Sky Without Stars Page 21

  Dazzling white.

  His Ministère uniform was exposed for the whole inn to see.

  But it wasn’t until six large men pushed back their chairs and started walking his way that Marcellus fully began to understand what Théo had meant about the dark, haunted people of Montfer.

  And their hatred of the Second Estate.

  - CHAPTER 31 -

  CHATINE

  WHEN CHATINE HEARD THE COMMOTION through the rickety door of the Jondrette’s kitchen, she knew what she’d find on the other side before she even emerged. She would have been annoyed that the stupide pomp hadn’t followed her directions and just lain low, if her heart hadn’t leapt into her throat at the sight of him.

  He was surrounded by six huge men. Exploit workers, Chatine could tell from the goggles hanging around their necks. The punches came at Marcellus from all angles. His fists swung wildly. Desperately. But nothing connected. There were simply too many of them to fight off, and as soon as he would turn in one direction, he’d be hit from another. His efforts were so futile, it almost looked like he was the drunk one of the group.

  Chatine noticed a Ministère-issued rayonette on the floor, obviously kicked away the moment Marcellus had tried to use it.

  One of the men landed a blow in the center of Marcellus’s back, and Marcellus went down hard. Almost instantly after hitting the ground, he tucked himself into a tiny ball and covered his head with his hands. His body curled in on itself while the half-dozen men took turns kicking him in the back, ribs, and side.

  Chatine had broken up her fair share of fights before. But this was different. Marcellus wasn’t even in the fight anymore. He’d given up trying to punch back or kick back or defend himself at all. He was just huddling there, as though waiting for it to end. It was almost as though he’d been through this before. He was accustomed to being in that very position. His body knew exactly what to do.

  Chatine desperately tried to figure out how to break up the attack without looking like she was coming to the rescue of a Ministère officer—an offense that would surely get her a few kicks in the ribs as well.

  She pulled the seven remaining titan buttons from her pocket and stared down at them in her palm. The truth was that just one had been enough to buy the information they’d needed. And she knew that. But she also knew she wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to take that pomp for all he was worth.

  She sighed and tossed the seven pieces onto the front porch of the inn. Then, she shouted the magic word that could bring any Third Estate brawl to a standstill. Sols, it could probably break up an entire revolution. “TITAN!”

  The men stopped their assault and looked over at her. She pointed out the door and then pretended to lunge for the buttons. The men, as expected, were faster. They abandoned Marcellus, all diving for the shiny metal.

  Chatine pivoted, dodging the men and running toward Marcellus instead. Knowing there wouldn’t be much time before the titan was gone, Chatine fell to her knees next to Marcellus. There was no blood on his face and he appeared to be breathing. But he wasn’t moving. He gazed, with numb and empty eyes, at his knees. “Marcellus, get up! Get up now!” Chatine yelled as she took hold of his shoulder and tried to shake him out of his stupor. “We have to leave!”

  But Marcellus just curled himself tighter into his ball.

  “NO!” Chatine shouted. “YOU HAVE TO GET UP NOW!”

  Marcellus still wouldn’t budge. Chatine glanced up, scanning the nearby tables before finding a tin of half-finished weed wine. She grabbed it and doused the side of Marcellus’s face in the dark liquid. That did the trick. He startled and lifted his head.

  “Marcellus,” she urged. “C’mon. Those guys will be back any second. We need to get you out of here.”

  He appeared confused at the sight of her. “You came back?” he murmured.

  “Yes. I’m here. C’mon. Get up.” She maneuvered into a squat and scooted an arm under his back. “Are you ready? I’m going to help you up now.”

  “You came back,” Marcellus murmured again, his voice dazed and dreamy.

  “On the count of three, okay?”

  “I didn’t think you were coming back.”

  “One, two, three!” Chatine pushed down with her heels and heaved up. At first, Marcellus was like deadweight in her arms. But a second later, he seemed to catch on to what was happening and started to stand up. Chatine gave one final push to help him onto his feet, but the effort caused her hood to fall back, revealing the dirty brown knot of hair at the base of her neck.

  She released Marcellus, grabbing for the hood and yanking it back over her head. Marcellus stumbled a bit but steadied himself on a nearby chair. She snuck a glance over at him. He was looking back at her strangely, his head cocked to the side as though he were trying to puzzle something out.

  Did he see? Chatine wondered in panic.

  Does he know?

  Footsteps broke into Chatine’s thoughts. She looked up to see the men trampling back through the front door. They froze when they saw Marcellus on his feet. Chatine reacted on impulse. Knowing they couldn’t escape through the front door, she grabbed Marcellus by the hand and pulled him toward the kitchen. “Let’s go!”

  Marcellus stumbled behind her as she led him through the kitchen and out the back door. When they spilled out into the alleyway, she could hear the voices of the men following them. She yanked on Marcellus’s hand, urging him to run faster. He seemed to finally find his legs and picked up the pace. Chatine guided him down a row of metal huts, dodging between them in hopes of losing their pursuers.

  When Chatine was certain the men were no longer behind them, she dropped Marcellus’s hand and slowed to catch her breath. With her hands on her knees, she sucked in lungfuls of air until she finally had enough to speak. “What on Laterre were you thinking? I told you not to do anything or talk to anyone!”

  Marcellus wouldn’t meet her eye as he, too, struggled to catch his breath. He glanced sheepishly at the ground. “I thought . . .” His voice dropped as he finished the sentence. “I thought you left.”

  For a moment, Chatine wondered if Marcellus distrusted her as much as she distrusted him. It suddenly made her respect him just the slightest bit more. “I told you I was going to find out about Mabelle, and I did.”

  His eyes widened. “You did?”

  “Well, your little code word helped.”

  “Code word?”

  “ ‘Marcellou,’ ” she said, raising her eyebrows mockingly. “That seemed to do the trick. Apparently she’s been expecting you.”

  “What? Where is she? What does she want?”

  Chatine chuckled. “Slow down. We’re meeting her in the Tourbay.”

  “The Tourbay? What’s that?”

  “The boglands. Just outside the city. This way.”

  She turned and continued walking. Marcellus jogged to catch up with her, his eyes alight with something Chatine couldn’t quite pinpoint. He fell into step beside her, and they walked in silence until they were out of the Bidon and the sad metal shacks were behind them.

  As they traveled farther away from the city, the ground beneath their feet turned even softer and muddier. The mist grew thicker, swirling around them until it felt like they were walking through a wall of white clouds. Chatine admitted it was a good place for a member of the Vangarde to hide, Laterre’s climate offering a natural disguise.

  Within minutes, the mist was so thick that Chatine lost Marcellus in the haze. She stopped and spun in a circle, calling out for him. Then, a moment later, she heard him smacking his lips together as though he were trying to taste the mist. She rolled her eyes and moved toward the sound.

  “What is this stuff?” he asked with an air of disgust.

  She stepped through a pocket of fog and suddenly he was right there, standing only a few millimètres away from her. She immediately jumped back.

  “It’s called fog,” she said impatiently.

  “I know that,” he said, flick
ing his tongue out to lick his lips. “I mean that stuff you poured on me in the inn. I can still taste it.”

  “It’s weed wine.”

  “That’s weed wine? Ugh. It’s disgusting. People actually drink this?”

  Chatine fought back the urge to lash out at him again with something like, Not all of us can afford to drink sparkling titan. But instead she gritted her teeth and replied, “Yes. Some people do. I personally don’t have a taste for it.”

  Marcellus chuckled. “Well, that’s not surprising.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “Because you’re not like the rest of the Third Estate.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re different.” Then, upon seeing the sour expression on Chatine’s face, he hastily added, “In a good way.”

  Chatine felt her cheeks start to burn. She quickly turned back toward the fog so that Marcellus couldn’t see the faint smile that was spreading across her face.

  “I’m not that different,” she muttered. But it was quiet, barely a whisper in the thick white mist. Because the truth was, she didn’t actually want Marcellus to hear.

  - CHAPTER 32 -

  MARCELLUS

  MARCELLUS DID NOT LIKE THE Tourbay. The boglands were wet and swampy and full of bugs. And the farther they walked into the mist, the less like an officer he felt.

  What was he doing out here?

  Why had he come?

  And what on Laterre was he going to do when they finally found Mabelle?

  This was a question he still didn’t have an answer to. But he needed to find one. Quick.

  His allegiance to the Ministère and his duties dictated that he should arrest her at once. She was an escaped convict. A Vangarde spy. And a possible accomplice in the murder of Marie Paresse. Yet there was something in his gut telling him he would never be able to do that. How could he possibly arrest the woman who’d raised him? Who’d loved him and cuddled him when he cried and whispered sweet lullabies into his ear when he couldn’t sleep?

  Marcellus gritted his teeth, reminding himself that that woman was an illusion. A lie. Another traitor trespassing in his life. The Mabelle from his memories didn’t really exist. The real Mabelle was nothing like the one he remembered. The real Mabelle was a dangerous terrorist who must be captured at once and sent back to Bastille, where she belonged.

  “So do you know exactly where we’re supposed to meet her?” Marcellus asked, stepping around a patch of reeds onto what looked like a solid piece of ground. But his foot sank straight into yet another hidden puddle. This time the water came up to his knee.

  That was another thing he didn’t like about the Tourbay.

  Marcellus’s boots and half of his pants were soaked through. No matter where he stepped, the dirt seemed to disappear beneath his feet, plunging him into muddy water.

  “Will you stop walking in the puddles?” Théo reprimanded him.

  “How?” Marcellus asked helplessly. “They’re everywhere.”

  The boy sighed. “Walk on the reeds. Not around them.”

  “Oh.” Marcellus glanced at the small outcroppings of tall grass. He’d been purposefully trying to avoid them. He scooted toward the closest one and tested Théo’s directions—extending his foot lightly and tapping on the ground. It held. He didn’t sink. He jumped onto the dirt patch and looked up with a beaming smile, proud of his accomplishment.

  But the smile dropped from his face when he saw the boy was smirking at him. “Hey,” he said defensively. “I grew up in a palais, where the ground was solid.”

  “Oh, yeah, I feel so bad for you,” the boy deadpanned.

  Marcellus immediately regretted the comment. He admitted it did sound pretty obnoxious. “Sorry, this is all new to me.”

  “What? Walking?”

  “No, this. Nature. Real Laterrian landscape. Exploit towns. People living in metal tents, drinking stuff that tastes like charred PermaSteel just to escape their lives for a minute. I’m just starting to realize how much they shelter us from all of that. Or maybe it’s just me who’s been sheltered. I don’t know.”

  “Once again,” Théo muttered, “I feel so bad for you.”

  “I’m not asking for sympathy,” Marcellus snapped, which seemed to take them both by surprise. He quickly composed himself. “I’m saying it’s not right. Officers shouldn’t be kept in the dark about this stuff. We should get to know the planet we’re protecting. I’m going to be commandeur of the Ministère, for Sols’ sake. I should see all of this.”

  “You’ve seen the Frets,” Théo pointed out.

  “I know. But . . .”

  But what? Marcellus asked himself. What excuse could he possibly have for ignoring those horrible slums for this long? For thinking it was okay that people lived like that?

  Patriarche Paresse truly believed that he and the rest of the First Estate were exalted above the rest, that their money and wealth and imperial blood made them more important. And some of that privilege trickled down to Second Estaters like Marcellus. After all, it was the Second Estate who ran the Ministère, and it was the Ministère’s sole purpose to manage the Regime. Which meant managing the Third Estate. Didn’t that automatically make them superior? More worthy of certain privileges?

  Marcellus used to believe that. He’d been fed that idea since he was a baby—usually on a titan-plated spoon. But now . . .

  Well, now he just didn’t know. He didn’t seem to know anything anymore.

  Including how to walk.

  He took a step, and his foot plunged deep into another pool of water. “Sols,” he swore, lifting his leg and trying to shake off the moisture.

  “But what?” Théo prompted him, and Marcellus only now noticed that the boy had stopped walking and was waiting expectantly for Marcellus to finish his former sentence. “You’ve seen the Frets, but . . . ?”

  Marcellus stood with his mouth hanging open, unsure how he was going to respond. And it was pretty clear from the look on the boy’s face that his answer mattered. Really mattered.

  “But . . . ,” Marcellus began hesitantly. “I guess I never really looked that closely before.”

  “Shut up,” the boy snapped.

  Marcellus clenched his jaw. “Listen, I’m just trying to be honest and—”

  Suddenly the boy’s hand clapped over Marcellus’s mouth, halting his words. “No, shut up,” he whispered. “I hear something.”

  Marcellus froze, listening. “I don’t hear anything,” he tried to say, but his words were garbled through the boy’s hand.

  “Shhh!” Théo whipped his head around before finally focusing on one point in the distance. Marcellus followed his gaze, trying to make out something—anything—but the fog was too thick. All he could see was a wall of wispy gray.

  Then, suddenly, the mist started to move, undulate. Like it was no longer mist, but ocean waves, and they were standing in the eye of a great storm. Through one of the swells, Marcellus could see a figure dressed in black. It was hunched over slightly, as though carrying the weight of the planet on its back. It moved slowly through the reeds, and soon Marcellus could see it was not alone. Four more figures emerged from the fog behind it.

  Marcellus heard a crack and spun to see even more people surrounding them, converging from all sides. He reached for his rayonette, only to find the holster empty. Then he remembered how one of those men from the Jondrette had kicked it out of his hand. It was still lying on the floor of the inn. His heart started to hammer in his chest as he realized what a foolish decision this was. Why hadn’t be brought backup? Why had he insisted on coming here alone? He looked to the boy, who appeared surprisingly calm, despite the fact that an army seemed to be materializing out of the mist.

  “What’s happening?” Marcellus whispered.

  But it wasn’t Théo who answered.

  “Marcellou. I thought I’d never see you again.”

  - CHAPTER 33 -

  ALOUETTE

  “WHEN THE SO
LS ASCEND, WE give thanks,” Sister Laurel whispered as she moved slowly out of a deep knee bend with her arms extended in front of her and her palms facing upward.

  Alouette and the other sisters followed suit, letting out long, quiet breaths as they moved. Sister Laurel’s palms almost reached the low, uneven ceiling of the Refuge’s common room before they plunged back down and she repeated the Sols Ascending sequence once again.

  “We give thanks for each new day,” Sister Laurel continued. “We give thanks to the System Divine that has nurtured us and cared for us for the past five hundred and five years. And the three Sols that rise and set in our skies.”

  As Alouette moved her arms and body through the first sequence, she tried to concentrate on her breath and on keeping her thoughts still and calm. The ten flowing sequences of the Tranquil Forme were meant to be performed gradually, gracefully, and with the utmost peace and focus.

  But today it seemed with each move, a new image would bubble up and erupt onto the surface of Alouette’s mind.

  The dingy, rusting hallways of the Frets.

  Marcellus with his penetrating hazel eyes.

  The message sewn into his shirt.

  Those terrible droids with their haunting metal faces.

  A shadowy memory of a fugitive on the run.

  A number. 2.4.6.0.1.

  And then, of course, the candlestick and that mysterious glowing hologram.

  Alouette could still see the image in her mind: the map of Laterre, with its curious red dot flickering and pulsing in the middle of the forest.

  “And now we move into Ghostly Stars,” Sister Laurel was saying at the front of the room. “Remember to keep your steps firm but loose.”

  Sister Laurel took three fluid paces forward, extending her hands in an alternating pattern. The metal name tag hanging from her devotion beads winked and flashed in the room’s low light. “In this sequence we give thanks to the journey of our ancestors, who traveled far from their dying First World through endless space to establish a new life on Laterre.”