The other Reds clearly fear these criminals, but I do not. A few thugs are nothing compared to the might of the dozen Security officers milling about their post. They could be swifts, strongarms, oblivions—Silvers who can make us pay in blood and pain. At least I know they’re not so dangerous as the Silvers of court, the whispers and silks and silences. Whispers as powerful as Queen Elara don’t wear lowly black uniforms. They control armies and kingdoms, not a few yards of marketplace, and they are far away from here. For now.

To our surprise, the first blow comes not from behind but from dead ahead of us. A bent old crone with a cane is not who she seems, and hooks Crance around the neck with her gnarled piece of wood. She throws him to the ground and removes her cloak in one motion, revealing a bald head and a skull tattoo.

“Fish Market not enough for you, Mariner?” she snarls, watching as Crance lands on his back. Shade goes down with him, too tangled up in Crance’s limbs and his own crutch to stay standing.

I move to help, lunging forward, but an arm grabs me around the waist, pulling me back into the crowd. Others look on, eager for a bit of entertainment. No one notices us melt into the wall of faces, not even the four Seaskulls who followed us. We are not their target—yet.

“Keep walking,” Cal rumbles in my ear.

But I set my feet. I will not be moved, not even by him. “Not without Shade.”

The Seaskull woman smacks Crance as he tries to stand, her cane cracking soundly against bone. She’s quick, turning her weapon on Shade, who is smart enough to stay on the ground, his arms raised in mock surrender. He could disappear in an instant, jumping his way to safety, but knows he cannot. Not with every eye watching. Not with the Security post so close by.

“Fools and thieves, the lot of them,” a woman grumbles nearby. She seems to be the only one annoyed by the display. Merchants, patrons, and street urchins alike look on in anticipation, and the Security officers do nothing at all, watching with veiled amusement. I even catch a few of them passing coins, making bets on the brewing fight.

Another smack, this time hitting Shade’s wounded shoulder. He grits his teeth, trying to hold back a grunt of pain, but it echoes loudly over the Paltry. I almost feel it myself, and wince as he crumples.

“I don’t know your face, Mariner,” the Seaskull crows. She hits him again, hard enough to send a message. “But Egan certainly will. He’ll pay for your safe, if bruised, return.”

My fist clenches, wishing for lightning, but I feel flame instead. Hot skin against mine, fingers worming into my grip. Cal. I won’t be able to spark up without hurting him. Part of me wants to, to push him away and save my brother in a single sweeping motion. But that will get us nowhere.

With a sharp gasp, I realize we could not ask for a better distraction—a better moment to slip away. Shade is not a distraction, a voice screams in my head. I bite my lip, almost breaking the skin. I can’t leave him, I can’t. I can’t lose him again. But we can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous, and so much more is at stake.

“The Security Center,” I whisper, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “Ada Wallace must be found, and the Center is the only way.” The next words taste like blood. “We should go.”

Shade lets the next blow knock him sideways, giving him a better angle. His eyes meet mine. I hope he understands. My lips move without sound. Security Center, I mouth to him, telling him where to meet us when he gets away. Because he will get away. He’s a newblood like me. These people are no match for him.

It almost sounds convincing.

His face falls, torn by the knowledge that I will not save him. But he nods all the same. And then the press of bodies swallows him whole, blocking him from sight. I turn my back before cane hits bone, but I hear the hard, echoing sound. Again I wince, and tears bite my eyes. I want to look back, but I have to walk away, to do what must be done, and forget what must be forgotten.

The crowd cheers and presses forward to see—making it all the easier for us to slip into the street, and deep into the city of Harbor Bay.

The streets surrounding the Paltry are like the market itself—crowded, noisy, stinking of fish and bad tempers. I expect no less from the Red sector of the city, where houses are cramped and leaning out over the alleys, forming shadowed archways half-filled with garbage and beggars. There are no officers that I can see, drawn either to the gang fight in the Paltry or the tunnel collapses far behind us. Cal takes the lead now, moving us steadily south, away from the Red center.

“Familiar territory?” Farley asks, cutting a suspicious glance at Cal when he ducks us down yet another twisting alley. “Or are you just as turned around as I am?”

He doesn’t bother to answer, responding only with a quick wave of the hand. We scamper by a tavern, its windows already swarming with shadows of professional drunks. Cal’s eyes linger on the door, painted an offensively bright red. One of his old haunts, I suppose, when he could slip out of Ocean Hill undetected to see his kingdom without the sheen of Silver high society. That’s what a good king would do, he said once. But as I discovered, his definition of a good king was very, very flawed. The beggars and the thieves he’s encountered over the years were not enough to convince the prince. He saw hunger and injustice, but not enough to warrant change. Not enough to be worth his worry. That is until his world chewed him up and spit him out—making him an orphan, an exile, and a traitor.

We follow him because we must. Because we need a soldier and a pilot, a blunt instrument to help us achieve our goals. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I trail at his heels. I need Cal for noble reasons. To save lives. To win.