“Only after the battle outside of the city was won. After the Commander came through the gate.” He turns to me as the rest of our friends line up on either side of us and consider the distance between the sandy shore of the swamp and the mouth of the pipe.

“I built this weapon to take out the Commander.”

“I know, but this is important, too.”

His blue eyes bore into mine. “Rachel, this is a one-time-use weapon. We have to drive it into the ground and then run, because the tanniyn—every single one of them living anywhere near Rowansmark—will come bursting through the ground where the staff is located. If one of the monsters doesn’t crush the staff, it will fall down into the depths of the earth. If we use this inside Rowansmark, there is nothing left to go after the Commander with except our swords, and he’s surrounded by an army of soldiers ready to protect their leader. If we do this, you may be giving up your chance to get revenge.”

I meet his gaze and swallow hard as the memory of the Commander’s ruthless expression while he stabbed Oliver to death in front of me fills my mind. Reaching up, I run my fingers over the leather pouch I wear around my neck. The one with dirt from my father’s grave and ashes from my childhood home. The one that commemorates everything I’ve lost because of the Commander.

Finally, I say, “Revenge won’t help me. We’ll find another way to bring him to justice. I want him dead, but I want to save the lives of the soldiers in his army more. Let’s go.”

Logan smiles, a breathtakingly beautiful smile that warms his eyes and sends a frisson of pleasure across my skin. He leans close. “I love you, you know.”

I grin. “I know. Now, let’s go wade through this mess and get inside the city before we’re too late.”

It doesn’t take long to hike up our cloaks and wade through the swamp. Willow and Adam make snarky remarks about knowing all of Rowansmark’s dirty little secrets. Nola and Smithson endure the stench quietly, as do Logan and I. But Frankie takes three steps into the thick, murky liquid and starts gagging like he’s about to revisit every single thing he’s eaten in the last decade.

“You okay, Frankie?” I ask.

He nods brusquely. “I’m”—gag—“fine.” He bends at the waist and heaves, splattering the swamp with partially digested thistle stems swirling in a sea of purple blackberry juice.

“It gets better inside the pipe.” I hope. The pipe was rinsed at sunset. How many people could’ve emptied their chamber pots already this morning?

Frankie curses and then vomits again.

“Need some help?” Logan asks.

“Worst thing”—gag—“I’ve ever”—heave—“smelled.” He curses and gags and coughs until he’s doubled over at the waist again.

“I wouldn’t lean so close to the smell, if I were you,” Willow calls from the mouth of the pipe, where she and Adam are already waiting. “Especially now that you get to smell both poop and puke.”

Frankie promptly vomits again and then glares at Willow like it’s her fault. She laughs, but it doesn’t sound unkind.

“Come on, old man,” she says. “Plug your nose and get over here before I have to go out and fetch you. You know I’d never let you live that down.”

He obeys, hiking his cloak even higher, burying his nose in the heavy cloth, and then stumbling his way to the pipe just ahead of the rest of us. Willow helps him climb in, and then asks him if he wants some more blackberries.

He gags again, and glares at all of us. “Never speak of this to anyone. Do you hear me? Never.”

Willow grins, but there’s a tightness around her eyes, a stiffness in her shoulders, that says the fear of what we’ll find when we get inside Rowansmark and look for Quinn is wearing on her.

“Let’s go,” I say, and we start the long, slippery trek through the bowels of the Wasteland and into the heart of the city.

This time, I’m not starving, and my back is a dull ache instead of sharp pains. I’m able to keep up with the group, though I suspect they’re moving slower than they normally would simply to allow me the dignity of not having to ask them to wait for me.

I can tell when we reach the city limits because smaller pipes branch away from the main pipe, and the contents of chamber pots rest in sloppy, stinking piles beneath some of those openings.

Frankie curses again and wraps his cloak around most of his face.

“How far in do we need to go?” Willow asks, her voice a tangle of hope and fear.

“We need to get as close to James Rowan as possible,” Logan says. “We should surface near the square, and then we can split up. Half of us can look for Quinn while the other half go after James.”

It takes us another thirty minutes to reach what I estimate to be a building close to the square. Frankie lifts Willow into the smaller pipe above us. The rest of us follow her lead, and then Smithson reaches back to help Frankie crawl into the pipe as well. Bracing our arms and legs against the slick metal, we slowly work our way out of the pipe and into what looks to be the hall of an office building.

To the right is a corridor filled with doors. To the left, a window vibrates with the sound of a crowd chanting. Willow hurries toward the window and wrenches it open, letting in the fresh morning air and the deafening bellow of hundreds of Rowansmark citizens screaming in unison, “Punish him! Punish him!”

Willow makes a small, agonized sound and reaches for her bow. I rush to her side and look across the throng that fills the square to see James Rowan standing on the pain atonement stage, whip in hand, while beside him, stripped to the waist and chained to a post, is a boy with golden skin and dark hair.