Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2)

by March McCarron

  Mr. Abbort warned to expect higher security measures, including regular neck inspections, until the culprits are apprehended. “We’ll get them. That I promise.”

  Pro Tem Head of State, Mr. Quade Asher, also of the Chisanta, gave the following statement: “It is with a heavy heart that I admit the betrayal of my own. The public should be assured that the vast majority of the Chisanta remain loyal to the people of Trinitas, and we shall not rest until those who defile our name are eradicated.”

  Crowds gathered to celebrate the arrival of Mr. Asher, who has been hailed as the savior of Accord.

  “Check the list,” Bray said.

  Yarrow ripped through several pages until he found the list of supposed ‘defectors.’ His eyes skimmed up and down the hundred or so names, many of them familiar: his friends Roldon Green and Rinny Samble, his once-mentor Britt Penrose, Ander Penton, and—his heart stuttered—Dedrre Alvez. The only Chiona he recognized was Dolla Adder, but Bray whispered several names to herself as if they were familiar.

  “It can’t mean that all other Chisanta are complicit,” Yarrow said, his mind boggling. The list represented a measly fraction of the total Chisanta. He could not believe his brothers and sisters so feckless.

  Bray sighed. “He must have fed them the same story. With his gift…”

  Yarrow tossed the paper down on the counter with disgust and his siblings gathered round to read.

  Bray chewed on a nail. Yarrow faced his father, who was surveying him with fearful eyes.

  “It isn’t true, Da,” Yarrow said, his voice cracking. It broke something inside him, the idea that his own father would know him so little.

  His father’s bushy, graying brows drew up. “Of course it isn’t true,” he said. “No boy of mine would do such a thing. But they’ll be looking for you, son.”

  “Yarrow,” Bray said with sudden alarm, “Ko-Jin.”

  Blight it all. Yarrow closed his eyes and sorted through the feelings in his mind, chastising himself for not keeping closer tabs on his friend. He’d been mostly blocking the feelings of others since the expansion of his ability, to preserve his own sanity.

  He touched upon the ball of emotion in his mind that was Ko-Jin. “He’s…alright. But he seems distressed, or as distressed as Ko-Jin gets. We’d better go.”

  He opened his eyes and caught the look of hurt on his mother’s face. “I’m sorry, Ma. Our friends are in trouble.”

  “You can’t go,” Ree said, flourishing the paper. “Not looking like that. You’ll be spotted straight off.”

  “That’s true,” Allon said. “You two don’t exactly…blend.”

  Yarrow glanced over at Bray in her trousers and jerkin, her russet hair grown long enough to cover her brow and the tops of her ears, but still far too short for a civilian woman.

  Ree pounded up the stairs and returned, out of breath, with a bundle of clothes. “Here. Wear these.”

  She led Bray into another room to change and Yarrow slipped into the pantry. He stripped out of his robes so quickly that he dissevered two buttons. The trousers were a touch short, but more or less a good fit. He pulled on shirt, vest, and jacket and hastened back into the kitchen.

  “Hey,” Allon said. “That’s my favorite jacket, that is.”

  “Shut it, Allon,” Ree responded.

  Bray appeared a moment later, wearing a chocolate brown dress and bonnet. “Ready?”

  He bobbed his head and moved to hug his mother farewell.

  “Yarrow,” Ree said, pointing at him. “Your hair. It’s a dead giveaway.”

  He clutched his braid in his hand and closed his eyes for a second. Hair is a trivial thing, he told himself. But it wasn’t trivial. It was his identity. The braid was such a part of who he was. And it took an age to grow out this long.

  “Very well,” Yarrow said, sinking onto a stool. “Cut it.”

  Ree yanked open a drawer and extracted a great, gleaming pair of scissors. “How short?”

  He felt the cool blade against the nape of his neck. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever will be fastest.”

  He heard the blades saw through the thick braid, and then felt the weight of his hair vanish all at once. Freed strands sprang into his face.

  Ree snipped a few more times, then tied his hair back into a tail at the base of his neck. “There,” she declared.

  He stood, testing the odd new lightness of his head, and his eyes fell on the long, dark braid upon the floor. “You should sell it. Probably get a few marks,” he said detachedly.

  Ree wrapped her arms around his neck and he patted her back. “You’ll visit again, won’t you?” she asked.

  “When I can,” he replied, voice choked.

  He hugged as many of his siblings as he could reach, kissed his mother’s cheek, and shook his father’s hand.

  Then he and Bray were stepping back out onto the front step. It had been a surreal, brief interview, but, Yarrow reflected as he clasped Bray’s hand, a memory that he would no doubt treasure in the black days to come.

  He imagined the constable’s office downtown, specifically the back side of the building, and willed himself there. In an instant, they arrived.

  Bray scanned the flat brick exterior. The ribbons on her bonnet swirled in the wind. “Any idea where the cells are located?”

  “What,” Yarrow asked, “you think I spent a lot of time incarcerated as a youth?”

  She snorted. “Alright, let’s just go through the wall and…see what happens.”

  “A scrupulous plan.”

  She laughed. “You have a better one?”

  He shook his head. “Not a bit.”

  She squeezed his hand once and he felt the shiver of her phasing. Together they crept through the brick wall. In a stroke of luck, they appeared within a vacant cell.

  Bray crawled to the door and glanced up and down the hall. “Clear,” she whispered. Yarrow followed. He could hear voices coming from the main office, but they were distant.

  Glans Heath being a small town, there weren’t many cells to check.

  “There you are,” Ko-Jin hissed as they approached. Jo-Kwan and Chae-Na, who had been sitting on the bare floor, rose to their feet with relieved expressions. “You took an age and—” Ko-Jin stopped and sniffed at Yarrow, his eyes narrowing. “You bastard, you smell of bacon!”

  Yarrow stifled a laugh and held out a hand. “Shall we discuss my breakfast, or depart?”

  “Depart,” Jo-Kwan said. Yarrow tugged off his coat and pushed the sleeves of his shirt up, giving them more access to his flesh. Four hands took hold.

  “All aboard?” Yarrow asked.

  With a sharp pop, they were gone.

  5

  Arlow alighted from the carriage, tipped his hat against the light rain, and made haste to the vacant waiting area. Clearly having arrived before his contact, he perched upon a bench and withdrew his watch from his robe-pocket. Late.

  His eyes trailed up from the time to the small photograph within the golden lid. Three faces beamed back at him: Yarrow, Ko-Jin, and, in the center, himself, an arm flung round each of his friends’ shoulders. They’d been sixteen when it had been taken at a booth in Cosanta City. A hard lump caught in his windpipe; he snapped the timepiece shut and jammed it back into his pocket.

  The rain picked up, drumming loudly on the metal roofing and transforming the ground beyond the platform into a great, muddy puddle. Dalyson was not an attractive city at the best of times. Under the drear of storm clouds it painted a decidedly dismal picture—an excellent representation of Arlow’s mood.

  The slap of hooves against the wet road drew Arlow’s attention. He braced himself to stand, but paused when he caught glimpse of the new arrival: not a horse, but a mule pulling a ramshackle, two-man gig. Clearly not his appointment.

  The carriage came to a halt before the platform, the pitiful mule bowing its head against the deluge. A slight man vaulted clean over the pool, landing on the stage with a delicate thump. He wore a floppy, wide
-brimmed hat that had surely never been in style and slacks that were plainly several sizes too large, cinched at the waist.

  The man whisked his ill-begotten hat from his head. “You Arlow?”

  Arlow swallowed down his surprise and stood, offering a shallow bow. “Arlow Bowlerham, at your service.”

  The man snorted. “Isn’t you a fancy one?”

  Arlow’s smile faltered as the man stepped closer and revealed himself to be…well, a woman. The mistake was, he thought, rather a forgivable one given her dress and general demeanor. Her dirty blonde hair was cut at chin-length, for some Spirits-forsaken reason, and she had a strong jaw that gave the impression of a masculine face, though the shape of her lips and dainty nose—as well as several other parts—were distinctly feminine.

  She proffered her hand. “Mae Bearnall.”

  Arlow removed his glove and she shook his hand with uncultured heartiness.

  “You ready to be off, then?” she asked.

  Arlow glanced at the sky. He didn’t much like the idea of riding open-gig in the rain, but as she had done just so to collect him, he could hardly protest. He climbed into the passenger’s seat.

  She leapt back into the carriage with a sprightly grace, took up the leads, and clicked her tongue. The mule disembarked at an unimpressive speed, trudging up the road away from Dalyson.

  “Are we not going into the city?” Arlow asked, shaking against the wetness.

  “Naw.”

  He frowned. “Then where, may I ask, is our destination? Your headquarters cannot possibly be in the plains.”

  Mae guffawed. “You think I’m takin’ you to headquarters?” She shook her head, spraying him with raindrops from the brim of her hat. “You must be about as smart as Ol’ Poppy Seed Muffin here,” she said, gesturing to the mule’s chestnut rump, “if you’re thinking the Pauper’s King’ll invite a total stranger to his home.”

  Arlow sat up straighter, the very picture of injured dignity. “Quade Asher arranged that—”

  “This Quade fellah ain’t nobody to us and neither are you. The King’ll meet you and decide if you’re trustworthy or not, an’ that’s that.” She gave a nod as if that decided the matter. He supposed it did, in fact.

  Arlow folded his arms before his chest, his robes soaked through and mood steadily souring. “What kind of name is Poppy Seed Muffin for a mule?” he grumbled.

  Mae offered him a grin so wide it revealed every tooth in her head. “It’s ’er favorite flavor muffin, you see.”

  Arlow knew not what to say to this, couldn’t decide if he was amused. He could distinctly recall thinking to himself, whilst in Accord, that he’d prefer the company of a less polished lady. He watched the young woman hawk and spit over the side of the carriage. A superlative example of ‘be heedful what you hope for.’

  Mae guided the mule off the main drive onto a narrow wooded pass. The wheels of the gig seemed to seek every tree root. Arlow clutched the side of the carriage with one hand, his bowler to his head with the other, as he was jostled within an inch of his life. A low-hanging bough smacked him full in the face, leaving him, if possible, even wetter.

  Mae burst out laughing, transferring the reins to one hand so she could clutch her stomach. “You look,” she said when she’d at last caught her breath, “miffed as a stray cat in a thunderstorm.”

  Arlow glowered. This day was not going at all as he’d imagined. “And I suppose you enjoy being wet through and slapped by tree branches.”

  She whipped her hat off and tossed it to him. “Here. This’ll keep your fancy head drier.”

  She tipped her face up to the sky, letting the rain wash down her cheeks. In a moment her hair was plastered to her skull, adhering to her neck. He thought she was even less attractive wet. He reached over and placed the hat back on her head.

  “Being gallant?” she asked, her tone mocking.

  He shook his head solemnly. “Miss, no amount of rain could compel me to put that atrocity atop my head.”

  She snorted and turned back to the road. “We’re ’bout there.”

  She pulled up to a small log property—a hunting lodge, or so Arlow guessed—nestled between two towering pine trees; a vision of provincial solitude. Or an ideal location for a secluded homicide. “Head on in,” Mae called as she jumped down from the gig, not bothering to avoid a large puddle. “I’ll just take care of Poppy Seed real quick.”

  Arlow pushed open the door and stepped within, trailing pools of water. The lodge was small, the furnishings within of a rough quality. A moose head stared dubiously at him from above the fireplace.

  Arlow eyed the beast with a single raised brow. “Quite right, Mr. Moose. I am most out of place.”

  Despite this proclamation, he hung his bowler upon the rack—a knobby, tree-shaped thing designed by a craftsman whom, Arlow felt confident, was familiar with neither hatracks nor trees.

  Arlow, shaking with cold, crouched before the hearth and lit the prearranged firewood. He wasn’t in the habit of starting his own fires, but this one fortunately caught with ease. Soon, flickering light illuminated the room and a wash of warmth kissed his skin. Arlow unbuttoned his robes and peeled them off, feeling as though he’d shed ten pounds as the sopping fabric hit the cabin floor. His undershirt and slacks were damp, but he could hardly strip out of them as well—he’d brought no change of clothes. He’d believed he was merely to have a lunch meeting in Dalyson, not be taken hostage into the Spirits-forsaken wilderness, likely to be murdered by a she-vagrant and her absurdly named mule.

  The front door opened and the lady in question appeared, a sack over her shoulder. She pushed clinging strands from her face as she kicked off her shoes.

  “Unpack this for me,” she said, thrusting the sack into Arlow’s bewildered arms. “While I change.”

  She didn’t wait for his answer, but hustled off through the only doorway in the cabin, presumably to a bedroom.

  Arlow carried the bag to the kitchen and began to unload: a whole, plucked chicken, potatoes, carrots, butter, a bottle of red wine.

  She emerged in a blouse and slacks as ill-fitting as her previous ensemble, still toweling her tresses dry. She tossed the cloth aside, leaving her cropped hair sticking out comically from her head.

  “Do you plan to cook me dinner?” Arlow asked.

  She pursed her lips at him. “Naw, I’m cooking my brother dinner, as a surprise. But you can eat too. If it’s,” she held up the chicken by a single leg and eyed it skeptically, “edible.”

  Humming off-key, she tied an apron around her waist and began searching through the drawers and cabinets. She extracted a common spatula and stared at it with her head cocked to the side, as if unsure of its function. Arlow sat at the table and observed her with concealed amusement.

  She disappeared through a back door and returned with a pot of water, which went in the hearth, and a sprig of greenery. “Think this is rosemary?” she asked. “I’m not quite sure.”

  Arlow lifted the herb to his nose and sniffed. “Yes. Definitely rosemary.”

  She accepted his word as truth, and added the herb to her pile. When the water came to a boil, she carried the unfortunate fowl—once again by its leg, its wings lolling like doll arms—to the hearth. Even headless and defeathered, it evinced a certain ruffled indignation at being thusly handled.

  Arlow hopped from his stool. “Wait.” She turned to him with a raised brow. “You aren’t boiling that chicken whole?”

  She shrugged. “Sure am. Why?”

  Arlow swallowed down a laugh. “Great Spirits, woman! Don’t you know how to cook? Give it here.”

  She permitted Arlow to assume the culinary reins. As he chopped potatoes, he sensed her approach close behind and, unexpectedly, tensed in anticipation. Unfounded anticipation, clearly, as she merely tied the apron around his waist—a pink, frilly thing. “There,” she said with a laugh, then hopped up onto the counter beside him.

  She clenched the wine bottle between her thighs as she
wrested the cork out with a delightful pop. Arlow cleared his throat. Must really be missing the company of women if that was alluring.

  “Watch where you’re chopping,” she said, as Arlow nearly divested himself of a pinky finger. “This Quade fellah might not look kindly on us returnin’ his emissary short a digit.”

  Arlow focused again on the food, taking familiar pleasure in the task—in the feelings and smells.

  Mae handed him a serving of wine in a chipped mug. “So, how’d a rich boy like you learn cooking?”

  “Don’t spread the rumor. I might die of shame if it were known I had a real skill.” He slid the roasting pan into the coals. “I had a fondness for our cook as a boy. I used to spend half the day in the kitchens if I could.”

  “Pretty, was she?”

  Arlow smiled. “Stunning, really. She had huge,” he held up his hands to indicate the size of her bosom, “brown eyes.”

  Mae snorted and gulped her wine. The smell of the chicken and vegetables roasting in the hearth began to fill the lodge; Arlow’s mouth salivated.

  “So, is your brother traveling with the Pauper’s King? I presume he’s meeting me here.”

  She shook her head at him as if he were slow-witted. “My brother is the Pauper’s King.”

  “Oh?”

  This information traveled sluggishly through his mind. She seemed too young, at the oldest a year or two his senior—there must be a wide age gap between the siblings. Though, studying her, he detected a resemblance in her features to the face on the ubiquitous wanted posters. They had the same strong jawline. It looked better on a man.

  “Does that make you the Pauper’s Princess, then?”

  “You best not be mocking my brother.”

  “Certainly not, I only—”

  “Cause he’s the reason a lot of folks have food on their table. He takes in all sorts. What do you think would’ve come of me, a girl raised on the streets of Accord, without my brother?” She crossed her arms and glared at him.

  He thought she’d likely have become a prostitute, but it seemed an indecorous thing to say. “My apologies, I meant no offense. I have a high opinion of what your brother does for the country. In fact, it’s been a goal of mine for a long time to see how we could better integrate his practices within the law—without stealing.”