her lip. She had not foreseen this complication, though it now appeared an obvious one. Only the commoners and the working class had witnessed Quade’s abilities that day, as the aristocracy would never attend a public hanging. But without understanding the extent of the threat they faced, the sight of Chisanta patrolling the city would no doubt appear a concerning usurpation of power.

  “Veldon,” she began, changing her tone. She used his given name, again, to remind him of their longstanding relationship. “Have you never witnessed the exceptional abilities of the Chisanta?”

  He shrugged with one shoulder. “I confess, I have often suspected these so-called gifts to be embellishments. I have never seen anything to persuade me otherwise. I know a Chisanta who seems to believe himself superhumanly able to cheat at cards, for instance.”

  “You would be very foolish,” Britt said, causing both of them to start in surprise, “to underestimate the power of Quade Asher.” The Cosanta woman did not turn to address them as she spoke, her attention remaining beyond the windowpane. “He could appear in this very room without invitation and steal your will. After a mere hour of conversation, he could ask you to murder your family, and then command you to fling your body from the roof of your manor. And you would do so without thought.”

  Britt let the curtain fall back into place and came forward so that Veldon might see her clearly. “And if you find the abilities of the Chisanta by and large difficult to believe, perhaps this will persuade you.”

  Chae-Na gaped as the woman before her seemed to disappear, blending faultlessly into her surroundings.

  “Great Spirits,” Veldon whispered.

  Britt reappeared, seeming to come into being before their eyes. And then, without any further look or word, she returned to the window.

  “It is true,” Chae-Na said. “All of it. I have seen Quade’s gifts for myself, and he frightens me more than I can say.” Veldon blinked at the place where Britt had vanished, unresponsive, so Chae-Na pressed her point. “You have enormous influence with the nobility. We both know that Jo-Kwan needs your support. You could, quite easily, turn the minds of those wagging tongues you mentioned.”

  “And yet,” Veldon said, standing abruptly, “he sent you rather than meet with me himself.”

  Chae-Na steeled herself, knowing they had come to the worst of it. “Forgive me; that was upon my own insistence. I felt it only proper that I be the one to tell you of the king’s new agreement with our uncle, the chancellor. He has consented to send his militia to protect Accord, and I have been honored by an offer of marriage from my eldest cousin.”

  Veldon’s incisive blue eyes searched her face, his own unreadable. She knew that he, having met her fiancé on more than one occasion, would not mistake her diplomacy for candor. He turned his back to her, and she saw the way his shoulders stiffened. “My congratulations.” With an apparent effort, he took his seat again. He let his face settle into a more honest expression, and she was taken aback by the gentleness of it. “Jo-Kwan must truly fear for the city’s safety, if he is willing to accept such terms.”

  “But he still highly values his relationship with the Gorberry family. He has expressed a desire to know your sister better.”

  Veldon ran a hand over his beard. He did not look appeased, but said, “She will be very happy to hear it.”

  “My brother also asked if you would be willing to meet with him tomorrow. He has important matters to discuss with you.”

  With a visible effort, Veldon reassumed his usual hard countenance. “I am, as ever, at my king’s service.” He stood and held out his hand. “With such interesting conversation, we seem to have tarried well into dinnertime. Peroline will no doubt be awaiting us, impatient with hunger.”

  She took his hand and he escorted her from the room, their Cosanta shadow trailing behind. As they strode towards the dining room, Chae-Na glanced up at his face.

  She wondered if her new engagement had caused him pain, in addition to disappointment. If so, she was sorry for it. As she walked, she became aware of the dagger tucked into her shoe, and her thoughts drifted to the man who had gifted it to her. She experienced a quick spasm of both emotions for herself: pain and disappointment.

  And then she swallowed those feelings down and locked them away, prepared to suffer through several courses of polite conversation, as was her duty.

  Chapter Five

  Arlow regarded the amber-colored liquid within his tumbler—whisky that shivered against unsteady glass, gripped with an unsteady hand. He wished he could dive in. But as he would never fit, he settled for knocking back its contents.

  “Might want to slow down there, mate,” Roldon said. “You’ll need to be able to actually walk.”

  “It’s the bride,” Arlow said, drawling the words with exaggerated articulation, “who marches up the aisle, not the bridegroom.”

  “At the start, sure,” Roldon said. “But at the end—”

  “Oh, should be soberer by then.” Arlow swallowed down a hiccup. “If not, my wife shall no doubt support me, being the sturdy lass that she is.” His dark mood gave way to a burst of mirth. He chuckled. “You know, first I saw her, I took her for a bloke. She was wearing the most horrid—”

  “Yarrow,” Roldon called over Arlow’s shoulder, beckoning their friend with a wave.

  Arlow rolled his head in that direction and blinked to clear his vision. “Where the Blighter have you been, then?”

  “I was helping with the—”

  “Never mind. Fetch me a drink, will you, best man?” He brandished his empty glass. “I’ve come to a very dry place, you see. Is Mae out there? Have you seen her?”

  “No,” Yarrow said. He made no move to refill Arlow’s drink. Bastard. “I imagine she’s getting ready.”

  “Ah, yes,” Arlow said, the hard sarcasm returning to his tone. “Quite the primper, Mae. Likes to look her very best. No doubt she’s powdered, painted, and preened.” He attempted to take a sip, rediscovered that his glass was empty, and tossed the tumbler on the table. “No time to speak to her betrothed, to…”

  She must hate me.

  “Are you well?” Yarrow asked.

  Arlow tried to swallow the tightness in his throat and failed. “Certainly. Never better.” He laughed and wiped at an eye. “You know what I keep imagining?”

  “Ah, no. I don’t.”

  “My father’s face when he learns of it—that I’ve given over the Bowlerham estate to a band of street-dwelling criminals, the lowest of the low.” His laughter grew deeper, but silent. He brushed at his other eye. “Spirits, it all might just be worth it, for that. Serves the old rogue right. My cousin Urick will no doubt be livid as well—it would’ve been his had I committed to bachelorhood. Never could stand him, Urick. Pretentious ass.”

  Roldon grinned. “You find him pretentious?”

  “Ha, ha,” Arlow said, with a grimace. “You’d agree if you met him. By contrast, I’m a regular man of the people. I mean, look at this jacket. Urick would never…”

  Arlow looked again at his secondhand suit jacket, and found it even worse than he recalled. An atrocity
, really—the lines not at all suited to his frame, the black of it faded. The fourth button had obviously been reattached, and not quite in the right place.

  “Oh, Spirits,” he said, plucking at the lapel. “I can’t wear this.” Something very like panic surged through his veins. “I can’t—no, I can’t. No, no. I can’t be married in this. It’s all wrong. This is all wrong.”

  “Deep breath, Ar,” Roldon said. “Everything’ll be just fine.”

  Arlow peered up at his friend and narrowed his eyes. Roldon wore Cosanta robes—a little rough from travel, but it was the proper attire. Suddenly, it occurred to him that he could not marry without robes. He was Cosanta, not merely some nobleson.

  “Robes,” he said, pointing at Roldon. “I need robes. Tell me you’ve got a spare.”

  Roldon shrugged. “Sure, a bit wrinkled but—”

  “Can I borrow them?” He seized his friend’s sleeve. “Please?”

  Roldon regarded him as if he had gone mad—perhaps he had, at that. “Sure, mate. My trunk’s in the stable. I’ll go grab it for you.”

  Arlow pulled his friend in for a quick embrace, thumping his back. “Blighter, I’m happy you’ve come.”

  Roldon patted his shoulder. “Glad to be of help.” He glanced at Yarrow. “I’d lend you robes as well, but they’d be too short.”

  Yarrow shrugged. “No matter.”

  Roldon and Arlow exchanged a fleeting look of concern for their friend’s indifference, and then Roldon turned to leave. Almost as soon as he departed, the door swung open again, admitting a small crowd of men, Linton at the head. Arlow stifled a groan at the sight of him. His suit jacket was impeccable.

  “My brother-to-be,” the Pauper’s King said, his tone an outright threat. “Excellent. I have documents for you to sign.”

  “Very well.”

  Arlow’s attention drifted to the red-bearded man at Linton’s side. Foy Rodgeman. The man’s expression was the embodiment of the word ‘contempt.’ Arlow shrank under his scrutiny. He was aware that Foy had acted the gentleman to Mae: he had proposed marriage, never made an untoward advance, had contented himself to love patiently from a short distance.

  But then, it was hardly Arlow’s fault that Mae had not wanted Foy. He was to blame for plenty, but not that. Arlow met the man’s eye and inclined his head in slight acknowledgement, a gesture that went unreturned.

  “This is Mr. Gellroy,” Linton said, indicating a slim, bespectacled man with ink stains on his sleeve cuffs. “A notary.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Mr. Gellroy said in a voice that was so comically high-pitched, Arlow had to stifle a laugh. “You have selected a witness?”

  “My friend Yarrow,” Arlow answered. Yarrow gave a shallow nod.

  “Wonderful. We shall be needing your signature as well, Mr. Yarrow.”

  Arlow snorted at the man’s error, but let it pass. “Shall we do a blood oath as well? Perhaps an invocation of the Spirits? As this is all rather old-fashioned, it would seem fitting.”

  A knuckle cracked somewhere behind him. The notary forced a brief laugh. “No, no, your autograph will suffice.”

  Mr. Gellroy spread the legal documents on the nearest table. “Here. Yes, very good. And here. And here as well.”

  Arlow’s hand shook as he scrawled inelegant signatures upon the given lines. Mae had already signed. He stared at her name with force. For an uneducated woman, she had nice penmanship.

  “And this one,” Mr. Gellroy said, his high voice reaching for new heights. “It is traditionally signed on the following day. However, Mr. Bearnall indicated that you would not mind completing it early.”

  He read the title—‘Certification of Consummation’—and rolled his eyes. He signed, and fancied he could feel Foy’s hateful gaze burning into his back.

  “Thank you,” the man said, gathering the documents. “Legally, you are a married man, Mr. Bowlerham. My congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” Arlow said dryly.

  Linton smiled, closed-lipped and icy-eyed. “Welcome to the family. The ceremony will begin in half an hour.” He and his band of thugs turned their backs. They departed the room without a backwards glance.

  Arlow slumped into a chair, his limbs leaden.

  “You’d better change,” Roldon said. Arlow jerked to attention—he hadn’t noticed his friend’s return.

  He nodded dumbly and accepted the bundle of cloth. “I suppose I had better…”

  He trudged up the stair, one exhausting step at a time. When he came to Mae’s door, he paused to listen. He heard the steady creak of her footsteps within. What are you thinking, Mae?

  Arlow lifted a hand to knock on her door, but after a moment he let his fist fall. He trailed down the hallway to his own chamber and stripped out of his suit. This task was accomplished with difficulty, as his fingers seemed to lack the dexterity required for buttons.

  Once he was dressed, he made his way languidly down the stair. Halfway, he found his path blocked by the shape of a woman. He wavered on the step.

  “Arlow,” Bray said. “I’d hoped we might have a moment alone.” He suspected she had been waiting to corner him, and he was too drunk and preoccupied for such an encounter.

  He sighed. “I really haven’t the time or energy for you today.”

  He never saw her fist, but he felt the explosion of pain. His head wrenched to the side, and he tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.

  Righting himself, he licked his teeth and massaged his jaw. “Thank you.”

  “Why did you take him from Accord?” she demanded. “You must’ve known—”

  “All I knew was that my friend was in rough shape and needed tending. Which I saw to. Now, if you will kindly excuse me, I have a prior engagement.”

  She glared, plainly considering whether to hit him a second time, but eventually she stepped aside. He descended and massaged his aching jaw. Had he not been so intoxicated, he likely could’ve dodged. He cursed himself for over-imbibing—he felt fuzzy and out-of-control. He wanted his wits back.

  Yarrow approached him when he re-entered the common room. “I believe they want us in our places.”

  Arlow took notice of his surroundings for the first time. Chairs striped the floor in rows before a makeshift dais, which bore a crude wooden bower. A strand of daisies and ribbon wove in and out of the latticework.

  It was all so blatantly shoddy. The absurdity of the setting hit him all at once—a Bowlerham being wed in a third-rate tavern in some fly-speck nowhere. He laughed heartily, though his bruising jaw protested his mirth.

  Yarrow placed a hand at his back and steered him to the dais. “It will be over soon enough.”

  “Ha!” Arlow said. “Perhaps marriage is one of the things you’ve forgotten, but it tends not to end so quickly.”

  Yarrow stiffened beside him. “We aren’t married, are we? She didn’t say…”

  Arlow guffawed. “No, no. You’ve not tied yourself to the shrew, as far as I know.” He craned his neck, searching the room. “Have you seen Mae?”

  “No,” Yarrow said, mouth downturned. “And don’t—”

  “Fine, my apologies.” He continued to scan the crowd; all Pauper’s people, dressed to suit their name. “Can’t believe she won’t speak to me. We’re about to be man and wife, for Spirits’ sake.” If he could only set eyes on her…

  With so few minutes remaining, his anxiety mounted. Roldon and Yarrow stood beside him. The guests found their seats. A flutist took up a cheerful tune from near the bar. Arlow’s palms began to sweat. Why’s it so bleeding hot in the midst of winter?

  He wished he could step away and practice the Ada Chae. He should have done so earlier, rather than drinking his fears into submission like a coward. He watched the clock at the far end of the room tick—the minute hand quivering on the cusp of his fate. He felt a bead of perspiration run down his neck.

  The crowd regarded him with expressions of pure revulsion. Mae’s people, all of them. The only two frien
dly faces in the building were standing at his back. Bray sat at the rear, beside another Chiona woman. She alone smiled, but her gaze was not on him at all.

  The time arrived, and he thought he might be hyperventilating. His breath turned shallow and fast.

  “I cannot possibly do this,” he whispered to Yarrow. “I’ve got to get out of here. I have to go.”

  “You’ve already done it,” Yarrow answered in his ear, with a steadying hand on his shoulder. “You signed. This is just formality.”

  Hearing that helped, surprisingly enough. He nodded. “You’re right. Yes, true.”

  The appointed time arrived and passed. And then many more minutes followed. Mae, however, did not appear.

  He wondered if she was even in the building. Had anyone seen her? What if she had gone—left him standing under their bower like a fool? The thought was more painful than he would’ve expected.

  A set of feet pounded down the stairway, but it was Linton alone who appeared. He entered the room like a thunderstorm, drawing all eyes. “My apologies for the delay. The bride is a little behind schedule. Arlow, might I have a word?”

  Arlow found himself drifting down the aisle, his legs curiously unstable. When he reached the Pauper’s King, the man leaned forward. “Mae wants to speak with you,” he whispered, an angry flush on his cheeks. “She’s in her room. Go.”

  Arlow tromped up the stairway once more, weary. It seemed as though time were passing at an uncommonly slow rate—could it only be the late afternoon?

  The seconds stretched even longer as he strode, yet again, towards Mae’s door. The idea of actually knocking made his insides turn to knots, so he wavered with a raised fist. Again.

  He was still standing there, summoning courage, when the door opened from within.

  “Arlow,” Mae said, breathing his name. “You’re here.”