Glass Sword
Page 52
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Ready to kill everyone who recognizes me. Anyone who recognizes me.
“I am.”
I’m very good at lying.
THIRTEEN
It’s easy to convince Nix to stay behind. Even with his invulnerability, he’s still a village crabber who’s never gone farther than the salt marshes of his home. A rescue mission inside a walled city is no place for him, and he knows it. Kilorn is not so easily swayed. He agrees to stay on the jet only after I remind him that someone needs to keep an eye on Nix.
When he hugs me tightly, saying good-bye for the moment, I expect to hear a whispered warning, some advice maybe. Instead, I get encouragement, and it’s more comforting than it should be. “You’re going to save them,” he murmurs. “I know you are.”
Save them. The words echo in my head, following me down the jet ramp and into the sunlit forest. I will, I tell myself, repeating until I believe in myself as much as Kilorn does. I will, I will, I will.
The woods here are thinner, forcing us to be on constant guard. In the daylight, Cal doesn’t have to worry about flame, and keeps his fire ready, each fingertip burning like the wick of a candle. Shade is off the ground entirely, jumping himself from tree to tree. He searches the forest with a soldier’s precision, his hawk-like gaze sweeping in every direction before he’s satisfied. I keep my own senses open, feeling for any burst of electricity that might be a transport or low-flying airship. There’s a dull hum to the southeast, toward Harbor Bay, but that’s to be expected, just like the ebb and flow of traffic along the Port Road. We’re well out of earshot of the byway, but my inner compass tells me we’re getting closer with every step.
I feel them before I see them. It’s small, the slightest pressure against my open mind. The tiny battery bleeds electricity, probably powering a watch or radio.
“From the east,” I murmur, pointing toward the approaching energy source.
Farley whips toward the direction, not bothering to crouch. But I certainly do, dropping to a knee in the foliage, letting the first colors of autumn camouflage my dark red shirt and brown hair. Cal is right beside me, flames close to his skin, controlled so that they don’t set the forest on fire. His breathing is even, steady, practiced, as his eyes search through the trees.
I extend a finger, pointing toward the battery. A single spark runs down my hand and disappears, calling out to the electricity drawing near.
“Farley, get down,” Cal growls, his voice almost lost among the rustling leaves.
Instead of obeying, she backs against a tree, melting into the shadows of the trunk. Sunlight through the leaves above dapples her skin, and her stillness makes her look like part of the forest. But she is not quiet. Her lips part, and a low birdcall echoes through the branches. The same one she used outside Coraunt, to communicate to Kilorn. A signal.
The Scarlet Guard.
“Farley,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “What’s going on?”
But she isn’t paying attention to me and watches the trees instead. Waiting. Listening. A moment later, someone hoots out a trilling reply, similar but not the same. When Shade responds from the tree above us, adding his own call to the strange song, a bit of my fear lifts away. Farley could lead me into a trap, but Shade wouldn’t. I hope.
“Captain, thought you were stuck on that blasted island,” a coarse voice says, filtering out of a thick grove of elms. The accent, hard vowels and missing r’s, is thick and distinct—Harbor Bay.
Farley smiles at the sounds, pushing off her tree trunk smoothly. “Crance,” she says, beckoning to the figure picking through the underbrush. “Where’s Melody? I was supposed to meet her. Since when are you Egan’s errand boy?”
When he steps out from the foliage, I do my best to size him up, taking in the little details I taught myself to notice long ago. He leans, compensating for something heavy left behind. A rifle perhaps, or maybe a club. Errand boy indeed. He has the look of a dockworker or a brawler, with massive arms and a barrel chest hiding beneath the bulk of worn cotton and a quilted vest. It’s heavily patched, creating a motley plaid of discarded fabric, all red in hue. Strange that his vest is so battered, but his leather boots look new, polished to a high sheen. Stolen, probably. My kind of man.
Crance shrugs at Farley, a twitch tugging at his dark face. “She’s got business on the docks. And I prefer right-hand man, if you don’t mind.” He turns the twitch into a grin, then bows in a smooth, exaggerated motion. “Of course, Boss Egan bids you welcome, Captain.”
“It’s not Captain anymore,” Farley mutters, frowning as she clasps his forearm in some version of a handshake. “I’m sure you’ve heard.”
He merely shakes his head. “You’ll find few here who’ll go along with that. The Mariners answer to Egan, not your Colonel.”
Mariners? Another division within the Scarlet Guard, I suppose.
“Are your friends going to keep hiding in the bushes?” he adds, angling a glance at me. His blue eyes are electrifying, made even sharper by his umber skin. But they aren’t enough to distract me from the more pressing issue—I still feel the pulsing watch battery, and Crance isn’t wearing a watch.
“What about your friends?” I ask him, standing up from the forest floor.
Cal moves in time with me, and I can tell he’s scrutinizing Crance, sizing him up. The other man does the same, one kind of soldier to another. Then he grins, teeth gleaming.
“I am.”
I’m very good at lying.
THIRTEEN
It’s easy to convince Nix to stay behind. Even with his invulnerability, he’s still a village crabber who’s never gone farther than the salt marshes of his home. A rescue mission inside a walled city is no place for him, and he knows it. Kilorn is not so easily swayed. He agrees to stay on the jet only after I remind him that someone needs to keep an eye on Nix.
When he hugs me tightly, saying good-bye for the moment, I expect to hear a whispered warning, some advice maybe. Instead, I get encouragement, and it’s more comforting than it should be. “You’re going to save them,” he murmurs. “I know you are.”
Save them. The words echo in my head, following me down the jet ramp and into the sunlit forest. I will, I tell myself, repeating until I believe in myself as much as Kilorn does. I will, I will, I will.
The woods here are thinner, forcing us to be on constant guard. In the daylight, Cal doesn’t have to worry about flame, and keeps his fire ready, each fingertip burning like the wick of a candle. Shade is off the ground entirely, jumping himself from tree to tree. He searches the forest with a soldier’s precision, his hawk-like gaze sweeping in every direction before he’s satisfied. I keep my own senses open, feeling for any burst of electricity that might be a transport or low-flying airship. There’s a dull hum to the southeast, toward Harbor Bay, but that’s to be expected, just like the ebb and flow of traffic along the Port Road. We’re well out of earshot of the byway, but my inner compass tells me we’re getting closer with every step.
I feel them before I see them. It’s small, the slightest pressure against my open mind. The tiny battery bleeds electricity, probably powering a watch or radio.
“From the east,” I murmur, pointing toward the approaching energy source.
Farley whips toward the direction, not bothering to crouch. But I certainly do, dropping to a knee in the foliage, letting the first colors of autumn camouflage my dark red shirt and brown hair. Cal is right beside me, flames close to his skin, controlled so that they don’t set the forest on fire. His breathing is even, steady, practiced, as his eyes search through the trees.
I extend a finger, pointing toward the battery. A single spark runs down my hand and disappears, calling out to the electricity drawing near.
“Farley, get down,” Cal growls, his voice almost lost among the rustling leaves.
Instead of obeying, she backs against a tree, melting into the shadows of the trunk. Sunlight through the leaves above dapples her skin, and her stillness makes her look like part of the forest. But she is not quiet. Her lips part, and a low birdcall echoes through the branches. The same one she used outside Coraunt, to communicate to Kilorn. A signal.
The Scarlet Guard.
“Farley,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “What’s going on?”
But she isn’t paying attention to me and watches the trees instead. Waiting. Listening. A moment later, someone hoots out a trilling reply, similar but not the same. When Shade responds from the tree above us, adding his own call to the strange song, a bit of my fear lifts away. Farley could lead me into a trap, but Shade wouldn’t. I hope.
“Captain, thought you were stuck on that blasted island,” a coarse voice says, filtering out of a thick grove of elms. The accent, hard vowels and missing r’s, is thick and distinct—Harbor Bay.
Farley smiles at the sounds, pushing off her tree trunk smoothly. “Crance,” she says, beckoning to the figure picking through the underbrush. “Where’s Melody? I was supposed to meet her. Since when are you Egan’s errand boy?”
When he steps out from the foliage, I do my best to size him up, taking in the little details I taught myself to notice long ago. He leans, compensating for something heavy left behind. A rifle perhaps, or maybe a club. Errand boy indeed. He has the look of a dockworker or a brawler, with massive arms and a barrel chest hiding beneath the bulk of worn cotton and a quilted vest. It’s heavily patched, creating a motley plaid of discarded fabric, all red in hue. Strange that his vest is so battered, but his leather boots look new, polished to a high sheen. Stolen, probably. My kind of man.
Crance shrugs at Farley, a twitch tugging at his dark face. “She’s got business on the docks. And I prefer right-hand man, if you don’t mind.” He turns the twitch into a grin, then bows in a smooth, exaggerated motion. “Of course, Boss Egan bids you welcome, Captain.”
“It’s not Captain anymore,” Farley mutters, frowning as she clasps his forearm in some version of a handshake. “I’m sure you’ve heard.”
He merely shakes his head. “You’ll find few here who’ll go along with that. The Mariners answer to Egan, not your Colonel.”
Mariners? Another division within the Scarlet Guard, I suppose.
“Are your friends going to keep hiding in the bushes?” he adds, angling a glance at me. His blue eyes are electrifying, made even sharper by his umber skin. But they aren’t enough to distract me from the more pressing issue—I still feel the pulsing watch battery, and Crance isn’t wearing a watch.
“What about your friends?” I ask him, standing up from the forest floor.
Cal moves in time with me, and I can tell he’s scrutinizing Crance, sizing him up. The other man does the same, one kind of soldier to another. Then he grins, teeth gleaming.
