The Glass Arrow(87)

“Keep your head down,” whispers Kiran.

I do as he says, only chancing a quick glance forward every few steps.

In the mist it’s hard to see clearly, but there are at least two parties before us. The man in front is trying to manage a small herd of goats for the livestock sales. Three people wait behind them, and as we get closer my gut clenches. A middle-aged man leads two girls in clean linen dresses. Stock for the Garden from a nearby town. The girls’ heads are hung in shame, and as I draw closer I can hear one of them crying. It’s the father. He keeps wiping his nose on the back of his hand and trying to hold it in.

“It’ll be all right,” he tells them with a hitch in his voice. “You’ll have everything I couldn’t give you.”

I don’t understand this; if he doesn’t want to give them up he shouldn’t. There are other ways to live.

The farmer in front is stopped at the open gate by two Watchers. After a few short words, he’s ushered off to the side, and half his goats make a break for it. He goes chasing after them, his long staff waving.

We step closer. The man with the two girls makes it through. And then I’m standing in the gatekeeper’s shadow.

“What. Have. You. Got.” The Watcher is practically yelling in Lorcan’s face as he points at the sacks. My spine straightens before I remember myself and slouch again, bolting my eyes to my dirty boots.

Lorcan’s showing the Watcher the pieces I’ve made. Another Watcher shows up. He walks to Kiran’s side of the horse and begins rummaging through the pelts and furs.

He keeps digging, and a drop of sweat makes a slow path between my shoulder blades. If he goes too deep he’ll find the knife at the bottom of Lorcan’s case.

Before he gets to the bottom, the Watcher abandons Lorcan’s case and rounds in front of the animal to where I wait. As he begins the same process on this side, I shuffle back, just like Kiran taught me. I’m never to stand too close to anyone. That way it’s hard to notice I’m nearly a head shorter than most of the men.

He searches for what feels like hours. Finally he gives the go ahead to the other Watcher who types something into a messagebox, and returns to the glass station. He comes back with a red form and shoves it towards Lorcan. Kiran’s told me this is a one-day business pass.

We’re in.

I keep my eyes down as we cross the threshold into Glasscaster, but not just because I’m supposed to. If I look up and see those high stone walls I tried to escape from for all those months, my feet might grow a mind of their own and run out of here.

The stones are hard under these big borrowed boots Lorcan gave me, and the buildings in the business district seem even more crowded than they were the last time I was here. They loom over me like Trackers with nets and make it hard not to hurry.

We join the main street I last travelled by carriage. The Black Lanes are quiet; the Virulent are either sleeping off the previous night, or have already begun their journey downtown, leaving just a few of the plagued leaning up against the trash bins and doors. On the side wall of a brothel I catch a glimpse of a line of posters, like the ones Lorcan brought back, but I don’t let myself linger.

I become suddenly aware of three men passing by. They’re laughing drunkenly about something one of them has said. Without thinking, I lift my chin to watch where they’re going, but Kiran pushes me roughly back to the horse and I nearly fall. The men look over and jeer again.

When I glance up at Kiran, his copper eyes are blazing. But as he shoves me back to my position, he whispers something in my ear.

“The mayor’s looking for you. Remember that. Don’t let them see your face.”

My stomach drops like it’s filled with stones. I can hear Amir’s voice echoing in the back of my head: “Where are you?” My skin is crawling with the memories of Greer chasing me around the bedroom.

More people join us in the following minutes. Mostly townspeople coming to sell their wares at auction, but some Virulent too. Two hungover Skinmongers wobble by on the right. The closest one, in a skintight blue bodysuit, pukes in the gutter beside my feet. Rainwater and muck splash onto my pants. Then she stumbles into me, lifts my arm, and wipes her mouth with my sleeve.

I jerk away and lower my eyes. She casts me a look of disgust.

“Yick,” says her friend. “You got Driver on you.”

My jaw hurts because my teeth are grinding together so hard.

We edge into the residential district, and the flashes of my last trip here are coming faster. My last carriage ride to auction. The salmon dress and the satin gloves glued to my hands. My soft, filed-down feet within those impossible heels. Elegance. I am hardly elegant now.

More people, and with them, Watchers. I pass one on the right and when our gaze connects my stomach leaps into my throat. But he’s not staring at me, he’s staring through me. Like I don’t exist at all.

“Sell goats, not girls!” comes a shout to my right. I remember the activists from my last auction and feel a jolt of hope that the Red Right endures despite the odds. The Watcher’s head whips around and he’s lost in the crowd.

They might not endure for long.

Merchants and their families push by us. Pips hold back their wards from coming too close and say things like, “No no, that’s dirty,” and, “Don’t touch.” Once I am bumped so hard I crash to my knees. The man never looks back.