Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2) (9 page)

The front door opened and the lady in question appeared, a sack over her shoulder. She pushed clinging strands from her face as she kicked off her shoes.

“Unpack this for me,” she said, thrusting the sack into Arlow’s bewildered arms. “While I change.”

She didn’t wait for his answer, but hustled off through the only doorway in the cabin, presumably to a bedroom.

Arlow carried the bag to the kitchen and began to unload: a whole, plucked chicken, potatoes, carrots, butter, a bottle of red wine.
 

She emerged in a blouse and slacks as ill-fitting as her previous ensemble, still toweling her tresses dry. She tossed the cloth aside, leaving her cropped hair sticking out comically from her head.

“Do you plan to cook me dinner?” Arlow asked.

She pursed her lips at him. “Naw, I’m cooking my brother dinner, as a surprise. But you can eat too. If it’s,” she held up the chicken by a single leg and eyed it skeptically, “edible.”
 

Humming off-key, she tied an apron around her waist and began searching through the drawers and cabinets. She extracted a common spatula and stared at it with her head cocked to the side, as if unsure of its function. Arlow sat at the table and observed her with concealed amusement.
 

She disappeared through a back door and returned with a pot of water, which went in the hearth, and a sprig of greenery. “Think this is rosemary?” she asked. “I’m not quite sure.”

Arlow lifted the herb to his nose and sniffed. “Yes. Definitely rosemary.”
 

She accepted his word as truth, and added the herb to her pile. When the water came to a boil, she carried the unfortunate fowl—once again by its leg, its wings lolling like doll arms—to the hearth. Even headless and defeathered, it evinced a certain ruffled indignation at being thusly handled.
 

Arlow hopped from his stool. “Wait.” She turned to him with a raised brow. “You aren’t
boiling
that chicken whole?”

She shrugged. “Sure am. Why?”

Arlow swallowed down a laugh. “Great Spirits, woman! Don’t you know how to cook? Give it here.”
 

She permitted Arlow to assume the culinary reins. As he chopped potatoes, he sensed her approach close behind and, unexpectedly, tensed in anticipation. Unfounded anticipation, clearly, as she merely tied the apron around his waist—a pink, frilly thing. “There,” she said with a laugh, then hopped up onto the counter beside him.
 

She clenched the wine bottle between her thighs as she wrested the cork out with a delightful
pop
. Arlow cleared his throat.
Must really be missing the company of women if
that
was alluring
.
 

“Watch where you’re chopping,” she said, as Arlow nearly divested himself of a pinky finger. “This Quade fellah might not look kindly on us returnin’ his emissary short a digit.”
 

Arlow focused again on the food, taking familiar pleasure in the task—in the feelings and smells.

Mae handed him a serving of wine in a chipped mug. “So, how’d a rich boy like you learn cooking?”
 

“Don’t spread the rumor. I might die of shame if it were known I had a real skill.” He slid the roasting pan into the coals. “I had a fondness for our cook as a boy. I used to spend half the day in the kitchens if I could.”

“Pretty, was she?”
 

Arlow smiled. “Stunning, really. She had
huge,
” he held up his hands to indicate the size of her bosom, “brown eyes.”
 

Mae snorted and gulped her wine. The smell of the chicken and vegetables roasting in the hearth began to fill the lodge; Arlow’s mouth salivated.
 

“So, is your brother traveling with the Pauper’s King? I presume he’s meeting me here.”

She shook her head at him as if he were slow-witted. “My brother
is
the Pauper’s King.”
 

“Oh?”
 

This information traveled sluggishly through his mind. She seemed too young, at the oldest a year or two his senior—there must be a wide age gap between the siblings. Though, studying her, he detected a resemblance in her features to the face on the ubiquitous wanted posters. They had the same strong jawline. It looked better on a man.

“Does that make you the Pauper’s Princess, then?”

“You best not be mocking my brother.”

“Certainly not, I only—”

“Cause he’s the reason a lot of folks have food on their table. He takes in all sorts. What do you think would’ve come of me, a girl raised on the streets of Accord, without my brother?” She crossed her arms and glared at him.

He thought she’d likely have become a prostitute, but it seemed an indecorous thing to say. “My apologies, I meant no offense. I have a high opinion of what your brother does for the country. In fact, it’s been a goal of mine for a long time to see how we could better integrate his practices within the law—without stealing.”
 

Her cheeks grew pink. “It ain’t stealing to take something from a person who don’t need it.”

“In point of fact,” Arlow said, “that
is
stealing. Who ever heard such a backwards definition? What, belongings are determined by need? Ludicrous!”
 

She sprung down from the counter. “So a poor child should go hungry so some richie can keep his baubles? That’s not backwards? We don’t take nothing nobody’ll really miss anyhow.”

“That is demonstrably untrue,” Arlow said, his eyes flashing. “
I
was waylaid by your brother’s men as a boy. Those brutes took everything—including my grandfather’s watch, the only heirloom I had from a man who meant a great deal to me. Or do you assume that the rich are without sentiment, that the things we have are only valuable for their weight in raw materials?”

They were both of them breathing heavily, face to face. Not even the sound of the door opening, the entrance of a tall man silhouetted by gray storm clouds, could sever the electric charge that had sprung up between them.

So, when a deep, male voice broke the silence, Arlow nearly jumped out of his skin.
 

“Mae,” the man said laughingly. “What have you done to your hair, girl?”

Mae turned to her brother, the anger draining from her face. “Linton!” She raced to the door and hugged him, despite the rain on his overcoat. He set her back on her feet and removed his hat, then ran his hand through his sister’s short tresses, tousling. “Is it the new fashion?”

She snorted. “Not likely. I sold it. Poppy Seed needed a shoe.”
 

The Pauper’s King surveyed Arlow, who found himself more star-struck than he had ever been before, even more so than when he had met the actual king. The man before him was far more impressive—tall and lean, with broad shoulders. He appeared to be in his late thirties, with hair somewhere between red and brown and eyes of a downright unsettling shade of blue. The way he spoke and carried himself spoke of good breeding, in sharp contrast to his sister.

He bowed. “Linton Bearnall.”

“Arlow Bowlerham.”
 

Mae grinned at her brother with obvious affection. “I made you dinner.”

Arlow coughed back a laugh and she glared at him.

Linton took a seat at the table. “What an unexpected pleasure. Thank you. It smells delicious.”
 

Arlow realized belatedly that he was still wearing the absurd pink apron and pulled it from his waist, flushing, and sat.

Linton Bearnall scanned Arlow’s face with intelligent eyes. “So, you are Quade’s man.”

“I am my own man.”

The Pauper’s King smiled and, like his sister, his grin exposed every tooth in his head. On his older, gaunter face, the expression had a distinct skeletal quality. “A good answer.”

Mae set a plate before her brother.
 

“None for our new friend, I think,” he said.

Arlow’s brows drew down. To be denied a meal changed the entire nature of this meeting—and stung, as he’d cooked the blighted thing himself.
 

Mae paused, darting a hesitant look at Arlow. “Linton…”

He extended his hands. “Let me explain my meaning further before any offense is taken. You see, Mr. Bowlerham, I find myself in a perplexing situation. The king is dead; an event I would not have brought about myself, but which I cannot say I lament. The Chisanta, and in particular this Mr. Asher, have asserted themselves as heads of state.” Linton sipped his wine. “Most would, perhaps, not find this a strange turn of events, but I, being rather well connected, have enough information to be troubled. I happen to know that Quade Asher has been operating independently for many years. What’s more, I have crossed paths with the man—though he is unaware of the fact—and I found him…
peculiar
.”

The word was packed with meaning, and Arlow’s estimation of the man rose. If he was discerning enough to notice Quade’s effect and be wary, he was more perceptive than most.
 

“Quade was rather insistent on meeting me himself, but I refused. I am not a man to be easily taken in. However, I am open to a certain level of cooperation, should I find his motives and goals align with my own. And so, I have agreed to keep a representative of Quade’s with me.” He inclined his head. “You.”

Mae sat at the table with her own plate of food, but was too busy looking from Arlow to Linton to eat. “You don’t mean to invite this richie to headquarters?”

Linton smiled. “Well, you see Mr. Bowlerham, that is the crux of the issue. I have agreed to take you on, but the Pauper’s Men have a certain…code. No man who is not one of us may travel in our company or be privy to our whereabouts.” He laced his fingers together. “So, you would need to become one of us. A Pauper’s Man, fully fledged. That is, I’m afraid, the only way for this arrangement to move forward.”

Mae let out a laugh that sounded more like a crow. “No way he’s got what it takes.”

Arlow lifted his chin. “What does being a Pauper’s Man require? Theft and tattoos?”
 

“The tattoo is optional.” Arlow realized suddenly that neither Linton nor Mae bore the infamous crowned fist on their own necks. “You will not be required to join in any unlawful activity after you are initiated, but you will have to swear loyalty and guard our secrets.”
 

Arlow’s brow quirked. “After?”

Linton’s face split into another toothy smile. “Caught that, did you? Yes, there are certain,” he paused, “tasks which must be completed in order to be admitted. Three, to be specific. The first is that you eat nothing for three days and then steal food.”

“I would never stoop—”

“An individual who has never had to filch a meal, who has never been so hungry he must break the law to survive, cannot possibly comprehend the necessity of what we do.”

Arlow nodded slowly. “And what are the other two
tasks
?”

“I apologize, but I can only reveal one at a time. It is tradition.”

Arlow leaned back in his chair. He didn’t want to do this—joining a ring of thieves was not exactly on his agenda. If he refused, Quade could choose some other candidate to be his emissary. Arlow did not particularly relish the idea of spending time with Quade’s band of murderous teens, either. He glanced at Mae; her doubtful expression made him want to prove her wrong.

“Very well. I agree to your terms.”

Linton extended his hand and Arlow took it in his own and gave one, assenting shake.
 

Linton’s focus shifted to his sister. “This will be your fifth.”

Outrage flashed across her face. “Me? You’re sticking him with me? I’m tellin’ you, it ain’t going to work with this one. It’ll take up my time, and then I’ll have to start all over again.”

“I trust your judgment more than anyone else’s. It must be you. Are you in such a hurry to be done with me?”

A tension Arlow didn’t understand passed between them. Mae deflated, her brother remained steady but with an affronted posture.
 

“You know it ain’t like that. I won’t be
done
with you, I just—”

He lifted a hand. “Peace, Mae. I understand you.” He reclined in his chair and the stress eased. “We shall count this one as a success regardless of the outcome.”

She considered this for a moment. “Alright. That’s fair.”

Linton picked up his fork. “I hope you will forgive my sister and I for eating in front of you. I’m simply famished.”
 

Arlow gestured for him to proceed, though his stomach had already begun to rumble discontentedly. Mae tucked into her food like a ravenous wolf having at a rabbit carcass, a sight almost repellent enough to rid him of his hunger.

When the siblings finished eating, Linton stood and moved back to the door. Arlow leapt from his seat. “Are you not staying?”

Linton set his hat on his head. “I’m afraid I have pressing business elsewhere. Mae will oversee your initiation.”

“You intend for me to stay in this shack with your sister? Unchaperoned?” His mouth fell open. “What of propriety?”

Linton laughed as he tugged his overcoat on. “Propriety isn’t something we worry much about. Besides, if you were to attempt something untoward, I suspect you would find yourself missing a few of your favorite parts.”
 

With that unsettling assertion, he hugged his sister goodbye and stepped out into the twilight. Arlow went to the window. The rain had ceased, and the setting sun bled the clouds red. He watched Linton mount his horse and gallop away.

Mae ambled into the kitchen and began washing the dishes.
 

Arlow joined her, leaning against the counter. “Would you care to explain?”

“Explain what?”

“The meaning of that conversation, about my being your fifth, or some such thing?”
 

She scrubbed at the roasting pan, seeming reluctant to look at him. “It ain’t your concern.”

“It seems as though it is.”

She sighed. “Help me with this, and I’ll tell you.”
 

Arlow had never washed a dish in his life, but it would seem somehow ungentlemanly to refuse. He moved to her side and she handed him a towel. “You dry, I’ll wash.”