The afternoon sun hangs above us, and Morgan is already pulling me down the street, away from the harbor. "Why can't we just go straight there? That's where I'm supposed to meet my friend? Plus, isn't your ship there as well? We can use it and leave."
"That's not how that works, lad. It's martial law. No one is leaving Bruis easily. Besides, you need a crew to sail a ship." He glances over his shoulder, counting the soldier posted on the corner. "And half of the men who'd take the job are hiding from the hangmen. And the other half, well, you could say lad, not friendly."
Morgan keeps pulling me forward. We see shutters close overhead and doors slam shut. We pass through a thinning crowd, and even the pigeons are gone.
"They're locking this place tighter than a vault," Morgan mutters, his gaze shifting to every rooftop and corner. "It's only a matter of time before they start kicking doors. We don't want to be anywhere near the open when that happens."
I notice we're heading away from the harbor, not towards it. "Wait," I yell. "We're getting farther from the harbor. My friend will be waiting for me there."
'Waitin' or not, lad, your friend's not stupid. If he's smart, he'll be elsewhere." Morgon stops just short of a crossroad, one arm bracing me before we walk into a patrol. A handful of marines pass like a shadow tide, rifles drawn, barking orders at anyone still lingering.
We duck into a narrow side alley. I press against a wall. Morgan leans in close. "Listen to me close," he whispers. "We go running straight to the docks, and they'll pin us to a wall before reaching the piers. They might've drydocked my ship, captured it, or worse. But I need to see her with my own eyes before thinkin' about runnin'."
Morgan's eyes follow the marine patrol as they vanish around the corner. The second they're out of sight, he exhales.
We've got to move. But we can't cut through the streets."
"Then how do we get there? I ask. "You said you need to see your ship. And I need to find my friend. We don't have time to wait."
The word 'friend' feels weird as it comes out of my mouth. I call him that despite knowing him for a day.
Morgan stares down the alley. "Aye. I need a look at the Albatross before I make a move. But no, if it gets us strung up. This place is crawling with muskets."
He turns to me. "You know this city better than I do. You've got a way to get us close without bumpin' into those tin-stitched bastards?"
I freeze.
Do I?
I rack my brain, cycling through every ratty street, every side path, every whisper I'd ever hear, and nothing. No safe roads, or anything that we can get through that the Marines don't have access to.
Then it hits me.
The sewers.
I'd never seen a map, but I remember the girls talking about it once, when some thieves snuck in through the underground, and made off with a night's worth of Marks. They said the tunnels ran underneath the Bruis like veins. They lean out toward the sea, toward the harbor.
"There's a way," I say slowly. "The sewers."
Morgan raises an eyebrow.
"The drain tunnels go all the way through the city. They don't let out at the harbor, but there's runoff that dumps into the ocean. It's the closest we can without being stopped."
He nods. "Good enough, lad."
"But," I hesitate, glancing up at him. "I'm not sure if you'll fit."
Morgan lets out a low whistle and a slight grin. "I may be a fat bastard, lad, but if a rat can squeeze through, so can I."
I don't reply, but my stomach knots. Ikaris told me to stay put and wait at the docks. That's where he'd go if he could. I'm sure of it. I have to believe it.
"How do we get into the sewers?" Morgan asks.
"That's the trick part."
He grunts.
"I don't know the city's full layout," I admit. "But, when I worked in the brothel, I heard some thieves talk about how they got in. Said most of the old town squares have sewer drains built under the center. The nearest one I know is a few blocks that way."
Morgan shrugs. "Better than standing in the open."
He steps out of the alley, his eyes sharp, looking for moments. He glances at me, then to the rooftops. "Lead the way, lad, I'll take my chances with a drain."
We move fast. I could feel the small flame left by Ikaris enter my lungs. I have never ran this quickly before. Morgan follows close behind.
When we reach the old square, I realize how empty it's become. No voices nor carts. Not even gulls, just the echo of our breathing.
"There," I point toward the center of the plaza. A rusted grate sits sunken in a ring of cracked cobblestone—the mouth of a drain and the way down.
Morgan whistles low. "She's an ugly one. Alright, lad, stand back."
He crouches, his fingers curling through the bard. The metal doesn't move. His shoulders tense as his muscles ripple under his coat.
It's stuck.
"Rust's got her good," he grunts, strangling. The grate creaks like it's screaming. "You weren't kidding."
I kneel nearby, pulling the pistol that Morgan gave me. The wood is smooth, and the metal is rigged. There's this red insignia that's shaped like a feather on the handle. I trace my thumb over the trigger guard, thinking, would I use it?
If the marines came down the street, yelling for surrender, would I lift the thing and fire?
I don't think so.
Maybe I'd freeze. Perhaps I'd beg. Or I'll let myself do what mother did, close my eyes and hope for a miracle that'll never come.
Morgan exhales sharply. "C'mon, you stubborn, ginger wh—"
He tears the grate loose, slamming onto the stone with a clang that echoes through every street.
"Got it!" Morgan shouts, grinning widely.
Then we hear a yell. "Hey! You two!"
I turn and a half dozen marines spill from the street crossing, rifles leveled, blue coats flashing with the insignia of the Duchy of Seine on their coats.
"Hands! Where can we see them?" The lead one barks. By order of the Mayor Bruis and the Inquisition, you are under arrest."
I freeze. The pistol's still in my hand, and their eyes go straight to it.
Morgan's grin fades. "Ah, Saints damn it."
"On your knees!" Another shouts—boots pound close, circling the square. There's nowhere to run. There's open ground on all sides. If we tried, we'd be shot.
But my eyes glance to the drain.
Morgan slowly raises his hands, his fingers spreading. "Easy now, lad. No need to get trigger-happy."
I do the same. My heart is hammering in my chest. The barrel of a musket gleams in front of me, close enough to see my own gaze.
"Drop the firearm, boy!
I start to bend and—
Morgan grabs my wrist, twisting around, snapping the pistol into his hand in one motion. He fires before I can even gasp.
The shot crackles through the air like thunder. One of the marines drops instantly, smoke rising from the barrel.
"Run!"
Morgan shoves me toward the drain. The other marines didn't hesitate as bullets whined past, splintering cobblestone. I dive down the open mouth of the drain, scraping my palms against the stone. I slide down the rusted ladder as darkness takes over completely.
"Morgan!"
More gunfire.
Then, nothing.
Then, Morgan drops in after another volley, slamming the grate behind him.
We hear their boots stomp over. They're trying to pry the grate open.
"Send a runner!" We hear. "We've got criminals hiding in the sewers! We're going after them!"