CHAPTER FIVE

RACHEL

Logan does nothing but spend hours hunched over his kitchen table fiddling with wires and bits of metal. I want to punch him every time I walk into the room. We barely look at each other. Barely speak. He won’t change his mind, and I’m not about to beg. I don’t need Logan to travel the Wasteland with me as I track Dad. All I need is a way over the Wall.

Three days after moving into Logan’s house, I found his magnetic handgrips, perfect for sliding safely down the bulky steel ribs along the Wall. Three days after that, he unknowingly presented me with the perfect opportunity for escape.

Now I wrap my cloak around myself and push into the sparse crowds still drifting stall to stall in Lower Market, haggling over produce, rubbing linens between their fingers to check for quality, and whispering in my wake.

It’s been thirteen years since a woman dared walk through the Market without her Protector. She paid for her actions with her life.

Flicking the hood of my cloak over my head, I make sure it hides every strand of the red hair that makes me so easily recognizable. I don’t like the idea of risking my life by going through Market alone, but I’m desperate for the chance to do what no one else seems willing to do—search for Dad outside the Wall.

Lower Market is laid out like a man’s back. The main road forms the spine and leads toward the North Tower, while smaller roads and alleys branch off like ribs running east and west. My heart pounds a little faster as I aim for the left side of the main road and start walking.

The first stall I reach is a trestle table laden with a few remaining crates of juicy pears and thick-skinned melons. A woman and her Protector squeeze the fruit between their fingers before loading up their sack, murmuring to each other as they weigh each choice. Ignoring them, I move on. A glance at the sky tells me I have about thirty minutes until twilight and the final closing of the gate.

Puddles gouge the gritty road, courtesy of an early-afternoon rain shower. I pass the butcher, already cleaning his knives and packing away the last of his mutton, and wrinkle my nose as the rusty scent of drying sheep’s blood lies heavy on the air, mingling with the smell of mud.

Two more stalls down, I reach the candle maker’s and the first of the west-running roads. I tuck my head down, hiding both my hair and my face beneath my hood. No one stops me as I make the left turn, though I feel the stares burning through the heavy leather of my cloak. Probably wondering what idiot of a Protector is fine with allowing his ward to walk unescorted through Lower Market.

Of course, Logan isn’t fine with this. Or he won’t be, once he finds out. Right now, though, I’m pretty sure he’s talking tech with vendors far away from here, but still I tighten my cloak and try to look a little less … Rachel. Just in case.

A man on my left is hawking a collection of hunting knives with leather sheaths. Giving his wares a cursory glance, I slide my hand beneath my cloak and run my fingers along the sheath I wear strapped to my waist. His knives are nice.

Mine is better.

Leaving my knife alone, I keep walking. I’ve made the journey to Oliver’s tent with Dad more times than I can count, and there are never any guards on the western side of Lower Market this late in the day. Still, I move briskly and keep to the sides, hoping to avoid attracting too much attention.

I’m nearly halfway to my destination when I reach an open wagon filled with bags of dried lentils, onions, and white beans. Three men lean against the side, watching in silence as the merchant’s daughter scoops beans into burlap sacks. I sidestep them, but pull up short as one of the men whistles softly, a low thrice-note tune of warning that sends chills up my spine.

That warning whistle can only mean one thing: guards. In Lower Market at twilight.

I can’t waste time wondering why guards are here, of all places, on the one day when I’ve decided to break the most sacred laws on the books. My heart pounds, a thunderous, uneven rhythm, and I start looking around for a way out.

I have no intention of allowing them to catch me.

CHAPTER SIX

LOGAN

“Copper tubing. Twenty-two gauge.” Which I could get just about anywhere. “A spool of wire. Sixteen gauge.” A little trickier to come by, especially since I’m picky about my wires, but still, not an over-the-top request. I take a second to steady my nerves before making my final request.

“That all?” the proprietor asks.

Hoping I don’t sound like I’m concerned about the consequences of committing treason I say, “I’ll also need a barrel of acid.”

This is the moment when every other merchant I’ve visited today suddenly decided my money was no longer welcome. I’m scraping the bottom of Baalboden’s list of possible vendors by coming here, but there aren’t any others left to try unless I want to deal with the highwaymen selling their wares outside the gate.

I don’t.

I’d rather not advertise to the guards patrolling the perimeter that I’m using unstable substances in my inventions.

The proprietor stares me down, his hands slowly working the tap on a large wooden barrel full of hazy golden ale. “Don’t think I rightly heard you.”

I keep my voice low and repeat my request as I lean against the far corner of the bar-top counter in Thom’s Tankard. The wood, a dull dirt brown, is sticky with the residue of spilled drinks and fried potatoes, and I’d sooner swallow lye than eat anything on the menu, but I’m not here for food.

Thom slaps a heavy wooden mug filled with ale in front of me, though I haven’t ordered a drink. “Ain’t got none.”