فصل بیست و چهارم

TWENTY-FOUR

I spend much of the next day exploring, though my mind is somewhere else. Whitefire is older than the Hall, its walls made of stone and carved wood rather than diamondglass. I doubt I’ll ever learn the layout of the whole thing, as it holds not just the royal residence but many administrative offices and chambers, ballrooms, a full training court, and other things I don’t understand. I guess that’s why it takes the secretary nearly a half hour to find me, wandering through a gallery of statues. But I won’t have more time to explore. I have duties to fulfill.

Duties, according to the king’s chatting secretary, that apply to a whole range of evils beyond just reading the Measures. As a future princess, I must meet the people in arranged outings, making speeches and shaking hands and standing by Maven’s side. The last part doesn’t really bother me, but being put on parade like a goat at auction isn’t exactly exciting.

I join Maven in a transport, headed for the first appearance. I’m itching to tell him about the list and thank him for the bloodbase, but there are too many eyes and ears.

The majority of the day speeds by in a blur of noise and color as we tour different parts of the capital. The Bridge Market reminds me of Grand Garden, though it’s three times the size. In the single hour we spend greeting children and shopkeepers, I see the Silvers assault or aggravate dozens of Red servants, all trying to do their jobs. Security keeps them from all-out abuse, but the words they sling are almost as hurtful. Child killers, animals, devils. Maven keeps his grip tight on my hand, squeezing every time a Red is knocked to the ground. When we reach our next stop, an art gallery, I’m glad to be out of the public eye, until I see the paintings. The Silver artist uses two colors, silver and red, in a horrifying collection that makes me sick. Each painting is worse than the last, depicting Silver strength and Red weakness in every brushstroke. The last one depicts a gray-and-silver figure, quite like a ghost, and the crown on his brow bleeds crimson. It makes me want to put my head through a wall.

The plaza outside the gallery is noisy, bustling with city life. Many stop to stare, gawking at us as we head for our transport. Maven waves with a practiced smile, causing the crowd to cheer his name. He’s good at this; after all, these people are his birthright. When he stoops to speak with a few children, his smile brightens. Cal might be born to rule, but Maven was meant for it. And Maven is willing to change the world for us, for the Reds he was raised to spit on.

I surreptitiously touch the list in my pocket, thinking of the ones who can help Maven and me change the world. Are they like me, or are they as varied as the Silvers? Shade was like you. They knew about Shade and had to kill him, like they could not kill you. My heart aches for my fallen brother, for the conversations we might have had. For the future we might have forged.

But Shade is dead, and there are others who need my help.

“We need to find Farley,” I whisper in Maven’s ear, barely audible to myself. But he hears me and raises an eyebrow in silent question. “I have to give her something.” “I have no doubt she’ll find us,” he mutters back, “if she isn’t watching already.” “How—?”

Farley, spying on us? Inside a city that wants her torn apart? It seems impossible. But then I notice the Silver crowd pressing in, and the Red servants beyond. A few linger to watch us, their arms banded with red. Any one of them could work for Farley. They all could. Even with the Sentinels and Security all around, she’s still with us.

Now the question becomes finding the right Red, saying the right thing, finding the right place, and doing it all without anyone noticing the prince and his future princess communicating with a wanted terrorist.

This isn’t like the crowds at home, the ones I could move through so easily. Now I stand out, a future princess surrounded by guards, with a rebellion resting on her shoulders. And maybe even something more important, I think, remembering the list of names in my jacket.

When the crowd pushes in, craning to look at us, I take my chance and slip away. The Sentinels bunch around Maven, still not used to guarding me as well, and with a few quick turns, I’m out of the circle of guards and onlookers. They continue across the plaza without me, and if Maven notices I’m gone, he doesn’t stop them.

The Red servants don’t acknowledge me, their heads down as they buzz between shops. They keep to alleys and shadows, trying to stay out of sight. I’m so busy searching the Red faces that I don’t notice the one at my elbow.

“My lady, you dropped this,” the little boy says. He’s probably ten years old, with one arm banded with red. “My lady?” Then I notice the scrap he holds out. It’s nothing, just a twisted bit of paper I don’t remember having. Still, I smile for the boy and take it from him. “Thank you very much.” He grins at me, smiling as only a child can, before bounding away into an alley. He bounces with every step. Life has not dragged him down yet.

“This way, Lady Titanos.” A Sentinel stands over me, watching with flat eyes. So much for that plan. I let him lead me back to the transport, feeling suddenly dejected. I can’t even sneak away like I used to. I’m getting soft.

“What was that all about?” Maven wonders as I slide back into the transport.

“Nothing,” I sigh, casting a glance out the window as we pull away from the plaza. “Thought I saw someone.” We’re around a bend in the street before I even think to look at the little paper. I unfold it in my lap, hiding the scrap in the folds of my sleeve. There are words scrawled across the slip, so small I can barely read them.

Hexaprin Theater. Afternoon play. The best seats.

It takes me a moment to realize I only understand half those words, but that doesn’t matter at all. Smiling, I press the message into Maven’s hand.

Maven’s request is all it takes to get us into the theater. It’s small but very grand, with a green domed roof crowned by a black swan. It’s a place of entertainment, showing plays or concerts or even some archive films on special occasions. A play, as Maven tells me, is when people, actors, perform a story on a stage. Back home we didn’t have time for bedtime fairy tales, let alone stages and actors and costumes.

Before I know it, we’re sitting on a closed balcony above the stage. The seats below us teem with people, many of them children, all of them Silver. A few Reds rove between the rows and aisles, serving drinks or taking tickets, but none sit down. This is not a luxury they can afford. Meanwhile, we sit on velvet chairs with the best view, with the secretary and the Sentinels standing just beyond our curtained door.

When the theater darkens, Maven throws an arm across my shoulders, pulling me so close I can feel his heartbeat. He smirks at the secretary, now peeking between the curtains. “Don’t disturb us,” he drawls, and he pulls my face to his.

The door clicks behind us, locking shut, but neither of us pulls away. A minute or an hour passes, which I don’t know, until voices onstage bring me back to reality. “Sorry,” I mutter to Maven, standing up out of my chair in an effort to put some distance between us. There’s no time for kissing now, no matter how much I might want to. He only smirks, watching me instead of the play. I do my best to look elsewhere, but something always draws my eyes back to him.

“What do we do now?”

He laughs to himself, eyes glinting mischievously.

“That’s not what I meant.” But I can’t help but smirk with him.

“Cal cornered me earlier.”

Maven’s lips purse, tightening at the thought. “And?”

“It seems I’ve been saved.”

His resulting grin could light the world entire, and I’m seized by the need to kiss him again. “I told you I would,” he says, his voice oddly rough. When his hand reaches for mine, I take it without question.

Before we can continue, the ceiling panel above us scrapes away. Maven jumps to his feet, more startled than I am, and peers into the black space above us. Not even a whisper filters down, but all the same, I know what to do. Training has made me stronger, and I pull myself up with ease, disappearing into the dark and cold. I can’t see anything or anyone, but I’m not afraid. Excitement rules me now, and with a smile, I reach down a hand to help Maven. He scrambles up into the darkness and tries to get his bearings. Before our eyes adjust, the ceiling panel slides back into place, shutting out the light and the play and the people beyond.

“Be quick and quiet. I’ll take you from here.”

It’s not the voice I recognize but the smell: an overpowering mixture of tea, old spices, and a familiar blue candle.

“Will?” My voice almost cracks. “Will Whistle?”

Slowly but surely, the darkness becomes easier to manage. His white beard, tangled as ever, comes into dim focus. There’s no mistaking it now.

“No time for reunions, little Barrow,” he says. “We have work to do.”

How Will came to be here, traveling all the way from the Stilts, I don’t know, but his intimate knowledge of the theater is even more peculiar. He leads us through the ceiling, down ladders and steps and little trapdoors, all with the play echoing overhead. It’s not long before we’re belowground, with brick supports and metal beams stretching high above us.

“You people sure like to be dramatic,” Maven mutters, eyeing the gloom around us. It looks like a crypt, dark and damp, where every shadow holds a horror.

Will barely laughs as he shoulders open a metal door. “Just you wait.”

We tramp through the narrow passage, sloping downward even farther. The air smells faintly of sewage. To my surprise, the path ends in a small platform, lit by only a burning torch. It casts strange shadows on a crumbling wall set with broken tiles. There are black markings on them, letters, but not from any language I can read.

Before I can ask about them, a great screeching sound shakes the walls around us. It comes from a round hole in the wall, rumbling up from even greater darkness. Maven grabs my hand, startled by the sound, and I’m just as frightened as him. Metal scrapes on metal, an earsplitting noise. Bright lights stream out of the tunnel and I can feel something coming, something big and electric and powerful.

A metal worm appears, coasting to a stop in front of us. The sides are raw metal, welded and bolted together, with slit-like windows. A door slides open on shrieking tracks, spilling a warm glow onto the platform.

Farley smiles to us from a seat inside the door. She waves a hand, gesturing for us to join her. “All aboard.” “The techies call it the Undertrain,” she says as we shakily take our seats. “Remarkably fast, and it runs on the ancient tracks the Silvers never bothered to look for.” Will shuts the door behind us, slamming us into what feels like nothing more than a long tin can. If I weren’t so worried about the under-thing crashing, I’d be impressed. Instead, I tighten my grip on the seat below me.

“Where did you build this?” Maven wonders aloud, his eyes sweeping over the wretched cage. “Gray Town is controlled, the techies work for—” “We have techies and tech towns of our own, little prince,” Farley says, looking very proud of herself. “What you Silvers know about the Guard couldn’t fill a teacup.” The train lurches beneath us, almost tossing me from my seat, but no one else even bats an eye. It slides along until it reaches a speed that smacks my stomach into my spine. The others continue chattering, mostly Maven asking questions about the Undertrain and the Guard. I’m glad no one asks me to speak, because I’ll certainly throw up or pass out if I do much more than sit still. But not Maven. Nothing gets by him.

He glances out the window, gleaning something from the rock blurring past. “We’re heading south.” Farley sits back in her seat, nodding. “Yes.”

“The south is radiated,” he barks, staring down at her.

She barely shrugs.

“Where are you taking us?” I murmur, finally finding my voice.

Maven doesn’t waste any time, moving for the closed door. No one stops him because there’s nowhere for him to go. No escape.

“You know what it does? Radiation?” He sounds truly afraid.

Farley begins to tick off the symptoms on her fingers, a maddening smile still on her face. “Nausea, vomiting, headache, seizures, cancerous diseases, and, oh yes, death. A very unpleasant death.” Suddenly I feel very sick. “Why are you doing this? We’re here to help you.” “Mare, stop the train, you can stop the train.” Maven drops in front of me, grabbing me by the shoulders. “Stop the train!” To my surprise, the tin can squeals around us, coming to a very sharp and sudden stop. Maven and I tumble to the floor in a tangle of limbs, hitting the hard metal deck with a painful thunk. Lights beam down at us from the open door, revealing another platform lit by torches. It’s much larger and leads far back out of sight.

Farley steps over the pair of us without so much as a glance and trots onto the platform. “Aren’t you coming?” “Don’t move, Mare. This place will kill us!”

Something whines in my ears, almost drowning out Farley’s cold laugh. As I sit up, I can see she’s waiting patiently for both of us.

“How do you know the south, the Ruins, are still radiated?” she asks with a mad smile.

Maven trips over the words. “We have machines, detectors, they tell us—”

Farley nods. “And who built those machines?”

“Techies,” Maven croaks, “Reds.” Finally, he understands what she’s getting at. “The detectors lie.” Grinning, Farley nods and extends a hand, helping him off the floor. He keeps his eyes on her, still wary, but allows her to lead us out onto the platform and up an iron set of stairs. Sunlight streams in from above, and fresh air swirls down to mix with the murky vapors of the underground.

Then we’re blinking in the open air, staring up at low-lying fog. Walls rise all around, supporting a ceiling that no longer exists. Only pieces of it remain, little bits of aquamarine and gold. As my eyes adjust, I can see tall shadows in the sky, their tops disappearing into the haze. The streets, wide black rivers of asphalt, are cracked and sprouting gray weeds a hundred years old. Trees and bushes grow over concrete, reclaiming little pockets and corners, but even more have been cleared away. Shattered glass crunches under my feet and clouds of dust drift in the wind, but somehow this place, the picture of neglect, doesn’t feel abandoned. I know this place from the histories, from the books and old maps.

Farley puts an arm around my shoulders, her smile wide and white.

“Welcome to the City of Ruins, to Naercey,” she says, using the old name forgotten long ago.

The ruined island contains special markers around the borders, to trick the radiation detectors the Silvers use to survey the old battlefields. This is how they protect it, the home of the Scarlet Guard. In Norta, at least. That’s what Farley said, hinting at more bases across the country. And soon, it will be the sanctuary of every Red refugee fleeing the king’s new punishments.

Every building we pass looks decrepit, coated in ash and weeds, but upon closer inspection, there’s something much more. Footprints in the dust, a light in a window, the smell of cooking wafting up from a drain. People, Reds, have a city of their own right here, hiding in plain sight. Electricity is scarce but smiles are not.

The half-collapsed building Farley leads us to must’ve been some kind of café once, judging by the rust-eaten tables and ripped-up booth seats. The windows have long since disappeared, but the floor is clean. A woman sweeps dust out the door, into neat piles on the broken sidewalk. I would be daunted by such a task, knowing that there is so much left to sweep away, but she carries on with a smile, humming to herself.

Farley nods at the cleaning woman, and she hurries away, leaving us in peace. To my delight, the booth closest to us holds a familiar face.

Kilorn, safe and whole. He even has the audacity to wink. “Long time no see.” “There’s no time to get cute,” Farley growls, taking a seat next to him. She gestures for us to follow and we do, sliding into the squeaky booth. “I take it you saw the villages on your cruise down the river?” My smile quickly fades, as does Kilorn’s. “Yes.”

“And the new laws? I know you’ve heard about them.” Her eyes harden, like it’s my fault I was forced to read the Measures.

“This is what happens when you threaten a beast,” Maven mutters, jumping to my defense.

“But now they know our name.”

“Now they’re hunting you,” Maven snaps, bringing a fist down on the table. It shakes the thin layer of dust, sending floating clouds into the air. “You waved a red flag in front of a bull but didn’t do much more than poke at him.” “They’re frightened though,” I pipe in. “They’ve learned to fear you. That has to count for something.” “It counts for nothing if you slink back into your hidden city and let them regroup. You’re giving the king and the army time. My brother is already on your trail, and it won’t be long until he tracks you down.” Maven stares at his hands, strangely angry. “Soon staying one step ahead won’t be enough. It won’t even be possible.” Farley’s eyes glimmer in the light as she surveys us both, thinking. Kilorn is content to draw circles in dust, seemingly unmoved. I fight the urge to kick him under the table to make him pay attention.

“I couldn’t care less about my own safety, Prince,” Farley says. “It’s the people in the villages, the workers and the soldiers, who I care about. They’re the ones being punished right now, and harshly.” My thoughts fly to my family and the Stilts, remembering the dull look in a thousand eyes as we passed. “What have you heard?” “Nothing good.”

Kilorn’s head jerks up, though his fingers still swirl on the table. “Double work shifts, Sunday hangings, mass graves. It’s not pretty for the ones who can’t keep up the pace.” He’s remembering our village, just like I am. “Our people at the war front say it isn’t much different up there either. The fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds are being put into their own legion. They won’t survive for long.” His fingers draw an X in the dust, angrily marking what he feels.

“I can stall that, maybe,” Maven says, brainstorming out loud. “If I convince the war council to hold them back, put them through extra training.” “That’s not enough.” My voice is small but firm. The list seems to burn against my skin, begging to be let free. I turn to Farley. “You have people all over, don’t you?” I don’t miss the shadow of satisfaction cross her face. “I do.”

“Then give them these names.” I pull Julian’s book from my jacket, opening to the beginning of the list. “And find them.” Maven gently takes the book, his eyes scanning over it. “There must be hundreds,” he mutters, not looking away from the page. “What is this?” “They’re like me. Red and Silver, and stronger than both.”

It’s my turn to feel smug. Even Maven’s jaw drops. Farley snaps her fingers, and he hands it over without a thought, still staring at the little book that holds such a powerful secret.

“It won’t be long until the wrong person figures this out, though,” I add. “Farley, you must find them first.” Kilorn glares at the names like they offer him some kind of insult. “This could take months, years.” Maven huffs. “We don’t have that kind of time.”

“Exactly,” Kilorn agrees. “We need to act now.”

I shake my head. Revolutions cannot be rushed. “But if you wait, if you find as many as you can—you could have an army.” Suddenly, Maven slaps the table, causing us all to jump. “But we do have one.” “I have many under my command here, but not that many,” Farley argues, looking at Maven like he’s gone mad.

But he grins, alive with some hidden fire. “If I can get an army, a legion in Archeon, what could you do?” She just shrugs. “Very little, actually. The other legions would crush them on the field.” It hits me like a thunderbolt, and I finally realize what Maven is getting at. “But they won’t fight on the field,” I breathe. He turns to me, smiling like a crazed loon. “You’re talking about a coup.” Farley frowns. “A coo?”

“A coup, a coup d’état. It’s a history thing, a before thing,” I explain, trying to wave off their confusion. “It’s when a small group quickly overthrows a large government. Sound familiar?” Farley and Kilorn exchange glances, eyes narrowed. “Go on,” she says.

“You know the way Archeon’s built, with the Bridge, the West side, and the East side.” My fingers race along with my words, drawing a rough map of the city in the dust. “Now, the West side has the palace, command, the treasury, the courts, the entire government. And if somehow we can get in there, cut it off, get to the king, and make him agree to our terms—it’s all over. You said it yourself, Maven, you can run the whole country from Caesar’s Square. All we have to do is take it.” Under the table, Maven pats me on the knee. He’s buzzing with pride. Farley’s usual suspicious look is gone, replaced by real hope. She runs a hand over her lips, mouthing words to herself as she eyes the dust-drawn plan.

“This might just be me,” Kilorn begins, falling back to his usual snide tone, “but I’m not exactly sure how you plan to get enough Reds in there to fight Silvers. You need ten of us to bring down one of them. Not to mention there’s the five thousand Silver soldiers loyal to your brother”—he glances at Maven—“all trained to kill, all trying to hunt us down as we speak.” I deflate, falling back against the seat. “That could be difficult.” Impossible.

Maven brushes a hand over my dust map, wiping away West Archeon with a few strokes of his fingers. “Legions are loyal to their generals. And I happen to know a girl who knows a general very well.” When his eyes meet mine, all his fire is gone, replaced now by bitter cold. He smiles tightly.

“You’re talking about Cal.” The soldier. The general. The prince. His father’s son. Again I think of Julian, of the uncle Cal would kill for his twisted version of justice. Cal would never betray his country, not for anything.

When Maven answers, it’s matter-of-fact. “We give him a hard choice.”

I can feel Kilorn’s eyes on my face, weighing my reaction, and it’s almost too much pressure to bear. “Cal will never turn his back on his crown, on your father.” “I know my brother. If it comes down to it, to saving your life or saving his crown, we both know what he will choose,” Maven fires back.

“He would never choose me.”

My skin burns under Maven’s gaze, with the memory of one stolen kiss. It was him who saved me from Evangeline. Cal who saved me from escaping and bringing more pain upon myself. Cal who saved me from conscription. I’ve been too busy trying to save others to notice how much Cal saves me. How much he loves me.

Suddenly it’s very hard to breathe.

Maven shakes his head. “He will always choose you.”

Farley scoffs. “You want me to pin my entire operation, the entire revolution, on some teenaged love story? I can’t believe this.” Across the table, a strange look crosses Kilorn’s face. When Farley turns to him, looking for some kind of support, she finds none.

“I can,” he whispers, his eyes never leaving my face.