Maren Goldweaver's Arc

Chapter 1 of 42

The informant caught Maren Goldweaver by the sleeve as she left the transfer office, and his grip told her he already knew. He was a thin man from her block, one of the runners who traded names for bread. Six months of quiet work sat inside her satchel: copied logs, a route to her sister's file before the Registry sealed it. He could end all of it before noon. "You've been asking after the purge," he said. "Wrong questions. Wrong ears." She did not pull away. She had rehearsed this moment in her head for weeks, though not with him. "Walk with me," she said. "You'll want what I'm carrying more than the reward." He walked. That was the first small yes. She led him down through the lower sectors, past shuttered stalls and the notices nailing the lockdown to every post. Her gold earrings knocked against her jaw as she moved. She had worn them on purpose. A woman in gold did not look like a woman about to run. She stopped at a two-level house with iron studs on every plank. The lower level was a forge, doors braced with metal, hammers ringing inside. The blacksmith who worked there was Miller Ironhand, and Maren had chosen him because word in the sector said he armed people the Council wanted disarmed. Miller opened the door with a hammer still in his hand. Tall, blonde, soot up both forearms. He looked at the informant, then at Maren, and his face closed. "No," Miller said. "Not him. Not you." "Hear me for one minute." "You've been in the Registry halls. I've been watched for less." "I've been in them because my sister's file closes this month," Maren said. "He knows. He was going to sell me on the walk here." The informant started to speak. Miller lifted the hammer an inch and the informant stopped. Maren opened her satchel and set a dagger on the workbench. It was small, old, the blade folded in a pattern Miller's eyes went to at once. Her father's. The last thing she owned that could be sold. "You made this," she said. "Ten years ago. Your mark is on the tang." Miller picked it up. Turned it. His jaw shifted. "Where did you get it." "My father bought it from you before the purge. I'm giving it back. In trade." "For what." "For him." She nodded at the informant. "Keep him here until my sister is out. Feed him. Don't hurt him. When she's clear, let him go. He talks now, we all hang." Miller looked at the informant. The informant looked at the hammer. "Enough," Miller said. He set the dagger down on his side of the bench. He shut the door behind Maren with the informant inside. She walked back toward the Registry with three weeks less time than she had this morning, and one blacksmith who now knew her name.