Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2) (17 page)

Understanding thumped him on the head. He wrote, with a trembling finger, on the glass:

All connected?

She gave a sharp jerk of the head and Peer slumped back in his seat. If the compartments were all connected, then the luggage rack was essentially a long tunnel running down the carriage. The question was, would he fit? He glanced up at the square doors and sucked in his lips. Two months ago, the answer would have been a definitive ‘no,’ but he had been greatly diminished since that time.

They ate their dinners in silence, listening to the ceaseless rumbling of the train, the murmuring of the Fifth. Peer stared at the moon, his mind spinning.
 

The next stop was Dalyson, then the train would turn back. In three days’ time they would be at the Accord station. Perhaps if he was terribly lucky, this ordeal could be at an end.

And then what?
A voice in his head asked, languidly.
 

He had no answer.

Ko-Jin listened to the soft snipping of scissors.
 

“Are you certain you want it so short?” Chae-Na asked, her voice close to his ear. Her fingers skimmed through his hair, grazing his scalp.
 

“Yes. Out of my eyes, please.”

She came around before him, standing between his legs, and trimmed with her bottom lip snared between her teeth. Black hair fell away; he felt it dance across his bare chest. “I cannot imagine why you asked
me
to do this. I am almost certainly botching it.”

“I trust you,” he said. And he did—he’d observed enough to know she had the kind of meticulous nature that lent itself well to such tasks.
 

“Stop moving.” She brushed hair off his shoulder and he stiffened. “Do you not mind? Cosanta typically have long hair, I thought.”

“When I cut off my braid? Yes, that I minded. But it’s done.” He shrugged. “Might as well be practical.”

“No one could say you are not a practical man.”

He didn’t know what to make of that—couldn’t tell if she intended to compliment or insult—so he remained mute.
 

She snipped a few more times, then stepped back to admire her work.
 

“Well?” he asked.

“It’s even, I think.”

“That good, huh?” He laughed and ran a hand through the prickly tufts. “Thank you.”
 

She offered a short bow of acknowledgment and set the scissors on the living room table, atop a scattering of train blueprints. She then turned towards the window, where her brother was practicing forms. “Jo-Kwan has been very dedicated.”

“Yes,” Ko-Jin agreed. “If he keeps it up, I should be able to make something of him. My offer still extends to you as well, you know.” He paused, and she didn’t respond. “You
did
tell me you’d wanted to learn swordsmanship—and something about wanting to be the knight instead of the damsel?”

Her cheeks warmed and her shoulders drew up defensively. “Yes. I will consider it.”

“I hope you aren’t worrying about what people would say—”

“I have no care for appearances.”

He knew this to be a lie. He heard her crying at nights, but she hid her grief like a dirty secret. She cared, or she would not bother with the pretense.
 

She breathed out slowly, casting her breath across the window pane. “I am—” she rubbed her palms against her skirts. “It is only that, my parents did not wish it for me. Defiance would not have troubled me so when they were alive, but now…”

“They would want you to survive,” Ko-Jin said, tone firm. “I will protect you as best I can, of course, but the better able you are to defend yourself, the greater your safety. A bow isn’t much good at close range.”

She appeared to be chewing on her inner cheek. Some vulnerability penetrated her usual mask of composure. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“I would like to learn. I—”

She cut off at the sound of a sob, swiveling her head. Ko-Jin turned to the source as well, to the young Elevated they’d held captive the past days.
 

The lad had ceased to struggle, but had maintained his defiance. The night before last, Yarrow had tried to offer the kid some meat, and had received a bitten finger for his trouble.
 

But now, the boy was weeping. He sat, still bound, head bowed, his whole body racked with sobs muffled by the gag in his mouth. Ko-Jin and Chae-Na exchanged confused expressions.

She crossed the room and untied the sash holding the gag in place, making soothing noises. He spat out the cloth in his mouth, and a louder keening filled the cottage.

“Uh, what seems to be the problem?” Ko-Jin asked.

The boy’s face was shining with tears, his eyes red and swollen. “He killed my family.”

Ko-Jin’s brows tugged down. “Ah,” he said, at a loss. “Yes. That isn’t new information, though, is it? You were talking about it yesterday—said some weird gibberish about ‘history forgiving,’ remember?”

The boy slumped in his chair, his expression pitiful. “My ma! He killed my ma. And my baby sister. She was only four years old.”
 

Chae-Na began stroking the boy’s white hair. He leaned towards her, plainly desperate for comfort.
 

“I did terrible things. We all did such terrible things.” The boy shuddered. “My spirit’s got to be heavier than rocks. When I die—” He hiccupped. “When I die, I’ll be blighted for sure. And then I’ll never see them again.”

Chae-Na reclaimed the scissors and set to cutting the boy’s bindings, sawing with great purpose though the small blades seemed unequal to the task. All the while, she murmured calming words. When the rope, at last, frayed and split, the lad used his newfound freedom to collapse on the cottage floor in a great wailing heap.
 

The princess knelt and put her arms around the lad. To Ko-Jin’s surprise, the boy accepted her embrace, laying his head to her chest. He looked incredibly young, suddenly.
 

“What’s your name?” Ko-Jin asked.
 

Through another hiccup, he answered, “Fernard. My ma called me Fernie.”

“Glad to know you, Fernie,” Ko-Jin said.
 

The boy’s sobs steadily subsided. Ko-Jin and Chae-Na gazed significantly at each other over the lad’s head, both set of eyes full of eager understanding.

If Quade’s influence could wear off—as it clearly had in this case—then the future was, perhaps, not so grim. There was hope, after all.

Arlow strode up the main artery of Dalyson with his shoulders stiff, his fists in his coat pockets.

“You know it weren’t the banker’s fault. She didn’t take all your silver,” Mae said, her tone chastising.

Arlow kicked at an offending bit of rubbish on the street. “Perhaps not, but what sort of establishment allows an account to be emptied without credentials? A bloody slipshod one! Probably some lady banker too busy batting her eyelashes at the great lunk to verify his ID.”

“You know who did it?”

“Of course,” Arlow said, biting off each word. “Same dear friend of mine who found it amusing to pickpocket a bloke, wrap his own stuff, and then present it as a birthday present.”

Mae chuckled and Arlow shot her a glower. “What?” she asked, grinning. “That’s funny, that is.”
 

Arlow did not return her smile. He had ever been the butt of Ko-Jin’s jokes and pranks, but this was different. They had been friends then. Now, he suspected this was less a joke, and more the result of genuine animosity.

“I don’t see why you should find it funny. I was going to buy us both first-class tickets. Now we’ll have to take that bloody mule and gig and sleep out in the open.”

She raised her shoulders. “Can’t miss a thing I never had. And don’t take it out on Poppy Seed. She ain’t stole your coin, either.” Mae stopped and grabbed Arlow’s arm to stay his step. “That’s one of my brother’s men.”

Arlow followed her gaze and spied a squat, bald man with the tattoo of the crowned fist just visible beneath his collar. He waved for them to follow, then disappeared up an alley.
 

“Come on,” Mae said, tugging on Arlow’s sleeve and setting out after the man. Arlow trailed her, none too enthusiastically. He didn’t relish consorting with tattooed criminals in grimy alleyways.

By the time they turned off the street, the man was halfway up the alley.
 

“Wait up, Ty,” Mae called, breaking into a run. The man paused and allowed them to join him. He smelt in desperate need of a bath and his jacket featured several unsavory-looking stains.

“What’s up, Ty?” Mae asked when she’d reached him, Arlow in tow.

“Your brother wants to speak to this one,” Ty answered, pointing to Arlow with his thumb, as he was missing his index finger. Arlow had thought that Mae’s street-speech was the thickest he’d ever heard, but this Ty fellow put her to shame. He seemed to be the physical embodiment of the word ‘coarse.’

Ty set off again and they had no choice but to jog in his wake. Mae released Arlow’s arm and loped up to Ty’s side. “What’s he want, then?”

The man adjusted his hat. “How should I know? He says to bring ’im, so I’m bringin’ ’im, ain’t I?”

Ty pulled up before the back door of a cigar shop. He knocked a beat—three smart raps, then two slower ones—and the door creaked opened from within.
 

The thug gestured for them to procede him and Arlow glanced at Mae, hesitant.
 

“Come on,” she said, and mounted the step. Ty threw out an arm to block her. “He says you’re not to come.”

She snorted and batted his arm away. “Yeah, right. Come on, Arlow.”

He followed her into the dimly lit depths of the shop. The place smelt strongly of tobacco. Arlow rubbed an eye—the smoke was so heavy it seemed to blur his vision. Mae guided him down a narrow hallway and cracked open an office door.
 

Linton sat, looking regal, in a massive leather chair before a desk, a cigar clenched in his teeth. He made a striking prospect, Arlow thought. In fact, someone should paint a portrait of the man just as he looked then, the exemplar of a criminal king.
 

“Mr. Bowlerham,” Linton said, and though it was just a name, everything from the expression on his famous face to the enunciation of each syllable served as warning: he was not pleased.

Mae regarded her brother and threw herself into a chair. “Why so tense, brother?”

The Pauper’s King steepled his fingers upon the desk and examined Arlow with shrewd blue eyes that, in that moment, appeared cold and feelingless as ice chips.
 

He held out a hand, indicating that Arlow, too, should be seated. Then he leaned forward, and the lamplight cast his bone structure in sharp, skeletal relief.
 

Arlow perched on the chair and met the man’s gaze, not allowing his discomfort to show. He was a Bowlerham and a Cosanta to boot, after all. He would not be so easily intimidated.

“I have received alarming reports from Accord, Mr. Bowlerham,” he said. “Do you know to what I refer?”
 

Arlow shook his head.
 

Linton puffed on his cigar, then tapped the ashes away. “As I am sure you are aware, I have a wide network of contacts in Accord. There are hundreds of pickpockets in the capital who report to me.” Arlow tipped his head in acknowledgment and Linton leaned still further across the desk. “They are all, quite suddenly, gone.”

Mae shifted in her seat. “Whad’ya mean, gone?”

He turned a softer look on his sister. “I am not certain, but it seems that Mr. Quade Asher has rounded up all of the homeless in the city.” His blue stare swiveled back to Arlow. “What has been done with them, I do not yet know.”

Arlow was not fool enough to misunderstand this situation—Quade’s actions had placed him in danger. “I had no knowledge of this.”

“You did not?” Linton cocked a single, skeptical brow.

“No,” Arlow said. “He had plans to set up work programs for the unemployed, but I never imagined they would be obligatory.”

“The fact is that I was hesitant to trust this man from the start. Now he has taken my people. I mean to take them back.” Linton shifted his weight into the depths of his armchair, the leather creaking beneath him. “The only question, Mr. Bowlerham, is where your loyalties lie. My sister has given only positive reports. She seems to trust you, though you look like a snake to me.”