Rone tossed her an apple and a stale oat bar. She felt guilty, taking so much without giving back. She had nothing to give now, but she’d find a way to repay him after she found Talbur.
The air inside his flat felt like the air before a winter storm. Cold, stiff, impending. It all emanated from Rone, who leaned in the corner closest to the door, eating an apple of his own. He stared at nothing, his eyes unfocused. Sandis worried her lip, watching him from her perch on the couch.
She took a deep breath. “Who?”
Rone’s dark gaze moved to her.
She swallowed. “Who was he talking about? The man we . . . visited.”
Had Rone been Kazen, that man would not be alive. Kazen would have used one of the numina to kill him, probably Ireth, his weapon of choice.
A memory—one of Ireth’s—surfaced in her mind. Black walls still burning, the shadows of corpses on the ground, and Kazen, so much shorter than he was to Sandis’s eyes, lovingly scratching under a charcoal muzzle— Rone took a loud bite of his apple, snapping Sandis away from the image. He took his time chewing and swallowing. “My mother.”
“What happened?”
A shake of his head dismissed her. “If you want to find this guy of yours, we need to track him down. Banks, libraries—”
“I’ve checked banks and libraries.”
“—and citizen records.”
Sandis perked up in her seat on the couch. “Citizen records?”
Rone nodded. “Citizen and historical records are kept in a building in the Innerchord. Everyone ever born in Kolingrad has records there. Immigrants, too.” He laughed like that was a joke. Then again, Sandis supposed not many immigrated to Kolingrad, since so few people were allowed to leave its borders.
The Innerchord, where the triumvirate and other government officials congregated. Sandis had never been to the center of the city, but its looming buildings could be seen from any roof in Dresberg, so long as another building didn’t block the view. The Degrata looked similar to the Lily Tower, but the Lily Tower’s tiers were narrower and more cake-like, and its stone had the color of water-diluted rust.
She nodded. “All right. Let’s—”
“That will be the first place they look for you.” Rone took another bite of apple.
She shook her head. “But they don’t know I’m looking for . . .” She paused. Do they? She couldn’t be sure the grafters had stolen that page from the bank record, but they’d found her so soon afterward.
Did that mean Kazen knew she could read? Her hands tightened to fists, fingernails digging into her palms. She hated not knowing. She couldn’t plan ahead if she didn’t know.
The thump of Rone tossing his apple core into the garbage bin drew her attention away from her thoughts. He scratched his stubble-coated chin. “I’ll think about it. I need to go somewhere first. Alone.”
Sandis glanced at the window. Were the grafters good and gone? Would Rone take to the rooftops, even in the light of day? “Where?”
He paused, searching her face. “Gerech Prison. Alone. I’ll be quick.”
He said nothing more, merely opened the door and let himself back into the city.
Gerech Prison was west of the Innerchord, right outside the giant moat that surrounded it, in District Two. It was a huge building, comparable in size to the Degrata—if someone were to slice the enormous tower into stories and lay them out. Gerech was a single story, aboveground, anyway, though its massive front gate reached two. If one could call it a gate. It was a gargantuan construction made of two cylinders bound together by a massive black door. Every window, vertical and horizontal alike, was barred with iron. The lamps were always lit, even on days when the sky was clear and the sun beamed through the city’s haze. Rone imagined it was because everything was dark inside, so the warden always wanted a ready source of light.
The walls were an odd color, like moldy cheese. Rone didn’t know what stone they were made from—something pebbly, textured, and impossible to scale. Armed guards were everywhere, boasting heavy-looking breastplates adorned with symbols of a sail-less boat, an homage to their ancestors and to the triumvirate. At least it wasn’t a lily.
Every guard’s gaze followed Rone as he walked toward the prison, to the barred window where the clerk sat. Every eye. He felt them like jagged icicles pressing against his skin. He acted like he didn’t notice. Stood in line. Gerech held thousands of people, so there was always a line of visitors. Rone saw someone get turned away, and the ball in his gut doubled in size. But he’d gotten the paperwork and filled it out; legally, he couldn’t be rejected. Legally, he got one visit.
Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be to his mother.
Hands shoved into his pockets, Rone fiddled with the amarinth with his right and a wad of cash with his left. Just about everything he had left. He needed work, but this was higher priority.
The clerk, an overweight, middle-aged man with saggy bags under his eyes, sat in an old booth surrounded by twisted cast-iron bars. He looked exhausted. Rone didn’t care.
Rone approached, retrieved his papers, and slammed them down on the desk.
“I want to see the warden.”
The clerk didn’t even look at him, merely brought the paperwork up close to his eyes and sighed, ignoring the spectacles pushed to the top of his balding head. He flipped to the second paper and read. “You can’t see the warden and the prisoner.”
“I’m aware.”
Frowning, the clerk shuffled the papers back into order and fumbled for a stamp beneath his little desk. He dipped it in blue ink and stamped the bottom of the first page, then signed below it. He then signaled for one of the guards near the booth. The large man walked up, the sword at his hip clanking against his polished greaves. The clerk handed him the papers.
“Warden. Fifteen minutes,” the clerk mumbled. “Next!”
The guard said nothing, merely jerked his head in the direction he wanted Rone to go. Rone fell in step behind him, trying not to listen to the crying of the woman who approached the clerk next.
If the triumvirate employed as many policemen in the city as they did guards at Gerech, crime would disappear. There were so many of them. Every five feet of wall had its own guard, ranging from Sandis’s age to his mother’s. Many were broad-shouldered, bulky men. Well fed. How much were they paid? What percentage of citizens’ taxes went toward the food in their bellies and the metal on their persons?
Every single one had a sword and a gun. Every. Single. One. Rone could stuff his pockets and pants full of amarinths and still not have enough immortality to make it past these walls, let alone back out of them.
The guard led him to a smaller door at the end of a long alcove crammed with more guards, all of whom were wide awake and focused. It was eerily silent in that alcove. No talking, no shifting. These men didn’t even seem to breathe.
Another armored man opened the door. Rone stepped through with his chaperone, only to be confronted by a second door that had to be unlocked, and then a third. The moment that third door opened, the wrongness of the place assaulted him like smoke.
The smell was something he’d never before encountered, and he used to clean sewers for a living. The subtle scent of mildew, but . . . soured. The distant aroma of human feces, mixed with acid and . . . snow. A hint of iron, a pinch of body odor. Even that had its own distinct tinge—like the people here sweated vinegar instead of water.
There were no prisoners this close to freedom. Three dark halls stretched before him, one in front and one to either side. All appeared to be unending tunnels, disappearing into a black void.