Division of the Marked (The Marked Series)

by March McCarron

  Yarrow made to back away, heading towards the glowing embers of their cook fire. Bray stopped him with an upraised hand. Perhaps it was callous, but she wanted him to know, without reservation, that any one of them could physically subdue him.

  “Adearre is wounded. He will sit out.”

  Adearre made as if to protest, but Bray cut him off. “I’m sure he will be able to offer excellent criticism. He has a good eye,” she said to appease him. And it was true—she hoped Adearre would spot weaknesses. She wanted to find the Cosanta’s soft spots, just in case this tenuous marriage came to blows.

  Bray stepped forward to face Ko-Jin, and Peer moved to oppose Yarrow.

  She cleared her mind, breathing in the night breeze, perfumed with heather and smoke. Ko-Jin whipped his waster about in several blinding circles, the bamboo slicing the air like the switch of a crop. His features became smooth and emotionless. She decided not to use her gift, no matter how much she’d like to. He didn’t know what she could do yet, and she didn’t want to reveal her advantage over a mere sparring match. No, she would have to meet him equally.

  They circled each other, weapons held ready. A gust of wind tugged at Ko-Jin’s braid, but his eyes remained locked on her with predatory intensity.

  And then he struck, lunging with such speed she barely had time to raise her own weapon in defense. She felt his wooden blade tap her side, and though he had moved with dizzying swiftness, the strike itself was gentle. She seethed as he stepped back to start a new round. To best her so immediately, while still holding back enough to soften the blow, suggested both extreme skill and a kind of mocking sportsmanship. She would have preferred the bruise.

  They readied again, and she was determined to strike first this time. She lunged and he parried effortlessly. He attacked and she blocked. He twisted and struck her squarely on the backside, though again the blow was soft as a friendly pat.

  Her face heated with anger and embarrassment. His eyes crinkled in amusement.

  They went again. He won.

  In the fourth round she thought that she had him, but he twisted out of her way and caught her in the shoulder, ever so gently. By this time she was on fire with frustration and humiliation. Spirits be damned, she thought. Forget holding back. I’ll wipe that smug smile off his face.

  She was preparing for their fifth round when she was distracted by Peer’s shout: “Strike, damn you!”

  She turned, and so did Ko-Jin, to watch. Peer was red-faced, his eyes wild and his nostrils flared. He struck out at his opponent with vicious force, but Yarrow danced away and Peer had to pull up short. ‘Danced’ was the best word Bray could summon, because the dodge looked like a stance straight from the Cosanta meditative movements.

  “They are still on their first round.” Adearre came to Bray’s side. “Yarrow has yet to make any offensive move.”

  Peer attacked again, swinging his waster down so that it would strike Yarrow full in the head. Again, Yarrow turned out of the way and sent Peer off balance.

  “Come, Yarrow,” Ko-Jin said. “End it.”

  Yarrow paused, clearly interpreting Ko-Jin’s statement as a desire to end the bout in a draw. Peer, however, did not. He gripped his waster in both hands, muscles bulging against the seams of his linen shirt, and lifted the weapon high up over his right shoulder. He swung down with all of his considerable strength, slicing sideways as if Yarrow were a tree he aimed to fell. The sharp thud of the wooden blade catching Yarrow full in the side hung sickeningly in the air. He sunk to his knees, a pained breath drawn in through his teeth.

  Peer dropped his weapon, panting and sweaty-faced. A bird cawed in the night.

  Ko-Jin strode toward Peer, his face a perfect mask though his eyes blazed with anger. “Do the Chiona always strike to wound during a mere sparring match?” he asked coolly.

  Bray thought of how carefully Ko-Jin had struck her and an uncomfortable heaviness settled onto her chest. Not only because Peer had dishonored himself, but because she had come close to doing the same.

  Peer shifted his weight from foot to foot and rubbed the back of his neck, clearly at a loss for words.

  “This was a mistake,” Bray said at last. Ko-Jin turned on her and she nearly quailed under the intensity of his expression. “It was foolish to think we could spar together.”

  “Yes.” Ko-Jin helped Yarrow back to his feet. “It was foolish of me to assume that the Chiona had even basic honor. You were right, I have been educated. We will not spar again. Know that if we ever fight in the future, I too will aim to injure.”

  Yarrow’s jaw was tight but he gestured to Ko-Jin that he could stand on his own. The two of them walked away, making a camp apart from where the Chiona would sleep. Bray’s teeth clenched and her stomach forced itself into a hard ball. How dare he insult her people’s honor over one honest mistake. Any amicability that had been attained over dinner was now clearly at an end. The Cosanta kept their backs to them.

  “I know,” Peer said through clenched teeth. “You don’t need to be giving me that look, Adearre. I don’t feel good about it. But, Spirits damn the man, he wouldn’t fight back. It was insulting! As if he couldn’t be bothered to actually strike me, just dance around like a bleeding leaf in the wind. I lost my head.”

  Adearre gave Peer a frown that Bray knew only too well—a look of raw disappointment reserved for moral failings. Bray clapped Peer on the shoulder sympathetically. “What’s done is done. It’s not as if we were to be fast friends anyway. Let’s get some sleep.”

  Bray wrapped herself in a thick wool blanket and lay down close to Peer’s back. The warmth he radiated was usually more consistent than a fire. His deep steady breaths suggested that he had fallen asleep instantly—he must not feel that badly. She stared up at the night sky and listened to the buzzing of the cicadas, willing her mind to ease into thoughtlessness.

  She heard Adearre stir on the other side of Peer and watched the shadow of him cross to where the Cosanta had made camp.

  “I have some pain medication,” she heard him whisper.

  “It isn’t so bad,” Yarrow’s voice returned.

  There was an awkward pause.

  “I will leave it for you, in case you change your mind.”

  Adearre’s footfall had half returned to his own blankets before Yarrow whispered after him, “Thank you.”

  Their carriage trundled into Greystone two days later—and a remarkably quiet, tense two days they had been. The sky was overcast, and with the many chimneys pumping out smoke, Yarrow’s eyes seemed out of focus. The fumes tickled at the back of his throat and he coughed, sending a sharp pain up his side. There was no internal damage, just a large, spectacularly-hued bruise, but Spirits did it smart. He kept his face carefully schooled to hide the pain. The ramifications of the incident had been keenly felt by all of them—and Yarrow hadn’t even wanted to spar in the first place!

  Greystone was far from a large city, but it was by far the largest Yarrow had ever visited. The streets stretched to seeming infinity, loud and crowded. The air tasted dirty and smelt of—well, he would prefer not to think of it. The buildings pressed tightly together, most many stories high. As they rounded a corner his eyes lingered on a barefoot, filthy-faced little girl with a basket of flowers for sale. She brandished an already wilting bud pleadingly at the steady stream of aloof passersby.

  They came to a stop before an inn, the King’s Repose, and Yarrow followed the others out of the carriage and into the drive. A stableboy hurried up to take their horses, and Adearre thanked the lad by name.

  They strode up the stair and through the main door. The inn itself was simple but clean. It was perfumed with the aroma of freshly baked bread and wood polish.

  The innkeeper, a portly red-faced man, came forward. He gave Peer and Adearre jovial handshakes and offered Bray a deep bow. Ko-Jin and Yarrow each received shallower, but still polite, bows of their own. “Thought you lot’d been here long since. How many rooms?”

  Bray extrac
ted her wallet. “Three.”

  The innkeeper waved her money away indignantly, selected three keys from hooks behind the front desk, and led the way up the stairs. “Nasty business it’s been. People was real fond of them Parrons round these parts.”

  He unlocked and opened three thick, oaken doors revealing moderate-sized rooms overlooking the parkway.

  “They’re saying it was lightning, but by the Spirits above, I wasn’t hearing no lightning and there wasn’t a drop of rain. I’ve been going over it with the lads, and not a one of them saw no storm.”

  “It was late at night,” Bray said, her tone turning business-like. “Is it possible you slept through it?”

  “Aye,” the portly man said. “I suppose it is. But Jimmis Dareen was working a night shift at the Greystone’s Finest Pub, not two blocks from the Parron’s place, and he swears up and down he didn’t see no rain nor no lightning neither.”

  “Thank you, Lorren,” Bray said, taking the keys from the innkeeper and passing them out. “I can promise, we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “I’ll send a boy to let Arns know you’ve arrived, shall I?”

  “Yes, that would be most helpful,” Bray said. “And might we have the use of the private dining room?”

  “Certainly, Ms. Marron.”

  Lorren the innkeeper bowed and departed. Two serving boys brought their trunks and, with Peer’s direction, deposited them into their proper rooms.

  After so many days of travel, Yarrow was eager to see the crime scene and begin the investigation. He had done some reading on the signs of arson on the boat ride from Chasku to Daland and looked forward to applying the new information rattling about in his head.

  They processed back down the stairwell into the empty common room. Yarrow strode toward the front door, but the Chiona hung back, taking seats.

  “What are we waiting for?” Yarrow asked Bray. He realized that this question was the first time he had directly spoken to her in…he wasn’t sure how long.

  Bray gave him a cool, surveying look. “The constable. He’ll take us to the crime scene and share his findings thus far.”

  Yarrow nodded and moved toward a chair, but Bray stayed his step by saying, “However, you will not go near the crime scene.”

  “Excuse me?” Yarrow asked, thinking he must have misheard or misunderstood her. Of course he must see the crime scene—that was the whole point of this entire ill-begotten venture!

  “I forbid either of you to set foot near the crime scene.”

  Peer crossed his arms and assumed a smug expression; Adearre averted his eyes.

  “Forbid?” Yarrow repeated softly. He glanced at Ko-Jin, who kept his face carefully composed.

  “Yes.” Bray raised her chin. “I told you before we departed that I had the lead of this investigation.”

  “And why,” Yarrow asked, his voice so quiet it was nearly a whisper, “may I ask, do you presume to forbid us from doing that which we were sent to do?”

  Bray’s emotions ratcheted up from defensive to angry, echoing Yarrow’s own feelings.

  She took an aggressive step forward. “Because I will not allow the evidence to be tampered with.”

  Yarrow unconsciously stepped forward as well, cutting the space between them. “And do you imagine us to be saboteurs or merely incompetent?”

  Her green eyes narrowed into slits. “They both seem possible, and are neither permissible.” She pointed a finger at him. “You swore to follow my orders, remember?”

  “No.” He endeavored to keep his voice calm. “I swore I would defer to wisdom.” She put her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrows. “And as soon as you begin to display some,” Yarrow said, “I will happily keep my word.”

  Bray’s cheeks glowed and, behind her, Peer made an affronted sound deep in his throat. Even Adearre, who had been focusing on anything in the room but Yarrow, shot him an outraged look.

  Ko-Jin cracked a knuckle. The small pop settled like a spoken threat between the two groups.

  Peer’s fist clenched; Bray’s knees bent.

  They might well have come to blows in that instant, if not for the front door opening and the entrance of a merry-faced blond man in his middle years. His lips pursed, emitting a jaunty whistle.

  He smiled around at them, completely oblivious to the hostile body language and glowering expressions.

  “Bray Marron,” he said in a booming voice. He bowed to her. “By Spirits, am I glad you’ve come—and Mr. Gelson, Mr. Mallez,” he bowed to Peer and Adearre. He looked at Yarrow and Ko-Jin, awaiting an introduction.

  “This is Sung Ko-Jin and Yarrow Lamhart,” Bray said with apparent reluctance, “and this is Constable Arns Fielding.”

  “Very pleased, very pleased,” Arns said with a bow to each of them. “Cosanta, too! How marvelous.”

  Bray made a sound halfway between a snort and a cough.

  Arns did not notice this either. He turned to Bray with affectionate blue eyes. “You simply must come to the theater while you’re in town, my dear. We’ve got The Marking of Mellack showing. Simply astounding performance.”

  Yarrow felt an insane desire to laugh. Bray clearly still fumed from their exchange, and her attempt to appear polite in the face of this man’s effusions proved hilariously ineffective. Funnier still was how utterly unaware the constable seemed.

  “I thank you, Mr. Fielding,” Bray said, her voice carefully even, “but we have come for the investigation, not for a holiday.”

  “Certainly, certainly; but I don’t see why you can’t mix a little pleasure with your business. It was lightning that did the mischief after all, and not even you can apprehend the weather.” He chuckled appreciatively at his own joke.

  “The death of a Chisanta is a serious matter,” Bray said.

  “Quite naturally. Sad business. You’ve only just arrived? Perhaps we should tarry for a bit of refreshment? Lorren’s gotten in some authentic Chaskuan tea.” He winked at Ko-Jin, who responded with utter bemusement. “And a superb Adourran wine. A very nice vintage, quite dry.”

  “I thank you, no,” Bray said. The ball of her emotion in Yarrow’s mind thrummed with exasperation. “We would like to see the crime scene and speak to any witnesses you’ve found.”

  Arns Fielding did not look terribly pleased by this prospect. “Very well. It’s just a short walk away. Will your Cosanta friends be joining us?”

  Bray turned to Yarrow, her eyes hard and her voice ice. “No. They will not.”

  The constable shrugged and led the Chiona out of the inn, leaving Yarrow glowering after them.

  “Insufferable woman.” Ko-Jin threw himself down in a chair. “Are we really going to let her forbid us?”

  “No,” Yarrow said. “But I’d rather not push the matter just now. If we can avoid a fight it would be best.”

  “I don’t know. I think a fight could be great fun.”

  Yarrow laughed. “Perhaps for you—I don’t think I’d pose much of a threat.”

  “You did well enough against Peer.”

  “No.” He allowed himself to wince as he sat, as only his friend would see. “You know I’ve never had any skill at striking. The dodging comes naturally, but it won’t ever win a fight on its own.”

  “We could work on that,” Ko-Jin suggested.

  “Yes, maybe later.” Yarrow stood back up. “For now, I want to continue cross-referencing. Maybe I’ll find something useful there.”

  Yarrow trudged up the stair and retreated into the privacy of his and Ko-Jin’s room. He retrieved several volumes and spread them out, poising a pen and pad for scribbling notes. The frustrations of the day quickly receded as he lost himself in the familiar, methodical process of research.

  The light beyond the window dimmed unnoticed by Yarrow as he scanned through page after page of tight script, searching for any reference to ‘fire’ or ‘famine.’ When his eyes finally locked onto a promising passage his heart jumped into his throat. He read the lines several times, m
emorizing them:

  ‘He will read these words. He will know the famine when nothing is left but ash, nothing save for the unknown vinous offerings beneath the ground.’

  Yarrow paced about the room reciting the words in his head, his pulse quickening. ‘Nothing is left but ash,’ certainly suggested a fire. The word ‘famine,’ he felt confident was in reference to the ‘marked famine,’ the lessening in their numbers. It was possible that it referred to an actual famine, a food shortage, but given two separate passages that linked fires and famines, he highly doubted it.

  The part of it that sent a chill down his spine was the start, ‘He will read these words.’ If this fire was in fact the one referenced, that would mean the he—Yarrow Lamhart—was the he. The idea of a Fifth—Mirrana Alvanaz to be specific—predicting that he would read her words made his mind spin in circles. Had she, three hundred years ago, seen him at this exact moment? Surely not. To believe himself so important would be egotistical in the extreme. But it would be easy enough to discover the truth. If this fire was the one spoken of in these texts, then it would have ‘nothing left save for the unknown vinous offering beneath the ground.’ In other words, a secret wine cellar.

  He continued to pace, pounding circles around the floorboards, his thoughts chasing each other with dizzying rapidity around his mind. Now, he would see the crime scene, and nothing Bray Marron could say would dissuade him.

  Bray was grateful for the breeze that cooled her flushed cheeks as she walked beside Arns Fielding to the Parron residence. The constable chattered away about local gossip, but she could do no more than nod and make encouraging noises now and again, as her mind was otherwise occupied. She reviewed what had transpired at the inn—specifically Yarrow’s insult about her lack of wisdom, delivered so coolly. She positively hated the man, she decided. What a pity. He had been such a nice boy.

  “Just around this corner,” Arns said, placing a hand on her back to guide her to the left. She did not like being touched. She sped up to outpace him and his hand.

  The charred husk of the building crouched like a skeleton in the alley. It lacked a roof entirely and many of the walls had collapsed; the bottom level was a heap of charred wood and ash. The smell, like a bonfire, still hung in the air, despite so many days passing since the incident. Bits of white ash floated in the air like snowflakes.