Chapter 7
7
S ad and aching, I followed Archer out of the prison. I hadn’t been locked in the bowels of a castle, but rather, trapped in a tunnel system below the city. We climbed jagged rocks up and up until he pushed a half-hanging door to the side, and we stepped onto a path so narrow we had to walk sideways, shoulder to shoulder, until it widened and eventually we were deposited back into the city. He’d said very little, seeming to understand my grief, and I’m sure he had his own version to work through. He’d clearly known Atticus, and I was fairly certain that was who they’d come to save. Not some broken woman, tortured within an inch of her life, trapped in a foreign world.
The towering buildings grew out of the ground. The stone walls reaching to the sky did little to light the streets at night, but at least they staved off the icy wind. I had no idea how long I’d been down there, and had no one to ask. The last time I counted, I had sixty-eight days left, but even that was a guess, because I’d been unconscious for some of the time.
Archer reached back into the hidden alcove, feeling around in the dark. He produced a large bag and tossed it to my feet. “We’d meant this to be for Atticus,” he said quietly. “It’s not much, but it’s better than what you’ve got. It’ll be dangerous to wander the city like that, as I’m sure you know. Obviously, beyond this point, we can’t be seen together.”
He unclasped his cloak. Beneath it he wore a very fine, five-piece suit: impeccably tailored, a midnight blue so dark it was nearly black, with silver buttons that glimmered in the weak sunrise. It was not the attire of an adventuring rogue breaking prisoners out of dungeons. It was that of someone respected, someone formidable, someone important. A Silk, if I’d gotten the hierarchy here right.
“Do you have somewhere to go? Someplace safe?”
It was only then that I realized the cloak I wore didn’t belong to him, but rather the other man that’d said little and escaped as quickly as he could. I contemplated my answer. I couldn’t lead him down a path of questions for me. “Of course. I’ll go home.”
“You sure? It’s Tithe today.”
“Yes. I’m sure.” I reached up to remove the borrowed cloak, having no damn clue what he was talking about, and no ability to ask without raising suspicion. “Return this to your friend and please tell them both thank you.”
“Keep it. It’s yours now.” He pulled a pair of leather gloves from his pocket and slid them in place before pulling out a wool hat and slipping it over his golden locks. “Good luck out there.”
With that, Archer set off into the early, early morning, leaving me alone in the vast expanse of the city. I watched his retreating figure until he was nothing but a black dot against the labyrinth of stone buildings.
I was alone now, completely and utterly alone. The reality of it bore down on me like an anvil, threatening to crush me under its suffocating weight. I was in a foreign land with no allies or friends, just the memory of an old man and a vague idea about where to go, should I be so brave to fucking try again.
I opened the bag and found a change of clothes and a pair of sturdy boots. The clothes were simple. Rough-spun tunic and trousers of deep gray blended with the city’s dull backdrop. Surprise, surprise. I was pretty sure yellow wasn’t a color that existed in this horrible place. Not that I loved yellow, but damn. Thankfully, the boots were sturdy. They were slightly too big, but they’d do.
Ducking back into the narrow alley, I changed quickly, peeling off the tattered remnants of my prison garb. A plethora of voices sounded from the depths of the underground tunnels. I froze. Unable to think. Unable to move. Suddenly, as if the ground was swept out from under me, I was consumed by fear. If the other Cimmerian guards had found those two bodies, and I was missing, they’d make their own assumptions about what happened, and the city would turn into a manhunt.
That was inevitable. But if I could shake off the inability to move, I could get a head start. There was nothing at first. I was weak, and honestly scared. Suddenly I was nothing more than an abandoned child again, locked into my own body, unable to function. I pushed and pushed against the feeling of dread, willing my feet to run, heaving the bag of soiled clothes over my shoulder as I moved. I had no idea what kind of power lurked through this world, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to leave any more of my blood lying around to find out.
The second I approached a group of vagrants gathered around a fire, I tossed the whole bag in the bin and watched it burn, gripping the edges of my borrowed cloak silently. It was made of a heavy woolen fabric that fell around my shoulders like a mantle, too big, but I’d never complain.
I didn’t linger, noting how the people around began to shift, whispering more frequently to each other. Clearly they dreaded the rise of a new day, and in such a miserable place, I couldn’t say I blamed them. I moved quickly, purposely keeping my head down as I headed back toward the place I’d met the boy. I’d have to start my trek to the Hollow over.
The city was slowly waking up. People were leaving the buildings in packs, filling the streets as they seemed to move as one, in a dance they must have performed every morning. The grind, the monotony. If any of them had a clue what was happening below their streets, none showed it.
I made a sharp turn into an empty alley, pressed my back to a frozen wall and slid down, allowing myself a single moment of vulnerability only when I was alone. I hadn’t been a stranger to the streets in my life, but it’d been so long, I’d forgotten how deep the chill could sink into your bones.
Still, I knew if the sun fully rose and anyone saw me caked in dried blood and dirt, the guards would follow. Water dripped steadily from a gutter, building a puddle in the alley that was mostly ice. But with no more shame, and desperate to keep myself concealed, I plunged my face into the freezing, shallow water.
The cold stung, a raw, icy pain that ignited every nerve in my face. I gasped, the icy shock seizing my lungs. My hands, now numbed by the chill, worked mechanically to scrub away the evidence of where I’d been. Archer had healed the marks. Atticus’s clothing had covered me. The giant’s cloak had warmed me, and with the blood gone, it would be like it never happened. Except my mind would never forget the sound of my own breaking point.
With a determined and trembling hand, I washed away the layers of filth that clung stubbornly to my skin. Each swipe seemed to peel away more than just grime; it removed parts of my old identity that no longer served me in this hard new world. The dancer. The woman bound to a dark burlesque show. The woman who’d been so sad, though I’d never had a reason.
I scrubbed until my skin was raw, shivering as the icy wind bit into my wet face and hands. I dipped the ends of my hair into the puddle, knowing I’d have to braid it. Without soap, or at the very least, deeper water, I didn’t have a prayer of true cleanliness.
When I was done, and frozen to the bone, I rested my head against the stone wall once more. Tired. More tired than I’d ever been in my life, I let the stranger’s gifted cloak provide me with the only warmth this city would ever offer.
As dawn slipped into morning, I spotted a carriage making its way down the street. Elegant yet inconspicuous, it was hitched to a pair of dapple-gray horses that moved with a graceful rhythm. Always gray. My eyes were drawn to a large trunk attached to the back. It was bound securely and had the sheen of a well-oiled chestnut. Beside it, a few other bags and boxes were strapped down, evidence of a long journey. Perfect.
With a cautious glance around, I got up from my hiding spot, weaving through the crowd that began to fill the streets. The city’s activity masked my approach. I couldn’t say I wasn’t afraid. I’d been accused of stealing when innocent. But I knew better this time. Knew to trust my instincts and run, should I feel the urge.
There was no room for fear or morality now; survival required all parts of me, including the ones that needed to adapt to this shitty place. The carriage stopped to allow another cart to pass by. Taking advantage, I stepped casually behind it and gently unlatched the trunk to find clothing, jewelry, and a few scattered books. But it was the wool gown that caught my attention. A deep emerald green, far too grand for a street rat. It would provide warmth against the gnawing freeze of the city and serve me better than Atticus’s worn trousers. Plus… color.
Without hesitation, as other’s shoulders brushed mine and no one paid any attention, I grabbed the gown from among the scattered belongings and folded it under my cloak. The heavy wool felt comforting against my chilled skin, a promise of warmth to come. I snapped the trunk closed again, cringing at the sound that echoed louder than it should have.
I shifted away, fading back into the alley, allowing myself to feel how heavily my heart beat with fear as soon as I was alone. Out there, in the world of strangers, I couldn’t feel. I couldn’t be. Only blend. The world was not a stage. I was not a hero.
Slipping into the warm dress. Braiding my hair. Sliding the cloak over my shoulders. Each of these things felt so normal. If only I wasn’t so lost. Now that I blended in a little more, I continued on my way, following the directions I’d been given to the Hollow once more, seeking the Lord of the Salt, and hopefully some kind of arched door of magic that would lead me home.
As I made my way back towards the spot where I’d met the boy, I noticed the city was alive now in a way that was both alarming and intriguing. No one smiled. No one talked. People looked over their shoulders, hustling to wherever they were meant to be.
I treaded lightly, watching as the others had done. A buzzing sound filled the air. Growing louder and louder as I moved. I turned, deciding to hide, rather than be caught on the streets during whatever was happening, but two Cimmerians slipped out from the block behind me. Spinning once more in a collected panic, I locked my fingers on the edges of my hood to keep my face hidden, and continued on my path, nervous because the sound grew louder and louder. Every turn I could take was blocked by a masked guard, baton in hand, shoving more and more people forward.
I drew back, stalling, panicking, my heart in my throat. The only thing I could see was the blood on the floor I’d lain in while imprisoned. The waning rise and fall of Atticus’s chest. Could only hear the crack of the whip and the Cimmerian’s calculated laugh.
The buzzing was gone, replaced by the shuffle of feet and the quiet whispers of people. They were everywhere, filling the street so that no horses could pass. No one could move beyond the barrier of the prince’s masked guards as they shouted and herded people down the street like animals to slaughter. My heart stopped beating. Whatever warmth I’d gathered from the borrowed cloak left me like a scarf in the wind.
I didn’t realize I’d stopped moving until someone slammed into me from behind and I could feel more than see the guard’s attention turn to me. There was no escape. Nowhere to run. A Cimmerian’s firm grasp dug into my arm as he yanked me toward him before shoving me forward, forcing me into the crowd of people.
“We come in the name of the king,” he growled as I stumbled on a brick, colliding with a woman dressed in layers of wool, carrying a screaming child on her hip.
It was strange, though. These guards, identical to the ones I’d faced, claimed to work for the king, when before, they spoke only of the prince. So which was it?
“Tithe is announced in the name of the king,” another of the Cimmerians further down the road barked as we were herded forward. “You pay your taxes or the price for withholding His Majesty’s revenues. Silk or Salt, makes no difference today.”
Oh fuck. Tax day.
Men, women, and children crowded the streets, some in threadbare clothing and some dressed warmly in fur-lined cloaks, the occasional shouting barely discernible over the long distance of people. Children clung to their mothers, their screams piercing through the tense morning. The sound was heart-wrenching, a high-pitched counterpoint to the low grumble of adult voices, which were either choked with fear or seething with barely contained outrage. The crowd jostled forward, shoulders pressed together, feet tripping over uneven stones and each other.
I moved as I needed to, trying not to lose it. I needed to keep it together to make a plan but what the hell could I do? Lie? Steal a fucking name? Gods. My heart pounded as I was pushed along by the mass of bodies. Each step felt like I was marching closer to the edge of a cliff I was meant to jump from. Hands trembling, not just from the cold, but from the terror that gnawed at my insides, I moved. Cinching my cloak tighter around me, I attempted to block the bitter cold and the overwhelming sense of vulnerability. I scanned the walls. The streets. Even the people seeking some form of escape or refuge. But the relentless tide of humanity offered no sanctuary. My fear was mirrored in the wide and worried eyes of everyone else. No one had a plan, it seemed. I was one of many, all doomed.
We were shoved through the narrow streets until they opened up into a vast city square. In the center, a large canvas tent had been erected, dark fabric flapping in the icy wind. The tent held more Cimmerians, the detailing on their masks gleaming coldly in the pale morning light. Those masks were designed to intimidate and it sure as hell worked. Other men stood behind tables stacked with ledgers and chests filled with coin as if this were a holiday and paying taxes, the celebration.
The tension in the air pressed against my skin like a warning and a damnation. Because what the fuck could I do? What money did I have to pay a tax man? And that wasn’t even the biggest problem. Those ledgers most likely held the names of every man, woman and child living in the city. When I gave mine and there was no record, what would happen? Would they have a record of outlying cities? Of course they would. Taxes were everyone’s burden, not only for those that lived close to the king. And it wasn’t like I knew the name of a different city to lie.
“Move along!” one of the Cimmerians barked.
The crowd surged forward in response, a wave of desperation and submission. A mother nearby clutched her child to her chest, her eyes hollow with exhaustion and worry, but the child’s sobs had quieted to weak whimpers. A man beside them muttered curses under his breath, his fists clenched in fury.
My panic rose until a lump I couldn’t swallow formed in my throat, making it hard to take in a full breath. The closer I got to the front, the more my mind raced. I had to think of something, some way to survive this.
A plump, older woman, with glasses sitting on the edge of her nose and no barrier from the cold beyond the apron tied around her waist, looked over at me. I could only imagine the fear that she must have seen to make her stop and share a hesitant smile. “Don’t be afraid, dear. Eyes forward, chin high. Perhaps we will find leniency.”
But as the guard shoved her, and she continued on, swallowed immediately by the crowd, I knew she was wrong. There would be no leniency for me. A murderer. A stranger. My only mercy was Archer’s healing of my mangled face, hiding the violence. My only hope was that none of the guards got a look at my mismatched eyes. One green and one blue were hard to hide.
The line edged forward and I could actually feel my nerves rattling. Further and further we went. One step and then another. Closer and closer to the tables. The heat of the crowd pressed against my back, but inside, I was frozen, trapped in a nightmare I couldn’t wake from. I’d never get back to Quill if I was locked in a prison again. I’d die there.
I watched in horror as a Cimmerian seized an old man from the throng. His frail frame barely resisted, his eyes hollow and resigned. The Cimmerian’s grip was unyielding. The old man stumbled as he was dragged toward a cart encased with heavy bars, and so full of people, limbs stuck through. Each solemn face within wore nothing but defeat. Perhaps the horrors of the Cimmerian’s torture chamber were not a secret. With a brutal shove, the guard thrust the old man into the cart and slammed the door shut with a metallic clang, sealing his fate.
A familiar face lurked behind the cart, standing within the crowd of people that’d already been shuffled through. Archer. The line stopped moving for a moment, so I watched him carefully. The way his unblinking eyes stared straight ahead before he quickly swirled a finger in the air to give a signal.
I followed his line of sight to another man on the outskirts of the chaos. And then, almost like the strike of a snake, that man purposefully slammed into someone in front of him, gripping their arm to keep the stranger from falling before patting his chest as if asking if he was okay. When the stranger turned back to face the crowd, I wasn’t surprised to see the other, the one Archer had signaled, slip a handful of stolen coins into a giant red pouch and vanish into the crowd.
They were thieves. And honestly, the man wasn’t very good at it. What kind of monster chooses a moment like this to pickpocket a crowd of distraught people? Especially when he was a Silk. Dressed in layers of warmth and fine clothing, there was no questioning his status.
Disgusting, really. Not that it mattered. Not that a single person in this chaos did anything but battle through their fear and panic as the Cimmerians continued to shove the crowd and bark orders.
“The king?” a massive man in threadbare clothing shouted, not ten paces from me. “The king, my fucking asshole. This is done in the name of the prince. The king would never stand for this.”
“Is he here to say otherwise?” one of the overseers at a table shouted above the crowd. “Where is your precious king to save you? Not here.” He looked around, feigning shock. “Because these are his orders.”
“Fuck you,” the protestor countered, lowering his head and running forward like a battering ram, likely trying to flip the table. The crowd parted as the man screamed in fury.
But he was caught effortlessly by a nearby guard. The flaps of the tent flew open and a dark-haired man wearing a silver crown emerged, a coy smile on his face as he approached. He slid a hand down his pressed suit, glaring over the crowd as if he’d been waiting in the wings for someone to step out of line. All the herded people, the Cimmerians and those along the sidelines bowed, me included, albeit slightly delayed.
“Hold him,” the royal demanded, stalking forward as the defiant man was shoved to his knees. The man, who I assumed was the prince, reached out, gripping the naysayer’s chin. “Please, repeat yourself, so that all may witness the crime before the punishment.”
As if a bucket of icy water had been dumped on the man’s bald head, he stopped immediately, his eyes widening with fear the rest of us had already practically bathed in. The protestor’s body trembled, the once invisible line between pride and sheer terror obliterated in an instant.
“Repeat yourself,” the prince said again, enunciating each syllable in a cold demand.
A woman in front of me cried out. She’d been quiet, and though she’d nearly swallowed the sound, as one, the Cimmerians turned toward her. I wanted to reach out to her. To find a way to hide her from their brutal wrath. But I was not a hero and in minutes, I wasn’t even going to be able to save myself.