Division of the Marked (The Marked Series)

by March McCarron

  He tried to run forward, but Peer stepped into his path and detained him. Yarrow saw, now that Peer had turned, that he’d suffered a long scrape from his temple up to his hairline. Blood poured over his left eye, curled down is neck and saturated his creamy neckerchief.

  Yarrow pulled his gaze back to the King. He sincerely hoped that whatever Ko-Jin had planned, it would work. If the King died this day, the Chisanta would certainly be held accountable.

  Bray forced the King to his knees. He glared up at her and at the approaching assassin with scorching wrath.

  The scarred man’s blade rested on the King’s solid shoulder. “In the name of the Pauper’s King,” he said in a booming voice, “we dispatch you to the Spiritblighter’s mercy.”

  Gripped in two strong hands, he raised the sword high over his shoulder and cut down in a swift slice of silver. The blade should have driven into the base of the King’s neck, but instead it went straight through him and the tip hit the floor, sending a jolt up the assassin’s body.

  Many things happened at once, then. In a moment of lightning-fast action, Ko-Jin had the assailant’s sword in hand and, with a swift delicate motion, slit the scarred man’s throat. He did not pause, but leapt over the leader’s body to engage the remaining men.

  Yarrow, Adearre, and Peer, releasing a stunned Prince, charged the remaining assassins.

  It was over in the blink of an eye. Yarrow, himself, engaged just one man—or rather, dodged as the tall fellow attempted to slice him open. Yarrow grasped his dagger, raised it over his shoulder, and threw. It whizzed, flipping end over end, but the hilt, rather than the blade, struck the assassin just above the eye.

  It did not matter. He was momentarily stunned, and Ko-Jin drove a blade through the man’s back. Yarrow saw the blood-stained tip protrude through the assassin’s chest. The man’s eyes widened in disbelief and horror; his gaze latched onto Yarrow’s, blue eyes imploring him to, somehow, unmake this demise. Then the life in him was gone, and he thumped to the ground.

  It was over.

  Yarrow panted and scanned the carnage. Black-clad corpses littered the ballroom floor. Yarrow had never seen a man die before—he wished he could unsee it. A strong desire to retch overcame him but he swallowed it down. He turned his eyes on the royal family, at the people they had saved. The Princess and Queen came out from their hiding place, Arlow walking just behind them.

  “Papa,” the Princess said, tears rolling down her cheeks, as she clutched the King’s chest. He stroked her hair and made soothing sounds. “It’s all over now, baby girl.”

  Bray crossed the blood-spotted dance floor to retrieve her shoes. She had no intention to put the horrid things back on her feet, but she supposed she shouldn’t abandon them. Her mind meandered, oddly unfocused.

  Her adrenaline had begun to abate, and as it did an extreme exhaustion settled in. She longed to be back at the inn, out of this Spirits-cursed dress, and curled into bed.

  “They were all unconscious,” a timid voice said.

  “Unconscious?” the King boomed. “My entire guard?”

  “Yes, your Majesty. They appear to have been drugged.”

  Bray watched as a maid with a bucket of water and mop set to remove the blood from the gleaming dance floor. She cleaned in a slowly widening circle, then plunged the mop back into the water with a slosh, turning the suds pink.

  A servant put the last of the corpses in a long line. Bray had never seen so many dead bodies at once. Something about the way they were lined up, evenly spaced, unseeing eyes and boot tips facing the lavish ceiling, seemed strangely orderly. They reminded her of the planks of wood that lined the Transcontinental Railway.

  Their face coverings had been removed, revealing Dalish men of varying ages—one boy looked no older than sixteen, the eldest had gray hair. Each of them bore the familiar tattoo upon their neck, the crowned fist. It made Bray think of the only other time she had encountered Pauper’s men, when their carriage had been waylaid all those years ago. Funny that she should be in the company of the same exact people.

  The King examined the row of dead assassins and shook his head. “I do not know their faces.”

  “If they really are Pauper’s King men, you wouldn’t,” the Prince said as he too inspected the bodies.

  “If?” the King asked sharply. “Of course they are his men. It was only a matter of time before that treasonous highwayman tried to be king of more than the paupers. I’ll have his head for this!”

  Bray closed her eyes for a moment and swayed on the spot. Spirits, was she tired!

  She jerked herself alert and made her eyes focus on the dead, look for clues. Instead, her gaze locked on Yarrow. He crouched before one of the corpses, a red-haired youth whose throat had plainly been slashed. The gash stretched wide and red, curved like a smile. Yarrow brushed the dead lad’s hair out of his eyes and smoothed it back gently, as a mother would her child. Bray felt a pang of remorse—Yarrow must have killed that boy, the first to die by his hands.

  Yarrow’s eyes shot up and met hers, almost as if she had called his name. It sent a chill through her body.

  “Bray, look at this,” Adearre said. She turned toward her friend, glad for an excuse to break eye contact. Adearre crouched next to the scarred assassin who had acted as leader, a small scroll of paper in his hand.

  She knelt and took the telegram slip. “Regroup outside Che Mire,” she murmured aloud.

  “Che Mire?” Yarrow repeated softly, as if to himself.

  The King paced before the line of dead men, glaring as if he hoped to impress his displeasure upon them even after death. “I’ll have every one of those so-called King’s men taken into custody…”

  “I do not believe that would help you,” Adearre said.

  The King gestured impatiently for him to continue.

  “Look at these tattoos.” Adearre turned the head of the leader to better expose the mark. “They are all fresh.”

  “How can you tell?” the Prince asked.

  “The darkness of the ink,” Adearre said, as if it were obvious. He pointed to the dead man’s neck. “And look here, the flesh is still pink from the initial irritation.”

  “So they were new recruits,” the King huffed. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Why would the Pauper’s King, in his first-ever act of violence, send an entire party of fresh initiates?” Adearre challenged.

  The King frowned and ceased his pacing. The Prince stared at Adearre as if he were some kind of marvel.

  “If it wasn’t the so-called Pauper’s King,” the King asked with flashing eyes, “who was it?”

  Adearre shook his head, but he shot Bray a significant look.

  Peer reentered the hall at that moment, a bandage on his left temple.

  “Are you alright?” she asked and jogged forward to examine Peer’s pupils.

  He smiled dreamily. “I am excellent.” He drew out the word ‘excellent’ comically.

  Adearre chuckled. “Did the doctor give you something good, love?”

  Peer smiled wide and leaned bodily into Adearre. “Love…”

  “How was Arlow?” Ko-Jin asked.

  “Oh, fine.” Peer yawned mightily. “Bit tetchy though.”

  Bray, eager to leave, faced the King. “It’s late. If there is nothing further you require, Your Highness, we will take our leave.”

  The King nodded absently and twitched his hand in a dismissal.

  Bray took several steps toward the exit, her high heeled shoes dangling from her fingers and the heavy dress whispering across the floor.

  “Wait!”

  She halted and the Prince jogged up to her side. He smiled and ran a hand through his hair. “I wanted to thank you. I owe you my life.”

  She shook her head. “You owe me nothing, but it was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “The pleasure was mine.” He kissed her hand gallantly. “Good night, Bray Marron.”

  It was an hour after midnight, and a lig
ht rain hung in the air like mist, glimmering with the lamplight. After the events of the evening, the stillness and quiet was unnerving. Bray scanned every shadow with suspicion as she left the palace.

  The coachman had waited for them—thank the Spirits—and he held the door open as they filed into the cushioned interior. Moments later, the carriage surged into motion, trundled down the wide drive and out into the city.

  Bray turned to Adearre expectantly. His gaze was trained on Peer, a bemused smile on his lips. Their drug-addled friend had instantly fallen asleep on Adearre’s shoulder and begun to snore softly.

  Bray cleared her throat and Adearre looked up. He answered her questioning look in a whisper. “Five of the assassins had scars from old burns on their arms and hands.”

  “Burns…” Bray said. “You think this is connected to the fires?”

  Adearre bit his lip. “I cannot prove that. It could be a coincidence. Perhaps those men worked a job in the past with close proximity to fire…”

  “I don’t think it’s a coincidence,” Yarrow said, his face turned out the window. “Before the attack, I was talking to Vendra—”

  “Wait, what happened to Vendra?” Ko-Jin cut across.

  Bray’s eyes narrowed as she thought of the woman. In all the excitement, she had completely forgotten there had been another Chisanta present at the ball. But now that she was reminded, suspicion seeped into her mind. The woman had been close at hand—Bray had seen her, hanging on Yarrow like a leech, just before Adearre had spotted the assassins. So why had she not helped? She was tempted to blame her Cosanta weakness, but both Ko-Jin and Yarrow had proved an invaluable, seamless part of the group when the need arose.

  “I don’t know,” Yarrow said. “I didn’t see her after the assassins arrived. She was a bit…deep in her cup, but I can’t imagine she would leave at such a time, that any Chisanta would…” A crease formed between his brows. “Before, though, she told me that her sedative stores have been robbed every year for the past decade, and the constable had traced the stolen goods to a warehouse outside Che Mire.”

  “The syringe in Greystone…” Adearre said.

  Yarrow’s face turned grim. “My thoughts exactly.”

  “And that is where the assassins were meant to regroup.” Ko-Jin rubbed his chin. “You don’t think that something’s happened to Vendra? That she’s gotten in over her head?”

  Yarrow frowned. “That is my fear.”

  The carriage halted before the King’s Repose, and Bray alighted with haste, envisioning the soft embrace of her bed.

  As they walked up to the inn she fell in beside Yarrow. “I’m sorry you had to kill,” she said quietly. “I know you weren’t keen on the idea.”

  He slowed his steps and she matched his pace, letting the others outstrip them. The wetness of the air clung to her bare arms.

  “That’s the thing,” he said. “I didn’t kill him, just left him unconscious. It must have been Arlow…but why?”

  Bray shrugged, not terribly concerned over the fate of a hired gun. “Perhaps he roused and Arlow was defending himself.”

  “Perhaps…”

  “I meant to ask,” Bray opened the front door. “What tipped you off to the assassins? You were too far away to hear Adearre. Did you see them?”

  They trudged slowly up the stairs.

  “No,” he said through a yawn. “You tipped me off—your alarm.”

  She nodded, too sleepy to think. They said good night. Bray entered her room, unlaced the dress with difficulty, and shimmied free, leaving it pooled on the floor like a gleaming emerald puddle. She collapsed into the soft plush of her mattress, clung to a great soft pillow like a lover.

  It was as sleep stole over her that Yarrow’s words finally hit home. He had been tipped off by her alarm. He knew how she felt. And that meant…

  She slept as soundly as the dead, a small smile on her lips.

  Yarrow and Bray reentered the inn early the next morning and joined their other companions for breakfast.

  “That was fast,” Ko-Jin said through a mouthful of rice.

  “She wasn’t there.” Yarrow sank into a seat across from his friend. “She and her things were gone. The innkeeper said he didn’t see her leave.”

  Ko-Jin swallowed and set down his chopsticks. “That’s strange…”

  “Yes,” Yarrow agreed. “I’m worried about her. If she’s in some kind of trouble, it would kill Dedrre…”

  Yarrow could hear Dedrre’s mood—his feelings twanged mildly with interest in something or other, probably a new mechanical project.

  “She’s Chisanta though,” Peer said. His temple was still bandaged, a nasty maroon bruise creeping out from beneath the gauze. “Can’t be in danger, can she? Even Cosanta hold their own in a fight.”

  “The King’s guard were all drugged,” Adearre reminded them, “and Yarrow tells us it was her sedatives which were stolen. I imagine an unconscious Chisanta is as easy to overpower as any other unconscious man.”

  “Or woman,” Bray added.

  “We should go to Che Mire,” Yarrow said. “All the clues point in that direction.”

  Bray leaned back in her chair, her expression contemplative.

  “Not all the clues,” Adearre said. “Remember that the grouping of the fires suggests a headquarters in the east of Daland.”

  The Chaskuan breakfast Yarrow had requested arrived: pickled vegetables, spicy soup, and rice. He took several bites, then pushed the tray away. It tasted wrong—reminded him he was far from home.

  Once they had all eaten and the table had been cleared, Bray extracted the information the head constable had sent. She read quietly, turning the pages with care, as Yarrow drummed his fingers on the table and fidgeted in his chair. When she finished with a section, she slid the file across the table to Adearre.

  “Well?” Peer asked at last.

  “Hm? Oh…” Bray said, without looking up. “The fires are consistent with the one in Greystone—multiple starting points, no survivors.”

  “Can we be sure there were marked children involved?” Yarrow asked.

  “Not for a fact.” Bray thumbed through the papers. “But three of the four definitely involved a child aged fourteen.”

  She opened a fourth folder and silence fell again. Yarrow watched her face closely, admiring her focus and intensity. He saw her eyes widen and her lips part in confusion.

  “This is unbelievable,” she said, setting down one sheaf and picking up another.

  “What is it?” Yarrow asked.

  “This fire, the one that happened last year, involved a boy who had lost one of his hands working in a cotton factory, but the coroner’s report said that all of the remains had two hands.”

  “So one body was missing?” Yarrow asked.

  “No.” Bray held out the page so he could see for himself. “They were all there, but the one consistent with the age and gender of that boy had two hands.”

  “So it must have been someone else, a different child,” Peer said.

  “Was it the fourteen-year-old?” Ko-Jin asked.

  Bray nodded. “Yes.”

  “There is another explanation then,” Ko-Jin said seriously. “If he managed to get into the Aeght a Seve before he died he could have been gifted physically, as I was…”

  They were quiet for a moment, processing this possibility.

  “How would an untrained boy get to the Aeght a Seve?” Peer asked.

  “It’s not as unlikely as it sounds.” Yarrow scooted his chair in closer. “There are many documented cases of Chisanta going to the Aeght a Seve in the moments before they die without the aid of Ada Chae or Tearre, as a kind of mental refuge.”

  “But we get the gift we’re needing. Why would the lad gain a hand when what he’s truly needing is fire resistance?” Peer challenged.

  Yarrow handed the file to Adearre, who read the words hungrily. “There are many theories that the first gift works differently than the latter four. Those are
certainly determined by the need of the moment, but the first, as it requires no sacrifice, seems to function differently.”

  “That could be true,” Bray gestured towards Peer. “Like you—you could have been taught to read. At the moment of your first gift your circumstances had changed, but you still received the thing you had wanted for years before.”

  Peer flushed and dug his fingernail into the grain of the wooden table. “Not exactly. It wasn’t that I lacked the chance to learn reading as a boy—it’s just that the letters always got mixed up on the page. I just couldn’t do it, no matter how hard my foster mother tried to teach me. Don’t think a Chisanta would have had any better luck.”

  “Well,” Adearre said, changing the subject casually, “we cannot know for sure one way or the other, but there were no other missing boys in the neighborhood to account for an extra body. It says so in the report.”

  A knock at the door interrupted Yarrow’s contemplation. A telegram boy scurried into the room and Bray held out her hand to accept the small roll.

  “Dolla again?” Peer asked, as Bray unrolled the message and read, her brow creased in confusion.

  She stood. “Boy,” she called to the departing back of the deliverer, “is there a way to tell where or who this is from?”

  “Not who—but where, yes. If you come down to the post office and speak to Mr. Grants.”

  “Thank you,” Bray said, and the boy retreated.

  Peer’s blue eyes followed Bray with interest. “You all right?”

  “It says ‘Che Mire is false trail. Answers at Easterly Point ruin,’” Bray read.

  “And it isn’t signed?” Ko-Jin asked.

  “No,” Bray said. She handed the roll to Peer on her right, who read it and passed it on to Adearre.

  “What kind of ruin is at Easterly Point?” Adearre asked.

  “An old Chisanta temple,” Yarrow said. “It hasn’t been used for five hundred years, at least.”

  “So…what are we going to do?” Ko-Jin asked.

  Bray’s lips thinned. “I’m not sure. We’ve now got two leads, neither terribly sound.” She stood up and began to pace about the dining room. “This anonymous tip could be a misdirection. But, then again, so could the telegram in the assassin’s pocket…”