by Claire Luana
Then tipping...tumbling...and the world turned sideways.
Chapter 6
It was hard to make sense of this tumbled, smoky world. Wren blinked and tried to focus through the ringing in her ears and the pounding in her head. She’d landed in a tumble of gangly arms and legs between Thom and Callidus. She wasn’t sure where one of them left off and the other began.
“What was that?” Wren gasped.
“The carriage tipped.” Thom groaned, pushing off the side of the carriage, which currently served as the floor.
“Watch the glass from the window,” Callidus said, uncoiling himself to come to a halfway-seated position. He reached out and picked a large shard of glass from Wren’s auburn curls, tossing it into the corner.
Another boom sounded outside and a rush of heat swept past them, palpable enough to touch. Curls of gray smoke were beginning to creep through the seams of the carriage door in grasping greedy tendrils.
“Something’s burning,” Thom said, getting to his feet. Thom was tall enough to reach the handle of the carriage door above them. He wiggled it. “It’s stuck.”
With those words, the carriage seemed to shrink several sizes around them. “What?” Wren barely recognized her own high-pitched voice. The window above them was leaded glass, and though the glass had shaken free in the explosion, it was still crossed with diamonds of metal. They wouldn’t be able to climb out if the door wouldn’t open. She coughed. Smoke was filling the narrow space of the carriage with sickly pallor. Another pop outside made Wren jump, shying against Callidus.
Callidus stood and then reached down and helped Wren to her feet. His ridiculous coiffed hair was hanging low over his forehead, no longer defying gravity in its normal fashion. His pale face was grave.
“Can you jostle it free?” Callidus asked.
Thom banged on the door with his fist—once, twice, three times. It didn’t budge.
Wren felt herself tilt, her vision blur. Despite the heat of whatever was going on outside, baking the side of the carriage, a cold chill washed over her, beading pinpricks of sweat on her brow.
“Don’t leave us, Wren,” Callidus said, grasping her elbows as she started to teeter over. “We’re going to get out of here.” He coughed, putting his arm over his mouth. “Sit down, stay low.” He helped her to the ground, gently lowering her onto the shards of littered glass.
Thom continued to bang on the door above them, jumping, trying to hit it with his shoulder, anything. “It’s not opening.” He coughed into his elbow, looking around. “Can we get through the roof?”
“Carriages have a wooden frame.” Callidus shook his head. “Maybe with an axe.”
“Anyone have an axe?” Thom asked weakly.
“Any other ideas?” Callidus looked from Thom to Wren. Down below the smoke, her vision had cleared. She had an idea, sort of. She took a deep breath and screamed, “Help!”
Thom and Callidus joined her in a chorus of shouting and banging. Their flurry of activity fell silent as the first licks of flame undulated through a seam on the carriage’s floor. Thom and Callidus shied away, backing up against the far wall with her.
“Anyone have any chocolate?” Thom asked weakly.
“We’ll need more than lucky chocolate to get us out of here,” Wren croaked. Her eyes burned, tears leaking from the corners.
“I just thought it would be nice to be eating chocolate when I died.”
“That would be nice.” Wren closed her eyes, trying to bring to mind the flavors of cacao and milk, rather than the bitter taste of ash and smoke.
The carriage rocked around them, and they all cried out. “What’s happening?” Wren asked.
The door above them wrenched open, literally ripped off its hinges, exposing a hellscape of flame and smoke. And haloed by it all was a golden-haired man in an Aprican uniform. He reached down a hand. “Come on!”
“You first, Wren,” Callidus cried, pushing her to her feet. She locked wrists with their rescuer and he lifted her out through the carriage door as easily as if she were a sack of flour. He deposited her on the side of the overturned carriage before bending back down for Thom and Callidus.
Wren’s mouth fell open as she surveyed the scene. The entire city block behind them was awash in flames—buildings crumbling and debris littering the street. Oily black clouds chugged skyward—the drizzle of the gray Maradis day doing little to quench the inferno. Callidus was clambering out of the carriage now with the help of the Aprican, and Wren unsteadily made her way down from the carriage, cringing at the body of the horse that had been pulling them, a large chunk of wood protruding from its side, blood watering the cobblestone streets. She looked around for their driver and found him tossed across the street, groaning and stirring. She breathed out. At least the man was alive.
Thom was out of the carriage now and the three men were climbing down.
“Get back.” The Aprican man pointed across the street, ushering them farther from the growing flames. They turned and watched the billowing flames from the other side of the street as their Aprican savior went to check on the driver. Two other carriages had been caught in the explosion; one was completely enveloped in flame and the other appeared empty, its horse cut from its harness. Cedar Guards and Aprican soldiers were running from down the street to put out the blaze.
“What in the Beekeeper’s name was this?” Callidus breathed, his fingers laced through his hair.
“This is man’s doing,” the Aprican returned, surveying the scene. “Rebel scum don’t care if innocents are killed.” He spit on the ground.
Wren studied him. He was tall and broad like most Apricans, but with darker, dirty-blond hair cut strangely, longer on the top, with the sides cropped short, a tidy beard covering his round jaw. A faint scar shadowed one fine cheekbone. He met her gaze boldly, and she didn’t look away. His eyes were the deep brown of raw cacao, rather than the crystalline blue of most Apricans.
“Rebels did this?” Callidus asked. “Why?”
“Half the flour stores in Maradis were in that warehouse,” the man said.
“How do you know? This is the Guild Quarter. Why would there be grain stores here?”
“Because we just moved them here two days ago. To keep them safe from rebel attack.”
Guess that didn’t work, Wren thought.
“Who are these rebels? Why would they want the city to go hungry?” Thom asked. His face was streaked with soot, and ash was raining down softly, landing in the curls of his hair.
“They call themselves the Falconers. We’ve just started hearing whispers of the name, seeing pairs of wings scrawled on walls. Hungry leads to angry. And angry makes it easier to recruit to their cause.”
“Swarms,” Callidus said, seeming to deflate.
The Falconers. The Falcon was the royal crest of Clan Imbris, the clan of the late king. It seemed these rebels weren’t taking the death of their monarch sitting down.
“You three inhaled a lot of smoke. Do you need a doctor? I can call another carriage to take you to the hospital.”
“No more carriages,” Wren burst out.
The man inclined his head, his hand resting on the sunburst on the pommel of his sword.
“The Guildhall is only a five-minute walk from here,” Thom said. “We can make it.”
“I’m happy to walk with you,” the soldier said as they slowly turned from the mesmerizing scene of flame and smoke.
“A kind offer, but we can make it from here. I’m sure you must have more pressing business.” Callidus’s smile was tightlipped.
“Actually, I don’t,” the man said, sauntering between Thom and Callidus. It seemed this man wasn’t taking no for an answer. Strange.
“Very well. I’m Guildmaster Callidus.”
“I know who you are, Guildmaster. I’m Lieutenant Dashiell Cardas. You can call me ‘Dash.’” The two men shook hands.
“Thom Percival.” Thom waved.
Wren said nothing, her smoke-addled
mind slowly working on something. How did a random Aprican lieutenant know who Callidus was? And where the grain was? And how was he in the right place to save them...? And why was he so eager to walk them home...?
“That’s Wren,” Callidus said. “Not sure what’s gotten her tongue.”
“You three went through quite a scare,” Dash said. “It’s not surprising the lady needs a moment to gather herself.”
“I don’t need to gather myself,” Wren snapped, though in truth, she likely did. She had figured it out. “You’re our tail, aren’t you? You were right there, ready to save us—because you were assigned to us.”
Dash grinned, flashing a row of small, white teeth. “I don’t see any reason to hide it. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together over the next few months. Might as well get to know each other. I know I’d rather be having a drink with you lot than skulking in the shadows all winter long.”
“We’re free Alesian citizens. We don’t need a watchdog. Or a babysitter,” Callidus said.
“Seems like it came in handy today, didn’t it?” Dash pointed out, pulling a toothpick from his pocket and sticking it in his mouth.
Callidus didn’t have a response to that.
“Change is always hard, but it won’t be so bad, you wait. Everyone thought the sky was falling when the Apricans marched on Tarrasia, but it ended up being the best thing that could have happened to us.”
“You’re Tamrosi?” Thom asked.
“Born and bred,” Dash said proudly. That explained the brown eyes and darker coloring.
“But you work for the Apricans,” Wren said. “You’re a traitor to your people.”
“Ain’t traitorous to secure a good job to provide for your family. I’m not the one blowing up buildings,” he pointed out.
Wren opened her mouth to retort, but Callidus silenced her with a withering side-glare that said, This is not the time for intellectual debates.
Dash whistled as they turned from the cobblestones of Guilder’s Row to summit the marble steps of the Confectioner’s Guildhouse. “You Alesians sure like your sweets.”
“You have no idea,” Thom muttered.
Callidus paused, pulling himself up to his full height. He looked ridiculous, soot staining his narrow features, smeared by the mist like running mascara. “We owe you a debt of gratitude for saving us today. And if you’ve been assigned to us, the least we can do is make you comfortable. I will see that our Guildmistress finds you adequate chambers.”
“Callidus!” Wren hissed.
He held up a hand and she glowered at it. Giving this soldier rooms in the Guildhall? Why not invite the emperor to a dinner party?
“That will be more than adequate,” Dash said gallantly. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
They walked up the stairs and into the antechamber of the Guildhall. Wren relaxed as the warmth from the building washed over her. A bath. She wanted a bath very badly.
“Who is this Guildmistress I should be seeking?” Dash asked.
“Ah, here she is now,” Callidus said.
Olivia had just emerged from the far hallway and was striding their way with purpose. She pulled up short when she saw them, taking in their soot-stained clothes and faces. “What happened to you?” And then she took in Lieutenant Cardas, and her blue eyes widened, her pink lips forming a little O. Wren supposed Dash was quite handsome, if you set aside the fact that he was a professional stalker hired by the emperor.
“We had a bit of an afternoon,” Callidus said with dripping sarcasm.
“Who...?” Olivia trailed off, still riveted by the Aprican soldier.
“Lieutenant Dashiell Cardas,” he said, taking her hand and bowing low over it, gracing her knuckles with a kiss.
Wren rolled her eyes.
“He’ll be staying here. Find him a chamber please, etcetera,” Callidus said, heading up the stairs.
Wren gave Thom and Olivia a weary smile before following, the sound of Dash’s low murmur and Olivia’s tinkling laughter chasing her all the way. She heaved a sigh. It seemed that they’d just let a fox into the henhouse. And there wasn’t a flaming thing she could do about it.
Chapter 7
There was a ship on the horizon.
Lucas squinted through the telescope, blinking to clear his vision. It came back into focus—a dark speck against a palette of gray and blue. It was too distant to make out what flag it flew. Lucas wasn’t sure if it mattered. They were stranded here, but for a little sailing skiff that could hardly be trusted to get to the next island. If the Apricans had found them, they’d have nowhere to run.
Lucas drained the dregs of his coffee, grimacing as it slid down. The drink had gone cold. Had he been sitting up here so long? He couldn’t remember. Time had a way of sifting through his fingers in this monochromatic house, with nothing but sea and fog around them. Or maybe it was the fact that for the first time in his life, he had absolutely nothing to do but sit with his grief. And it was driving him mad.
Lucas pushed to his feet and stretched, trying to calm his nervous energy. They were due for a shipment of supplies and news from Maradis. No reason to suspect the ship wasn’t friendly. And no reason to excite or upset Trick and Ella until he knew.
He stood in a room lined in glass, atop a house nestled on a bluff, on an island shrouded in misty fog. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked out the wall of windows before him. The house had been built by their great-grandfather. He hadn’t been here in years, had all but forgotten about it until they desperately needed some place to lay low. It was the type of place the Imbris kings favored; they had remote outposts and safehouses all over Alesia and beyond—tucked-away corners of the world where they could plan and plot away from prying eyes.
This house was the only building on this island—if you didn’t count the half-roofed boathouse. The island was one of a hundred in the Odette Isles, an archipelago off the coast of Nova Navis. The largest island was populated with a village of fishermen and craftswomen, but the farther you sailed from civilization, the smaller and more barren the islands became. The tail of the archipelago was perpetually foggy, as if a dark spell had been cast over it. The locals swore these islands were haunted—an ill omen at the least. They didn’t venture near. It was how Lucas knew that the ship was here for them. Either it was their shipment of foodstuffs to replenish their larder, or it was the Apricans come to haul them back to Maradis in chains, if not execute them outright.
Lucas bent, looking back through the brass telescope, grimacing at the pull of the wound on his back. He was healing well, but still it pained him, throbbing and itching in turns. He straightened. The ship was closer, but he couldn’t see a flag. Perhaps that was a good sign.
This room, like a little glass bird’s nest on top of the house, was furnished by only a worn leather armchair and the telescope. Lucas had spent most of the last two weeks here, staring at the islands of craggy rock and proud cedar trees that stretched as far as the eye could see, all of it frosted in wisps of white fog. His brother Patrick had found his home in the kitchen, spending his days pulling together meals that were far better than they had any right to be with the few supplies they had, and spending his nights drinking through their grandfather’s dusty wine cellar. Ella split her time between crying in front of the fire, snapping at her brothers, and sitting on a worn piece of driftwood on the bluff, staring vacantly into the sea. Ella had taken the murder of their parents and brothers the hardest—her grief was angry and red and raw. She felt too much, while Trick seemed intent on feeling nothing at all, his feelings buried under the busyness of keeping them fed or numbed by the sweet embrace of drink. Lucas didn’t know what he felt, how he grieved. That was how it worked. It was hardest to know yourself.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. If he was being honest with himself, he thought he did know a few things. In the last two weeks, he had become a world-class worrier. He’d always had a fundamental optimism about the world—even when things se
emed difficult, he was confident he’d figure them out. It would be all right. Now, he was certain of nothing. The shock of witnessing the coup, his parents’ and brothers’ deaths—it had given way to worry. Even with Trick’s connections through the Vintner’s Guild, it had seemed impossible that they would make it out of the city—surely, the Apricans would find them huddled in the hold of the cargo ship.
But they hadn’t, and their ship had made it out onto open water. Lucas and his siblings had been transferred to the Heronette, a fast little vessel manned by a Captain Guinyson, a friend of Trick’s friend Oban, who had arranged their passage out of the city. And even as the Heronette had successfully made the trip to Fletch Island, where they now resided, and deposited them with a few weeks’ provisions and a promise to bring more, Lucas worried. Their fortune seemed uncanny, too good to last. Lucas worried about what would happen if the Heronette didn’t come back. Would this be their life for the rest of their days, exiled to this sad little island? Lucas worried about what would happen if the ship returned and brought unfriendly faces with it. Because no matter how loyal Guinyson was to Oban…he was still a man. And men could be bought. Or tortured. Or killed.
And then Lucas worried about Maradis. He worried about what the Apricans were doing to the city and the people he loved. He worried about Wren. He closed his eyes, letting the image of her wash over him, the pale expanse of her skin, so soft and delicate beneath his fingers, the rich chestnut of her eyes burning with determination. Her smell of caramel and coffee and home. The fierce set of her thin shoulders as she squared off against men three times her size—not fearless, but all the braver for it. Wren had saved them—given them a chance to get off that platform and out of the square where the rest of his family had been murdered. And he’d abandoned her, leaving her with nothing but an old ring. She was smart as a whip, but the ring he’d give her was such an obscure clue, he wasn’t sure even she’d be able to piece it together. He feared that she wouldn’t, and he’d never see her again. He worried that she would, and she’d be punished for it. He worried about it all.