“There’s no mention of you, sir.”
He raises the eyebrow of his bad eye. “Do you expect there to be? I’m not your nanny, Captain.” He bristles. The mask of control threatens to slip and he busies himself with an already pristine desk, flicking away a piece of dust that doesn’t exist.
I shrug off the insult. “Very well. I assume you have orders of your own.”
“I do,” he says quickly.
“Then a bit of a celebration is in order.”
The Colonel all but sneers. “You want to celebrate being a poster girl? Or would you rather cheer a suicide mission?”
Now I really do smile. “I don’t see it that way.” Slowly, I fold the orders again and slip them into my jacket pocket. “Tonight, I drink to my first independent assignment. And tomorrow, I head to Norta.”
“Your eyes only, Captain.”
When I reach the door, I glare at him over my shoulder. “As if you didn’t already know.”
His silence is admission enough.
“Besides, I’ll still be reporting to you, so you can pass on my relays to Command,” I add. I can’t help but goad him a little. He deserves it for the nanny comment. “What’s that called? Oh yes. The middleman.”
“Careful, Captain.”
I nod my head, smiling as I wrench open the office door. “Always, sir.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t let another uncomfortable silence linger. “Your broadcast crew is waiting in your barracks. Best get on.”
“I do hope I’m camera ready.” I giggle falsely, pretending to preen.
He waves a hand, officially dismissing me from his sight. I go willingly, weaving through the halls of Irabelle with enthusiasm.
To my surprise, the excitement pulsing through me doesn’t last long. I started out sprinting to the barracks, intending to hunt down my team of oathed soldiers and tell them the good news. But my pace soon slows, my delight giving way to reluctance. And fear.
There’s a reason they call us Ram and Lamb, other than the obvious. I’ve never been sent anywhere without the Colonel to follow. He’s always been there, a safety net I’ve never wanted, but one I’ve become far too familiar with. He’s saved my life too many times to count. And he’s certainly why I’m here instead of a frozen village, losing fingers to every winter and friends to every round of conscription. We don’t see eye to eye on much, but we always get the job done, and we always stay alive. We succeed where others can’t. We survive. Now I must do the same alone. Now I have to protect others, taking their lives—and deaths—onto my shoulders.
My pace halts, allowing me a few more moments to collect myself. The cool shadows are calming, inviting. I press up against the slick concrete wall, letting the cold seep through me. I must be like the Colonel when I assemble my team. I am their captain, their commander, and I must be perfect. No room for mistakes and no hesitation. Forward at all costs. Rise, Red as the dawn.
The Colonel may not be a good person, but he’s a brilliant leader. That’s always been enough. And now I’ll do my best to be the same.
I think better of my plan. Let the rest idle a few minutes longer.
I enter my barracks on my own, chin raised. I don’t know why I was chosen for this, why Command wants me to be the one to shout our words. But I’m sure there’s a good reason. A young woman holding a flag is quite a striking figure—but also a puzzling one. Silvers might send men and women to die on the lines in equal measure, but a rebel group led by a woman is easier to underestimate. Just what Command wants. Or they simply prefer I’m the one eventually identified and executed, rather than one of their own.
The first crewman, a slumtown escapee judging by his tattooed neck, waves me to the camera already waiting. Another hands me a red scarf and a typed message, one that will not be heard for many months.
But when it is, when it rings out across Norta and the Lakelands, it will land with the strength of a hammer’s fall.
I face the cameras alone, my face hidden, my words steel.
“Rise, Red as the dawn.”
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, COMMAND CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Operative: Colonel REDACTED.
Designation: RAM.
Origin: Trial, LL.
Destination: COMMAND at REDACTED.
-EYES ON team led by HOLIDAY met opposition in ADELA.
-ADELA safe house destroyed.
-EYES ON overview: Killed in action: R. INDY, N. CAWRALL, T. TREALLER, E. KEYNE (4).
Silver casualty count: Zero (0).
Civilian casualty count: Unknown.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Day 4 of Operation RED WEB, Stage 1.
Operative: Captain REDACTED.
Designation: LAMB.
Origin: Harbor Bay, NRT.
Destination: RAM at REDACTED.
-Transit smooth through ADERONACK, GREATWOODS, MARSH COAST regions.
-BEACON region transit difficult, heavy NRT military presence.
-Made contact with MARINERS. Entered HARBOR BAY with their aid.
-Meeting with EGAN, head of the MARINERS. Will assess.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
As any good cook can tell you, there are always rats in the kitchen.
The Kingdom of Norta is no different. Its cracks and crevices crawl with what the Silver elite would call vermin. Red thieves, smugglers, army deserters, teenagers fleeing conscription, or feeble elders trying to escape punishment for the idle “crime” of growing old. In the backcountry, farther north toward the Lakeland border, they keep to the woods and small villages, finding safety in the places no self-respecting Silver would condescend to live. But in cities like Harbor Bay, where Silvers keep fine houses and ugly laws, Reds turn to more desperate measures. And so must I.
Boss Egan is not easy to get to. His so-called associates take me and my lieutenant, Tristan, through a maze of tunnels under the walls of the coastal city. We double back more than once, to confuse me as well as anyone who might try to follow. I all but expect Melody, the soft-voiced and sharped-eyed thief leading the way, to blindfold us. Instead, she lets the darkness do its work, and by the time we emerge, I can barely find true north, let alone my way out of the city.
Tristan is not a trusting man, having learned well at the hands of the Scarlet Guard. He hovers at my side, one hand inside his jacket, always gripping the long knife he keeps close. Melody and her men laugh off the obvious threat, pulling back coats and shawls to reveal edged weapons of their own.
“Not to worry, Stretch,” she says, raising an eyebrow at Tristan’s scraping height. “You’re well protected.”
He flushes, angry, but doesn’t loosen his grasp. And I’m still keenly aware of the knife in my boot, not to mention the pistol tucked into the back of my pants.
Melody keeps walking, leading us through a market trembling with noise and the sharp smell of fish. Her thick body cuts through the crowd, which parts to let her pass. The tattoo on her upper arm, a blue anchor surrounded by red, coiling rope, is warning enough. She’s a Mariner, a member of the smuggling operation Command assigned me to feel out. And judging by the way she orders her own detachment, three of them following her lead, she’s highly ranked and well respected.
I feel her assessing me, even though her eyes are forward. For this reason, I decided not to take the rest of my team into the city to meet with her boss. Tristan and I are enough to evaluate his operation, judge his motives, and report back.
Egan, it seems, takes the opposite approach.
I expect a subterranean stronghold much like ours at Irabelle, but Melody leads us to an ancient lighthouse, its walls weathered by age and the salty air. Once a beacon used to guide ships into port; now it’s too far from the water, as the city expanded out into the harbor. From the outside, it looks abandoned, its windows shuttered and doors barred. The Mariners pay
it no mind. They don’t even bother to hide their approach, though every instinct in me screams for discretion. Instead, Melody leads us across the open market, head high.
The crowd moves with us like a school of fish. Providing camouflage. Escorting us all the way to the lighthouse and a battered, locked door. I blink at the action, noting how well organized the Mariners seem to be. They command respect, that’s obvious, not to mention loyalty. Both valuable prizes to the Scarlet Guard, things that cannot truly be bought with money or intimidation. My heart leaps in my chest. The Mariners look to be viable allies indeed.
Once safely inside the lighthouse, at the foot of an endless, spiraling stair, I feel a cord of tension release in my chest. I’m no stranger to infiltrating Silver cities, prowling the streets with poor intent, but I certainly don’t enjoy it. Especially without the Colonel at my side, a gruff but effective shield against anything that might befall us.
“You’re not afraid of officers?” I wonder aloud, watching as one of the Mariners locks the door behind us. “They don’t know you’re here?”
Again, Melody chuckles. She’s already a dozen steps up, and still climbing. “Oh, they know we’re here.”
Tristan’s eyes almost bug out of his head. “What?” He blanches, mirroring my thoughts.
“I said, Security knows we’re here,” she repeats. Her voice echoes.
When I put a foot on the first step, Tristan grabs my wrist. “We shouldn’t be here, Cap—” he murmurs, forgetting himself. I don’t give him the chance to say my name, to go against the rules and protocols that have protected us for so long. Instead I jam my forearm into his windpipe, pushing him back against stairs with all my strength. He sprawls, falling, his weedy length stretched across several steps.
My face flushes with heat. This isn’t something I want to do, in front of outsiders or not. Tristan is a good lieutenant, if overprotective. I don’t know what’s more damaging—showing the Mariners dissension in our ranks or showing them fear. I hope it’s the latter. With a calculated shrug, I step back and offer my hand to Tristan but no apology. He knows why.
And without another word, he follows me up the stairs.
Melody lets us pass and I feel her eyes with every step. She is certainly watching me now. And I let her, my face and manner impassive. I do my best to be like the Colonel, unreadable and unflinching.
At the crown of the lighthouse, the boarded-up windows give way to a wide view of Harbor Bay. Literally built on top of another ancient city, the Bay is an old knot. The narrow lanes and twists are better suited to horses rather than transports, and we had to duck into alleys to avoid being run over. From this vantage point, I can see everything centers around the famous harbor, with too many alleys, tunnels, and forgotten corners to fully patrol. Paired with a high concentration of Reds, Harbor Bay is a perfect place for the Scarlet Guard to start. Our intelligence identified the city as the most viable root of Red rebellion in Norta, when an uprising comes. Unlike the capital, Archeon, where the seat of government demands absolute command, Harbor Bay is not so controlled.
But it is not undefended. There’s a military base built out on the water, dividing the perfect semicircle of land and waves in two. Fort Patriot. A hub for the Nortan army, navy, and air force, the only one of its kind to serve all three branches of the Silver military. Like the rest of the city, its walls and buildings are painted white, tipped with blue roofs and tall silver spires. I try to memorize it from this vantage point. Who knows when the knowledge might come in handy? And thanks to the useless war currently being fought in the north, Fort Patriot is entirely blind to the city around it. The soldiers keep to their walls, while Security keep the city in line. According to reports, they protect their own, the Silver citizens, but the Reds of the Bay largely govern themselves, with separate groups and bands keeping their own sort of order. Three in particular.
The Red Watch forms a police force of sorts, upholding what Red justice they can, protecting and enforcing laws Silver Security won’t bother with. They settle Red disputes and crimes committed against our own, to prevent any more abuse by merciless, Silver-blooded hands. Their work is acknowledged, tolerated even by the officers of the city, and for this reason, I will not go to them. Noble as their cause might be, they run too close to Silvers for my taste.
But the Seaskulls, a glorified gang, make me just as wary. They are violent by all accounts, a trait I would normally admire. Their business is blood, and they have the feel of a rabid dog. Vicious, relentless, and stupid, their members are often executed and quickly replaced. They maintain control of their sector of the city through murder and blackmail, and often find themselves at odds with their rival operation, the Mariners.
Who I must assess for myself.
“You’re Lamb, I presume.”
I turn on my heel, away from the horizon stretching in all directions.
The man I assume to be Egan leans against the opposite windows, either unaware or unafraid of the fact that nothing but aged glass stands between him and a long fall. Like me, he’s putting on a charade, showing the cards he wants while hiding the rest.
I came here with only Tristan to present a certain image. Egan, flanked by Melody and a troop of Mariners, elects to show his strength. To impress me. Good.
He crosses his arms, displaying two muscled and scarred forearms marked with twin anchor tattoos. I’m reminded of the Colonel, though they look nothing alike. Egan is short, squat, barrel-chested, with sun-damaged skin and long, salt-worn hair in a tangled plait. I don’t doubt he’s spent half his life on a boat.
“Or at least, that’s whatever code name you’ve been saddled with,” Egan continues, grinning. He’s missing a good amount of teeth. “Am I right?”
I shrug, noncommittal. “Does my name matter?”
“Not at all. Only your intentions. And those are?”
Matching his grin, I cross to the center of the room, careful to avoid the sunken circle where the lighthouse lantern used to live. “I believe you know that already.” My orders stated contact was made, but not to what extent. A necessary omission, to make sure outsiders cannot use our correspondence against us.
“Yes, well, I know well enough the goals and tactics of your people, but I’m talking to you. What are you here for?”
Your people. The words twinge, tugging at my brain. I’ll decipher them later. I wish very much for a fistfight, instead of this nauseating game of back-and-forth. I’d rather a black eye than a puzzle.
“My goal is to establish open lines of communication. You’re a smuggling operation, and having friends across the border is beneficial to us both.” With another winning smile, I run my fingers through my braided hair. “I’m just a messenger, sir.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’d ever call a captain of the Scarlet Guard just a messenger.”
This time, Tristan keeps still. It’s my turn to react, despite my training. Egan doesn’t miss my eyes widen or my cheeks flush. His deputies, Melody especially, have the audacity to smirk among themselves.
Your people. The Scarlet Guard. He’s met us before.
“I’m not the first, then.”
Another manic grin. “Not by a long shot. We’ve been running goods for yours since . . .” He glances at Melody, pausing for effect. “Two years ago, was it?”
“September 300, Boss,” she replies.
“Ah, yes. I take it you don’t know anything about that, Sheep.”
I fight the urge to grit my teeth and growl. Discretion, the orders said. I doubt tossing one up-jumped criminal from his decaying tower is considered discreet. “It’s not our way.” And that’s the only explanation I offer. Because while Egan thinks himself above me, far more informed than I am, he’s wrong. He has no idea what we are, what we’ve done, and how much more we plan to do. He can’t even fathom it.
“Well, your comrades pay well, that’s for certain.” He jingles a bracelet, nicely crafted silver, braided like rope. “I expect you’ll do the same.”
/>
“If you do what’s asked, yes.”
“Then I’ll do what’s asked.”
One nod at Tristan sets his wheels spinning. He tromps to my side in two long steps, so fast and gangly Egan laughs.
“Stars, you’re a twiggy one,” Egan says. “What do they call you? Beanpole?”
A corner of my mouth twitches, but I don’t smile. For Tristan’s sake. No matter how much he eats or trains, he can’t seem to gain any sort of muscle. Not that it makes much difference where he’s concerned. Tristan is a gunman, a sniper, not a brawler. He’s most valuable a hundred yards away with a good rifle. I won’t mention to Egan that his code name is Bones.
“We require overview and introduction to the so-called Whistle network,” Tristan says, making my demands for me. Another tactic of the Colonel’s that I’ve adopted. “We’re looking for viable contacts in these key areas.”
He passes over a marked map, plain but for the red dots on important cities and crossroads throughout the country. I know it without looking. The industrial slums of Gray Town and New Town; the capital, Archeon; Delphie; the military city Corvium; and many smaller towns and villages in between. Egan doesn’t glance at the paper, but nods all the same, a picture of confidence.
“Anything else?” he gravels out.
Tristan glances my way, giving me one last chance to refuse this final order from Command. But I won’t.
“We will require use of your smuggling network soon.”
“Easy enough. With the Whistles, the whole country’s open to you. You can send lightbulbs from here to Corvium and back if you want.”
I can’t help but smile, showing my teeth.
But Egan’s grin fades a little. He knows there’s more. “What’s the cargo?”
With quick hands, I drop a tiny bag of tetrarch coins at his feet. All silver. Enough to convince him.
“The right people.”
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Day 6 of Operation RED WEB, Stage 1.
Operative: Captain REDACTED.
Designation: LAMB.
Origin: Harbor Bay, NRT.
Broken Throne Page 9
