CHAPTER FOUR

The Wheel

“YEAH?”

The big man filled the door so completely that Mark was amazed he had fit through it in the first place. He stared down at Mark without hostility, but with an implacable knowledge that no one was coming through his door without permission. A smell of stale beer and smoke assaulted Mark’s nose, but he couldn’t see a single thing behind the man’s bulk. Whatever was happening here, it was the last place Mark would have expected to find Cherubina.

For nearly two weeks, Mark and Cherubina had been living in a small, musty building in the Aries District. It was an ideal hiding place—drab, empty, and practically indistinguishable from the other gray houses around it. Even if they were spotted in the area, the receivers would have no idea where to start. The residents of Aries kept their own counsel—they weren’t the sort to snoop.

Even so, they barely ever left their few cramped rooms. Receiver patrols were getting more and more common, and Mark still jumped when he heard their shrill whistles. They had the occasional visitor—usually Pete, Mark’s father, bringing food for them. Neither Mark nor Cherubina could trade for food themselves; their signet rings would have been recognized instantly when the receivers checked the merchants’ records. Those visits from his father had been one of the few things making these last days bearable. The others had warned the old jailer to be careful, but nothing would keep him away. Mark and Pete hadn’t spent more than a day in each other’s company for over three years, and they were determined to make up for it.

But those visits were brief, and usually it was just Mark and Cherubina, alone. Cherubina never spoke of her time in Snutworth’s tower, and honestly, Mark didn’t want to ask—so it had been down to him to keep them both entertained. And he had tried so hard to keep up their spirits, to assure Cherubina that the Directory had too much to worry about to chase them for long. But as the days passed, he ran out of stories, and patience. He wanted to be out there, trying to find Lily. And instead, he would look at Cherubina and see that every day she was a little less thankful for her rescue, and a little more sullen. He couldn’t blame her—she had exchanged one prison for another. Before long, whole days could pass in silence—Mark pacing up and down, suffocating from inaction, and Cherubina sitting silently, stitching away at a series of increasingly mournful rag dolls.

In the end, Mark couldn’t stand it any longer. He began to go for walks, just short ones, to clear his head. He was careful—he kept away from receiver patrols, and he was always back by the time his father paid a visit. Pete was worried enough as it was.

So when Cherubina had followed his lead and started to take walks herself, Mark hadn’t been too concerned. Mark made her wear a headscarf to cover her distinctive curls, and he was glad to see her starting to feel less trapped.

But then she had begun to go out more and more frequently. She wouldn’t tell him where she was going.

And then, just an hour ago, he had found the note.

Cherubina was out again, and as he looked to see where she had put the last of the bread, he knocked over her sewing basket—the one possession she had insisted was hers alone. The little piece of paper had fluttered to the ground among the spools of thread. It had a single sentence scrawled on it, and Mark had read it without thinking:

“Meeting at the Wheel—Taurus 8th, third hour after noon.”

Taurus 8th—today’s date. He wanted to stuff the note back into the sewing basket and forget he had ever found it. This was none of his business, and he had plenty to worry about. If it had been anyone else, he would have left well enough alone.

But this was Cherubina. Until two weeks ago, she had never been outdoors without an army of servants.

He put on his jacket.

*   *   *

It didn’t take him long to find the Wheel—a famous taproom in the depths of the Taurus District. But he had to admit that he hadn’t expected the guard at the door.

“I’m…” Mark floundered, his confidence deserting him. “I’m here for the meeting.”

The huge man nodded.

“You’re late,” he grunted. “Mr. Crede’s already started.”

He stepped to one side, revealing a dark and smoky interior. Somewhere in the back of Mark’s head, a warning note sounded. He was sure that he had heard the name “Crede” before, if only he could remember.

He looked up at the thug. For a moment, he considered asking what kind of meeting this was. Fortunately, a second later his common sense reminded him that he was supposed to know already.

“So, Mr.… I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Mark said, trying to sound polite. The man gave an unpleasant grin.

“Nick, and don’t you forget it. Don’t think you’ll be getting any favors from the ‘Mr.,’ though, boy. There’s no pecking order here; everyone’s equal under Crede.”

Mark noted the tension in Nick’s huge arm as he held the door. Maybe not any social order, but Mark bet that if any disagreements came up, they’d be solved very swiftly, and directly.

“So … Nick, has my friend arrived yet? I promised to meet her here. You’d know her if you saw her, she’s got these blonde ringlets…” Mark trailed off. Nick was shaking his head, and grinning that disturbingly predatory smile.

“Not for me to say. You going in, or not?” he said. “Everyone’s welcome, but everyone goes without a name. Protection against spies. But of course, you know that. Whoever told you where to come must have filled you in, yes?”

Mark swallowed, he’d given himself away there. Nick might have been here as muscle, but he certainly wasn’t dumb.

“Of course,” Mark agreed, hurriedly. “No problem.”

Shakily, he walked past the man, but as he did so, he felt a rough hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, boy,” Nick said, a little more kindly. “Doesn’t matter why you came. Everyone here gets a fresh start.”

For some reason that was difficult to fathom, Nick’s reassurance made Mark more uncomfortable than his threats. There was something in the way he said it that suggested this fresh start wasn’t optional. Once you went through that door—you were one of them.

“Thanks,” Mark said, and stepped in.

To Mark’s relief, the taproom beyond was much less sinister, although it was dimly lit and thickly crowded. Through the tobacco smoke, Mark groped his way toward the bar, with a thin and sour-looking barman serving pint pots of muddy beer. He sat on one of the barstools, and as his ears adjusted to the hubbub, he heard a voice from the far side of the room.

“… they hunt us down, force us to hide—like rats. But should we be cowed by this? Hah!” There was a sound, as if someone had banged a metal tankard on a table. “I say this. When, in a thousand years, Agora is naught but dust, and our last fine building has crumbled away, the rats will still be here. Multiplying until their hour has come. Don’t be offended by being called a rat, my friends. They need nothing but each other, and they cannot be destroyed.”

Mark looked sharply into the corner, where he could just make out the silhouette of the speaker.

“The time is near, my friends,” the voice continued. “So near, we can taste it! And then, the receivers will regret the lengths they’ve pushed us to! Remember, if you shake up a rat’s nest, you’ll be bitten for your trouble!”

The whole room roared its approval, and as it did, a breeze stirred through the smoke, someone raised a lantern high, and Mark could see Crede.

He was tall and ragged, with stringy blond hair and an imperfectly shaved face. Physically, he was not terribly inspiring—he looked like a man who had spent too many nights passed out on the floor. But his stance and eyes told a different story. Every movement, every second, spoke of a man brimming with passion. As Mark watched, the story that Laud had told came back to him. The story of the Wheel, Crede’s rival almshouse—of the things he was prepared to do to ensure a better life for those who sought his aid: theft, intimidation, even attacks on receivers. Laud had received a beating at the hands of Crede’s thugs, one of whom, Mark was sure, had been the one who had greeted him at the door. As Crede moved, the whole crowd shifted with him, riveted by his every gesture. And they listened as if their lives depended on it.

“The receivers are already learning their lesson, my friends! They cower in their parts of the city, patrolling outside the houses of the elite, so that the wealthiest will think that they are still safe.” He laughed, a short, cruel burst. “Soon they will not dare interfere again, and we can take to the streets, and ensure a fair deal for everyone. Because as long as the Directory remains in power, how can the ordinary man or woman get a fair deal for themselves? What value do they place on the lives of ordinary people? We believe that humanity is worth more than the market price!”

The room erupted into applause. On his stool, Mark shuddered. He remembered those words. But last time he had heard them, they had been spoken by Lily. In an odd way, Crede reminded him of Lily—she had always been determined that the world should be more fair. But Lily had planned to do it with compassion, not by starting a war.

Mark tore his gaze away to look around the room. The way Laud had described Crede’s operation made it sound like an army in the making, especially considering the way they antagonized the receivers. And it was certainly true that there was a sprinkling of people who, like Nick, looked as though they weren’t here for the speeches. But at the same time, most of the listeners were much more inconspicuous: men, women, even children, mostly poor from the looks of their clothes, and all captivated.

“Hey, you,” the barman grumbled. “You going to order a drink or what? Crede can set up shop here, but I need to make my living as well.”

Hastily, Mark shrank away, trying to mingle with the crowd. As he did, he caught a glimpse of a small, dark-haired woman, watching silently from a doorway. For a second, he was sure that he had seen the woman before.

“Miss Devine?” Mark said to himself under his breath. “This isn’t your kind of place at all…”

Mark remembered Miss Devine, though he had met her only once. She was the neighbor of the Temple Almshouse, and officially a glassmaker by trade. But her real business was rather more strange—extracting and selling the emotions of others. When Mark had been a rising star of the Agoran elite, it had been fashionable to pass around a few tiny bottles of emotion at parties, and Miss Devine had been the best supplier. But what was she doing here? As far as Mark remembered, she was doing well, and hardly interested in the rights of the downtrodden …

“And now, my friends, there is someone I want you to meet,” Crede pronounced at full volume. “Comrades, don’t think that our only support comes from lowly folk like us. Why, even some of the highest in the land have joined our cause, so moved are they by our plight! I present to you, Miss Serapha, the daughter of the elite!”

“Serapha?” Mark said, turning his head. “That sounds … familiar…”

He stopped, mouth agape. There, with the crowd opening out around her, was Cherubina.

“Is this not a symbol of our cause?” Crede said, bowing gallantly in Cherubina’s direction. “Started by the purity of a young maiden—Miss Lilith—and after her mysterious disappearance, continued by such shining examples of charity as Miss Serapha, who willingly gave up an elite family to live among us. Whatever the Directory may say, as long as such people flock to our cause, we know it is just and true!”

There was a cheer from the crowd around. Cherubina remained still, her eyes cast demurely down—standing in a borrowed dress, under a false name, and being praised as a heroine of truth.

Mark thought that it seemed to sum up Crede’s movement pretty well.

He waited until Crede moved to another part of the taproom, still talking, and the crowd followed him, away from Cherubina. Then, he crept toward her, and grabbed her shoulder.

“Ma—?” Cherubina gasped as Mark pulled her into the quietest corner of the room. Mark glared at her furiously, and she hastily swallowed the name. She had promised not to say it in public. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

“What am I doing here?” Mark replied. “In what way is becoming a symbol of a revolution keeping a low profile?”

“I’m finding us some allies,” Cherubina replied, proudly. “Aren’t these people just like your friends at the other almshouse? Except, of course, Crede actually takes action. They say that the receivers don’t dare come into the Taurus district anymore…”

“Fine, fine,” Mark said, glancing around to check that no one was listening to them. Fortunately, Crede was still very much the center of attention. “But how did you know about this place at all?”

Cherubina smiled in a way that she clearly thought was mysterious.

“Mr. Crede sent me a note—one of his men slipped it under our door. He said I might be able to help them. At first, I went because I was curious, and because they promised to protect me, but now…”

“How did they know about you?” Mark interrupted, and then shook his head. That much was obvious; he recognized several ragged figures here that had been at the Temple Almshouse. News obviously traveled fast in the underworld. “I wish you’d told me,” Mark said, uneasily. “Didn’t you think that one or two of these people might let the receivers know where you are?”

“What would be wrong with Miss Serapha coming to the meetings?” Cherubina replied, with all the subtlety of a brat of four summers.

Mark sighed, and raised his hand to touch Cherubina’s ringlets. “There are more things than names that can draw attention to us,” he muttered. “Did you know Miss Devine is here as well?”

“Who?” Cherubina replied, deeply uninterested.

“Miss…” Mark looked around, but the emotion peddler had vanished in the crowd. He dismissed her with a wave of the hand. “It doesn’t matter. Someone we don’t want following us. The point is, anyone could be here, even an undercover receiver.”

“Nick on the door knows every undercover receiver that dares to work at this end of the city,” Cherubina replied, with a touch of pride, “Mr. Crede’s not stupid, you know.”

“Baiting the receivers when they’re already on edge. Promising fairness to everyone in Agora…” Mark sighed. “He doesn’t look or sound like someone who’s very closely in touch with reality.”

“He’s trying to make a difference,” Cherubina said, quietly. “And so am I. All my life I’ve been a prize, used by other people. Not anymore.”

“No,” Mark muttered, sarcastically. “And your ‘purer than a lily’ act there certainly wasn’t Crede showing off his new possession.”

“He’s the Director’s enemy, so that makes him our friend,” Cherubina said, loftily. “Crede said I’m too valuable to let anything happen to me. He already knows where we live. I’ve seen some of his men watching me as I come home. He’s keeping me safe.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Mark insisted. “He isn’t really out to help people. He’s after as much power as he can grab. You think he really cares about you?” Mark took her hand. “By all the stars, Cherubina, this isn’t a game! I thought you did some growing up over the past year…”

Cherubina snatched her hand away, furious.

“Don’t you dare talk about that dreadful time again. Don’t you dare treat it like a joke!”

“Then you shouldn’t treat our hiding like it doesn’t mean anything!” Mark snapped back, barely trying to keep his voice down anymore. “We’re hiding from him, Cherubina, from Snutworth! Even if he doesn’t really care, he’d take you back out of spite—you know he would.”

“That’s why I need proper protection,” she said, scornfully. “You think just because Crede’s got vision he’s stupid? He understands everything. He was just telling me before you arrived, now that Snutworth’s the Director, we have to plan carefully…”

Cherubina trailed away as she saw Mark’s expression.

“You told Crede about Snutworth?” Mark whispered. “You told him who you are?”

Cherubina crossed her arms, defiantly.

“It’s my secret,” she said. “I can tell who I want.”

Mark stared at her, marveling.

“Do you have any idea what he could do with that kind of knowledge?” Mark said, quietly.

“Of course I do,” Cherubina said, intensely. “He told me himself. Right now, the people are scared of the Director—they think he’s a myth, all powerful.” Mark detected a hint of Crede in her tone, as though she were repeating something he had said. “But as soon as they know that he’s just an ordinary man…”

“An ordinary man?” Mark interrupted, putting his head in his hands. “A few years ago, he was my servant, and now he’s the ruler of the city! There’s nothing ordinary about him, and you know it. And anyway, that hardly robs him of his power—or have you forgotten about the receivers? Dad says that they’ve stepped up their training. Some of them are even practicing with swords, not truncheons. You really believe that Crede’s army of thugs is going to be able to fight them?”

“So you think we should just do nothing?” Mark was amazed to see that Cherubina’s eyes were wet. She seemed to be almost crying, but her voice was still dangerous. Mark gingerly laid a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m saying you shouldn’t be getting involved in this. I hate Snutworth as much as you do, but you can’t keep obsessing over him. You’ve escaped—you need to live your own life…”

Cherubina met his gaze.

“And how can I do that?” she asked, softly. “By doing everything you say?”

Mark pulled his hand back, stung, but Cherubina was unrepentant. She turned her back, stiffly.

“I need to get back,” she said, pointing to the crowd, still ignoring them, enraptured by Crede. “He wants to introduce me to some of the new recruits.”

“You’re just a tool to him,” Mark protested, feebly. Cherubina didn’t turn around.

“Maybe,” she admitted, “but at least he’s doing some good. He’s not sitting at home, waiting for Daddy to visit. He can keep me safe.” She glanced over her shoulder. Her anger seemed to have gone; now she looked sad, almost disappointed. “Why don’t you go? Crede is handing out bread, and we don’t have much to trade. I’d ask you along, but he only gives handouts to men of action.”

And then, before Mark could reply, she walked away, mingling in the crowd.

Mark couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Not as he left the smoky bar, the sound of Crede’s speeches ringing in his ears. Not as he crept through the streets, and returned to their lonely house.

Not even that night, when the receivers walked past, ringing the new curfew bell. All he had was a jumble of thoughts about Cherubina’s safety, and his own inability to decide what to do. But by then, it didn’t really matter.

Because, by then, it was clear that Cherubina wasn’t coming back.