The Complete Marked Series Box Set

by March McCarron

  “He drew it as it was happening, when he was guarding Yarrow before the hanging. He wasn’t himself at the time.”

  “So, this is before he gave up his memories?” Bray asked, still whispering. Her eyes devoured this black-and-white Yarrow. It was awful to witness his suffering, but also strangely sublime to see his face with an emotion stamped upon it, even a negative one.

  “Just before, apparently.”

  Bray swallowed and wrapped the portrait again. “Thank him for me.”

  “Why don’t you thank him yourself, next time you see him.”

  Bray nodded vaguely. The picture felt heavy in her hands. She longed to look at it again, to stare and stare. But that would likely eat her up.

  “Bray, I—”

  She braced herself. Here it is. Peer had been attempting to deliver bad news for weeks, but kept stopping himself short, and Bray hadn’t prodded him to continue. She didn’t want to hear what he had to say. She could guess easily enough—someone she loved was dead, and there were few enough candidates. But there was a difference between suspecting the truth and knowing it.

  Peer’s chin dimpled, the way it always did when he was trying not to cry. He drew a deep breath, blinked, then changed course. “I better be going,” he said in a strangled voice.

  She was glad he had weaseled out again. But still, the unsaid words hung heavy between them.

  Peer pushed to his feet. “Got to get ready for tonight. Want to walk back with me?”

  Bray had little desire to rise. “No, I’ll stay awhile. Good luck, brother.”

  Peer angled a sad smile in her direction. He opened his mouth to say something, but once again changed his mind. He settled for a wave and then jogged away. She watched him lope down the hill.

  Bray slumped onto the grass and stared at the limbs of the tree swaying above her. The sunlight illuminated each leaf, so she could see the dark stripes of the veins within.

  She caressed the parchment lying beside her. It portrayed a moment that had been monumental in Yarrow’s life—one she had not been present for. She didn’t know what manner of torture he had endured, apart from his missing little finger. The thought of it gave her a queasy, hot feeling in her stomach.

  Quade had done this. Quade must die.

  She watched the branches dance in the afternoon breeze, and began to plot anew. Her efforts thus far had been fruitless, but that would not stop her from continuing on.

  Quade would answer for what he had taken. It would give her no solace, because she could never reclaim what she had lost.

  It mattered little—she did not seek solace, only blood.

  Chapter Two

  “It’s a matter of optics,” Arlow said, shielding his eyes from the sun to survey the training grounds. “I’m not saying the lack of uniform is the most egregious shortcoming of your new military state, but possibly it’s the second. After the odor.”

  Ko-Jin grunted, his gaze remaining fixed on where the queen sparred with the Elver woman. Arlow wondered when Ko-Jin’s former paramour had given birth; he could have sworn she’d still been pregnant last he saw her. Though, he wouldn’t be surprised if she’d popped out a kid that morning and was training again by mid-afternoon.

  “Just picture this vista—” Arlow swept his hand, encompassing the sprawling slope of grass packed with soldiers, Chisanta, and training civilians—“but with matching suit jackets: well-pressed wool, lines of gleaming buttons. I’m thinking hunter green, though I suppose you’d argue for gray.”

  “I’d argue for—” he bit off mid-sentence, catching himself. “We don’t have the money.” Ko-Jin’s growling tone of voice might have cowed a lesser spirit. But not Arlow.

  “Epaulettes for the dress uniforms, of course. Silver or gold thread, depending on the color of the fabric. Quade’s taken navy, which is about as inspired a fashion choice as I’d expect from a man who still wears a four-button dinner jacket—”

  “Arlow,” Ko-Jin snapped. “Are you really still—”

  He finally took in Arlow’s expression, and his own changed in turn, softening into something nearer the carefree Ko-Jin of old.

  The general sighed. “You’re doing that thing again, aren’t you? Being deliberately irritating, to…”

  “Pull you out of your own head? Why yes, that is exactly what I’m doing. Really, I should be charging for the service at this point, between you and our mopey friend Bray.”

  Ko-Jin snorted. “If she were here, she’d argue you aren’t friends.”

  “So she would, but very deep down she loves me.”

  “And grieving isn’t moping.”

  “It is the way she does it.”

  Arlow folded his arms across his chest. He glanced sideways at Ko-Jin’s face, trying to gauge the man’s current degree of unhappiness. The general would want neither condolences nor soft treatment. No man liked to be pitied, and Sung Ko-Jin less than most. But Arlow did feel sorry for his old friend, whose life had become difficult and tremendously unfair. How many ways could the Spirits conspire to break one heart?

  They watched Chae-Na and Zarra circle each other, sure feet skimming across the dirt. He had to admit, he was impressed with the queen’s dedication to her training, given all her other responsibilities. Her commitment was plainly paying off. She was an agile fighter, possibly better than Arlow himself. He really should practice more…

  Ko-Jin’s gaze locked onto Chae-Na with unveiled intensity, his eyes sad and guileless. Poor bastard.

  He seemed to realize he’d been staring and looked away, clearing his throat. “How’s Mae?”

  “Ballooning at an alarming rate.”

  Ko-Jin barked out a laugh. It was such an uncommon sound these days that it drew the queen’s attention, and she was promptly knocked off her feet. “Doubt you’d say as much to her.”

  “Spirits, no,” Arlow said, pleased with himself. He truly was an exemplary friend. “She’s been threatening to eat me for months. I’m not certain she’s joking.”

  Arlow couldn’t quite stifle the smile twitching at the corner of his lips. It was a true enough statement, if a misleading one. That very morning she’d grazed her teeth along his bare shoulder and purred, “Spirits, Arlow, I just want to eat you.” If that was cannibalism, he was on board.

  He shook himself from the thought, but not before a flush stole over his cheeks. Across the yard, nearer to the palace itself, a messenger sprinted in their direction.

  “Looks like Yarrow’s made another prediction,” Arlow said. His good-feeling fizzled out like a damp fuse, as it always did when his departed friend came to mind.

  Ko-Jin’s expression hardened again. He was still a handsome man—obnoxiously so, in Arlow’s opinion—but the past months had added years to his face. Grooves marked his brow and bracketed his mouth, and the spark of boyish joy in his eyes, which had survived well into his twenties, was now quite dead.

  The messenger skidded to a halt before the general. “Urgent from scribe Raella, sir.”

  Ko-Jin unfolded the slip of paper, his ever-shadowed eyes darting left and right. “He’s going to use Vendra’s vaporized drug for an airborne attack.”

  “When?”

  “Three hours, just south of the Narrows.”

  “I can take care of it,” Arlow said. It was his neighborhood, after all.

  Ko-Jin bobbed his head in agreement and said to the messenger, “I need you to run to Dedrre’s shop and ask him about the gas masks, then deliver them to the Narrows.”

  “And when you get there, track down Foy Rodgeman,” Arlow said. “Tell him Bowlerham wants the block evacuated.”

  The lad saluted and took off at a sprint. Arlow watched him go for a moment, his thoughts flitting to the task ahead. “Where do you think she is?” he asked.

  “The docks, probably,” Ko-Jin said.

  “I’ll start there, then.” Arlow slapped his friend on the back. “Not expecting any trouble, but I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  Ko-
Jin squeezed his shoulder. “Be careful.”

  He answered with a mock salute, “Aye, aye, General,” and set off for the stables.

  A short time later, Arlow cantered down the busy streets of southern Accord, riding to the tune of clopping hooves and buzzing conversation. The mid-afternoon sun glared down from a cloudless sky. He slowed to a trot when the traffic grew too thick to bypass.

  “Oy, Bowlerham,” a male voice bellowed from somewhere within the throng.

  Arlow scanned the crowd and spotted a meaty hand waving for his attention. “Well met, Cline,” he said, maneuvering his steed to where the large man crouched beside a cart. “How fare your crops?”

  Cline still looked the part of a street thug, with his lumpy nose and tattooed neck, but against all odds, he’d taken to farming with all the ease of a fish slipping into water. Most of the Pauper’s Men still worked street patrols, but more had volunteered for the urban farming project than Arlow would have guessed.

  Cline jerked his head to the back of the cart, where crates of produce peeped from beneath a sheet. “Good haul this week. Got carrots and onions. Apples are finally ripe. Taters, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  They had transformed the city in a mere half-year’s time. To the south, the swampy lands within the perimeter were now rice paddies. The crown had requisitioned most of the large estates in the east and converted them into farmland. Nearly every rooftop, lawn, and trash bin in the city was now a garden. As it turned out, any moron with a bucket of dirt could grow potatoes—lots of them. They had such an abundance, Arlow thought they might as well begin lobbing them over the walls at Quade’s army. Weaponized tubers. He’d have to suggest it to Ko-Jin when next he visited; that ought to annoy the general out of his doldrums for a few moments.

  “Why don’t you put them soft, fancy hands of yours to use and help me with this,” Cline said, gesturing to the wheel of his cart. Arlow finally noticed that it was caught in a rut, which explained the hold-up in the street. He swung down to help. “One,” Cline said, bracing to lift the cart from his knees, “two, three.”

  Arlow clenched his teeth and hefted. He was still straining when he heard the laughter of onlookers.

  “Don’t pull a muscle, Pauper’s Prince,” someone shouted.

  “He’ll be fine. Cosanta are limber. All that dancing, you know?”

  Arlow glared at the cluster of strangers, all grinning in his direction. He had won a strange kind of notoriety throughout the capital, being the Chisanta husband of a criminal queen, an aristocrat’s son putting down roots in the Narrows. It came with a lot of mockery. “Friendly teasing, not mockery,” Mae would say. “People like you, Arlow. Despite your…you-ness.”

  “You might help,” Arlow called to the crowd, his eyes narrowed.

  Two large men stepped forward, and a moment later the cart was clear. Arlow dusted off his robes. Cline shook hands with the helpful strangers, who were all still smiling like jackasses.

  “I better be off,” Arlow said, with one final sweeping glower. He leapt into his saddle. “Have a good one, Cline.”

  “You too. Oy, Bowlerham?” the big man shouted. Arlow turned back. Just in time, he caught the projectile flying towards his head. He stared down at the apple in his fist. Fruit, he thought longingly.

  “Thanks, mate,” he said, tucking the prize into the pocket of his robes. He left behind the chattering crowd, as he headed south towards the docks.

  The air was thick and briny as the gulf came into view. It stretched to the horizon, glistening with summer sun and dotted with countless minute islands. Beyond the inlet, out in the Clay Sea, Quade’s blockade prevented travel abroad. But he had made no headway in penetrating the gulf itself, thanks mostly to the wiles of a certain pirate-turned-privateer: a vicious blond-bearded fellow who styled himself Captain Snapneck. Arlow was a little too interested in the man, primarily because he was a former sweetheart of Mae’s. “Blighter, Arlow, it was just a few kisses. And it was afore all the neck-snapping. Don’t make such a fuss.”

  Riding along the docks, he searched among the deckhands and fishermen for a silver-haired girl. Arlow found her on the eighth pier, alongside the familiar slouching figure of his friend Roldon, who was singing one of his cheerful nonsense songs. “Swim, little fish, swim, swim on home.”

  Clea was poised on bare feet, her sheet of pin-straight hair stirring in the salty breeze. “They’re coming. Just a little more, Rol.”

  “Oh fish, you clever fish,” Roldon sang, his good-natured voice ringing out more loudly, “swim, swim to me.”

  “Gotcha!” Clea shouted. She swept her hand up, and out in the gulf an entire school of fish rose from the sea. They hung in the air like a flock of wingless birds, gleaming silver and cascading water. She drew her hands inward, and the fish soared straight overhead, veering into a net strung up beside the pier. Arlow heard the furious slapping of the haul, as the fish flipped and floundered within their snare.

  “We should record these songs for posterity,” he said, his boots thumping against the wet boards. “Lest we forget the brilliant lyrics that summoned fish from the very sea.”

  Roldon swiveled, his light-brown braid caught in his fist. He grinned. “I got a way with animals, not a way with words.”

  “I don’t know, I think it’s quite catchy,” Clea said with a wink, and then sang out in her silvery voice, “Oh fish, you clever fish…”

  Roldon laughed. “Careful who you mock. I might just change the words.” He tilted his head to the sky and belted, “Oh gulls, you clever—”

  Clea slapped a hand over Roldon’s mouth, and his eyes twinkled down at her. “No shower of bird shit, please.” She turned to Arlow. “So, what’s Quade planning to hit us with this time?”

  “One of Vendra’s vaporized drugs.”

  “Fun,” she said.

  “He does keep things lively.” Arlow swept a hand back to the road. “So, shall we?”

  They were halfway up the pier when Roldon shouted after them, “Right, I’ll just take care of all these fish by myself, then?”

  Clea answered with only a wave, and Arlow snickered at the sound of his friend’s grumbling. He helped Clea into the saddle, hopped up behind her, and took off at speed.

  “Are we short on time?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “No,” he said. “But I’d rather be early than late.”

  It was a short trip from the docks to the Narrows, now that the roads were less crowded. Civilians typically took care of business in the morning and afternoon, keeping off the streets at night. Quade still tended to pop into the city for brief, likely impromptu, bursts of violence.

  Arlow rode through the near-empty streets at a quick clip, nodding his head to the patrols he passed along the way—both Chisanta and civilian. He slowed as he passed his soup shop. The rooms above had become home to himself and Mae; even the constant smell of simmering onions and garlic had grown comfortingly familiar, though he wished his clothes didn’t reek of it.

  “Making a stop?” Clea asked.

  Arlow hadn’t meant to. But now that he was here, he decided it wouldn’t hurt to pop in for a moment. They were still early.

  “A brief one. You ride to the wall and find Rodgeman. I’ll catch up in a few minutes.”

  He jumped to the road and slipped into the shop.

  “Afternoon, Master Bowlerham.”

  “Afternoon, Mistress Jeana.” Their frizzy-haired landlady had started to feel like a part of the family. Even her filthy apron no longer made Arlow cringe. Usually. “What’s the soup of the day?” he asked with a grin.

  She rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the pot. “Potato.”

  “Course it is,” he shouted as he loped up the steps. The doors upstairs were all shut. “Mae?”

  “In here,” her voice drifted though the chamber door.

  Arlow came to a dead halt in the threshold. His wife was in the bath.

  “What,” she asked with fals
e innocence, “want to join me?” This new tub she’d wrangled from somewhere or other was large enough that he could. In fact, that was the first thought that’d crossed his mind when the thing had been hauled up the stairs.

  “Spirits…” he said. “Very much, yes. But… Blighter. I’ve got to save the city. Well, maybe I could… No. No, there isn’t time.”

  “Pity,” she said. And then she dipped her head back to wet her hair, a motion that necessitated the arching of her back. Arlow stared.

  He felt that someone, at some point in his life, should have told him about the wonderful transformation that occurs to a woman’s breasts during pregnancy. Though he supposed that might have spoiled the surprise.

  He swore a few more times in his head. There had been months together when Mae had been sick all the time, and everything he’d said annoyed her. But in recent weeks she’d started looking at him like a tasty meal, with the same kind of enthusiasm her silly mule took to sugar cubes.

  Spirits, Arlow, I just want to eat you.

  He backed towards the door.

  “Did you come for a reason?” she asked.

  “What? Oh, yes.” He plucked the apple from his pocket. “You said you were craving something sweet.”

  Her face lit up, and she extended a dripping hand. He thought it wiser to keep his distance, so he said, “Catch,” and lobbed the fruit as Cline had done. She caught it in two hands, and, with eyes still locked on his face, took a great crunching bite.

  “Blighter,” Arlow wheezed, and he fled the room.

  He was sweating by the time he found Clea and Rodgeman near the wall. They were both already wearing gas masks—an invention of Dedrre’s that filtered harmful toxins from the air. It made them look like giant insects.

  “Cutting it close, Bowlerham,” Rodgeman said, as he proffered the third mask.

  “What? We’ve still got a minute and a half. Plenty of time.”

  He tugged the gas mask over his head. The glass eye-pieces distorted his vision, making Rodgeman appear rounded and bleared.

  He closed his eyes and focused. Where should I be standing?