Glass Sword (Red Queen #2)(81)
To show the others that I’m not only a weapon to be unleashed but someone willing to fight with them.
Luckily we have a staggering new advantage. A newblood named Harrick, saved from the quarry pits of Orienpratis two weeks ago.
This will be his first recruitment, and hopefully uneventful. The man is mousy and twitching, with the wiry muscles of a stonemason. Farley and I make sure to flank him in the cart, quietly watchful in case he decides to dart off. The others with us, Nix across from me and Crance driving the cart, are more preoccupied with the road ahead.
Our cart falls in line with many others, merchants or laborers heading into the town center for work. Crance’s hands tighten on the reins of our stolen cart horse, an old, spotty dear with a blind eye and a bad hoof. But he urges her forward, keeping pace with the rest, trying to blend in. The town boundaries loom before us, marked by an open gate flanked by intricate stone columns. A flag is strung between them, a familiar banner of a familiar house. Red and orange stripes, almost bleeding together in the early morning light. House Lerolan, oblivions, the governors of the Delphie region. I blink at it, remembering the bodies of three dead oblivions, Lerolans all killed in the shooting at the Hall of the Sun. The father, Belicos, murdered by Farley and the Scarlet Guard. And his twin sons, barely more than babies, blown to bits by the explosion that followed. Their dead faces were plastered all over the kingdom, in every broadcast, another rallying flag of Silver propa-ganda. The Scarlet Guard kil s children. The Scarlet Guard must be destroyed.
I glance at Farley, wondering if she knows what the flag means, but she focuses on the officers ahead. As does Harrick. His eyes narrow in concentration, and his trembling hands clench. Quietly, I touch his arm, encouraging him. “You can do this,” I murmur.
He offers me the smallest smile, and I straighten in assurance. I believe in his ability—he’s been practicing whenever he can—but he must believe it himself.
Nix tenses, muscles bulging beneath his shirt. Farley is less obvious, but I know she’s itching for the knife in her boot. I will not show the same fear, for Harrick’s sake.
Security officers man the gate, eyeballing every person who passes through. Searching their faces and through their wares, not bothering to check their identification cards. These Silvers don’t care for what’s written on a piece of paper—their orders are to find me and mine, not a farmer straying too far from his village. Soon, our cart is next, and only the sweat on Harrick’s upper lip indicates he’s doing anything at all.
Crance halts the horse and the cart, stopping at the command of a Security officer. He keeps his eyes down, respectful, beaten, as the officer stares at him. As expected, nothing sets him off. Crance is not a newblood, nor a known associate of ours. Maven will not be hunting him. The officer turns to circle the cart, eyeing the inside. Not one of us dares to move, or even breathe. Harrick is not so skilled that he can mask sound, only sight. Once, the officer’s eyes meet mine, and I wonder if Harrick has failed. But after a heart-stopping moment, he moves on, satisfied. He can’t see us.
Harrick is a newblood of an extraordinary kind. He can create illu-sions, mirages, make people see what isn’t there. And he has hidden us all in plain sight, making us invisible in our empty cart.
“Are you transporting air, Red?” the officer says with a hateful grin.
“Collecting shipment, bound for inner Delphie,” Crance replies, saying exactly what Ada told him. She spent yesterday studying trade routes. One hour of reading and she’s an expert on the imports and exports of Norta. “Spun wool, sir.”
But the officer is already walking off, unconcerned. “Move on,” he says, waving a gloved hand.
The cart lurches forward and Harrick’s hand grips mine, squeez-ing tightly. I squeeze right back, imploring him to hold on, to keep fighting, to keep up his illusion until we’re inside Templyn and clear of the gate.
“One minute more,” I whisper. “You’re almost there.”
We turn off the main road before entering the market, weaving through half-empty side streets lined with humble Red shops and homes. The others search, knowing what we’re looking for, while I keep my attentions on Harrick. “Almost there,” I say again, hoping I’m right. In a moment or two, his strength will fail, and our illusion will fall away, revealing us all to the street. The people here are Red, but will certainly report a cart suddenly full of the country’s most wanted fugitives.
“The left,” Nix says gruffly, and Crance obliges. He eases the cart toward a clapboard house with crimson curtains. Despite the sun shin-ing overhead, a candle burns in the window. Red as the dawn.
There’s an alleyway next to the house, bordered by the Scarlet Guard house and two empty, abandoned homes. Where their occu-pants are, I don’t know, but they probably fled the Measures or were executed for trying. It’s cover enough for me. “Now, Harrick,” I tell him. He responds with a massive sigh. The protection of his illusion is gone. “Well done.”
We waste no time climbing out of the cart and sidling up to the Guard house, using the overhang of the roof to hide as best we can.
Farley takes the lead, and knocks three times on the side door. It opens quickly, showing nothing but darkness beyond. Farley enters without hesitation, and we follow.
My eyes adjust quickly to the dark house, and I’m struck by the similarity to my home in the Stilts. Simple, cluttered, only two rooms with knotty plank floors and grimy windows. The lightbulbs overhead are dark, either broken or missing, sold off for food.