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Authors: Victoria Aveyard

Tags: #Teen & Young Adult, #Romance, #Fantasy, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Two Hours or More (65-100 Pages), #Paranormal & Fantasy, #Sword & Sorcery

Steel Scars (3 page)

BOOK: Steel Scars
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I expect a subterranean stronghold much like ours at Irabelle, but Melody leads us to an ancient lighthouse, its walls weathered by age and the salty air. Once a beacon used to guide ships into port; now it's too far from the water, as the city expanded out into the harbor. From the outside, it looks abandoned, its windows shuttered and doors barred. The Mariners pay it no mind. They don't even bother to hide their approach, though every instinct in me screams for discretion. Instead, Melody leads us across the open market, head high.

The crowd moves with us like a school of fish. Providing camouflage. Escorting us all the way to the lighthouse and a battered, locked door. I blink at the action, noting how well organized the Mariners seem to be. They command respect, that's obvious, not to mention loyalty. Both valuable prizes to the Scarlet Guard, things that cannot truly be bought with money or intimidation. My heart leaps in my chest. The Mariners look to be viable allies indeed.

Once safely inside the lighthouse, at the foot of an endless, spiraling stair, I feel a cord of tension release in my chest. I'm no stranger to infiltrating Silver cities, prowling the streets with poor intent, but I
certainly don't enjoy it. Especially without the Colonel at my side, a gruff but effective shield against anything that might befall us.

“You're not afraid of officers?” I wonder aloud, watching as one of the Mariners locks the door behind us. “They don't know you're here?”

Again, Melody chuckles. She's already a dozen steps up, and still climbing. “Oh, they know we're here.”

Tristan's eyes almost bug out of his head. “What?” He blanches, mirroring my thoughts.

“I said, Security knows we're here,” she repeats. Her voice echoes.

When I put a foot on the first step, Tristan grabs my wrist. “We shouldn't be here, Cap—” he murmurs, forgetting himself. I don't give him the chance to say my name, to go against the rules and protocols that have protected us for so long. Instead I jam my forearm into his windpipe, pushing him back against stairs with all my strength. He sprawls, falling, his weedy length stretched across several steps.

My face flushes with heat. This isn't something I want to do, in front of outsiders or not. Tristan is a good lieutenant, if overprotective. I don't know what's more damaging—showing the Mariners dissension in our ranks or showing them fear. I hope it's the latter. With a calculated shrug, I step back and offer my hand to Tristan but no apology. He knows why.

And without another word, he follows me up the stairs.

Melody lets us pass and I feel her eyes with every step. She is certainly watching me now. And I let her, my face and manner impassive. I do my best to be like the Colonel, unreadable and unflinching.

At the crown of the lighthouse, the boarded-up windows give way to a wide view of Harbor Bay. Literally built on top of another ancient city, the Bay is an old knot. The narrow lanes and twists are better suited to horses rather than transports, and we had to duck into alleys
to avoid being run over. From this vantage point, I can see everything centers around the famous harbor, with too many alleys, tunnels, and forgotten corners to fully patrol. Paired with a high concentration of Reds, Harbor Bay is a perfect place for the Scarlet Guard to start. Our intelligence identified the city as the most viable root of Red rebellion in Norta, when an uprising comes. Unlike the capital, Archeon, where the seat of government demands absolute command, Harbor Bay is not so controlled.

But it is not undefended. There's a military base built out on the water, dividing the perfect semicircle of land and waves in two.
Fort Patriot
. A hub for the Nortan army, navy, and air force, the only one of its kind to serve all three branches of the Silver military. Like the rest of the city, its walls and buildings are painted white, tipped with blue roofs and tall silver spires. I try to memorize it from this vantage point. Who knows when the knowledge might come in handy? And thanks to the useless war currently being fought in the north, Fort Patriot is entirely blind to the city around it. The soldiers keep to their walls, while Security keep the city in line. According to reports, they protect their own, the Silver citizens, but the Reds of the Bay largely govern themselves, with separate groups and bands keeping their own sort of order. Three in particular.

The Red Watch forms a police force of sorts, upholding what Red justice they can, protecting and enforcing laws Silver Security won't bother with. They settle Red disputes and crimes committed against our own, to prevent any more abuse by merciless, Silver-blooded hands. Their work is acknowledged, tolerated even by the officers of the city, and for this reason, I will not go to them. Noble as their cause might be, they run too close to Silvers for my taste.

But the Seaskulls, a glorified gang, make me just as wary. They are
violent by all accounts, a trait I would normally admire. Their business is blood, and they have the feel of a rabid dog. Vicious, relentless, and stupid, their members are often executed and quickly replaced. They maintain control of their sector of the city through murder and blackmail, and often find themselves at odds with their rival operation, the Mariners.

Who I must assess for myself.

“You're Lamb, I presume.”

I turn on my heel, away from the horizon stretching in all directions.

The man I assume to be Egan leans against the opposite windows, either unaware or unafraid of the fact that nothing but aged glass stands between him and a long fall. Like me, he's putting on a charade, showing the cards he wants while hiding the rest.

I came here with only Tristan to present a certain image. Egan, flanked by Melody and a troop of Mariners, elects to show his strength. To impress me.
Good
.

He crosses his arms, displaying two muscled and scarred forearms marked with twin anchor tattoos. I'm reminded of the Colonel, though they look nothing alike. Egan is short, squat, barrel-chested, with sun-damaged skin and long, salt-worn hair in a tangled plait. I don't doubt he's spent half his life on a boat.

“Or at least, that's whatever code name you've been saddled with,” Egan continues, grinning. He's missing a good amount of teeth. “Am I right?”

I shrug, noncommittal. “Does my name matter?”

“Not at all. Only your intentions. And those are?”

Matching his grin, I cross to the center of the room, careful to avoid the sunken circle where the lighthouse lantern used to live. “I believe
you know that already.” My orders stated contact was made, but not to what extent. A necessary omission, to make sure outsiders cannot use our correspondence against us.

“Yes, well, I know well enough the goals and tactics of your people, but I'm talking to you. What are
you
here for?”

Your people
. The words twinge, tugging at my brain. I'll decipher them later. I wish very much for a fistfight, instead of this nauseating game of back-and-forth. I'd rather a black eye than a puzzle.

“My goal is to establish open lines of communication. You're a smuggling operation, and having friends across the border is beneficial to us both.” With another winning smile, I run my fingers through my braided hair. “I'm just a messenger, sir.”

“Oh, I don't think I'd ever call a captain of the Scarlet Guard
just
a messenger.”

This time, Tristan keeps still. It's my turn to react, despite my training. Egan doesn't miss my eyes widen or my cheeks flush. His deputies, Melody especially, have the audacity to smirk among themselves.

Your people. The Scarlet Guard
. He's met us before.

“I'm not the first, then.”

Another manic grin. “Not by a long shot. We've been running goods for yours since . . .” He glances at Melody, pausing for effect. “Two years ago, was it?”

“September 300, Boss,” she replies.

“Ah, yes. I take it you don't know anything about that, Sheep.”

I fight the urge to grit my teeth and growl.
Discretion
, the orders said. I doubt tossing one up-jumped criminal from his decaying tower is considered discreet. “It's not our way.” And that's the only explanation I offer. Because while Egan thinks himself above me, far more informed than I am, he's wrong. He has no idea what we are, what
we've done, and how much more we plan to do. He can't even fathom it.

“Well, your comrades pay well, that's for certain.” He jingles a bracelet, nicely crafted silver, braided like rope. “I expect you'll do the same.”

“If you do what's asked, yes.”

“Then I'll do what's asked.”

One nod at Tristan sets his wheels spinning. He tromps to my side in two long steps, so fast and gangly Egan laughs.

“Stars, you're a twiggy one,” Egan says. “What do they call you? Beanpole?”

A corner of my mouth twitches, but I don't smile. For Tristan's sake. No matter how much he eats or trains, he can't seem to gain any sort of muscle. Not that it makes much difference where he's concerned. Tristan is a gunman, a sniper, not a brawler. He's most valuable a hundred yards away with a good rifle. I won't mention to Egan that his code name is Bones.

“We require overview and introduction to the so-called Whistle network,” Tristan says, making my demands for me. Another tactic of the Colonel's that I've adopted. “We're looking for viable contacts in these key areas.”

He passes over a marked map, plain but for the red dots on important cities and crossroads throughout the country. I know it without looking. The industrial slums of Gray Town and New Town; the capital, Archeon; Delphie; the military city Corvium; and many smaller towns and villages in between. Egan doesn't glance at the paper, but nods all the same, a picture of confidence.

“Anything else?” he gravels out.

Tristan glances my way, giving me one last chance to refuse this
final order from Command. But I won't.

“We will require use of your smuggling network soon.”

“Easy enough. With the Whistles, the whole country's open to you. You can send lightbulbs from here to Corvium and back if you want.”

I can't help but smile, showing my teeth.

But Egan's grin fades a little. He knows there's more. “What's the cargo?”

With quick hands, I drop a tiny bag of tetrarch coins at his feet. All silver. Enough to convince him.

“The right people.”

    
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED

    
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED

    
Day 6 of Operation RED WEB, Stage 1.

    
Operative: Captain REDACTED.

    
Designation: LAMB.

    
Origin: Harbor Bay, NRT.

    
Destination: RAM at REDACTED.

    
-MARINERS led by EGAN agree to terms. Will run BEACON region transport upon undertaking of RED WEB Stage 2.

    
-Be advised, MARINERS aware of SG organization. Other cells active in NRT. Request clarification?

    
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.

    
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED

    
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED

    
Operative: Colonel REDACTED.

    
Designation: RAM.

    
Origin: REDACTED.

    
Destination: LAMB at Harbor Bay, NRT.

    
-Disregard. Focus on RED WEB.

    
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.

    
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED

    
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED

    
Day 10 of Operation RED WEB, Stage 1.

    
Operative: Captain REDACTED.

    
Designation: LAMB.

    
Origin: Albanus, NRT.

    
Destination: RAM at REDACTED.

    
-Made contacts in WHISTLE network across BEACON region/into CAPITAL VALLEY, all Stage 2 willing.

    
-Working way up the CAPITAL RIVER.

    
-Town of ALBANUS closest Red center to SUMMERTON (seasonal home of King Tiberias + his govt).

    
-Valuable? Will assess.

    
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.

The locals call it the Stilts. I can see why. The river is still high, flooded
by the spring melts, and much of the town would be underwater if not for the high pylons its structures are built on. An arena frowns over it all from the crest of a hill. A firm reminder of who owns this place and who rules this kingdom.

Unlike the larger cities of Harbor Bay or Haven, there are no walls, no gates, and no blood checks. My soldiers and I enter in the morning with the rest of the merchants moving along the Royal Road. A Silver officer checks our false identification cards with a disinterested flicker of a glance before waving us on, letting a pack of wolves into his village of sheep. If not for the location and Albanus's proximity to the king's summer palace, I wouldn't give this place another glance. There's nothing here of use. Just overworked woodcutters and their families, barely alive enough to eat, let alone rebel against a Silver regime. But Summerton is a few miles upriver, making Albanus worthy of my attention.

Tristan memorized the town before we entered, or at least he tried to. It would not do to consult our maps openly and let everyone know we do not belong. He turns left quickly. The rest of us follow, tracking off the paved Royal Road to the muddy, rutted avenue that runs along the swollen riverbank. Our boots sink, but no one slips.

The stilt houses rise on the left, dotting what I think is Marcher Road. A few dirty children watch us pass, idly throwing stones in the lapping river. Farther out, fishermen on their boats haul glistening nets, filling their little boats with the day's catch. They laugh among themselves, happy to work. Happy to have jobs that keep them from conscription and pointless war.

BOOK: Steel Scars
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