by Ann Denton
“Say something snarky,” Mala muttered.
Lowe could barely keep the surprise from his face. “What?”
“Just do it,” Mala hardened her expression.
Lowe swallowed. He was playing the role of a bookkeeper’s assistant, in from another township to audit the taxes. So Lowe said the first thing that popped into his head related to his role. “You’re just sending me away so you can skim Troe’s—”
Mala clocked him hard in the eye, and Lowe went down.
What the hell? He wanted to yell at her but couldn’t blow their cover. There wasn’t a six-year-old anywhere that would talk back twice to a man like Keptiker. He did his best to look afraid instead of pissed.
“You wanna accuse me a’ cheatin’ my cousin? That’s funny,” Mala rasped, bringing her fist down on him again. This time her knuckles connected with the side of his head. The world went red for a second as Lowe fought the urge to pass out.
Mala turned to one of her companions, a senior Erlender carrying a club covered in bolts. “Ain’t that funny?”
The Erlender laughed uncomfortably, spit flying through a gap in his teeth. Mala clapped him on the shoulder “Shave ‘is head,” Mala jerked Keptiker’s head in Lowe’s direction.
What?! Lowe caught the outburst in his throat.
“And ‘is eyebrows,” Mala continued. “Clowns otta look tha’ part. Then take ‘im with a group to get water. If you needa’ … chain ‘im up. Don’t take no lip from a kid. Getta lotta water. I don’ wanna run out. Our own supply. Don’ trust no one inside.”
Gap-Tooth nodded and stepped forward, grabbing Lowe by his spindly arm and dragging him toward the river. He pointed to several members of the party, one soldier and four slaves, and barked at them to follow. The soldier uncuffed the slaves and shoved them toward Lowe.
The other soldier led the slaves to a wagon full of water jugs.
The gap-toothed Erlender dragged Lowe off into the bushes. He drew a thin razorblade from his pocket. Lowe stiffened.
“Hold still,” the man spit.
Lowe froze, hardly daring to breathe as the razor slid across his scalp. Gap-Tooth nicked Lowe’s forehead and a thin stream of blood dribbled down his cheek. He blinked, not daring to move to wipe it away.
“Now ya’ look tha’ part. Lil’ fool.”
Lowe tamped down on his anger by identifying the branches of a rhododendron bush nearby. Mala’s mucking with the plan. Is this getting even? For what I said? Stupid—but there’s nothing I can do about it right now. He wouldn’t let himself picture the verbal lashing he’d give her for this. Not in front of Gap-Tooth. But the images popped into his brain nonetheless. Shouting at her. He needed a minute to cool down.
“I have ta take a shit,” Lowe said.
Gap-Tooth pocketed the razor and stood, scowling. “Be quick about it. If I have ta come lookin’ fer you, you’s gonna wish Keptiker killed you. Understand?”
Lowe nodded fervently.
The Erlender spat through his teeth and lumbered away. Lowe watched him go, hoping to Deadwater that some animal with big teeth and a bad temper would come barreling out of the woods and eat the man.
Lowe sighed and drew his hands over his face, smearing blood across his cheek. He was agitated. Nervous. More than usual. Because I don’t have a plan? He hated improv, but he’d done it before. What’s so different?
He’d never had anything personal at stake. It had always been an assignment. But Beza was missing and Ein and Neid and Mala were his responsibility. Mala is my … He couldn’t finish the phrase. Not even in his head. Because if he did, he wasn’t sure he’d finish the mission. He’d grab her and run.
Ah, shit. I’m losing it. Buck up, buttercup. Lowe swallowed, shaking his head. He shoved away the emotion. Locked it up. Like he’d done for years. It was too late for doubts. This is to buy us more time. Whatever’s going down, we need more time. Tier has a plan. The President has a plan. Trust it. Do your damn job.
He started walking upriver. He passed the Erlender soldiers and the slaves and walked until he couldn’t hear them. Eventually the only sound was the soft shush of the water.
Lowe knelt on the banks and pulled something from his pocket: a small corked vial of clear liquid. It was a laxative, taken from a plant whose name he couldn’t pronounce. He’d wanted to wait to dump it in the water jugs … but he was here and Erlenders were gathering water downstream, so he might as well make the most of it.
He uncorked the vial with a small pop and poured it into the stream. It would give the Erlenders a case of the runs. Just a little something else to distract them from Mala’s slipups: the cracks in her accent, the flick of her wrists. Things anybody would miss, if they had a bad bodily function to worry about.
Lowe grimaced as he stood, a little dizzy from the blow to his head. He went upstream to get himself some laxative-free water.
A branch cracked to his left. Lowe turned his head. He heard murmuring. Cautiously, he crept through the underbrush toward the sound.
He spotted a woman through the trees. She had long black hair, two blue stripes on her nose, and sweeping robes. Her cheeks were painted with red airplanes, the metallic angels that had carried the Erlenders away from the bomb. An Erlender priestess.
Lowe crouched lower. The priests and priestesses were the ones who did blood magic. Peeled the skin off captured Kreis and called them demons. His mouth curled into a snarl. But he crooked his head. This ritual looked different from the snake-oil healings he’d seen in the markets. Different from the crop-growing sacrifices they made each season.
The woman stood before a rough altar made out of a dead tree stump with runes etched into its sides. With her back to Lowe, she chanted under her breath.
Smoke coiled into the air, carrying the sweetness of burning incense. She shifted, and Lowe saw something gleam on the altar. The priestess held it up. And used the knife to slice her hand.
She traced symbols in the air with her bloody hand.
Lowe blinked. He rubbed his eyes and squinted. Mala hit me harder than I thought.
His eyes had to be out of focus. It looked like the blood from her hand had smeared against a wall. But there was no wall. Just her blood. Writing strange symbols in the air.
Lowe shook his head. He pressed a hand against the goose egg on his face. He didn’t feel delusional. But he’d been dizzy earlier. A concussion. She gave me a damn concussion.
The priestess stepped forward, into the bloody symbol. And she disappeared.
Lowe blinked. Muck. It’s worse than a concussion.
Slowly, he stood. Working on instinct, not quite sure what he was doing, he approached the altar. He glanced up. There was nothing in the air. Flooding hell. I’m seeing things. But he looked down. The altar was still splattered red and the blood was congealing. An incense stick still burned.
And there, in the center of the altar was the tiny dagger the priestess had used. But it wasn’t a dagger. Not really. The hilt was common metal, but the blade was something different. Long and sharp with an arrow tip at its end.
He’d seen something like it once. In the dark, in the hands of a girl he’d followed through the brush when she’d begged the invisible divine for protection.
The clock hand glinted.
Did I touch one of my hallucinogens when I got out the laxative powder? Did I get out the wrong thing?
Lowe looked forward, peering into the woods. He waved his hand in the air above the altar. For a second, he thought his fingers flickered out of view.
No. It’s not real. Damnit. I didn’t dose them all with hallucinogens, did I? Muck!
Somewhere behind him, a branch snapped. Then another, and another, followed by the sound of massive feet plunging through fallen leaves and brush. “Where are you, boy?” the Erlender bellowed.
Shit.
Without thought, Lowe grabbed the clock hand and shoved it in his pocket. He scuttled through the trees, toward the gap-toothed guard. “Here!” he calle
d.
Just my imagination. Just a hallucination.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Lowe and the group of water collectors took too long coming back. The water wagon waited while they hauled jug after jug to the stream and back. But the main party moved on without them.
Which meant Mala was going to see Troe alone, with nothing but some green newbies and a two-hour lag before Lowe could get to any of them. Wonderful.
Gap-Tooth stayed on Lowe’s heels for the rest of the haul, taunting him and knocking him around so he’d spill water and have to go back to refill. As if being delayed wasn’t enough.
Then once they’d loaded up, they realized they had a flat tire. Waiting to change it made Lowe’s hands tremble. Ein’s there. He’ll think of something. Ein’s there, he’ll think of something. He felt seconds away from going insane.
Nerves hit him full force as they finally started walking again. The terror manifested as heat, flaming over his body. Then as the shakes. Then he felt like puking. The thought of Mala facing Troe alone made him feel sick. Or it was that and a combination of the hallucinogen wearing off. Lowe had to focus on every step in order to prevent a meltdown.
When I get there, I’ll tell her, he decided. If she knows about the trade, she won’t pull something like this again. If she knows, she can help me brainstorm. We can all come up with a plan. They can meet up with Stelle as a team. I can’t keep this from them anymore. I can’t.
They finally made it to the outskirts of the city, the outer ring of rubble from the construction-debris moat the Erlenders had created to protect their king.
But Lowe only had eyes for Troe’s compound, that black glistening skyscraper in the distance. It was the lone skyscraper from a city that had once boasted many. It looked like a sword. A towering obelisk of black glass, it tore open the belly of the sky.
His group wound through the only road carved out of the mountain of debris. Their water wagon passed groups of beggars and hawkers and a gaggle of priestesses. Lowe did a double-take, but the black-haired priestess wasn’t among them.
“We’re the blood a’ the lands beyond,” one of the priestesses called out to their group.
“Spells guide you,” Lowe’s group replied in unison.
And then they were there: staring up at the compound. Lowe swallowed. It was so much bigger up close.
The wagon passed through the gate leading to the compound. Erlender soldiers stood with guns and crossbows on walls of debris on either side of them. He and the Wildes shuffled forward single file behind the wagon, hands submissively in the air.
It was Lowe’s first time in the compound. The mountain of rubble and the armed men atop it made him feel claustrophobic. He recited Ein’s getaway plans in his head. He hoped Stelle would help the group come up with more. With something. A way for them all to get out. Including Mala.
Inside the gate was a mass of orderly, organized military might. At least two trucks drove around the compound making deliveries. Bread ovens were being tended and food distributed at outdoor tables to the east. Soldiers practiced drills in a cleared area. And the path to the front entrance was lined by regularly placed spikes topped by severed heads that gaped down at him. He held his nose at the stench of rot.
Even the severed heads spoke of discipline. Routine. Practice. Lowe glanced around again at the efficiency of everyone in the compound. He held his hands up as his gun was emptied of bullets and handed back to him. Could a madman really establish such order? Is war that close?
His group were escorted to a side entrance, so they could unload their water.
“Hey!” Gap-Tooth jumped up on the loading dock and yelled at the group. “Start carryin’ this in. And don’t drop nuffin, understand?”
Lowe nodded and scrambled to help, picking up the heaviest canister he could manage—which wasn’t much, with his child’s body. He swayed under its weight.
I have to find them, he thought. Deadwater only knows where the muck everyone is. Neid was likely in the dungeons underground, where all the slaves were kept. Ein was probably wandering the halls looking for him. And Mala … Mala might be anywhere. Tromping through the kitchens, examining the slaves and their holding cells, or even—Deadwater forbid—the throne room.
Dammit, Mala, why did you send me off! You should have waited! Lowe plunked the water canister down hard on the cement floor. His small arms were already aching.
He took a moment to look around. They had unloaded into a warehouse. Wooden crates were piled high along the walls, but there was a bellows in the corner near the door. A smith was hammering a pole, turning one end into a spike. He dipped the spike into water and a hiss of steam erupted.
Ominous fog clouded Lowe’s vision. His stomach dropped. His feet carried him closer to the blacksmith. The spike looked too much like the ones he’d passed outside. His heart beat faster. The smith turned his back to Lowe, taking the spike with him. There was a stomach-clenching shloop. And then the smith turned back around; a head was skewered on the spike.
At first, all Lowe could think was: It’s not her. There were no long brown curls. The hair was blonde. It wasn’t Mala. But the smith handed off the head to a soldier. The soldier spun it around like a baton. Like a toy. That’s when Lowe saw the face. It wasn’t Mala. It was Neid.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Lowe couldn’t draw attention to himself. Couldn’t react. He was supposedly in Keptiker’s bad graces. And Gap-Tooth hovered over him like a mama bird. So he waited until the water wagon was unloaded to bolt through the far doors of the warehouse, skid down a hallway, and launch himself up the stairs toward the better guest quarters.
He startled some laundry women on the way.
“Watch it! Lil’ monster,” one snarled.
But the older woman batted at the younger one and winked at him. “Bet he’s in a hurry to meet his girl, ain’tcha?”
Lowe panted, but took the opportunity to ask for directions. When he told the women he was late to meet with Keptiker, their eyes widened.
“Well, then, you better run twice as fast lil’ man,” the old woman changed her tone. They gave him a quick set of directions and he nodded his thanks before bolting.
Keptiker’s room was at the end of a long hall, windows lining one side. There were no guards here—it wasn’t necessary this deep into the compound. There were at least twenty meters between this floor and the ground. People below scurried about like ants. When Lowe passed a window that had been shattered and boarded up, he started to stick to the inner wall.
She’d better be in there.
She was.
He pushed open the door so hard it smacked the wall. Keptiker started. His hands went to his chest in an undeniably effeminate gesture.
“What the muck was that?” Lowe kept his voice quiet, but it shook with tension. His vision was tainted red and he breathed carefully to avoid a melt. First the beating on the road, and now Neid, dead not ten minutes into the mission. He focused on carefully and quietly shutting the door.
Dead. The only semicompetent agent he had was dead, and he couldn’t decide whom to blame. Neid, for getting caught? Mala, for being stupid? Tier? Fell, for agreeing to send them in the first place?
He stared Mala down. “You think you should lead this mission? You? Tossed me in with that group and when we get here, what’s happened?” He could feel his face heat. “You got Neid killed already? Five seconds in? What the mucking hell?”
Mala watched at him, but he couldn’t read her emotions through Keptiker’s face. Two seconds later, her body changed. Keptiker’s skin rippled, turned dark, and suddenly Fell was staring back at him. He could read remorse in Mala’s expression then. But her jaw clicked in defiance.
Mala didn’t answer him. Didn’t explain. Didn’t give him the Deadwater-damned time of day. She just sighed and muttered down at her body, “Great. Where’s Ein?”
“I don’t know,” Lowe spat, clenching his fists, bones vibrating in anger.
“Well you’d better go get him before someone comes in here and sees me.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
Mala reached into the pocket of her jumpsuit and pulled out a charred piece of paper. “Here,” she said, holding it out to him.
He took the half-burned piece of paper. It was a charcoal drawing. A perfect rendering of Lowe’s face. He recognized the lines. The soft cross-hatch.
Lowe’s blood ran cold. Stelle. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t blink.
Stelle knew what was at stake. Why would she have a drawing of him? Insurance? She was his oldest friend. I was her Shadow. Doesn’t she trust me?
He stared at the chipped paint on the walls, at a loss. It wasn’t possible. She would never, not after everything we’ve done to get here … But there was his face, etched onto the yellowed paper in a hand he’d know anywhere.
“They had a drawing of you. You were compromised. I found it in the Chiara’s rooms.” Mala blinked away a set of tears. “I should have told you. I couldn’t think of a way to talk to you. Or Ein. I’m supposed to be suspicious of you guys because you’re from another township. But I thought Keptiker …” She started to wring her hands. “I mean, I could get away with torturing Neid. With scaring her, I mean. And it was the best we could come up with to make you look different.”
She was just trying to help, the voice in his head said. But a visceral anger took over. Dammit, Mala, you can’t be the hero here. Heroes don’t exist in a place like this.
He needed to scare her. She could never pull something like this again. But looking at her, melting down into Fell already, now about to cry. He couldn’t tell her about the trade. All the images that had sustained him on the trek here vanished. Mala was too emotional. She can’t handle more.
And Stelle? Now Stelle was questionable. He didn’t know if he could trust her. She had a mucking drawing of him. That had been found. Partially burned, true. But she hadn’t covered her tracks enough. Had gotten lazy. Why had she been mucking drawing him in the first place? His hope for the mission vanished. Grim determination took its place.