Page 57

The trip to Dorser had, at minimum, confirmed two things.

The first was that Patrick had the Alchemist alive. There was no doubt of that.

The second would require an interrogation.

Oddly, they hid the bag of guns we had retrieved from Dorser inside a grate on Main Street, of all places. Otto lifted the heavy iron cover in broad daylight, taking no notice of the passersby, and Patrick jumped through into what appeared to be not a drain, but a fully equipped bunker.

I gave them all a look of bewilderment.

“They’ve dug them out all over town,” Polly told me.

“I thought you said no one could get into Kenton?”

“Can’t be too careful,” Donny uttered, pulling on his suspenders.

Colson & Sons was roaring before nightfall, its walls straining to hold everyone inside.

It was growing colder out, so the windows stayed closed. No patrons lingered on the street. It seemed all of Kenton was tucked inside the base of this lopsided, narrow building.

After I’d bathed and changed, I found Polly downstairs in a corner, sipping a dark and mild alone. She was hidden between a man with a patched bowler and the cloudy grandfather clock. Somehow, she’d managed to commandeer a stool and a small bar table. It was cluttered with abandoned pints.

Polly was surveying the crowd in a perfunctory way. When our eyes met, she sighed, took a large swig, then nodded reluctantly.

I wound my way to her, knocking shoulders and elbows as I passed.

I had not seen Patrick or anyone else I recognized since I’d descended from my room, but I knew they would arrive soon.

Patrick had told me as much when he walked me to my door.

He’d insisted Sam go home for the evening, that he wouldn’t be needed.

I’d raised my eyebrows at Patrick. “Am I to take it you trust me now?”

And he’d considered the question carefully, pushed a stray strand of hair behind my ear, left the skin searing. “Ask me somethin’ easier.”

I braced myself. “Do you want to trust me?”

“More than I want most things.”

He left a kiss on my cheek, then turned to leave.

My body had leaned toward his retreating back. “Will I see you downstairs later?”

“I’ll find you” was his only reply. “If you don’t want to be found, you should stay up here.” A promise. A warning.

Now, Polly watched me approach. She had to raise her voice for me to hear her. “No drink?” she asked.

I shook my head. Lately I was balanced on a tightrope, and liquor would send me over the edge. I stood as close to Polly as I could, leaning my arms on the sticky table. Then I waited.

Polly sighed, her eyes on her lap, muttering something I couldn’t hear.

Finally, she lifted her face with something like resolve.

“After the attack on the school, my parents wanted me to return home in the South until the fighting resolved. Remember when they all assumed as much? That the fighting would be short-lived?”

I didn’t answer. Her eyes had taken on a distant sheen, and I was concentrating on her lips to better make out the words over the din.

“But I couldn’t go. I had a contract already, you see? All the Scribblers did. We’d received them before we’d even graduated, and mine was Hesson. Do you know it?”

“Oil mining.” I nodded. I’d lived there for a few months, working as a launderer. It was a festering sore of a town.

“Before we left, all ninety of us were called to the National Artisan House, and Lord Tanner came down to the atrium himself. He handed us each our contracts in person. I remember thinking it was quite an honor,” she smiled sardonically.

“And then he gave his speech. Each of you is headed for a different point on the compass. And there’s no telling the dangers you’ll face in our current state of conflict, the hardship you may endure.

By fulfilling your contract, you become men and women on the front line, and we at the House understand the gravity of this task.

Which is why any scribble you send that might help our efforts will be greatly rewarded.

Any whispers you pass along will not be forgotten.

” Polly’s eyes snapped to mine. “It’s customary for first-year fellows to be sent out into the brink towns.

It takes years to work your way back in.

But Tanner promised quick promotions to those who proved themselves… informative.” Polly gritted her teeth.

“And you didn’t want to go to Hesson.”

“I was loathe to be sent anywhere east of the Gyser River, actually. Does that make me sound snobbish?” Her chuckle was weak.

“I was a lot more timid back then. Suddenly I was being thrown into the most sullied divot of the Trench. I was terrified. I would have done anything to be brought back home.”

I felt an inkling of pity for her. Perhaps it was conceited to think oneself above a place, but I’d seen most towns this side of the continent, and very few had turned my stomach the way Hesson did.

I spoke gently. “So what did you do?”

“I listened,” she said, eyes glazing again.

“I strained my ears for any information I might be able to pass on to the House. There was nothing at first. Long months of nothing, and I was miserable.” She swallowed, moisture welling in her eyes.

“The men and women there detested Artisans. They knew me as one right away, even though I hid my mark. When they saw me in the street, they shouted slurs at me, even threw things. I learned which routes to take home to avoid people. I covered my head to make myself less recognizable. But eventually, when the fighting worsened, a brick came in through my window. I started sleeping every night with my mattress against the door, so I would know if anyone tried to come in.”

I took her hand in mine, pity swelling. “But you found a way out?”

She nodded. “I fell sick. Influenza was spreading and I found myself completely debilitated. Horrible fever, a cough so severe I thought my ribs would crack. I figured I would die, and I was relieved.” A single tear slipped free of her lashes, but she wiped it away before it could run.

“I dragged myself to the hospice, but they were overrun. I slept for days on a pile of blankets on the floor with a hundred others and simply waited to die. I couldn’t even conjure enough strength to scribble my parents a farewell note.

“But then, bluff came. Crates of it.”

I rose my eyebrows. “The Miners Union?”

She nodded. “They’d raided the bluff stores and stolen mountains of supplies. It had been all over the newspapers the previous weeks. And then suddenly, it was in Hesson. The whole town was awash in whispers. The common belief was that the bluff had come from a warehouse in Baymouth.”

“So, you gave the information to the House.”

“The moment I had regained strength enough to form a legible sentence,” she said. “A week later I received a new posting—in Baymouth.”

I frowned. Baymouth was certainly a more favorable province then Hesson, but it was no closer to Belavere City. “Not much of a promotion.”

“Neither was the next posting, after I’d given the House information about a group holding Union meetings.

They sent me to Trent after that, and when I learned that Trent was receiving weapons from the Eastern ports, they sent me to Dorser,” she shook her head.

“Some places were better than others. But mostly, it was more of the same. People who knew what I was loathed me. Nowhere was safe. The House sent scribbles promising promotions, and I became their loyal spy, following rumors around the continent like a rat.”

“And then you wound up here,” I said. “How?”

“Quite by accident,” she answered. “The Colsons frequent Dorser, as you’ve seen today.

That’s where they do the bulk of their trading.

They have supplies smuggled in at the ports, and there was a name that kept floating between conversations.

No last name. Just Pat . I was passing along inventories to the House about the boats coming and going, and some of them I couldn’t account for. Always it was tied to the name Pat.

“And I couldn’t help but think that whoever this Pat was—if he really existed—was a critical player, and if I could find him, I could go home.

So I spent a lot of time at the docks. It was quite na?ve of me really, as though I could simply confront him, or follow him.

It was idiotic, and it almost killed me. ”

I frowned. “Who almost killed you?” I asked. “Patrick?”

She laughed. “No. He saved my life.”

I took her drink from her hands and helped myself to a mouthful. “I think I might need something stronger.”

“I thought you weren’t drinking?”

“How did Patrick save you?”

She gave a faint smile. “A dockside is a poor place for a woman to linger at night. I was confronted by two men fresh off their ship. God knows how long they’d been aboard. If the way they tried to tear off my clothes was any indication, I’d say it had been a while.”

My stomach turned.

“Patrick says he heard me screaming. He shot them both in the head, right there in the open. Then he helped me upright, gave me his coat, and asked for my name,” she grinned wryly then.

“I remember the way his eyes sparked when he heard my accent. And what breed of swank are you, Polly Prescott? he asked me. I told him I was a Scribbler.”

It was a sad story, certainly not one that should warrant a smile. But it was there in my jaw. I bit it back.

“I passed out after that,” she said. “When I woke up, I was in Kenton Hill.”

“Patrick brought you back himself?”

“Through the tunnels, I presume, though I don’t remember it. I simply woke up to John Colson at my bedside, telling me outright that I was in the center of the Miners Union, and that if I helped them, they’d make sure no man or woman ever touched me without my permission again.”

“And you didn’t believe them.”