The Iron Thorn - Caitlin Kittredge [139]
The smoke and the wailing Klaxons came into place for me. From burning buildings, from a riot started by Dean’s people in the Rustworks, or for one of a thousand other reasons that people had to hate the Proctors.
Like someone whose brother had been shot by them.
I knew then that there was no chance we were getting off this jitney. Cal’s and my papers were only good as students of the School, within city limits. And if Dean had ever had papers, he didn’t have them now.
We weren’t going back to the Academy to steal Marcos’s diving suit. We weren’t getting into the Engineworks. The only place any of our trio was going was the castigator if they caught us out when we tried to run.
Heretics didn’t receive mercy. Only those who turned themselves in had a chance to have their case heard before a tribunal of Proctors. It was a joke, but it was better than the alternatives presented.
I stood up. Dean grabbed my wrist. “The hell are you doing?”
“Aoife!” Cal hissed. “Sit down!”
I looked them both in the eye. “You need to trust me,” I told Dean. “And I’m so very sorry.”
The Proctor was staring at me when I looked back into his hooded face. I steadied my shaking legs and stepped forward, holding out my wrists. “My name is Aoife Grayson,” I said to him. “I think you’re looking for me.”
The handcuffs rubbing my wrists were heavy, hand-forged bands with skeleton locks. I tried to slip my thumb under the cuff to scratch my opposite arm, but they were clamped tight.
“Stop that,” said the Proctor sitting across from me. The windowless jitney bounced up Northern Avenue. I’d turned us in to avoid a chase, to avoid being caught. To save Cal and Dean the worst of what the Proctors could offer—at least, I hoped so. The jitney slowed as we approached the end of the street. The Ave terminated at Banishment Square, and above the bricks, Ravenhouse lurked.
The Catacombs lived beneath. I was at the end of the line.
“What happened to my friends?” I said. “The boys I was with?”
“Be quiet,” said the Proctor. “No speaking until interrogation.”
The jitney rattled to a stop and the doors cranked open. The Proctor gripped my arm, not hard, but firm. He knew and I knew who was in charge here. “Out. Watch your head.”
The officers who worked in Ravenhouse wore plain black suits, not the double-buttoned uniform tunic of street agents. One checked a booking sheet while the other, a woman in a sharp jacket and pencil skirt, patted me down. The Proctor who’d arrested me at the depot tossed them the carpetbag.
“She had that with her.”
“Search it,” the officer said to her mate. “File it.”
“Hang on,” said the one reading the sheet. “You need to see this.” He held out the clipboard. “She’s been flagged. Grayson, Aoife.”
I knew I should be truly terrified—if I was flagged, I was on par with the worst Crimson Guard fugitive—but a tiny thrill went through me. The Proctors thought I was dangerous. Maybe I could turn that to my favor.
The trio bowed their heads over the paper, and then one fixed me with bright eyes. “She’s a person of highest interest.” He shoved the clipboard at the female officer. “We need to get her up to Mr. Draven’s office.”
I started. Grey Draven was Head of the City. His picture was in all of the Academy’s classrooms. He oversaw the Proctors. He might as well be the Master Builder himself.
“Walk.” The officer’s grip wasn’t just firm this time. It hurt, and it would leave bruises come tomorrow.
An Audience with Draven
INSIDE THE WORKINGS of Ravenhouse, I was buzzed through a series of gates, from the plain tile entrance with the booking clerk sitting underneath a spitting aether lamp reading True Confessions magazine, to cement stairwells, higher and higher with just the Proctor’s breathing and my own heartbeat for accompaniment.
Grey Draven. The Head of the City. Equaled only by the other three City Heads, of New Amsterdam and San Francisco and Chicago. We’d all seen the picture in the newspaper of