“You stole a head of cabbage. I just let you eat it,” Crance replies with a shake of his head, but his flush betrays his pride.
Shade doesn’t let him off so easily. He pastes on a grin that could light the tunnels, but there’s no light in his eyes. “A smuggler with a heart of gold.”
I watch their back-and-forth with narrowed eyes and open ears, following the conversation like a game. One compliments the other, recalling their journey back from the Choke, eluding Security and the legions alike. And while they might have formed a friendship in those weeks, it doesn’t seem to exist anymore. Now, they’re just men sharing memories and forced smiles, each one trying to figure out exactly what the other wants. I do the same, coming to my own conclusions.
Crance is a glorified thief, a profession I know well enough. The best part about thieves is you can trust them—to do their worst. If our positions were reversed, and I was my old self escorting a fugitive into the Stilts, would I turn them over for a few tetrarchs? For a few weeks of food or electricity rations? I remember hard winters well enough, cold and hungry days that seemed to have no end. Sicknesses with easy cures, but no money to buy the medicine. Even the bitter ache of simple want, to take something beautiful or useful simply because. I have done horrible things in such moments, stealing from people as desperate as I was. To survive. To keep us all alive. It’s the justification I used back in the Stilts, when I took coins from families with starving children.
I don’t doubt that Crance would turn me over to Boss Egan if he could, because it’s what I would do. Sell me to Maven for an exorbitant price. But luckily, Crance is hopelessly outgunned. He knows it, so he must maintain his smile. For now.
The tunnel curves downward and the Undertrain tracks end suddenly, where the space grows too narrow for a train to pass through. It feels cooler the deeper we go, and the air presses in. I try not to think about the weight of the earth above us. Eventually, the walls become cracked and decrepit, and would probably collapse if not for the newly added supports. Naked wooden beams march into the darkness, each one holding up the tunnel ceiling, keeping us from being buried alive.
“Where do we surface?” Cal says aloud, directing his question at anyone who will answer. Distaste poisons every word. The deeper tunnels have him on edge, just like me.
“West side of Ocean Hill,” Farley replies, mentioning the royal residence in Harbor Bay. But Crance cuts her off with a shake of his head.
“Tunnel’s closed up,” he grumbles. “There’s new construction, king’s orders. Three days he’s been on the throne and he’s already a pain in my ass.”
From this close, I hear Cal’s teeth gnash together. A burst of anger brightens his fire, throwing a blaze of heat through the tunnel that the others pretend to ignore. King’s orders. Even when he isn’t trying, Maven thwarts our progress.
Cal glances at his feet, stoic. “Maven always hated the Hill.” His words echo strangely off the walls, surrounding us in his memories. “Too small for him. Too old.”
The shadows shift on the walls, distorting our figures. I see Maven in every twisted shape, in every pool of darkness. He told me once he was the shadow of the flame. Now I fear he’s becoming the shadow in my mind, worse than a hunter, worse than a ghost. At least I’m not alone in his hauntings. At least Cal feels him too.
“The Fish Market then.” Farley’s gruff bark brings me back to the mission at hand. “We’ll have to circle around, and we’ll need a distraction outside the Security Center, if you can manage.”
I glance back at the map, brain buzzing. From the looks of it, the Security Center is directly connected to Cal’s old palace, or at least is part of the same compound. And the Fish Market, I assume, is a good distance away. We’ll have to scramble just to get where we need to be, let alone slip inside. Judging by the scowl on Cal’s face, he’s not looking forward to it.
“Egan will oblige,” Crance says, nodding at Farley’s request. “He’ll help in any way he can. Not that you’ll need much, with the Rabbit on your side.”
Shade grimaces kindly, still annoyed by the nickname. “How familiar are you with the Reds of the Bay? Think a few names will ring a bell?”
I have to bite my lips shut to keep from hissing at my brother. The last thing I want to do is tell Crance who we’re looking for—especially because he’ll wonder why. But Shade glances at me, eyebrows raised, goading me into speaking the names aloud. Next to him, Crance does his best to keep his expression neutral, but his eyes gleam. He’s all too eager to hear what I have to say.
“Ada Wallace.” It comes out a whisper, like I’m afraid the walls of the tunnel might steal my secret. “Wolliver Galt.”
Galt. It sends a spark of recognition across Crance’s face, and he has no choice but to nod. “Galt I know. Old family, live off Charside Road. Brewers by trade.” He squints, trying to remember more. “Best ale in the Bay. Good friends to have.”
My heartbeat quickens in my chest, delighted by the prospect of such luck. But it’s tempered by the knowledge that now Crance—and the mysterious Egan—know who we’re looking for.
“Can’t say I know the Wallace one,” he continues. “It’s a common enough name, but no one comes to mind.”
To my chagrin, I can’t tell if he’s lying. So I have to push, to keep him talking. Perhaps Crance will reveal something, or give me an excuse to convince him to do so.
“You called yourselves the Mariners?” I ask, careful to keep my tone neutral.
He flashes a grin over his shoulder, then lifts a sleeve to reveal a tattoo on his forearm. A blue-black anchor, surrounded by red, swirling rope. “Best smugglers in the Beacon,” he says proudly. “You want it, we run it.”
“And you serve the Guard?”
That question makes his smile drop away and he rolls down his sleeve again. There’s a shadow of a nod, but nothing more convincing than that.
“I take it Egan’s another captain.” I quicken my pace, until I’m almost stepping on Crance’s heels. His shoulders tighten at my closeness, and I don’t miss it when the hairs on the back of his neck raise. “And that makes you what? His lieutenant?”
“We don’t bother with titles,” he replies, dodging my needling. But I’m just getting started. The others look on, confused by my behavior. Kilorn would understand. Better yet, he would play along.
“Forgive me, Crance.” The words come out sickly sweet. I sound like a court lady, not a sneak thief, and it rankles him. “I’m simply curious about our brothers and sisters in the Bay. Tell me, what convinced you to join the cause?”
Hard silence. When I look back, Crance’s friends are just as quiet, their eyes almost black in the dim tunnel light.
“Was it Farley? Were you recruited?” I press on, waiting for some sign of a break. Still he doesn’t respond. And a tremor of fear rolls through me. What isn’t he telling us? “Or did you seek the Guard out, like I did? Of course, I had a very good reason. I thought Shade was dead, you see, and I wanted vengeance. I joined up because I wanted to kill the people who killed my brother.”
Nothing, but Crance’s pace quickens. I’ve touched on something.