MARKS - Chapter 33

Chapter Thirty-Three

The city seems just as I left it. Vendor carts stand in the streets, lines snaking around them. The loud voices of hawkers ring out in the cool spring air. Women bustle from store to store, and outside a mill men load sacks of flour onto a waiting wagon, clouds of white puffing out with every bag they heave onto the stack.

My steps are rushed as I cross over the hard cobblestone streets. I should go to Meggie’s first, but I’m closer to Mera’s. It’ll be easier to talk to her if I can catch her before she leaves for work, when no one will see us.

Sunlight pours over the rooftops, the sights and sounds becoming more familiar as I work my way to our side of town. I have half a mind to stop by Houghman’s if only to see Scarlett’s scowl. The alley behind Mera’s house runs the full length of the street. It’s a risk walking it, as I could easily get trapped there. And a guard looking for me would expect me to sneak in, Ward said. So instead, I walk right through the front door. Mera is at her stove, her back stiff and her hand reaching for her pocket.

“It’s me,” I say as I ease the door shut.

Mera turns, her face sagging into relief. She rushes and yanks me into a hug. “Are you all right?” She pulls me back and stares at my face, searching for signs of any harm.

"I’m all right,” I tell her. “I’m sorry I left, Mera. It wasn’t planned and not something I expected.”

Mera nods. “As long as you’re safe.” She looks over my shoulder to the door, as if guards will burst in at any minute.

“Mera, I’ve been with some people. They found a dead Lyran. No visible wounds.”

Mera swallows and nods. “There have been rumors of Lyrans going missing.”

Sweat breaks out on my forehead. “But how? Has he found a way to find us? I thought that hadn’t been written.”

“What’s been written is that Lyrans cannot hide themselves from the King, and the King cannot write them to himself. There are a dozens of ways to get around that.”

So this is how it will be, our words a dam too weak to hold back his power. Maybe he’s figured out how to find the Lyran words in Ward’s papers.

“Can you tell me anything else, Mera?”

“The prince of Faraday has been here for weeks.”

“Weeks?” That’s news either Ward didn’t know or didn’t think worth mentioning.

Mera’s wrinkles furrow. “There’s been no announcement of an alliance. I don’t know what the King wants, Gretta.”

I do. He wants everything. Every surrounding kingdom. Every ounce of power. “Has he started finding sympathizers?”

Mera’s nod is solemn. “I thought of leaving, but wanted to wait here.”

In case I came. Sweet woman. She’s risked her life for me and waited in case I needed her. I hate I’ve pushed her away. I hate what fear had made me do. Which of course makes me hate the King all the more.

“Leave, Mera. I’m leaving today, and I won’t be back. I came to find information.”

“Some say the prince isn’t here for an alliance. But if not that, we don’t know what. Paper is now illegal. I found yours and got rid of it, but I can get you more.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I know where to get some, and it’s safe.”

“All the shops are burnt now. The Chancellor and his Blackfeet have been burning businesses every day and arresting people. There are more traitors in this city than I ever realized,” she says. “Fewer people are talking truth.”

Which means the King is winning.

“I can’t tell you any more than that, Gretta.” She unties the strings to my cloak and slips it from my shoulders. She grabs her own cloak - a different color than mine - and throws it around me. “Ditch it somewhere.” She ties the cloak and lays her hands on my shoulders. “You’re a brave girl, Gretta. Your mama would be proud of you.”

I smile and wrap my arms around Mera, hugging her the way I should’ve been doing for months now. “Stay safe.”

Mera heads out her front door the same time I head out the back. I sidestep piles of trash and dirty puddles of water and am greeted by morning sunshine on the other end of the alley. I doubt there’s much Mera doesn’t know, so I only have one more place to go before I leave for the west gate.

The streets to Dunway Street are bustling as men make their way to work and businesses open for the day. No guards stand about as I turn on Sam and Meggie’s street.

I look up and come to a grinding halt.

Sam and Meggie’s house stands charred and caved-in, a skeleton of ash where a home used to be. My heart leaps and my throat seems to collapse inside me. No. No. I was here mere months ago. And they were safe. I wrote her papers safe.

Why didn’t I write them alive instead? Why didn’t I do that?

The old familiar chain of guilt I’ve worn for so long tightens around me. The sick smell of ash and smoke grows stronger as I approach the building. Half the roof has collapsed in. It’s a wonder the whole blasted city hasn’t caught fire the way the King burns so many things and the houses are pushed so close together.

The tailor’s shop below Meggie’s is still mostly intact. I press my hands to the darkened glass and peer through the window. Not a lot remains, the contents of the shop evidently pulled from their smoky shelves. Was that the target? Or were Sam and Meggie?

“You knew them?”

I jump and spin.

An older woman smiles at me. “The tailor?”

“No. The people who lived upstairs.”

“Ah, Meggie and Sam. Good thing they’d already moved out before the fire hit.”

My breath comes out as a sob. “Moved out?”

The old woman nods. “Aye, soon as their baby girl came. I came and helped Meggie pack. Though they didn’t take much more than the clothes on their back. Left the furniture.”

“Do you know where they went?”

“Sam said his mother was sick. They went to help her.”

Sam’s mother is dead. But of course this woman doesn’t know that. And it’s as good a lie as any. More than that, it’s a lie with meaning. Sam worked out code for me to know where they had gone if something should happen. “With his father” means north, toward Faraday. An aunt means west, an uncle east. His mother means south. I have no idea where.

“They said they’d be back,” the old woman tells me. “But now -” She gestures at the charred building as her sentence drifts away.

Relief floods through my muscles so fast I nearly fall into a heap on the street. So this is how my words came true. I wrote Meggie’s papers would never be found, and now they won’t. They’ve been burnt up. The King in his quest to destroy has kept my friends safe.

“Should I give them a message from you when they come back?” the woman asks.

I smile. They won’t be back. They never had any intention to come back. “No, thank you.” Before she can ask me anything further I push into the street, leaving the charred remains behind.

That’s what I’m doing: leaving behind the charred remains of everything. Of my former life. Of fear. Of the King’s hold on me. Who knows what will happen, but I have family now. And Ward. And I’ll fight the King however I can, even if it’s just by living a good life without him knowing I’m here.

It’s a bit of a walk to the west gate. I want to burst into a run, but that will only cause attention. I wonder where Sam and Meggie went. They’ve no contacts in the south that I know of, but Sam has kept much from me over the years, the same way I have from him. Knowledge is a weapon the King could easily wield against us.

I steer clear of the castle, walking a few blocks before cutting over to the west side. With any luck Nolan will be waiting already, and within the hour the city will be far behind us.

The smell of bread and sugar wafts down the street. A bakery. I feel in my pocket for the money Nolan gave me this morning, in case I needed it for anything. He may hate I’ve wasted his coin on treats, but his precious children haven’t had any luxury in who knows how long. The sweet smell of baked goods hangs heavy around the shop’s entrance as I open the door and step through.

I have just enough money for three. One for Reid and Mason and Liddy. None for me, a truth which my stomach grumbles loudly in opposition to. The man behind the counter plunks the buns into a bag. I gather the treats in my hand and exit the shop, a smile on my face.

When I lift my eyes, I catch the blue of a guard’s tunic across the street.

Breck.

His greasy hair hangs over his eyes, which are pointed directly at me. Blast. I push through the crowd and head for the cross street. Nausea snakes around my throat. I don’t dare look back to see if he follows, but draw my hood farther down over my face as I meander through the crowd. If I can make it to the side street, perhaps I can lose him. He hasn’t seen me in months, and maybe he didn’t even notice me. I can zig zag to the gate without him catching up to me.

The street spills into an avenue, and I turn right, headed toward the castle. The streets are wider the closer they get to the King’s residence. Which means more possibility for crowds.

It also means more guards.

I finger the strings of my cloak as I walk, and when they’re untied I hold the laces in my hand. A vendor five paces away stands behind his cart piled high with vegetables. I maneuver behind him and let go of the strings. My cloak billows to the ground behind me as my feet move faster over the stones. I crisscross the street, using anything in my way to help mask my get away. A large man hoisting a sack of corn shields me from view just enough to dart in front of a group of women gossiping in the middle of the street. Victory zings through me. I’m getting away.

When I come to another side street I turn left, toward the west gate. Hoping I’ve put good distance between myself and Breck, I risk a glance over my shoulder. No signs of a guard anywhere. He can’t have me. I sigh and my muscles flutter with relief. I pick up my skirts and turn.

And smack right into a wall of blue.

I gasp just as a hand clenches my arm and jerks me into the alley. Beady eyes stare down at me. How did he get in front of me? My heart hammers out a rhythm of fear. I open my mouth and scream, but Breck clamps his hand over my mouth. He smells like filth and grease. Like betrayal and evil and a million bad things.

He takes me a few paces into the alley then rips the package of cinnamon buns from my hands, sending it flying into a nearby puddle. His huge hands grip my shoulders and he pushes me against the stone wall.

I gasp and he grabs my hands in his, bringing my fingers up to his face. “Ah, Blue Nail, I thought that was you.”

I wrench my hands free. Breck laughs and wedges his body further into mine. Then he grabs my hands again. “Thought I wouldn’t ever see you again, Blue Nail. Where’ve you been?”

Plotting your death in my mind, you huge sulking tub of filth. I bite my lip to keep those words from flying out.

“Aye, you’re cute when you’re like that. Biting your lip.” His eyes skim over my lips. “And with fear in your eyes.”

He brings a hand up and caresses my cheek. I shudder under his touch, and revulsion and fear bubble up inside me.

But Breck can’t have me. He can’t. I wrote it that way.

He drops his face to mine and his lips skim over my face. I cringe, a sob rising up inside me. I shift my weight and move my leg but I have nowhere to go. I can’t move.

Think, Gretta!

I could bite him. Bite him and use the split second he’ll react to get away. He has to let me go. I wrote that he wouldn’t have me, and he won’t. This must be the way.

I open my mouth, and he snaps his hands around my wrists and yanks me away from the wall. He drags me down the other end of the alley, my feet tripping over each other as I stumble behind him. The breath I’ve been holding releases in my chest. He’s going to let me go.

We round the corner, and a wagon surrounded by men sits in the road.

Not guards.

Blackfeet.

Panic explodes inside me. I throw the full weight of my body down, but Breck just wrenches me up again. I claw at his arm and brace my feet against him. He plucks me forward without even seeming to try.

No, no, no.

A cry of desperation builds up inside me. The wagon is a prison wagon, a cage on wheels with tall walls and a ceiling. Breck grabs me by my shoulders and hoists me into it through the opening in the back. A Blackfeet grabs my arm and pushes me down to the wagon’s bed. There are two other people in here. One man. One woman. Two Blackfeet stand guard at the door, and a half dozen more swarm the street around us.

I scramble to my feet and run my hands up the walls of the wagon. The crisscrossed wooden slats are big enough for me to put an arm through, but that’s it. My mind swirls with a plan, with some way out. But there isn’t any.

The wagon jerks forward, and I’m thrown to the floor. Fear surges through me like a river. I don’t have paper. Or a way out. The castle turrets come into view and within minutes we pass through the castle gates.

My words were true.

Breck doesn’t have me.

The King does.