Division of the Marked (The Marked Series)

by March McCarron

  Yarrow saw Bray wrinkle her nose and quirk a brow. He feared his friend was not making a good impression.

  “In two nights’ time, in fact, there is going to be a ball to commemorate the fifteenth anniversary of the King’s coronation.” Arlow leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankle. “You’ll have to come.”

  “No,” Bray said, her voice cold and definitive. “We haven’t come for parties. We have an investigation to conduct.”

  Arlow smiled roguishly at her. “Bray Marron—you are so exactly as I remember you. I’m afraid, however, with such a big event, you won’t be able to excuse yourselves without appearing very rude indeed. Anyone of import in the capital will be expected to attend.”

  “The King doesn’t even know we are here,” Bray shot back. “We have received no formal invitations to this event. I really don’t see how…”

  She trailed off as Arlow extracted a thick envelope from his pocket and slid it across the table to her.

  “I may have mentioned your presence already.” He winked, and Yarrow groaned internally.

  Bray pulled the envelope open and read the ornate invitation within, her eyes darting back and forth and her lips growing steadily thinner.

  “Formal attire,” Arlow said, his eyes twinkling mischievously, “will of course be necessary.”

  Bray passed the invitation to Peer on her right and met Arlow’s eye levelly. “Formal attire?”

  “Yes, dear,” Arlow said. “A gown, in your case.” His gaze shifted over to Peer and Adearre. “And I’m afraid leather is quite out of the question. I can recommend several good shops in town who will take good care of you, though it is rather last-minute.”

  “We aren’t going,” Bray said, almost pleasantly. “So it really isn’t a matter. I’m sure the King will more than understand that the possible murder of several of our kind is more important than a dance.”

  Yarrow admired her persistence. Arlow tended to sweep him up in plans so completely that he never found his voice to argue.

  “Spoken like a person who’s never met a King,” Arlow said with a laugh. He stood and bowed.

  “It has been a real pleasure to see you all again. I apologize for the shortness of my visit, but I must be heading back. Yarrow, will you walk me out?”

  “Of course,” Yarrow said, and stood. He followed his friend out of the dining room, through the foyer, and out into the cool night.

  “A word of warning from an interested party,” Arlow turned to face him. “I remember, I think probably better than anyone save the two of you, how you and Bray used to be when you were kids. And I can tell that you’re taken with her all over again.” Yarrow attempted to cut in, but Arlow waved him silent. “She is Chiona, Yarrow.”

  “I know that,” Yarrow said, his tone sounding childishly petulant, even in his own ears.

  “Do you, really? You’re teaching her the Ada Chae.” Arlow crossed his arms against the cold.

  “I’m teaching all of them, Arlow. And they’re teaching me the Tearre,” Yarrow said.

  “Did you initially suggest teaching all of them, or did you offer lessons to Bray and the others latched on?” Arlow asked, his mouth quirked knowingly.

  Yarrow did not want to answer this. “Isn’t it possible that we aren’t as different as everyone thinks? Why can’t a Chiona and a Cosanta be friends?”

  “But you don’t want to be friends,” Arlow said. “You want something more. How do you imagine this story ending? In marriage?”

  “The Chisanta do sometimes marry…”

  “Rarely, and never Chiona and Cosanta. It isn’t natural.”

  “She—”

  “No. Listen to me. I’m your friend, your oldest friend. I know you, Yarrow. You see the good in everyone. You will look at this girl and see her for what she once was—or for what you thought she once was. You will not see the fact that she is ruthless in a way that you could never be. Haven’t you heard what she’s been doing these last ten years? I have it on good authority that, if not for her Adourran friend’s restraint, she would break the neck of every shifty-eyed man she bumped into.”

  “That’s not—”

  “I have spent time with the Chiona, Yarrow. More than you. I sometimes even like them. I think there should be more cooperation between the two halves. But they are different from us—fundamentally different. Their power comes from their fierceness; they are far more likely to believe the ends justify the means, a philosophy I know you despise. You are too soft-hearted and bookish for a girl like that, Yarrow. Do yourself a favor, and keep her at arm’s length, will you? Go back home to your library and flirt with that Chaskuan girl I know you’re fond of.” Arlow clapped his friend on the back and turned away, walking toward the stable.

  “Arlow—” Yarrow called, frustrated.

  “Can’t talk any more now,” Arlow said over his shoulder. “We can speak again tomorrow. Say good night to Ko-Jin for me, will you?”

  “Arlow—why do you always have to do this?”

  “Haven’t I explained the power of a dramatic exit?” Arlow called, and receded into the darkness.

  Yarrow stared after him, his shoulders slumping. Why did he always let Arlow dominate their conversations? He was bursting with retorts and had no one to say them to.

  A shuffle sounded from behind him and Yarrow spun. He found Bray standing, mostly in shadow, watching him.

  “It’s strange.” She stepped forward. “I remember him being just as obnoxious when I first met him. But somehow he grew on me. I can’t actually recall how that happened.”

  “He does that,” Yarrow said cautiously. How much had she heard?

  “He isn’t my biggest fan, is he?” She stepped closer still. The nearest lamppost illuminated her face, casting it in strong, sharp shadows.

  “You heard?”

  “I know I shouldn’t have,” she said. “I was coming to tell him that we would certainly not be attending that ball. I didn’t want him to think he’d won the argument just because he walked away.”

  “That is his trademark move,” Yarrow said. He found he couldn’t meet her eye—what exactly had he said in regards to marriage? “Odd that I didn’t hear you open the door.”

  She stepped even closer. “I didn’t use the door.”

  Right. She can pass through solid objects.

  “He’s not entirely wrong, you know,” she said.

  Unexpectedly, she reached out and took his hand in her own. Yarrow felt a shock run up his arm at the touch, light-headed at the sudden contact. Her fingers felt so small; it was hard to imagine they’d ended lives.

  “I don’t relish killing, but I do it if it seems the best course. Have you ever killed, Yarrow?”

  “No.”

  “Would you? If the situation arose, and a person needed killing—could you do it?”

  It seemed, to Yarrow, an oddly morbid conversation to have while holding hands. He was having trouble focusing. She ran her thumb along his palm.

  He also couldn’t understand her emotions. They beat with a strange tangle of sadness, hope, and affection.

  “I honestly don’t know,” he said.

  “Does it disturb you that I do kill—that I have, and I will?” she asked.

  He did not know how to respond. He could not stomach the idea of taking a life, but he also could not believe Bray capable of cruelty. Justice, perhaps, but not cruelty.

  “I wish you hadn’t been put in a situation that—”

  “I chose my occupation, Yarrow. And I do not regret it.”

  “I wouldn’t have you change anything. I trust you—I trust your judgment.”

  She smiled, squeezed his hand, and released it. “Who’s the Chaskuan girl?” Yarrow’s forehead creased in confusion. “The one Arlow said you should go back and flirt with.”

  Yarrow laughed awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Just a girl who sings sometimes in Cosanta City. Nothing serious.”

  “Oh.”

  H
e registered, in her emotions, a distinct spike of jealousy. The knowledge that he could cause her envy sent a sudden rush of delirious happiness through him. He beamed.

  Her brow furrowed, perhaps misconstruing his smile. She strode back to the inn without a backwards glance.

  “Spirits bless you,” Yarrow said distractedly, as Bray pulled a handkerchief out of her jerkin and blew her nose. It appeared she had a dust allergy.

  Bray turned the page, searching for the correct date. Her eyes scanned the yellowing paper—the headline of the Westport Chronicler the day after Da Un Marcu four years past had to do with a scandalous elopement. She shut the Chronicler tome with zeal, sending a plume of dust in the air. She sneezed.

  “Spirits bless you,” Yarrow murmured.

  Bray rose, replaced the Westport Chronicler from four years past, and retrieved the Westport Chronicler from five years past.

  The newspaper archives were housed in a musty basement with insufficient lighting. It was a suitably dreary locale for such dreary work. She returned to her seat and thumbed through the pages, searching yet again for the pertinent dates. Her eyes were tired and itchy, her throat sore from the dust. They had begun just after breakfast, and it was surely approaching dinner time.

  Yarrow closed his tome and rose beside her to claim a new set. He seemed utterly in his element, so focused. Bray’s mind wandered. It might be important work, but this sort of tedious research was not her cup of tea.

  “I’ve found another one,” Ko-Jin announced from the other side of the library.

  “Very well,” Bray said, her voice hoarse. “Add it to the map.”

  He stood and crossed to the large map of the three kingdoms. He took a pin and placed it carefully in a small town in east Chasku.

  “What’s that bring our total to?” Peer called from the Adourran end of the newspaper collection.

  Ko-Jin counted the pins. “Thirty-eight.”

  “Make sure you note the date,” Bray said unnecessarily, as Ko-Jin was already writing the year in a precise hand.

  Peer whistled. “Thirty-eight…”

  “Was this one like the others?” Bray asked.

  “Yes,” Ko-Jin said. “Fire on Da Un Marcu Eve—whole family killed. This one, too, said the family was all still abed. Strange, isn’t it, that so many of these people didn’t even wake and try to get out?”

  “What I don’t understand,” Yarrow sat down with his new collection of newspapers, “is how no one has spotted this before us. Fires of this kind happening so often on the exact same day. How did we not see it?”

  Bray tried to rub the stiffness out of her shoulder. “It’s a fundamental flaw in our law enforcement system. In fact, you could say that we have no system—no one to oversee investigations, gather and organize disparate facts, or discern patterns. What happens in one city is never looked at alongside what happens in another. These fires appear to be accidents, and they do not happen often enough in the same region to arouse local suspicions.”

  “Why,” Adearre asked, “do you think the murderer is killing the whole families and not just the marked?”

  “The families were liable to know that the children were marked,” Bray said. “Clearly, they didn’t want the Chisanta looking into it. And it worked. If it weren’t for that minor slip-up in Greystone we’d still be none the wiser.”

  A boy shuffled into the room wearing the navy blue of a telegram boy. “Message for Bray Marron,” he said.

  Bray extended her hand and paid the lad, who then hurried out of the room. She unfurled the small roll of parchment and read.

  “Dolla’s gotten back to me about the number.”

  “How many?” Yarrow asked.

  “This year, it was brought to an even one-hundred-and-fifty.”

  “One-fifty…” Peer said softly. “Great Spirits…”

  “And if you factor in the families of each of them…” Bray said, the horrible math spinning in her head.

  “And the unintentional casualties of neighboring houses catching fire,” Ko-Jin added. They had already found several cases like this.

  “We’re talking about a serial killer whose victims likely range between five hundred and a thousand, depending on the number of siblings involved and accidental deaths,” Yarrow said quietly.

  A silence fell across them then, as they each individually attempted to process this number. It was horrifying. This killer, or more likely killers, were the most prolific in modern history. There was no criminal who could hold a candle to numbers of that magnitude.

  “Thirty-five of our brothers and sisters did not arrive this year,” Bray said. “This must be a massive organization, to be in so many places at the exact same time. We’re dealing with something monstrous in scope.”

  Bray stood and looked at the map, leaning close to examine the pins. The more information they collected, the clearer the picture would be, but even after only one day’s effort a trend was apparent. The fires in Chasku, Adourra, and the far west of Daland were more recent. The earlier ones tended to be in east Daland. It stood to reason that the culprit’s base was in that part of the kingdoms, though it may well have moved in recent years. Of the thirty-eight fires they had found, four had been in Accord.

  “I should speak to the high constable about the fires here. Maybe he will have some pertinent information for us.”

  Peer stood. “I’ll come too.”

  “No,” Bray said. “You’re of more use to us here.” Peer did not look pleased by this, but Bray continued on undaunted, “Adearre?”

  Adearre offered Peer a gloating smile and rose.

  “The rest of you keep looking,” Bray said. “The more facts we have the better.”

  Bray climbed up the narrow stairway into the main library—a massive, brightly lit space filled with more books than a person could ever hope to read in a lifetime. Bray smiled as she thought of Yarrow’s expression when they had first come through the main doors that morning—like he had never seen anything so beautiful in his whole life.

  They exited through the monstrous oaken doors and into the bustle of the main road. The sun still hung in the sky, but its light was weakening. Wind gusted and Bray pulled her long brown coat tighter to her body, throwing the hood up to protect her bare head from the cold. Adearre did the same.

  Bray led the way on foot. The constable’s headquarters was a bit of a walk, but with the constant traffic on the roads it would be faster on foot. She and Adearre weaved their way in and out of the crowds.

  She was not looking forward to seeing the head constable of Accord again. She rather despised the man—he had clearly earned his place through politics rather than skill. He had a way of looking at her as if undressing her with his eyes, and everything he said rang with dishonesty.

  The constable’s office appeared to be a miniature of the library. It had the same brick face and pointed roof. Bray climbed the steps and proceeded inside, glad to be safe from the wind.

  She was disappointed to see the constable still had the same assistant, a young man with a pointed face, a high voice, and a bad attitude.

  “Back again, Mistress Chisanta,” he said with a kind of nasal arrogance.

  “I need to speak with Mr. Abbort as soon as possible,” Bray said, lowering her hood.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be very soon—Mr. Abbort is tremendously busy.” The assistant opened the schedule book and began thumbing through the pages.

  “How does three weeks from tomorrow suit you?” he asked, poising his pen to write her in.

  “It suits me very ill,” Bray said through clenched teeth. “I need to speak to Mr. Abbort on a matter of extreme urgency.”

  “I appreciate that,” the assistant said, looking up at her placidly. “But Mr. Abbort leaves for an inspection of the constables out west in two days’ time. He won’t return for three weeks.”

  “I am sure that you can arrange something,” Adearre said with a wink, his tone velvet.

  The assistant
gulped and turned pink, his fingers danced pointlessly over the calendar.

  “What is he doing now?” Bray asked.

  He bristled at her impertinence. “He is out dealing with city matters.”

  “And tomorrow morning?” Bray pressed.

  The assistant turned the pages in his scheduler to verify. “Several court hearings.”

  “And in the evening?” Bray asked, her patience growing thin.

  The young man laughed, a false, irritating sound. “He will, of course, be attending the King’s anniversary ball. I’m quite sorry, but the soonest I can arrange a meeting is three weeks from tomorrow.”

  “Thank you for your help,” Bray said, her voice hard with sarcasm. She bowed, pulled her hood up over her head once again, and strode through the doors, Adearre at her side.

  “You should have allowed me to do the talking,” Adearre said.

  She glanced sideways at him. “Why, could you have seduced us into an appointment?”

  “Perhaps.” He flashed her a smile.

  “I don’t think I could have stomached that.”

  He arched an eyebrow at her.

  “I really hate that man.”

  He put an arm around her shoulder as they walked, letting her share his warmth. “And you think I can do better? I am touched.”

  She smiled and patted his hand affectionately, glad that their friendship had returned to solid footing. Though their relationship had always been as rocky as the Verdant Peaks.

  “What shall we do now?” he asked.

  “Something very dreadful,” she said, her voice sour. “Ask Arlow Bowlerham for the name of a dressmaker.”

  Bray stared dubiously at the dress in the maid’s hands—a deep green gown with a slim, restricting bodice and absurdly wide skirts.

  “You know how to work this thing?” she asked the maid who had been sent to help her dress.

  “Work what thing, mistress?”

  “The dress—all of those laces and such.”

  The maid smiled. “Yes, I know how it works.”

  Bray huffed. “Very well. Let’s begin the procedure.”