Wil stopped walking. The distant light from the camp set up by the wanderers still shone halos on her boots.
“But she knew.” Her voice was small. “She knew about me.”
“No.” Gerdie’s voice was stern. “She didn’t. It’s a trick. They say these things to anyone who will listen. If you’d stuck around a moment longer, she would have tried to sell you some magical potion to fix this ‘darkness in your blood.’”
Wil rested her hand against her bag, feeling the bottles tucked safely away. Pieces of the world were contained in those bottles, diluted by drops of the sea. In the silence between breaths of wind, she could hear them whispering.
She couldn’t help believing in what so many people who wandered the world described, despite her brother’s logic. Despite her own logic.
No one knew for sure where the first marveler originated, but they existed the world over. They were especially prevalent in the West, where most travelers ventured, and in the East, the world’s hub of electrical technology. Wil had heard of some people turning to them in Arrod, out of desperation—when a sick child was beyond the capabilities of medicine, for instance. But many, like Gerdie, considered marvelry a junk science.
“We still have a few hours, at least, before the party lets up,” Gerdie said. He was trying to change the subject, but the placating softness of his tone irritated her.
“Fine,” she said. “I’m hungry anyway.” But she was lying. Her stomach was filled with perfumes and the old woman’s words. The distant songs and giggles and murmurs of the camp had climbed under her skin, raising gooseflesh. She wanted to fall back into it. She wanted to run off into the world with the troupe and never, never return.
She began pacing for the Port Capital, whose electric street lanterns were shining in the distance, combating the stars. There was a different kind of energy in the city. Maybe it would cleanse her of this dread and anticipation.
Without another word, they knew where to go.
There was a seasonal tavern that sat on the roof of what had once been an ancient church, but was now the Bank of the World. In the warmer seasons, when it was open, the tavern had the best view of the city and the water. Over the stone ledge, the clock still ticked and chimed the hour in unison with the towers.
When Wil was seven and Gerdie was eight, this place became a sort of sanctuary for them. After two years in the throes of his fever, Gerdie’s lungs had finally strengthened enough for the crisp outdoor air. He was still staggering and falling over his braces, and one afternoon, Owen had taken him here, Wil tagging protectively along as she always did back then. Owen had knelt before Gerdie and met his eyes. “There’s an elevator that will take you to the tavern,” he said. “And there’s a stairwell with five flights that leads to the same place. You pick how we get there.”
It had taken more than an hour, but he’d done it, shoving Wil off when she tried to steady him. The next time was easier. And soon he was following Wil up the stone wall, relying heavily on his core and his arms, memorizing the footholds that saved him if he fumbled.
The tower resembled all the other buildings in the city, but it was alive. It welcomed them.
They had a table by the edge, where the ticking thrummed in the stone floor. But tonight, even the salty sea breeze couldn’t clear the jesseray from Wil’s lungs.
There’s something ugly in you. Something vicious.
“Wil.”
From Gerdie’s tone, Wil knew that it was not his first attempt to get her attention. She blinked owlishly at him. “Hm?”
“You aren’t eating.”
She stared at the assortment of tiny fruit custards she’d ordered. “Guess I don’t have an appetite after all.”
“I don’t know what it is about people who wander the world that they get in your head like this,” he said. “Every time. You deal with crooks and cons by trade, and yet, because you want to join them, you hang on their every word.”
“People who wander aren’t necessarily cons,” Wil said.
“Everyone is a con,” Gerdie said.
Wil pointed her fork at him. “If everyone is a con, then nobody is.”
“You know what I mean.” Gerdie sighed. “Everyone is dishonest. We lie to our father. I don’t tell him about the paralytics and poisons I put in weapons. You listen to street gossip and spy for Owen.”
“That is different,” Wil said, and scraped a forkful of baked raspberries, which she popped into her mouth defiantly. “Everything we do is for the good of our kingdom. Papa would do too much harm if he knew how powerful your weapons truly were; he’d force you to mass-produce them in your cauldron, even if it killed you. He’s too greedy, and bloodshed means nothing to him. And Owen uses my information to secretly build up foreign relations for when he’s king.”
They talked in low voices, despite being surrounded by mostly empty tables. Everyone in the kingdom would know Owen by the sight of him; their father had been priming him to follow in his footsteps from the time Owen could crawl.
But no one in the kingdom would recognize the three spares: Baren, who at twenty-three years old had already failed to live up to the king’s hopes of making him his high guard, with his lack of combat skills and erratic temperament; Gerdie, who was only of any use to the king at his cauldron; and Wil, the daughter the king only regarded when he needed a spy. Rather than being seen, the spares were gossiped about.
“I just—” Gerdie frowned at her. “I worry about you.”
He didn’t have to finish the thought. Wil knew: he worried that she would become like their mother.
She bristled. “Where should we go next? We’ll have a few hours.”
“Let’s just go home,” Gerdie said. “Everyone will be in the ballroom. We can slip by in the shadows. I have work to get back to anyway.”
Wil rested her chin on the backs of her interlaced fingers. “I can’t wait to see these paralysis bullets you keep talking about.”
“Hope you never have to use one,” Gerdie said, but his eyes flashed to match his excited grin. “But I am rather proud of them.”
They descended the tower and wound their way through the crowd. The Port Capital was still thriving at this hour. Restaurants were turning on their electric lanterns, bars were opening, and along the city’s edge, boats were lit up with strings of party lights. Wil was mindful not to stare at them. Not with Gerdie already scrutinizing her wanderlust.
Gerdie was the one to stop them walking. The portrait studio—a small storefront wedged between a toy shop and a shoemaker—had strung a new set of photos in its window. They were small, square cuts of shining paper that glinted in the moonlight, pinned by wooden clips to a length of twine.
The photographs were sepia, the subjects in each of them smiling cautiously, as though they’d been afraid the camera might steal their happiness away if they showed too much.
“What do you suppose it’s like sitting for a photograph?” Wil asked.
“Tedious,” Gerdie said. “I’ve heard it takes several seconds, and if you so much as blink, you’ll ruin it.”
“I wish I could have one of the small ones that they put in lockets,” Wil said.
Gerdie looked away from the portraits to afford her a glance. “Of what?”
“Myself.” She puffed her chest. “So that when I’m old, I’ll remember what I used to look like.”
He laughed. “That is the most conceited thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
As they left the city behind them and headed into the thick of the trees, Wil forced her tone to be light. Maybe if she could convince her brother that she was no longer troubled by the old woman’s words, it would be true. “What do you suppose Owen’s bride will be like?”
She’d just gotten the words out, and in the next instant, an arm was wrapped against her throat, pinning her back against someone’s massive chest. Someone’s hot breath filled her ear, and the grasp tightened.
She dropped her weight, twisted right, and maneuvere
d her leg behind her assailant’s, knocking him down with a kick to the back of his knee. She moved to punch while he was down, but he was on his feet again before she could land the blow.
In the ribbons of moonlight that bled down through the trees, Wil saw him: a gleaming bald head, sharp ears, and a cluster of muscles. Fear poisoned her rush of adrenaline.
The tallim vendor.
He came at her again, swinging for her chest. She ducked, and the flare of pain in her ribs caused her to hitch. She just managed to stumble out of the way and see the man punch the open air.
Beside her, the click of a gun. Gerdie fired a shot, and even in the darkness, his aim was perfect. The bullet tore through the man’s upper arm. Gerdie always went for the arm. He didn’t want to kill him. Though he had shot to incapacitate more than once, he had never killed anyone.
“Go.” Wil shoved her brother toward a patch of darkness where the trees were thick. “He won’t see where the shots are coming from,” she said. But Gerdie knew what she meant—this was her fight, not his—and he stubbornly didn’t move. He wasn’t going to allow her to protect him.
He fired another shot, but he didn’t know this man the way Wil did. This man was a freak of nature. She grabbed her dagger and twisted the hilt, but before she could slash him, he’d landed a punch to her fractured rib. He knew exactly where she was vulnerable, must have felt it crack that day when they’d fought.
All the air went out of her. She staggered back and then she was down on one knee, still clutching the hilt and sucking loud, hoarse breaths that didn’t seem to fill her lungs. The pain filled her with the color red. Then blackness. Her head lolled.
A hand grabbed her by the wrist and ripped her to her feet. Gerdie. “Stay awake,” he commanded, pushing her against a slender tree. She clung to the trunk and made herself breathe. Her bag fell from her shoulder, and, somewhere miles and miles away, Wil heard the bottles of jesseray perfume clattering together through their cloths.
By now the man understood that he would have to do away with the boy if he wanted his revenge on the girl. He clutched Gerdie’s wrist in an iron grip and twisted, trying to wrest the gun from his hand. Gerdie was ready for it; he raised his arm and clutched the man’s wrist with his free hand, twisting his hips in an effort to break free.
The man’s grip only tightened. He moved for a punch to the face. Gerdie veered right, but he wasn’t quick enough and took the blow to his temple. He staggered, his grip on his gun never waning. He kicked his right leg—his strongest side—using his braces to lock it straight and land a blow to the man’s knee. That got him to slacken his grip. The full weight of bone and muscle and metal gave the kick a punishing force.
Before the man could come at Gerdie again, Wil swept low and slashed her dagger through the back of his calf, just above the line of his boot.
The man roared.
Gerdie stole the moment to fire another shot, this time to the man’s clavicle, eliciting a grunt and a line of blood. The man punched Gerdie in the chest, knocking him to the ground. He turned on Wil. His knee came at her stomach so hard that when she blinked, she was on her back and staring straight up at the stars.
She was beyond whatever pain wracked her body. All she could feel was her own trembling. A sour taste in her mouth and burning in her throat told her that she had momentarily been unconscious, vomited.
Then the stars were obstructed by the man’s silhouette.
“Think you can steal from me.” The words came through his teeth. Wil could see the shining white of them, and nothing else. Something was keeping her body from getting enough air. Something heavy pressed into her chest. A knee, she thought dazedly. When the man spoke again, all she heard was wind. Wind through trees. Wind filling her head, setting a flurry of gleaming insects in flight before her eyes.
And somewhere very, very far away, a gunshot. Her brother would be shooting to kill now, but with the man so close to her, she didn’t know if Gerdie could get a clear shot without risking her life too.
Feebly, she clutched at the man’s arms. She was trying to bring her hands to his face, to jam her thumbs in his eyes, but she didn’t have the strength.
If she could get her legs out from under him, she might still have a chance. But her legs were gone. Disappeared. And the rest of her was following.
The man was going to kill her, she realized. She was going to die for a tin of tallim and a thousand geldstuk. Such useless little things.
“Wil . . .” Her brother’s voice broke through the rushing wind for just a second. He sounded so frantic, like a hurricane was sucking him away.
Run, she wanted to say to him. Mother can’t lose us both.
Then—Wil’s eyes snapped open before she realized she’d closed them. The weight that had been killing her was gone—miraculously gone.
She gasped hungrily as air was granted passage back into her lungs. Realizing she was no longer under the man’s grasp, she kicked herself backward and away from him.
He was crawling in the grass, retching.
Had Gerdie shot him in the lung? It was her best guess. He must have been desperate enough to go for the kill, she thought, as her body began to rematerialize from its numbness.
Then she saw her brother sitting stunned a couple of yards away, breathing hard, as though he’d been thrown there and had the wind knocked out of him. The gun was still in his slack hand, and he exchanged a bewildered look with Wil.
He didn’t cause this.
Then what?
There was a crackling sound, like glass, and at first Wil thought she was hallucinating, that she was still not getting enough air, or that the feeble moonlight was playing tricks on her eyes. That was the only explanation when the vendor’s hands, clutching the ground, turned to ruby-red glass. He turned his head to her accusingly, as though she were responsible (was she responsible?), and then his eyes became red glass, and his fat tongue, and his lips, and his neck. Blood leaked between the fine cracks as his skin broke like splintering wood and turned to stone.
It seemed like an eternity before it was through. At last, he fell onto his back, glimmering like precious stone, and dead. Worse than dead. Beyond it. Something that had been living moments earlier was now a thing that could never have been alive at all.
Wil felt something biting into her hands, and looked down to see that the grass beneath her had hardened into slivers of emerald. She heard her ragged gasps, felt the drum of her heartbeat, and knew by these things that she wasn’t dreaming, or dead.
From east of the river, she could hear wanderers at their campfire singing about the cursed king with the golden touch.
FOUR
“DON’T TOUCH ME,” WIL CRIED when Gerdie began to crawl toward her. Somehow she knew that she would kill him if he did.
Her heart was throbbing on her tongue, in her ears, her chest. The stars were brighter, stabbing through the dark sky. Air was louder, the rustle of grass and leaves filling her, making her dizzy. Even her brother’s face was unnaturally sharp and clear.
Then, gradually, the rush within her receded as a tide being coaxed from the shore back into the sea. Her breathing slowed. Her body stopped shuddering with the force of her heartbeat.
The pain in her ribs came back and a cry escaped her.
Gerdie reached for her again and she recoiled. “Don’t.”
“I need to feel if the break is worse,” he insisted, his unrelenting logic a strange comfort in this madness. “You could develop a clot.”
“That’s what you’re worried about.” The hysterical laugh that came out of her surely belonged to someone else. Sweat was beading her brow. But when she looked at her hands, her skin wasn’t sickly or pale. It looked healthy, even more so than usual. Luminescent in the moonlight. She felt stronger than ever, invincible.
She forced her eyes to sweep the area until they landed on the man, lying several yards away on his back. His ruby-red eyes were staring at her even in death. Old blood dripped from the ruby�
��s edges onto the grass.
The red stone had completely taken over his head, his hands, and much of his arms before it receded into his hairy, tanned skin. He must have died before he could change completely, Wil found herself thinking, as though this should make sense. The ruby stopped spreading when his heart stopped beating. Through his crystallized chest, she could see the dark shadow of his heart.
Her breaths came in short, panicked gasps. Her heart kicked up a fury in her chest.
Gentle hands removed the orange data goggles that were resting on the crown of her head; Gerdie fitted them over his own eyes, overlapping his monocle.
Using Wil’s dagger, he cut the man’s shirt to inspect Wil’s gruesome handiwork. Wil made herself look. In the darkness, she could see organs, intestines, bones—all of it hardened into ruby.
“Look at that,” Gerdie breathed, more to himself than to his sister. He pressed his hand to the man’s chest. Through the ruby, the man’s heart was visible, all its chambers and arteries etched in fine detail. All of it crystallized.
Her brother looked at her, and his eyes flitted down to one side, and she could tell that he was reading the data goggles, as though they were offering some explanation for what had happened to her. What she had done.
“Wil.” She barely heard her brother calling for her. As she fought to catch her breath, more blades of grass hardened under her legs, her palms. This could not be real. She wanted to say those words out loud so that she could make them be true, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak.
Dead. Ruby. Dead.
“Wil.” Gerdie’s voice was firm. She looked at him.
“Hold out your hand,” he said.
When she did, Gerdie plucked a blade of grass and dropped it into her hand.
The change began immediately. The center hardened first, and then crept out to the edges, until the blade sat heavy in her palm.
Gerdie leaned close, and Wil could hear the quiet pitch of the data goggles churning out information about the gem. She saw her brother’s eyes moving as he read. Once, then again. He blinked the data away and looked at her.
The Glass Spare Page 4