Jay Posey - Three

“Squatters,” Mr Carter explained. “Most of them have been expelled. Underdown allows them to stay, under his protection.”

“Expelled?”

“As I said. Within Morningside, it can be difficult to live life on one’s own terms. During the day, the gates remain open, these here are free to do trade. But come evening, they return.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Punishment.”

They continued on in silence for another fifteen minutes, until there before them loomed the wall of Morningside. Standing there under its lengthening shadow, even Three couldn’t help but feel the awe the place inspired. He’d been to the largest of towns west of the Strand: Fourover, Swingbridge, Greenstone. Now, even Greenstone’s fortress-like design seemed childish by comparison.

The wall itself ran nearly thirty-feet high, but unlike Greenstone’s prison-inspired structure, Morningside’s wall had been built with an eye for aesthetics. There were no watchtowers, no mounted weapons. At least none that could be seen. Instead, fiberlights ran throughout, enmeshed with the steel fabric of the wall, so that the entire barrier seemed to glow with an internal, vibrant green-blue that shifted like the sea. Like Greenstone, Three could see people moving along the tops of the wall, but they were no guards. He realized they were citizens, walking along as one might expect in a park.

Beside him, Wren stood with his mouth slightly open, eyes wide and drinking in the astonishing display before them. From somewhere atop the wall, there was music, tumbling down with the faint but unmistakable raw emotion of live players, supported by a crowd singing along, nearly in time and almost on key. A large gate stood open, tended by a trio of guardsmen, and a handful of people trickled in or, if they were among the unfortunate, out.

“I trust you can find your way from here,” Mr Carter said abruptly.

“You won’t come in?”

Mr Carter shook his head, but offered no explanation. His eyes were on the wall, but unfocused. Thinking of something beyond, or within. Three noticed a thin, dark shimmer along the front of Mr Carter’s shirt, guessed his bandage had bled through.

“Why don’t we camp together tonight, then? We’ll see you on your way in the morning.”

Mr Carter smiled and turned to face Three and Wren. “A kind thought, but one I must refuse. Talk to the guards at the gate. They should be able to help you.” He knelt and placed a hand on Wren’s shoulder. “Wren, you are fine boy, and you will be a great man. Maybe one day you could come visit us again.”

Wren nodded and surprised Mr Carter by wrapping his arms around the man’s neck. “Thanks, Mr Carter. I’d like that.”

Mr Carter patted Wren firmly on the back, and then stood, and shook hands with Three. “The same stands for you as well, Three. The village is as much a home to you as you choose to make it.”

“I appreciate that, Mr Carter. Just may take you up on it some time.”

“Please do.”

Three looked down at Wren and gently slapped him on the shoulder with the back of his hand.

“Come on, kiddo. Let’s go see if any of these stories about Morningside are true, huh?”

“OK.”

Three looked back up and exchanged final nods with Mr Carter, and the three parted ways.

After they’d walked about halfway to the gate, Wren spoke in his quiet voice. “Why won’t he stay?”

Three glanced back over his shoulder, saw Mr Carter’s silhouette in the fading light, shook his head. “I don’t know, Wren. Every man’s got a story. I’m sure he has his.”

Wren didn’t respond. Just slid his hand into Three’s again. Three tried not to think about how natural it had become, holding that tiny hand in his own. Tried not to think about what it might be like to let go of that hand a final time. Deal with it later. When it’s done. They walked those final steps towards Morningside, together, in silence.

As they drew closer, the sounds of the town grew louder, more distinct. The music became more apparent, bits of conversations became discernible: vendors making last minute deals, friends calling to one another. The atmosphere was pleasant, inviting, and Three wondered if they’d arrived on the night of some festival, or if this was just a typical evening in Morningside.

The guards at the gate stirred as they drew near, and one guard, shorter than the others, casually motioned for Three to stop just outside. The short guard approached with an easy smile. None of the guards looked as grim or hardened as the greenmen of Greenstone, but they all held themselves with the bearing of men of authority.

“Evening,” the guard said.

“Evening,” Three answered. He felt Wren step closer, the boy’s shoulder lightly pressed against his leg.

“Been to Morningside before?”

“No, sir. First time.”

“Where you comin’ in from?”

Three felt a twinge in his chest. The slightest knot of pressure, born of frustration, the first hint that here, even now mere inches from his goal, there was a dangerous game to be played, a chance for misstep. He dare not lie, but how much of the truth was necessary?

“A long way off, sir.”

“I don’t doubt it,” the guard said with an understanding nod. “You gents look like you’ve had a bit of a rough go.”

One of the other guards sidled up, an older man, hands behind his back. Curious, but not enough to get involved. He stood back a couple of paces, greeted Three with a dip of the head.

“What brings you out our way?” the short guard asked.

“The boy. We need to see the Governor.”

The guard’s eyebrows raised slightly at that, his expression one of… what? Surprise? Something prickled in Three’s instincts, but it was too vague, to fleeting to identify.

“And why’s that, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Beg your pardon, sir, but I don’t think I can explain. It’s a private matter.”

The guard nodded thoughtfully, his lips pressed together and jutting slightly, as if weighing his options. There was something. Something Three should’ve noticed. Or was there? There was too much noise, too many things going on. His focus was dull.

“I see,” the guard said. “Well, I’m not one to pry. How long you expecting to be in Morningside?”

“Shouldn’t be long. Just have some business with the Governor, then I’ll be gone.”

Wren pressed further into Three then, hard. Tense. The thought of being left alone in this strange city with a man he’d never met must’ve been sinking in. Three wished he’d chosen his words a little more carefully.

The short guard took a knee in front of Wren, leaned forward slightly with a lowered head. Gentle. Disarming.

“And how about you, little one? Will you be staying with us?”

Wren made no answer. Three glanced back at the older guard, still standing there. Watching without emotion.

“Here, boy, lemme take a look at you,” the short guard said, reaching out with two fingers extended to raise the boy’s chin. “How old are you now? Five?”

“Six,” Wren answered. “And three-quarters.”

A ripple of thought ran through Three’s mind… he’d never thought to ask Wren’s age. Just assumed his initial guess had been correct. Almost seven, still looked five. Small for his age.

“Six and three-quarters. Practically a grown man.”

Everything about the situation seemed fine, and Three could find no reason for his unease. But he was nevertheless uneasy.

“And that’s a fine coat,” the guard said, rubbing the lapel of Wren’s coat between two fingers.

Three thought back, replayed the moment he’d said he needed to see the Governor. The guard’s expression… eyebrows up, pupils constricting, twitch at the corner of his mouth, at his temples. Not surprise.