“Then help Frankie bury Drake and the others and then get the rest of the group to Chelmingford. If you stay on this trail and push yourselves, you should arrive in six or seven days. Don’t sleep unless you have to. The trackers could be right behind us, and you no longer have the advantage of horses to increase your speed.”

“That’s not what I meant when I said I wanted to do something!”

I lean down. “I understand perfectly. Do you think I want to be traveling to the northern city-states looking for troops while Rachel is in Rowansmark with Ian and a bunch of trackers? Sometimes we have to make hard choices, Adam. This is yours.” I clasp his shoulder the way Drake clasped mine. “Willow’s a survivor. The second they give her an inch, she’ll make them wish they’d never been born.”

He meets my eyes. “Bring her back.”

“I will. I’ll bring all of them back. And I won’t leave a single highwayman alive to hunt us down again.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

RACHEL

A crew of dockworkers greet us as the boat noses its way into a berth beside a long wooden ramp with thin handrails. The moment the paddle wheel stops churning, Samuel orders the hatch to be lowered onto the dock and gestures for the trackers assigned to me to escort me onto the ramp. They cut the rope that hobbles my ankles, but leave my hands bound. It feels strange to walk on solid ground again. I keep bracing my feet as if the walkway beneath me might sway like the deck of the boat.

“Do we have a carriage?” Samuel asks a dockworker whose ruddy skin is a sharp contrast to her steel-gray hair.

“Just up the top of the ramp and to the left, sir,” the woman says as she grips a rope as thick as my arm and wraps it around a post, doing her part to secure the boat.

Samuel turns on his heel and marches up the ramp. The four trackers assigned to me shepherd me along in Samuel’s wake. Behind us, boots tromp along the walkway. I glance back and see Ian, his face bandaged, stalking up the ramp. He meets my eyes, and the desperate hatred in his gaze makes me wish I still had a weapon. Behind him, I see a flash of dark hair and quick, graceful movements as Quinn quietly lowers himself off the deck and into the water.

My escape plan might be in shambles, but I still have Quinn. It might take him a while to catch up to me if we’re using a carriage. He’ll have to move carefully through the streets and ask questions to figure out where I am, but he’s here, and no one else knows it. My knees feel shaky with the relief of knowing I don’t have to face all of Rowansmark on my own.

Several docks line the river, all with long ramps attached. A scattering of oil lamps hang from poles, but most of the area is wreathed in shadows. The sluggish breeze that kicked up as the sun went down carries the scents of algae, rust, and damp wood on the air. The carriage looks like a shorter, fancier version of a wagon—all polished paint, big wheels, and plush seats. A golden fist wrapped around a dragon’s tail—the official emblem of James Rowan—is painted onto the door. We squeeze in, three to a seat, and Ian hops up beside the driver. I’m wedged between two trackers. Samuel sits directly across from me, but he hasn’t looked at me once.

“Where are we going?” I ask, just to force Samuel to deal with the girl he helped kidnap.

“Prison,” he says shortly, his eyes scanning the landscape outside the carriage’s windows. More oil lanterns spill light onto the sidewalk as we pass.

“I thought you didn’t have a prison.”

“You thought wrong.”

Samuel turns away to examine the scenery again. I follow his gaze and watch the streets of Rowansmark move past the window.

The neighborhoods near the docks are full of industrial buildings made of soot-stained brick or sheets of metal with patches of rust spreading from every nail. The carriage bounces over the dark-gray stones that pave the streets, and I brace my feet against the floor to keep from pitching headfirst into Samuel’s lap. My hands, bound behind my back, are useless. The rope cuts into my wrists, and my fingertips are cold.

The industrial section gives way to a neighborhood that reminds me of South Edge—peeling paint, sagging gates, and the beaten-down air of people who’ve known nothing but poverty. The buildings are filthy and often crumbling. They look like structures left over from the previous civilization. People cluster on front steps or lean against lampposts, their eyes cast down as we travel past them, though I can feel their gazes on the back of the carriage once they’re no longer in danger of making eye contact with a tracker.

The people in South Edge were the same. Afraid to look at those who were supposed to protect them. Tired of scrabbling for food and shelter and weary from the certainty that nothing they did would bring them a better life.

If I can escape from prison, this is the neighborhood I need to find. I can disappear here among people who don’t feel an inborn loyalty to the leader who has consistently ignored their plight.

Of course, it’s just as likely that someone might be willing to sell me out to a tracker for a meal, but if I change locations often, I’ll be okay. Especially if Quinn is with me. I don’t know how he’ll find me when I’m being taken through Rowansmark in a carriage, but I don’t doubt that he will.

I just have to stay focused, learn everything I can from my enemies, and watch for my first opportunity to escape and begin hunting for the tech that James Rowan will use to destroy Logan.

The crumbling buildings slowly give way to smaller structures, neat squares of grass, and clean streets. Oil lamps give way to iron braziers with cheerful little fires lit. The streets glow in the golden light. We turn a few corners, and enter the heart of Rowansmark—the place Dad and I stayed whenever we’d visit. A sudden spike of pain hits as I remember the last time we walked these streets, arm in arm, unaware that our lives were about to be ripped apart by Marcus McEntire’s fierce need to rescue his missing son.