The Raging Ones

by Krista Ritchie

  They drift higher and splay on her belly. And higher to her breasts. My jaw locks and I swing my ax harder.

  Court looks up from his book, eyeing my bare chest, then back to his book. Eyes on the pages, he says, “It’s not a failure if you can’t acquire the bills, but I need to know now, so I’ll have time to make plans.”

  Clutching the ax sturdier, my muscles strain. “I told you I’d be the one to fix it,” I reply. “So I’ll be fixing it.”

  I can feel that Court has no faith in me. Only worry mounts on more worry.

  In the Free Lands, he never fretted over my abilities. He leaned on me, not the other way around. When he needed advice on edible herbs, on hunting techniques, and how to breathe longer in this climate, he turned to me.

  Now it’s all backward. I’m not going to be useful in his eyes until I prove that I am.

  “It’s fifteen thousand bills now,” Court reminds me.

  “I can count, Court.” I slam the sharp ax blade into a tree stump, leaving the weapon there. “Or have you forgotten when you taught me mathematics?”

  His voice lowers into a whisper. “I haven’t forgotten.” He frowns, eyes grimmer today, filled with a thousand doubts. “You’re just dangerously optimistic.” From his lips, it’s not an insult, but I somehow feel like it is one.

  I smile, a tighter smile than I’m used to. “And you’re misery with two legs and brown hair.”

  Suddenly, I choke for breath. More powerful than before.

  Franny submerges herself beneath the water for longer than a second. The odd sensation quiets us and we wait for her head to break surface.

  When she does, I exhale gruffly and run a hand through my dry hair. A bit disoriented. I feel wet all over.

  Before I met Court, it’d been eight years since I had a full conversation with another person. Over the next two years, we grew into our conversations. I enjoy his company. Even his moodiness.

  Still, I really haven’t conversed with anyone else. Not until Franny. She’s the first lady I’ve talked to since I was eight.

  “Do you like her?” I ask him.

  “She’s a common city Fast-Tracker,” Court says, half of his attention on his book. “We would’ve been better off if she were raised by Influentials.”

  “That’s not what I asked.” I wedge the ax from the stump.

  Court folds his book over his thumb, his attention now all mine. “I have no time to think of Franny in any way, other than how she’ll affect our chances at StarDust. If your head was in the right place, you’d do the same.”

  “She’s linked to us,” I growl, my voice hollowing with anger. “She’s not some stranger, Court.”

  Court thinks long and then blinks rapidly. As though he’s trying to wake up. “Do you like her?” he asks me.

  “She’s not you. So I like her very much.” My grin grows.

  Light passes through his eyes before he grabs a hunk of snow and chucks the slush at me. I laugh, ducking and blocking the next snowball with my ax.

  * * *

  Bartholo News predicts an incoming blizzard will be shutting down the city for days.

  We’ve abandoned our flat’s makeshift table of hard-backed books for a real wooden table, lined with a champagne-colored cloth. Jeweled light fixtures swing above us, crystals clinking incessantly together.

  The shrill sound of dying prey is more pleasant to my ears.

  Twenty minutes at this fancy Influential restaurant and I’m about ready to push back the table and storm out the revolving doors. I’ve imagined the scenario a dozen times in my head.

  I’m not the only one who knows we shouldn’t be here. Influentials, dressed in their pristine tuxes and beaded floor-length gowns, ogle us with upturned noses.

  Must be our clothes. We stand out in hard-worn formalwear. My collar is frayed and I stitched muskox skins in the lining of my blue suit. Though they’re not visible to the eye this time.

  Just this morning at a secondhand shop, we purchased Franny’s emerald gown and a checkered, silk scarf that shrouds her colorful hair. She also took out her piercings.

  Low on bills, we couldn’t afford much else.

  Franny lifts her goblet and her hand trembles. Her nervous energy spreads to my fingers. After one damned lesson on a makeshift table, she’s not ready for fine dining. But Court refused to wait.

  “There’s no time,” he said.

  How I wish I could physically create seconds, minutes, hours out of thin air for him.

  Franny shakily sets down the goblet, and I feel wine on her lips before I look up. Deep red droplets stain her mouth. I’d smile if we were at the flat.

  In the presence of onlookers, I just huff.

  Court touches the folded cloth on his lap. When the soft material grazes his fingers, it grazes mine too. Subtly, he tells her to use the napkin.

  Air is caged in her lungs, eyes darting nervously every which way. With so many roaming gazes, I don’t trust myself as much either. I haven’t picked up my glass since we arrived.

  “Napkin,” Court ends up saying aloud. “Use the ends to dab at the corners of your lips.”

  Slowly, Franny mimics Court, both of them too tense. He said that we shouldn’t leave until after our food arrives. It would be “impolite” to do so.

  My throat is raw from not sipping anything. Maybe that’s why Franny keeps drinking so heartily.

  I reach for a glass, my movements more cumbersome than hers. Elbow inches from Court’s goblet, he whisks away the crystal before I tip it.

  I mutter a curse and take the longest swig. Hells, it may be my very last.

  They watch me keenly, staying silent as our server skirts to our table. He meticulously places our barley soups, even wiping a dribble on the rim.

  “And for your second course?” he asks Court, who ordered the soup.

  “We have to be home early for a housewarming,” Court says, seeming genuine. “So this will be all for us.” In reality, we have no money to spend on a second or third or fourth course.

  When the server leaves, I’m grateful for the momentary peace.

  Franny stares hard at the liquid. Her heavy dread mounts in my stomach.

  “You’re teaching me how to be an”—her brown eyes dart around again, not wanting to say Influential aloud—“but what would you like in return?”

  Court frowns. “Excuse me?”

  I’m just as oblivious to where she’s going.

  “What do you want?” she states. “I owe you something.”

  “No you don’t.” Court shakes his head. “No, Franny. It’s not that kind of relationship.”

  Her expressive brows bunch together, confused.

  “We work together,” he adds, motioning to me and then back to her. Trying to signify that we’re all three equals.

  “No one does anything just because.” Her voice softens, so I lean in closer to hear. “If anyone at Purple Coach lent me a spare tire, I’d need to give them something in return. Let me teach you something, please.” Desperation clings to her brown eyes.

  “You can’t teach me anything that I don’t already know,” Court says.

  I snort.

  Wind roars outside and the brewing storm creaks the windows. Sleet pelts the roof. Ping, ping, ping. Even city-center isn’t invincible to the harsh weather. Men and ladies talk louder to combat the noise.

  “I feel indebted to you,” Franny says, “and it’s not a great feeling, so if I could just teach you something…”

  Now, I understand. I like being useful. To not burden others. She must feel the same. “What are city Fast-Trackers good at?” I wonder, keeping my voice low.

  “I’m not scared of much.”

  “Neither is Court.”

  Court remains quiet. He chooses to share less whenever conversations diverge from StarDust or Franny’s lessons. I’m used to his sulky disposition, but I worry that his unwillingness to open up will drive her away. If he wants all three of us to leave together, then we ne
ed to be doing this together.

  His posture is agonizing. I knead my shoulder, but the action helps no one since his muscle is stiff, not mine.

  “Fast-Trackers are good at working hard and then playing hard afterward,” Franny adds.

  “Not all of us have the luxury to play,” Court says. His bones grind against one another, aching to be loosened. In the Free Lands, I’d massage his muscles for him, but he’d rather live in pain in the city. Court believes that our plans are too important to relax.

  I ball my napkin in a fist. “Or you just don’t know how to play,” I tell him.

  “I can teach you,” Franny offers.

  Court goes even more rigid. “No offense,” he says tensely, and I know nothing good will come next. “I’m not looking to fall into a drunken, drugged stupor—and I’d bed any two legs in a luxury lounge before I’d bed you.”

  NINE

  Franny

  My throat closes tight.

  No offense.

  He meant no offense, but his words punch my gut.

  My brows pinch, eyes in blazed points on instinct. Jeweled light fixtures clink together harshly as the weather becomes angrier outside. People start waving down servers, preparing to leave early to beat the storm.

  Underneath the table, Mykal kicks his leg at Court but fails at seizing his attention. “Heya, she never talked of bedding you.”

  Court glowers at my glare. “Will you tell him or should I?”

  “Is it a problem for you?” I nearly spit. He knows what Fast-Trackers think of coupling. Not the type to settle on one person, I’ve been to bed with my fair share of people.

  Just because I liked the feeling.

  “Because if it is a problem,” I add, “I don’t care.”

  Mykal falls further into confusion.

  Court pauses, a pang of remorse beating in his veins, faint and then gone. “I had similar beliefs once, so no, it’s not a problem.”

  “Good.”

  Mykal gestures to us. “Someone best be telling me what in three hells we’re discussing.” I’m not the only one who has to fight to keep up.

  With the incoming storm, most every Influential peers out the window. No spotlight on me.

  So I speak the whole truth. “Most Fast-Trackers do what we enjoy in our short time, and most enjoy bedding many—not waiting around for the elusive true love.”

  Mykal digests the meaning slowly.

  So I add, “It’s fairy-tale nonsense. Stuff for Influentials to believe. They have the years for the fancy gowns and the beguiling princes and princesses in storybooks.”

  Why wait around for that when chances are, you’ll die before it comes true?

  His hard jaw constricts, cold eyes cast down at his soup. He slides his chair from the table to stand, but he doesn’t lure attention. Others have already collected their coats and furs to leave.

  Court chimes in, “It’s just how it is, Mykal.”

  “Just how it is,” he mumbles, hand firmly gripping the back of Court’s chair, but then he lowers his head slightly toward me. His features hardening in the dim light. “You know how I’d see you in Grenpale?”

  I shake my head once, my throat tight.

  “You’d be a princess—and why shouldn’t you believe you’re one? You only ever live once, and by gods, why not be open to love?”

  His conviction barrels into me before his words even do. I choke on my thoughts. I didn’t need to search for love or hope for it. Because I didn’t want to reach the end of my life thinking I didn’t do enough or didn’t achieve a goal I’d set. Who’d want that?

  The banker called my sole goal to spend my deathday in the Catherina Hotel too lofty—and she’d been right. I keep my wishes to a minimum. I keep them soft and quiet like fantasies whispered breathlessly at night.

  Before I can answer, the jeweled light fixtures flicker, and the owner tells everyone to return home. The weather is worsening and I already dread the walk to our flat. I wish I could drive a Purple Coach there.

  Shrugging on my fur coat, I watch Court slip on his gloves. Mykal is already dressed, ready to sprint home. His words linger, all the ones about being a princess. Even sporting a gown tonight, I feel more and more like a fraud.

  Right before we leave, I catch Mykal’s gaze, and in jest, I ask, “If all the fairy tales come true in Grenpale, then why don’t more people live there?”

  He stares down at me, blue eyes carrying years I’ll never know in a land I’ll never see. “Because the whole lot of you have lost your minds.”

  * * *

  The storm relents after a few weeks and it’s the first time I don’t yearn to be back at Purple Coach. Heavy blizzards bury tires, freeze over windshields, and batter engines. It’s a downright pain to spend all your time tinkering on the car when you could be out driving and making bills.

  Not that I’ve had a pleasant time here.

  My brain is overflowing with information. A constant headache thumps my temple, worse than the morning after an all-night rave.

  I never desired to learn and even now I struggle to retain all that Court has taught me. His angered huffs rattle my own throat and I don’t blame him.

  I know we’re losing time.

  We have just a month left until StarDust’s enrollment.

  If I can’t pick up reading and writing and etiquette faster, then I might be the reason we fail. I’ve been reading through the nights, and every day I complete the number exercises Court writes for me in a notebook.

  And apparently the letter T needs to be emphasized. I’ve been dropping that sound when I talk, so I practice speaking with all the T words I can think of.

  Butter.

  Mitten.

  Temple.

  Toad. Though Court chided me for that Fast-Tracker slang. He told me to practice with the word tattering and all its variations: tatter, tattering, tatters, tattered.

  I like toad better.

  Then I finish up with practicing walking back and forth across the room, spine straight, confidence emblazoned in my shoulders. Each step lighter than the next.

  When exhaustion pulls at my eyes, I force them awake and I try harder.

  Gods, I’m trying.

  I lie on the cot, book in hand, and I’m glad that I’m not pretending to dine in a fancy restaurant today. The wooden chairs here cause my already strained muscles to ache. The inside of my mouth has healed, but my lips have cracked and scabbed over from the cold.

  I raise the book over my head, concentrating on the sentences. “Morund?” I sound out the word and roll over onto my belly so that I can trace the word with my finger.

  Court sits at the end of the cot beside my head. He leans against the brick wall, trying to roll out his own throbbing joints every so often. I wish he’d just lie down, but I don’t think he’s capable of relaxing.

  His eyes flit to the book.

  I try not to be demoralized by the fact that he can read upside down while I struggle reading words with my nose pressed to the pages.

  “Marooned,” he corrects. “It means—”

  “I know what it means,” I say, frustration bunching my brows. “I just didn’t know it looked like that on paper.” Silently, I repeat the word a few times in my head. My eyes are heavy lidded from staying up all night, strutting with Influential grace.

  Mykal already complained about his sore feet, but I felt Court’s appreciation and it was enough to know I’m doing right.

  Every day, I stumble over words or throw books across the room, angry at myself for not learning faster. Court tells me, “It’s hard, but it means your life.”

  He constantly stresses this.

  It means my life. If I fail, I could die. Altia Law: people caught passing as Influentials will be sent to Vorkter Prison until their deathdays arrive.

  Fast-Trackers talk of Vorkter like an idle danger.

  “Nothing in sight but ice and snow,” they say.

  “Impossible to escape.”

  “
Criminals left to starve. Too nippy. They’ll freeze, you’ll see.”

  “Eventually, they’ll all rot and die.”

  Not how I’m going out, I always thought. That won’t be my end.

  I never heard of someone who was caught pretending to be an Influential, let alone tried to pass. Why would they want to? People can buy new identifications on the black market—like Court and Mykal, like they did for me yesterday; new name and all: Wilafran Elcastle, dying at 104 years—but no one really does what we’ve done.

  A piece of paper won’t change the day you die.

  One of my old friends wished to be a full-time artist, but even passing as an Influential, she wouldn’t have graduated from school in order to be an artist. They would’ve lowered her in a grave first.

  Pretending seems pointless for most, but I bet some do try, just for kicks.

  We sit in silence while I skim the next line with my finger. I subconsciously run my tongue over my lip, the absence of cold metal startling. No piercings.

  Foils encase strands of my hair, which are caked with black dye that Court either stole or bought in the city.

  I didn’t ask.

  No more blue and green.

  My scalp itches madly, but I grip the hardback fiercer to keep from scratching. I glance at Court, knowingness etched across his stern lips and eyes. Can’t keep anything secret. I asked if they sensed me trekking off to piss in the snow and they exchanged a look before Court said, “Lack of privacy has befallen us all.”

  As though linking is a curse.

  “Take a break, Franny,” Court tells me as my eyelids throb from the strain of keeping them open. Although he’s been strict, this isn’t uncommon for him. It’s also usually followed by, You’re no use exhausted, if you can’t retain what I’m teaching you.

  “I can read more,” I counter. “I’m not too tired yet.”

  He hesitates for a second, before nodding. “Read to me then.”

  I hear the question at the end. How well can you read now? For someone who could only read a few Bartholo street signs, it’s not as simple as it seems.

  I focus. “I saw … the most … wonder … ful…” I pause on the next part. “Sea creatures?”

  He nods—boom, boom, boom.