“Don’t!” the boy says, using his last free words to beg.
This will not last. This will not continue. This is why I’m here.
Even so, it makes me sick to know I cannot do anything for this boy and his mother. Our plans are falling into place, but not fast enough for him. Perhaps he will survive, I tell myself. But one look at his thin arms and the eyeglasses trampled beneath a legionnaire’s foot says otherwise. The boy will die like so many others. In a trench or in a wasteland, alone at the very end.
“I can’t watch this,” I mutter, and turn down another alley.
After a long moment of strange hesitation, Tristan follows.
I can only hope Rasha stays the course as well as he does. But I understand. She lost two sisters to Lakelander conscriptions, and fled her home before meeting the same fate.
Rocasta is not a walled city, and has no gates to choke the ends of the Iron Road. An easy place to enter, but it makes our task a bit more difficult. The main body of the returning supply convoy comes along the Road, but a few of the walking escorts peel off, taking different shortcuts to the same destination. On another day, my team would spend hours tracking them all to their homes, only to watch them sleep off the long journey. Not so now. Because it’s First Friday. Today is the Feat of July.
A ridiculous Nortan tradition, albeit an effective one, if the intelligence is to be believed. Arenas in almost every town and city, casting long shadows and spitting blood once a month. Reds are required to attend, to sit and watch Silver champions exchange blows and abilities with the glee of stage performers. We have no such thing in the Lakelands. Silvers don’t feel the need to show off against us, and the storied threat of Norta is enough to keep everyone terrified.
“They do it in Piedmont too,” Tristan mutters. He leans against the poured concrete fence edging the promenade around the arena’s entrance. Our gazes flick in unison, one of us always watching our marks, another always watching the band of officers directing people into the gaping maw of Arena Rocasta.
“Call them Acts, not Feats. And we didn’t just have to watch. Sometimes, they made Reds fight too.” I hear the tremor of rage in his voice, even above the organized chaos of today’s spectacle.
I nudge his shoulder as gently as I can. “Fight each other?” Kill Reds, or be killed by Silvers? I don’t know which is worse.
“Targets are moving,” he simply growls.
One more glance at the officers, now occupied with a band of mangy kids halting foot traffic. “Let’s go.” And let that wound fester with the rest.
I push off the wall next to him and slip into the crowd, eyes trained on the four red uniforms up ahead. It isn’t easy. This close to Corvium, there’s a lot of Red military, either marching through to take their places in the Choke or attached to different convoys like the one we’re tailing. But the four men, three bronze, one dark skinned, all bone tired, keep close to each other. We haunt their footsteps. They manned a horse cart for the convoy, carrying what, I’m not sure. It was empty when they returned with the rest. But judging by the lack of Security and Silvers, I know their supply train isn’t for weaponry or ammunition. The three bronze men are brothers, I assume, judging by their similar faces and mannerisms. It’s almost comical to watch them spit and scratch their behinds in staggered unison. The fourth, a burly fellow with vividly blue eyes, is subdued in his itching, though he smiles more than the rest put together. Crance, I think his name is, based on my eavesdropping.
We enter the arches of the arena entrance like prowling cats, close enough to hear our marks but not be noticed. Overhead, harsh electric lights flicker, illuminating the high-ceilinged chamber connecting the outer promenade to the interior. The crowd thickens to our left, where a variety of Reds wait to place their bets on the ensuing match. Above it, the boards announce the Silvers to fight, and their odds of victory.
Flora Lerolan, Oblivion, 3/1
Maddux Thany, Stoneskin, 10/1
“Hang on a second,” Crance says, halting the rest by the betting boards. With a grin, one of the bronze men joins him. The pair dig in their pockets for something to gamble.
Under the pretense of doing the same, Tristan and I stop no more than a few feet away, hidden in the swelling crowd. The betting boards are popular among the Reds of Rocasta, where a thriving military economy keeps most from going hungry. There are several well-to-do among the crowd—merchants and business owners in proudly clean clothes. They make their bets and hand over dull coppers, even a few silver tetrarchs. I bet the till of Arena Rocasta is nothing to sneer at, and make a note to pass on such information to Command. If they’ll still listen to me.
“Come on, look at the odds—it’s easy money!” Still smiling infectiously, Crance points between the boards and the betting windows. The other two tailing along don’t look so convinced.
“You know something about stoneskins we don’t?” the tallest says. “He’ll get blown to pebbles by the oblivion.”
“Suit yourself, Horner. But I didn’t trudge all the way from Corvium to sit bored in the stands.” Bills in hand, Crance slips away with his friend on his heels, leaving Horner and the other man to wait. Somehow, despite Crance’s size, he’s surprisingly good at cutting through a crowd. Too good.
“Watch them,” I murmur with a touch to Tristan’s elbow. And then I’m weaving too, careful to keep my head angled at the ground. There are cameras here, enough to be wary of. Should the next few weeks go as planned, I might want to start hiding my face.