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.