This is my test. The hoop I must jump through to convince them to allow Thom to do business with me. With the memory of my mother’s last moments burning into my brain, I find it easy to agree. “Maybe it shouldn’t.”
“Bet you’re wondering what we’re doing meeting here discussing things that sound like treason.”
“Bet you’re wondering what I’m doing standing here asking for materials banned by law.”
The man smiles, a wide crack of white in his black and silver beard. “I’m Drake. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for some time.”
I try to match his smile, but my mind is racing. Either Drake was a friend of my mother’s and has waited until now to offer his friendship, or he thinks I’m an acceptable target to be recruited into what appears to be an anti-Commander group.
Which isn’t going to happen. Not that I don’t share their sentiments, but my mother is a prime example of how the price of dissent isn’t worth the negligible payout.
Besides, I have an invention to finish, my mentor to track across the Wasteland, and a very independent ward to keep out of trouble. My plate is full.
“Any chance I can do business with your man here?” I nod toward Thom.
“Thom, get the man his supplies. Take the discs as payment.”
Thom needs an extra day to procure the acid, so I agree to come back the following evening to complete the purchase. And because I’m not a fool, I take one of the surveillance discs with me as I go. He can have it once he delivers the rest of my order.
Setting out at a brisk pace toward the prosperous North Hub section of the city, where Rachel is spending the day with her best friend, Sylph, learning how to properly host a dinner party, I try to shake off the lingering image of my mother dying beneath the bite of the Commander’s whip. I’ve had years of practice, and the picture fades before I’ve gone fifteen yards. The small spark of sedition ignited within me at the dingy tavern takes much longer to dissolve.
CHAPTER SEVEN
RACHEL
There shouldn’t be guards this far west in Lower Market, but I don’t doubt the warning whistle in the least. My pulse kicks up, pounding relentlessly against my ears, and I clench my fists to keep my hands steady. I refuse to be caught. Stopping beside the man who gave the warning, I turn and pretend to examine a sack of pearly-white onions while I sweep the area.
Men on their own or women with their Protectors continue to drift from stall to stall, but there’s a jerkiness to their movements now. A prey’s instinctive awareness of a predator.
My eyes scrape over canvas tents anchored to the ground with iron pegs, linger in the shadows between the rough-hewn stalls, and finally catch a diamond-bright shard of sunlight kissing the silver of a sword.
The guard is wedged in the narrow space between Madame Illiard’s display of silk Claiming dresses and the painted green stall of Parsington’s Herbal Remedies.
He isn’t alone—they never are—but his partners aren’t as easy to spot. It takes a minute before I see them. Cloaked. Carrying sacks and baskets. Trying to look like they’re just another group of citizens.
As if citizens ever spit-shine their boots and need enough space beneath their cloaks to accommodate a scabbard.
My heart is pounding so hard I worry the man beside me will hear it. I need a plan. One that keeps me out of the dungeon but still gets me to my destination in time.
The first guard raises his hand, and I spot the gleaming black oval Identidisc a split second before the green light flashes, sending a sonic pulse across a seventy-yard radius, scanning the unique wristmark every citizen has tattooed onto their left forearm at birth. My fingers want to creep to my wrist to worry the magnetic bracelet Logan insists I wear to block the disc’s ability to read my wristmark, but I clench my fist and remain still.
As soon as the guard drops his gaze to the Identidisc’s data, I move.
Sliding past the wagon, I duck into a tent half filled with sturdy cast-iron pots and watch for my opportunity. It doesn’t take long. The citizens know better than to stand around staring at the guards. Crowds begin sluggishly moving along the street again, though conversations are muted, and most look like they want nothing more than to leave the Market behind.
I couldn’t agree more. My heart is pounding like it wants out of my chest, and it’s a struggle to force myself to think clearly, but I must. I have to plan. To find a solution that doesn’t end with me trapped between two guards, trying to talk my way out of the kind of flogging that long ago cost Logan his mother.
Logan.
What would Logan do?
Logan wouldn’t be in this position in the first place because he’d already have everything mapped out with the kind of meticulous precision he applies to everything—a trait that usually irritates me, but now suddenly seems more attractive. Not that I’d ever admit it to him. Still, thinking like Logan gives me an idea, and I start searching for what I need.
Before long, I see my way out. A man—single, older, stoop-shouldered—walks slowly by my hiding place. I step out, match his pace, and lower my eyes as though I’ve been taught to respect my betters.
The man doesn’t seem to notice my presence, which saves me the trouble of trying to come up with a plausible explanation for pretending he’s my Protector. When he stops to browse for new boots, I seamlessly transfer to the next single man walking west.
This one casts a quick glance in my direction, frowns, and whispers, “What are you doing? Where is your Protector?”
“Bet you’re wondering what we’re doing meeting here discussing things that sound like treason.”
“Bet you’re wondering what I’m doing standing here asking for materials banned by law.”
The man smiles, a wide crack of white in his black and silver beard. “I’m Drake. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for some time.”
I try to match his smile, but my mind is racing. Either Drake was a friend of my mother’s and has waited until now to offer his friendship, or he thinks I’m an acceptable target to be recruited into what appears to be an anti-Commander group.
Which isn’t going to happen. Not that I don’t share their sentiments, but my mother is a prime example of how the price of dissent isn’t worth the negligible payout.
Besides, I have an invention to finish, my mentor to track across the Wasteland, and a very independent ward to keep out of trouble. My plate is full.
“Any chance I can do business with your man here?” I nod toward Thom.
“Thom, get the man his supplies. Take the discs as payment.”
Thom needs an extra day to procure the acid, so I agree to come back the following evening to complete the purchase. And because I’m not a fool, I take one of the surveillance discs with me as I go. He can have it once he delivers the rest of my order.
Setting out at a brisk pace toward the prosperous North Hub section of the city, where Rachel is spending the day with her best friend, Sylph, learning how to properly host a dinner party, I try to shake off the lingering image of my mother dying beneath the bite of the Commander’s whip. I’ve had years of practice, and the picture fades before I’ve gone fifteen yards. The small spark of sedition ignited within me at the dingy tavern takes much longer to dissolve.
CHAPTER SEVEN
RACHEL
There shouldn’t be guards this far west in Lower Market, but I don’t doubt the warning whistle in the least. My pulse kicks up, pounding relentlessly against my ears, and I clench my fists to keep my hands steady. I refuse to be caught. Stopping beside the man who gave the warning, I turn and pretend to examine a sack of pearly-white onions while I sweep the area.
Men on their own or women with their Protectors continue to drift from stall to stall, but there’s a jerkiness to their movements now. A prey’s instinctive awareness of a predator.
My eyes scrape over canvas tents anchored to the ground with iron pegs, linger in the shadows between the rough-hewn stalls, and finally catch a diamond-bright shard of sunlight kissing the silver of a sword.
The guard is wedged in the narrow space between Madame Illiard’s display of silk Claiming dresses and the painted green stall of Parsington’s Herbal Remedies.
He isn’t alone—they never are—but his partners aren’t as easy to spot. It takes a minute before I see them. Cloaked. Carrying sacks and baskets. Trying to look like they’re just another group of citizens.
As if citizens ever spit-shine their boots and need enough space beneath their cloaks to accommodate a scabbard.
My heart is pounding so hard I worry the man beside me will hear it. I need a plan. One that keeps me out of the dungeon but still gets me to my destination in time.
The first guard raises his hand, and I spot the gleaming black oval Identidisc a split second before the green light flashes, sending a sonic pulse across a seventy-yard radius, scanning the unique wristmark every citizen has tattooed onto their left forearm at birth. My fingers want to creep to my wrist to worry the magnetic bracelet Logan insists I wear to block the disc’s ability to read my wristmark, but I clench my fist and remain still.
As soon as the guard drops his gaze to the Identidisc’s data, I move.
Sliding past the wagon, I duck into a tent half filled with sturdy cast-iron pots and watch for my opportunity. It doesn’t take long. The citizens know better than to stand around staring at the guards. Crowds begin sluggishly moving along the street again, though conversations are muted, and most look like they want nothing more than to leave the Market behind.
I couldn’t agree more. My heart is pounding like it wants out of my chest, and it’s a struggle to force myself to think clearly, but I must. I have to plan. To find a solution that doesn’t end with me trapped between two guards, trying to talk my way out of the kind of flogging that long ago cost Logan his mother.
Logan.
What would Logan do?
Logan wouldn’t be in this position in the first place because he’d already have everything mapped out with the kind of meticulous precision he applies to everything—a trait that usually irritates me, but now suddenly seems more attractive. Not that I’d ever admit it to him. Still, thinking like Logan gives me an idea, and I start searching for what I need.
Before long, I see my way out. A man—single, older, stoop-shouldered—walks slowly by my hiding place. I step out, match his pace, and lower my eyes as though I’ve been taught to respect my betters.
The man doesn’t seem to notice my presence, which saves me the trouble of trying to come up with a plausible explanation for pretending he’s my Protector. When he stops to browse for new boots, I seamlessly transfer to the next single man walking west.
This one casts a quick glance in my direction, frowns, and whispers, “What are you doing? Where is your Protector?”
