The Glass Arrow(57)

When the scarf is fixed, I step back. “The mayor’s brother—have you seen him?”

He gives a small cough. His voice is a little rough when he answers. “Drunk,” he says. “He’s laid out by the delivery gates.”

I remembered the argument outside with the mayor. Bet that didn’t make a good impression with his fancy friends.

“Wait,” I say. “You stole his clothes?”

Kiran shakes his head. “I brought ’em.”

He planned this. He came here for me.

“Aiyana,” he says, and I grow even warmer. It’s been so long since someone said my true name. “You can’t tell.”

“About the talking. I know,” I say. But I don’t really know. I don’t understand any of it, though I want to. I expect a full explanation as soon as we get out of here.

Soon the chestnut mare is saddled, and Kiran is pulling me up behind him. I sit sideways on account of the dress, and hold on tight around his waist so I don’t go spilling over the other side.

He’s all muscle. Long, lean muscle. I can tell even through this suit he’s managed to find. He sits rigid, and I do too, careful not to press my chest against his back. But it doesn’t matter. It’s as if Kiran is his own shock box, just like the one Amir has, only this one doesn’t hurt, it just makes me tingle straight through.

“What will you say?” I ask.

He shakes his head. I feel his heart thumping in his chest and know he’s afraid. If the Watchers catch us, we’re as good as dead.

He makes a clicking sound, and the mare steps forward into the light. He’s left the carriage of supplies back against the side of the breezeway. I stare at our shadow, feeling the movement of the horse’s hindquarters beneath my legs.

As we approach the gate, I pinch my eyes shut.

“Sir,” says one of the Watchers. “I thought you were staying in today.”

Kiran says nothing. My fists, filled with his shirt, are trembling. He stares at the Watcher, stares like he’s a Magnate. Like nothing in the world scares him. But I know better.

After a moment the gate makes a quick clicking sound, then slides open.

We ride straight into the heart of the business district, leaving those Watchers behind to pay the price of my escape.

*

THE MAYOR’S HOUSE SITS at the end of a street, between two buildings made of green glass and brick. People live in these monstrous homes. I wonder if they have their own staff too, and a roomful of girls to choose from.

I keep looking back. Maybe it’s real, maybe it’s my imagination, but I can still hear Amir’s voice calling, “Where are you?”

“Faster,” I say. I see the twins kneeling beside the brook, running across the meadow, leaping into my arms. I can feel them.

Kiran makes no move to hurry.

We ride out of the residential area onto the main street, where men on horseback or in carriages pass by. The tall glass buildings on either side stretch straight into the clouds, smooth and cold and breathtaking.

Kiran veers down a small road between the buildings. We’re the only ones around now. Finally, I exhale. I’m shaking a little, and all of a sudden feel a giggle swell inside of me.

“If I’d have known it was that easy to get out, I would have made sure I was sold months ago,” I say, feeling giddy enough to jump off the horse and dance right here in the street.

“Easy?” he says so quietly I have to cock my head to hear. “You’re funny.”

“Yoa,” I mimic.

“Keep it up and I’ll take you back.”

I freeze. He’s joking. At least I think he is.

“Don’t,” I tell him.

We come to a small alley where a plain, single-rider carriage waits. It’s made of cherrywood and flaking on the side. Obviously a rental. Kiran offers his arm, and I swing down. He doesn’t need to speak the words to tell me he’s planned this, too. I shimmy between the side of the building and the carriage and slide inside. Through the punched-out window I watch as Kiran shucks the scarf hiding his face and tosses it under the wheels. He takes off the coat, revealing the dirty button-down shirt beneath, and stuffs it in beside me. Then he kneels, dips his hands in a puddle, and smears his cheeks with filth water—yellow and shiny with greasy spots. It stinks like waste.

I hear footsteps nearby, and Kiran freezes. I bite my tongue, holding back the urge to tell him to hide. It’s too late.

Two men in suits approach. Kiran keeps his head lowered and wipes his hands on his pants. They don’t look at him; they look everywhere but at him, and they keep to the far end of the alley as they pass.

He stands suddenly, not fully upright, and one of them gives a scared little shout. Kiran tilts his head towards the mare, as if to offer his Driver services, but they hurry on without a backward glance.

I should be happy they’re gone, but instead I’m angry. They didn’t even look at him.

He stays low and slips beside the carriage, hooking it up to the mare.

“Kiran,” I say. He twitches, but continues to work, fastening leather straps, setting the long wooden carriage arms into the saddle’s hooks.

“Kiran,” I say again. “Thank you.”

He stops, just for a moment, and gives a small nod.

Then he mounts the horse, and we pull out of the alley. I sit back in the seat, as far back as I will fit, keeping clear of the window. Every once in a while I catch a glimpse of Kiran, his head lowered, his back hunched. He looks like an old man.