Chapter Twenty-Five. Scarecrow
TWENTY-FIVE
Scarecrow
I’m bored and Kansas has been gone for hours.
When we parted, I was taken to a gentleman’s shop on the north side of the city. I was fitted for a suit jacket, trousers, a button-up shirt. They liked me best all in black.
Who am I to disagree with perfection?
I stop them at the black tie.
“Perhaps we should try a bit of color?” I suggest.
I was taken to the gentleman’s shop by Fink, the council member with the thick mustache and round glasses. I was then fussed over by Brem and Urma, a sister-and-brother duo known for their men’s clothing. Brem smells like vodka and despair. Urma smells like Oil and regret.
But when they’re together, working on their craft, they smell like stars and enchantment.
Brem pulls down three patterned ties, all of them shades of eggplant.
“Not those. That one.” I point at a tie hanging on the end of the display.
They share a look. Urma is the one to retrieve it, draping it around my neck. She ties it with quick, precise movements. Her fingers are long and scarred. She could be the right age of someone who had fought during the Great and Terrible War. It would explain the Oil and regret.
We gather to admire my reflection.
Fink’s brows sink below the frame of his glasses. “It’s not Hollow colors.”
They are preoccupied with conformity in this place. Purple and green only. I don’t blame them. They are a fabulous color pairing.
“I like the red,” I say.
Fink nods. “Very well. Red it is.”
Once the outfit is formalized, Fink and I make our way back to the Red Wander. We wait by the fire for Kansas to return.
As I wait, I pick through a bowl of nuts. There are cashews and peanuts and walnuts and pistachios. I prefer pecans. Candied.
Fink’s knee is bouncing beneath the table. He’s currently nursing a glass tumbler of ozrum.
“Are you all right?” I ask him.
He pulls out a gold pocket watch from the interior pocket of his waistcoat. He checks the time. “The ball is still a few hours to start, but I have business I need to attend to beforehand and I promised Ana I would not leave you unattended.”
“They’ll be along soon, I’m sure.” I pop a cashew into my mouth. Fink watches the door. He takes another sip of ozrum. His knee bounces harder.
Fink, from what I’ve gathered, is next in line for the provost seat. I suspect he views managing me as akin to babysitting me, and regardless of what you name it, both are beneath him.
“You know”—I crunch into a walnut—“I’m a big boy. Surely I can entertain myself if you’d like to run along.”
He finally looks at me. “I was instructed to stay by your side.”
“Hmmm.”
“What?” His eyes narrow.
“Do they not trust either of us?”
His frown deepens. “What do you mean?”
“You’re given explicit instruction, as if you can’t manage yourself, and I’m given a guide, as if I can’t find my own way.”
The front door opens. A cool breeze rushes in. Not Kansas. I turn back to Fink.
There is something else about this man that makes me question him. Maybe it’s the mustache. A beard I could handle, but a mustache?
He hasn’t come right out and said it, but I’ve noticed that when Kansas is around, he seems extra flighty. I don’t know that he entirely believes Kansas to be the great liberator everyone else claims her to be.
And the way he’s considering my challenge, questioning the motives of some vague they, when really I mean Ana and he knows I mean Ana, leads me to believe he also isn’t entirely loyal to the Hollow’s leader.
“You’re right,” he says. “She’s always dismissing me.”
There we are.
“I have better things to do tonight other than babysit a man with no memories. No offense.”
“None taken.” I’m a little offended.
“You’ll just wait here for them to return?” he asks.
“Of course. The fire is warm, the snacks are good. What more can a man with no memories want?”
He nods, then downs the last of his ozrum. “If you’re sure…”
“Quite.”
“All right.” He shoves back his chair. “Have a good evening.” Then he’s gone.
I count to ten. Grab a handful of nuts. And follow the man out the door.
Fink is at least a foot shorter than I am, but he moves quickly.
When he leaves the Red Wander, he goes right, farther into the heart of the city. I keep at least ten paces between us, but he’s not bothered by what’s behind him, and the thought he might be followed has clearly never crossed his mind.
Reckless. Naive.
At the end of the narrow street, we spill out onto another town square where a statue is erected in the center.
This one depicts a woman wearing a billowing dress, brandishing a wand aimed at the sky.
There is no altar at this statue, no flickering candlelight.
In fact, as we pass beneath it, I spot several bits of graffiti at her feet.
Wicked is spray-painted across her left slipper.
Greedy Witch is on her calf. There’s a giant W on her right foot with a circle painted around it.
This must be the Witch of the East. These people clearly hate the witch and love the wizard.
Good for him.
Fink heads north from the statue, taking us back toward the Yellow Brick Road. Here the shops are dark with CLOSED signs hanging in the windows. Everyone is leaving early for the ball. The celebration is on the lips of everyone we pass.
When the shops thin out, replaced by squat Ender houses, I widen the distance between us. With fewer Enders here, my presence is easier to notice.
The Yellow Brick Road comes into sight and Fink finally reaches his destination: the guardhouse.
It’s a three-story building constructed of black stone.
The entrance is a double door with an arched stone alcove.
The wood of the front door is thick and strapped in iron with matching iron bars on the windows.
Heavy drapes are pulled closed on all the windows, but there’s light in every room and silhouettes pass back and forth.
It’s a bustling building.
Thankfully Fink goes around back where a guard is having a cigarette break.
Smoke clouds in the silver light cast by the lampposts. I edge in closer, sticking to the shadows of the next closest building.
Fink lights his own cigarette with a spin of his lighter. He exhales in a rush. “Have the scouts spotted anything yet?”
The guard flicks ash from the end of his cigarette. “He’s about two hours out.”
“Crice,” he mutters.
“Yep,” the guard says.
Crice was a Cardinal God. The God of the South. Sometimes his name is used like a curse word. Of all the gods, Crice was the most fickle.
“Of all the nights,” Fink says and takes another pull from his cigarette.
“The celebration might make it easier. Everyone of importance will be there, including the girl.”
The girl. Kansas.
Fink nods and exhales smoke through his nose. “We have to make sure the alarm isn’t sounded when he arrives. We’ll lose the element of surprise.”
“I’ll do my best.” The guard drops his cigarette and crushes the ember beneath the heel of his boot. “The captain is up my ass tonight. It’s not going to be easy.”
“It’s not supposed to be easy. The West pays us for our competence, not the difficulty of the task.”
The guard gives the little man a look like he is being obtuse. Which he is.
“When the Tinman arrives,” the guard says, “I will be sure to escort him straight to the girl. Alarm or not. That’s what you’ve paid me for.”
Fink scoffs, but there is a clear discrepancy in power between these two men, and he’s not willing to push the guard any further.
Fink might hold higher rank, but the guard could gut the council member with a quick swipe of his blade.
And he would do it. I can tell just by looking at the man.
He’s an opportunist. A greedy bastard. A little bit bloodthirsty.
“Fine. Do you have final numbers on guards at the ball?”
“Thirteen in total. Six are on our side.”
“Good. Very good.” Fink flicks his cigarette into the bushes. “I’ll make sure the girl stays put at the celebration.”
“You do that.”
Fink turns on his heel and hurries back to the road.