Three (34 page)

T
he sun had just begun to blur the border between late afternoon and early evening by the time the trio reached the outskirts of Morningside. Here, the urban landscape took on a striking contrast to the surrounding sprawl. Order, it seemed, extended even beyond the walls of Morningside. Clearly great pains had been taken to clean, repair, and in some cases even reclaim the remnant city that surrounded the thriving township.

“We’re very close now,” Mr Carter said. “We’ll start seeing people soon. Don’t be alarmed.”

Three just nodded. He felt Wren move closer beside him, and felt the boy’s tiny hand slip into his. Within ten minutes, it was just as Mr Carter had said. Here and there were signs of people living out here, beyond the wall. Soon enough, they saw the people themselves. Those they encountered responded in their own way; some with flat stares, some with a nod of greeting, others with indifference. But none seemed hostile, or even surprised.

“Squatters,” Mr Carter explained. “Most of them have been expelled. Underdown allows them to stay, under his protection.”

“Expelled?”

“As I said. Within Morningside, it can be difficult to live life on one’s own terms. During the day, the gates remain open, these here are free to do trade. But come evening, they return.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Punishment.”

They continued on in silence for another fifteen minutes, until there before them loomed the wall of Morningside. Standing there under its lengthening shadow, even Three couldn’t help but feel the awe the place inspired. He’d been to the largest of towns west of the Strand: Fourover, Swingbridge, Greenstone. Now, even Greenstone’s fortress-like design seemed childish by comparison.

The wall itself ran nearly thirty-feet high, but unlike Greenstone’s prison-inspired structure, Morningside’s wall had been built with an eye for aesthetics. There were no watchtowers, no mounted weapons. At least none that could be seen. Instead, fiberlights ran throughout, enmeshed with the steel fabric of the wall, so that the entire barrier seemed to glow with an internal, vibrant green-blue that shifted like the sea. Like Greenstone, Three could see people moving along the tops of the wall, but they were no guards. He realized they were citizens, walking along as one might expect in a park.

Beside him, Wren stood with his mouth slightly open, eyes wide and drinking in the astonishing display before them. From somewhere atop the wall, there was music, tumbling down with the faint but unmistakable raw emotion of live players, supported by a crowd singing along, nearly in time and almost on key. A large gate stood open, tended by a trio of guardsmen, and a handful of people trickled in or, if they were among the unfortunate, out.

“I trust you can find your way from here,” Mr Carter said abruptly.

“You won’t come in?”

Mr Carter shook his head, but offered no explanation. His eyes were on the wall, but unfocused. Thinking of something beyond, or within. Three noticed a thin, dark shimmer along the front of Mr Carter’s shirt, guessed his bandage had bled through.

“Why don’t we camp together tonight, then? We’ll see you on your way in the morning.”

Mr Carter smiled and turned to face Three and Wren. “A kind thought, but one I must refuse. Talk to the guards at the gate. They should be able to help you.” He knelt and placed a hand on Wren’s shoulder. “Wren, you are fine boy, and you will be a great man. Maybe one day you could come visit us again.”

Wren nodded and surprised Mr Carter by wrapping his arms around the man’s neck. “Thanks, Mr Carter. I’d like that.”

Mr Carter patted Wren firmly on the back, and then stood, and shook hands with Three. “The same stands for you as well, Three. The village is as much a home to you as you choose to make it.”

“I appreciate that, Mr Carter. Just may take you up on it some time.”

“Please do.”

Three looked down at Wren and gently slapped him on the shoulder with the back of his hand.

“Come on, kiddo. Let’s go see if any of these stories about Morningside are true, huh?”

“OK.”

Three looked back up and exchanged final nods with Mr Carter, and the three parted ways.

After they’d walked about halfway to the gate, Wren spoke in his quiet voice. “Why won’t he stay?”

Three glanced back over his shoulder, saw Mr Carter’s silhouette in the fading light, shook his head. “I don’t know, Wren. Every man’s got a story. I’m sure he has his.”

Wren didn’t respond. Just slid his hand into Three’s again. Three tried not to think about how natural it had become, holding that tiny hand in his own. Tried not to think about what it might be like to let go of that hand a final time. Deal with it later. When it’s done. They walked those final steps towards Morningside, together, in silence.

As they drew closer, the sounds of the town grew louder, more distinct. The music became more apparent, bits of conversations became discernible: vendors making last minute deals, friends calling to one another. The atmosphere was pleasant, inviting, and Three wondered if they’d arrived on the night of some festival, or if this was just a typical evening in Morningside.

The guards at the gate stirred as they drew near, and one guard, shorter than the others, casually motioned for Three to stop just outside. The short guard approached with an easy smile. None of the guards looked as grim or hardened as the greenmen of Greenstone, but they all held themselves with the bearing of men of authority.

“Evening,” the guard said.

“Evening,” Three answered. He felt Wren step closer, the boy’s shoulder lightly pressed against his leg.

“Been to Morningside before?”

“No, sir. First time.”

“Where you comin’ in from?”

Three felt a twinge in his chest. The slightest knot of pressure, born of frustration, the first hint that here, even now mere inches from his goal, there was a dangerous game to be played, a chance for misstep. He dare not lie, but how much of the truth was necessary?

“A long way off, sir.”

“I don’t doubt it,” the guard said with an understanding nod. “You gents look like you’ve had a bit of a rough go.”

One of the other guards sidled up, an older man, hands behind his back. Curious, but not enough to get involved. He stood back a couple of paces, greeted Three with a dip of the head.

“What brings you out our way?” the short guard asked.

“The boy. We need to see the Governor.”

The guard’s eyebrows raised slightly at that, his expression one of… what? Surprise? Something prickled in Three’s instincts, but it was too vague, to fleeting to identify.

“And why’s that, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Beg your pardon, sir, but I don’t think I can explain. It’s a private matter.”

The guard nodded thoughtfully, his lips pressed together and jutting slightly, as if weighing his options. There was something. Something Three should’ve noticed. Or was there? There was too much noise, too many things going on. His focus was dull.

“I see,” the guard said. “Well, I’m not one to pry. How long you expecting to be in Morningside?”

“Shouldn’t be long. Just have some business with the Governor, then I’ll be gone.”

Wren pressed further into Three then, hard. Tense. The thought of being left alone in this strange city with a man he’d never met must’ve been sinking in. Three wished he’d chosen his words a little more carefully.

The short guard took a knee in front of Wren, leaned forward slightly with a lowered head. Gentle. Disarming.

“And how about you, little one? Will you be staying with us?”

Wren made no answer. Three glanced back at the older guard, still standing there. Watching without emotion.

“Here, boy, lemme take a look at you,” the short guard said, reaching out with two fingers extended to raise the boy’s chin. “How old are you now? Five?”

“Six,” Wren answered. “And three-quarters.”

A ripple of thought ran through Three’s mind… he’d never thought to ask Wren’s age. Just assumed his initial guess had been correct. Almost seven, still looked five. Small for his age.

“Six and three-quarters. Practically a grown man.”

Everything about the situation seemed fine, and Three could find no reason for his unease. But he was nevertheless uneasy.

“And that’s a fine coat,” the guard said, rubbing the lapel of Wren’s coat between two fingers.

Three thought back, replayed the moment he’d said he needed to see the Governor. The guard’s expression… eyebrows up, pupils constricting, twitch at the corner of his mouth, at his temples. Not surprise.

Recognition.

Where was the third guard?

The realization struck in the same instant that the guards moved. The short guard snatched Wren by the front of his coat, jerking the boy away, tearing him free of Three’s leg. As he did so, the older guard brought his hands up, pointing some kind of dull metallic box at Three. He heard Wren cry his name, shrill, terrified, followed by a muffled thump.

Three twisted, reaching into his coat to draw his pistol, but something dull punched into his upper chest, sent him sprawling. He absorbed the fall as best he could, rolled to his feet. The older guard was still standing with his arms outstretched, a look of shock on his face. Three went for his pistol, but before he could get it free of his holster, massive arms wrapped around him from behind, pinning his own to his sides. Three instinctively whipped his head backwards, felt the impact, the crunch of cartilage that told him he’d just broken someone’s nose. But still the arms squeezed. He snapped back again with his head, and then again. The arms released for half an instant.

But before he could exploit the moment, he felt the vice-grip clamp around his neck, cutting off the blood flow to his brain. He had seconds before he’d pass out. Time slowed.

The older guard was running at him now. The shorter guard fought to control a squirming Wren. Blood rushed in Three’s ears. Cass flashed in his eyes. She’d trusted him with her boy. With her life. He’d come so close. Too close.

A deep redness started closing in from the edge of his vision. He fumbled, felt his fingertips brush the grip of his pistol. The red became blackness. Sound suddenly snapped to an unearthly sharpness. Wren crying out. The shouts of the guards.

There. The pistol hard in his hand. He drew it, felt it slide with intolerable slowness. Darkness nearly complete. Numbness. Was he still holding the gun? The old guard was two steps away.

A low
whoosh… whoosh… whoosh.
Louder each time. The last strangled rush in his blood-starved brain. Something cracked wetly. The grip around his neck fell away. Hard impact on his knees, his pistol clattered away. And as his vision returned, there were the feet of the older guard floating up off the ground, backwards, up and away from Three. And in the next instant, time returned to its proper flow, and Three saw the old guard slamming backwards to the ground, and Mr Carter there.

As the old guard impacted, Mr Carter followed him to the ground, dropping his knee into the man’s chest. Mr Carter spun, swept something up from the ground behind Three, where the third guard lay bleeding from his face and side of the head. His hammer. He must’ve thrown it.

Three’s fogged mind fought to catch up as the events unfolded before him at lightning speed. The short guard cried out in pain, and dropped Wren. As Three gained his feet, he saw the man clutching his arm, with crimson spots welling up in three separate locations. Wren crouched back, his tiny blade gripped tightly, gleaming wet in the fading light. Tears streaming down his face.

Three covered the distance to the guard in three steps and buried the sole of his boot in the man’s solar plexus. The guard buckled to the hard ground, and Three was on him the next moment, delivering a devastating fist crushing down into the man’s jaw. Three saw the guard’s eyes go blank under the impact, out cold.

Wren’s sobs suddenly caught Three’s hearing, and he turned to see the boy standing there, knife in hand, arms dangling at his sides, wailing in terror, and confusion, and who knew what other raw emotion. But there was a commotion near the gate, and Three knew that more guards were surely on their way.

“Run! This way!” Mr Carter yelled, and in the next instant, Three had Wren in his arms, and they were running, running again, away from Morningside, back into the open, back once more into the gathering night.

F
ollowing Mr Carter’s lead, Three raced back through the outskirts cradling Wren tightly to his chest. Three was still lightheaded from the attack, and his lungs strained for air as they threaded their way through the eerily sterile urban remains. Through the alleys and side streets, they fled like thieves, like men with hounds at their heels. The night fell down around them, a heavy shroud upon weary shoulders. They ran long past the squatters, out through the crisp borders of Morningside’s reach, into the fuzzy border between the open and the looming township.

At last, Mr Carter slowed his pace, and then soon after ducked into a brick shell of a building. Mr Carter moved through the first room quickly, scanning the surroundings. Towards the back, a darkened corridor ran to a second, windowless room. Mr Carter stopped at the entrance of the corridor, and waved Three and Wren on through. Three pushed his way into the dusky room, immediately reminded of his small room back at the village. He set Wren on his feet, and dropped to a knee, sucking air into his burning lungs. His hands were clammy with sweat, shaking. Behind him, Mr Carter leaned against the doorframe, doubled over, hands on knees, panting as well. Wren stood as stone, staring blankly, his hair matted to his head by Three’s sweat. It was minutes before anyone spoke. When Three had recovered enough to know he wouldn’t pass out, he took Wren’s face in his hand, and sought out the boy’s eyes in the darkness.

“Are you hurt, boy?”

Wren made no sound, but Three felt the boy’s head shake slightly from side to side. Three dropped his hand onto Wren’s shoulder, squeezed it.

“What happened?” Mr Carter asked from the corridor.

“They tried to take Wren,” Three said. After a moment, he added, “and I almost let ’em. I let ’em get the jump on me. If you hadn’t come back…”

Three trailed off, suddenly reliving those near-final moments. Trapped. Blacking out. Wren struggling in the guard’s grasp. Three, powerless to prevent it.

“The child,” Mr Carter said. He paused, searching for words. “He…
called.
”

“Are they dead?”

“I don’t think so. The one that had you, the big one… maybe. It was not my intent…”

“My fault. Should’ve been more careful.” Three shook his head, then snorted a humorless chuckle. “Been on a bad run with guard-types lately.” He thought back to the attack, but much of it was a jumble in his head. Too many things happening at once. One guard grabbing Wren, the other hitting him with… what? “One of them shot something at me. Knocked me down. But not much more. Any idea what that was?”

Mr Carter thought for a moment, and shook his head slightly. “Many of them carry dislocators. But a shot from one of those would’ve done more than just knock you down.”

Dislocator. Made sense. Intended as a non-lethal weapon, a dislocator fired a semi-rigid projectile that caused massive overload of one’s datastream on impact, incapacitating the target without causing any significant physical trauma. But Three wasn’t wired. That would explain the surprised look on the guard’s face.

“Maybe it was a dud,” Three offered. He didn’t know if Mr Carter was aware of his disconnected status.

“Could be. Fortunate, if so.”

Three got to his feet and moved his hand from Wren’s shoulder to the top of the boy’s head, where he gently tousled Wren’s blond hair. Behind him, he heard Mr Carter stir, and moments later the soft glow of a chemlight spilled through the room. Mr Carter entered carrying his light held out slightly before him. He moved gingerly into the corner where he let his pack slide to the floor and then sat more heavily than Three expected. Weary. Wounded. Three wondered just how much pain the man was silently bearing.

“We gonna be safe here?” Three asked.

Mr Carter closed his eyes, and leaned back against the wall. After a moment, he nodded, drew a deep but strained breath. “Far enough out, the guards won’t come searching. Not tonight, anyway.”

“And the Weir?”

Mr Carter shrugged weakly. “Close enough to Morningside. We hope.”

He was still and quiet just long enough for Three to think that was all he had to say, but he eventually stirred and added, “I’ll stand watch. I just need a few minutes’ rest.”

Three gently turned Wren and walked him over towards Mr Carter. It was only then that Three at last realized the lightness of his own harness. His hand shot reflexively to his holster, even as his mind made the connection.

His pistol. Gone.

He remembered now. The grip around his neck releasing; the impact of falling to his knees. The pistol skittering across the concrete. And Wren in trouble. He’d grabbed the boy, and left the weapon behind. A sort of quiet despair sank into Three’s heart then, like the death of a long-time friend, or loss of a beloved pet, or both. Its heft had been a comfort. And it had saved his life more than once. He cursed aloud, startling both Wren and Mr Carter.

“What’s wrong?” Mr Carter asked.

“My pistol. It’s gone.”

“The guards?”

Three nodded.

“I’m sorry. It was a rare and fine weapon.”

“Still is. Just someone else’s now.”

“Hard earned.”

“Not hard enough.”

Three smoldered at the thought of one of Morningside’s guards sporting his pistol, ignorant of its legacy and worse, its power. It was all too easy to imagine one of them squeezing off a round and blowing a hole through some unfortunate citizen’s home. He was roused by Wren’s quiet crying.

“It’s alright, kiddo,” he said, thinking the boy was blaming himself. “It wasn’t your fault.” But Wren just stood there, facing the wall, sobbing.

“Hey. Wren.” Three turned Wren around to face him, and took a knee, looking into the boy’s eyes. “Wren, what is it? What’s wrong?”

Wren didn’t speak, just wept. But he held his hand out for Three to see. It was dark and sticky with blood. Three took the hand and searched it for injury, until it clicked, and he then understood. Not Wren’s blood. The guard’s.

“Oh, Wren,” he said, and instinctively he pulled Wren close to him, and held the boy tight to his chest. “It’s alright. It’s OK, Wren. You did the right thing.”

For a time, he just held Wren, and Wren stood there crying, letting himself be held. Eventually Wren’s crying ebbed into a quiet sniffling. Three let go, eased back to look at him again.

“Here, come over here.”

Three led Wren to across the room to another corner, and got out his canister of water. He took Wren’s hand, splashed water over it, scrubbed it with his own. Wordlessly, Three repeated the process, carefully washing Wren’s hand until there were no traces of blood remaining. Then he took both of Wren’s hands in his, dried them on his own shirt, and rubbed them vigorously to warm the tiny, chilled fingers in the cold night air.

“Better?”

Wren nodded.

“You OK now?”

Wren shook his head.

“Are you hurt somewhere?”

Wren shook his head again. “I’m sorry I hurt that man.”

“He was going to take you away, Wren. He would’ve taken you if you hadn’t hurt him.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“OK, buddy. It’s OK to be sorry. It was a bad situation. For everybody.” Wren nodded at that, and Three picked him up. “Tough day. Let’s get you something to eat, and then get some rest, alright?”

Three led him back to Mr Carter’s corner. Mr Carter had dozed off, and Three didn’t disturb him. He dug through his pack and pulled out some of the food Chapel had provided for them. They ate, though neither seemed to have much appetite. After they’d finished, Three pulled blankets from their packs and made a pallet for Wren to lie down on.

Rolled in one of the blankets, Three discovered a device; brushed steel, rectangle-shaped with rounded edges. It took him a moment to realize it was an old military heatcoil. When activated, it radiated a gentle warmth similar to natural body heat. Whether Chapel had slipped it in the packs, or Lil, it was truly a gift out here in the open. Three activated the heatcoil, and tucked it in with Wren. He laid his coat over the boy, and rested his hand on Wren’s head.

“Try to get some sleep, alright?”

Wren nodded and closed his eyes. Three sat with him for a while, rubbing his back because he didn’t know what else to do. After a time, Wren’s breathing was deep and even, and Three quietly got to his feet and walked to the door. He stopped at the entry, and stared down the corridor, into the darkness, wondering what the night might bring.

He heard shuffling from within the room, and soon Mr Carter appeared.

“I don’t understand it,” Mr Carter said, voice lowered. “What reason would they have to seize the child?”

Three shook his head. “I told them we needed to see the Governor. The guard reacted.”

“As if they had been expecting you?”

Three remembered the guard’s expression. Reflexive, but controlled. “Like they’d been warned.”

“By whom?”

“Asher,” Wren said quietly, apparently not asleep after all. He had said it so flatly, with such lack of emotion, that Three thought he’d misheard.

“What?”

Wren didn’t stir, didn’t open his eyes. “Asher’s there. In Morningside.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I know.”

Three wanted to argue, to tell Wren he was dreaming it, or imagining it, or just scared, but he knew better. If Wren
knew
it, then it was true. Asher was in Morningside, waiting for them.

“Who’s Asher?” Mr Carter asked.

“The kid’s brother,” Three answered. “The one we’ve been trying to escape.”

It didn’t seem possible, but at the same time, it made too much sense to be wrong. Pieces started falling together. Dagon showing up at Chapel’s commune. They could’ve tracked Cass and Wren to Greenstone. Probably convinced Bonefolder to let them on the train. Rode into Morningside, and just waited for their quarry to show up. But after Three’s delay, maybe they got nervous, and sent Dagon out into the Strand after them. And in the meantime did what? Tell Underdown Three was on his way?

Bonefolder had offered him a contract on Underdown’s life, after all. Sure. Man shows up with a kid, says he’s got private business with the Governor. Not likely to be a lot of people rolling into town with that story. And what story had Asher told? That Three was a kidnapper? A slaver? An assassin, using a child as cover?

Kill the man, rescue the boy? My baby brother?

Three laughed then, in spite of himself; a sad chuckle at first that started as a rumble in his chest, and grew slowly into a full throated laugh devoid of humor, and hope. “All of this,” he said. “All of it, and we’re right back where we started.” He squeezed his eyes shut, pinched the bridge of his nose, tried to keep the weight of inevitability from crushing down. Cass flashed before his eyes, weak, pale, life flowing from her. Not much different than when he’d first laid eyes on her, and her son, harried, frightened, desperate for help. “Except somewhere along the way, I lost something I never even wanted in the first place.”

Cass. She’d given her life to get her son to Underdown. What would she have done now?

“This man Asher,” Mr Carter said. “He is dangerous?”

“Worse. Deadly.”

“Then you should return with me. We will hide you.”

Three shook his head. “They already know about you. One of his men showed up night before last.”

“Then we will protect you.”

“They’d kill every man, woman, and child in your village, Mr Carter. I was afraid they might do it anyway, but once they hear what happened to the guards, they’ll know we’re nearby.”

Three’s mind ran through the scenarios. Dagon had tracked them down outside the wayhouse, to the Vault, and somehow through the Strand to Chapel’s village. How long would it be before he found them hiding here? Would he come alone this time? A sudden thought struck Three then, and he cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. He’d assumed that after their last meeting, Dagon had rushed back to report their location to Asher. But what if he had merely trailed them from the village? The hair stood up on the back of Three’s neck, and a rage kindled in his heart.

This wasn’t his way. It hadn’t been from the start. Everything he’d been trained for, all the years he’d spent honing his senses, every scar he bore, it was all building him to be the predator, never the prey. And now, here, at the end, he found himself in little more than an urban cave, cornered.

He’d sensed it, back on that afternoon when she’d walked out of the bar, and he’d followed; he knew deep down that somehow this was the decision that was going to get him killed. And now he knew why. Because everything he’d done to this point had gone against his carefully cultivated discipline. His code. His
way.

No more. If death was coming, Three was wise enough to know he was no match for that ageless enemy. But he was done sitting around, waiting for it to show up. It was his turn to stalk.

“Enough,” Three said. “Enough of this.”

“What will we do now?”

“Now?” Three answered. “Now, I’m going to do what I was made for.”