It was impossible for Three to gather all the information he’d need in the few hours before daybreak. But he turned his focus towards finding the most likely scenario of what he was up against. Wren had said with certainty that Asher was here. Once Asher had discovered Morningside was their destination, he would’ve had to have known that Cass had meant to take Wren to Underdown. Whether he’d made contact with the Governor or not, then, it was a safe bet that he was nearby.
Dagon had found them just the night before, and had likely backtracked from Morningside into the Strand. There was no telling how long it had taken Dagon to track them, but from the look of it, he’d been out for days at least. It was possible that Dagon had returned the previous night, and that RushRuin had traveled out towards Chapel’s village that morning, whether in part or in whole. But it seemed unlikely that Asher would spread his crew too thin. And if, as Wren said, Asher was here, it would make sense to expect that the others were here as well.
If Jez and Ran were still with him, what would Fedor be doing then? Three thought back to the first time he saw Fedor; the intensity of his pursuit, the aggression in his every move. Fedor would be straining the leash, anxious to bring the quarry in, and perhaps even more so to pay Three back for his injury. Without the threat of the Weir, would he be out beyond the wall, searching?
No. It was unlikely that the guards would open the gates after dark without good reason, and it most likely would be unwise for Asher to draw too much attention from the people of Morningside. And they had tracked Wren this far. If anything, Asher was probably savoring the night, fully expecting to have his brother back under his control by tomorrow. And Cass. Three couldn’t help but wonder if Asher had sensed Cass’s death, or if he was still expecting to find her, too. Dagon had asked to see her just last night, after all.
Dagon. Dagon was still unknown. Unpredictable. He could be anywhere. And this was the hardest part. Embracing the unknowable. Accepting it. Acting in spite of what might be. Three had gathered all the information he needed for now. It was time to let instinct drive.
No matter how much his training had drilled it into him, nor how many times he had seen it work, it was still challenging every time he needed to let go, to trust. But the subconscious had a way of noticing details that shouldn’t matter and making sense of them anyway. Of completing pictures even before the mind’s eye could see.
He had once survived a surprise attack from a then-trusted colleague because of it. At the time, it had only been a sudden dread that warned him. A feeling of danger. And while his mind tried to explain the fear away, his friend had turned with blade in hand. It wasn’t until much later that Three recalled the detail his subconscious had noted and processed in a flash: the closing of a window. There’d been no need for it, except to prevent the noise of his death from spilling out into the street below.
It was to this inner mind that he now turned, allowing his gut to set his course. The night was growing late, and the temperature fell so low that he could see his breath. For a moment, he thought of Wren, and Mr Carter, and hoped they were warm, and safe. And then pushed them from his mind.
The crowds had thinned, and trickled from the streets into pubs and tea-houses along the main walkways. But though there were fewer people out, Morningside kept its lively thrum, as music and laughter seeped from nearby establishments. Three chose one at random, or at least could find no logical reason for his choice; a tea-house called the Green.
It was not far from the Governor’s compound, but the separation was noticeable, as if the aura of law and order emanating from the city’s seat of power faded out, and this was its edge. Patrons talked loudly and loosely, and none paid him much attention when he entered. He chose a high table just off-center in the room, neither too near the back, nor too close to the entrance. A harried attendant stopped barely long enough to take his order, and only hesitated a moment when he offered Hard for payment. Unusual here, but not unheard of. Just another recent addition to the citizenry. The woman left him with a small cup and a pot of the house special; some combination of green tea and rice wine. Or synthetic approximations of those age-old delights.
Three poured himself a cup and downed it quickly, enjoying the rush of heat down his throat, to his belly, radiating outwards to his wind-chilled arms and legs. He poured another. This, he left on the table before him, watching the steam curl and rise, cultivating the image of a weary traveler lost in his thoughts. He was weary. And a traveler. But his senses remained sharp, and alert. He sipped from his cup, eyes low, and stretched out with his hearing, taking in scraps of information without judging or analyzing.
How long he sat, he didn’t know. Between the alcohol and the warm buzz of a dozen conversations, Three felt almost adrift. But he kept finding himself focusing on a group of men two tables away, just over his left shoulder. Old-timers, the same here as anywhere, exchanging news of the day, swapping familiar stories, arguing about trivial details, and griping about newcomers. Through them, Three learned of the most recent Weir attack, some two weeks before.
According to the tale, the wave had broken and turned back when Governor Underdown appeared on the wall. There was much speculation about the power he seemed to wield against them. Some argued it was the memory of battles Underdown had fought long ago that caused the Weir to flee. Others said it was the efficiency of his command. And one suggested there were darker things at work, though he was quickly booed to silence. It all had the feel of a common refrain, as though the men had rehearsed it a thousand times before. Whatever the truth, Three made a mental note. He’d seen Wren do things he couldn’t explain; perhaps Underdown could explain them.
It was another hour before Three heard what he’d come for, and it was from that group of men that it came. A snippet of conversation floated to him.
“…big fella, with an arm all broke…”
He missed the next part because his attendant returned and loudly asked if he’d wanted anything else. It took a long moment to send her away, but once she was gone, he focused in.
“…well, it just ain’t right. Him hanging around, leering at folk like they don’t belong,” one of the men was saying. There was a pause, and then Three heard the emphatic bang of a bottle set too heavily on a table. “He don’t belong.”
“Maybe you don’t belong, Vel.”
“Ah, shut yer face, Arlen. You know what I mean.”
There was some good natured ribbing from the crew, and over the course of a few minutes, Three had what he needed. He poured himself a last cup of the mixed brew. It was barely warmer than room temperature now and had started to turn bitter, but it wasn’t important. It was the finality of that last drink he wanted. Three drained the cup, placed it firmly on the table, and made his way to the door.
Fedor paced the narrow side street that ran along the three-story building Asher’d put him in. An apartment, on the top floor, all to himself. It was nice to have his own space for a change; nicer still that the accommodations had been well-furnished by the Governor’s own staff. But they’d been in Morningside too long, sitting idle. Asher assured them all that they’d be back to business soon, that Haven and her pup would be back under control, or dead, matters resolved either way. But even after the man had shown up at the gate and escaped into the night, Asher remained with the Governor inside the compound instead of finishing the pursuit. Fedor’s apartment had become a prison.
He seethed, anxious to be done with this waste of time and energy. Haven was an asset to be sure; one of the best. But she was a chemic, and nearly burned at that. She could be replaced. Would have to be replaced, eventually. And the boy. Just a boy. Though, Asher’s half-brother. Fedor understood something about brothers.