Arlow spied a group of athletic-looking young people seated around a table in the far corner of the inn. One of them—a Chaskuan lad who was none too steady on his feet—stumbled past Arlow on his way to the outhouse, the mark on his neck visible above his collar.
Arlow grinned down at Mae. “Jackpot.”
She prodded him with her elbow, a smug smile on her lips. “You’re welcome.”
They claimed seats at a table not far from the Elevated, but not near enough to be in earshot. When the server came round, Arlow ordered them two plates of the daily special—in his experience, the only way to ensure one’s food was remotely fresh.
“And to drink?” the middle-aged man inquired.
“An ale,” Arlow said, thinking hard liquor should wait until after the delicacies of playing spy were completed.
“Two of those,” Mae said.
Arlow’s eyebrows rose, but she merely shrugged at him. The cultured women of Accord did not drink beer—wine or champagne, but never anything so common as ale.
Since leaving the Cosanta Temple, he’d been surrounded by women who were all affect: powdered faces, precisely chosen words and movements, hair and clothes designed to both seduce and demur.
Arlow gazed at Mae. He’d been, until that moment, uncertain why he felt such a pull to this woman who did not meet any of his usual standards. But that was it—she ordered beer, she hacked her hair off unflatteringly short, she snorted when she laughed. She didn’t care. Odd, that he should find such a quality enticing.
He had a sudden, consuming desire to feel her tongue in his mouth. Heat ran up and down his frame.
“What’s with you?” she asked. “You look like you’re thinking of eatin’ me.”
He winked. “Who says I wasn’t?”
Their drinks arrived, and Mae buried a flushed face in her mug. Arlow forced himself to focus on the task at hand, his attention shifting back to the table where the Elevated drank. There were five of them, all younger than himself, though not by many years. Four men and one woman.
“Got a plan?” Mae asked.
“Plans are constricting things.” He stood, and flashed her a smile. “I won’t be gone long.”
With his drink in hand, he crossed the floor as if heading towards the outhouse, then pulled up short with an expression of pleased surprise. “Brothers?” He gave a shallow bow. “Well met.”
They turned to him, at first with hard expressions of distrust. Arlow wondered at it until he recalled the condition of his clothing. He turned, allowing the candlelight to catch the mark on his neck.
“Chisanta or Elevated?” asked a young man with a rectangular face and rather little neck. The question might have sounded a challenge, if it were not uttered with the slurred articulation of the inebriated.
“I had understood the two were now the same,” Arlow said. “Though I have been undercover for the past month, and missed many recent events. Would you mind if I joined you a moment?”
“Pull up a chair,” the girl said, hiccupping on the last syllable.
Arlow smiled graciously and did just that, scooting a chair in behind him.
The neckless lad scrutinized him. “I know you,” he said, pointing a drifting forefinger. “You’re Bowlerham, aren’t you?”
Arlow bowed his head in acknowledgment, wondering what his name meant to them. He received a clap on the back so hearty it knocked the air from his lungs. “I’ll be blighted,” the lad said, smiling around at his companions. “Great Spirits! You know who this is don’t you? Quade’s inside man. He orchestrated the assassination, he did!”
Expressions of admiration greeted these words. Arlow shrugged eloquently. “I do what I can to help the cause.”
“It’s a real privilege, Mr. Bowlerham,” another one of them said, raising his mug and sloshing beer onto the tabletop in the process. “A toast. To the Inside Man!”
“The Inside Man!” Mugs clinked, and in a few cases missed their targets.
“You honor me,” Arlow said.
They introduced themselves, but too quickly for Arlow to process and store their names.
“Did you say you’re undercover again?” the young woman asked, blue eyes round.
“I did, indeed,” Arlow said, taking a small sip of his ale and sinking deeper into his chair. “The Pauper’s King this time. I’ve been out of touch for so long, I fear I’ve gotten quite behind on the news. All I know is what I’ve seen in the papers.”
Neckless leaned in, pink face conspiratorial. “Lots happening. Lots happening.”
“I’ve heard there might be something of a…kerfuffle on the day of the execution. I was meaning to telegram Mr. Asher a warning, so he might be prepared. I’d hate for any Elevated to lose their lives in the fight.”
This statement inspired a great snort and a wondering shake of the head. “Of course there’s going to be a fight. That’s the point. Asher is drawing ‘em out, real clever like. And none of us is going to die, cause Asher’s too smart for them.”
“Ingenious,” Arlow said, masking the smile that threatened to tug at his lips. “But how, might I ask, does he mean to dispatch the rebels? Won’t it be chaos?”
The lad leaned further forward, speaking in a confidential voice that smelt of sour alcohol. “You heard of the five?”
“You mean the Fifth?”
He shook his head emphatically, gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “Nah, she’s dead. I mean the five—five Elevated, hand-selected by Quade to eliminate the enemy. They’re like celebrities nowadays.”
“One of them is my friend,” the girl asserted.
“Really?” the Chaskuan asked, awed. “Which one?”
“Whythe.” They shook their heads in lack of comprehension. “You know, the one that can stop gifts.”
Arlow felt genuine astonishment for the first time. “There is an Elevated who can eliminate a Chisanta’s gift? I never heard of such a thing.”
Neckless gave a wise nod of the head. “If that impresses you, wait till you hear the rest.” He raised a hand and brandished his pinky finger. “So there’s the Gift-stopper—”
“Whythe,” the girl said, annoyed. Arlow pursed his lips—though a small detail, it bothered him, too, that these Elevated should know each other by their gifts rather than their names. It was all backwards.
The lad raised his ring finger. “Then there’s the Amplifier—she can make gifts stronger and work much farther.” His middle finger lifted. “The Finder—he can sense a Chisanta anywhere, even one that’s not marked yet.” Index finger; “the Immobilizer—she can make it so a person can’t move, can’t even blink.” Lastly, he wiggled his thumb. “And the Mind-connector. She can talk right inside your head and read thoughts—so whole groups of people can talk to each other across long distances without even opening their lips.”
Arlow set his mug down. Comically uninspired nicknames aside, these five could make things difficult. It was a well-considered plan on Quade’s part. “So,” he said, “the Finder,” he managed to keep the mockery from his tone, barely, “locates the rebels, the Mind-connector gives that information to the others, the Gift-stopper takes their abilities, the Immobilizer freezes them in place, and the Amplifier makes it so this can happen at a greater distance. Then what?”
“Then,” the girl said, hitting the word with sharp emphasis, “the Mind-connector sends out a message with their locations, and the rest of us go take care of them.”
Neckless slapped his hands together, as if to brush away dust. “Easy as you please-y.”
“Brilliant,” Arlow said. “But where will these Five be during the event? Out in the open or hidden away somewhere?”
Arlow’s talkative new friend appeared doubtful for the first time, his face scrunching in on itself. “Why do you need to know something like that?”
Arlow smiled blandly. “I was merely thinking that they should be somewhere safe, otherwise the whole plan could go astray. But I imagine Quade has already contemplated such
matters carefully.”
“Yeah,” he said, his misgivings melting away in an instant. “He’s a genius. I don’t know where they’ll be, but I’m betting it’ll be safe. It’s Asher, after all. He’s a faultless leader.”
Arlow detected the slight alteration in the boy’s tone as he said this. He inured himself as best as he could. “Yes, that is certainly true.” Then he made a show of throwing back the last of his ale and let out a long sigh. “Well, brothers, sister, it’s been a real pleasure. I feel much better now, knowing that everything is in order. Being undercover can be taxing without contact with my brethren.” He stood. “But I fear if I neglect my female companion any longer she may grow lonely and leave me.”
They laughed, plainly in good spirits. He offered them a deeper bow than was deserving given his seniority. They each made a fist and, in unison, pounded their chests three times. “Be safe, Inside Man,” Neckless said.
Before walking away, Arlow called to the bartender. “Another round for my friends, my tab if you please.”
The five of them cheered him and hoisted their mugs in salutation. Arlow darted a parting smile and moved back to the table where Mae sat. She had her face cradled in her hand and, upon approaching, Arlow realized she was asleep. She breathed deeply through her nose, one hand still clamped around the handle of her stein. She had a sweetness about her in sleep.
His heart swelled a bit as he regarded her. He chastised himself mentally. Now that he had earned Linton’s trust, she wasn’t liable to be with him long. She’d breeze right out of his life again—buy curtains, marry Foy. He grimaced and sank down into his chair.
“Whisky,” he called to the barman, “neat.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bray set down her pen. She flexed her hand open and closed several times in a futile attempt to relieve her aching muscles, and grimaced down at the slip of paper. Then, careful not to smudge, she added that small sheet to the box of countless identical scrolls on the floor beneath her.
She glanced up at the sound of shouts and hurried footfalls outside the door to her cramped lodging, passerby in the small alleyway that led directly to the main plaza in downtown Accord. Hoping for a good view at the hanging, she thought, with little warm feeling towards her fellow man. There could be no other reason for so much traffic at an hour past dawn. The public execution would not begin until midday.
Anxiety whirled within her. She wished they’d had more days in the city to plan, wished her face was not so well-known so that she could leave her confinement. As it was, Peer and Su-Hwan had taken on all information-gathering pursuits, while she stayed holed up in a tiny room, writing the same few sentences again and again.
More than all the rest, she wished Yarrow were by her side. Or at least that she knew for certain where he was. Be safe.
She reached for a fresh slip of paper and took up her pen again. Given the cramp in her palm, she was tempted to call the job finished—there were several hundred copies complete as it was. But the more the better. She had nothing more productive to do, anyway.
Another hour slipped by to the tune of crowds passing and the scratching of her pen, the light peeping between the curtains brightening. Her body tensed when she heard a key scrape within the knob of their door, then eased again as her two companions stole inside.
With them came a foul city smell that Bray tactfully didn’t mention, though she switched to breathing through her mouth.
Peer unwound the scarf wrapping his face and tossed it aside. “Not even eight, and the plaza’s full up.” He shook his head. “You’d be thinking it were a festival and not a hanging. There’s even concession stands.”
Bray’s lips pursed. “Really?”
He sank down on the single small bed in the room. “Aye. Distributing free tea. Up on the stage with the gallows there’ve been performers since dawn—jugglers and the like.” He ran a hand over a weary face. “It’s a bleeding circus.”
“We have discovered an excellent hideaway, however,” Su-Hwan said, her dark eyes seeming to gleam in the morning light. “Under the stage itself.”
Bray smiled. “You’re joking.”
“No,” Su-Hwan said, with a serious shake of the head. “There is more than sufficient space. It should be easy.”
Peer bobbed his head. “Right ’neath the bastard’s feet. But we best get going, afore his people arrive.”
Bray inhaled a steadying breath and rolled up the last slip of paper, adding it to the box. A quick count proved there to be somewhere between five and eight hundred matching scripts. She hoped it would be sufficient.
“Still don’t see the point in all that,” Peer said, nudging the box with the toe of his shoe. “His face’ll be enough. Trust me.”
Bray tugged on her boots as she answered, “His face will be enough for the good people, those who have been taken in. I aim to lose Quade the opportunists, too—people like Arlow Bowlerham who throw their lot in with the best bet.” She tucked the container under her arm. “I want them to see him out of control, unhinged.”
Peer looked unconvinced, but Su-Hwan appeared contemplative. “I think it a sound idea, but how do you mean to distribute the scripts?”
Bray secured her own scarf around her head, taking pains to keep her bright hair concealed. “I thought I might hand them out in stacks, say they are part of the proceedings. You know—take one, pass them on.” Her companions did not look terribly impressed by this plan, but she buttoned up her coat without concern. She’d done her best; it would either work or it would not. Time to find out.
They crossed to the door and descended into the chilly morning. Bray surveyed the hazy sky and wondered if it would snow.
People thronged the streets—laughing, pink-faced people. Bray, Peer, and Su-Hwan merged into the crowd, following the current towards the plaza. The air smelt of roasting chestnuts and sweet potatoes. Peer had certainly not exaggerated when he’d said the day had the air of a festival. Bray could almost forget to be tense, the buzz of excitement was so infectious.
“Mama?” a young, sandy-haired boy crooned, just in front of Bray. In his fist he clutched the string of a bright yellow balloon. Bray watched the miniature sun tug at its restraint, trapped.
“Yes, dear?” the woman who held his free hand asked.
“We really gonna see people die today?”
The woman scooped the child up into her arms. “Only bad people, dear.”
Bray exchanged chagrinned looks with Peer. She hoped that Quade’s influence was responsible for this kind of attitude, though she knew enough of the callousness of man to have doubts.
As they neared the plaza, children and teens appeared, with pallets hanging around their necks like little tables, each with steaming tea pots.
“Free tea! Free tea! Tips apprecianated!” a gangly boy with black hair and a grimy face called.
“It’s appreciated, not apprecianated,” an equally filthy girl hissed at him.
Apparently unfazed by this correction, he approached Bray with a broad, charismatic smile, revealing several missing teeth. “Tea, lady?”
He poured her a small cup without waiting for an answer. She tossed him a coin in thanks, but kept her head bowed, her face obscured.
“Much thanks,” he said, moving on.
She shot the small amount of liquid and was grateful for the warmth of it, though it was the strangest tasting tea she’d ever had. She was left looking down at the cylinder of waxed paper that had served as a cup, wonder creasing her brow. Paper cups? What next?
The road stood gridlocked, bringing them to a standstill; Bray decided it was as good a time as any to begin handing out her papers.
“This is for the event,” she explained as she began distributing stacks to the bystanders around her. “Mr. Asher wants the audience to say this just before the execution. Pass them on, make sure you share.” She watched the papers move much faster than they, spreading like gossip across the gathering. She smiled to herself at the ease
of the task. Crowds were so easily manipulated.
“Guess you were right,” Peer said, frowning with amusement.
They continued to move forward for some minutes, as quickly as the congested streets would permit, before Peer bent low and whispered, “We’ll be slipping into this alley and going round back.”
Bray trailed Su-Hwan, who broke from the foot traffic and darted between two buildings, the space barely wide enough to accommodate an adult. Peer, then Bray, followed, and the three of them sidled between two filthy brick walls until they spilled out onto the side street one block over from the plaza. They could hear the many hundreds of people nearby, but the lane was deserted. Bray picked up the skirts of her dress and hastened after her companions, walking boots slapping the cobblestone road.
“How do we get near the stage?” she asked.
“This way,” Peer said, pointing down at a grate in the road.
“You’re kidding,” Bray said, understanding suddenly why the two of them had smelt so foully upon their return.
“It’s mostly just rain runoff,” Peer said, as he pried the grate free from its hole.
“And feces,” Bray said without enthusiasm.
“Well, I won’t say there’s no feces,” Peer said. He bowed with mock gallantry and held out a hand. “Ladies first.”
Bray snorted and shook her head. He lowered her into the opening and she landed with a splash, sewage halfway to her knees, her skirt clinging to her legs. The stench was immediate and oppressive. Bray gagged as she waded away to make room for Peer.
He dropped down beside her, sending a splash of waste water her way. She shuddered and tried not to think of just what she was touching. Su-Hwan joined them with a smaller splash and Peer hoisted her onto his shoulders so she could replace the grate—they did this with silent coordination, clearly not for the first time. As the disk of metal slid back into place, they were plunged into near-darkness.
Bray heard faint scratching and scurrying sounds. Rats, she thought, grimacing.
Peer’s hand found her shoulder. “Only a block and a half. There’s a grate right ’neath the stage, so we can get under without being seen.”
The Complete Marked Series Box Set Page 68