Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2) (14 page)

He flipped the coin up in the air, caught it in his palm, and slapped it down on his forearm. “Heads.” He smiled at Arlow.
 

“Number two.” The gold flicked up once again and the assemblage held its breath. “Heads.”

A murmur spread through the audience. Arlow pumped his fist stupidly, suppressed a smug smile.
 

The crowd counted down for the butcher. “One, two, three.”

With a flick of the thumb the mark flipped up. The sound of the coin slapping down on his beefy arm resounded. The butcher frowned for a moment before grudgingly announcing, once again, “Heads.”

Arlow felt several thumps on his back. “Really
is
his lucky day.”

The butcher could do no more than feign good-feeling as he returned the gold and loaded up two platters, though the merriment did not touch his eyes. The man who operated the next cart, of apparently a jolly disposition, gave Arlow and Mae each a free pint of ale as well. “To Lady Fortune!” Arlow shook several hands, took his winnings, and then he and Mae slipped away to find seats.

A quick scan determined all of the chairs and tables occupied, so Arlow plunked down on the curb, far too hungry to find better accommodations. He tore into a sausage viciously, the juices running down his chin. It made him think of Ko-Jin and Yarrow, cooking out in the summers.
 

He’d never eaten with less decorum, and food had certainly never tasted so good. It took little time for his head to clear, for the festivities around him to gain appeal.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to help me,” he said, bumping Mae’s shoulder conspiratorially.
 

She shrugged. “Was hungry,” she said through a mouthful of food.

A band set up across the street, two fiddles and a drum striking up a fast, rustic tune.

Mae, without warning, reached into his pocket and snatched the coin. She examined it, then flipped it a few times with varying results. “I don’t get it. It ain’t rigged. How’d you do it?”

Arlow winked. “It’s like I said. It’s my
lucky day
.” He downed the remainder of his ale. “Tell you what—you toss that mark three times and should it be heads each time you give me a kiss.”

She rolled her eyes. “If it’s tails do I get to kick you?”
 

He laughed and returned the coin to his pocket. Mae’s foot tapped to the beat and she gazed at the dancers who’d sprung up around the band. Then she turned back to him. “It’s some kind o’ Chisanta magic, ain’t it?”

Arlow tipped his head in confirmation. “As far as gifts go, it’s a rather piddling one, but it’s gotten me out of a few scrapes.”

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and sighed, never so glad for a full stomach. “Now that you know one of my secrets, it’s only fair that you answer a question of mine. Why are you suddenly so eager to leave your brother’s…ah, organization?”

She folded her arms and pushed her weight back against a street lamp. “What do you care?”

“Let’s call it disinterested curiosity.”
 

She pursed her lips, and he thought she might actually be blushing. “Well, I’m gettin’ to that age where, if I want to marry and start a family, I need to get crackin’. And thieving ain’t a good life for a little ’un, I can tell you.”
 

“Ah.” He began, unconsciously, to tap his foot to the beat. “And do you have a husband in mind, or just an inclination towards the institution as a whole?”

She stared down at her lap, her cheeks turning steadily redder. “I’ve had an offer. Haven’t answered it yet.” She stood abruptly and held her hand out to him. “Let’s dance.”

“Why?” he asked, slightly scandalized at the idea of dancing some country jig in the street.
But then, who’s likely to see?

“Cause I want to.” She lightly kicked his boot and brandished her hand before him.

He accepted with a forced, beleaguered sigh and she hauled him up off the curb, pulling him to where a fair number of other couples were already feverishly stepping and twirling.

“You know this one?” Arlow asked.

“Course,” she said. “It’s just a South Dalish step-dance.”

“You’ll have to lead then.” He took hold of her hand and waist. “It hasn’t come to the ballrooms of Accord just yet.”

She took him at his word. They spun and stepped, Arlow blundering now and again. Mae laughed heartily at his errors, and for some reason he could only smile in response. They danced until they were red in the face and short of breath.

And then they danced some more.

8

Bray
tsk
ed, leaning close to Yarrow’s neck. “Keep still.”

“It’s cold.”

She gripped him by the nape, the tip of her tongue poking between her lips. “There.” She let her fingers linger at the base of his neck.

The concealer wasn’t
quite
the right match for his complexion, but near enough. He raised his fingers, as if to touch his hidden mark. She batted his hand away. “Let it dry.”
 

“Yes, ma’am.”
 

Bray placed an unfashionably long-billed bonnet on her head and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. “How do I look? Ordinary?”

He eyed her up and down in a way that made her face flush. “I wouldn’t look twice,” he finally said, smiling archly. He placed a top hat on his head. “And myself?”

She smirked. “Perfectly pedestrian.”

“Thank you.” He grinned, and she couldn’t help but return his smile. Then he held out his hand. “Ready?”

She laced her fingers with his and steeled herself. He glanced down one final time at the map of Accord unfurled on the table. They’d decided that if Peer was indeed in Accord, as Arlow had said, Quade would likely be keeping him on the palace grounds. Jo-Kwan had told them that the lowest level of the palace used to be a prison.

“Here we go, then.”
 

The cottage disappeared in an instant, blinking into blackness. They rematerialized in a bare alleyway between two shops—stark, grimy brick walls. Bray scanned her surroundings and found they were alone.

She trembled beneath her shawl, the rank odor and sudden plunge in temperature enveloping and offensive. She spun, not entirely sure of their location.

“North.” Yarrow pointed up the alleyway. “Two blocks from the palace.”

They hustled to the mouth of the alley and merged with the foot traffic beyond. Bray bowed her head to conceal her face, but from within the cowl of her bonnet she swept the crowds.

The neighborhood, neither fashionable nor poor, was instead home to the better-off of the working class: women wearing new but simple cotton dresses, men sporting wool coats rather than fur. Vendors peddled typical street foods along the cobbled roads. Bray’s mouth watered as they passed a cart of candied pecans, the scent like a dream drifting on the chill air.
 

She slipped her hand in the crook of Yarrow’s arm and they matched the leisurely pace of the crowds around them. In appearance, just another couple out for an afternoon stroll.

A merchant called to Bray, foisting fistfuls of colorful silken scarves. “Beautiful kerchief for a beautiful lady?”
 

She softened her negative with a smile and promenaded onward. The couple walking ahead of them hailed an acquaintance, a smiling young man sporting an undercoat in an alarming shade of red.
 

“Mr. Tellman, how do you do?”

The young man doffed his hat. “Excellently, old chap. Have you ever seen such a fine day this time of year?”

“My word, no! It’s been uncommonly fair all week. In fact—”

Bray glanced up at the drear sky above, then down at the standing puddles on the streets. She shivered, chilled by more than just the wind.

It all
seemed
normal enough, yet, for reasons she couldn’t quite name, something felt…off, eerie. She had that hot feeling on the back of her neck, like being watched.

Yarrow bent low to speak in her ear. “Noticed the posters?”

She followed his gaze and her mouth fell open. Wanted posters were a common sight in Accord—they plastered the building sides and notice boards like wallpaper, most commonly featuring the Pauper’s King. The constables might have made an error there—the Pauper’s King posters had become something of a trend. Pubs frequently used them as decor.

But it was not the Pauper’s King’s eyes peering down at her now. It was her own: hers, Yarrow’s, and Ko-Jin’s. Decent likenesses printed on recycled paper, with the bold words ‘Wanted on charges of treason and regicide.’ The corners of the paper flapped in the wind, waving at her.

That prickling feeling at her nape intensified. She shrank deeper within her bonnet and, in her inattention, trod right into the man in front of her.
 

“I’m terribly sorry,” she said.

The man smiled, and there was an odd glazed-over look in his pale eyes. “Not to worry, Miss.”

Bray bobbed her head, but her unease heightened. Looking around, all of the faces smiled, but blandly—ubiquitous, hollow cheer.
 

She swallowed. What city crowd had ever been so good-tempered?
 

Yarrow tugged the fringe of her shawl in warning. She saw them, too—a pair of Quade’s Chisanta, his
Elevated
, wearing the crisp navy uniforms of constables. The sight stole her breath like a punch to the gut. Rogue Chisanta operating as public officials.
 

The two Elevated stopped a young Chaskuan man and rubbed a cloth to his neck. The man smiled, apparently unperturbed, and was dismissed.

Bray hooked her arm around Yarrow’s elbow and guided him down an alley as inconspicuously as possible.
 

“That bloke didn’t even look put out,” Bray said, shaking her head.

“No, he certainly did not,” Yarrow agreed. “Quade seems to have had an effect on the entire city…”

They exited the alley on the other side and melded back into the herd. The traffic halted at a rail line crossing, and Bray ground her teeth at the bad timing, rocking on her boots. The train blared across the road, car after car flitting by in seemingly endless succession. The coal smoke made her eyes burn, but she didn’t avert her gaze from the windows.

“Did you see how many Elevated were on that train?” Yarrow whispered.

She sighed. “Taking the rail lines was likely his first move. It would be mine.”
 

“It’s all so much worse than I imagined,” Yarrow said. “Only days have passed. How could he have done so much, so soon?”

Bray grunted her consensus, too demoralized for words. She imagined Yarrow was contemplating the same unanswerable question as her: how could they possibly fight something so intangible, so insidious, so far-reaching? It had only just begun, and they had already lost. She was, for one of the few times in her adult life, truly afraid—not for herself, but for the world.
 

The palace grounds came into view and the foot traffic slowed. Bray found herself behind two older gentlemen having a conversation seemingly intended to carry. “If it were put to a vote?” one of them was saying. “There would be no question.”

The other, a short man clutching an expensive cane, bowed. “I’m all agreement. Mr. Asher has been just the tonic this city needed. I read in the
Times
yesterday that there hasn’t been a single incident of crime since his arrival.”

Bray’s brow dimpled, if possible her thoughts growing bleaker. She scanned the crowd, but lower this time, searching for the poor of Accord, realizing abruptly that she had seen none the entire time they had been walking the streets—not a single beggar or pickpocket.
 

A young man distributing political pamphlets was stationed near the palace gates. “A manifesto on governance! Get your manifesto, here!”

Yarrow steered them in that direction and accepted a leaflet, tucking the slip of paper in his coat pocket, and then they strode further up the drive.

The palace rose before them, a great, white, gleaming monument sitting high on a grassy slope.
 

Bray veered away from the entrance, wandering along the perimeter. She was careful to maintain a casual pace, but her eyes kept darting to the palace, as if hoping to see Peer through the walls. The grounds were unusually empty. It seemed the only people within were Elevated, walking briskly from one place to another. Her hope that they might slip in amidst civilian tourists dried up.

When they came around to the backside of the palace, they found a group of ten or so Elevated training. The thwacking of wasters resonated. It was a strange sight, Chisanta training within the royal gardens.
 

“What do you think?” Yarrow asked at length.
 

Bray heaved a sigh. “Could you teleport us right into the prison?”
 

“I’m not really certain how far underground it is. I’d hate to miss the mark.” She shuddered at the thought. “But Jo-Kwan described where the stairway is, I could take us there easily enough. If anyone is nearby they might hear us arrive, though, even if they don’t see us.”

“There’s little chance we’ll accomplish this unseen, anyway. Let’s just be quick. If we can’t find him, we’ll take one of these kids back with us for questioning.”
 

She took hold of his hand, her own fingers icy against his. As ever, her stomach lurched as her surroundings were suddenly stripped away. They reappeared in a shadowy alcove, with white marble floors beneath them. The stairway was at their back, tucked discreetly behind a gleaming suit of armor.

“Wait,” she whispered, straining to hear. Silence alone greeted her ear; it seemed the atrium was deserted. She smiled. “A bit of luck, at last.”
 

They crept soundlessly to the oaken doorway. It was locked, as she expected. Still gripping Yarrow’s hand, she phased and they slid through the thick wood.

There were no lights, no windows. Blackness clung to her eyes, absolute in its opaqueness. She reached out blindly, searching for a handhold. Eventually her fingertips found the stone wall and she trailed down it to a wooden railing.