Glass Sword
Page 58
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Red Queen. The lightning girl. She lives. Rise, Red as dawn. Rise. Rise. Rise.
Every word feels like a brand, searing hot and deep. But we can’t tarry by the wall of wanted posters. I nudge Cal, directing him away from the brutal vision of us. He goes willingly, following Shade and Crance through the swirling crowd. I resist the urge to hold on to him, to try and take a bit of the weight off his shoulders. No matter how much I might want to feel him, I cannot. I must keep my eyes ahead, and away from the fire of a fallen prince. I must freeze my heart to the one person who insists on setting it ablaze.
Winding up the Paltry is easier than it should be. A Red market is of no consequence to anyone important, so cameras and officers are sparse on the lower levels. But I keep my senses open, feeling out the few electrical sight lines that manage to penetrate through the haphazard stalls and storefronts. I wish I could just shut them off, instead of awkwardly avoiding them, but even that is too dangerous. A mysterious outage would surely draw attention. The officers are even more troubling, standing out sharply in the black uniforms of Security. As we climb through the levels of the Paltry, up to the city surface, they grow in number. Most look bored by the rush of Red life, but a few keep their wits. Their eyes dart through the crowd, searching.
“Hunch,” I whisper, gripping Cal’s wrist sharply. The action sends a spark of nerves through my hand and up my arm, forcing me to pull away far too quickly.
Still, he does as I tell him, stooping to hide his height. It might not be enough though. All of this might not be enough.
“Worry about him. If he bolts, we need to be ready,” Cal murmurs back, his lips close enough to brush my ear. He points one finger out from the folds of his shawl, gesturing to Crance. But my brother has the Mariner well in hand, keeping a firm grip on Crance’s vest. Like us, he doesn’t trust the smuggler further than he can throw him.
“Shade has him. Focus on keeping your head down.”
Breath hisses through Cal’s teeth, another exasperated sigh. “Just watch. If he’s going to run, he’ll do it in about thirty seconds.”
I don’t need to ask how Cal knows this. Judging by the motion of the crowd, thirty seconds will take us to the top of the twisting, rickety staircase, planting us firmly on the main floor of the Paltry. I can see the hub of the market now, just above us, streaming with midday light that is almost blinding after our time underground. The stalls look more permanent, more professional and profitable. An open kitchen fills the air with the smell of cooking meat. After ration packs and salt fish, it makes my mouth water. Worn wooden arches bow overhead, supporting a patched and torn canvas roof. A few of the arches are damaged, warped by seasons of rain and snow.
“He won’t run,” Farley whispers, butting in between us. “At least not to Egan. He’ll lose his head for betraying the Mariners. If he’s going anywhere, it’s out of the city.”
“Then let him,” I whisper back. Another Red to babysit is the last thing I need. “He’s fulfilled his use to us, hasn’t he?”
“And if he runs right into a jail cell and an interrogation, what then?” Cal’s voice is soft, but full of menace. A cold reminder of what must be done to protect ourselves.
“He let three of his people die for me, to keep me safe.” I don’t even remember their faces. I can’t let myself. “I doubt torture will bother him much.”
“All minds can fall to Elara Merandus,” Cal finally says. “You and I know that better than anyone. If she gets him, we’ll be found. The Bay newbloods will be found.”
If.
Cal wants to kill a man based on such a terrible word. He takes my silence as agreement, and to my shame, I realize he’s not entirely wrong. At least he won’t make me do it, though my lightning can kill as quickly as any flame. Instead, his hands stray inside his shawl, to the knife I know he keeps tucked away. Within the folds of my sleeves, my hands start to shake. And I pray that Crance stays the course; that his steps never falter. That he doesn’t get a knife in the back for daring to help me.
The main floor of the Paltry is louder than the depths, an overload of sound and sight. I scale back my senses a little, shutting out what I must to keep my wits about me. The lights whine overhead, ragged with a pulse of uneven currents. Their wiring is faulty, flickering in places. It makes one of my eyes twitch. The cameras are more intense too, focused on the Security post at the center of the marketplace. It’s little more than a stall itself, six-sided, with five windows, a door, and a shingled roof. Except the box is full of officers instead of mismatched wares. Too many officers, I realize with a steadily growing horror.
“Faster,” I whisper. “We must go faster.”
My feet find a quicker pace, outstripping Cal and Farley, until I’m almost on Crance’s heels. Shade glances over his shoulder, brow furrowed. But his gaze slides past me, past all of us, and fixes on something in the crowd. No, someone.
“We’re being followed,” he mumbles, his grip tightening on Crance’s arm. “Seaskulls.”
Instincts be damned, I tip my hood so I can get a glimpse of them. They’re not hard to pick out. White ink on shaved heads, tattooed skulls of jagged bone on their scalps. No less than four Seaskulls pick their way through the crowd, following us as rats would a mouse. Two from the left, two from the right, flanking us. If the situation wasn’t so dire, I would laugh at their matching tattoos. The crowd knows them by sight, and parts to let them pass, to let them hunt.
Every word feels like a brand, searing hot and deep. But we can’t tarry by the wall of wanted posters. I nudge Cal, directing him away from the brutal vision of us. He goes willingly, following Shade and Crance through the swirling crowd. I resist the urge to hold on to him, to try and take a bit of the weight off his shoulders. No matter how much I might want to feel him, I cannot. I must keep my eyes ahead, and away from the fire of a fallen prince. I must freeze my heart to the one person who insists on setting it ablaze.
Winding up the Paltry is easier than it should be. A Red market is of no consequence to anyone important, so cameras and officers are sparse on the lower levels. But I keep my senses open, feeling out the few electrical sight lines that manage to penetrate through the haphazard stalls and storefronts. I wish I could just shut them off, instead of awkwardly avoiding them, but even that is too dangerous. A mysterious outage would surely draw attention. The officers are even more troubling, standing out sharply in the black uniforms of Security. As we climb through the levels of the Paltry, up to the city surface, they grow in number. Most look bored by the rush of Red life, but a few keep their wits. Their eyes dart through the crowd, searching.
“Hunch,” I whisper, gripping Cal’s wrist sharply. The action sends a spark of nerves through my hand and up my arm, forcing me to pull away far too quickly.
Still, he does as I tell him, stooping to hide his height. It might not be enough though. All of this might not be enough.
“Worry about him. If he bolts, we need to be ready,” Cal murmurs back, his lips close enough to brush my ear. He points one finger out from the folds of his shawl, gesturing to Crance. But my brother has the Mariner well in hand, keeping a firm grip on Crance’s vest. Like us, he doesn’t trust the smuggler further than he can throw him.
“Shade has him. Focus on keeping your head down.”
Breath hisses through Cal’s teeth, another exasperated sigh. “Just watch. If he’s going to run, he’ll do it in about thirty seconds.”
I don’t need to ask how Cal knows this. Judging by the motion of the crowd, thirty seconds will take us to the top of the twisting, rickety staircase, planting us firmly on the main floor of the Paltry. I can see the hub of the market now, just above us, streaming with midday light that is almost blinding after our time underground. The stalls look more permanent, more professional and profitable. An open kitchen fills the air with the smell of cooking meat. After ration packs and salt fish, it makes my mouth water. Worn wooden arches bow overhead, supporting a patched and torn canvas roof. A few of the arches are damaged, warped by seasons of rain and snow.
“He won’t run,” Farley whispers, butting in between us. “At least not to Egan. He’ll lose his head for betraying the Mariners. If he’s going anywhere, it’s out of the city.”
“Then let him,” I whisper back. Another Red to babysit is the last thing I need. “He’s fulfilled his use to us, hasn’t he?”
“And if he runs right into a jail cell and an interrogation, what then?” Cal’s voice is soft, but full of menace. A cold reminder of what must be done to protect ourselves.
“He let three of his people die for me, to keep me safe.” I don’t even remember their faces. I can’t let myself. “I doubt torture will bother him much.”
“All minds can fall to Elara Merandus,” Cal finally says. “You and I know that better than anyone. If she gets him, we’ll be found. The Bay newbloods will be found.”
If.
Cal wants to kill a man based on such a terrible word. He takes my silence as agreement, and to my shame, I realize he’s not entirely wrong. At least he won’t make me do it, though my lightning can kill as quickly as any flame. Instead, his hands stray inside his shawl, to the knife I know he keeps tucked away. Within the folds of my sleeves, my hands start to shake. And I pray that Crance stays the course; that his steps never falter. That he doesn’t get a knife in the back for daring to help me.
The main floor of the Paltry is louder than the depths, an overload of sound and sight. I scale back my senses a little, shutting out what I must to keep my wits about me. The lights whine overhead, ragged with a pulse of uneven currents. Their wiring is faulty, flickering in places. It makes one of my eyes twitch. The cameras are more intense too, focused on the Security post at the center of the marketplace. It’s little more than a stall itself, six-sided, with five windows, a door, and a shingled roof. Except the box is full of officers instead of mismatched wares. Too many officers, I realize with a steadily growing horror.
“Faster,” I whisper. “We must go faster.”
My feet find a quicker pace, outstripping Cal and Farley, until I’m almost on Crance’s heels. Shade glances over his shoulder, brow furrowed. But his gaze slides past me, past all of us, and fixes on something in the crowd. No, someone.
“We’re being followed,” he mumbles, his grip tightening on Crance’s arm. “Seaskulls.”
Instincts be damned, I tip my hood so I can get a glimpse of them. They’re not hard to pick out. White ink on shaved heads, tattooed skulls of jagged bone on their scalps. No less than four Seaskulls pick their way through the crowd, following us as rats would a mouse. Two from the left, two from the right, flanking us. If the situation wasn’t so dire, I would laugh at their matching tattoos. The crowd knows them by sight, and parts to let them pass, to let them hunt.
