Raging Star (31 page)

He moved quickly, quietly, following the trail he’d marked. To the spruce where she’d knelt to tie her boot. Easy to spy its twisted stunt among the other, straighter trees, its paleness in the darkness. He didn’t know what he was looking for. He didn’t expect to find a thing. But he couldn’t leave without checking the spot. Just in case. On the off chance that she’d left a clue. Anything. That she’d made a slip, a mistake
.

He crouched low. He dared to light a pocket spill. Dangerous. But just for a moment, just long enough to play it over the ground where she’d been. Just in case on the off chance. And there it was. A curl of cherry bark. Gleaming. On the dark of the woodland floor. There weren’t any cherry in this wood
.

She had. She’d made a mistake
.

As his heart drummed a warning of new darkness, his fingers unrolled the barkscroll. It had markings on it. A deep V. A small square. A full sun. He’d suspected. Now he had the proof. They were using Nero as a go-between. That little leather bag she’d started wearing at her waist, the one she never took off. It was perfect for carrying a stash of messages
.

He doused the spill. He tucked the scroll deep inside his pocket. Carefully deeply safely in his pocket. As he stood up, a sweat of fear seized him. Weakened him. He leaned on a tree till it passed
.

Then he hurried back to rejoin them. He’d study the message later. He’d figure out how their code worked, what it meant. Then he’d use it against Jack. And his deal for the future would be done
.

From the top of a grandmother fir, Emmi watched them to-ing and fro-ing. She’d slung her boots around her neck and cat-climbed to the highest boughs to get a view. Reading its rough skin with her bare feet, like Creed would
.

Nero found her right away, but she shooed him off. When he started dipping in and out of the trees, she inched even higher to find out why. She clapped her hands to her mouth. Her shout would have shattered the sky. His name leapt from her as he raised his head and the moon snatched the silver from his eyes.
Jack. Not dead at all, but in New Eden. He must have been helping them in secret all this time. Probably nobody knew but Saba. She wouldn’t breathe a word. With him on their side, they were bound to win. Jack always made everything okay. Oh, to be able to rush to him, to hug him. She hugged herself. Tears heated her eyes and fierce joy ached her heart. Just to know he was alive, that was enough
.

And she knew this too. This was the place of the something. The something she could do that no one else could. That would let her stand tall among the living and the dead. She’d find out what it was in the morning. She’d work it out. Then she’d do it
.

After they’d all gone off, she pulled her coat tight around and snugged into her sweet bough cradle. Nighty night, little bird. She whispered goodnight to her mother and father. The two bright stars above the Hunter’s sword. Side by side, they’d shine guard on her till morning. Then she let herself sink to the nightsongs of the wood. The root-tangled, deep brown murmurs of long memory. They hummed her eyes shut and wove her to sleep and sang her through to the dawn
.

We’re nearly across the Slabway. A flat plain of granite open to the sky. Our horses begin to whinny an shy. Nero dives at
us, screamin. A sting pricks my face. Then another. A salt-sleet’s about to hit us.

We’re on the ground. It’s a drill we know well. Grab the stormsheet, shake open an throw. Cover the horse, nose to tail, cords through the loops, pull an tighten. Nero, c’mon! He flies to my arms an we duck unnerneath. I grab the bridle. Hang on, I gotcha, I tell Hermes. I bury my face in his neck. An brace myself fer the hit.

A saltsleet comes with short warnin. It slams us with a shriek from the belly of hell. The world explodes all around. It’s the bone of fury, the white eye of rage. A screamin madness of winds that whip. They batter the stormie. Snatch an savage it. In no time at all, we’re soaked. Despite our covers, wet through. My clothes hang heavy, clagged with salt. Hermes quivers. I rub his neck with my cheek to soothe him, soothe myself. Nero trembles aginst my heart.

A saltsleet never lasts long. It’s over in minutes. Gone as quick as it came. We creep out, white-faced an breathless an amazed. Hell’s left some kinda heaven behind. The sky rises clear to the moon an beyond. Stars of salt, millions upon millions, glitter the cold body of the granite. Like a carpet of tears, flung from edge to edge of the night earth. Our feet crunch as we turn an turn. As we stare an stare in silence. A warm wind brushes our skin.

Then on we go. At the Shingle Cut crossways, jest shy of middle night, I part company with the boys. They’re used to
my to’s an fro’s at all hours, but I tell ’em I got somewhere I need to be. That I’ll see ’em back at the Lanes.

We go our separate paths. Them to the west an me northeast. Deepwell Tower lies a half league from here.

She was meeting Jack. She’d gone with the hurry of a secret lover
.

He only just stopped himself from going after her. His hands twitched the reins. His horse responded. He had to pretend the mare had missed her footing
.

He’d follow no longer. Now he would lead. With the help of the scroll in his pocket, he’d lead Jack straight to DeMalo
.

He rode on. And he thought. And he planned
.

Jack an me ain’t never met here before. Deepwell Tower rises lone an lonely from a rubblefield. A crumbled brick finger that points to the sky. As I draw near, my stummick twists in disquiet as I draw near. We parted so badly last night. With so
much unsaid. Was it really only last night? Every day seems a lifetime right now.

Nero calls to warn of our approach. Jack’s pony, stands patiently by the wreck of a doorway. I leave Hermes with Kell an duck through the shattered arch into a round room. It’s twelve foot by twelve, no more. Mossy brick walls circle high to meet the night. To gape open-mouthed at the sky. To let the moon softly wash them with its light.

Mind yer step, says Jack.

There’s a well hole in the middle of the room. Lit by the shaft of moonbeam, it yawns widely, darkly deep. He leans on the wall the other side. Lookin like hisself fer a change. His own worn-out clothes on his back, his battered old hat on his head, his down-at-heel boots on his feet.

Yer message said urgent, I says.

There’s a certain stillness in a person’s body. A tightness, unmistakeable, that comes from once more knowin how all our stories end. When you see that, you know somebody’s dead. An Jack ain’t so much as glanced at me. He stares into the blackness of the well.

Who is it? I says. My voice barely comes out.

Skeet, he says.

A brief spark of thanks. I was braced fer him to tell me it was Mercy. Skeet, I says. How?

He looked a Tonton straight in the eye, says Jack. Man to man. Standin tall an proud.

Like I told him to, I says.

They shot him, he says.

I slump aginst the wall behind me. Skeet. Dead. I git a flash of him at the mill that day. As he clasped hands with Mercy an the fearsome mask of his scarified face softened to a smile while he told her of his life that used to be. The cart with yellow wheels an a horse called Otis. Another life—his—added to my scorecard. How many is that now? I’m losin count.

It’s my fault, I says.

Now, at last, Jack does look at me. His moonlight eyes caught in the moonlight. Stop blamin yerself, you do it every time, he says. Give us some credit. We all know the risks an we choose to take ’em. Skeet lived on the edge fer a long while. It’s sad. He’ll be missed. He was a good man an we need good people. But he eether made a mistake or jest ran outta luck. That’s how it goes. We all accept it.

I shake my head.

Yes, says Jack, an if he could, I know he’d tell you it was worth it. Listen, I managed to slip him in an outta two slave gangs. He started the whisper that change is comin. That the Angel of Death is back an they should be ready to move when you send word. An about the baby thing … a couple of ’em was jest too weak, they didn’t make it. But the rest though, we bin real careful an, so far, that’s gone okay.

It has, I says. How many?

Seven, he says. We’ve took every one they left out.

It ain’t enough, I says. Did you git Mercy back into the babyhouse she was at? What’s happenin there?

That plan her an Cassie cooked up, says Jack. Smugglin out babies they report as stillborn? Mercy did two. That’s all we figgered was safe to do in such a short time without drawin notice.

We need more, I says. We gotta roll this out fast to the other babyhouses. You gotta move her on to another one.

He starts to speak, but hesitates. Like he don’t wanna say what’s gotta be said.

I straighten up, the skin of my hands pricklin trouble. What? I says. What is it? I hurry around the well an take hold of his sleeve. C’mon, Jack, tell me.

My urgency wakes the old echo in the stones. Jack waits fer it to settle before he speaks.

Mercy took Skeet’s place, he says.

You should of stopped her, I says.

Why? Becuz she’s yer friend?

She’s lame, Jack. She’s weak.

She wanted to, he says. She insisted. Said now that Skeet’s gone, she’s the only one who can do it an she’s right.

We need her fer the babyhouses, I says.

That’s all in hand, he says. The midwife Mercy worked with, I’ve moved her to Sector Seven now. It’s rollin out, like you wanted.

I lean aginst the wall. Tip my head back aginst the cold
stone. I’m blind to the night sky above. All I can see is Mercy’s poor back. With its shiny white shawl of whip scars. I don’t want her in the slave gangs, I says.

Too bad, she’s there an there she stays, he says. We’re all committed to yer plan. This is what it looks like. Losses an wins an riskin our lives fer what we believe.

I know, I says. Well, I cain’t say I’m surprised. I’d be more surprised if she didn’t. Good thing she kept that raggy old tunic.

Speakin of raggy, what happened to you? He feels the salt-heavy wet of my coat. Yer soaked.