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“Ah,” the general said, “you see, that’s where we have a differing of opinion.”

  “A differing of opinion?” Chatine’s hands balled into fists. “About what?”

  “About what information I ultimately need.”

  Chatine’s pulse pounded in her ears. She didn’t dare speak, for fear that she would unleash every Third Estate curse word under the Sols.

  The general’s expression softened momentarily, as though he were actually apologetic for what he was about to say. “The truth is, our intelligence on the Vangarde and their activity is still embarrassingly limited. They’re recruiting and plotting and gaining momentum, and we have no idea where they are. Every day that their whereabouts remain a secret is another day lost in this battle. We need to find their primary base of operations so we can wipe them out completely.”

  “How is that my problem?” Chatine asked through gritted teeth. “I told you everything that happened in Montfer. I fulfilled my end of the bargain.”

  “Yes, you’ve proven to be quite resourceful today. Marcellus trusts you and apparently the Vangarde trusts you as well.”

  “Actually, they don’t. They jammed my Skin signal, remember?”

  “They allowed you to get close to them.”

  “That doesn’t mean I can find their base.”

  The general sighed. “Well, I hope, for the sake of your future, that’s not true.”

  Fire raged inside of Chatine. “You can’t do this!” she shouted. “We had a deal. You can’t just change the deal. I want my passage to Usonia.”

  “And you will get it,” the general replied calmly. “As soon as you identify the location of the Vangarde’s secret base.”

  “How on Laterre am I supposed to do that? I have no idea where they’re hiding! They could be anywhere! They could be in the Terrain Perdu for all I know!”

  But the general did not appear to be concerned. “You’re not thinking rationally, Renard.”

  “What?”

  “As you just said, the Vangarde is not finished with my grandson. They will attempt to make contact again soon. Which means, right now, he is your best lead to finding the base.”

  Chatine wanted to scream. She wanted to march up to Ledôme right now, drag General Bonnefaçon out of his stupide leather chair, and wring his thick neck. But she knew that was impossible. She’d never even get inside Ledôme on her own, let alone inside the Palais, let alone be able to drag the general anywhere.

  Why was she always coming so close only to fail? Only to have it all ripped out from under her? First the Capitaine and now the general.

  “Keep me posted on your progress,” the general said as his arm extended toward the screen, ready to disconnect the AirLink.

  “Wait!” Chatine called out, but it was too late. The general’s face vanished from her Skin, and Chatine stood in the middle of the darkened streets of Vallonay, completely alone.

  She couldn’t believe this was happening. A classic bait and switch. She knew the move well. The general had conned her. As easily and as swiftly as she’d conned countless people.

  What was she going to do now? How was she, of all people, supposed to find the location of a secret revolutionary base?

  Chatine sighed and reached into the pocket of her coat, feeling around for what she had stolen tonight in the cruiseur. She pulled out Marcellus’s titan ring. The one that used to be on his left hand. The idiot had been so distracted mooning over Alouette and acting out his little role play, he hadn’t even noticed Chatine swipe it from his finger when she’d pulled her hand away from his.

  “Stupide pomp,” she muttered as she turned the sparkly object over in her palm, trying to make out the detail in the faded, sporadic light of the few working streetlamps.

  As she walked deeper into the Frets, making her way home to Fret 7, Chatine slipped the ring onto her finger. Even though Marcellus had worn it on his pinky, it was loose around her thumb. And, as much as she depised herself for thinking it, she liked the look of the ring on her finger. She liked the way it made her skin tingle. Like she was carrying a small part of him around with her.

  But still, she would not keep it. Tomorrow morning, she would take it straight to the Capitaine to see how much she could get for it.

  It was definitely worth something. Probably not enough to close the gap between what she had and the exorbitant price the Capitaine was now demanding for passage to Usonia, but every little bit helped. Especially now that she was practically starting over.

  She had very little hope of ever finding the Vangarde’s secret base for the general. She didn’t even know where to start.

  With Marcellus, the clear, rational voice inside her head finally spoke. Just like the general said. You start with Marcellus. He’s your best chance.

  Chatine pulled her coat tighter around her and continued walking home. Maybe she would feel better after a night’s sleep. Maybe everything would look different in the morning. Everything would make sense.

  But as she neared the entrance to Fret 7, Chatine could swear she heard footsteps behind her. She spun around only to find the pathway empty and dark. Then, a moment later, something heavy and scratchy was thrown over her head.

  Chatine clawed at the fabric, fighting for breath. But something—or someone—was holding it tight around her neck. She tried to run. She tried to scream. But before she could get a single sound out, she felt a hard thud on the back of her head and the planet spun out from under her.

  - PART 4 -

  THE BLADE

  The written word evaporated, like dew on a blade of grass. One day it was there, and then it was gone. Forgotten. Laterrians no longer needed symbols inked and scratched on a page. They had images glowing on their wrists and words chiming in their ears.

  There was no place for books. For history.

  No place to learn from the mistakes of the past.

  From The Chronicles of the Sisterhood, Volume 2, Chapter 18

  - CHAPTER 38 -

  CHATINE

  THE VANGARDE BASE.

  That was Chatine’s first thought as rough hands set her down in a chair and bound her wrists behind her back.

  She’d found it. Or, rather, they had found her. The Vangarde had probably been watching her since she and Marcellus had left Montfer. Possibly even before that. Maybe they’d been watching her for her entire life. She didn’t know what these people were capable of. She didn’t know what kind of surveillance they had on this planet. For all she knew, they were more powerful and pervasive than even the Ministère.

  They’d heard her speaking to the general. They knew she was a spy. And now she would pay.

  Chatine might have been scared if she weren’t so distracted trying to figure out how to activate the disabled tracker on her Skin so she could transmit her location back to the general and claim her reward.

  Someone yanked the sac from her head, and Chatine’s vision started to clear.

  She blinked her eyes, taking in her surroundings, trying to memorize them.

  All around her was thick gray PermaSteel. The ceiling was only a mètre or two above her head, and the walls were held together with giant gray rivets. The room seemed to press in on all sides. Dirty puddles, edged with salty tide marks, dotted the floor. An old life vest lay in one of these puddles like a bloated carcass, lit up by a gloomy shaft of light. She turned as far as her restraints would allow to see where the light was coming from, and she glimpsed, in the far corner of her eye, a small round window encircled by riveted PermaSteel.

  And that’s when whatever courage she still had vanished.

  This was not the Vangarde base.

  This place she knew.

  This was a place she swore she’d never set foot in again. A place she’d grown up avoiding at all costs.

  This was the Grotte, a retired cargo bateau that used to carry people and goods over the Secana Sea from one side of Laterre to the other. But now, as it sat idle in Vallonay’s sprawling and ugly docklands, it served as th
e main headquarters for the Délabré. The Scum of Laterre is what her father’s merciless gang of lowlifes should really have been called.

  Chatine wasn’t frightened of the majority of her fellow crocs. For the most part, her kind kept to a code. There was a mutual respect among cons. But the Délabré were not just crocs or cons. They didn’t just run scams. They were pure filth. Inside and out. They caused pain just to see it on people’s faces. They maimed and cut and crippled just for the fun of it. They were the kind of people who enjoyed watching others suffer. It was for this reason that Chatine avoided the docklands at all costs. She never wanted to end up in the very situation she was now in.

  She could hear footsteps behind her. She tried to turn to see who was coming, but her restraints held her firm. It didn’t matter, though. She could smell his breath even before he arrived.

  “Well, well, well,” said the voice of Monsieur Renard. “If it isn’t my little progeny, Théo.” The emphasis he put on her fake name was immediately understood:

  I hold all the power. One word from me and everyone will know your secret.

  Chatine remained silent, trying to keep her face blank. The last thing you wanted to do in the face of the Délabré was show fear. It was their main source of sustenance.

  Her father leaned in close. Chatine held her breath. The foulness permeating from him was suffocating. “Little Théo, running around the planet with officers of the Ministère. Very interesting. Isn’t that very interesting?”

  Two others stepped out from opposite sides of the chair, flanking Chatine. Claque and Hercule. She sucked in a breath when she saw them. Although barely taller than Chatine, Claque was lean and tough with a cunning half smile. He moved like an insect, all angles and purpose, and was known for collecting toes. Hercule, on the other hand, was so gigantic he had to crouch under the bateau’s low ceiling. His biceps were as big as Chatine’s head, his torso looked like it was taken off a droid, and his huge brow hung heavy and low over his eyes like he was some sort of monster. The gang used him to instill fear in people, but Chatine knew his size was all he had going for him. His brain was filled with fog.

  It was Claque who you had to be afraid of. In addition to chopping off toes, he was known for running one of the most profitable blood bordels in the Planque. He lured girls in with food and money, then sucked the nutrients from their blood to sell to the upper estates. Most of them were never seen or heard from again.

  “Théo’s been busy, we hear,” Claque said. “Riding around the whole fric-ing planet in cruiseurs. Getting cozy with officers.”

  Chatine swallowed. So that’s what this was about. They’d seen her with Marcellus.

  “Sounds like a pretty nice con,” her father said, nodding to Claque. “Doesn’t it?”

  “A very nice con,” Claque agreed.

  “I’m just sad that we were left out,” her father said, his lips tugging down theatrically. “I don’t like being sad.”

  “And I don’t like people who break the rules,” Claque said, sneering.

  Dread trickled all the way down to the soles of Chatine’s feet as her brain scrambled for her next move. If she told them the truth—that she wasn’t running a con, she’d turned snitch for the general—the consequences would be disastrous.

  On the other hand, if she let them go on thinking she was scamming Marcellus for largs, she’d be expected to fork over a percentage. That was the rule that Claque was referring to. Anyone running a large-scale con in the Frets had to share the wealth with the Délabré or say good-bye to a toe or two. But she didn’t have a percentage to give them. All she had was Marcellus’s stupide ring. She couldn’t exactly split that ten ways.

  She rubbed her bound hands together, feeling for the metal around her thumb. But her skin was bare.

  “Looking for this?” Monsieur Renard pulled the titan band out of his pocket and gave it a flick. It spun gracefully in the air before landing in his outstretched hand. He studied it. “Looks valuable. Definitely titan.”

  Chatine closed her eyes for a moment, summoning strength. Her father was a different person around the Délabré, especially around Claque. Yes, he was always insufferable, but it was as though they brought out the cruelty in him. When he was inside these walls, he wasn’t her father anymore. They didn’t share blood, or a shady past in Montfer, or a couchette. He was the formidable leader of a feared gang. Nothing more.

  And it terrified Chatine.

  “You’ve been holding out on us,” Claque said. “And we’re not happy about it.”

  “I swear that’s all I have.” Chatine spoke for the first time, surprised by the lack of tremble in her voice.

  Her father made a tsk sound with his teeth and shook his head. “Oh, my son. I’m so very disappointed in you.”

  “Look, it’s early. I’ll get more. I promise.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Renard replied. “I mean, I’m disappointed that you would lie to your own father.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  Renard shared an inscrutable look with Claque. Claque turned to Hercule, who had yet to say anything in this entire conversation. Although that was typical. As soon as he opened his mouth, the illusion of threat usually went right out the window. So he’d been trained to keep his lips shut tight.

  Hercule nodded and walked past Chatine, out of her field of vision. She desperately wanted to spin the chair around so she could see what he was doing. She knew it was never smart to turn your back on a Délabré. She could hear a rustling sound behind her. Her mind raced to identify it. Then, a second later, Hercule appeared again, and Chatine’s heart sank with a thud when she saw what he was carrying.

  It was her sac of stolen trinkets.

  How had her father found it? Had Azelle ratted her out? Had Monsieur Renard gone on one of his snooping missions through the couchette and found it under the floor grate in her room?

  Hercule dropped the bag to the ground, and as Chatine heard the clanking sound it made as it hit the steel floor, all of her former composure and control instantly vanished. “Give it back!” she yelled. “Give it back, you lowlife croc!” She fought against her restraints, wriggling and twisting until the chair nearly tipped over. But it made no difference. The ropes were too tight. There was no way she was getting out of here like this.

  “Calm,” Claque said in that eerie whisper of his. “Calm. We will give it back. As soon as you give us our cut of the Bonnefaçon job.”

  Chatine did manage to calm herself. But not because Claque told her to. Because she was suddenly struck with an idea.

  It was risky, but she didn’t have much of a choice at this point.

  She had to get her collection back. That was years of hard work. Eight thousand largs’ worth.

  “Like I said,” Chatine began, fighting to keep her voice steady. “It’s still early. But I promise it’s going to be big.”

  Claque crossed his arms over his chest, looking skeptical. “How big?”

  Chatine scoffed. “The boy is the grandson of the general. He lives in the Grand Palais. And I swear as soon as I get what I’m after, you’ll have your cut. And it will be big, okay?”

  That seemed to satisfy the man, and the doubt slid from his face, replaced by a greedy smile. “I like big.”

  Chatine tried to match the expression. “Who doesn’t?”

  “How long are we talking here?” Renard asked.

  Chatine’s mind raced. She had to get off this planet before these Délabré goons came after her for their cut. Finding the Vangarde base was a long shot, but it was her only chance now. She had to try. She just needed more time.

  “Two weeks,” she announced. “Max.”

  And in the meantime, she thought bitterly, I’ll find a way to steal my trinkets back.

  Claque exchanged a look with her father and then turned back to her. “You have three days.”

  “Three days?!” she fired back. “That’s impossible. You don’t understand. This con is complex. I’m ta
lking multiple layers of deception. I’m talking—”

  “Three days,” Claque repeated as his gaze fell on her feet. “Or we start taking our cut in other ways.”

  Chatine felt her blood turn to ice as she thought of all those hobbled people in the Frets, their disobedience to the Délabré visible to everyone they passed.

  “Fine,” she said, even though she knew there was no way she could get the information the general was after in three days. Marcellus was still her only lead on finding the base, but she didn’t know when, or even if, the Vangarde would contact him again. It was a lost cause.

  Monsieur Renard held up Marcellus’s ring. “We’ll take this as your down payment.” He slid the band onto his finger, and Chatine felt a wave of revulsion at seeing the officer’s shiny ring on her father’s grimy hand.

  She struggled against her restraints again. “Can I go now?”

  Hercule started to walk toward Chatine, but her father stopped him with a hand. Instead, Renard pulled a knife from his back pocket. He slowly stalked toward the chair, disappearing behind her. She felt a jerk as his knife cut through the ropes around her stomach, releasing her from the chair. He moved on to her bound hands. She could feel the cold steel of the blade resting against her wrists. Then, in one swift motion, the ropes were gone and the blade nicked her palm.

  She yelped in pain and pulled her hands to her, seeing dark red blood ooze out of the small cut. “What the—” she started to ask, but was silenced by her father’s heavy breath on her ear.

  “Just remember,” he whispered low enough that neither of the others could hear, “I know exactly how much that blood is worth.”

  - CHAPTER 39 -

  MARCELLUS

  THE ENTIRE WAY BACK TO Ledôme, Marcellus had managed to keep his mind off Mabelle and the strange encounter he’d had with her in Montfer. But the moment he walked into the Palais, it was as though all those thoughts he’d been successfully holding back flooded in, finally breaking through the dam he’d built around them in his mind.