"Stroud is a genius."--Rick Riordan The now Albert and Scarlett are a formidable pair. With his ability to read minds, and her way with a weapon, no bank can keep them out and no jail can keep them in. ; ; ;But their notoriety may have spread a bit too far. Now old enemies from Scarlett’s past and a sinister new threat from Albert’s world are boxing them in--and holding their friends hostage. ; ; ;To win their freedom, the outlaws Scarlett and Browne are charged with pulling off an impossible mission. ; ; ;And the clock is Fans of Jonathan Stroud''s "bleedin'' brilliant" <The Outlaws Scarlett and Browne< won''t want to miss this new wild ride.

Autorentext

Jonathan Stroud

Klappentext

"Albert and Scarlett are a formidable pair. With his ability to read minds and her way with a weapon, no bank can keep them out and no jail can keep them in. But their notoriety may have spread a bit too far. Now old enemies from Scarlett's past and a sinister new threat from Albert's world are boxing them in--and holding their friends hostage"--

Zusammenfassung
**"Stroud is a genius." —Rick Riordan

The now notorious outlaws Scarlett and Browne are back in their second death-defying adventure—and this time it’s not just their own lives on the line. . . .**

Albert and Scarlett are a formidable pair. With his ability to read minds and her way with a weapon, no bank can keep them out and no jail can keep them in.
     But their notoriety may have spread a bit too far. Now old enemies from Scarlett’s past and a sinister new threat from Albert’s world are boxing them in—and holding their friends hostage.
     To win their freedom, the outlaws Scarlett and Browne are charged with pulling off an impossible mission.
     And the clock is ticking . . .

Fans of Jonathan Stroud's "bleedin' brilliant" The Outlaws Scarlett and Browne won't want to miss this new wild ride.

Leseprobe
1

That evening, with the sun setting over the ash fields and the curfew bells ringing out above the cities of the plains, three murderers gathered at a crossroads. They wasted no words in greeting. The youngest climbed the broken tower to survey the land; the oldest took up a position of concealment in the ruins beyond the ditch. The third, the bandit captain, strolled to a concrete slab that lay amid the sagebrush and black foxgloves beside the road. He lit his pipe and sat at ease, waiting for travelers to come to them.

The crossroads was a good place for an ambush, which was why the bandits had selected it. The tumbled walls of the old watchhouse provided cover, while the surviving tower gave a clear view in all directions. They were close enough to the towns to guarantee foot traffic, and far enough away for the militia not to bother them while they chatted with their prisoners. Also, there was a ravine nearby where the bodies could be tipped.

The bandit captain enjoyed his work, and waiting was part of the pleasure. He felt like a fisherman on a riverbank, scanning the surface of the water, knowing that sleek fat trout were close at hand. He sat with his leather coat open, one booted leg extended, sucking on his pipe. Through half-­closed eyes he watched the fragrant smoke twirl skyward. Yes, patience was the key. . . . Presently the fish would come.

Sure enough, soon a low whistle sounded from Lucas on the tower. The captain glanced up toward the parapet and noted the direction of the boy’s outstretched arm. From the east, then: the Corby road. Traders, probably, hurrying to reach Warwick before nightfall. The captain rubbed his bearded chin and glanced at the pistol in his belt. From Corby might come spices, furs, black tektite jewels . . . A Corby haul was rarely disappointing.

How would they be traveling? On foot? In a motor vehicle? He could not hear an engine.

He got to his feet unhurriedly, took his pipe from his mouth, and set it on the slab to await his return. Stepping through the sagebrush, he stood ready at the side of the road.

The ash fields were soft and sugary in the evening light. Long shadows, sharp as coffin nails, stretched from the pines behind the ruins. To the east, the shadow of the tower was a slash across the red-­brown earth.

And now two bicycles came into sight, making for the crossroads.

The bandit captain frowned in mild surprise. Bicycles were not unusual in the safe-­lands, but the Corby road was long and arduous and had deteriorated in the period of the Rains. As he watched, the lead bike weaved smoothly to avoid a pothole. The one behind swerved at the last minute, teetering on the brink of disaster, righted itself, and rushed on.

Both riders were heavily laden with rucksacks and packages. Despite this, and even at a distance, he could see how slight they were. If they were young, this suggested further possibilities. There was a slave market in Warwick, and the bandit captain was on passable terms with its overseer.

He waited until he could hear the rattle of the wheels. Then he walked out into the dying sunlight and took up a heroic posture, legs straddling the center of the road. He flicked his coat aside and tucked his thumb into his belt, so that his palm cupped the gun hilt loosely.

Smoothing back his glistening mane of hair, he held up his hand.

The leading bicycle came to an abrupt halt, wheel twisting, raising a cloud of thin red ash. The other nearly collided with it. With a squawk of woe, its rider veered away and skewed to a standstill too, his rucksack pitching drunkenly to the side.

They were young. A blinking, bewildered, dark-­haired boy. The other was a girl in a broad-­brimmed hat.

The red dust settled slowly around them.

This was always the best bit for the bandit captain. He liked the theatricality of the moment. Him blocking the road. Seeing the shock on their faces, the slowly awakening fear.

“One moment, travelers!” he called. “A word with you.”

“Bandit,” the boy said.

“Yeah?” The girl’s head tilted slightly. “I’d never have guessed.”

Her face was in shadow, but the bandit captain could see twirls of red hair spilling down below the angled hat. She wore a battered brown jacket and dark jeans stained with ash. She had a rifle on her back; also a rucksack with packs and tubes strapped to it. There was a pistol tucked into a slouched gun belt just inside her coat.

“A friendly conversation,” the bandit captain said. “That’s all I require of you. I should mention that I have armed men watching us. I must politely request that you remove your weapons and dismount from your bicycles.”

He waited. The riders didn’t move.

“Hat,” the boy said.

The girl lifted a hand slowly, lazily—­but not to remove her pistol, as the bandit expected. Instead, she took her hat off, propped it on the handlebars. She sat back on the saddle, one boot resting on a pedal, the other on the ground. Long red hair, dark with sweat, fell in a mess of ringlets either side of a pale and sullen face. No more than nineteen, the bandit guessed. Nineteen and healthy. Certainly worth keeping alive.

But she had still not dismounted from the bicycle. Or taken off her gun. And nor had the boy moved. He wore an old gray militia jacket, which hung long and shapeless on his feeble form. He was slender-faced, dark-eyed, almost girlish in his features, and was gazing at the bandit captain with an expression of vacant intensity. A simpleton, perhaps. The main point was he carried no weapon, and the bandit instantly disregarded him.

He returned his attention to the girl. “Did you hear what I said?”
…