Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2) (16 page)

Bray crossed the room and squatted down beside him, a brow quirked at his predicament. “Comfortable?”

“Blight you,” he spat.
 

His light hair had grown long enough to fall in his face, but was too short to be bound. His blue eyes slitted in cat-like suspicion, a pointy chin jutted up obstinately.

Bray sat down, cross-legged, on the floor before him, not bothering to right his chair. “I thought you and I might have a chat.”

The lad sealed his lips shut.

“What’s your name?” Bray asked.
 

Yarrow held his breath. He had seen Bray interrogate people, but only witnesses, never anyone she would deem an enemy. He wondered what tactics she would use. Surely she wouldn’t harm the kid—he was young, and hardly responsible for his alliance with Quade.
 

“Like I’d tell,” the lad spat.

“I’d merely like to know what to call you, for the sake of politeness. You may call me Bray.”
 

He frowned at her. “I’ll call you whatever I like, lady.”

She smiled. “You seem like a smart boy, so I’m sure you comprehend why you’re here. I need information.”

“I’m not telling you nothing, lady. Besides, Quade doesn’t tell
me
his plans.”

“I expected as much. I admire loyalty, but, you see, what I need to know isn’t really
that
important. And you should be aware that your life is contingent on your cooperation.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah right, lady. You’re not gonna kill me.”

She shook her head, almost sadly. “I’ve killed a lot of people. And some of your friends murdered one of mine, so I wouldn’t test me if I were you.”
 

Yarrow knew her to be bluffing, but the kid looked uncertain. His pale face visibly blanched. He assumed a cocky turn of the mouth, but his eyes held fright.

“I want you to tell me about my other friend, Peer Gelson.”

The boy snickered. “I ain’t telling you where he is.”

“You mistake me,” Bray said, her tone calm and even. “I already know where he is. What I want to know is whether or not he is still drugged and how many guards are typically with him.”

“What’s the point? You can’t get to him,” the boy said.
 

Yarrow sat forward, fully alert. He maintained a neutral expression, but internally he grinned.
 

“Like I said, I already know how to get to him. I want to know how many men I’ll need to conduct the operation.”

“Yeah, and how’re you gonna get on the train? They ain’t gonna sell you a ticket,” he said, laughing at her stupidity.
 

Yarrow experienced a warm swell of pride, to see her using her wits rather than her strength. It was, to him, an incredibly attractive quality.
 

Bray shot one quick, triumphant glance at Yarrow, before returning attention to the boy. “Train heists are not unheard of.”

“Yeah, but not when there’s a whole ton of Elevated on board at all times. Face it, lady, you ain’t got a chance. Quade knew you’d want your friend back—he’s got that train guarded tighter ’an a bank vault.”

Bray stood and pulled the lad’s chair back onto its feet. “Well, perhaps you’ll be more willing to cooperate in the morning.”

He laughed. “Not likely.”

She gagged him, which earned her an indignant look, and tested the knots of his bindings. “Let’s join the others out back,” she said, turning to Yarrow.

He pushed himself up, the sofa’s groan seeming to echo his own weariness, and followed Bray out into the yard.

“That was cleverly done,” he said.

She smiled up at him. “Thank you. Wasn’t certain it would work.”

He expected it to be cold after spending the day in Accord, but the evening was actually perfect. Dusk illuminated the crag, the dim pricks of stars beginning to appear in the deep blue sky. Ko-Jin was in the midst of building a fire, to dispose of the branches and plants he’d cleared away from his purported training yard. He hopped down on hands and knees and blew at the embers, and the flame caught.
 

He faced Yarrow and Bray. “We’ve got sausages for dinner.”
 

Yarrow smiled. Sausage cooked over a fire was Ko-Jin’s favorite meal. The two of them, along with Arlow, used to set up campfires on the beach at the Cape and cook-out, sometimes even sleep-out when Ko-Jin had his way—a prospect that had never much pleased Arlow.

Yarrow shook this thought from his head. It didn’t matter what Arlow liked or disliked any longer.
 

Jo-Kwan beckoned for them to join him around the fire, where stumps had been arranged like stools.
They were busy today
, Yarrow thought, looking around at the altered yard. He laughed a bit at the targets painted on hay bales at the far end of the property. He’d never seen such a poorly drawn circle.
 

“You mean to say we spear them on
sticks
?” Chae-Na asked Ko-Jin, the plate of sausages in her hands. “But, aren’t they…dirty?”

“A bit, yeah. Nothing that’ll hurt you though.” He smiled at her, his head cocked to the side in challenge. “Not squeamish of a bit of dirt, are you, Princess?”

She huffed and speared a sausage on a stick with a particularly violent motion. “By now, you should understand that I am not.”

Yarrow slouched down on a seat, soothed by the heat and crackle of the fire. Bray sat down on the same stump with him, leaning against his side.
 

“How was Accord? What’s happening there?” Jo-Kwan asked, his dark eyes gleaming with interest and firelight.

Yarrow was glad Bray took up the story, giving his mind time to wander. He stared, mesmerized, at the flames, only listening intermittently to her account of the strange behavior of the Accordans, of their failure to find Peer, of the information Quade was gathering.
 

“So what’s next?” Ko-Jin asked when she finished.

“We get him out,” she said. “But it will have to be carefully planned. The train is a problem for me. I can’t use my gift, at least not for more than a moment, or it’ll leave me behind.”

“Really?” Yarrow asked. This limitation had never occurred to him.

“Mmm. That’s why we’ve always traveled by carriage—Peer, Adearre, and me. I hate trains, to be honest.”

“Would a carriage not leave you behind as well?” Jo-Kwan asked.

Bray turned a bland face in his direction. “Yes, but then whoever’s driving could just pull up. A train would be less accommodating.”

Yarrow bumped his shoulder against her own. “We’ll figure something out.”
 

“Yes we will,” she said, her tone decisive.
 

With the last of the sun, the air grew cool. Yarrow slipped his hands in his pockets and felt a piece of paper within. He remembered suddenly the pamphlet he’d been given in Accord and pulled it out.
 

“I forgot all about that. Read it aloud,” Bray prompted.

“A Note on Governance, by Doctor Pellson R. Corringham.” Yarrow cleared his throat. “In times of confusion and tragedy, there is opportunity. With the termination of the Bellra line, we the people of Trinitas are presented with a peculiar circumstance: the ability to reconsider our government. Under the Bellra monarchy, we have had peace. Yet we have also witnessed growing discord betwixt the classes, an ever-rising crime rate, and resistance to advanced technologies which would offer jobs and conveniences for the citizens of Trinitas.

“These are the inevitable consequences of a ruling class disconnected from modern times. Which is why myself and my colleagues at the University of Accord humbly propose an alternative. An ideal governing body should be comprised of exceptional individuals, ideally with diverse backgrounds and areas of expertise.

“As it happens, such a remarkable body already exists. Yes, I refer to the Chisanta—a group of individuals from all nations and economic backgrounds, a collection of scholars and professionals. They are uniquely qualified. We have long asked ourselves: why are the ‘marked’ marked? I posit that the Chisanta are marked for a cause: they are selected by the Spirits themselves to lead. Too long have the best of us lived their separate, secluded lives in their temples. It is time for the Chisanta to come home to Accord, to live up to their purpose.”
 

Yarrow brought the paper down to his knee, a sour taste in his mouth.

Jo-Kwan had a faraway look upon his face. “He poses some interesting arguments.”

“It’s a pretense,” Yarrow said. “A way for Quade to take power and make it seem like some kind of…elective government. There are those within the Chisanta who would make excellent leaders, and plenty of others who would not. The idea that we are marked to govern is absurd. My fear, though,” he licked his lip, “is that if enough people buy into his lies, there’s no guarantee that even killing him would undo that damage. What if his influence survives him?”

They remained silent for a long moment. The night had grown dark, the fire burned down to mere coals. Yarrow’s last sentence seemed to linger, a fear that had no answer.
 

9

Peer chewed on his bottom lip as he blotted spilt ink from his parchment. His fingertips were already stained blue, especially around the nail bed. Writing on a train was a messy business.

With a sigh, his eyes moved to the next line on the page:
 

Alerria messa den congite soviuree ai Nerra.

The first were born south of Nerra.
Peer glanced towards the window as he sought inspiration. The pane was so fogged he couldn’t make out the stars, but the moon shone brightly even through the clouded glass.

This was the eighth reference to ‘the first.’ He wondered what it meant—the first what? Perhaps Yarrow Lamhart would know.
 

He grasped his pen and scratched, in sloppy Dalish:
 

The mayor of Nerra has insomnia.

Su-Hwan leaned forward to read his translation. Her face remained impassive, but there was a slight glimmer in her dark eyes. She glanced over at the Fifth and scribe, neither of whom appeared aware of Su-Hwan’s presence let alone inspection, then she lifted her pinky finger to the foggy window.

There was a squeaking sound as she wrote upon the pane:
 

He will know.

She wiped the words away. Peer inclined his head—Quade was intelligent, of course he would know that these translations were wrong. But it might gain him time, at least. He quaked at the thought of their last interview.
 

Peer, with a darting glance towards the scribe, wrote on the window with his own finger. The glass was cool and wet beneath his touch.
 

Need time.

She nodded infinitesimally. Peer examined her, taking in her small, almost child-like face, her placidity. He wished, not for the first time, that the girl were capable of expressiveness. He knew that seeing Quade’s true face had alarmed her, had swayed her, but he was not certain to what extent. Would she allow him to escape? Would she help?

He raised his finger to write again, his heart thumping harder at the risk.

Must get away.

The words bled upon the window, melting where they stood. Peer regarded Su-Hwan with his brows uplifted, hoping. She darted another quick look at the scribe, then bobbed her head once. She leaned forward to reach a yet untouched portion of the pane.
 

When?

Peer began chewing his lip again. It was more a question of where than when. If he were to escape now, in this stretch of nothingness between Accord and Dalyson, there would be nowhere to hide. He would be quickly apprehended once again. He needed crowds to lose himself in.

Accord

He rubbed the word away almost as soon as he’d written it. She nodded again, and he was not sure what that nod promised. Would she turn a blind eye, would she aid him…would she come? He had no notion yet just
how
he would escape, only that he must try. Without the drugs deadening his senses, he must make an attempt. Though, in truth, the effort sounded exhausting. Part of him wished they would just kill him; get it over with.

Despite this, he’d been paying close attention to the goings and comings of the Elevated. They seemed most vigilant when the train was stopped. At full speed, they had a habit of becoming lax, chatting like the teenagers most of them were. Of course, at full speed he’d likely kill himself if he jumped.

It would have to be sometime between the two—sometime when they were in motion but not at full tilt. He would wait for an opening, for a weakness.

Adearre’d have spotted it already, no doubt.

The thought was a blow, as ever, but he swallowed down the pain. He’d allowed himself to be consumed by grief for too long. Adearre would expect better from him.

The compartment door slid open and Peer hurriedly reclaimed his pen and focused on his translations. It was not Quade who entered—
thank the Spirits—
but a train attendant with a dinner platter.
 

Peer screwed the cap onto the ink container and set aside his work, making room for his meal.

The attendant smiled politely and asked if he’d need anything more.

“No, thanks,” Peer said, taking up his fork.
 

As soon as the young woman left, Peer discreetly searched his tray for a note. He’d received two since arriving on the train—messages from someone on the inside who claimed to be a friend.
 

His eyebrows leapt when he noticed it: two words written minutely on his cloth napkin.

Luggage Compartment

It was just like all of the messages, written in the same strange, geometric handwriting. Peer glanced up and found Su-Hwan scrutinizing him.
 

“Here, take my napkin,” Peer said, tossing it to her.
 

Her smooth brow creased, and then she began searching the fabric. Peer saw the moment she spotted the message.
 

She stood and stretched, then slid open the door to the luggage compartment and peeped within. Her expression turned inscrutable as she sat again. She flashed looks from Peer to the door, as if measuring them.