“You look well,” Brella murmured. She reached out a hand to tousle the soft ends, a touch that burned from scalp to toes. “We’ll clean this up a bit tonight, hm?”
“Yes,” Scratch breathed. Her knees unlocked, and she clenched her thighs to keep herself from swaying.
Hatter cleared his throat. Scratch jumped at the sound.
“Are we through?” he demanded.
Scratch blinked at him, slowly rejoining the world she had just transcended. “Uh . . .”
“We are, Hatter. Come along, Scratch.” Brella clasped her hand once more, large and warm and sure, and pulled her down the wending path. Scratch could not see a foot ahead, but she didn’t feel fear. Hope is foolish, she reminded herself, and like a fool she followed.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Brella sat at the base of a large oak.
“I want to show you something,” she said.
Scratch shuffled over, past the dying embers from the fire they had used to roast the roots and leftover bread they had eaten for dinner. The glen Brella had selected for the night was small and tree-lined, with just enough space for two bedrolls and a tiny fire. They had huddled around the flames, close and giggling, while the sun set around them in pink and orange streaks, and the moon rose, fat and white and eager.
“What is it?”
Brella pulled something small and square out of her apron pocket. “A book.”
“Why is it,” Scratch asked, getting comfortable against the tree, so aware of her body pressed against Brella’s side, “that everyone brought a book but me?”
“It’s not my fault you didn’t plan to be arrested and then broken out of the dungeons and then dragged along on a rescue mission.” Brella sniffed. “Your lack of forethought is appalling.”
“Myriad apologies.”
“Anyway, it’s not just a book.” Brella tapped the cover. “It’s a collection of every decree that’s come out of the castle since the beginning of King Ingomar’s reign.” She indicated the last few pages of the book, which were in noticeably better shape than their brethren. “I add on new ones when I get them.”
“How do you get them?” Scratch carefully took the book from Brella’s hands, holding it in her palms like an unhatched egg. “Decrees are usually read aloud in the city square.”
“I pay someone in the castle.” There was a cocky sparkle in Brella’s voice. When Scratch looked up in openmouthed surprise, she spotted a matching, wicked glint in Brella’s eyes.
“You do?”
Brella nodded. “I have for years.”
“Years?”
“And a very discreet printer.” She snatched back the book, leaving Scratch stunned and empty-handed. “If I had my way, everyone would have one of these.”
“Why? I imagine it’s terribly boring.”
Brella laughed in a soft, smooth sort of way that made Scratch’s stomach clench.
“Shall I read some to you?”
Scratch’s mouth went dry. “There isn’t any light.”
“I have remarkable vision.” Brella opened to a page near the end and cleared her throat. “This paragraph pertains to the citizens of the newly annexed lands, known forthwith as Kyria and the Western Wilds. The parties above indicated shall share in the triumphs of our land as well as our many offerings and spoils. The parties shall therefore be liable for yearly taxation, without exception. For the children, their national status flows from the maternal side, so as for a mixed marriage, the mother of the child provides official blood. In a second generation . . .” She dropped the book. “Scratch, are you listening?”
“Of course.” She stifled a yawn. “Thrilling stuff. Great read.”
“I know it’s boring.” She closed the book, setting it on her outstretched legs. “That’s sort of the point.”
“Why would that be the point?”
“Because if it’s boring,” Brella explained, “people won’t pay attention to it.”
Scratch ran her hand over the nape of her neck, feeling the newly shorn strands. When they had reached the clearing, Brella had tidied up Scratch’s new haircut. There were no mirrors, nor a reflective pool in which she could admire herself, but, by Brella’s satisfied glances, Scratch suspected she looked a bit of all right.
“Why wouldn’t the king want people to pay attention to his decrees? I’ve met him. The man loves the sound of his own voice.”
Brella paused for a long moment. “Do you know how nationality works in Ivinscont?”
“Um, if you’re born in Ivinscont, you’re a national of Ivinscont?”
“For most, yes. Not for all. Not for Kyrians or Westerners.”
Scratch sat up at that. “Now, I know that’s not true.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. Once those states became part of our land, their people came under our flag. A strong and watched o’er people—”
“Under our banner high. I know, Scratch.” Brella sighed and closed the book, laying it on her outstretched legs. “But.”
“But?”
“But.” She tapped the cover with a long finger. “Decree Seventy-Six: though they be lawful Ivinscontians, the people of Kyria will for life maintain their national status as Kyrians, as will the generations that they beget. Decree Ninety-Four added Westerners to that, too.”
“You have it memorized?”
She waved her hand noncommittally. “Most of it. Anyway, Seventy-Six means they’re Ivinscontians, but they’re also not Ivinscontians.”
Scratch scrunched her forehead. “But that’s good, right? If they want to maintain any, you know, feeling for where they’re from, what their region was like before it was Ivinscont, they get to keep that.”
Brella tipped her head in acknowledgment. “Sure. But.”
“More but.”
She huffed out a laugh. “With me, Scratch, you’ll always get more ‘but.’”
How Brella managed to ignore the heat rising to Scratch’s face, she didn’t know. It felt like an inferno.
“But,” Brella continued heavily, “that also means they’re a different class of person. Kyrians and Westerners can’t join guilds.”
“They can’t?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She thought for a moment. “They can join the Academy.”
“Yes.”
“I doubt they would have the coin to join guilds anyway,” Scratch reasoned. “I certainly couldn’t have. I didn’t have a copper.”
“Nor did I, not so long ago.”
“So what’s the trouble, really? The Academy is the only way for someone with no coin to end up with any coin.”
Brella took a deep breath. “The Academy is another issue entirely.”
“Oh gods, Brella. Not another ‘but.’”
“I didn’t say ‘but’!’”
“It was implied.”
“I’ll be more careful next time.” Even in the dark, the fires in her warm brown skin were lit and shining. “So, the King says keeping Kyrians and Westerners from joining guilds is to encourage them to stay in their original regions. To keep the population strong and dispersed, and to curb crowding in the royal city.”
“Well that sounds reasonable. I’m sure if—oh, hells, Brella. I can already hear the ‘but’ coming. You might as well get on with it and tell me why I’m wrong.”
Brella laughed, gleaming gold like a temple idol.
“All right, Sergeant Major. I shall.” Her lips quirked up at the corners. “Why does Ivinscont go west?”
“I thought you were answering a question, not asking one.”
“Humor me.”
Scratch’s sigh was mostly for show. “Fine. Because a larger country is a stronger country. Because having the ocean at our west would be a huge strategic advantage. Because the lands we’re taking are primitive and could benefit from our resources. And because those lands have natural resources that we could use to strengthen our reserves and to boost manufacturing in the new mills.”
Brella nod
ded. “And if, say, all the Kyrians come to the Royal City to join guilds, then who will work in their mines?”
“Ah.”
“Yes. Ah.”
“Well, that’s not so bad.” Scratch unfolded her hands. Gesturing always helped her think, and she was certainly thinking now. “If they’re staying in their mines, they’re basically doing what they’ve always been doing, aren’t they?”
“Sure. Except instead of the ore going to sustain their own economy, it’s going to the Ivinscontian economy.”
“Yes, yes, but they get the benefits of being Ivinscontians, too.” She didn’t know when it happened, but Scratch was suddenly bright with excitement. For days, she had scratched the surface of all these new mysteries, never breaking through. It was a welcome relief to finally understand something, to hold the complexity in her hands like a gem, turning it carefully so light caught every facet.
“Such as?” Brella must have felt something too, because there was a familiar breathy thrill in her voice. The thrill, Scratch knew, of closing in on an answer—or, perhaps, of finding a new one?
“Such as mining technology,” Scratch answered.
“That . . . that’s actually a fair point. I hadn’t considered that.”
She felt unduly pleased. A hot flush crawled up her cheeks. “Well, there you are.”
“Okay.” Brella leaned forward, jumping from that point to the next. Scratch leaned in to match her, only slightly disappointed they couldn’t stick around in her victory. “So we make mining easier. Say, a Kyrian mine owner becomes extremely rich. He takes a wife, fathers a few sons, watches them grow, and then one says ‘Papa, I’d like to be a glazier.’ So what does the Kyrian papa do?”
“Bribe someone? That is, apparently, your method.” Scratch tapped the closed book on Brella’s lap as evidence. And then, because she was feeling brave, elbowed her gently in the side.
Brella erupted into fresh giggles, bubbly like froth on cream. “Fine, he probably would. But that’s not a system to build a new nation on, is it?”
“New? Ivinscont has been around for generations.”
“West, west, west to the ocean. That’s certainly new. Besides, most people aren’t going to be mine owners. They’ll be miners. Miners who will need to do a great deal more mining, because now the ore is needed by the crown.”
“But the machines—”
“Don’t require pay. Fewer jobs.”
Scratch considered that. “So what do the miners do?”
Brella yawned behind the back of her hand. The sun had set hours ago, and the fire was down to coals. “Some of them come to the Royal City. Of course, there’s no point in them taking up apprenticeships, since they can’t join guilds. So they end up working jobs that pay less. Many become servants. They take the jobs they can get, and, because they have no room to grow or money to save, their families stay poor for generations.”
“Or they join the Academy.” Scratch’s lips felt numb.
“Or they join the Academy.” She didn’t need to add to fight for a land where they aren’t full citizens. The unspoken truth hung in the air like rotted fruit on a branch.
“How do you know all of this?”
Brella lifted the book. “Reading. Meeting the Kyrians and Westerners that come to the City. I’m a brewer. People like to talk over ale, so I make sure everyone who visits understands their rights.” She smoothed her hair self-consciously, an odd gesture for someone so confident. Seeing it felt like a secret, or a private touch on the arm. “I’m not trying to, you know, save them or anything. I just . . .” She gestured vaguely, then sighed. “I just think they should know the whole of the situation. And that someone is paying attention.”
“I’m glad.” Scratch’s voice was hoarse, so she cleared her throat. “I’m glad you’re paying attention.”
Brella leaned toward her. The place where their shoulders touched felt like a bright spark. “You are too, now. I find that this information isn’t so easily forgotten.”
She nodded, even as a sickly wave of guilt crested in her gut. “They were living in poverty before we came in. In Kyria, I mean.”
Brella nodded. “They were.”
“No sewers. Throwing waste from windows. The streets were filthy. Many of them welcomed us.”
“That’s true.”
“And in the Wilds—”
In the Western Wilds, the people lived in trees. They rested on branches and built their homes among the leaves. She had seen slat bridges stretched between trees like toothy grins, connecting house to house, window to window. And on those bridges she had seen archers, lying flat on their bellies, waiting for the Ivinscontians to tear them down to earth. Spear fighters shocked by daggers, dropping one after the next. They hadn’t come quietly, but they came.
She suddenly found it difficult to breathe.
“Scratch?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She swallowed thickly. Her throat felt tight. “I’m getting tired.”
“We should sleep.” Brella stood, taking her little book with her. “Shall I take first watch?”
“No, I’ll do it.” She managed a weak smile. “I have a lot to think about.”
Brella hesitated. She looked like she was about to reach out, her eyes darting between Scratch’s hand and her own. Instead, she walked to her bedroll and slipped inside.
“Goodnight, Scratch,” she murmured, her eyes already closed.
Scratch settled herself against the tree. She tried to think about what Brella had said, those unjust laws and closed guilds, but her mind had other plans. Each time she blinked, she was back at the Academy, staring down a pudgy, pink boy. And then she hit him. And she hit him and hit him and hit him until he was down and shrieking. And then someone said “She doesn’t have a scratch on her!” and it stuck.
She had thought she knew what that name meant. Now, she was certain she had no idea.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Scratch was in a warm, shabby room. It was late. Darkness awaited outside the drawn curtains, but a fire flared on the hearth, bathing the room in yellow-orange light. A group of people sat in mismatched chairs around the fire, some sipping ale, others chatting in low tones. A tang of apprehension curdled the atmosphere, and every so often eyes darted toward the door, though it remained closed.
“How long should we wait for her?” asked a voice Scratch knew, a voice that meant comfort, even before she could assign it a name.
“Relax, Brella.” She knew that one, too: Vel. “The head maid probably asked her to do some last-minute thing.”
“Doesn’t respect her time,” offered a third person: an old, stout woman who perched on a stool, her body as round and smooth as a puffball mushroom. Her hand shook as she brought a long-stemmed pipe to her mouth and sucked. “Always keeping her after her shift’s over. Never paying her her due.”
“Mrs. Callin, I do hate to rush you,” interjected a young man. He wore spools of thread on each finger like a handful of rings. “But if we wait too long, I think Vel’s gonna wrap me up and eat me like a spider.”
The old woman—Mrs. Callin—clicked her tongue at the man. “Hush, Dale.”
“Vel,” the man whined. He was tall and thin, with dark freckly skin and bronze-brown hair. “Can’t you get Hill to do this? You know I can’t sit still.”
Vel grinned, his eyebrows dancing. He held a needle and fabric in his hands and his fingers flew. “You said you wanted to flip a coin. You flipped a coin. Besides, this builds character.”
A man sitting at Vel’s side snorted. He was identical to the gangly Dale, down to the last freckle. “Yes, Dale. Do grab some character for the road.”
An imposing man with a thick dark beard harrumphed from his too-small stool beside the fire. “I still don’t like it.”
“Agreed, Judah.” Dale held his fingers out. “Would you care to take my place?”
“Not that, idiot boy.” Judah pointed a meaty fing
er at Brella. “I still don’t like that Brella’s leading transport.”
“I still don’t care.” She faced him, eyes narrowed in silent challenge. “We made a plan. You know the rules, Judah. Majority decision.”
Judah crossed his arms over his sizable chest, hunkering low in his chair. It creaked. “Doesn’t mean I have to act pleased about it.”
“Aw.” Brella’s smile was cold and mocking. “I’ve displeased you. I’m so very torn up about it.”
“Umbrella, stop.” Dale’s twin was stiffer than his brother, hands folded in his lap and feet planted firmly on the gnarled wood floor. “I voted in your favor because you said you could keep your temper in check.”
Brella glared. “I can, Hill.”
“And I’ll be there as well.” Vel held up a handkerchief half covered in colorful embroidery. Scratch couldn’t see much in the limited light, but there seemed to be a bird among the stitching. “I’ll keep her calm.”
“I don’t need anyone to keep me calm, thanks.”
“All right,” said Vel evenly. “Then I’ll keep you company.”
A man Scratch hadn’t yet noticed rose from his chair and came to sit by Brella. He was small and slender, with cunning green eyes and hair like a red fox’s.
“Are you all right?” He placed a comforting hand on Brella’s leg. “You don’t have to say yes.”
“Generous of you, Leverett. Then, no.” She grinned at him weakly. “I’m not looking forward to the next few weeks if I’m honest.”
“If we’re lucky, it won’t be that long.” He squeezed her thigh. “You’ll be good there.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about.”
The door flew open with a bang. Nearly everyone started, including Dale, who, in his flinching, unspooled a rainbow of thread.
Brella frowned. “Of course you wouldn’t settle for a reasonable entrance.”
The woman in the doorway smiled, casually pushing a lock of shoulder-length wavy hair behind her ear. Her skin had a healthy golden glow, and freckles dusted her face and arms like spice on toast.
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