Glass Sword (16 page)

“Where do we surface?” Cal says aloud, directing his question at anyone who will answer. Distaste poisons every word. The deeper tunnels have him on edge, just like me.

“West side of Ocean Hill,” Farley replies, mentioning the royal residence in Harbor Bay. But Crance cuts her off with a shake of his head.

“Tunnel’s closed up,” he grumbles. “There’s new construction, king’s orders. Three days he’s been on the throne and he’s already a pain in my ass.”

From this close, I hear Cal’s teeth gnash together. A burst of anger brightens his fire, throwing a blaze of heat through the tunnel that the others pretend to ignore.
King’s orders.
Even when he isn’t trying, Maven thwarts our progress.

Cal glances at his feet, stoic. “Maven always hated the Hill.” His words echo strangely off the walls, surrounding us in his memories. “Too small for him. Too old.”

The shadows shift on the walls, distorting our figures. I see Maven in every twisted shape, in every pool of darkness. He told me once he
was the shadow of the flame. Now I fear he’s becoming the shadow in my mind, worse than a hunter, worse than a ghost. At least I’m not alone in his hauntings. At least Cal feels him too.

“The Fish Market then.” Farley’s gruff bark brings me back to the mission at hand. “We’ll have to circle around, and we’ll need a distraction outside the Security Center, if you can manage.”

I glance back at the map, brain buzzing. From the looks of it, the Security Center is directly connected to Cal’s old palace, or at least is part of the same compound. And the Fish Market, I assume, is a good distance away. We’ll have to scramble just to get where we need to be, let alone slip inside. Judging by the scowl on Cal’s face, he’s not looking forward to it.

“Egan will oblige,” Crance says, nodding at Farley’s request. “He’ll help in any way he can. Not that you’ll need much, with the Rabbit on your side.”

Shade grimaces kindly, still annoyed by the nickname. “How familiar are you with the Reds of the Bay? Think a few names will ring a bell?”

I have to bite my lips shut to keep from hissing at my brother. The last thing I want to do is tell Crance who we’re looking for—especially because he’ll wonder why. But Shade glances at me, eyebrows raised, goading me into speaking the names aloud. Next to him, Crance does his best to keep his expression neutral, but his eyes gleam. He’s all too eager to hear what I have to say.

“Ada Wallace.” It comes out a whisper, like I’m afraid the walls of the tunnel might steal my secret. “Wolliver Galt.”

Galt.
It sends a spark of recognition across Crance’s face, and he has no choice but to nod. “Galt I know. Old family, live off Charside Road. Brewers by trade.” He squints, trying to remember more. “Best ale in
the Bay. Good friends to have.”

My heartbeat quickens in my chest, delighted by the prospect of such luck. But it’s tempered by the knowledge that now Crance—and the mysterious Egan—know who we’re looking for.

“Can’t say I know the Wallace one,” he continues. “It’s a common enough name, but no one comes to mind.”

To my chagrin, I can’t tell if he’s lying. So I have to push, to keep him talking. Perhaps Crance will reveal something, or give me an excuse to
convince
him to do so.

“You called yourselves the Mariners?” I ask, careful to keep my tone neutral.

He flashes a grin over his shoulder, then lifts a sleeve to reveal a tattoo on his forearm. A blue-black anchor, surrounded by red, swirling rope. “Best smugglers in the Beacon,” he says proudly. “You want it, we run it.”

“And you serve the Guard?”

That question makes his smile drop away and he rolls down his sleeve again. There’s a shadow of a nod, but nothing more convincing than that.

“I take it Egan’s another captain.” I quicken my pace, until I’m almost stepping on Crance’s heels. His shoulders tighten at my closeness, and I don’t miss it when the hairs on the back of his neck raise. “And that makes you what? His lieutenant?”

“We don’t bother with titles,” he replies, dodging my needling. But I’m just getting started. The others look on, confused by my behavior.
Kilorn would understand. Better yet, he would play along.

“Forgive me, Crance.” The words come out sickly sweet. I sound like a court lady, not a sneak thief, and it rankles him. “I’m simply
curious about our brothers and sisters in the Bay. Tell me, what convinced you to join the cause?”

Hard silence. When I look back, Crance’s friends are just as quiet, their eyes almost black in the dim tunnel light.

“Was it Farley? Were you recruited?” I press on, waiting for some sign of a break. Still he doesn’t respond. And a tremor of fear rolls through me. What isn’t he telling us? “Or did you seek the Guard out, like I did? Of course, I had a very good reason. I thought Shade was dead, you see, and I wanted vengeance. I joined up because I wanted to kill the people who killed my brother.”

Nothing, but Crance’s pace quickens. I’ve touched on
something.

“Who did the Silvers take from you?”

I expect Shade to scold me for my questions, but he stays quiet. His attention never wavers from Crance’s face, trying to see what the smuggler is hiding. Because he is certainly hiding something from us, and we’re all beginning to feel it. Even Farley tenses up, though she seemed so friendly moments ago. She’s realized something, seen something she didn’t see before. Her hand strays into her jacket, closing around what can only be another hidden knife. And Cal never let his guard drop to begin with. His fire burns, a naked threat to split the darkness. Again I think of the tunnel. It starts to feel like a grave.

“Where is Melody?” Farley murmurs, putting out one gentle hand to stop Crance’s progress. We halt as well, and I think I hear our hearts pounding against the tunnel walls. “Egan would never send you, not alone.”

Slowly, I shift my body, turning so my back faces the wall, so I can see both Crance and his rogues. Cal does the same, mirroring my motions. A bit of fire springs from his empty hand, waiting and ready
in his palm. My own sparks dance in and out of my skin, tiny bolts of purple-white. They feel good to hold, little threads of pure strength. Above us, the traffic has increased, and I suspect we’re close to the city gates, if not directly below them.
Not a very good place for a battle.

Because that’s what this is about to become.

“
Where
is Melody?” Farley repeats, and her blade sings against the air. It reflects Cal’s fire and glints sharply, burning light into Crance’s eyes. “Crance?”

His eyes widen despite the blinding glare, full of true regret. That is enough to send shivers of terror down my spine. “You know what we are, who Egan is. We’re
criminals
, Farley. We believe in money—and survival.”

I know the life all too well. But I turned from that path. I’m not a rat anymore. I’m the lightning girl, and now I have too many ideals to count. Freedom, revenge, liberty, everything that fuels the sparks within me, and the resolve that keeps me going.

Crance’s rogues move as slowly as I do, loosing guns from hidden holsters. Three pistols, each one in an able, twitching hand. I suppose Crance has one too, but he hasn’t revealed his weapon yet. He’s too busy trying to explain, trying to make us understand exactly what’s about to happen. And I certainly do. Betrayal is familiar to me, but it still turns my stomach and freezes my body with fear. I do all I can to ignore it, to focus.

“They took her,” he murmurs. “Sent Egan her trigger finger this morning. It’s the same all over the Bay, every gang lost someone or something dear. The Mariners, the Seaskulls, even took Ricket’s little boy, and he’s been out of the game for years. And the payout.” He pauses, whistling darkly. “It’s nothing to laugh at.”

“For what?” I breathe, not daring to take my eyes off the Mariner
closest to me. She stares right back.

Crance’s voice is a deep, sorrowful croak. “For you, lightning girl. It’s not just the officers and the armies looking for you. It’s us too. Every smuggling ring, every thief company from here to Delphie. You’re being hunted, Miss Barrow, in the sun and in the shadows, by Silvers and by your own. I’m sorry, but that’s the way of it.”

His apology isn’t for me, but Farley and my brother. His friends, now betrayed. My friends, in grave danger because of me.

“What kind of trap did you set?” Shade growls, doing his best to look menacing despite the crutch under one arm. “What are we walking into?”

“Nothing you’ll like, Rabbit.”

In the strange light of Cal’s fire, my sparks, and Crance’s flashlight, I almost miss the flicker of his eyes. They dart to the left, landing on the support beam right next to me. The ceiling above it is cracked and splitting, with bits of dirt poking through the shards of concrete.

“You son of a bitch,” Shade growls, his voice too loud, his manner exaggerated. He looks liable to throw a punch at any moment—the perfect distraction.
Here we go.

The three Mariners raise their guns, aiming for my brother. For the fastest thing in existence. When he raises a fist, they pull their triggers—and their bullets cut through nothing but open air. I drop into a crouch, deafened by gunshots so close to my head, but keep all my focus where it must be—the support beam. A blast of lightning splinters the wood like a detonation, charring straight through. It shatters, collapsing, as I throw a second bolt at the cracked ceiling. Cal vaults sideways, toward Crance and Farley, dodging falling slabs of concrete. If I had time, I’d be afraid of getting buried with the Mariners, but
Shade’s familiar hand closes around my wrist. I shut my eyes, fighting the squeezing sensation, before hitting ground a few yards down the tunnel. Now we’re ahead of Crance and Farley, currently helping Cal to his feet. The tunnel on the other side of them is collapsed, filled up with dirt and concrete and three crushed bodies.

Crance spares one last look for his fallen Mariners, then draws his hidden pistol. For one brief, blistering moment, I think he might shoot me. But instead he raises his electrifying gaze, staring down the tunnel as it quakes around us. His lips move, forming a single word.

“Run.”

L
eft, right, left again,
climb.

Crance’s barked orders follow us through the tunnels, guiding our pounding footsteps. The occasional echoing boom of another collapse keeps us moving as fast as we can—we’ve set off a chain reaction, an implosion within the tunnels. Once or twice, the tunnel collapses so close to us I hear the sharp snap of cracking support beams. Rats run with us, twisting out of the gloom. I shudder when they dash over my toes, naked tails whipping like tiny ropes. We didn’t have many rats at home—the river floods would drown them—and the waves of greasy black fur make my skin crawl. But I do my best to swallow my revulsion. Cal isn’t keen on them either, and swipes at the ground with one flaming fist, pushing back the vermin every time they get too close.

Dust swirls at our heels, choking the air, and Crance’s flashlight is all but useless in the gloom. The others rely on touch, reaching out to feel along the tunnel walls, but I keep my mind fixed on the world above, on the web of electrical wire and rolling transports. It paints
a map in my head, fixing over the paper one I’ve nearly memorized. With it, I feel everything with my growing range. The sensation is overwhelming, but I push through, forcing myself to take in everything I can. Transports scream overhead, rolling toward the initial collapse. A few careen through alleyways, probably avoiding sunken roads and twisted debris.
A distraction. Good.

The tunnels are Farley and Crance’s domain, a kingdom made of dust. But it falls to Cal to get us out of the darkness, and the irony is not lost on us both. When we dead-end at a service door, welded shut, Cal doesn’t need to be told what to do. He steps forward, hands outstretched, his bracelet sparking—and then white-hot flame springs to life. It dances in his palms, allowing him to grip the door’s hinges and heat them until they melt into red globs of iron. The next obstacle, a metal grate clotted with rust, is even easier, and he peels it away in seconds.

Again the collapsing tunnel shudders like a thunderclap, but from much farther away. More convincing are the rats, now calm, disappearing back into the dark they came from. Their little shadows are a strange, disgusting comfort. We’ve outrun death together.

Crance gestures through the broken grate, meaning for us to follow. But Cal hesitates, one scalding hand still resting on iron. When he loosens his grip, it leaves behind red metal and the indent of his hand.

“The Paltry?” he asks, glancing down the tunnel. Cal knows Harbor Bay much better than I. After all, he’s lived here before, occupying Ocean Hill every time the royal family came to the area. No doubt Cal’s done his share of sneaking through the docks and alleys here, just like he was doing the first time he met me.

“Aye,” Crance replies with a quick nod. “Close to the Center as I can get you. Egan instructed me to take you through the Fish Market, and has the Mariners ready to grab you, not to mention a squad of
Security. He won’t expect you to go through Paltry Place, and won’t have anyone on lookout.”

The way he says it sets my teeth on edge. “Why?”

“The Paltry is Seaskull territory.”

The Seaskulls
. Another gang, likely branded with tattoos more foreboding than Crance’s anchor. If not for Maven’s scheming, they might’ve helped a Red sister, but instead, they’ve been turned into enemies almost as dangerous as any Silver soldier.

“That’s not what I meant,” I continue, using Mareena’s voice to hide my fear. “Why are you helping us?”

A few months ago, the thought of three bodies crushed by rubble might’ve frightened me. Now I’ve seen much worse, and barely spare a thought for Crance’s cohorts and their twisted bones. Crance, despite his criminal nature, doesn’t look so comfortable. His eyes glare back into the darkness, after the Mariners he helped kill. They were probably his friends.

But there are friends
I
would trade, lives
I
would forsake, for my own victories. I’ve done it before. It isn’t hard to let people die when their deaths gives life to something else.

“I’m not one for oaths, or Red dawns, or any of the other nonsense your lot goes on about,” he mumbles, one fist closing and clenching in rapid succession. “Words don’t impress me. But you’re doing a hell of a lot more than talking. The way I see it, I can either betray my boss—or my blood.”

Blood. Me.

His teeth gleam in the dim light, flashing with every barbed word. “Even rats want to get out of the gutter, Miss Barrow.”

Then he steps through the grate, toward the surface that could kill us all.

And I follow.

I square my shoulders, turning to face the echoes and the end of the tunnel’s safety. I’ve never been to Harbor Bay before, but the map and my electrical sense are enough. Together, they paint a picture of roads and wiring. I can feel the military transports rolling toward the fort, and the lights of the Paltry. What’s more, a city is something I understand. Crowds, alleys, all the distractions of daily life—these are my kinds of camouflage.

Paltry Place is another market, alive as Grand Garden in Summerton or the square of the Stilts. But it is dirtier, more harried, free of Silver overlords but choked with teeming Red bodies and haggling shouts.
A perfect place to hide.
We emerge on the lowest level, a subterranean tangle of stalls crisscrossed by greasy canvas canopies. But there’s no smoke or stink down here—Reds might be poor, but we are not stupid. One glimpse up, through the grated, wide hole in the ceiling, tells me the upper levels sell stinking fish or smoked meat, letting the scents escape into the sky. For now, we’re surrounded by peddlers, inventors, weavers, each one trying to foist their wares onto patrons who don’t have two tetrarch coins to rub together. The money makes everyone desperate. Merchants want to get it, buyers want to keep it, and it blinds them all. No one notices a few well-trained sneaks slip out from a forgotten hole in the wall. I know I should feel afraid, but being surrounded by my own is strangely comforting.

Crance leads, his muscled swagger morphing into a limp to match Shade’s. He pulls a hood from his vest and hides his face in shadow. To the casual eye, he looks like a bent old man, though he’s anything but. He even supports Shade a little, one arm braced against his shoulder to help my brother walk. Shade doesn’t have to worry about hiding his face, and keeps his focus on not slipping over the uneven ground of the lower
Paltry. Farley brings up the rear, and I’m reassured to know she has my back. For all her secrets, I can trust her, not to see a trap, but to weasel her way out of one. In this world of betrayal, it’s the best I can hope for.

It’s been a few months since I last stole something. And when I slide a pair of charcoal-gray shawls from a stall, my motions are quick and perfect, but I feel an unfamiliar twinge of regret. Someone made these; someone spun and wove the wool into these rough scraps. Someone needs these.
But so do I.
One for me, one for Cal. He takes it quickly, drawing the frayed wool around his head and shoulders to hide his recognizable features. I do the same, and none too soon.

Our first few steps into the crowded, dim market lead us right past a signboard. Usually filled with notices of sale, news scraps, memorials, the Red noise has been covered up by a checkered swath of printings. A few children mill about the signboard, ripping up the bits of paper in reach. They toss the scraps at each other like snowballs. Only one of the kids, a girl with ragged black hair and bare, brown feet, bothers to look at what they’re doing. She stares at two familiar faces, each glaring down from a dozen huge posters. They are stark and grim, headlined with big black letters that read “WANTED BY THE CROWN, for TERRORISM, TREASON, and MURDER.” I doubt many of the people swarming the Paltry can read, but the message is clear enough.

Cal’s picture isn’t his royal portrait, which made him appear strong, kingly, and dashing. No, the image of him is grainy but distinct, a frozen still from one of the many cameras that captured him in the moments before his failed execution in the Bowl of Bones. His face is haggard, pulled by loss and betrayal, while his eyes spark with unchecked rage. The muscles stand out as his neck, straining. There might even be dried blood on his collar. It makes him look every inch the murderer Maven
wants him to seem. The lower posters of him are torn up or covered in graffiti, in spiky, scratched handwriting almost too violently etched to make out.
The Kingkiller, The Exile.
The titles rip at the paper, as if the words could make the photographed skin bleed. And weaving among the titles—
find him, find him, find him.

Like Cal, the picture of me is taken from the Bowl of Bones. I know exactly which moment. It was before I walked through the gates of the arena, when I stood and listened to Lucas take a bullet to the brain. In that second, I knew I was going to die, but worse, I knew I was useless. The now-dead Arven was with me, suffocating my abilities, reducing me to nothing. My printed eyes are wide, afraid, and I look small. I am not the lightning girl in this photo. I am only a scared teenager. Someone no one would stand behind, let alone protect. I don’t doubt Maven chose this frame himself, knowing exactly what kind of image this would project. But some have not been fooled. Some saw the split second of my strength, my lightning, before the execution broadcast was cut away. Some know what I am, and they have written it across the posters for all to see.

Red Queen. The lightning girl. She lives. Rise, Red as dawn. Rise. Rise. Rise.

Every word feels like a brand, searing hot and deep. But we can’t tarry by the wall of wanted posters. I nudge Cal, directing him away from the brutal vision of us. He goes willingly, following Shade and Crance through the swirling crowd. I resist the urge to hold on to him, to try and take a bit of the weight off his shoulders. No matter how much I might want to feel him, I cannot. I must keep my eyes ahead, and away from the fire of a fallen prince. I must freeze my heart to the one person who insists on setting it ablaze.

Winding up the Paltry is easier than it should be. A Red market
is of no consequence to anyone important, so cameras and officers are sparse on the lower levels. But I keep my senses open, feeling out the few electrical sight lines that manage to penetrate through the haphazard stalls and storefronts. I wish I could just shut them off, instead of awkwardly avoiding them, but even that is too dangerous. A mysterious outage would surely draw attention. The officers are even more troubling, standing out sharply in the black uniforms of Security. As we climb through the levels of the Paltry, up to the city surface, they grow in number. Most look bored by the rush of Red life, but a few keep their wits. Their eyes dart through the crowd,
searching.

“Hunch,” I whisper, gripping Cal’s wrist sharply. The action sends a spark of nerves through my hand and up my arm, forcing me to pull away far too quickly.

Still, he does as I tell him, stooping to hide his height. It might not be enough though.
All of this might not be enough.

“Worry about
him
. If he bolts, we need to be ready,” Cal murmurs back, his lips close enough to brush my ear. He points one finger out from the folds of his shawl, gesturing to Crance. But my brother has the Mariner well in hand, keeping a firm grip on Crance’s vest. Like us, he doesn’t trust the smuggler further than he can throw him.

“Shade has him. Focus on keeping your head down.”

Breath hisses through Cal’s teeth, another exasperated sigh. “Just watch. If he’s going to run, he’ll do it in about thirty seconds.”

I don’t need to ask how Cal knows this. Judging by the motion of the crowd, thirty seconds will take us to the top of the twisting, rickety staircase, planting us firmly on the main floor of the Paltry. I can see the hub of the market now, just above us, streaming with midday light that is almost blinding after our time underground. The stalls look more permanent, more professional and profitable. An open kitchen
fills the air with the smell of cooking meat. After ration packs and salt fish, it makes my mouth water. Worn wooden arches bow overhead, supporting a patched and torn canvas roof. A few of the arches are damaged, warped by seasons of rain and snow.

“He won’t run,” Farley whispers, butting in between us. “At least not to Egan. He’ll lose his head for betraying the Mariners. If he’s going anywhere, it’s out of the city.”

“Then let him,” I whisper back. Another Red to babysit is the last thing I need. “He’s fulfilled his use to us, hasn’t he?”

“And if he runs right into a jail cell and an interrogation, what then?” Cal’s voice is soft, but full of menace. A cold reminder of what must be done to protect ourselves.

“He let three of his people die for me, to keep me safe.” I don’t even remember their faces. I can’t let myself. “I doubt torture will bother him much.”

“All minds can fall to Elara Merandus,” Cal finally says. “You and I know that better than anyone. If she gets him, we’ll be found. The Bay newbloods will be found.”

If.

Cal wants to kill a man based on such a terrible word. He takes my silence as agreement, and to my shame, I realize he’s not entirely wrong. At least he won’t make me do it, though my lightning can kill as quickly as any flame. Instead, his hands stray inside his shawl, to the knife I know he keeps tucked away. Within the folds of my sleeves, my hands start to shake. And I pray that Crance stays the course; that his steps never falter. That he doesn’t get a knife in the back for daring to help me.

The main floor of the Paltry is louder than the depths, an overload of sound and sight. I scale back my senses a little, shutting out what I
must to keep my wits about me. The lights whine overhead, ragged with a pulse of uneven currents. Their wiring is faulty, flickering in places. It makes one of my eyes twitch. The cameras are more intense too, focused on the Security post at the center of the marketplace. It’s little more than a stall itself, six-sided, with five windows, a door, and a shingled roof. Except the box is full of officers instead of mismatched wares.
Too many officers,
I realize with a steadily growing horror.