The Sisters of Reckoning

by Charlotte Nicole Davis

  “It’s a shame we aren’t just here on holiday,” Mallow said in awe. “Honest to the dead, I thought fun wheels were a myth.”

  “Hell, I thought carnivals were a myth,” Raven muttered.

  “Focus,” Aster urged. They were wearing dustkerchiefs now, their favors soothed with the ghostweed salve, and they needed to find the safe house their allies had set up for them. The Reckoners who had traveled ahead of them were already in place all over the city, lying in wait until sundown to begin the uprising. But as Aster led them through the streets, keeping her head down to avoid the eyes of drunken revelers, the first punch of real fear sank into her gut. There were more lawmen on duty here than there had been even at McClennon’s speech in Northrock, all of them armed with long guns and half of them leading dogs. The Reckoners might have had an advantage with their voltric weapons, but they would be outnumbered two to one. And if they couldn’t keep the law busy while Aster and her friends infiltrated the gala …

  No, you can’t think like that, Aster told herself. The Ladies, the Scorpions, and the rebels of the Nine were some of the strongest people she knew, and now that they were all working together, they would be more than a match for these men. She would trust them to get the job done.

  Just as they were trusting her.

  “Here we are,” Aster said in a low voice. They’d reached a saloon called the Crimson Inn. Their contacts were waiting for them in one of the rooms upstairs. It was still at least an hour until sundown, but the bar was already packed with people, mostly dustblood men who had been given the day off and intended to make the most of it. Every few moments the cacophony of their voices was broken by the crack of a pool ball or the shout of a curse. The air was thick with the sickly-sweet smell of smoke and chaw. Fistfuls of straw had been strewn across the worn wooden floor to soak up spilled beer, and it crunched under Aster’s boots as she pushed her way through the crowd.

  “Why do they even celebrate Reckoning Day?” Derrick muttered. He clung close to Aster, as if the noise might break him like a glass. “The Reckoning has brought dustbloods nothing but suffering.”

  Aster swallowed. She was too busy concentrating on keeping her mind from melting in this room full of close, sweating bodies to try to explain the complexities of Reckoning Day to Derrick. “It’s rare enough the landmasters give us a holiday. What difference does it make to them if we spend it laughing or crying?” she muttered back. “It gives folks a chance to break bread with family and friends. Not many who’d pass up on that.”

  “I suppose … it still feels a bit ghoulish to me…”

  “Well, then, let me remind you that we’re bringing about a new Reckoning tonight, Derrick, and that soon we’ll all have real cause to celebrate.”

  They finally found their way to the stairs, and Aster took them up to the room where the other Reckoners were waiting for them. She knocked on the door, exchanged the watchword, and greeted their allies: a young Lady Ghost and a Scorpion boy.

  “Thank the dead,” the girl breathed, waving them all inside. A floral favor crept its way up her light brown skin, half hidden behind long black hair. “You’re late. We feared the worst.”

  “We lost time on the road,” Zee said apologetically. “Ran into some razor-backed mountain hogs—”

  “Never mind that. You’re here now. But you don’t have a minute to spare. The other servants are due to start arriving in an hour.”

  “So you were able to make contact with them?” Derrick asked. He had provided the name of the catering company his uncle always used.

  “Yes, and we got ahold of some serving uniforms for you,” the boy said. He was white-skinned and redheaded, like Derrick himself, but without the shadow. “And the names of the servants you’ll be replacing. It’s a work-for-hire outfit, so none of the other servants will know each other, or you, for that matter. Same goes for the raveners—they have a list of who’s scheduled to work tonight, but they won’t know anyone by sight.”

  “They will sense our favors, though,” Violet pointed out, crossing her arms. “Have you accounted for that?”

  “Actually, I have,” said Derrick. He had touched up his black hair dye to cover the red roots, and now he and Violet looked like they could be brother and sister. “Like a deadwall, the capitol building was built with mortar that’s been mixed with theomite dust. Many such government buildings were, before deadwalls became commonplace. So its magic should be more than enough to drown out that of your favors.”

  “Which we’ll still have to cover up with the ghostweed and some makeup,” Tansy clarified.

  Aster then turned to the girl and the boy, clasping each of their arms in turn. “We’d never have been able to do this without you. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “I’m just grateful to be a part of it, honest,” the boy said, blushing brightly.

  The girl nodded, her grip strong. “You tell those bastards the Ladies sent you.”

  Aster and the others quickly changed into the servants’ uniforms, crisp black-and-white suits and dresses meant to make the wearer blend into the background. It was not lost on Aster that even now, before the biggest fight of their lives, they were going to face the landmasters dressed like their lapdogs. The thought played hell with her confidence, eating away at the edges of it like bile. She would much rather be facing these men with the clothes she’d worn in freedom.

  But as long as this got them in the room with Jerrod McClennon, little else mattered.

  “I hope I pass for a man,” Mallow mumbled. She’d wrapped her chest even more tightly than usual, and she smoothed down the front of her dress shirt fastidiously.

  “A boy, more like,” Tansy said dryly. “Twelve years old, maybe.”

  “Fourteen,” Mal haggled.

  “I promise none of these bastards is gonna look twice at you,” Aster cut in, reassuring herself as much as Mallow. “The help is invisible to them.”

  After they finished getting dressed, they applied the ghostweed salve to their favors and covered them with concealer. This was the part they could not rush. The makeup would have to stand up to hard scrutiny. As many nights as Aster had spent in front of the vanity at the welcome house, there was a certain muscle memory to her movements now, her hand steady as she made careful brushstrokes. But instead of dread in her belly, tonight there was excitement. She would do this ritual one last time, painting her face for the sake of rich men, and then she would cut them down.

  Once everyone’s disguises were complete, they only had a quarter of an hour left to race to the capitol building. They said their final goodbyes to the Scorpion and Lady Ghost and hurried out the back of the inn.

  The streets had changed dramatically in the time they’d been inside.

  The sky had deepened to a dusky rust red, and with the setting of the sun had come the first bursts of activity from the Reckoners’ uprising. Several Ladies and Scorpions were breaking into the high-end shops—throwing stones through the glass display windows, pulling goods from the store, and passing them out to cheering dustbloods on the street. Others were climbing to the rooftops, shouting at the top of their lungs, listing the landmasters’ crimes and the Reckoners’ demands. One young man had even stolen a lawman’s horse and was riding up and down Main Street, letting out wild whoops of joy, the horse hooves beating a tattoo on the pavement. The chaos of it became inseparable from that of the drunken revelers who spilled out from the bars, joining in the destruction and pushing it to even more dangerous extremes. The sizzle and bang of firecrackers, the smell of smoke. Aster could not tell, as she and her friends bobbed and weaved through the teeming streets, who had come here with the Reckoners, who had rushed to their aid, and who was simply taking advantage of the confusion. It was just a raw release of fury, bright and burning, the heart of an explosion years in the making.

  But the law had swarmed the streets, too, of course—lashing out with their billy clubs, unleashing their hounds, shooting to maim, threatening to kill. Cries of pa
in rose up through the chanting and cheers. Gunshots rattled off in quick staccatos. Every so often a Scorpion would fire off a crack of voltricity in return, the blue-white light arcing into the advancing dark, the thunder rolling through the canyon.

  “These dissenters can’t all be ours, can they?” Derrick asked in an undertone. They had all linked arms so they wouldn’t lose one another, but they still got jostled roughly as people sprinted past in every direction. Even so, they limited themselves to a brisk walk, though they were losing precious time fighting the crowds—Aster did not want to draw any attention from the law, and she could only hope their servants’ uniforms would be enough to ward off any remaining suspicion.

  “No, there’s too many people out here,” Aster replied to Derrick. “I think some of these are just … regular folks who’ve had enough.”

  “But that’s a good sign, isn’t it? If they’re joining the protest?” Clementine pointed out.

  Aster didn’t respond. Her lungs were spongy with the damp heat of her own growing panic. She did not want to see these people hurt. She hadn’t even infiltrated the gala yet, and already the night was spiraling out of control.

  At last, though, they reached the capitol building.

  It took up a whole city block to itself, a line of coaches pulling up to its great circle drive under the light of gas lamps. The surrounding lawn, lush with desert flowers and dotted with rock gardens, was lined by an iron fence that barely held back a crush of people—journalists casting about for a story, Reckoners crying out in protest, common fairblood folks simply hoping for a glimpse of Arketta’s royalty as the landmasters rode through the gates, raveners waving them through. The capitol building itself was built of smooth white stone that gleamed like polished bone, and a great gold dome sat atop its roof, the Arkettan flag flapping from its apex. If Aster had not already been to the capitol at Northrock, it would have been the most imposing place she’d ever seen. Even so, it was a shocking sight in the Scab, the sheer size and scope of this place. Unlike a gambling hall or a welcome house, decorated to gaudy excess with riches, there was a brutish simplicity on display here, a power that had long since surpassed the need to impress.

  She could not fail.

  Aster led her friends around the block to the back of the building, sweating beneath her stiff servants’ uniform despite the night chill. This entrance was much quieter and darker than the front. There were no crowds here, and the line of elegant stagecoaches on their way in was replaced by a line of delivery wagons on their way out. A pair of raveners stood at this gate as well, directing traffic. Aster finally broke into a run, motioning for the others to follow her. They were playing the part of servants who were running late. It wouldn’t hurt to look a little frenzied.

  “Excuse me! Pardon me!” Aster called out to the raveners as she approached the gate, the soles of her shoes slapping against the sidewalk. The nearest ravener immediately raised his gun, and Aster skidded to a stop an arm’s length away.

  “This entrance’s for staff only!” he barked.

  “Yes, that’s us,” Aster said, breathing hard. “We’re late.”

  He lowered his gun halfway, his eyes still narrowed. “I’ll ripping say. The guests are already arriving. I ought to turn your sorry asses around.”

  “And leave McClennon short-staffed on the most important night of the year?” Violet challenged, stepping forward. “I’ll be sure to let him know it was you who stopped us, then.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, but he relented and holstered his weapon, replacing it with a clipboard.

  “Names,” he said in a bored voice.

  Aster and the others rattled off the names they’d been given. The ravener ticked them off one by one. He didn’t press for details, didn’t linger on their faces.

  Thank the dead—

  “Wait a minute,” his partner cut in, and Aster’s hopes plummeted just as quickly as they’d soared. “This still don’t smell right. Why are you little shits so late in the first place?”

  Aster and Violet looked at each other out of the corner of their eyes. They had not yet come up with a good answer for that. None of this had been part of the plan. The raveners exchanged a wary glance of their own. The second ravener reached for his gun—

  “It was the riots,” Violet said with sudden confidence. “There are rioters out front, and on the streets, too. I’m sure you’ve seen them. They called us traitors, tried to stop us coming in.”

  “Mm, is that so?”

  “You sure you weren’t maybe out there with them?” the first ravener demanded.

  “Why would we be? Anyone would be lucky to have this work,” Clementine jumped in earnestly. “Please, sir, we’ve been looking forward to tonight all year. There’s hundreds of folks would give their right arm for just a glimpse of these great men. We’re getting paid to be in a room with them—if only you would let us.”

  “All right, ripping hell, don’t get weepy on me,” the second ravener said, looking disgusted, and he stood aside to let them pass. “Go on, then, and don’t let me catch you causing any more trouble.”

  “Thank you, sir, bless you—”

  “Get!”

  They scrambled past the raveners, up the path, and into the building, pushing open the heavy wooden double doors. In the corridor beyond, the arched ceilings soared so far above them that their hurried footsteps echoed up and down the tiled floors. They’d endlessly studied the layout of the capitol building in Derrick’s notes, but the simple black-and-white blueprint had not made any mention of the enormous vases of cascading Sweet Thistle plants, or of the looming statues of generals with sabers at their sides, or of the life-sized oil paintings of landmasters at their mines. Everyone’s voices grew hushed, then went silent, as if they were walking through a graveyard—and perhaps, in a way, they were. This was a holy place to the unholiest of religions. How many dustbloods had died to build this temple? How many had suffered under its shadow? Aster felt like she could hear them crying out from the very stones in the walls, and it made her skin ripple with unease.

  Leave this place, the dead pleaded.

  Get out.

  Go home.

  Aster swallowed. It was cooler in here, but her face was still flushed and sweating, her throat still thick.

  They passed a few other servants on their way downstairs, but everyone seemed just as intently focused as they themselves were, and nobody stopped them. Aster heard the kitchen before she saw it—the clatter and bang of utensils, the pop and hiss of hot oil. They followed the sounds, rounded the last corner—

  And spotted another ravener guarding the kitchen entrance. There were more behind him, overseeing the kitchen staff’s work. Aster swore under her breath.

  “Just walk with purpose,” she muttered to her friends, striding forward. “They have no reason to give us trouble.”

  And sure enough, the man let them pass. They cut through the hustle and bustle of the kitchen to the table where the champagne was being poured and set on silver platters by four dustblood servants. An unsmiling ravener stood behind them, arms crossed, watching them work.

  “All right, let me do the talking,” Violet murmured. “We’re going to run with the same story as before.”

  Aster nodded, still struggling to shake the feeling of foreboding that clung to her. Everything was happening so fast—and at the same time, not fast enough.

  “You’re needed upstairs, trouble with the riots,” Violet said to the ravener, her voice ringing with command. “They sent us to fetch you.”

  “Who the hell is they?” the ravener asked acidly.

  “Those two raveners at the back gate—the riots have spilled over. We barely made it through ourselves.”

  He swore under his breath. “We’re almost done here. They can wait five minutes.”

  “Not based on what I just saw,” Aster said then. The ravener looked her up and down, and maybe there was something of her mounting paranoia reflected in her eyes, becaus
e whatever he saw there seemed to convince him.

  “Damned dirty dustbloods,” he cursed, and he unholstered his gun and stalked off.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” the ravener at the door demanded.

  “There’s some kind of action upstairs. You better come with.”

  Their voices and footsteps receded. Aster let out a shallow breath.

  “We’ll have to be quick about this,” Tansy said quietly, pulling out small vials of sleeping draught from a secret pocket inside her dress.

  “You just tell us what to do,” Aster replied. She looked up at the other servants, who had paused in their pouring and plating.

  “Is it true about the riots?” one of the asked eagerly. “They giving them hell out there?”

  Aster gestured for him to keep his voice down. “True enough,” she whispered. “And we’ve got hell to give in here, too. We’re with the Reckoners, understand? So we need you to let us take over this table here.”

  The servants glanced at each other. “There’s not going to be any … trouble, is there?” another asked.

  “Only if you give us away.”

  A current of furtive excitement seemed to pass between them, and they scattered to find other work while Aster and the others set about drugging the champagne glasses. They even poured a drop in each of the glasses that had been set aside for the raveners who would be on duty downstairs during the toast.

  “You sure this stuff is going to be strong enough?” Raven asked doubtfully.

  “I promise. I made it myself,” Tansy assured her.

  Derrick fidgeted, running a spidery hand through his shorn hair. He alone would remain downstairs until after the toast, barricading the back doors so the raveners could not return—his disguise might have been enough to fool strangers, but the men upstairs would eventually recognize him. And yet, despite this precaution, he seemed more anxious than any of them.

  “How much longer is this going to take? You need to get these drinks upstairs. My uncle will be making his speech by now,” he whispered urgently.