Wren nodded and surprised Mr Carter by wrapping his arms around the man’s neck. “Thanks, Mr Carter. I’d like that.”
Mr Carter patted Wren firmly on the back, and then stood, and shook hands with Three. “The same stands for you as well, Three. The village is as much a home to you as you choose to make it.”
“I appreciate that, Mr Carter. Just may take you up on it some time.”
“Please do.”
Three looked down at Wren and gently slapped him on the shoulder with the back of his hand.
“Come on, kiddo. Let’s go see if any of these stories about Morningside are true, huh?”
“OK.”
Three looked back up and exchanged final nods with Mr Carter, and the three parted ways.
After they’d walked about halfway to the gate, Wren spoke in his quiet voice. “Why won’t he stay?”
Three glanced back over his shoulder, saw Mr Carter’s silhouette in the fading light, shook his head. “I don’t know, Wren. Every man’s got a story. I’m sure he has his.”
Wren didn’t respond. Just slid his hand into Three’s again. Three tried not to think about how natural it had become, holding that tiny hand in his own. Tried not to think about what it might be like to let go of that hand a final time. Deal with it later. When it’s done. They walked those final steps towards Morningside, together, in silence.
As they drew closer, the sounds of the town grew louder, more distinct. The music became more apparent, bits of conversations became discernible: vendors making last minute deals, friends calling to one another. The atmosphere was pleasant, inviting, and Three wondered if they’d arrived on the night of some festival, or if this was just a typical evening in Morningside.
The guards at the gate stirred as they drew near, and one guard, shorter than the others, casually motioned for Three to stop just outside. The short guard approached with an easy smile. None of the guards looked as grim or hardened as the greenmen of Greenstone, but they all held themselves with the bearing of men of authority.
“Evening,” the guard said.
“Evening,” Three answered. He felt Wren step closer, the boy’s shoulder lightly pressed against his leg.
“Been to Morningside before?”
“No, sir. First time.”
“Where you comin’ in from?”
Three felt a twinge in his chest. The slightest knot of pressure, born of frustration, the first hint that here, even now mere inches from his goal, there was a dangerous game to be played, a chance for misstep. He dare not lie, but how much of the truth was necessary?
“A long way off, sir.”
“I don’t doubt it,” the guard said with an understanding nod. “You gents look like you’ve had a bit of a rough go.”
One of the other guards sidled up, an older man, hands behind his back. Curious, but not enough to get involved. He stood back a couple of paces, greeted Three with a dip of the head.
“What brings you out our way?” the short guard asked.
“The boy. We need to see the Governor.”
The guard’s eyebrows raised slightly at that, his expression one of… what? Surprise? Something prickled in Three’s instincts, but it was too vague, to fleeting to identify.
“And why’s that, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Beg your pardon, sir, but I don’t think I can explain. It’s a private matter.”
The guard nodded thoughtfully, his lips pressed together and jutting slightly, as if weighing his options. There was something. Something Three should’ve noticed. Or was there? There was too much noise, too many things going on. His focus was dull.
“I see,” the guard said. “Well, I’m not one to pry. How long you expecting to be in Morningside?”
“Shouldn’t be long. Just have some business with the Governor, then I’ll be gone.”
Wren pressed further into Three then, hard. Tense. The thought of being left alone in this strange city with a man he’d never met must’ve been sinking in. Three wished he’d chosen his words a little more carefully.
The short guard took a knee in front of Wren, leaned forward slightly with a lowered head. Gentle. Disarming.
“And how about you, little one? Will you be staying with us?”
Wren made no answer. Three glanced back at the older guard, still standing there. Watching without emotion.
“Here, boy, lemme take a look at you,” the short guard said, reaching out with two fingers extended to raise the boy’s chin. “How old are you now? Five?”
“Six,” Wren answered. “And three-quarters.”
A ripple of thought ran through Three’s mind… he’d never thought to ask Wren’s age. Just assumed his initial guess had been correct. Almost seven, still looked five. Small for his age.
“Six and three-quarters. Practically a grown man.”
Everything about the situation seemed fine, and Three could find no reason for his unease. But he was nevertheless uneasy.
“And that’s a fine coat,” the guard said, rubbing the lapel of Wren’s coat between two fingers.
Three thought back, replayed the moment he’d said he needed to see the Governor. The guard’s expression… eyebrows up, pupils constricting, twitch at the corner of his mouth, at his temples. Not surprise.
Recognition.
Where was the third guard?
The realization struck in the same instant that the guards moved. The short guard snatched Wren by the front of his coat, jerking the boy away, tearing him free of Three’s leg. As he did so, the older guard brought his hands up, pointing some kind of dull metallic box at Three. He heard Wren cry his name, shrill, terrified, followed by a muffled thump.
Three twisted, reaching into his coat to draw his pistol, but something dull punched into his upper chest, sent him sprawling. He absorbed the fall as best he could, rolled to his feet. The older guard was still standing with his arms outstretched, a look of shock on his face. Three went for his pistol, but before he could get it free of his holster, massive arms wrapped around him from behind, pinning his own to his sides. Three instinctively whipped his head backwards, felt the impact, the crunch of cartilage that told him he’d just broken someone’s nose. But still the arms squeezed. He snapped back again with his head, and then again. The arms released for half an instant.
But before he could exploit the moment, he felt the vice-grip clamp around his neck, cutting off the blood flow to his brain. He had seconds before he’d pass out. Time slowed.
The older guard was running at him now. The shorter guard fought to control a squirming Wren. Blood rushed in Three’s ears. Cass flashed in his eyes. She’d trusted him with her boy. With her life. He’d come so close. Too close.
A deep redness started closing in from the edge of his vision. He fumbled, felt his fingertips brush the grip of his pistol. The red became blackness. Sound suddenly snapped to an unearthly sharpness. Wren crying out. The shouts of the guards.
There. The pistol hard in his hand. He drew it, felt it slide with intolerable slowness. Darkness nearly complete. Numbness. Was he still holding the gun? The old guard was two steps away.
A low whoosh… whoosh… whoosh. Louder each time. The last strangled rush in his blood-starved brain. Something cracked wetly. The grip around his neck fell away. Hard impact on his knees, his pistol clattered away. And as his vision returned, there were the feet of the older guard floating up off the ground, backwards, up and away from Three. And in the next instant, time returned to its proper flow, and Three saw the old guard slamming backwards to the ground, and Mr Carter there.
As the old guard impacted, Mr Carter followed him to the ground, dropping his knee into the man’s chest. Mr Carter spun, swept something up from the ground behind Three, where the third guard lay bleeding from his face and side of the head. His hammer. He must’ve thrown it.