Free Marked by Jenny Martin Page A

place. “. . . Look like yourself. Which at the moment is dangerous.”
    â€œI’ll keep my hood on.”
    â€œI suspect that’s not going to be enough.”
    I slump, resigned.
    â€œAre you always this impractical?” she asks, matter-of-factly.
    â€œWell . . .”
    â€œI take that as a yes,” she says, still unfazed. “And I suppose everyone else lets you get away with it?”
    I twitch like a bluefin on a hook. There’s something about Miyu that disarms me. This girl’s right up there with Mary in the shut-your-exhaust department.
    When I don’t answer, Miyu goes on. “You are impractical, I think,” she says. Her half smile cracks, turning up ever so slightly. “But it suits you.”

    I let Miyu brush gloppy, thick stain all over my face before we meet on the deck. At least the paint dries quickly, and it doesn’t smell too bad. I suspect there’s balm leaf in it; I catch the faint whiff of it every time I inhale. The scent reminds me of Cash. And it’s a weird thing to look like the wrong end of a brush monkey while remembering him. If he were here, I think he’d laugh.
    The thought makes my eyes well up.
    Gently, Miyu fusses. “Stop, or the colors will run.”
    â€œIt is a mourning mask,” I say. “Just striving for authenticity here.”
    Larken slips beside me. No monk’s robes for him, since he’s staying on the ship. He could almost blend in with the crew, as scruffy as his borrowed clothes are. But as Miyu would say, it’s just as well. Scruffy suits him.
    He stretches his hand toward the approaching shore. Almost there now. I hear the hover engine begin to power up. “Take a good look,” Larken says.
    I scan the shallows of Manjor, then the horizon. In the distance, high-rises and turreted temples pierce the skyline. Vessels of all sizes and shapes crowd the shore, some rootedin the surf, some hovering just above the sand-silky tide line. As we get closer, the Manjorans on the docks look less like scurrying insects and more like workaday grunts.
    We grab hold of the railing as the second hull siren blares. It’s a warning to hold fast as our ship roars into hover mode. And roar it does. I resist the urge to cover my ears as we rise, displacing sea water in high-pressure blasts. The thrust’s twice as loud as a dozen circuit rigs in a race day lineup, and that’s really saying something.
    Another hydrift pulls in beside us. I sneak a look at its prow and spy the name etched on the hull. And when I glance around the harbor again, I see a handful of other vessels share this same script. There are other ringers too. Three Kukiri Malandar s. Two Farkourrens . Five . . . no, wait . . . six Gabban Gallas .
    â€œThey all have the same names,” I shout over the roar.
    When the hover engines soften into a stabilized hum, Larken answers, “It’s a smuggler’s trick. Sort of a joke, really. It’s designed to frustrate local authorities. For example, say a black-market merchant’s caught by a squad of IP, or the city guard. They ask him which vessel’s running his bootleg goods, and he answers—”
    Even I can appreciate the brilliance in this simple ploy. “‘Why, the Andalan, of course.’”
    Larken nods.
    â€œSix decades of Castran occupation,” Miyu adds. “And the Biseran manage to fend off the conquerors—resisting a well-armed Interstellar Patrol—with nothing more than dishonest ingenuity. Well done.”
    â€œAnd the ruse doesn’t end there,” Larken replies. “All these names? Like many Biseran words, they have many meanings, depending on how they’re pronounced. For example, emphasize the first syllable of An dalan—and you speak of a precious jewel. Pause on the second—An da lan —and you’re talking about a bottomless well. Accent the