The Drone Who Claimed the Marshal novel · Chapter 1 of 32
Chapter 1: Lot Nine
Linus wakes on the stage of the Claiming Hall as the last unclaimed lot, sold off live by his foster brother. When the Marshal walks in, his mark lights and he claims him; the Duke stands up with a contract.
Lot nine was Linus Garrow, and forty thousand people in the Claiming Hall were laughing at him.
He had been awake for less than a minute.
The last thing he remembered was white-gold fire pouring out of his own hands and a ship full of strangers getting away.
Then there were hot lights, a plain grey tunic, and a screen above his head that said his name.
LOT 9. GARROW, LINUS. DRONE, AGE 24. UNCLAIMED.
Below the screen the Warborn sat in rows of black and silver, and none of them lifted a hand.
"Twenty-four years old, no skills on file, no claim," the announcer said. "The Ore Works will take him for life."
The Hall laughed again.
Floating cameras turned toward Linus and hung there, so that his face was enormous on every wall.
His foster brother Perrin stood at the foot of the stage steps with his hands clasped in front of him.
This body knew Perrin. Perrin had fed it, taught it to read, and walked it to the Hall that morning.
"It's a formality, Lin," Perrin had said at the gate. "Stand there and look sad. Duke Cormac promised to have you home by spring."
Linus had spent his other life listening to officers say routine just before something went wrong.
On his right wrist was a steel band that would not open.
Perrin had locked it on him at seventeen. He had said it kept collectors away from a pretty drone.
It was warm now, and getting warmer.
Duke Cormac Lorne sat in the front row, silver at his temples, and raised two fingers to Linus in a small kind wave.
That morning at the gate the Duke had wound his own gold-trimmed scarf around Linus's neck and told him to keep it.
He had glanced at the Marshal's empty box twice while he did it.
"Going once," the announcer said.
Nobody moved.
"Going twice."
Then the great doors at the back of the Hall opened, and the laughter stopped.
A man in a black coat came down the aisle alone.
He was tall, with black hair and a hard, tired face, and every Warborn he passed stood up and sat down again quickly.
"That's Marshal Roark," someone whispered. "He never comes to the last day."
The Marshal took the empty box at the front without looking at anyone.
His left hand was in a black glove, and a thin gold light leaked from the seams of it.
Linus's fingertips began to tingle, all ten at once.
The steel band on his wrist went from warm to hot.
Linus clamped his left hand over it and looked up, and the Marshal was looking straight at him.
Pale eyes with gold in them. A muscle jumping in his jaw.
Black plates were rising under the skin along his neck, and he pressed his gloved hand flat to his chest to hold them down.
"Last call for lot nine," the announcer said.
The band cracked.
It split down the middle and fell on the stage with a clang that carried through the whole Hall.
Under it, on the inside of his wrist, was a pale ring-shaped mark.
It lit gold.
Every camera swung to it, and every wall of the Hall filled with the gold ring.
"Lin, no," Perrin said, and his voice cracked. "Don't."
The Hall had gone silent.
Linus knew the rule. This body had learned it at sixteen and never been allowed to use it.
A drone whose mark lit could name the Warborn who lit it.
If the claim was made in the Hall, nobody could refuse it.
Nobody had made one in years, because every drone with a lit mark had been kept from the stage.
He thought about the Ore Works. He thought about Perrin's wave of the hand, and the scarf, and the word spring.
So he stepped to the edge of the stage, held his glowing wrist up to the cameras, and claimed the Marshal.
"I name Marshal Ambrose Roark."
His voice went out through the speakers, steady and loud, and he did not feel steady at all.
For a moment nothing happened.
Then Marshal Roark stood up.
He came down the front steps and onto the stage in three long strides, and the plates along his jaw were black and sharp.
He took Linus's wrist in his bare right hand.
His grip was burning hot, and the gold under Linus's skin flared brighter where they touched.
"Say it again," the Marshal said quietly. His voice shook.
"I name you," Linus said. "Ambrose Roark."
The Marshal closed his eyes, and some of the plates on his jaw sank back into his skin.
He turned to the announcer. "Lot nine is claimed."
A sound went up from forty thousand people, half a gasp and half a roar.
Then a soft, warm voice cut through it from the front row.
Duke Cormac Lorne rose, buttoning his coat, and he was still smiling.
"Marshal, forgive me," he said. "That drone belongs to my house. His brother signed the contract this morning."
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