Intermission Scene III
My eyes dart between Jude, unconscious on the seat across from me, and the door.
I’m suddenly aware of every fleeting shadow beyond our compartment.
I overhear a whispered mention in the hall that we should reach our destination by morning, but it’s the conversation between a second pair of passengers that has my shoulders tensing up to my ears.
“Yes, a missing Player—can you believe it?”
My heart starts to race. There’s nothing I can make out about the woman or her companion through the frosted glass, just that she pauses.
Pauses a beat too long. Her companion murmurs, “Making his way north for vengeance, I heard…” They continue on by, and I can’t hear any more.
In this state, I don’t think Jude is about to avenge anyone. His skin has faded to the pallor of melted wax, and he only awakens to cough miserably, curse, and fall back asleep. A thin layer of gold is gathering under his eyes and at his lips—which have paled white.
Will they torture him? Kill him? I figured it would be a neat trade, plain and simple. And even if things went poorly, I felt certain I wouldn’t care. But whatever happens to Jude—I’ll be responsible.
One life for the entire North, I chant to myself. That math has to even out somewhere, right? And I’d have done something good. I’d have a life and a name for completing what my father started. I wouldn’t waver in the shadow of Galen’s legacy.
The Players started this game; it’s not my fault that I have to sink to their level to win it.
None of this eases the remorse crowding my mind.
I turn to gaze out the window but meet my faded reflection in the glass and let it drift back to Jude, wondering if I’ve lost the right to call anyone a monster. Maybe some monsters are crafted from survival. I think Jude was.
And I’m starting to worry that I do care. I picture myself dragging him to Syrene’s capital, delivering him to the arms of guards who will be too rough handling him. Probably throw him into some awful cell to keep him restrained.
My conscience groans under the weight. And I’m almost positive Jude is intentionally looking as sad and innocent as possible while he sleeps just to guilt me.
When his breathing goes quiet, though, I start to panic.
“Jude?” I whisper. Nothing. “Jude,” I try again.
There’s a shift outside our compartment. Then quiet again.
I press my lips together, hesitating a moment before launching up to pull the drape to our compartment closed. Then I move next to Jude to check for a pulse, pressing two fingers there at his neck.
A shock of cold moves from his skin up my arm. Startling away, I restrain a gasp when I notice a strange, textured pale color on my index and middle finger. I match it to his neck, where my fingers have left a visible spot, the patch of his skin rubbing off on me like faded ink.
My mind conjures the image of Gene Hunt, her skin chipping away like paint on a doll.
My heart pounds wildly, fear sucking all the air out of the space.
“It was down there—that one, I think.” The voice in the hall is male and suspiciously quiet. My blood dips a few degrees as two large shadows slip past our door.
“If you want help,” Jude mutters, eyes still closed, “you’re going to have to undo the chains.”
I almost cringe at how relieved I am to hear him speak. At least he’s not dead.
But he might be if I go through with this. If I turn him in as a bargaining chip.
No. They won’t kill him, I reason. A peaceful trade. That’s all.
“Not happening.” I pull my pack over my shoulders and keep my ear to the door until I’m sure they’ve passed. Then, sliding the door open, whisper, “Come on. We’re moving.”
It takes a solid two minutes to bully Jude into sitting up and another three to get him moving down the hall, in the opposite direction from where I think the men went. He stumbles out of the compartment like a drunk from a bar after last call.
“I suppose we’ll just outrun them?” he slurs ahead of me as I shush him. “After all, there are sooo many places to go!”
“We’re getting off early at the next stop,” I snap at him under my breath.
He turns a knowing—if a little delirious—grin at me. “Oh, someone feels guilty.”
“I just need to think about it a little more. Don’t get excited.” Damn it. I’ve never been good at making decisions. But I need to be sure about this—before I hand him over.
“Would you miss me, Alistaire?” Jude takes a stumbling step forward, catching himself. “That’s very sweet.”
“Would you stop leaning into the wall like that?” I nudge him down the hall and peer over my shoulder. “Someone will hear you.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Are the chains you tied me up with making too much noise?” Jude leans a hard right, loudly scraping the Eleutheraen gold against the bronze siding of the wall, emitting a wretched screeching sound.
I panic. “Okay! Okay.” I throw another nervous glance over my shoulder and grab at his cloak, searching for where I’ve clasped the chain shut and freeing his wrists. “Don’t make me regret this,” I hiss, piling it back into my pack.
A horrible grin slides up Jude’s face, and I have less than a second to realize my mistake before he bursts into a run down the hall.
“You were faking!” I call, bounding after him.
“Acting, Alistaire! There is a difference.”
Jude is faster than me, and he knows it. Which is probably why he takes the time to drop into a low, graceful bow before skirting through the door into the next carriage with a wink.
I navigate the narrow hall, sparing careful glances over my shoulder as I crash into the next compartment—the common carriage, with long sets of seats lining either side. Most of them are full with strangers, whose eyes turn to me upon my haggard arrival, aside from a few sleeping passengers.
Dread sinks into my bones as I pass each set. Jude could be disguised as anyone if the Eleutheraen gold has already worn off.
I scan the following three carriages for signs of him—a loose lock of copper hair, a golden eye, anything that might indicate a clumsy costume in his fatigued state—but for the most part, they all look like regular people.
Until I see a whisper of a familiar cloak down the aisle and make a dash for it—
Only to find Jude’s cloak hanging neatly over an empty seat.
My furious expression must give me away, because I sense someone staring curiously in my direction as I drop the cloak and turn—a woman with chopped, light hair and a narrow chin.
She smiles just a little too sweetly as I pass, and my ear itches toward a conversation in the passage ahead.
Casually slowing by the sliding door, I listen in.
“A moment, sir—I’ve just received word mumble mumble don’t mean to alarm you—a passenger mumble mumble jumping off the—”
Suddenly, I forget all about being cold. I’m pretty sure my blood is boiling.
Jude is gone.
With any luck, he’ll return himself to the Playhouse. Without that luck, I’ve set a Player loose on the world to do gods know what near a city he’s sworn to take revenge on.
As I grip my pack and return to my seat, some senseless part of me chants: Hunt him down. But he could look like anyone or anything. I register vaguely that the blond woman is staring at me again as I pass back through to my carriage.
When I reach my compartment, I collapse onto the seat, exhausted. The space feels extra empty. In a strange way, Jude’s absence is louder than his presence.
We probably weren’t being followed at all. I was hyper-fixated on anything suspicious, and Jude picked up on it. For all I know, he could have conjured the sounds of that conversation outside our door to make me panic in the first place.
Time feels too precious to dwell on it, though.
Jude is loose and likely heading back to the Playhouse. I could try to cut him off before he reaches it.
Or I could give up the hunt, cut my losses, and go home. I don’t know how, but Galen would find a way to fix all of this, ruined mark or not. He’d figure it out. How would I track Jude down again anyway?
Another wave of dread tingles in the back of my head. I know how. There’s Craft in my veins. His. It calls to its likeness through a shared thread. Whether I want to admit it or not, it’ll lead me back to Jude.
The compartment door slides open, and I half expect him to march in and sit himself back across from me.
But it’s not Jude behind the door.
It’s the one-eared man, and he isn’t alone.