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“Because I had no choice. None of us have a choice if we want to survive.”
“Ah, so you were raiding shipments out of the goodness of your heart. Silver had nothing to do with it?”
He jabs me in the back with his crossbow. “Shut up,” he growls.
“No matter what you do to me,” I say, “you’ve attacked too many runs. You’ve spooked the consuls. You attacked the sector. They’ll stop supplying Moonflower. You’ll have nothing.”
“I’ll have plenty. We’ll all have plenty.”
There’s a note of certainty in his voice that gives me pause. Who is funding this? Who is distributing medicine and silver to such an extent that the people are so willing to risk their lives?
Or have people grown so desperate that they have no choice?
I consider the men at my back. None of these people are skilled strategists, not even Lochlan. If he were, he’d be planning to use me to force Harristan into something. He’d be using Tessa to force me. I questioned Lochlan weeks ago, when he was first captured, and even then, I didn’t get the sense that they were well organized.
I honestly don’t get it now.
That must mean he’s taking me to someone. Someone who is planning this. Funding this.
Someone who will have a plan for how to use me. Even if it’s one of the consuls, they’ll know what to do with leverage.
Thethought should be chilling, but instead, it’s somewhat stabilizing. “Who are the Benefactors?” I say. “What have they promised you?”
“No one needs to pay me to do this.”
I don’t believe that for a second. I try to think who might be behind all of this. Paying in silver and medicine wouldn’t be cheap. Few consuls would be able to manage it. Jonas was desperate for silver to build his precious bridge, so I can’t see him spending it to fund rebels. Leander Craft is the consul of Steel City, but he’s always been rather conservative politically, never taking a stand against Harristan. He doesn’t like the idea of unrest, especially because his manufacturing and steelworkers supply much of the entire country. He has the money, but . . . ?he simply doesn’t seem like the type. Truly, the only people with both the money and the resources to fund raids would be Allisander Sallister or Lissa Marpetta, and they’ve been after me to stop the attacks.
Harristan and I have been watching two unlikely consuls work together for weeks, though.
Consuls who just asked for more funds.
Roydan and Arella.
But . . . ?why? Hurting Allisander hurts us all. Surely they can’t hate him so much. It’s not possible to hate him more than I do, and I manage to keep from destroying the entire country’s medicinal supply because of it.
A whistle splits the night. Lanterns twinkle between the trees. I don’t know where we are, but we’re still in the Wilds.
“It’s Lochlan,” my captor shouts. “We’ve brought you all a present.”
He jabs me in the back, and I stumble forward, into a clearing strung with canvas tents and crudely built lean-tos. There must be dozens, if not hundreds. People begin emerging into the rain, some with lanterns, some with nothing more than sticks or axes, shovels, and brooms. They’re dirty and tired, from what I can see, but no one is coughing. No one is sick.
Many—many—are familiar.
“It’s Wes!” calls a little girl named Abigale. “Wes and Tessa! They’re not dead!”
Her mother picks her up, shushing her.
More people begin to spill from the tents and shelters, until we’re surrounded.
No Roydan and Arella.
We’ve brought you all a present.
Tessa is shoved into place beside me, and I can hear her breathing shaking.
“Are you hurt?” I say. “Tessa, are you hurt?”
Her eyes peer up at me from behind her mask, which is as sodden as her hair and clothes, but I see no injuries. “No. No, I’m not hurt.”
