Defiance (4 page)

“I do think he’s alive,” I say. “But we aren’t going out looking for him. It’s a suicide mission, one he’d never allow you to—”

“Don’t tell me what Dad would allow me to do!”

“Rachel …”

Her face is dead white, her eyes a blaze of misery and fury. “So, you’re content to just sit here in your little house, doing whatever it is you do all day, while somewhere out there Dad needs our help?”

No, I want to tell her. I’m about ten days out from finishing an invention I made specifically because I couldn’t stand to sit here doing nothing while somewhere out there Jared is missing. But if I tell her that, it’s tantamount to giving her permission to come along. And I’m not willing to do that.

I clench my jaw and say, “We aren’t going.”

Her lip curls, a scornful expression that seems to say I’ve just lived up to her lowest estimation of me, and she steps back. Her disappointment hurts, but I meet her gaze without flinching.

“I’m sorry, Rachel.”

She turns and walks out of the house.

L
ogan does
nothing
but spend hours hunched over his kitchen table fiddling with wires and bits of metal. I want to punch him every time I walk into the room. We barely look at each other. Barely speak. He won’t change his mind, and I’m not about to beg. I don’t need Logan to travel the Wasteland with me as I track Dad. All I need is a way over the Wall.

Three days after moving into Logan’s house, I found his magnetic handgrips, perfect for sliding safely down the bulky steel ribs along the Wall. Three days after
that
, he unknowingly presented me with the perfect opportunity for escape.

Now I wrap my cloak around myself and push into the sparse crowds still drifting stall to stall in Lower Market, haggling over produce, rubbing linens between their fingers to check for quality, and whispering in my wake.

It’s been thirteen years since a woman dared walk through the Market without her Protector. She paid for her actions with her life.

Flicking the hood of my cloak over my head, I make sure it hides every strand of the red hair that makes me so easily recognizable. I don’t like the idea of risking my life by going through Market alone, but I’m desperate for the chance to do what no one else seems willing to do—search for Dad outside the Wall.

Lower Market is laid out like a man’s back. The main road forms the spine and leads toward the North Tower, while smaller roads and alleys branch off like ribs running east and west. My heart pounds a little faster as I aim for the left side of the main road and start walking.

The first stall I reach is a trestle table laden with a few remaining crates of juicy pears and thick-skinned melons. A woman and her Protector squeeze the fruit between their fingers before loading up their sack, murmuring to each other as they weigh each choice. Ignoring them, I move on. A glance at the sky tells me I have about thirty minutes until twilight and the final closing of the gate.

Puddles gouge the gritty road, courtesy of an early-afternoon rain shower. I pass the butcher, already cleaning his knives and packing away the last of his mutton, and wrinkle my nose as the rusty scent of drying sheep’s blood lies heavy on the air, mingling with the smell of mud.

Two more stalls down, I reach the candle maker’s and the first of the west-running roads. I tuck my head down, hiding both my hair and my face beneath my hood. No one stops me as I make the left turn, though I feel the stares burning through the heavy leather of my cloak. Probably wondering what idiot of a Protector is fine with allowing his ward to walk unescorted through Lower Market.

Of course, Logan isn’t fine with this. Or he won’t be, once he finds out. Right now, though, I’m pretty sure he’s talking tech with vendors far away from here, but still I tighten my cloak and try to look a little less … Rachel. Just in case.

A man on my left is hawking a collection of hunting knives with leather sheaths. Giving his wares a cursory glance, I slide my hand beneath my cloak and run my fingers along the sheath I wear strapped to my waist. His knives are nice.

Mine is better.

Leaving my knife alone, I keep walking. I’ve made the journey to Oliver’s tent with Dad more times than I can count, and there are never any guards on the western side of Lower Market this late in the day. Still, I move briskly and keep to the sides, hoping to avoid attracting too much attention.

I’m nearly halfway to my destination when I reach an open wagon filled with bags of dried lentils, onions, and white beans. Three men lean against the side, watching in silence as the merchant’s daughter scoops beans into burlap sacks. I sidestep them, but pull up short as one of the men whistles softly, a low thrice-note tune of warning that sends chills up my spine.

That warning whistle can only mean one thing: guards. In Lower Market at twilight.

I can’t waste time wondering why guards are here, of all places, on the one day when I’ve decided to break the most sacred laws on the books. My heart pounds, a thunderous, uneven rhythm, and I start looking around for a way out.

I have no intention of allowing them to catch me.

“C
opper tubing. Twenty-two gauge.” Which I could get just about anywhere. “A spool of wire. Sixteen gauge.” A little trickier to come by, especially since I’m picky about my wires, but still, not an over-the-top request. I take a second to steady my nerves before making my final request.

“That all?” the proprietor asks.

Hoping I don’t sound like I’m concerned about the consequences of committing treason I say, “I’ll also need a barrel of acid.”

This is the moment when every other merchant I’ve visited today suddenly decided my money was no longer welcome. I’m scraping the bottom of Baalboden’s list of possible vendors by coming here, but there aren’t any others left to try unless I want to deal with the highwaymen selling their wares outside the gate.

I don’t.

I’d rather not advertise to the guards patrolling the perimeter that I’m using unstable substances in my inventions.

The proprietor stares me down, his hands slowly working the tap on a large wooden barrel full of hazy golden ale. “Don’t think I rightly heard you.”

I keep my voice low and repeat my request as I lean against the far corner of the bar-top counter in Thom’s Tankard. The wood, a dull dirt brown, is sticky with the residue of spilled drinks and fried potatoes, and I’d sooner swallow lye than eat anything on the menu, but I’m not here for food.

Thom slaps a heavy wooden mug filled with ale in front of me, though I haven’t ordered a drink. “Ain’t got none.”

Sure he does. Or if he doesn’t, he knows where to get some. There aren’t any black-market vendors operating in Baalboden without Thom’s knowledge.

“Where can I find it, then?”

He shrugs his massive shoulders and picks up a grimy rag to smear across the greasy countertop as if cleaning is suddenly a priority.

I’m sick of running into roadblocks. If I can’t convince him to give me what I need, I won’t be able to finish my current invention. If I don’t finish my current invention, I can’t head into the Wasteland to find Jared. And if I don’t find Jared, Rachel and I are stuck together until next year’s Claiming ceremony, when another hapless man can do his best to tame her strong will into something that won’t get her tossed into the Commander’s dungeon.

I wish him luck.

“How much for the supplies?” I ask Thom. Maybe if he sees that I refuse to go away, he’ll deal with me.
Someone
has to deal with me. They can’t all be afraid of the potential repercussions.

“Boy, you must be stupid.”

I laugh, a short sound devoid of mirth. I’m a lot of things—Protector, orphan, inventor, outcast—but I’m not stupid.

I am, however, a little desperate.

By the look of the place, so is Thom. The grooved wooden floor is splintered and sagging. The walls are stained with soot from the torches he uses instead of lanterns. And his stock of ale behind the counter looks more than half depleted. I don’t have the kind of money that will take care of the slow decline I see here.

But beneath the decline, I sense something else. In the darkened corners, in the tense, watchful eyes of the serving girl who glances repeatedly out the heavily shrouded windows, and in the huddled, quiet conversation of the six men sitting behind me—the only other patrons in the tavern—an undertone of secrecy wraps the room in deliberate seclusion.

What would Thom pay to protect those secrets from the prying eyes of the Commander and his guards? I pull a pair of small circular wooden objects from my cloak and set them on the counter. “You see these?”

He grunts and darts a look at the group in the corner. Interesting. I’m guessing he isn’t their leader, or he wouldn’t be looking to them for permission to continue our discussion. And they wouldn’t be hiding in the corner if they were in good standing with the Commander. Which means all of us are on the same side.

I just need to make them see it.

Raising my voice only enough to reach the group’s ears without sounding obvious, I say, “These are surveillance discs modified to alert you to the approach of a guard anywhere in a twenty-five-yard radius. You insert a battery in each”—I pull out a small battery from the batch I made last week and slap it on the counter—“and mount one to the outside of your building. It sends out a sonic pulse every thirty seconds and takes a reading of every citizen’s wristmark in the immediate area. If any of those wristmarks carry the military code, the outside disc triggers an alarm built into the disc you keep behind the counter. A twenty-five-yard radius means you have at least a forty-second warning. More than enough time to modify any suspicious behavior before getting caught.”

I sense more than hear the sudden quiet in the group behind me.

“I’m happy to give you a demonstration of their capabilities, but once I do, I expect my tubing, my wire, and my barrel of acid.”

A deep voice speaks from behind me. “You’re Logan McEntire, aren’t you?”

Turning, I face the group and their speaker, a man with bushy black hair, a silver-shot beard, and dark eyes, assesses me with fierce concentration.

I nod slowly, trying without success to put a name with his face. “I am.”

“Guess the fine merchants of North Hub didn’t have what you need. Or if they did, you aren’t exactly the person they want to be seen selling it to, are you?”

“No.”

The silence thickens between us, broken only by the slow steady drip of ale leaking from the barrel behind Thom and the quiet movements of the serving girl, who takes another look out the window as if searching the street for something.

“You take a risk bringing tech like that out into the open.” The man gestures toward the discs lying on the counter beside me. “If you’re caught, it’s the dungeon or worse for you.”

“The guards leave me alone as much as the rest of you do.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“Am I supposed to feel something about it?”

His stare is unwavering. “If my mother was flogged to death for breaking the law, and I was declared a social outcast when I was but six years old, I think I’d feel something about it. Especially toward the man doing the flogging.”

His words rake across a long-healed scar, drawing fresh blood. He’s right. My mother broke the law and paid the price. And in a perpetual example of the consequences of disobedience, the Commander declared me an outcast, fit for nothing but life on the street until I came of age at seventeen. It’s impossible to separate the law and its punishments from the Commander, since in Baalboden the two are one and the same, but I’ve tried. It’s the only way I can live here without wanting to kill him.

“She shouldn’t have broken the law,” I say, though it’s hard to sound like I mean it.

“Or maybe the law shouldn’t demand a flogging for a woman caught walking the city streets without her Protector.” The man watches me closely.

This is my test. The hoop I must jump through to convince them to allow Thom to do business with me. With the memory of my mother’s last moments burning into my brain, I find it easy to agree. “Maybe it shouldn’t.”

“Bet you’re wondering what we’re doing meeting here discussing things that sound like treason.”

“Bet you’re wondering what I’m doing standing here asking for materials banned by law.”

The man smiles, a wide crack of white in his black and silver beard. “I’m Drake. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for some time.”

I try to match his smile, but my mind is racing. Either Drake was a friend of my mother’s and has waited until now to offer his friendship, or he thinks I’m an acceptable target to be recruited into what appears to be an anti-Commander group.

Which isn’t going to happen. Not that I don’t share their sentiments, but my mother is a prime example of how the price of dissent isn’t worth the negligible payout.

Besides, I have an invention to finish, my mentor to track across the Wasteland, and a very independent ward to keep out of trouble. My plate is full.

“Any chance I can do business with your man here?” I nod toward Thom.

“Thom, get the man his supplies. Take the discs as payment.”

Thom needs an extra day to procure the acid, so I agree to come back the following evening to complete the purchase. And because I’m not a fool, I take one of the surveillance discs with me as I go. He can have it once he delivers the rest of my order.

Setting out at a brisk pace toward the prosperous North Hub section of the city, where Rachel is spending the day with her best friend, Sylph, learning how to properly host a dinner party, I try to shake off the lingering image of my mother dying beneath the bite of the Commander’s whip. I’ve had years of practice, and the picture fades before I’ve gone fifteen yards. The small spark of sedition ignited within me at the dingy tavern takes much longer to dissolve.

T
here shouldn’t be guards this far west in Lower Market, but I don’t doubt the warning whistle in the least. My pulse kicks up, pounding relentlessly against my ears, and I clench my fists to keep my hands steady. I refuse to be caught. Stopping beside the man who gave the warning, I turn and pretend to examine a sack of pearly-white onions while I sweep the area.