Her cheeks grew pink. “It ain’t stealing to take something from a person who don’t need it.”
“In point of fact,” Arlow said, “that is stealing. Who ever heard such a backwards definition? What, belongings are determined by need? Ludicrous!”
She sprung down from the counter. “So a poor child should go hungry so some richie can keep his baubles? That’s not backwards? We don’t take nothing nobody’ll really miss anyhow.”
“That is demonstrably untrue,” Arlow said, his eyes flashing. “I was waylaid by your brother’s men as a boy. Those brutes took everything—including my grandfather’s watch, the only heirloom I had from a man who meant a great deal to me. Or do you assume that the rich are without sentiment, that the things we have are only valuable for their weight in raw materials?”
They were both of them breathing heavily, face to face. Not even the sound of the door opening, the entrance of a tall man silhouetted by gray storm clouds, could sever the electric charge that had sprung up between them.
So, when a deep, male voice broke the silence, Arlow nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Mae,” the man said laughingly. “What have you done to your hair, girl?”
Mae turned to her brother, the anger draining from her face. “Linton!” She raced to the door and hugged him, despite the rain on his overcoat. He set her back on her feet and removed his hat, then ran his hand through his sister’s short tresses, tousling. “Is it the new fashion?”
She snorted. “Not likely. I sold it. Poppy Seed needed a shoe.”
The Pauper’s King surveyed Arlow, who found himself more star-struck than he had ever been before, even more so than when he had met the actual king. The man before him was far more impressive—tall and lean, with broad shoulders. He appeared to be in his late thirties, with hair somewhere between red and brown and eyes of a downright unsettling shade of blue. The way he spoke and carried himself spoke of good breeding, in sharp contrast to his sister.
He bowed. “Linton Bearnall.”
“Arlow Bowlerham.”
Mae grinned at her brother with obvious affection. “I made you dinner.”
Arlow coughed back a laugh and she glared at him.
Linton took a seat at the table. “What an unexpected pleasure. Thank you. It smells delicious.”
Arlow realized belatedly that he was still wearing the absurd pink apron and pulled it from his waist, flushing, and sat.
Linton Bearnall scanned Arlow’s face with intelligent eyes. “So, you are Quade’s man.”
“I am my own man.”
The Pauper’s King smiled and, like his sister, his grin exposed every tooth in his head. On his older, gaunter face, the expression had a distinct skeletal quality. “A good answer.”
Mae set a plate before her brother.
“None for our new friend, I think,” he said.
Arlow’s brows drew down. To be denied a meal changed the entire nature of this meeting—and stung, as he’d cooked the blighted thing himself.
Mae paused, darting a hesitant look at Arlow. “Linton…”
He extended his hands. “Let me explain my meaning further before any offense is taken. You see, Mr. Bowlerham, I find myself in a perplexing situation. The king is dead; an event I would not have brought about myself, but which I cannot say I lament. The Chisanta, and in particular this Mr. Asher, have asserted themselves as heads of state.” Linton sipped his wine. “Most would, perhaps, not find this a strange turn of events, but I, being rather well connected, have enough information to be troubled. I happen to know that Quade Asher has been operating independently for many years. What’s more, I have crossed paths with the man—though he is unaware of the fact—and I found him…peculiar.”
The word was packed with meaning, and Arlow’s estimation of the man rose. If he was discerning enough to notice Quade’s effect and be wary, he was more perceptive than most.
“Quade was rather insistent on meeting me himself, but I refused. I am not a man to be easily taken in. However, I am open to a certain level of cooperation, should I find his motives and goals align with my own. And so, I have agreed to keep a representative of Quade’s with me.” He inclined his head. “You.”
Mae sat at the table with her own plate of food, but was too busy looking from Arlow to Linton to eat. “You don’t mean to invite this richie to headquarters?”
Linton smiled. “Well, you see Mr. Bowlerham, that is the crux of the issue. I have agreed to take you on, but the Pauper’s Men have a certain…code. No man who is not one of us may travel in our company or be privy to our whereabouts.” He laced his fingers together. “So, you would need to become one of us. A Pauper’s Man, fully fledged. That is, I’m afraid, the only way for this arrangement to move forward.”
Mae let out a laugh that sounded more like a crow. “No way he’s got what it takes.”
Arlow lifted his chin. “What does being a Pauper’s Man require? Theft and tattoos?”
“The tattoo is optional.” Arlow realized suddenly that neither Linton nor Mae bore the infamous crowned fist on their own necks. “You will not be required to join in any unlawful activity after you are initiated, but you will have to swear loyalty and guard our secrets.”
Arlow’s brow quirked. “After?”
Linton’s face split into another toothy smile. “Caught that, did you? Yes, there are certain,” he paused, “tasks which must be completed in order to be admitted. Three, to be specific. The first is that you eat nothing for three days and then steal food.”
“I would never stoop—”
“An individual who has never had to filch a meal, who has never been so hungry he must break the law to survive, cannot possibly comprehend the necessity of what we do.”
Arlow nodded slowly. “And what are the other two tasks?”
“I apologize, but I can only reveal one at a time. It is tradition.”
Arlow leaned back in his chair. He didn’t want to do this—joining a ring of thieves was not exactly on his agenda. If he refused, Quade could choose some other candidate to be his emissary. Arlow did not particularly relish the idea of spending time with Quade’s band of murderous teens, either. He glanced at Mae; her doubtful expression made him want to prove her wrong.
“Very well. I agree to your terms.”
Linton extended his hand and Arlow took it in his own and gave one, assenting shake.
Linton’s focus shifted to his sister. “This will be your fifth.”
Outrage flashed across her face. “Me? You’re sticking him with me? I’m tellin’ you, it ain’t going to work with this one. It’ll take up my time, and then I’ll have to start all over again.”
“I trust your judgment more than anyone else’s. It must be you. Are you in such a hurry to be done with me?”
A tension Arlow didn’t understand passed between them. Mae deflated, her brother remained steady but with an affronted posture.
“You know it ain’t like that. I won’t be done with you, I just—”
He lifted a hand. “Peace, Mae. I understand you.” He reclined in his chair and the stress eased. “We shall count this one as a success regardless of the outcome.”
She considered this for a moment. “Alright. That’s fair.”
Linton picked up his fork. “I hope you will forgive my sister and I for eating in front of you. I’m simply famished.”
Arlow gestured for him to proceed, though his stomach had already begun to rumble discontentedly. Mae tucked into her food like a ravenous wolf having at a rabbit carcass, a sight almost repellent enough to rid him of his hunger.
When the siblings finished eating, Linton stood and moved back to the door. Arlow leapt from his seat. “Are you not staying?”
Linton set his hat on his head. “I’m afraid I have pressing business elsewhere. Mae will oversee your initiation.”
“You intend for me to stay in this shack with your sister? Unchaperoned?” His mouth fell open. “What of propriety?”
>
Linton laughed as he tugged his overcoat on. “Propriety isn’t something we worry much about. Besides, if you were to attempt something untoward, I suspect you would find yourself missing a few of your favorite parts.”
With that unsettling assertion, he hugged his sister goodbye and stepped out into the twilight. Arlow went to the window. The rain had ceased, and the setting sun bled the clouds red. He watched Linton mount his horse and gallop away.
Mae ambled into the kitchen and began washing the dishes.
Arlow joined her, leaning against the counter. “Would you care to explain?”
“Explain what?”
“The meaning of that conversation, about my being your fifth, or some such thing?”
She scrubbed at the roasting pan, seeming reluctant to look at him. “It ain’t your concern.”
“It seems as though it is.”
She sighed. “Help me with this, and I’ll tell you.”
Arlow had never washed a dish in his life, but it would seem somehow ungentlemanly to refuse. He moved to her side and she handed him a towel. “You dry, I’ll wash.”
They worked in silence for a time. Arlow was about to press for information again when she at last spoke, “It’s policy, you see, that if you’ve served ten years, you can leave the band. You’ve gotta train up five replacements, and then you get a sum of money. For starting a business, usually.”
“And you’ve taken a sudden interest in entrepreneurship?”
She handed him a plate, and he carefully wiped it dry and returned it to its cabinet.
“It’d be nice, I think—havin’ a little shop, living above. Sleeping in the same bed each night, pickin’ out curtains. That kind of thing.” She appeared, for the first time, self-conscious. “My brother ain’t too keen on me leaving, though.”
Arlow noticed the tension in her shoulders and determined to steer the conversation in a pleasanter direction. “What sort of shop?”
She smiled down at the suds beneath her hands. “Ain’t decided yet. I’m lookin’ out for it though.” She gave him a self-deprecating smirk. “Not a restaurant, clearly.”
“Ah,” Arlow said, returning the last of the silverware to its drawer. “What kind of curtains, then?”
She laughed, and her laughter made him smile—it was totally unrestrained, cheerful but not terribly pretty. “Not sure. I’m lookin’ out for them too.”
6
Yarrow’s calves ached; his breath exploded in clouds. A recent rain had reduced the path beneath him to mud. The soles of his boots adhered to the ground with each stride, then pulled free with a soft squelch.
A sheep bleated somewhere to his left, but the thick mist that hugged the ground concealed the beast from view. He glanced over his shoulder, back the way he and his companions had come. Somewhere below lay the small shoreside town of Cagsglow, a collection of tiny whitewashed buildings nestled between three hills. It, too, however, was obscured in fog.
“She said the house would be just at the top of the crag, here,” Bray said, panting slightly. She hastened her pace, but Yarrow held back. The princess appeared to be having silent difficulty managing the trail in her slippers.
“How’d you ever come to think of this place, anyway?” Ko-Jin asked.
“Peer, Adearre, and I stayed in the village once, ages ago. We decided it was about the most Spiritsforsaken spot in all of Daland.” She shrugged. “Little chance of being found all the way out here.”
They finally trudged high enough up the slope to leave the fog behind. Before them, a tumbledown, thatch-roofed cottage perched near the cliff’s edge, overlooking a vast gray sea.
Ko-Jin snorted at the sight. “Country house, our landlady called it. A generous descriptor.”
“We shall have to find a different place,” the princess said, staring at the sorry little cottage with wide eyes. “Shan’t we?”
Bray shook her head. “It’ll keep the rain off our backs just fine. Besides, it was cheap.”
“I should hope it was,” the king said. Bray wheeled a bland expression in his direction. “I mean, it looks charming. Really…ah, quaint.”
“No one would believe the king of Trinitas in residence, that’s for certain,” Yarrow said.
Bray shot him a grateful look, until Ko-Jin laughed. “Good point, Yar. I’d not believe a drifter’d live there.”
Bray rolled her eyes and set off again. “Blighted fussy lot of outlaws, you are,” she grumbled.
She turned the key and the door opened with a rusty groan. A damp, mildewy smell permeated the place. Within, shafts of morning sunlight shone dimly through filthy windowpanes, illuminating an assortment of moth-eaten furniture. The wooden planks that made up the floor bowed discernably in the middle, a warping that made Yarrow question the integrity of the roof.
He slung the pack from his back onto the couch—a collection of disguises he’d acquired earlier that morning from a pawn shop, along with some meager provisions.
The king grazed a finger along the kitchen table, placing a stripe in the thick layer of dust. “It appears we are the first renters in some time.”
“Just needs a bit of airing, is all,” Bray said.
The princess spun in a slow circle, her eyes squinted as if trying to envision the place more livable. “And perhaps some cheerful throw pillows.”
Ko-Jin, clearly fighting down a laugh, bobbed his head at this suggestion. “Yes, quite right, pillows ought to do the trick.”
Bray frowned at him, and his eyes glittered back at her unrepentantly. Yarrow, ever the peace-maker, cleared his throat. “Shall we get to it, then?”
Bray smirked. “As Ko-Jin and our new friends have such exacting standards, perhaps they should get to work on our hideout. I want to check the surrounding area, get a feel for the terrain. Yarrow, you’ll join me?”
She hooked her arm around his and steered him towards the door. He peeked back at Ko-Jin’s none-too-pleased expression, but could only shrug.
“Do get us some food, won’t you?” Bray called over her shoulder as the two of them jogged down the step and back out into the brisk day.
Yarrow tilted his face up to the sky. The sun had turned a chilly early morning into a tolerably warm afternoon. The sea glimmered with sunlight, stretched out beneath a cloudless sky. He had heard that, on a particularly clear day, one could see Adourra across the channel from the south of Daland. Either this was untrue or the day was insufficiently clear—he saw nothing but ocean.
They marched in companionable silence along the crag. To the north, hills of almost unfathomable greenness rolled towards the horizon.
“Let’s walk down to the beach,” Bray said.
They loped down the decline from crag to shore, as it was too steep to take at a walk. The sun gleamed off the white sand so brightly Yarrow had to shield his eyes.
“Wait a second,” he said, and bent down to remove his boots. She sat down and emulated him, and then they set off again, leaving a trail of footprints in their wake.
The sea breeze tousled Bray’s hair, the brightness of the day turning each strand a brilliant copper. She chewed on her bottom lip, face pulled towards the coast. “I want to go back to Accord. Tomorrow, if we can.”
“For Peer?”
She took a firmer grip on his arm. “Yes. Do you think Arlow was telling the truth? You know him better than I.”
Yarrow glowered down at his toes. “I can hardly be said to know him—I didn’t see any of this coming. I’m inclined to think he was being honest.” He sighed. “But that might be my own foolish loyalty talking.”
“It isn’t foolish to be loyal, Yarrow.”
He grunted. “That would depend on the object of one’s loyalty, I’d think.”
They strolled around a curve in the coastline and before them, half buried in sand, the remains of a foundered ship poked from the beach like a great tombstone, bowsprit pointing futilely to the sky. They paused and stared.
“Looks old,” Bray said
.
Yarrow studied the old-fashioned, rounded shape of the keel. “Seventy years at the least. A wine runner, likely.”
Bray tugged on his hand. “Let’s go check it out.”
He grinned and sped his steps, glad for a diversion. The hull stuck at a sharp angle up from the sand, the mast broken and lying like a narrow, splintered bridge from ground to quarter deck.
Yarrow climbed up at the head and held out a hand to haul Bray up beside him. “Must have been quite a storm,” he said, looking at the long stretch of coast between the wreckage and the ocean itself.
Bray called to him from the ladder well, “It’s surprisingly intact. Come see.” Then she disappeared below deck.
Yarrow followed, climbing down with difficulty given the steep slant of the floor. Below, the cabins were lined with sand. The air tasted of brine, smelt of timber and ancient things. Daylight peeped through the seams in the bulkhead, lending the relic luminosity despite a general shadow. It felt, to Yarrow, somehow sacred.
Bray spun to face him. Her eyes held a gleaming intensity he couldn’t read. “It’s so quiet here.”
He nodded. Even the rush and pull of the tide was barely audible.
She continued to stare. “Solitary, really.”
Yarrow’s pulse, without warning, quickened. He could hear his heart thudding in his ears. They were alone—a circumstance he felt most keenly all of a sudden. He licked his lips and tried to breathe normally.
Her own mood swiveled, clanging in the back of his mind. He teetered on bare feet, rocking back and forth, feeling, suddenly, ill at ease—nervous as the boy he had been an eon ago, standing in the rain, miserably watching her go, too afraid to kiss her.
She glanced away, her expression wistful. “I suppose they’ll be waiting for us.”
“They can wait.” His words hung solidly between them, fraught with a hundred yet-unrealized desires.
Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2) Page 7
