She doesn't even give me time to protest.
"Do you accept the terms?"
"I need more time."
She shakes her head and leans forward. I smell gunpowder on her. "Do you accept the terms?"
It is impossible. It is foolish. It is our best chance.
"I accept the terms."
The next moments pass in a blur as I trudge home through the muddy shadows. My mind is on fire, trying to figure out a way to get my hands on anything worth even close to Farley's price. There's nothing in the Stilts, that's for sure.
Kilorn is still waiting in the darkness, looking like a little lost boy. I suppose he is.
"Bad news?" he says, trying to keep his voice even, but it trembles anyway.
"The underground can get us out of here." For his sake, I keep myself calm as I explain. Two thousand crowns might as well be the king's throne, but I make it seem like nothing. "If anyone can do it, we can. We can."
"Mare." His voice is cold, colder than winter, but the hollow look in his eyes is worse. "It's over. We lost."
"But if we just-"
He grabs my shoulders, holding me at an arm's length in his firm grip. It doesn't hurt but it shocks me all the same. "Don't do this to me, Mare. Don't make believe there's a way out of this. Don't give me hope."
He's right. It's cruel to give hope where none should be. It only turns into disappointment, resentment, rage-all the things that make this life more difficult than it already is.
"Just let me accept it. Maybe-maybe then I can actually get my head in order, get myself trained properly, give myself a fighting chance out there."
My hands find his wrists and I hold on tight. "You talk like you're already dead."
"Maybe I am."
"My brothers-"
"Your father made sure they knew what they were doing long before they went away. And it helps that they're all the size of a house." He forces a smirk, trying to get me to laugh. It doesn't work. "I'm a good swimmer and sailor. They'll need me on the lakes."
It's only when he wraps his arms around me, hugging me, that I realize I'm shaking. "Kilorn-," I mumble into his chest. But the next words won't come. It should be me. But my time is fast approaching. I can only hope Kilorn survives long enough for me to see him again, in the barracks or in a trench. Maybe then I'll find the right words to say. Maybe then I'll understand how I feel.
"Thank you, Mare. For everything." He pulls back, letting go of me far too quickly. "If you save up, you'll have enough by the time the legion comes for you."
For him, I nod. But I have no plans of letting him fight and die alone.
By the time I settle down into my cot, I know I will not sleep tonight. There must be something I can do, and even if it takes all night, I'm going to figure it out.
Gisa coughs in her sleep and it's a courteous, tiny sound. Even unconscious, she manages to be ladylike. No wonder she fits in so well with the Silvers. She's everything they like in a Red: quiet, content, and unassuming. It's a good thing she's the one who has to deal with them, helping the superhuman fools pick out silk and fine fabrics for clothes they'll wear just once. She says you get used to it, to the amount of money they spend on such trivial things. And at Grand Garden, the marketplace in Summerton, the money increases tenfold. Together with her mistress, Gisa sews lace, silk, fur, even gemstones to create wearable art for the Silver elite who seem to follow the royals everywhere. The parade, she calls them, an endless march of preening peacocks, each one more proud and ridiculous than the next. All Silver, all silly, and all status-obsessed.
I hate them even more than usual tonight. The stockings they lose would probably be enough to save me, Kilorn, and half the Stilts from conscription.
For the second time tonight, lightning strikes.
"Gisa. Wake up." I do not whisper. The girl sleeps like the dead. "Gisa."
She shifts and groans into her pillow. "Sometimes I want to kill you," she grumbles.
"How sweet. Now wake up!"
Her eyes are still closed when I pounce, landing on her like a giant cat. Before she can start yelling and whining and get my mother involved, I clamp a hand on her mouth. "Just listen to me, that's all. Don't talk, just listen."
She huffs against my hand but nods all the same.
"Kilorn-"
Her skin flushes bright red at the mention of him. She even giggles, something she never does. But I don't have time for her schoolgirl crush, not now.
"Stop that, Gisa." I take a shaky breath. "Kilorn is going to be conscripted."
And then her laughter is gone. Conscription isn't a joke, not to us.
"I've found a way to get him out of here, to save him from the war, but I need your help to do it." It hurts to say it, but somehow the words pass my lips. "I need you, Gisa. Will you help me?"
She doesn't hesitate to answer, and I feel a great swell of love for my sister.
"Yes."
It's a good thing I'm short, or else Gisa's extra uniform would never fit. It's thick and dark, not at all suited to the summer sun, with buttons and zippers that seem to cook in the heat. The pack on my back shifts, almost taking me over with the weight of cloth and sewing instruments. Gisa has her own pack and constricting uniform, but they don't seem to bother her at all. She's used to hard work and a hard life.
We sail most of the distance upriver, squashed between bushels of wheat on the barge of a benevolent farmer Gisa befriended years ago. People trust her around here, like they can never trust me. The farmer lets us off with a mile still to go, near the winding trail of merchants heading for Summerton. Now we shuffle with them, toward what Gisa calls the Garden Door, though there are no gardens to be seen. It's actually a gate made of sparkling glass that blinds us before we even get a chance to step inside. The rest of the wall looks to be made of the same thing, but I can't believe the Silver king would be stupid enough to hide behind glass walls.
"It isn't glass," Gisa tells me. "Or at least, not entirely. The Silvers discovered a way to heat diamond and mix it with other materials. It's totally impregnable. Not even a bomb could get through that."
Diamond walls.
"That seems necessary."
"Keep your head down. Let me do the talking," she whispers.
I stay on her heels, my eyes on the road as it fades from cracked black asphalt to paved white stone. It's so smooth I almost slip, but Gisa grabs my arm, keeping me steady. Kilorn wouldn't have a problem walking on this, not with his sea legs. But then Kilorn wouldn't be here at all. He's already given up. I will not.
As we get closer to the gates, I squint through the glare to see to the other side. Though Summerton only exists for the season, abandoned before the first frostfall, it's the biggest city I've ever seen. There are bustling streets, shops, cantina bars, houses, and courtyards, all of them pointed toward a shimmering monstrosity of diamondglass and marble. And now I know where it got its name. The Hall of the Sun shines like a star, reaching a hundred feet into the air in a twisting mass of spires and bridges. Parts of it darken seemingly at will, to give the occupants privacy. Can't have the peasants looking at the king and his court. It's breathtaking, intimidating, magnificent-and this is just the summer house.
"Names," a gruff voice barks, and Gisa stops short.
"Gisa Barrow. This is my sister, Mare Barrow. She's helping me bring some wares in for my mistress." She doesn't flinch, keeping her voice even, almost bored. The Security officer nods at me and I shift my pack, making a show of it. Gisa hands over our identification cards, both of them torn, dirty things ready to fall apart, but they suffice.
The man examining us must know my sister because he barely glances at her ID. Mine he scrutinizes, looking between my face and my picture for a good minute. I wonder if he's a whisper too and can read my mind. That would put an end to this little excursion very quickly and probably earn me a cable noose around my neck.
"Wrists," he sighs, already bored with us.
For a moment, I'm puzzled, but Gisa sticks out her right hand without a thought. I follow the gesture, pointing my arm at the officer. He slaps a pair of red bands around our wrists. The circles shrink until they're tight as shackles-there's no removing these things on our own.
"Move along," the officer says, gesturing with a lazy wave of the hand. Two young girls are not a threat in his eyes.
Gisa nods in thanks but I don't. This man doesn't deserve an ounce of appreciation from me. The gates yawn open around us and we march forward. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, drowning out the sounds of Grand Garden as we enter a different world.
It's a market like I've never seen, dotted with flowers and trees and fountains. The Reds are few and fast, running errands and selling their own wares, all marked by their red bands. Though the Silvers wear no band, they're easy to spot. They drip with gems and precious metals, a fortune on every one of them. One slip of a hook and I can go home with everything I'll ever need. All are tall and beautiful and cold, moving with a slow grace no Red can claim. We simply don't have the time to move that way.
Gisa guides me past a bakery with cakes dusted in gold, a grocer displaying brightly colored fruits I've never seen before, and even a menagerie full of wild animals beyond my comprehension. A little girl, Silver judging by her clothes, feeds tiny bits of apple to a spotted, horselike creature with an impossibly long neck. A few streets over, a jewelry store sparkles in every color of the rainbow. I make note of it but keeping my head straight here is difficult. The air seems to pulse, vibrant with life.
Just when I think there could be nothing more fantastic than this place, I look closer at the Silvers and remember exactly who they are. The little girl is a telky, levitating the apple ten feet into the air to feed the long-necked beast. A florist runs his hands through a pot of white flowers and they explode into growth, curling around his elbows. He's a greeny, a manipulator of plants and the earth. A pair of nymphs sits by the fountain, lazily entertaining children with floating orbs of water. One of them has orange hair and hateful eyes, even while kids mill around him. All over the square, every type of Silver goes about their extraordinary lives. There are so many, each one grand and wonderful and powerful and so far removed from the world I know.
"This is how the other half lives," Gisa murmurs, sensing my awe. "It's enough to make you sick."
Guilt ripples through me. I've always been jealous of Gisa, her talent and all the privileges it affords her, but I've never thought of the cost. She didn't spend much time in school and has few friends in the Stilts. If Gisa were normal, she would have many. She would smile. Instead, the fourteen-year-old girl soldiers through with needle and thread, putting the future of her family on her back, living neck-deep in a world she hates.
"Thank you, Gee," I whisper into her ear. She knows I don't just mean for today.
"Salla's shop is there, with the blue awning." She points down a side street, to a tiny store sandwiched between a pair of cafes. "I'll be inside, if you need me."
"I won't," I answer quickly. "Even if things go wrong, I won't get you involved."
"Good." Then she grabs my hand, squeezing tight for a second. "Be careful. It's crowded today, more than usual."
"More places to hide," I tell her with a smirk.
But her voice is grave. "More officers too."
We continue walking, every step bringing us closer to the exact moment she'll leave me alone in this strange place. A thrum of panic goes through me as Gisa gently lifts the pack from my shoulders. We've reached her shop.
To calm myself, I ramble under my breath. "Speak to no one, don't make eye contact. Keep moving. I leave the way I came, through the Garden Door. The officer removes my band and I keep walking." She nods as I speak, her eyes wide, wary and perhaps even hopeful. "It's ten miles to home."
"Ten miles to home," she echoes.
Wishing for all the world I could go with her, I watch Gisa disappear beneath the blue awning. She's gotten me this far. Now it's my turn.
FOUR.
I've done this a thousand times before, watching the crowd like a wolf does a flock of sheep. Looking for the weak, the slow, the foolish. Only now, I am very much the prey. I might choose a swift who'll catch me in half a heartbeat, or worse, a whisper who could probably sense me coming a mile away. Even the little telky girl can best me if things go south. So I will have to be faster than ever, smarter than ever, and worst of all, luckier than ever. It's maddening. Fortunately, no one pays attention to another Red servant, another insect wandering past the feet of gods.
I head back to the square, arms hanging limp but ready at my sides. Normally this is my dance, walking through the most congested parts of a crowd, letting my hands catch purses and pockets like spiderwebs catching flies. I'm not stupid enough to try that here. Instead, I follow the crowd around the square. Now I'm not blinded by my fantastic surroundings but looking beyond them, to the cracks in the stone and the black-uniformed Security officers in every shadow. The impossible Silver world comes into sharper focus. Silvers barely look at each other, and they never smile. The telky girl looks bored feeding her strange beast, and merchants don't even haggle. Only the Reds look alive, darting around the slow-moving men and women of a better life. Despite the heat, the sun, the bright banners, I have never seen a place so cold.
What concern me most are the black video cameras hidden in the canopy or alleyways. There are only a few at home, at the Security outpost or in the arena, but they're all over the market. I can just hear them humming in firm reminder: someone else is watching here.
The tide of the crowd takes me down the main avenue, past taverns and cafes. Silvers sit at an open-air bar, watching the crowd pass as they enjoy their morning drinks. Some watch video screens set into walls or hanging from archways. Each one plays something different, ranging from old arena matches to news to brightly colored programs I don't understand, all blending together in my head. The high whine of the screens, the distant sound of static, buzzes in my ears. How they can stand it, I don't know. But the Silvers don't even blink at the videos, almost ignoring them entirely.
The Hall itself casts a glimmering shadow over me, and I find myself staring in stupid awe again. But then a droning noise snaps me out of it. At first it sounds like the arena tone, the one used to start a Feat, but this one is different. Low and heavier somehow. Without a thought, I turn to the noise.
In the bar next to me, all the video screens flicker to the same broadcast. Not a royal address but a news report. Even the Silvers stop to watch in rapt silence. When the drone ends, the report begins. A fluffy blond woman, Silver no doubt, appears on the screen. She reads from a piece of paper and looks frightened.
"Silvers of Norta, we apologize for the interruption. Thirteen minutes ago there was a terrorist attack in the capital."
The Silvers around me gasp, bursting into fearful murmurs.
I can only blink in disbelief. Terrorist attack? On the Silvers?
Is that even possible?
"This was an organized bombing of government buildings in West Archeon. According to reports, the Royal Court, the Treasury Hall, and Whitefire Palace have been damaged, but the court and the treasury were not in session this morning." The image changes from the woman to footage of a burning building. Security officers evacuate the people inside while nymphs blast water onto the flames. Healers, marked by a black-and-red cross on their arms, run to and fro among them. "The royal family was not in residence at Whitefire, and there are no reported casualties at this time. King Tiberias is expected to address the nation within the hour."
A Silver next to me clenches his fist and pounds on the bar, sending spider cracks through the solid rock top. A strongarm. "It's the Lakelanders! They're losing up north so they're coming down south to scare us!" A few jeer with him, cursing the Lakelands.
"We should wipe them out, push all the way through to Prairie!" another Silver echoes. Many cheer in agreement. It takes all my strength not to snap at these cowards who will never see the front lines or send their children to fight. Their Silver war is being paid for in Red blood.
As more and more footage rolls, showing the marble facade of the courthouse explode into dust or a diamondglass wall withstanding a fireball, part of me feels happy. The Silvers are not invincible. They have enemies, enemies who can hurt them, and for once, they aren't hiding behind a Red shield.
The newscaster returns, paler than ever. Someone whispers to her offscreen and she shuffles through her notes, her hands shaking. "It seems that an organization has taken responsibility for the Archeon bombing," she says, stumbling a bit. The shouting men quiet quickly, eager to hear the words on-screen. "A terrorist group calling themselves the Scarlet Guard released this video moments ago."
"The Scarlet Guard?" "Who the hell-?" "Some kind of trick-?" and other confused questions rise around the bar. No one has heard of the Scarlet Guard before.
But I have.
That's what Farley called herself. Her and Will. But they are smugglers, both of them, not terrorists or bombers or whatever else the broadcast might say. It's a coincidence, it can't be them.
On-screen, I'm greeted by a terrible sight. A woman stands in front of a shaky camera, a scarlet bandanna tied around her face so only her golden hair and keen blue eyes shine out. She holds a gun in one hand, a tattered red flag in another. And on her chest, there's a bronze badge in the shape of a torn-apart sun.
"We are the Scarlet Guard and we stand for the freedom and equality of all people-," the woman says. I recognize her voice.
Farley.
"-starting with the Reds."
I don't need to be a genius to know that a bar full of angry, violent Silvers is the last place a Red girl wants to be. But I can't move. I can't tear my eyes away from Farley's face.
"You believe you are the masters of the world, but your reign as kings and gods is at an end. Until you recognize us as human, as equal, the fight will be at your door. Not on a battlefield but in your cities. In your streets. In your homes. You don't see us, and so we are everywhere." Her voice hums with authority and poise. "And we will rise up, Red as the dawn."
Red as the dawn.
The footage ends, cutting back to the slack-jawed blonde. Roars drown out the rest of the broadcast as Silvers around the bar find their voices. They scream about Farley, calling her a terrorist, a murderer, a Red devil. Before their eyes can fall on me, I back out into the street.
But all down the avenue, from the square to the Hall, Silvers boil out from every bar and cafe. I try to rip off the red band around my wrist, but the stupid thing holds firm. Other Reds disappear into alleys and doorways, trying to flee, and I'm smart enough to follow. By the time I find an alleyway, the screaming starts.