The boy returned and gestured for Aly to follow him to the window. He scrabbled up onto a crate and shoved the window open with his shoulder. “Shortcut.”
Aly stuck his head out and looked down. There was a wooden plank that stretched between the window a story below and the balcony across the way. There must’ve been a market under this level. It was more crowded than the other circles, and a few Derkatzians stalked the ground below. But Aly decided to take his chances with them rather than the Tasinn.
“Thank you,” he said, and moved the plants to the crook of his arm. Then Aly touched his own giant thumb to the center of the boy’s palm. It was a Wraetan tradition among family. It communicated too many big emotions that were impossible to translate—but it was a show of love and gratitude, and the closest phrase in Kalu might be something like my life in your hands. He, Vin, and Jeth had exchanged that same gesture the day they graduated boot camp. He’d had no other family apart from those two.
Vin was waiting for him now.
Whether or not the boy understood the meaning of Aly’s gesture, he nodded. One of those kids with an old soul, Aly thought. He lowered himself through the window, feet first, and landed lightly on the balcony.
When he turned back around, the boy had disappeared.
He went east and flew down the stairs, only to see it too late: a Tasinn arriving at the base of the staircase. Aly grabbed the banister and launched his weight over it. He landed on both his feet and stumbled forward on one knee, but he scrambled up and kept running, still keeping a tight hold on the crate of plants. A Derkatzian came out of nowhere, and with a low growl, he lunged. Aly sidestepped, and the fox flew past him. He heard the warning bark he let out.
The crowd split. People abandoned handcarts and baskets and went screaming for the streets. The Tasinn were made clumsy by their weaponry, but the Derkatzians were gaining ground, bounding across the market.
He was getting closer to where the crafts were docked. If he could just make it to the Tin Soldier . . .
Someone grabbed for him, yanked him into an alley, and slammed him against the wall. Vincent. He kept a hand on Aly’s chest, pinning him to the wall at arm’s length. The doorway was narrow and almost entirely concealed by a well-placed moonfruit cart. Two foxes flew past them. And after a couple of seconds, Aly swatted Vin’s hand down. Neither of them had been breathing.
“Where the hell have you been?” Vin asked.
“Had to take a detour,” he said, breathing hard. “In case you hadn’t noticed, there were Tasinn and foxes on my ass.”
“Right. You’re a badass,” Vin said. “Let’s move.”
They were no more than a quick sprint from the docks. Nearly a thousand souls, half of them humans in jumpsuits, worked the port—importing and exporting goods across moons and planets and asteroid colonies. Apparently traffic had tripled in the black market when Seotra had shut down Sibu’s ports after the assassination. Aly could see the Tin Soldier in the distance—docked between a flotsam of bigger and more expensive craft—small and battered and so familiar it pulled at Aly’s chest.
“We gotta make a run for it,” Vin said.
“Aren’t we already making a run for it?”
They had to lean into the wind as they tore across the playa—their jumpsuits flapping, handkerchiefs to their mouths. Aly zipped his jumpsuit higher so that the plants would be safe. Without his goggles, he couldn’t keep the grit out of his eyes, and he focused on watching Vin trek in front of him in the sea of jumpsuits. They threaded through the crowd of Kalusians and Miseu, hoping they’d lost the Tasinn and Derkatzians behind them. As they gained on the docks, where they’d parked his pod, they also left behind the shelter from the wind. Every step that closed the gap felt harder than the last—like the world had tilted and now they were walking up a vertical line.
At the last second, Vin turned and seized Aly’s hand, dragging him for their last few steps. Together they fell out of the howling wind. By the time the Tasinn had enough sense to comb the port, they were already gone, vanished back into the darkness of deep space.
ELEVEN
RHIANNON
AN hour had passed, maybe two, since Rhee had been captured at her own memorial service. She had been just moments away from plunging the knife into Seotra. She recalled the surprised look on his face as he turned to see what the commotion was about. Rhee wondered if Seotra had recognized her.
Now she was being led by two silent guards down a pitch-dark corridor. She wanted to fight her way, but the adrenaline had drained her body, and her knees buckled as she walked. Rhee guessed she was underground by the damp smell, and by the muffled sound her voice made as she asked question after question—Who are you? Where are you taking me? How does it feel to serve a traitor?
As the guards brought Rhee to Seotra, they probably thought they had the advantage—simply because she was their prisoner.