Clutching Caddie’s hand tighter, Marta turned them around and fled the platform as quickly as she dared. She wanted more than anything to turn and check, to see if they now had two new shadows sporting bear pins, but she kept her head facing straight forward, eyes down and bonnet pulled low. To do otherwise would be a dead giveaway.
Their trip only took a few minutes, each second dragging by and allowing Marta’s imagination to conjure numerous scenarios as to their capture. Every moment she expected a hand to descend upon her shoulder, a man brandishing a pistol as he commanded her to halt.
But the hand never clamped down upon her, Marta hauling them off the main street to find a hotel. When the proprietor requested her name, Marta gave them the name May Oles, a woman she had served with; the girl her daughter, Donna. Requesting a breakfast be sent up, she retreated to their room, drawing the curtains and wondering how much time they had left.
Carmichael said he was going to put on a good show for his superiors, the Home Guardsmen his minions who would be sent out to find the apparent agent of the Covenant Sons who had rescued Orthoel Hendrix’s daughter. Her brother had also said he would hamstring their search, so it made little sense they would be waiting for Marta here in Naddi. It could just be that Carmichael did not expect her to take such a circuitous route to Ceilminster and had sent his agents to the farthest-flung cities to clear a straight path for her. It could just be chance that put the Home Guardsmen here, but Marta did not believe in chance any longer—not in regards to her brother, at least.
Flopping onto the bed, Marta rubbed her eyes. She needed a clear head if she was to make sense of her situation, and the night would provide a better chance of escaping the noose. The girl still stood stupidly beside the bed, Marta finally catching her wrist and telling her to lie down beside her. She had not seen the child sleep since she had been taken, and Marta briefly wondered if she had to be ordered to sleep as well before slipping into slumber herself.
***
Her body resisted as Marta awoke. Hours had flown by with dusk now not far off, yet her body cried out for more sleep. Marta resisted the request, pushing upright to behold the prone girl beside her. Again Caddie’s eyes remained upon the ceiling, her gaze unfocused. They were blank eyes, only daring to match Marta’s dead ones because there was nothing behind them.
Many commanders did not believe in combat fugue, thinking their men were simply playing old-soldier and nothing more than hospital rats faking their conditions when no injuries were evident. Marta believed in the fugue though, the mind only able to withstand so much horror before it finally said no more. She understood both those soldiers’ and the girl’s retreat from the world rather than confronting its awfulness. She also knew she was stronger than that, that she was willing to stare straight at the wretchedness of the world without blinking. It was this willingness alone that made her better than those who succumbed to the fugue.
Picking at the remains of their cold meal, Marta bade the girl to eat, Caddie complying once Marta told her again when holding her hand. Night was oncoming, the darkness providing a bit more cover for Marta to purchase horses to make their escape. Traversing Oan off the main roads would be a risk, the state too far south for Marta to know the territory firsthand, but the risk was a far step better than being brought down by the Home Guard again.
Leaving Caddie and the haversack within the room, Marta set out upon the street. There, she was chagrined to find the city was sophisticated enough to have lampposts, each topped with electrical bulbs rather than the luz jars used in smaller towns. The lights were steady and without the flicker of the contained Breath she preferred, Marta pulling her bonnet lower to keep her face hidden as she made her way in the uncomfortable dress. The populous of Naddi was diverse enough, Marta spotting a Mynian woman across the street, her dusky skin darker than Marta’s own and ensuring Marta would not stick out too much. The only question was if she could find a livery stable still open and willing to part with two horses before it closed for the night.
The stables would most likely be on the outskirts of the town, Marta nearer the center after having hurried to a hotel close to the train station. Staying within the shadows of the street, she set her course for the edge of town. As Marta passed a general store, she realized they would also need supplies for their journey on horseback, foodstuffs to last them the weeks it might take. Perhaps she would need to acquire three horses, one acting as a pack animal. Two women alone on the trails would also be a hazard, the seldom traveled paths to the East said to be plagued by harriers who took what they wanted from travelers and left nothing but corpses in their wake.
Marta took another turn down a street when she realized she was being followed. Her Cildra training had drilled awareness into her until it became almost an instinct, Marta stopping to examine her reflection in a storefront window, though her eyes never trailed to her own image. Her shadower stopped too, only a few feet behind her as he suddenly seemed quite interested in something in the nearest store.
Continuing on after a moment, Marta could only catch a glimpse of him. He sported neither the uniform nor the bear-headed pin of the Home Guard, but she also knew from experience they often worked undercover, leaving their identifying marks behind on their hunts.
Still, the Home Guardsmen were known for their training in deception, not quite that of a Cildra, but at least better at tailing an unaware mark than this man was. Perhaps he was a ne’er-do-well picking Marta for easy prey. Or perhaps he was an admirer seeking an opportunity to strike up a conversation. It had been years since Marta had last been sought out as the object of a man’s affections, far more recently that she had last been assaulted. Both occasions had ended badly for the men in question.
Wishing to ascertain his intentions, Marta made her way into the nearest tavern, stopping a few steps past the door and waiting to see if her pursuer would follow her inside.
He did not, ambling easily along and scarcely giving the saloon a glance. When he did his eyes connected with hers, no sign of recognition there from either of them. Through the window she could spy him in better detail. He was dark of hair and without a beard, his duds fashionable and meant for the city, but well-worn. His face was comely enough, the grin he bestowed upon her effortless and sure to have melted the heart of many a woman.
Marta’s heart remained quite frozen as he wandered on, happy only that he passed without incident. It was only when she was sure he was gone and not to return that Marta realized that all eyes in the saloon were fixed upon her. The reason was obvious: While leading her pursuer on, Marta had sought out a rougher section of town so no one would notice if she had to deal with him roughly. But now he had moved on, and Marta found herself the victim of the trap she had set herself, her pristine clothing in contrast to the coarse workmen’s garments populating the bar. Not a week past Marta had frequented an establishment similar to this one, drinking with abandon and no one raising an eyebrow. She had not been wearing a dress last week though, now feeling their eyes trace her form under the folds of her outfit.
She knew she could simply step back out into the night and the men would return to their drinks. No one would follow her, and if they did, they would soon realize their mistake. Marta almost slunk out, but then she spied a bottle of wine behind the counter. It was a Karlwych vintage, and Marta hungrily remembered the bold flavors. It had been too long since last they were acquainted, so Marta strode to the bar to throw down her money and demand a taste. The glass the bartender provided was clean, the wine deep red and inviting. Marta’s mouth salivated, her tongue eager to test the bouquet against her memory.
The wine tasted of disappointment: sour, sharp, and entirely unlike her reminiscence. In her heart she knew it was not the fault of the establishment or the wine, but rather her own for having even attempted it. It had been too long, her palette having wasted away until it was now good for nothing more than the harsh taste of red-eye. The years had stolen it from her as surely as the woven ring
again residing upon her finger. Although the ring had been returned, she realized there was no going back to those untroubled days of her youth. She was a marked woman now, one who no longer cared for the taste of alcohol, only its effects. Not wanting to be a wastrel, she intended on draining the remains of the glass before she departed.
Unfortunately, the uniformed Home Guardsman and the Render entered before she had a chance.
Marta’s face belied no trace of her fear as she kept her façade in place even as she instinctively set her mental refrain. Her dress marking her as different from the other patrons, her cover was obvious: she was May Oles, her husband, Richard, having stepped out on her nearly a week ago, so she was searching for him, seeking out the rough taverns he frequented.
The Render in tow, the Home Guardsman took the lead, stopping at each man and quietly asking him to open his mind. All complied, their faces frightened and strained. The guardsman moved on from each, finally reaching her at the bar. Marta put on the proper mask, emoting anxiety at being questioned by someone with such terrible authority. Upon his request she opened her refrain to him, the guardsman touching her thoughts and gracing her with a sympathetic look before moving on.
The Render remained though, gazing intently at her. His thumb casually traced the hilt of his saber, the blade surely made of glass. It was a practiced motion, born not on the battlefield, but out of boredom. He fashioned himself a hard case, but his hands were far too soft to have swung the blade during the Grand War. His face was too pink and unlined, not having suffered the scourge of hunger as real soldiers had. His swagger marked him as a pretender, making Marta hate him all the more.
The Render’s voice was polite enough as he called her, “Madam,” and doffed his cap. Marta nodded civilly, biting her tongue to keep from emitting any obscenities. He seemed to sense her disdain, his smile widening with a sour tint to it.
“That’s a lovely bonnet you have there. Not to overstep the confines of courtesy, but I’ve been courting a girl of late. She’s been hankering for a fine bonnet, and I believe yours might fit the bill. Do you mind if I take a gander of yours?”
On its surface it was a question, but there was a demand to his voice, Marta suddenly sure her charade was up. Dipping her head, she untied the bonnet’s ribbons, removing it roughly and ensuring her frazzled hair fell over her forehead before handing it over. The boy took the offered hat, his other hand still tracing the saber at his belt. Instead of inspecting the claimed bonnet, his hand that held it reached for her forehead to brush back the hair hiding Marta’s scar.
At its revelation Marta felt the burning brand again as if it were the first time, the phantom smell of roasted meat searing her nostrils. His eyes upon it were like a slap to the face causing her physical pain. Though she had never seen it straight with her own eyes, Marta knew what he saw: two sets of three vertical lines with a star in their center—the symbol of the nation of Newfield forever etched into the center of her forehead.
“Traitors Brigade.”
Though his utterance was soft, suddenly everyone in the room stared at Marta instead of the fearsome Render. The guardsman was already on his way back to them, Marta’s jaw setting, her voice barely able to escape her lips.
“Furies. We were Bumgarden’s Furies. I served under Bumgarden directly.”
The Render’s smile dripped with disdain, his words hurled as if they offended his tongue. “How many of your countrymen did you cut down? Ten? Twenty? A half-hundred, Traitor?”
He was trying to bait her, Marta knew, a Shaper no match for a Render by any stretch of the imagination. His desire was obvious, she nothing but a first notch on his belt, the death of one of the fabled Furies a fine pelt to launch a legend with.
“You’re all traitors. More than just the name, your stain of cowardice goes all the way down to your Soul. You have no spine, not the will Sol even gave bugs.”
It was all Marta could do to remain at the bar and not to take the step that would give him cause to do her harm as the guardsman closed the gap. Not quite there yet, he called out to the Render, “Hold your tongue.”
Turning his gaze to Marta, the guardsman tipped his cap. “Please pardon my comrade, his mouth spits poison. There’s been a bit of a misunderstanding, and I would like you to come with us for a few moments so we can clear it up. If you’d be so kind, ma’am.”
He was polite, at least, and for that Marta decided he would live. The Render might not be as lucky as Marta reached for her bonnet, which was still in his grasp.
As her hand was about to take it, he let it drop to the ground, a sneer on his lips. Though her face remained lifeless, Marta oscillated as to his fate again, finally deciding the slight was not enough to earn him his death.
But then he spit upon her face.
Her rage came instantly, the perfect clarity there and familiar as a lost love. And with its return came the violence. She could see each person there in the room in perfect detail, the moment frozen in time even as her fist hurtled into his sneering mouth.
Blood spurted as she connected, Marta’s free hand already closing around his wrist, her Breath doing her bidding as her gauntlet appeared around her hand. Through her summoned Armor she felt his wrist snap at her compression, the bones giving way to her superior strength.
Well aware he needed to gesture to draw her Breath, she took his opportunity away by brutally wresting his shattered wrist up to his neck. There, she extended her gauntlet’s reach, wrapping it around his neck and pinning his arm to his throat.
His other hand still remained on his glass saber, trying futilely to draw it. She had no intention of allowing him this symbol of his station, so Marta drew his blade herself, the weapon he was meant to surrender only upon death. For that insult alone she took it from him, the sacred blade brandished in her hand before the guardsman even took his second step.
He stopped instantly, Marta not needing to be a Listener to know he was considering the pistol holstered at his hip. So she extended her Armor again, the gauntlet growing to encase her arm. It was a rough design, stretching her Breath nearly to the breaking point, but she did not hesitate as she flung the Render at the guardsman.
The force of the throw hurled them both to the ground, Marta upon them instantly and cracking the guardsman with her gauntlet. His eyes rolled back as he collapsed, the man shuddering once and then going still as Marta turned her attention back to his companion.
The Render stirred, enough fight left in him to try and regain his feet. He found his glass saber awaiting him when he did though, the tip pressed into his throat and pushing him back to the ground. Her rage consuming her, Marta took a step forward, forcing the boy to slide backwards, his shattered wrist making him cry out as it bore his weight. So she took another step, a stiff smile frozen upon her lips.
“All Renders worth their salt have a glass eye, yet yours are still flesh. How about I help you along your path? Which one will it be, the right or left?”
“Please, please, no!”
“Death, then? Time to stand up for your ideals against this Traitor? Time to die for the righteous cause?”
“No!” His voice took a plaintive tone, pitiful and without any traces of the arrogance that had landed him here. “I don’t want to die, not like this, not for some—”
Marta did not let him finish as she smashed his sacred saber upon the ground. The outer edges of glass gave way instantly, but a jagged heart of the blade still remained close to the steel core that gave the weapon its heft. With that sharp remainder Marta stabbed, slashing first his right check and then the left. She struck six times, three slices divided upon each cheek.
The cuts were not life-threatening, but the scars would remain, deep and obvious to anyone who looked upon his formerly soft and unlined face. The boy would survive, she decided, but her action was by no means a mercy. He would forever bear his scars, surely as she carried her own, but he would be unable to hide them as she did with her slouch hat.
Sh
e did not allow the Render to consider her cruelty as she cracked him upon the chin with the hilt of his saber. The boy was separated from his consciousness before she could even drop the remains of the hateful glass blade.
Her rage finally sated by the ruination of the Render, Marta turned her attention to the unconscious guardsman, then to the frozen patrons that gawked at her with respect and the proper amount of fear she deserved. Marta knew she should run, her fate sealed by her actions against the Newfield agents and demanding death. Instead she bellied back to the bar.
She found her wine awaiting her and downed the glass in a single slug. It still did not match her memory—no sweetness there—but it was hers and she refused to let anyone take from her ever again. Retrieving her forgotten bonnet, she gave the patrons a milk-curdling glare, a thin smile flitting across her lips quick as a summer storm.
“First man I see step out that door dies—and not kindly.”
With that she departed, silence enveloping her on the street. Her first goal was again covering her scar with the bonnet. That secured, her next move would be to claim Caddie and then hurry out of town before the whole city started looking for a former Fury. She only hoped she still had enough time before one of the saloon patrons realized she would be insane to remain in the street long enough to carry through on her threat.
Back at the hotel Marta shed the womanly clothes, the rough-woven men’s shirt again welcomingly scratching her skin. Her slouch hat felt freeing, just as the greatcoat turned right side out and the haversack she tossed over her shoulder did. The girl had not stirred from the bed where she had been left, Marta grabbing her hand and hauling her outside. They left, not by the front door, but by the back, stalking through the servants’ hallways until they found an exit.
The Woven Ring (Sol's Harvest Book 1) Page 10
