Glass Sword
Page 65
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Occupation: Housemaid, employed by Governor Rem Rhambos. Address: Bywater Square, Canal Sector, Harbor Bay.
“I know it,” Farley says, jabbing at the printout button. The machine spits out paper, copying down the information from Ada’s record.
The next name comes even faster from the humming machine. Wolliver Galt. Occupation: Merchant, employed by Galt Brewery. Address: Battle Garden and Charside Road, Threestone Sector, Harbor Bay. So Crance wasn’t lying about this, at least. I’ll have to shake his hand if I ever see him again.
“About done?” Cal shouts from the door, and I hear the strain in his voice. It’s only a matter of time until nymphs come running, and his flaming wall crashes down.
“Nearly,” I murmur, clicking at the keys again. “This machine isn’t just for Harbor Bay, is it?” Cal doesn’t respond, too busy maintaining his shield, but I know I’m right. With a grin, I pull the list from my jacket, and thumb to the first page. “Farley, get started on that screen.”
She jumps to attention like a rabbit, gleefully clicking until the next panel screen hums to life. We pass the list between each other, typing in name after name, collecting one printout after another. Every name from the Beacon region, all ten of them. The girl from the New Town slums, a seventy-year-old grandmother in Cancorda, twin boys on the Bahrn Islands, and so on. The papers pile on the floor, each one telling me more than Julian’s list ever could. I should feel excited, ecstatic at such a breakthrough, but something throttles my happiness. So many names. So many to save. And we are moving so slowly. There is no way we’ll find them all in time, not like this. Not even with the airjet or the records or all of Farley’s underground tunnels. Some will be lost. There is no avoiding it.
The thought disintegrates just like the wall behind me. It explodes inward in a cloud of dust, silhouetting the jagged figure of a man with gray, rocky flesh, hard as a battering ram. Stoneskin is all I manage to think before he charges, catching Farley around the waist. Her hand still clutches the line of printouts, ripping the precious paper from the machine. It streams behind her like a white banner of surrender.
“Submit to arrest!” the stoneskin roars, pinning her against the far window. Her head smacks against the glass, cracking it. Her eyes roll.
And then the wall of fire is in the room with us, surrounding Cal as he enters like a mad bull. I snatch the papers from Farley’s hand, tucking them away with the list lest they be burned. Cal works quickly, forgetting his oath not to harm, and hauls the stoneskin off her, using his flames to force him back through the hole in the wall. The fire rises, stopping him from coming back. For the time being.
“Done now?” Cal growls, his eyes like living coals.
I nod and turn my gaze on the records machine. It whirs sadly, as if it knows what I’m about to do. With a clenched fist, I overload its circuits, sending a destructive surge shuddering through the machine. Every screen and blinking line explodes in a spray of sparks, erasing exactly what we came for. “Done.”
Farley stumbles away from the window, a hand to her head, her lip bleeding, but still inexorably standing. “I think this is the part where we run.”
One glance out the window, the natural escape, tells me we’re too high up to jump. And the sounds from the hall outside, shouts and marching feet, are just as damning. “Run where?”
Cal only grimaces, extending a hand toward the polished wood floor.
“Down.”
A fireball explodes at our feet. It digs into the wood, charring the intricate designs and the solid base like a dog chewing through meat. The floor cracks in an instant, collapsing under us, and we fall to the room below, and then the next below that. My knees buckle beneath me, but Cal doesn’t let me stumble, one hand holding my collar. Then he drags me, never loosening his grip, pulling us toward another window.
I don’t need to be told what to do next.
Our flame and lightning shatter through the thick pane of glass, and we follow, leaping into what I think is thin air. Instead, we land hard, rolling onto one of the stone walkways. Farley follows, her momentum sending her right into a startled guard. Before he can react, she tosses him from the bridge. A sickening smack tells us his fall was not pleasant.
“Keep moving!” Cal growls, hoisting himself to his feet.
In a thunder of feet, we storm across the arched bridge, crossing from the Security Center to the royal palace of Ocean Hill. Smaller than Whitefire, but just as fearsome. And just as familiar to Cal.
At the end of the walkway, a door starts to open, and I hear the shouts of more guards, more officers. A veritable firing squad. But instead of trying to fight, Cal slams against the door, his hands blazing. And welds it shut.
Farley balks, glancing between the blocked door and the walkway behind us. It looks like a trap, worse than a trap. “Cal—?” she begins, fearful, but he ignores her.
Instead, he extends a hand to me. His eyes are like nothing I’ve ever seen. Pure flame, pure fire.
“I’m going to throw you,” he says, not bothering to sugarcoat a word. Behind him, something shudders against the welded door.
I don’t have time to argue, or even ask. My mind spins, poisoned by terror, but I take his wrist, and he grips mine. “Explode when you hit.” He trusts me to know what he means.
With a grunt, he heaves, and I’m airborne, falling toward another window. It gleams, and I hope it isn’t diamondglass. A split second before I find out, my sparks do as they’re told. They obliterate the window in a shriek of glittering glass as I fall through, onto plush, golden carpeting. Stacks of books, a familiar smell of old leather and paper—the musty palace library. Farley slings through the windowpane next. Cal’s aim is too perfect, and she lands right on top of me.
“I know it,” Farley says, jabbing at the printout button. The machine spits out paper, copying down the information from Ada’s record.
The next name comes even faster from the humming machine. Wolliver Galt. Occupation: Merchant, employed by Galt Brewery. Address: Battle Garden and Charside Road, Threestone Sector, Harbor Bay. So Crance wasn’t lying about this, at least. I’ll have to shake his hand if I ever see him again.
“About done?” Cal shouts from the door, and I hear the strain in his voice. It’s only a matter of time until nymphs come running, and his flaming wall crashes down.
“Nearly,” I murmur, clicking at the keys again. “This machine isn’t just for Harbor Bay, is it?” Cal doesn’t respond, too busy maintaining his shield, but I know I’m right. With a grin, I pull the list from my jacket, and thumb to the first page. “Farley, get started on that screen.”
She jumps to attention like a rabbit, gleefully clicking until the next panel screen hums to life. We pass the list between each other, typing in name after name, collecting one printout after another. Every name from the Beacon region, all ten of them. The girl from the New Town slums, a seventy-year-old grandmother in Cancorda, twin boys on the Bahrn Islands, and so on. The papers pile on the floor, each one telling me more than Julian’s list ever could. I should feel excited, ecstatic at such a breakthrough, but something throttles my happiness. So many names. So many to save. And we are moving so slowly. There is no way we’ll find them all in time, not like this. Not even with the airjet or the records or all of Farley’s underground tunnels. Some will be lost. There is no avoiding it.
The thought disintegrates just like the wall behind me. It explodes inward in a cloud of dust, silhouetting the jagged figure of a man with gray, rocky flesh, hard as a battering ram. Stoneskin is all I manage to think before he charges, catching Farley around the waist. Her hand still clutches the line of printouts, ripping the precious paper from the machine. It streams behind her like a white banner of surrender.
“Submit to arrest!” the stoneskin roars, pinning her against the far window. Her head smacks against the glass, cracking it. Her eyes roll.
And then the wall of fire is in the room with us, surrounding Cal as he enters like a mad bull. I snatch the papers from Farley’s hand, tucking them away with the list lest they be burned. Cal works quickly, forgetting his oath not to harm, and hauls the stoneskin off her, using his flames to force him back through the hole in the wall. The fire rises, stopping him from coming back. For the time being.
“Done now?” Cal growls, his eyes like living coals.
I nod and turn my gaze on the records machine. It whirs sadly, as if it knows what I’m about to do. With a clenched fist, I overload its circuits, sending a destructive surge shuddering through the machine. Every screen and blinking line explodes in a spray of sparks, erasing exactly what we came for. “Done.”
Farley stumbles away from the window, a hand to her head, her lip bleeding, but still inexorably standing. “I think this is the part where we run.”
One glance out the window, the natural escape, tells me we’re too high up to jump. And the sounds from the hall outside, shouts and marching feet, are just as damning. “Run where?”
Cal only grimaces, extending a hand toward the polished wood floor.
“Down.”
A fireball explodes at our feet. It digs into the wood, charring the intricate designs and the solid base like a dog chewing through meat. The floor cracks in an instant, collapsing under us, and we fall to the room below, and then the next below that. My knees buckle beneath me, but Cal doesn’t let me stumble, one hand holding my collar. Then he drags me, never loosening his grip, pulling us toward another window.
I don’t need to be told what to do next.
Our flame and lightning shatter through the thick pane of glass, and we follow, leaping into what I think is thin air. Instead, we land hard, rolling onto one of the stone walkways. Farley follows, her momentum sending her right into a startled guard. Before he can react, she tosses him from the bridge. A sickening smack tells us his fall was not pleasant.
“Keep moving!” Cal growls, hoisting himself to his feet.
In a thunder of feet, we storm across the arched bridge, crossing from the Security Center to the royal palace of Ocean Hill. Smaller than Whitefire, but just as fearsome. And just as familiar to Cal.
At the end of the walkway, a door starts to open, and I hear the shouts of more guards, more officers. A veritable firing squad. But instead of trying to fight, Cal slams against the door, his hands blazing. And welds it shut.
Farley balks, glancing between the blocked door and the walkway behind us. It looks like a trap, worse than a trap. “Cal—?” she begins, fearful, but he ignores her.
Instead, he extends a hand to me. His eyes are like nothing I’ve ever seen. Pure flame, pure fire.
“I’m going to throw you,” he says, not bothering to sugarcoat a word. Behind him, something shudders against the welded door.
I don’t have time to argue, or even ask. My mind spins, poisoned by terror, but I take his wrist, and he grips mine. “Explode when you hit.” He trusts me to know what he means.
With a grunt, he heaves, and I’m airborne, falling toward another window. It gleams, and I hope it isn’t diamondglass. A split second before I find out, my sparks do as they’re told. They obliterate the window in a shriek of glittering glass as I fall through, onto plush, golden carpeting. Stacks of books, a familiar smell of old leather and paper—the musty palace library. Farley slings through the windowpane next. Cal’s aim is too perfect, and she lands right on top of me.
