“Down,” the Councilman commanded, and they were jostled forward, descending clumsily into a darkness so pervasive it had its own unique scent. Somewhere between the rich smell of forest loam and freshly sprouting fungi and the thickest plume of sewer steam Jordan had ever accidentally walked through was the residence of this particular place’s scent. The prisoners gagged at first, gathering at the bottom of the stairs, and then choked down the scent, their lungs struggling to accept it as breathable air.
Stevenson peered out at them from behind a mask, the noise of his breathing amplified through a strange filter that gave him even more of the appearance of being some variety of wild hog. “This way,” he said, and they followed, eyes and noses streaming against the overpowering stench of earth and filth and, above it all, overripe humanity.
Even the Wraiths wore masks there, the backs of their deformed and nearly bald heads pinched into straps to keep the mask’s front snug to ill-formed faces.
The prisoners walked between them, subdued as sheep, led down a wide aisle flanked on either side with heavy doors bearing wide hinges and barred windows at eye level. Jordan stretched up on her feet as they passed one by, trying to catch a glimpse of what lay inside, but she saw only darkness and the barest hint of movement.
“These are the Reckoning Tanks,” the Councilman’s voice hissed out as he motioned the Tester forward to explain.
“You will be kept here until the Maker calls you for Reckoning.”
“Reckoning?” someone asked. The simple act of raising a one-word question sent him into a fit of coughing.
The Tester smiled, his mask fogging. “Yes. The Reckoning is the first step in being Made.”
“And,” Jordan spoke up, giving a little cough and pawing at her nose, “if it is discovered we cannot be Made? That this is all”—she choked down another cough—“a horrible mistake?”
The Councilman and Tester looked at each other and turned away, ignoring her. “Load them,” the Councilman commanded, and the Wraiths grabbed them one at a time and, opening the doors, shoved them each into their own Tank.
Jordan pitched forward into the dark cell, her hands stretched before her and the only thing that stopped her from colliding face-first with the stone wall marking the Tank’s far end. She struggled to catch her breath, but her body still rebelled against the heady scent of her polluted environment.
She straightened up, tried to smooth out her skirts by feel, and stretched her arms out at her sides. Her fingers brushed two walls. The place was the very definition of small. In the inky black she hesitantly reached around in hopes of discovering some bench or stool. But, after circumnavigating the grim space, she was back to where she had started with no appropriate seat on which to sit.
She stood until her feet ached and then, with a ragged sigh, she sank to her knees to wait for the Weather Workers to realize they’d been wrong all along and that she should be set free immediately.
The place wasn’t so bad, she thought, her fingers finding the heart on her sleeve, when you knew you wouldn’t need to suffer such indignities for long.
If there was one thing Rowen could say for his father, it was that the man was a fine judge of horseflesh. When he had suggested King’s Ransom for Rowen’s escape, he had surely made the best choice.
They rocketed down the main trail away from the meadow where he’d just murdered a man, their backs to the city, Ransom leading by a good few lengths with Silver stretching his long glossy legs to close the distance.
Hooves beat out a rapid rhythm as they raced toward safety, the only thing beating faster their panicked hearts. They had sprinted a solid mile when Silver finally caught Ransom and Jonathan pointed to an opening in the brambles at the trail’s side. “There,” he shouted, “follow me!” Silver slipped around Ransom and shoved his way into the winding deer path, brush slapping his haunches.
Rowen forced Ransom up beside Silver so he could speak rather than shout over the thundering of horses’ hooves. “Where are we heading?”
“I believe it is prudent to stay off the main path and far from the road,” Jonathan said. “We will keep the city to our back and the arc of the sun’s path ahead of us and I believe we will find the cottage of my second cousin before nightfall.”
“And water?” Rowen asked, looking down at the lather that made his horse smell pungent. “Will we need to cross water before we get there?”
Jonathan nodded slowly. “Undoubtedly so. And the horses will require some to drink. As will we when we empty our canteens.”
Rowen nodded solemnly. “How far upstream from briny water are we?” he asked and, if Jonathan had wondered why he was worried about water, he had no doubt now.
“We will need to be prepared for Merrow and their allies, good sir,” he said. “Keep your sword and pistol at the ready.”
Marion shifted his feet off the stacked stone fence he had claimed for sitting, refolded the newspaper across his lap, and rolled his lips together in thought. He had avoided asking after his family for years now, determined not to bring trouble to them if he could avoid it. But something wriggled in the back of his mind, insisting it was time to return to the family who had loved him and Harbored him and lost everything because of those things.
Now he would have to ask about them to track them, although he was relatively certain they would not be found on the Hill anymore. He stood and stretched, rolling the paper to fit beneath his arm again, and walked to the edge of the park. Here it butted against the steep side of the Astraea’s estate, a narrow rock wall the only thing holding most of the properties back from falling headlong into the Below. From here one could see nearly all the rest of the city tumbling down the Hill and filling the space between the tightly woven edge of the Below and the high sea walls that kept more than the water at bay. The wealth, too, rolled down the city’s Hill, dissipating as it went. Where he stood was the apex of power—the homes of families who had come from money and power in the Old World but were mostly younger brothers of far too healthy male siblings. Dissatisfied by the standards of primogeniture, they sought out a new land where second and third sons might rule.
The wealthiest took what they wanted most. Land high up. Defensible and with a ready view. They locked down the things they could not control like magick among the masses and worked to eradicate such offensive traits. The ones that followed settled the Hill below the slopes occupied by the First Families and the Ranks that came to denote their stations filled the slope in nearly perfect descending order until the last bits of society, the dregs, took the least defensible spots nearest the water’s edge. They were the workers on which the walls were built. They were the butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers. The musicians, artisans, crafters, and clockmakers, the ones who maintained the sewers and guarded against Merrow. They were all replaceable. And they knew it.
Still, it was better than what most had left behind. “The War across the Water,” as the Americans now called it, was the most treacherous sort of war: a magickal one.
He would ask no questions about his family’s whereabouts until he reached the Below, and he would take the long way down. Past the Vanmoer estate. It seemed there were more roses that needed some of his particular form of attention.
In the dark of her Reckoning Tank, Jordan Astraea held two words in her head: be brave. It was these two words that kept her from crying out when something rustled in the straw beside her. It was those two words that kept her from screaming when something scurried across the top of her right foot.
She clutched the pin hidden in her sleeve and willed herself to follow its engraved instructions, simple as they were.
Whereas most of her fellow prisoners were dragged from their Tanks needing to be pushed and prodded to bring them before the Maker for the Reckoning, Jordan Astraea walked proudly (if not a bit stiffly, worn as she was
