“She’s not having a good time,” Emily said. “And she’s too young to understand.”
She shook her head. Marian was probably having problems coping now all of her siblings were away at school, leaving her alone with her parents. On one hand, someone would be looking after her; on the other, she’d have her mother’s undivided attention. And she was growing up, watching helplessly as her body changed…Emily remembered going through puberty herself and shivered. That had not been a pleasant experience.
At least Marian has a mother who will help her through it, she thought, darkly. Her mother had shouted at her, when she’d tried to talk about female matters. There was no way in hell she’d ask her stepfather for advice. Marian didn’t know how lucky she was. She has a family who loves her.
“After this, we’ll go back to Whitehall,” she promised. “We can go up the mountain and…”
“If we have time,” Caleb said. He didn’t sound enthusiastic. “We’re going to have to work hard to catch up with everyone else.”
“I know.” Emily lifted her head, parting her lips. “But we can do it.”
Caleb leaned down and kissed her gently. “I hope so,” he said, as he pulled back. “But we have to survive the next few days first.”
“We will,” Emily promised.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was dark, very dark.
EMILY SLIPPED THROUGH THE BACKSTREETS, SILENTLY cursing the Fists of Justice as she kept a careful lookout for spies. Frieda followed, watching her back. Beneficence had once been the most well-lit city on the Nameless World, illuminated with gaslights that wouldn’t have been out of place in Victorian London; now, the city was as dark and silent as the grave. Even the footpads and other criminals seemed to have removed themselves from the streets. The only people she’d seen, since they’d slipped out of Sorcerers Row, were a couple of patrols prowling the streets. They’d walked past Emily and Frieda without noticing them.
She tested the glamour as they picked their way towards Temple Row. The night-vision spell made everything look eerie, creating pools of shadow that seemed to move the moment she looked away. She was relieved, despite herself, that most of the statues had been destroyed, even though she knew two-thirds of the city considered the feeling blasphemy. The statues would have looked far too creepy in the grey haze. She spotted a handful of blankets, clearly concealing something positioned against the wall; she eyed them for a long moment before deciding that whoever owned them was trying to hide. The Fists of Justice, if the reports were to be believed, hadn’t been kind to anyone they’d caught on the streets after dark.
The presence grew stronger as they neared their destination, a pulsing heartbeat that echoed through the air and brushed against her magic. Even mundanes could sense it, according to General Pollack. Emily had no idea how that worked, but she didn’t blame the resistance for feeling scared. They wanted – they needed – more data before they did anything more than attacking patrols and raiding isolated outposts. She took a breath, bracing herself as the presence seemed to grow stronger for a moment. Her attention seemed to draw its attention.
Don’t think about it, she told herself. Justice would worm its way through the gaps in her defenses if she gave it a chance. She wished, grimly, that there had been a chance to get the children out of the city. They’d be the most vulnerable to a constant subtle whispering at the back of their minds. Keep your eyes on the ball.
Frieda touched her hand as they reached the end of the alleyway. A dozen Fists stood at the edge of Temple Row, their eyes flickering from side to side as they watched the streets; beyond them, workmen and slaves carted away the debris from the other temples, even though night had fallen two hours ago. Emily glanced back at the Fists and shivered, remembering the guards who’d defended Farrakhan. They’d been smoking, chatting quietly to keep themselves awake, but the Fists seemed utterly intent on their work. There was something oddly inhuman about them, as if all their humanity had been leeched away.
She glanced at Frieda, who held up her fingers in a sign Emily remembered from Mountaintop. Proctors.
Emily looked at the Fists. Proctors? The Mountaintop Proctors had been dead bodies animated by the wards; they’d been drained of life force to feed the wards, then put to work as enforcers to keep the students in line. She didn’t think the Hands of Justice would have done the same…would they? They’d be in real trouble if the secret had leaked out before the coup. But now…they could turn their fanatics into zombies, if they wished. They were already committed to victory or extinction.
And they might have drained them to feed Justice, Emily thought. She reached out with her senses as carefully as she could, trying to detect a glamour that might have hidden a dead face, but there was too much interference for her to be sure of anything. That might be where he’s getting his power…
She inched back into the alleyway before any of the fanatics caught a glimpse of them. The glamour should hide them from unwary eyes, but she had no idea how well it would hold up against the fanatics. An alert set of guards might just investigate something they glimpsed out of the corner of their eyes, even though it might have been nothing. And if they had sorcerers – or merely a handful of magic-users – the glamour wouldn’t last long at all.
Frieda held up her hands again. “Five minutes,” she signalled. “Then we will see.”