Chapter 135: Ten

“That sounds like a conversation you should have with her.”

Rook’s fingers tightened around the lantern handle. He knew exactly how that conversation would go, provided Mara allowed him to finish explaining himself before beginning to argue. She would ask why he had come all this way if he intended to leave without her, then keep asking until he gave her an answer she liked. Being right had never been enough to make her agreeable, and he was not entirely certain he had that advantage this time.

“Find her first. You can both discuss how unreasonable I am once she’s somewhere safe.”

Vyre tilted his head. Rook knew that look, usually produced by a promising piece of gossip or someone attractive across a room. Having it directed at him made the situation considerably worse. The bastard had stopped listening for something he could help with and started listening for something he could enjoy.

“You don’t abandon contracts.”

“I just told you she broke it.”

“And now you’re here asking armed guards to let you find her. Then you hear the Manager’s name and suddenly you’re happy to leave.”

“I wouldn’t say happy.”

“No, I imagine that would hurt you.”

“Are you going to help or keep fucking talking?”

“I’m trying to work out why you’ve started running from someone who’s put up with you for longer than most people manage.”

“I don’t like her.”

“That’s a lie.”

“She’s annoying.”

“That’s true. It’s also been true for years. You still lived in her Bastion.”

Rook looked toward the forest again. Vyre followed his gaze, then deliberately moved farther across the path, removing any suggestion that he might step aside if Rook waited long enough. He had always been irritatingly good at recognizing when someone wanted him gone. Usually, he treated it as encouragement.

The worst part was that Rook trusted the Manager with Mara. He would not have asked Vyre to take her there otherwise. Getting the woman somewhere safe was the point of this entire miserable journey, and the Manager could offer safety without demanding that she agree with Gascoigne about everything first. Rook simply wanted that accomplished without being present when the questions began.

“How did you get this far, anyway? Across the chasm, through that forest, without an Imprint?”

Rook said nothing. A cart wheel creaked inside the gate, followed by someone shouting for the workers to lift together. He adjusted the coffin’s chain across his chest while a length of timber settled into place with a heavy thump.

He had spent centuries answering versions of that question. Usually, surviving had meant knowing when to run, what to cut off, and how much of himself he could afford to leave behind. Now he finally had a better answer and could not give it to the one man guaranteed to repeat it before the day was over.

Vyre’s eyes narrowed slightly. They moved over the torn coat again, and Rook resisted the urge to pull it closed. The damage was already there. Drawing attention to the absence of matching wounds would accomplish nothing useful.

“You’ve always been strange about surviving things. Fine. I’ll find your Mara, and I’ll tell the Manager you came by.”

“Don’t tell her anything.”

The answer came far too quickly. Vyre’s expression brightened, and Rook closed his eyes for a moment, wishing he had simply stepped on the bastard’s foot and kept walking. At least then they would be discussing something straightforward, such as whether it had been deliberate.

“I’m asking you to find a person. It isn’t complicated. Walk inside, find Mara, and get her away from Gascoigne. None of that requires a report on where I am.”

“Why would she need to get away from Gascoigne?”

“Because he’s a cunt.”

“That doesn’t narrow things down much around here.”

Rook opened his eyes and looked at him. Vyre raised a hand before he could say anything else, though his interest had clearly survived the warning. He was enjoying himself far too much for someone who had supposedly come out here to help.

“All right. But you understand how this looks?”

“I stopped caring how things looked some time before you became irritating.”

“So quite recently, then.”

At the gate, the spearman finally lowered his weapon completely. He watched the exchange for another moment before turning toward the woman, apparently deciding that men preparing to kill each other usually put less effort into this kind of argument.

“They know each other.”

“Apparently.”

“Gascoigne might just have a problem with him.”

“Gascoigne has problems with plenty of people. We’re holding the gate today. Let someone else sort out the rest.”

She slid her sword into its sheath and turned toward the workers gathering beside the timber cart. The man with the bandaged foot shifted out of their way, favoring the injury as he moved. Nobody offered to take his place. He settled beside the barricade again with the same hooked blade held close to his hip.

Rook watched him, then looked beyond the cart. One of the workers had to put down his end of a beam twice before the others could get it through the opening. The men waiting inside looked too tired to complain properly, although they tried. Even with four Reapers at the gate, there seemed to be nobody available to spare.

He took in the repairs, the worn weapons, and the guards who had been prepared for trouble before he arrived. Vyre was a long way from the comfortable roads where he usually found someone else to take the risks. The Manager had come with him, and there were Seventh Ranks close enough for their group to have seen them on the approach.

Rook stopped trying to look past Vyre. His own reasons for avoiding the Bastion had distracted him from asking why people from the Eleventh were here at all. Sending Mara to the Manager was one thing. Leaving her inside a place everyone seemed increasingly reluctant to explain was another.

“What’s happening here?”

“You mean besides you behaving like someone’s about to search your coffin?”

“Why is she here?”

Vyre glanced toward the guards. This time, the answer did not come readily, and Rook waited while the noise of the repairs continued beyond the gate. The hesitation bothered him more than another joke would have.

The Eleventh rarely involved itself in other Bastions’ affairs. Its Manager had little interest in competing for roads, recruits, or influence. Bringing her people this far meant something had happened that she could not resolve with a letter and someone more willing to travel. Whatever it was had justified leaving her own Bastion and crossing the same miserable territory Rook had just survived.

Vyre took a slow breath. The amusement left his face, and with it went the easy confidence that had made Rook want to shove him into the road.

“We made contact.”

“With who?”

“One of the Ten.”

Rook stared at him. Behind them, hammers continued striking timber, boots scraped over stone, and someone complained about a load being too heavy. He heard all of it while trying to decide whether Vyre had found a way to make a joke worse than his usual ones.

There was no smile waiting to betray him. Vyre simply stood there, watching Rook absorb the answer. For the first time since appearing at the gate, he seemed content to let the silence last.

“One of the Tenth Ranks?”

Vyre nodded. Rook lowered the lantern until it hung still beside his knee. A moment ago, he had been considering walking back into a forest where Seventh Ranks had been sighted. Now he wanted to know how far away the thing Vyre was talking about had been when it decided to speak.

“And you led with the Manager being here?”

“I wasn’t expecting you to walk away halfway through the conversation.”

“What do you mean, contact?”

“It spoke to us. There’s a proposed deal.”

“An Abomination wants a deal with Reapers.”

“That is who we are.”

Rook looked toward the damaged walls again. The heavy beams, sharpened stakes, and tired people working behind them seemed a pitiful collection of things to place between a Bastion and one of the Ten. The man with the bandaged foot had resumed watching the road. Rook wondered what, exactly, they expected him to do if the wrong thing came out of those trees.

Mara was somewhere inside. He had been arguing about getting past four guards while something capable of making their entire arrangement irrelevant was discussing terms with the people beyond them.

“Tell me nobody agreed to anything.”

“Nothing’s been settled. Word about repairing Bastions has spread. Apparently, one of the Ten decided it would rather discuss a truce than wait to see what happens.”

Rook thought of the old man tracing lines around the Seventy-Second’s Beacon. Crates sent across the Underworld, cores hidden beneath foundations, and knowledge distributed before anyone could destroy it. He had expected other Reapers to take an interest. Some would want to help, others would want control, and enough would argue over both to make the work considerably more difficult than it needed to be.

He had not considered what might be listening beyond the Beacons. A damaged Bastion recovering its defenses would change more than the lives of the people inside it. Something out there had noticed, understood enough to become concerned, and decided to approach while the work was still being done.

That did not make Rook feel better about the offer. A creature willing to think through what the repairs meant was capable of thinking through what a truce might let it accomplish.

“There has never been a truce between us and Abominations.”

“I know.”

“They eat us, Vyre. Whatever it’s offering, whatever it says it wants, this is a trap.”

Vyre held his gaze without a trace of amusement. He did not look surprised by the objection, and Rook found that almost as troubling as the proposed deal. They had already considered the obvious danger and still brought the Manager here to hear the thing out.

“We know. That’s why the Manager is here. She’s leading the negotiations.”