Glass Sword (17 page)

“Faster,” I whisper. “We must go faster.”

My feet find a quicker pace, outstripping Cal and Farley, until I’m almost on Crance’s heels. Shade glances over his shoulder, brow furrowed. But his gaze slides past me, past all of us, and fixes on something in the crowd. No,
someone.

“We’re being followed,” he mumbles, his grip tightening on Crance’s arm. “Seaskulls.”

Instincts be damned, I tip my hood so I can get a glimpse of them. They’re not hard to pick out. White ink on shaved heads, tattooed skulls of jagged bone on their scalps. No less than four Seaskulls pick their way through the crowd, following us as rats would a mouse. Two from the left, two from the right, flanking us. If the situation wasn’t so dire, I would laugh at their matching tattoos. The crowd knows them by sight, and parts to let them pass, to let them
hunt.

The other Reds clearly fear these criminals, but I do not. A few thugs are nothing compared to the might of the dozen Security officers milling about their post. They could be swifts, strongarms, oblivions—Silvers who can make us pay in blood and pain. At least I know they’re not so dangerous as the Silvers of court, the whispers and silks and silences. Whispers as powerful as Queen Elara don’t wear lowly black uniforms. They control armies and kingdoms, not a few yards of marketplace, and they are far away from here.
For now.

To our surprise, the first blow comes not from behind but from dead ahead of us. A bent old crone with a cane is not who she seems, and hooks Crance around the neck with her gnarled piece of wood. She throws him to the ground and removes her cloak in one motion, revealing a bald head and a skull tattoo.

“Fish Market not enough for you, Mariner?” she snarls, watching as Crance lands on his back. Shade goes down with him, too tangled up in Crance’s limbs and his own crutch to stay standing.

I move to help, lunging forward, but an arm grabs me around the waist, pulling me back into the crowd. Others look on, eager for a bit of entertainment. No one notices us melt into the wall of faces, not even the four Seaskulls who followed us. We are not their target—
yet.

“Keep walking,” Cal rumbles in my ear.

But I set my feet. I will not be moved, not even by him. “Not without Shade.”

The Seaskull woman smacks Crance as he tries to stand, her cane cracking soundly against bone. She’s quick, turning her weapon on Shade, who is smart enough to stay on the ground, his arms raised in mock surrender. He could disappear in an instant, jumping his way to safety, but knows he cannot. Not with every eye watching. Not with the Security post so close by.

“Fools and thieves, the lot of them,” a woman grumbles nearby. She seems to be the only one annoyed by the display. Merchants, patrons, and street urchins alike look on in anticipation, and the Security officers do nothing at all, watching with veiled amusement. I even catch a few of them passing coins, making bets on the brewing fight.

Another smack, this time hitting Shade’s wounded shoulder. He grits his teeth, trying to hold back a grunt of pain, but it echoes loudly
over the Paltry. I almost feel it myself, and wince as he crumples.

“I don’t know your face, Mariner,” the Seaskull crows. She hits him again, hard enough to send a message. “But Egan certainly will. He’ll pay for your safe, if bruised, return.”

My fist clenches, wishing for lightning, but I feel flame instead. Hot skin against mine, fingers worming into my grip.
Cal.
I won’t be able to spark up without hurting him. Part of me wants to, to push him away and save my brother in a single sweeping motion. But that will get us nowhere.

With a sharp gasp, I realize we could not ask for a better distraction—a better moment to slip away.
Shade is not a distraction,
a voice screams in my head. I bite my lip, almost breaking the skin. I can’t leave him, I can’t. I can’t lose him again.
But we can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous, and so much more is at stake.

“The Security Center,” I whisper, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “Ada Wallace must be found, and the Center is the only way.” The next words taste like blood. “We should go.”

Shade lets the next blow knock him sideways, giving him a better angle. His eyes meet mine. I hope he understands. My lips move without sound.
Security Center
, I mouth to him, telling him where to meet us when he gets away.
Because he
will
get away. He’s a newblood like me. These people are no match for him.

It almost sounds convincing.

His face falls, torn by the knowledge that I will not save him. But he nods all the same. And then the press of bodies swallows him whole, blocking him from sight. I turn my back before cane hits bone, but I hear the hard, echoing sound. Again I wince, and tears bite my eyes. I want to look back, but I have to walk away, to do what must be done, and forget what must be forgotten.

The crowd cheers and presses forward to see—making it all the easier for us to slip into the street, and deep into the city of Harbor Bay.

The streets surrounding the Paltry are like the market itself—crowded, noisy, stinking of fish and bad tempers. I expect no less from the Red sector of the city, where houses are cramped and leaning out over the alleys, forming shadowed archways half-filled with garbage and beggars. There are no officers that I can see, drawn either to the gang fight in the Paltry or the tunnel collapses far behind us. Cal takes the lead now, moving us steadily south, away from the Red center.

“Familiar territory?” Farley asks, cutting a suspicious glance at Cal when he ducks us down yet another twisting alley. “Or are you just as turned around as I am?”

He doesn’t bother to answer, responding only with a quick wave of the hand. We scamper by a tavern, its windows already swarming with shadows of professional drunks. Cal’s eyes linger on the door, painted an offensively bright red. One of his old haunts, I suppose, when he could slip out of Ocean Hill undetected to see his kingdom without the sheen of Silver high society.
That’s what a good king would do
, he said once. But as I discovered, his definition of a good king was very, very flawed. The beggars and the thieves he’s encountered over the years were not enough to convince the prince. He saw hunger and injustice, but not enough to warrant change. Not enough to be worth his worry. That is until his world chewed him up and spit him out—making him an orphan, an exile, and a traitor.

We follow him because we must. Because we need a soldier and a pilot, a blunt instrument to help us achieve our goals. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I trail at his heels. I need Cal for noble reasons. To save lives. To
win.

But like my brother, I too have a crutch. Mine is not metal. It is flesh and fire and bronze eyes. If only I could cast him away. If only I was strong enough to let the prince go and do what he would with his vengeance. To die or live as he saw fit.
But I need him. And I can’t find the strength to let him go.

Though we’re far from the Fish Market, a horrible smell permeates through the street. I push my shawl to my nose, trying to block out whatever it is.
Not fish,
I steadily realize, and the others know it too.

“We shouldn’t go this way,” Cal murmurs, putting out a hand to stop me, but I duck under his arm. Farley is right on my heels.

We emerge from the side street into what was once a modest garden square. Now it is deathly quiet, the windows of the houses and shops shut fast. The flowers are burned, the soil turned to ash. Dozens of bodies swing from the bare trees, their faces purple and bloated, with rope nooses around their necks. Each one has been stripped naked, save for their matching red medallions. Nothing fancy, just carved wooden squares dangling from rough cord. I’ve never seen necklaces like that, and I focus on them to keep my eyes from so many dead faces.

They’ve been up for a while, judging by the smell and the buzzing cloud of flies.

I’m not a stranger to death, but these corpses are worse than any I’ve seen—or made.

“The Measures?” I wonder aloud. Did these men and women break curfew? Speak out of turn? Were they executed for the orders I gave?
Not your orders,
I tell myself reflexively. But that doesn’t lessen the guilt. Nothing will.

Farley shakes her head. “They’re Red Watch,” she mumbles. She starts to step forward, but thinks better of it. “Bigger cities, bigger Red communities, they have their own guards and officers. To keep the
peace, to keep our laws, because Security won’t.”

No wonder the Seaskulls attacked Crance and Shade so openly. They knew no one would punish them. They knew the Red Watch was dead.

“We should cut them down,” I say, though I know it’s not possible. We don’t have the time to bury them, nor do we want the trouble.

I make myself turn away. The sight is an abomination, one I will not forget, but I do not weep. Cal is there, waiting a respectable distance away, as if he doesn’t have the right to enter the hanging square. I quietly agree. His people did this.
His people.

Farley is not so collected as me. She tries to hide the tears gathering in her eyes, and I pretend not to notice them as we walk away.

“There will be a reckoning. They will answer for this,” she hisses, her words tighter than any noose.

The farther we go from the Paltry, the more ordered the city becomes. Alleys widen into streets, curving gently instead of turning at hairpin angles. Buildings here are stone or smoothed concrete, and don’t look ready to fall down in a strong breeze. A few homes, meticulously kept but small, must belong to the successful Reds of the city, judging by the red doors and shutters. They are marked by our color, branded, so everyone knows who and what lives inside. The Reds wandering the street are just as clear, mostly servants wearing corded red bracelets. A few have striped badges pinned to their clothes, each one bearing a familiar color order, denoting which family they serve.

The closest one has a badge of red and brown
—House Rhambos.

My lessons with Lady Blonos come flooding back, a blur of half-remembered facts. Rhambos, one of the High Houses. Governors of this, the Beacon region. Strongarms. They had a girl in Queenstrial,
a slip of a thing named Rohr who could tear me in half. I met another Rhambos in the Bowl of Bones. He was supposed to be one of my executioners, and I killed him. I electrified him until his bones shrieked.

I can still hear him screaming. After the hanging square, the thought almost makes me smile.

The Rhambos servants turn west, up a slight incline to a hill that overlooks the harbor. Heading for their master’s mansion, no doubt. It’s one of many palatial homes dotting the rise, each one boasting pristine white walls, sky-blue roofs, and tall silver spires topped with sharp-pointed stars. We follow, winding our way up, drawing closer to the largest structure of all. It looks crowned in constellations, surrounded by clear, gleaming walls—diamondglass.

“Ocean Hill,” Cal says, following my gaze.

The compound dominates the crest of the rise, a fat white cat lazing peacefully behind crystalline walls. Like Whitefire Palace, the edges of the roof are gilded in metal flames, so expertly forged they seem to dance in the sunlight. Its windows wink like jewels, each one gleaming and clean, the product of who knows how many Red servants’ toil. The echo of construction scrapes and rumbles from the palace, doing only Maven knows what to the royal residence. Part of me wants to see it, and I have to laugh at such a foolish side of myself. If I ever step inside a palace again, it will be in chains.

Cal can’t look at the Hill long. It is a distant memory now, a place he can no longer go, a home to which he cannot return.

I suppose we have that in common.

G
ulls perch on the
stars adorning every roof, watching as we pass through the cool, midday shadows. I feel exposed beneath their gaze, a fish about to be snapped up for dinner. Cal keeps us moving at a brisk pace, and I know he feels the danger too. Even in the back alleys, overlooked only by service doors and servants’ quarters, we are still hopelessly out of place in our hoods and threadbare clothing. This part of the city is peaceful, quiet, pristine—and dangerous. The farther in we go, the tenser I feel. And the low pulse of electricity deepens, a steady thrum in every house we pass. It even arcs overhead, carried through wire camouflaged by twisting vines or blue-striped awnings. But I feel no cameras, and the transports stick to the main streets. So far, we have gone unnoticed, protected by a pair of bloody distractions.

Cal guides us quickly through what he calls the Star Sector. Judging by the thousand stars on a hundred domed roofs, the neighborhood is aptly named. He skirts us down the alleys, careful to give Ocean Hill a wide berth until we circle back to a main road busy with traffic. An offshoot of the Port Road
,
if I remember the map correctly, connecting
Ocean Hill and its outbuildings to the bustling harbor and Fort Patriot below, stretching out into the water. From this angle, the city spreads all around us, a painting of white and blue.

We fall in with the Reds crowding the sidewalks. There, the white flagstones are choked with military transports. They vary in size, ranging from two-man vehicles to armored boxes on wheels, most of them stamped with the sword symbol of the army. Cal’s eyes glitter beneath his hood, watching each one pass. I’m more concerned with the civilian transports. They’re fewer in number, but they gleam, moving swiftly through the traffic. The more impressive ones fly colored flags, denoting the house they belong to, or the passenger they carry. To my relief, I don’t see the red and black of Maven’s House Calore, or the white and navy of Elara’s House Merandus. At least I won’t have to expect the very worst from today.

The jostling crowd forces us to walk huddled together, with Cal on my right and Farley on my left. “How much farther?” I whisper, edging my face back into my hood. The map has gone fuzzy in my head, despite my best efforts. Too many twists and turns to keep straight, even for me.

Cal nods his head in response, gesturing to a bustling throng of people and transports up ahead. I gulp at the sight of what is undoubtedly the beating heart of Harbor Bay. The crown of the city’s hill, ringed by white stone and diamondglass walls. I can see the palace gates, bright blue and scaled with silver, but a few starry turrets peek out. It is a beautiful place, but cold, cruel, and razor sharp. Dangerous.

On the map, this looked like nothing more than a plaza in front of the gates of Ocean Hill, connected to the harbor and the gates of Fort Patriot down the gentle slope. The reality is much more complicated. Here, the two worlds of this kingdom seem to mingle, Red and Silver
drawn together for a fraction of a moment. Dockworkers, soldiers, servants, and high lords cross beneath the crystal dome arcing over the massive courtyard. A fountain twists in the center, surrounded by white and blue flowers not yet touched by autumn. Sunshine shimmers through the dome, refracting dancing light onto the realm of brightly colored chaos. The fort gates are directly down the avenue from us, dappled by the shifting light of the dome. Like those of the palace, they are artfully crafted. Forty feet high, made of burnished bronze and silver braided into giant, swirling fish. If not for the dozens of soldiers and my sheer terror, I might find the gates magnificent. They hide the bridge beyond, and Fort Patriot farther out to sea. Horns and shouts and laughter add to the overload, until I have to look down at my boots and catch my breath. The thief in me delights at the thought of so much confusion, but the rest is frightened and frayed, a live wire trying to contain its sparks.

“You’re lucky it’s not the Night of a Single Star,” Cal murmurs, his eyes faraway. “The whole city explodes for the festival.”

I don’t have the strength or the need to respond to him. The Night is a Silver holiday, held in memory of some navy battle decades ago. It means nothing to me, but one glance at Cal and his distracted gaze tells me he doesn’t agree. He’s seen the Night in this very city, and remembers it fondly. Music and laughter and silk. Maybe fireworks over the water, and a royal feast to end the party. His father’s approving smile, jokes with Maven. Everything he’s lost.

Now it’s my turn to look faraway.
That life is gone, Cal.
It shouldn’t make you happy anymore.

“Don’t worry,” he adds when his expression clears. He shakes his head, trying to hide a sad smile. “We’ve made it. That’s the Security Center there.”

The building he indicates stands on the edge of the bustling square, its white walls stark against the tangled traffic below. It looks like a beautiful fortress, with thick-glassed windows, and steps leading up to a terrace surrounded by columns carved into the scaly tails of enormous fish. Patrolled walkways arch over the diamondglass walls of Ocean Hill, tying it to the rest of the palatial compound. The roof is also blue, decorated not with stars but
spikes
. Cruel iron, six feet long, and sharpened to a wicked point. For magnetrons, I suppose, to use against any kind of assault. The rest of the building is the same, covered in Silver weapons. Vines and thorny plants wind up the columns for greenwardens while a pair of wide, still pools hold dark water for nymphs. And of course, there are armed guards at every door, long rifles plain in their hands.

Worse than any guard are the banners. They flap in the sea breeze, streaming from the walls, turrets, and fishtail columns. They bear not the silver spear of Security but the Burning Crown. Black, white, and red, its points twisting in curls of flame. They stand for Norta, for the kingdom, for
Maven
. For everything we’re trying to destroy. And between them, on gilded banners of his own, is Maven. Or at least, his image. He stares out, his father’s crown on his head, his mother’s eyes glaring. He looks like a young but strong boy, a prince rising to the ultimate occasion. “LONG LIVE THE KING” screams beneath every picture of his sharp, pale face.

Despite the impressive defenses, despite Maven’s haunting stare, I can’t help but smile. The Center pulses with my own weapon, with electricity. It is more powerful than any magnetron, any greenwarden, any gun. It is everywhere. And it is mine. If only I could use it properly. If only we didn’t have to hide.

If.
I despise that stupid word.

It hangs in the air, close enough to touch.
What
if
we can’t get in? What
if
we can’t find Ada or Wolliver? What
if
Shade doesn’t come back?
The last thought burns more deeply than the rest. Even though my eyes are sharp, trained on the crowded streets, I can’t see my brother anywhere. He should be easy to spot, limping along on his crutch, but he’s nowhere to be found.

Panic deepens my senses, taking away a little of the control I worked so hard to cultivate. I have to bite my lip to keep from gasping aloud.
Where is my brother?

“So now we wait?” Farley says, her voice trembling with dread of her own. Her eyes sweep back and forth, also searching. For my brother. “I don’t think even you two can get in there without Shade.”

Cal scoffs, too busy examining the Center’s defenses to spare a glance for her. “We could get in just fine. It might mean sending the whole place up in smoke. Not exactly the subtle approach.”

“No, not at all,” I murmur, if only to distract myself. But no matter how hard I try to focus on my feet or Cal’s capable hands, I can’t stop worrying about Shade. Up until this moment, I never truly doubted he would meet us. He’s a
teleporter
, the fastest thing alive, and a few dock thugs shouldn’t pose him any threat. That’s what I told myself back in the Paltry, when I left him.
When I abandoned him.
He took a bullet for me a few days ago and I threw him to the Seaskulls like a lamb to wolves.

Back in Naercey, I told Shade I didn’t trust his word. I suppose he shouldn’t trust mine either.

My fingers stray into my hood, trying to massage the ache from my neck muscles. But it brings me no respite. Because right now we’re idling in front of a veritable firing squad, waiting like stupid chickens eyeing a butcher’s knife. And while I fear for Shade, I fear for myself
too. I cannot be taken. I
will
not.

“The back entrance,” I say. It’s not a question. Every house has a door, but it also has windows, a hole in the roof, or a broken lock. There is always a way in.

Cal furrows his brow, at a loss for once. A soldier should never be sent to do a thief’s job. “We’re better off with Shade,” he argues. “No one will even know he’s in. A few more minutes—”

“We put every newblood at greater risk with every second we waste. Besides, Shade won’t have a problem finding us later.” I take my first steps off the Port Road and onto a side street. Cal sputters, but follows along. “All he has to do is follow the smoke.”

“Smoke?” He blanches.

“A controlled burn,” I continue, a plan formulating so fast the words barely have time to pass my lips. “Something
contained
. A fire wall just big enough to hold them back, until we get the names we need. A few nymph grunts shouldn’t pose much of a threat to you, and if they do”—I ball my hand, letting a tiny spark spin in my palm—“that’s what I’m here for. Farley, I assume you know the records system?”

She doesn’t hesitate to nod, her face shining with an odd sort of pride. “Finally,” she mutters. “No point in lugging you two around if you’re not going to be useful.”

Cal’s eyes darken into a fearsome glare that reminds me of his dead father. “You know what this will do, don’t you?” he warns, as if I’m some kind of child. “Maven will know who did this. He’ll know where we are. He’ll know what we’re doing.”

I round on Cal, angry that I must explain. Angry that he doesn’t
trust
me to make any kind of decision. “We took Nix more than twelve hours ago. Someone will notice Nix is gone, if they haven’t already. It will be
reported
. You think Maven isn’t watching every name on Julian’s
list?” I shake my head, not knowing why I didn’t realize sooner. “He’ll know what we’re doing the moment he hears of Nix’s disappearance. It doesn’t matter what we do here. After today, no matter what, it will truly be a manhunt. Citywide searches for us, orders to kill on sight. So why not get ahead of the curve?”

He doesn’t argue, but that doesn’t mean he agrees. Either way, I don’t care. Cal doesn’t know this side of the world, the gutters and the mud we must throw ourselves into. I do.

“It’s time we stop pulling our punches, Cal.” Farley joins in.

Again, no answer. He looks dejected, disgusted even. “They’re my own people, Mare,” he finally whispers. Another man would yell, but Cal is not the type to shout. His whispers usually burn, but I feel only determination. “I won’t kill them.”

“Silvers,”
I finish for him. “You won’t kill
Silvers.
”

He shakes his head slowly. “I can’t.”

“And yet you were willing to end Crance not too long ago,” I press on, hissing. “He’s one of your people too, or he would be if you were king. But I suppose his blood’s the wrong color, right?”

“That’s—” he sputters, “that’s not the same. If he ran, if he was captured, we’d be in such danger. . . .”

The words stick in his throat, trailing away. Because there are simply no words left for him to say. He’s a hypocrite, plain and simple, no matter how
fair
he claims to be. His blood is silver and his heart is Silver. And he will never value another above his own.

Leave
, I want to say. The words taste bitter. I can’t force them past my lips. As infuriating as his prejudice, his allegiances are, I can’t do what should be done. I can’t let him go. He is so
wrong
and I can’t let him go.

“Then don’t kill,” I grind out. “But remember that
he
did. My
people—and your own. They follow
him
now, and they’ll kill us for their new king.”

I point one bruised finger back at the street, to the banners bearing Maven’s face. Maven, who sacrificed Silvers to the Scarlet Guard, to turn rebels into terrorists and destroy his own enemies in a single swoop. Maven, who murdered everyone at court who truly knew me. Lucas and Lady Blonos and my maids, all dead because I was different. Maven, who helped kill his own father, who tried to execute his brother. Maven, who must be destroyed.

A small part of me fears that Cal will walk away. He could disappear into the city, to find whatever peace still lingers in his heart. But he won’t. His anger, while buried deep, is stronger than his own reason. He will have vengeance, just as I will have mine. Even if it costs us everything we hold dear.

“This way.” His voice echoes. We have no more time for whispers.

As we round the back corner of the Security Center, my senses reach out, focusing on the security cameras dotting the walls. With a smile, I push against them, shorting out their wiring. One by one, they fall to my wave.

The back door is just as impressively made as the front, albeit smaller. A wide step like a porch, a door grated with curving steel, and only four armed guards. Their rifles are polished to a high sheen, but heavy in their hands.
New recruits.
I note the colored bands on their arms, denoting their houses and abilities. One has no band at all—a lower-class Silver, with no great family, and weaker abilities than the others. The rest are a banshee of House Marinos, a Gliacon shiver, and a Greco strongarm. To my delight, I see no white and black of House Eagrie. No eyes to glimpse the immediate future, to know what we’re about to do.

They see us coming, and don’t bother to straighten up. Reds are nothing to worry about, not for Silver officers. How wrong they are.

Only when we stop before the steps of the rear door do they notice us. The banshee, little more than a boy with slanted eyes and high cheekbones, spits at our feet.