A man and woman beat Rufus to the ground. He let them.
When they came for Peer, they were not so rough, but the gag they forced into her mouth stank of chickpig and tasted of shit, and the blind they tied around her eyes was so tight it made her head ache.
"Gerrett…" one of them said.
"No time."
As Peer was led away, she could still hear the impact of thrashing limbs on the ground.
"They killed Gerrett."
"What?"
"Gerrett died. The one with her, he shot him with something. Some poison."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
Gorham walked faster. They'd taken Peer and her companion to a boathouse on the shore of the reservoir-a place with a hidden basement where they'd sheltered people before. But his initial enthusiasm about seeing Peer had been shattered. He had so many secrets to tell her, so many apologies to make-and now it seemed she had the same.
"Has anyone told his family yet?"
"Of course not," Malia said. "I only just found out myself."
"Keep it that way for now."
They hurried along the well-trodden path around the reservoir. It was seven miles all the way around, and it involved crossing the border with Crescent twice, but many people used it to exercise or walk away the excesses of every eighth-day feast. That was the reason why the boathouse was such a good hiding place: It was so close to activity. A row of vacation homes lined the road to their left, owned mostly by rich people from Marcellan Canton and used irregularly. But behind them were smaller buildings, retreats from the busier areas of Course and Crescent, and these were occupied for at least half of the time. Hiding people beneath the Marcellans' noses pleased Gorham immensely.
They slowed as they approached the boathouse, and Malia went ahead, disappearing through the door into shadow. Gorham looked out over the lake, trying to appear calm even though his heart was thumping hard. Peer is back, he thought. The idea seemed so surreal and alien to him, because he'd spent the best part of three years attempting to forget. Whatever confident face he presented to his fellow Watchers and the other people around him, deep inside Peer had always been a shameful scar.
I've got so much to apologize for.
Malia stepped from the boathouse. "Don't stand there with your head up your ass. Come on!" But even her brusque signal that the coast was clear could not raise a smile from him today.
Peer was back, sweet innocent Peer. And he wondered what secrets she had brought.
He went inside and followed Malia into the basement. The first person Gorham saw was the cowering man, tears streaking his bruised face and hands raised to protect himself. He had striking white hair and looked weak and thin, but looks could be deceptive. The three Watchers he'd sent with Gerrett to bring in Peer were there, and the air was loaded.
"Peer?" he asked.
"Here." She was on the other side of the basement, strapped against a wall.
His heart broke for her. She looked just as he remembered-her dark hair longer, perhaps, her face a little thinner and harsher-and right now her expression was one of misery. She looked at him with a naive hope, and something else.
"Peer," he said awkwardly, "it's so good to see you again." He crossed to her and knelt, glancing at her bonds. They were tied well. Her left wrist had bled a little from where the rope had tightened and twisted in, but the dribble of blood was already drying. He scanned her face for any hint of abuse and saw none. Good. The Watchers were determined but not brutal. Not unless the occasion called for it.
"Gorham, what's happening here?" Her voice was soft and uncertain.
"I came to ask the same thing. Your friend killed Gerrett."
"That was an accident. He stepped out in front of us and-"
"You remember Gerrett," Malia said. "We haven't told his family yet. His youngest developed heart canker a year ago. The shock might just kill her."
Peer closed her eyes, and Gorham saw true sorrow there. Careful, he thought. She's from Skulk.
"So who's your friend?"
"Gorham, he's the only reason I managed to get out. I thought you might still have contact with the Watchers, even after everything, and I was bringing him to you so that-"
"Assassination," Malia breathed, the word like a revelation. "Those fucking Marcellans are hiring from Skulk now, are they? Can't do their own job because it would be too dirty?"
"Assassination?" Peer said, looking from Malia to Gorham.
"Of course," Gorham said. "You don't know."
"Know what?"
"We should get away from here," Malia said urgently. "Deal with him, take her somewhere safer for interrogation."
"Gorham," Peer persisted, "know what?"
Gorham looked at his old lover, whom he'd let go. He reached out and touched her face. She did not flinch, but neither did she lean into the caress.
"That I'm leading the Watchers now," he said.
Peer's eyes grew wide, and Gorham sighed deeply as he stood and turned away.
"Bring them both," he said. "We'll go down into Jail Ten. Then we can find out why they came."
"Gorham, I don't-" Peer's voice was high, confused.
"Quiet!" Malia shouted, then she grinned. "That'll be my job for the day."
Gorham was shaking, confused, emotions in turmoil. He forced himself to walk away, because he could not afford weakness. Not now. He knew how Malia found out things. And he hoped that, when the time came, Peer would tell the truth.
Twice in as many days. Gorham hated coming down into the Echoes.
Jail Ten was in the first Echo below Course Canton. It had been abandoned almost a hundred years before, soon after the salt plague and subsequent purge had turned Skulk Canton into a wasteland. The jail's prisoners had been moved to Skulk in stages, all three thousand of them, and legend had it that the brutal jailmaster had remained behind in Jail Ten, never to be seen again. The story went that he still considered it his duty to incarcerate anyone who wandered into the underground complex, whether by accident or on purpose. Gorham and his fellow Watchers had sensed phantoms down there, and some even claimed to have seen them, but no one had seen the jailmaster.
It served them well to perpetuate the myth.
They carried oil torches similar to those the Baker used in her own underground retreat. There were no chopped down here to guide them, however, and Malia and the other Watchers navigated by memory alone. They had been using the jail for little more than a year, and they went there only when it was absolutely essential.
Gorham was feeling unsettled, uncertain, yet he could not let that show. The Watchers had almost been destroyed three years before, the crackdown by the Marcellan bullies and their Hanharan priests reaching deep into the heart of the organization and all but tearing it out. The memories of those times were still vivid and depressing, and he tried not to dwell on them too often. But seeing Peer walking ahead of him brought it all back. Her wrists were tied before her, and he wondered how painful her right arm would be. She limped slightly, and he wanted to ask about her hip. But he could not, of course. If he voiced his thoughts, guilt would break him down, and it was his job now to be strong.
We should be in each other's arms, he thought. Normal lovers separated for so long would have swept each other away. But they were not normal people and never had been. And these were not normal times.
They reached one of the few entrances to Jail Ten that was still functioning. Malia signaled a halt, and she and another Watcher, Devin, edged toward the heavy steel door. It was propped open by a bundle of rags. Malia whispered some words that hissed around that subterranean space, and beyond the jail door something moved away. The darkness in there was suddenly not quite so deep, and Malia nodded that the coast was clear.
The Baker had given them that. She said it was chopped from a razorplant and given a rudimentary mind, and for three nights after learning that, Gorham had not been able to sleep, terrified at what such a mind might think.