“Do you know what the ascor have planned for the outlanders?”
“They’re going to keep them locked up until the Infernam, I guess.”
“And then?”
“And then they will die.”
“The heat will rise and they will be cooked to death unless someone frees them.”
Bowe shrugged. “Many people will die during the Infernam.”
“They won’t even be given the chance of poison or drowning for a quick death. It’s seven days until the Infernam—if we free them now, they’ll have a chance to sail to their homeland and find shelter.”
“It’s not my fault they’re locked up. It’s his.” Bowe gestured at Washima. “The spy. The rules for outlanders are clear. He should never have left the ship.”
“He left the ship against the ridiculous rules the ascor have for outlanders. I have talked with Washima, and I know that his reasons were honorable. The other crewmembers did absolutely nothing wrong. Do they all deserve to die?”
“It’s not my decision to make.”
“Yes, it is. If you don’t allow Sindar to help us, then you are condemning them to death. I know the ascor love to dodge decisions. The Guardians won’t kill the outlanders, they just keep them locked up long enough to ensure their death. But right now, you have to decide if you are willing to let them die. Their lives are in your hands.”
Bowe wanted relent, but stopped himself. “I’m not going along with your plans anymore. I told myself that before I came here, and I’m sticking to it.”
“Your friend who died yesterday—what was his name?” Iyra asked.
“Edison. Why?”
“Did he have to die? Because of the Infernam, did he have to die?”
“No.” The image of Dulnato striking Edison down rose again in Bowe’s mind and he rubbed a finger against the corner of his eye.
“Would you have done anything you could to save him? Of course you would have. Those people in that ship have friends in another country hoping that someone will help them. A great many people on Arcandis have to die by the time the Infernam arrives. A horrific amount. No one can save them. But Washima and the people on the ship have a place in a shelter in their home country.”
Bowe ground his teeth. “This is the last time I will allow you to involve me in one of your Guild plots.”
“Thank you,” Iyra said.
Bowe couldn’t see her face, but he sensed she was smiling. “Let’s go back to the others.” Iyra and Bowe rejoined Washima, but there was no sign of the thief. “What happened to Sindar?”
“I gave him the key,” Washima replied. “He said he already knew how his friend would decide, so he decided to get started.”
“That infuriating bastard.” Bowe balled his hand into a fist. “This brotherhood thing was a terrible idea. I should have gone with more of a tyrant theme.”
“I have to be ready to board the ship when the time comes. Iyra, I’d like to thank you for everything.” Washima bowed deeply to her and she mirrored him. “And it’s been nice meeting you, Bowe. Thanks for your help.” He bowed his head to Bowe and this time, Bowe repeated the gesture. Washima left the warehouse and disappeared into the shadows.
“What’s all this bowing about? Can’t he just clasp arms like a normal person?” Bowe said grumpily
“It’s the Jarindor way.”
“Well, he’s in Arcandis now. Should be doing it our way. He’s supposed to be a secret spy—what’s he doing walking around with a giant sword?”
“He hasn’t been carrying it around all this time. But he’ll need it to fight his way back onto his ship. Come on, let’s go somewhere where we can see what happens.”
Iyra led Bowe out of the warehouse and along the docks, keeping close to the warehouses. Helion had set, but there were no clouds and Luna was half full. The white moon provided enough light for Bowe to be able to follow Iyra without tripping over anything, and after a while, his eyes adjusted and he began to make out the outline of ships tethered against the quay.
Iyra stopped at small staircase and held her finger to her lips. “That’s Peace Bringer over there,” she whispered, pointing at the black masts and hull of a large ship opposite them. “We can get a better view from the roof. Be careful on these stairs—they creak. We don’t want the marshals guarding the ship to get suspicious.”
Bowe managed to climb the stairs without incident. He might not have had as much experience skulking around rooftops as Iyra or Sindar, but that didn’t mean he was a clumsy oaf.
When they reached the top, Iyra sat on the edge of the roof with her legs dangling and Bowe slid down beside her. From here, Bowe could see even better. Luna reflected off of the sea, creating a ghostly shimmer. The outline of the black ship was clear, and as Bowe studied it, more details came into focus. Two marshals guarded the walkway while several others patrolled the deck.
In silence, Iyra and Bowe watched together. For once, Bowe was enjoying Iyra’s closeness. The ships along the quay rocked gently in the wind, the waves lapping against the hulls. The dark expense of the sky, pinpricked with stars, met the shimmer of the sea at the horizon. Peace Bringer, the ship was called and Bowe did feel at peace. Edison had just died—betrayed by Glil—a daring rescue was in progress with Sindar in danger, and Bowe still didn’t know how he could survive the Path. Yet, in that moment, Bowe was able to push away his worries and soak up the soothing sound of the wind rustling against furled sails and the rhythmic creak of the wooden ships. Moonlit silhouettes swayed back and forth.
Iyra turned to him. “It’s beautiful,” she said in hoarse whisper, and he knew she was feeling it, too. Her face was a tapestry of moonlight and shadow. A sheen of light outlined part of her hair, and several individual strands glowed. Her eyes glistened. Bowe lifted a hand to touch her cheek. Out of the blackness, there was a shout. Bowe withdrew his hand and they turned toward the ship.
The shout came from inside the hull of Peace Bringer. All the marshals drew their swords, the sound of metal scraping against metal almost painful to Bowe’s ears. A shadow ran at the two marshals at the base of the walkway, shouting. The shadow drew his sword, and Bowe could see him well enough to recognize Washima.
The marshals froze, and in moments, one had been kicked into the sea and the other was lying on the ground, clutching his midriff. I never thought about those who would die so the outlanders could escape, Bowe thought. I shouldn’t be involved in sacrificing men from Arcandis so that men from Jarind can go free. How had he let Iyra talk him into this? On the decks, the bowels of the ship disgorged shadows, who fell upon the patrolling marshals. It seemed Sindar had done his job, freeing Washima’s crewmates. There were screams and several splashes as men fell—or were thrown—overboard.
At the top of the walkway, Washima had released the ship from the docks, and it began to drift away. Shouts multiplied across the deck, and several men began climbing the masts. Bowe looked up and down the docks, but no further marshals were arriving to stop the escape.
Bowe clutched at Iyra’s sleeve. “Sindar—did you see him get off the ship? He must still be on board.”
“I don’t know.” Iyra sounded worried. “He should be off by now. Washima will make sure he’s safe.”
“The spy doesn’t care anymore,” Bowe said bitterly. “He’s saved himself and his men. A few from Arcandis had to die; what does it matter if one of them is Sindar?” Bile rose in Bowe’s throat. “I just lost Edison—I can’t lose Sindar, too. I just can’t.” He stood.
“It’s okay.” Iyra rose beside him and rubbed Bowe’s arm. “I’m sure he’s fine. Look over there!”
“Where?” Bowe scanned the ship.
“At the stern. Or the bow. Whichever pointy part is closest to land.”
“I see him,” Bowe said. A shadow climbed the railing and dived into the water. “It must be Sindar.” A short moment later they could see the shadow swimming for shore.
“He did it,” Iyra exclaimed, and they clutched ea
ch other and jumped up and down.
The clutch turned into an embrace, and before Bowe knew what he was doing, he was kissing her. Her lips were warm and welcoming. She swayed against him, and the same peace from earlier flowed through Bowe.
Then he realized what he was doing. He broke away and shoved her so hard that she fell.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, looking up at him from where she lay.
“You’re what’s wrong with me.” I’m not a pervert, Bowe said to himself, and you’re not going to make me one. The memory of Washima killing that marshal stoked his anger. Iyra had taken advantage of him for her own ends. She had done nothing but try to seduce him and use him since he’d first met her. “Don’t ever touch me again. Filthy escay. How dare you kiss me? How dare you take advantage of me like that? Remember your place.”
Iyra pushed herself to her feet. “Filthy escay—is that so?” she shouted. Her voice sounded raw. “What about you? You’re not an ascor.”
“I’m a Green. I’ll become a full ascor or die. I’d rather die than be an escay.”
“Ever think it was strange that we helped you? Why do you think we chose you to help? You were the lowest of the Greens when we first met, remember? It’s not because you are a Bellanger—who could have known that would turn out to be so useful? It was because you are actually an escay.”
“That’s a lie.”
Iyra put her hands up to her face. “Damn you, Bowe, why do you always have to turn me upside down and inside out? Forget what I just said.” She turned and ran, her feet slapping against the rooftops.
“Wait!” Bowe ran after her, but he soon lost her in the darkness. “What did you mean? Tell me it was a lie,” he yelled into the blackness. It has to be a lie. Bowe sank down on his haunches. A roaring filled his head. It has to be a lie.
Chapter 18
6 Days Left
Bowe woke up in his own bed at Bellanger Mansion. That was a surprise—he didn’t remember returning. Marshals had converged on the docks after Iyra had left him, but he’d managed not to run into any of them even with the roaring in his head. He still wasn’t thinking straight. A cloud fogged up his brain, preventing serious thought. He didn’t want to deal with what the girl had said. The last thing he could remember from the night before was wandering down alleys and streets in the darkness, stumbling from one corner to the next.
Someone shouted his name from the hall, bringing him back to the present. He noticed that he was soaked with sweat and feared that the fever had returned until he realized that it was well into morning. No wonder he was soaked: he’d slept into the heat of the day, and fully dressed, at that. Bowe stood and went to the door. When he emerged, he saw the brotherhood gathered at the bottom of the stairs, looking out the front door.
Sorrin called out to him. “Come down. You’ll want to see this.”
Bowe didn’t feel like he could deal with anything right now, but he descended to the hall. On the ground outside the door lay Glil, dead. His eyes bulged and bloody rents ran up and down his neck. His mouth was open and full of pebbles.
Bowe’s stomach recoiled. He turned away and vomited against the wall by the door. He hadn’t eaten much in the last day, so all that came out was watery yellow bile. His throat burned, and the dry heaving of his stomach felt like his guts were being pulled from his body. Another death on his account.
“We just found him here,” Sorrin said, handing him a note. Bowe read it.
A present. We couldn’t stomach any more Thardassian stories, and it seems Glil couldn’t swallow them, either. Someone who turns his cloak once is someone to watch, someone who turns twice is not one to know.
“That’s not a present. Why do the other Elects assume I want everyone dead? Can’t they understand I’m not like them?” Bowe leaned against the wall, looking down at his own vomit., turning his gaze away from Glil’s accusing face. The noxious smell of vomit was trying to induce him to throw up again even though he had nothing left in his stomach. He had nothing more to give.
“If Zidel wanted to give us a present, he should have given the traitor to us alive,” Xarcon said, “rather than taking revenge out of our hands. Dead will have to do.”
“He betrayed us, Bowe. This is all he deserved. Maybe you should consider it a gift,” Sorrin said.
“I’m not like them. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t pretend.” Hot tears ran down his face and dripped into his vomit. A certain part of him wanted to fall to the floor and lie in it, repugnant smell and all, and never get up again.
“Come with me.” Sorrin grabbed Bowe by the collar and practically pulled him away from the wall. He limped to the nearest room still holding Bowe’s collar, forcing him to follow along. He shut the door behind them.
“Good; there’s a mirror here. Go over there and look at yourself.” They were in the old Bellanger ballroom; no other room was as large. It hadn’t been cleaned, so a layer of dust covered every surface. Bowe went to stand in front of a long rectangular mirror with a patterned frame. He rubbed dirt from a section of it so he could see his reflection.
“What do you see?” Sorrin asked.
“I see myself,” Bowe replied, sniffling. His face looked distorted in the grimy mirror.
“Describe what you see,” Sorrin ordered.
“I see a boy, thirteen years old,” Bowe said. “Blue eyes that have seen too much. Untidy brown hair—”
“Helion, I’m not looking for a poem. I’ll tell you what I see: I see a snot-nosed kid with vomit on his lips and tears tracking big, sorrowful tracks down his dirty, haggard face. I see a pathetic little runt of a Green who should have fallen from the Path long ago. Is that what you are?”
Bowe wiped at his face with his sleeve, cleaning off some of the snot and vomit. “Yes.”
“I told you once that I wasn’t going to let you die before you fulfilled your promise to me. And I’m certainly not going to let you be a sniveling boy. Do you hear me?” Sorrin shouted. “If it were just you, I wouldn’t care. But it’s all of us. You promised to save every Deadbeat in this place, as well as the servants and the escay boys that Thrace is training.”
“I didn’t even know I promised to save them until I was told last night,” Bowe said in a small voice. “How did you know?”
“I can understand not remembering—you were in a bad way for a long time after taking that poison, and I’m still surprised you recovered—but did you not think to talk to the escay after you were better? Ask them why they were working for us?”
“No,” Bowe said in an even smaller voice.
Sorrin snorted. “You’re an ascor in your attitude to escay, at least, if not in your attitude to death. We learn at an early age that death is merely a step from the Path. And here, you fall to pieces over the death of one person. An enemy of yours, no less.”
Bowe started crying again. He couldn’t help himself, even with Sorrin looking at him in disgust. “It’s not just Glil’s death,” he blubbered. Iyra’s accusation vibrated through him. She had said that he wasn’t an ascor. That his whole life had been a lie. More than his life. Sorrin was right: death was nothing. He’d accepted from an early age that he wasn’t to have a long life. But being an ascor—that was everything. He always knew that his short life as an ascor was infinitely preferable to any kind of life as an escay. Ascor could die, but they could never be reduced to being an escay. And now Iyra’s words felt like an implosion within him.
The image of Sorrin’s face, blurred by Bowe’s tears, scowled down at him. “If it’s not Glil’s death, what is it?”
He couldn’t tell Sorrin, of course. Even the suspicion that he wasn’t an ascor would destroy the brotherhood in an instant. His hands shuddered. “Not just Glil’s death. Edison’s death, Vitarr’s death. The Path before us is a black, twisted thing yearning for—grasping for—our blood, and everyone expects me to solve everything. I’m not who you think I am.” It has to be a lie. What Iyra had said—there was no sense in it. But why
had the Guild decided to help him when he was last on the lists? Why had they chosen him as their ally?
“The pressure you’re under…” Sorrin knelt at Bowe’s side and held his shoulder in a firm grip. The shuddering in Bowe’s body eased, then stopped. “Don’t think I don’t understand how much has been put on your shoulders.” He wiped at the tears on Bowe’s cheeks. “But this has to be your release. Your one collapse. You must rise stronger, and never again fall. You must and you will.” Sorrin’s firm voice helped Bowe to get his emotions under control. The tears dried up.
Sorrin pulled Bowe to his feet. From somewhere he produced a cloth and gave it to Bowe. “Clean and dry your face.” Bowe did so. “You have set yourself an impossible task, and I don’t really expect you to succeed. But I and others have trusted you, and we expect you to light a fire under the ascor establishment and let them know that there never were, and never will be again, such Greens as Bowe Bellanger and his brotherhood of Deadbeats.”
Goosebumps ran along Bowe’s arms. Sorrin’s words washed the weakness from his muscles and he stood straighter. But it was all a lie. “Sorrin, I’ve been faking all along. Kirande told me to pretend I belonged in the ascor ball, and ever since then I’ve just been continuing to fake it. But I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry that I deceived you and the others.”
Sorrin threw back his head and roared with laughter. Bowe looked at him, dumbstruck. “I’m not joking.”
Sorrin slapped Bowe on the back. “You still don’t get it, do you? Wait there for a moment.” Bowe watched as Sorrin left the room. There was some shouting, and then he was back, Bowe’s azure cloak in his hands. “Put this on,” he ordered.
Bowe was too surprised to do anything but comply. When the cloak was on, Sorrin stood in front of him and poked him in the chest. Hard. Bowe took a step back, rubbing at his chest. “You think you’re faking this? You have walked with ascor leaders and even Guardians and come away with allies and respect. People who have trained their whole lives in the ascorim and are the best protagonists of the art. You think you can fool them so easily?” He poked Bowe in the chest again.
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