Broken Throne Page 11
The one with the crooked smile steps out of line before she can say his name. He crosses the gap between us, though he doesn’t extend a hand to shake. “I’m Barrow. Shade Barrow. And you better not get me killed.”
My eyes narrow at him. “No promises.”
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Day 23 of Operation RED WEB, Stage 1.
Operative: Captain REDACTED.
Designation: LAMB.
Origin: Corvium, NRT.
Destination: RAM at REDACTED.
-CORVIUM intelligence enclosed: fort statistics, city map, tunnel overlay, army schedules/timetables.
-Early assessment: Most promising are Corp E (eager, angry, a gamble) and Aide B (connected, officer’s aide recently stationed to CORVIUM). Possible for recruitment or Stage 2.
-Both seem willing to pledge but are otherwise ignorant to SG presence in NRT, LL. Invaluable to have two operatives inside CORVIUM. Will continue progress, request to fast-track recruitment?
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Operative: Colonel REDACTED.
Designation: RAM.
Origin: REDACTED.
Destination: LAMB at Corvium.
-Request denied. Corp E and Aide B nonessential.
-Move on from CORVIUM. Continue assessing WHISTLE contacts/RED WEB Stage 2 assets.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Operative: Captain REDACTED.
Designation: LAMB.
Origin: Corvium, NRT.
Destination: RAM at REDACTED.
-CORVIUM intelligence vital to SG cause at large. Request more time at location. Pass up to COMMAND.
-Firmly believe Corp E and Aide B are strong candidates.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Operative: General REDACTED.
Designation: DRUMMER.
Origin: REDACTED.
Destination: LAMB at Corvium, RAM at REDACTED.
-Request denied. Orders are to continue Stage 1 assessment for Stage 2/Asset Removal.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, COMMAND CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Operative: Captain REDACTED.
Designation: LAMB.
Origin: Corvium, NRT.
Destination: DRUMMER at REDACTED.
-Strong opposition. Many military assets present at CORVIUM, must be assessed for Stage 2 removal.
-Request more time at location.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Operative: General REDACTED.
Designation: DRUMMER.
Origin: REDACTED.
Destination: LAMB at Corvium.
-Request denied. Move out.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
Following protocol, I light the thin strip of correspondence paper on fire. The dots and dashes detailing Command orders char away to nothing, consumed by flame. I know the feeling. Hot anger licks at my insides. But I keep my face still, for Cara’s sake.
She looks on, thick glasses perched on her nose. Her fingers itch, ready to click out my response to orders she cannot read.
“No need,” I say, waving her off. The lie sits in my mouth for a moment. “Command bent. We stay.”
I bet the Colonel’s damned red eye is rolling in his skull right now. But his orders are stupid, narrow-minded, and now Command thinks the same. They must be disobeyed, for the cause, for the Scarlet Guard. Corporal Eastree and Barrow would be invaluable to us, not to mention they’re both risking their lives to get me the information I need. The Guard owes them an oath, if not evacuation in Stage 2.
They’re aren’t here, in the thick of things, I tell myself. It helps ease the sting of disobedience. The Colonel and Command don’t understand what Corvium means to the Nortan military, or how important our information will become. The tunnel system alone is worth my time—it connects every piece of the fortress city, allowing not only clandestine troop movements but easy infiltration of Corvium itself. And thanks to Barrow’s position as aide to a high-ranking Silver, we know less-savory intelligence as well. Which officers prefer the unwilling company of Red soldiers. That Lord General Osanos, the nymph governor of the Westlakes region and commander of the city, continues a family feud with Lord General Laris, commander of the entire Nortan Air Fleet. Who is essential to the military and who wears rank for show. The list goes on. Petty rivalries and weaknesses to be exploited. There are places of rot for us to poke at.
If Command doesn’t see this, then they must be blind.
But I am not.
And today is the day I set foot inside the walls myself and see the worst of what Norta has to offer tomorrow’s revolution.
Cara folds up her broadcaster and reattaches it to the cord around her neck. It stays with her always, nestled next to her heart. “Not even to the Colonel?” she asks. “To gloat?”
“Not today.” I force my best smirk. It placates her.
And it convinces me. The last two weeks have been a goldmine of information. The next two will certainly be the same.
I force my way out of the stuffy, shuttered closet we use for transmissions, the only part of the abandoned house with four walls and an intact roof. The rest of the structure does its job well, serving as the safe house for our dealings in Corvium. The main room, as long as it is wide, has brick walls, though one side is collapsed along with the rusted tin roof. And the smaller chamber, probably a bedroom, has no roof at all. Not that we mind. The Scarlet Guard has suffered worse, and the nights have been unseasonably warm, albeit humid. Summer is coming to Norta. Our plastic tents keep out the rain, but not the moist air. It’s nothing, I tell myself. A mild discomfort. But sweat drips down my neck anyway. And it’s not even midday yet.
Trying to ignore the sticky sensation that comes with the rising humidity, I pile my braid on top of my head, wrapping it like a crown. If this weather keeps up, I might just cut it all off.
“He’s late,” Tristan says from his lookout at a glassless window. His eyes never still, always darting, searching.
“I’d be worried if he wasn’t.” Barrow hasn’t been on time once in the past two weeks, not for any of our meetings.
Cara joins Tye in the corner, dropping down with a merry flop. She sets to cleaning her glasses as intently as Tye cleans pistols. Both of them share the same look, fair-haired Lakelanders. Like me, they’re not used to the May heat, and they cluster together in the shade.
Tristan is not so affected. He’s a Piedmont boy originally, a son of mild winter and swampy summer. The heat doesn’t bother him. In fact the only indicator of the changing season are his freckles, which seem to breed. They dot his arms and face, more every day. And his hair is longer too, a dark red mop that curls in the humidity.
“I told him as much,” Rasha says from the opposite corner. She busies herself braiding her hair out of her dark face, taking care to divide her curling black locks into even pieces. Her own rifle, not so long as Tristan’s but just as well used, props against the wall next to her. “Starting to think they don’t sleep down in Piedmont.”
“If you want to know more about my sleeping habits, all you have to do is ask, Rasha,” Tristan replies. This time he turns over his shoulder, just for a second, to meet her black eyes. They share a knowing look.
I fight the urge to scoff. “Keep it to the woods, you two,” I mutter. Hard enough sleeping on the ground without listening to rustling tents. “Scouts still out?”
“Tarry and Shore are taking the ridge, they won’t be back until dus
k, same as Big Coop and Martenson.” Tristan ticks off the rest of our team on his fingers. “Cristobel and Little Coop are about a mile out, in the trees. Waiting on your Barrow boy, and looking to wait awhile.”
I nod. All in order then.
“Command happy so far?”
“Happy as they can be,” I lie as smoothly as I can. Thankfully, Tristan doesn’t turn from his watch. He doesn’t notice the flush I feel creeping up my neck. “We’re feeding good intelligence. Worth our time for sure.”
“They looking to oath Eastree or Barrow?”
“What makes you say that?”
He shrugs. “Seems like a long time to put into a pair we don’t mean to recruit. Or are you suggesting them for Stage Two?”
Tristan doesn’t mean to pry. He’s a good lieutenant, the best I’ve ever seen, loyal to his bones. He doesn’t know what he’s picking at, but it stings all the same.
“Still working that out,” I mumble, doing my best to walk slow as I run from his questions. “I’m going to do a turn around the property. Grab me if Barrow shows his face.”
“Will do, boss,” echoes from the room.
Keeping my steps even is a battle, and it seems like an eternity before I’m safely into the green trees. I heave a single collecting breath, forcing myself to calm down. It’s for the best. Lying to them, disobeying the orders, it’s for the best. It’s not your fault the Colonel doesn’t understand. It’s not your fault. The old refrain levels me out, as comforting as a stiff drink. Everything I’ve done and everything I will do is for the cause. No one can say otherwise. No one will ever question my loyalty, not once I give them Norta on a silver platter.
A smile slowly replaces my usual scowl. My team doesn’t know what’s coming. Not even Tristan. They don’t know what Command has planned for this kingdom in the coming weeks, or what we’ve done to put things in motion. Grinning, I remember the whirring video camera. The words I said in front of it. Soon, the world will hear them.
I don’t like the woods here. They’re too still, too quiet, with the smell of ash still clinging to the air. Despite the living trees, this is a dead place.
“Nice time for a walk.”
My pistol jams against his temple before I have time to think. Somehow, Barrow doesn’t flinch. He only raises his palms in mock surrender.
“You’re a special kind of stupid,” I say.
He chuckles. “Must be, since I keep wandering back to your ragtag rebel club.”
“And you’re late.”
“I prefer chronologically challenged.”
With a humorless scoff, I holster the gun, but keep my hand on it. I narrow my eyes at him. Usually his uniform is turned inside out for camouflage, but this time he hasn’t bothered. His jacket is red as blood, dark and worn. He sticks out against the greenery.
“I’ve got two spotters waiting on you.”
“They must not be very good.” Again, that smile. Another would think Shade Barrow was warm, open, always laughing. But there’s a chill beneath all that. An iron cold. “I came the usual way.”
Sneering, I pat his jacket. “Did you now?”
There. His eyes flash, chips of frozen amber. Shade Barrow has secrets of his own. Just like everyone else.
“Let me tell my crew you’re here,” I press on, taking a step back from Barrow’s lean form. His eyes follow my movements, quietly assessing. He’s only nineteen, little more than a year into his military service, but his training certainly stuck.
“You mean tell your watchdog.”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “His name is Tristan.”
“Tristan, right. Ginger hair, permanently glued to his rifle.” Barrow gives me my space, but follows all the same as I pick back toward the farmhouse. “Funny, I never expected to find a Southie embedded with you.”
“Southie?” My voice doesn’t quaver, despite Barrow’s not-so-vague probing.
His pace quickens, until he’s almost stepping on my heels. I fight the urge to kick back into his knee. “He’s from Piedmont. Has to be, with his drawl. Not that it’s much of a secret. Just like the rest of your bunch. All Lakelanders, yeah?”
I glance over my shoulder. “What gave you that idea?”
“And you’re from the deep north, I suppose. Farther than our maps go,” he presses on. I get the feeling he enjoys this, like a puzzle. “You’re in for some fun come true summer, when the days run long and thick with heat. Nothing like a week of storm clouds that never break, and air that threatens to drown.”
“No wonder you’re not a trench soldier,” I say as we reach the door. “There’s no need for a poet on the front lines.”
The bastard actually winks at me. “Well, we can’t all be brutes.”
In spite of Tristan’s many warnings, I follow Barrow unarmed. If I’m caught in Corvium, I can plead as a simple Red Nortan in the wrong place at the wrong time. But not if I’m carrying my Lakelander pistol or a well-worn hunting knife. Then it’ll be execution on the spot, not only for bearing arms without permission, but for being a Lakelander to boot. They’d probably slap me in front of a whisper for good measure, and that is the worst fate of all.
While most cities sprawl, with smaller towns and neighborhoods ringing round their walls and boundaries, Corvium stands alone. Barrow stops just before the end of the tree line, looking north at the cleared landscape around a hill. My eyes scan over the fortress city, noting anything of use. I’ve pored over the stolen maps of Corvium, but seeing it with my own eyes is something else entirely.
Black granite walls, spiked with gleaming iron, as well as other “weapons” to be harnessed by Silver abilities. Green vines thick as columns coil up the dozen or so watchtowers, a moat of dark water fed by piping rings the entire city, and strange mirrors dot between the metal prongs fanging the parapets. For Silver shadows, I assume, to concentrate their ability to harness light. And of course, there are more traditional weapons to take stock of. The oil-dark watchtowers bristle with grounded heavy guns, artillery ready to fire on any- and everything in the vicinity. And behind the walls, the buildings rise high, made tall by the cramped space. They too are black, tipped in gold and silver, a shadow beneath brightest sunlight. According to the maps, the city itself is organized like a wheel, with roads like spokes, all branching from the central square used to muster armies and stage executions.
The Iron Road marches straight through the city, from east to west. The western Road is quiet. No marching this late in the afternoon. But the eastern Road bustles with transports, most of them Silver-issue, carrying blue-blushing nobles and officers away from the fortress. The last, the slowest, is a Red delivery convoy returning to the markets of Rocasta, the nearest supply city. It consists of servants in wheeled transports, in horse-drawn carts, even on foot, all making the twenty-five-mile journey only to return again in a few days. I fish the spyglass from my jacket and hold it to my eye, following the ragged train.
A dozen transports, as many carts, maybe thirty Reds walking. All slow, keeping pace with each other. It’ll take them at least nine hours to get where they’re going. A waste of manpower, but I doubt they mind. Delivering uniforms is safer than wearing them. As I watch, the last of the convoy leaves the eastern gate.
“The Prayer Gate,” Barrow mutters.
“Hmm?”
He taps my glass, then points. “We call it the Prayer Gate. As you enter, you pray to leave. As you leave, you pray never to return.”
I can’t help but scoff. “I didn’t know Norta found religion.” He only shakes his head. “Then who do you pray to?”
“No one, I guess. Just words, at the end of it all.”
Somehow, in the shadow of Corvium, Shade Barrow’s eyes find a bit of warmth.
“You get me in that gate, I’ll teach you a prayer of my own.” Rise, Red as the Dawn. Annoying as Barrow might be, I have a sneaking feeling he’ll be Scarlet soon enough.
He tips his head, watching me as keenly as I watch him. “Deal.”
“No one’s perfect, not even me,” he replies with a shit-eating grin. “But I said I’d get you inside today, and I mean what I say. Eventually.”
I look him up and down, gauging his manner. I do not trust Barrow. It’s not in me to truly trust anyone. But risk is part of the game. “Are you going to get me shot?”
His grin widens. “I guess you’ll have to find out.”
“Well then, how do we do this?”
To my surprise, he extends a long-fingered hand. I stare at it, confused. Does he mean to skip up to the gates like a pair of giggling children? Frowning, I cross my arms and turn my back.
“Well, let’s get moving—”
A curtain of black blots my vision as Barrow slips a scarf over my eyes.
I would scream if I could, signaling to Tristan following us from a quarter mile away. But the air is suddenly crushed from my lungs and everything seems to shrink. I feel nothing but the tightening world and the warm bulk of Barrow’s chest against my back. Time spins, everything falls. The ground tips beneath my feet.
I hit concrete hard, enough to rattle an already rattling brain. The blindfold slips off, not that it does me much good. My vision spots, black against something darker, all of it still spinning. I have to shut my eyes again to convince myself I’m not spinning with it.
My hands scrabble against something slick and cold—hopefully water—as I try to push myself back up. Instead, I fall backward, and force my eyes open to find blue, dank darkness. The spots recede, slow at first, then all at once.
“What the f—!”
I turn onto my knees, throwing up everything in my belly.
Barrow’s hand finds my back, rubbing what he assumes are soothing circles. But his touch makes my skin crawl. I spit, finished retching, and force myself to uneasy feet, if only to get away from him.
He puts out a hand to steady me but I smack it away, wishing I’d kept my knife.
“Don’t touch me,” I snarl. “What was that? What happened? Where am I?”