Chapter 6: The Drone Ward

"Alone," the Marshal said, reading the note a second time. "He wrote alone."

"He did."

"Linus, the Duke's man put that under your door."

"I know."

Marshal Roark folded the paper and held it between two fingers. His jaw was tight, and a single black plate showed at his throat.

"You told me not to lie to you," Linus said. "So tell me no, and I'll hear it."

The Marshal looked at him for a long moment.

"No," he said. Then, in a lower voice, "But I won't stop you."

"Thank you."

"Wystan will be on the roof across the lane. I will be at the end of it."

"That's not alone."

"It is by my count," the Marshal said.

The drone ward lay under the city, in the lanes below the river wall, and it smelled of smoke and frying onions.

Linus walked into it in a plain coat, with his bare wrist uncovered.

He had expected the stares.

He had not expected a baker in a flour-white apron to step out of his doorway.

The baker held out a warm loaf. "You're the one who said the name," he said.

"I'm sorry?"

"On the feed. Said it loud." The man pressed the loaf into his hands. "Nobody's said it in years."

By the time he reached the end of the lane, six more drones had come to their doors.

Not one of them spoke.

An old man at the corner touched two fingers to his own bare wrist and held them there until Linus had passed.

The reading house was a one-room school with a cracked slate and rows of small benches.

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