Page 102 of Bride of the Enemy Alien

Besides, it’s not fair to name him enemy after he’s sacrificed himself, damn fool or not, to try and keep the real enemy in the sky from finding us.

None of which I am going to say, not because it’s not true. But because, at the end of the day, it’s not up to them. It’s up to me. To him. And it won’t help. Instead, I give them the portion of the truth that provides the most feeling of safety.

“The danger has moved away from the City,” I say, loud enough for the first ring of people to hear. “Runners stay on assigned routes. Families remain in lower shelters until cleared. No one goes toward east drains. No one follows unmarked passages. If you see green light, you back away and send for Ila, Merra, or Rosalind. Not your cousin. Not your brave idiot neighbor. Only them.”

A few mouths twitch. Fear does better with instructions than silence.

I point at Ila. “Fever row stays shifted west. If blankets are short, steal from council storage.”

Virn grunts. “Approved.”

“Adran,” I say.

His expression warns me to choose carefully, but I’m too stressed and too tired to care.

“You are going to help Ila move nonessential records out of the source-side chamber and into dry storage.”

“I am not a clerk.”

“No, you are a man who enjoys controlling access to things. I am asking you to control access. Try not to fall in love with yourself while doing it.”

Syin mutters something in Zmaj that I suspect is not official doctrine.

Rosalind says, “Adran, please do it.”

He doesn’t nod or smile, but he goes, which is close enough to a miracle that I should probably write it down if we survive. I turn toward the east crawl and feel the broken token warm with memory in my palm.

Rhazek’s hand. Rhazek’s choice. Rhazek’s terrible, stupid, accurate understanding of how I read the world. He thinks he has made himself the route. Fine. I know what to do with routes.

I follow them until they give me back what they took.

25

Kessa

In very short order we leave through the east crawl with no public announcement, no farewell, and no dramatic last look at the City because I’m not letting this day become a tragic ballad. At least not before I’ve had the chance to ruin someone else’s plan.

Syin goes first until we reach the second junction. Renn follows with the supplies wrapped tight against his chest. At the old drain I take point.

Rhazek already told me his direction. Under, not through. The broken token is in my pocket, but I don’t need it to read the denial mark. I lead us into the old service throat and down into the buried caravan cut.

The passage smells like minerals, stale heat, and the sour memory of water. It angles east until it feeds us into the outer service corridor. The gate at the end sits crooked in its track, forced just wide enough for a large male with a damaged wing to get through.

Beyond it, the desert isn’t subtle and neither was Rhazek.

His trail cuts east across the sand in a line ugly enough that Renn stops when he sees it. Deep footprints. One side heavier than the other. A broken scrape where a wing caught the ground. Dark drops baked almost black by the heat.

“He wanted to be followed,” Renn says.

“By them,” I answer.

Not by me. That was what the mark inside was for. Don’t take the obvious path. Get away from the City. Let whatever is listening believe the escaped weapon is running exactly where it wants him to run.

Rhazek didn’t have time to leave me a clever message, but he didn’t need to. The trail across the desert is loud enough for anyone with eyes.

We move.

The first stretch matches the route I worked out in the City. East, away from shelter mouths and water paths. The low ridge rises ahead, black stone cutting through red sand. Beyond it should be the old quake glass, then the dead cistern, then the split canyon.