“Here, come over here.”
Three led Wren to across the room to another corner, and got out his canister of water. He took Wren’s hand, splashed water over it, scrubbed it with his own. Wordlessly, Three repeated the process, carefully washing Wren’s hand until there were no traces of blood remaining. Then he took both of Wren’s hands in his, dried them on his own shirt, and rubbed them vigorously to warm the tiny, chilled fingers in the cold night air.
“Better?”
Wren nodded.
“You OK now?”
Wren shook his head.
“Are you hurt somewhere?”
Wren shook his head again. “I’m sorry I hurt that man.”
“He was going to take you away, Wren. He would’ve taken you if you hadn’t hurt him.”
“I’m still sorry.”
“OK, buddy. It’s OK to be sorry. It was a bad situation. For everybody.” Wren nodded at that, and Three picked him up. “Tough day. Let’s get you something to eat, and then get some rest, alright?”
Three led him back to Mr Carter’s corner. Mr Carter had dozed off, and Three didn’t disturb him. He dug through his pack and pulled out some of the food Chapel had provided for them. They ate, though neither seemed to have much appetite. After they’d finished, Three pulled blankets from their packs and made a pallet for Wren to lie down on.
Rolled in one of the blankets, Three discovered a device; brushed steel, rectangle-shaped with rounded edges. It took him a moment to realize it was an old military heatcoil. When activated, it radiated a gentle warmth similar to natural body heat. Whether Chapel had slipped it in the packs, or Lil, it was truly a gift out here in the open. Three activated the heatcoil, and tucked it in with Wren. He laid his coat over the boy, and rested his hand on Wren’s head.
“Try to get some sleep, alright?”
Wren nodded and closed his eyes. Three sat with him for a while, rubbing his back because he didn’t know what else to do. After a time, Wren’s breathing was deep and even, and Three quietly got to his feet and walked to the door. He stopped at the entry, and stared down the corridor, into the darkness, wondering what the night might bring.
He heard shuffling from within the room, and soon Mr Carter appeared.
“I don’t understand it,” Mr Carter said, voice lowered. “What reason would they have to seize the child?”
Three shook his head. “I told them we needed to see the Governor. The guard reacted.”
“As if they had been expecting you?”
Three remembered the guard’s expression. Reflexive, but controlled. “Like they’d been warned.”
“By whom?”
“Asher,” Wren said quietly, apparently not asleep after all. He had said it so flatly, with such lack of emotion, that Three thought he’d misheard.
“What?”
Wren didn’t stir, didn’t open his eyes. “Asher’s there. In Morningside.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I know.”
Three wanted to argue, to tell Wren he was dreaming it, or imagining it, or just scared, but he knew better. If Wren knew it, then it was true. Asher was in Morningside, waiting for them.
“Who’s Asher?” Mr Carter asked.
“The kid’s brother,” Three answered. “The one we’ve been trying to escape.”
It didn’t seem possible, but at the same time, it made too much sense to be wrong. Pieces started falling together. Dagon showing up at Chapel’s commune. They could’ve tracked Cass and Wren to Greenstone. Probably convinced Bonefolder to let them on the train. Rode into Morningside, and just waited for their quarry to show up. But after Three’s delay, maybe they got nervous, and sent Dagon out into the Strand after them. And in the meantime did what? Tell Underdown Three was on his way?
Bonefolder had offered him a contract on Underdown’s life, after all. Sure. Man shows up with a kid, says he’s got private business with the Governor. Not likely to be a lot of people rolling into town with that story. And what story had Asher told? That Three was a kidnapper? A slaver? An assassin, using a child as cover?
Kill the man, rescue the boy? My baby brother?
Three laughed then, in spite of himself; a sad chuckle at first that started as a rumble in his chest, and grew slowly into a full throated laugh devoid of humor, and hope. “All of this,” he said. “All of it, and we’re right back where we started.” He squeezed his eyes shut, pinched the bridge of his nose, tried to keep the weight of inevitability from crushing down. Cass flashed before his eyes, weak, pale, life flowing from her. Not much different than when he’d first laid eyes on her, and her son, harried, frightened, desperate for help. “Except somewhere along the way, I lost something I never even wanted in the first place.”
Cass. She’d given her life to get her son to Underdown. What would she have done now?
“This man Asher,” Mr Carter said. “He is dangerous?”
“Worse. Deadly.”
“Then you should return with me. We will hide you.”
Three shook his head. “They already know about you. One of his men showed up night before last.”
“Then we will protect you.”
“They’d kill every man, woman, and child in your village, Mr Carter. I was afraid they might do it anyway, but once they hear what happened to the guards, they’ll know we’re nearby.”
Three’s mind ran through the scenarios. Dagon had tracked them down outside the wayhouse, to the Vault, and somehow through the Strand to Chapel’s village. How long would it be before he found them hiding here? Would he come alone this time? A sudden thought struck Three then, and he cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. He’d assumed that after their last meeting, Dagon had rushed back to report their location to Asher. But what if he had merely trailed them from the village? The hair stood up on the back of Three’s neck, and a rage kindled in his heart.
This wasn’t his way. It hadn’t been from the start. Everything he’d been trained for, all the years he’d spent honing his senses, every scar he bore, it was all building him to be the predator, never the prey. And now, here, at the end, he found himself in little more than an urban cave, cornered.
He’d sensed it, back on that afternoon when she’d walked out of the bar, and he’d followed; he knew deep down that somehow this was the decision that was going to get him killed. And now he knew why. Because everything he’d done to this point had gone against his carefully cultivated discipline. His code. His way.
No more. If death was coming, Three was wise enough to know he was no match for that ageless enemy. But he was done sitting around, waiting for it to show up. It was his turn to stalk.
“Enough,” Three said. “Enough of this.”
“What will we do now?”
“Now?” Three answered. “Now, I’m going to do what I was made for.”
Twenty-Nine
The night air was cold, cutting and clear, like a knife’s edge bitten by frost. A half-moon hung high in the sky, bathing the ruins on the outskirts of Morningside in a soft white-blue light. For a time, Three just crouched atop the roof of an abandoned and gutted building, staring at Morningside and its wall. Getting a feel for the flow of its people, the unique rhythm of the life inside. He let his eyes float unfocused, drinking in the cityscape without fixing on any one detail. From here, with the slope of the terrain and his elevated vantage, he could see glimpses over the wall, though he was too far away to make out specifics. Still, it was the big picture he was after, the subtle signals his subconscious would record and later recall unbidden, when the time was right.
The city was lively, the citizens inside oblivious to the dangers that plagued the rest of the world. Distant troubles, far removed. Even the outcasts and exiles that lived outside near the wall seemed unconcerned by thoughts of the Weir, or slavers, or any of the thousand other deadly things that lurked in the night. Three couldn’t help but wonder at this man Underdown, whose leadership and power extended so far beyond physical boundaries. Would such a man be approachable? Even if Asher had reached him first, would he have entertained discussion, or might he have cast Asher out with all the others that now huddled against the cold?