Maren Goldweaver's Arc

Chapter 2 of 42

Maren was ten steps down the lane from the forge when boots hit the stones behind her. She turned, hand already inside her satchel. Miller caught up in three strides. He had pulled a coat over his soot-marked shirt and left the hammer behind. "The runner won't go anywhere," he said. "I bolted the inner door. He eats when I say." "Then why are you following me." "Because you're walking to the Records Hall alone, and you won't get past the front step." She stopped. "I've been past it twice this month." "In gold earrings. In clean braids." His eyes moved down her sleeve, over the chain at her wrist. "They log faces like yours. You want the sealed wing, you need someone inside to point at the shelf. You don't have that name yet. I do." Maren felt the ground shift under the plan she had carried for six months. He was right. She had the transfer codes. She did not have the wing. "Who." "Compliance clerk. Owes me for a blade I never charged for. She'll tell you where your sister sits, but she won't speak to a woman dressed like that." They went back to the cottage together. The front door was crowded with locks and hanging keys, planters set along the boards. Inside, she pulled a bundle from the chest under the window. A child's small business suit, patched at both elbows. Her sister's, from the year the schools still ran. She set it aside and took her own tattered work clothes from the shelf. She dressed in the back room. She left the gold in a bowl on the sill. When she came out, Miller was waiting in the front room. He wore a man's gray suit, frayed at the cuffs, the tie knotted loose. The collar sagged the way her father's had sagged after long shifts. Maren stopped in the doorway. Her breath caught. "Where did you get those." "He left them the day he brought me the dagger to sharpen. Said he'd come back for them." Miller pulled the coat straight. "He didn't." She could not speak for a moment. Then she nodded once and walked past him to the door. The Records Hall sat three streets over, tall stone, colored glass in every window. Clerks moved in and out with folders under their arms. Miller and Maren joined the line at the side stair, two tired workers waiting on a stamp. A woman came down the steps toward them. Black hair pulled in a tight bun. Cracked glasses. A gold chain rode at her collar over a dark jacket. She saw Miller first. Her mouth tightened. "Not here," she said. Then her eyes moved to Maren. "Inside. Now. Both of you." Maren followed her up the steps. The clerk's name, Miller had said on the walk, was Delia.