A menacing blot in the sky, now visible with a regular eye, floated so slowly to Jiy, it reminded Lapis of a fat cloud that hung over one area, dumping water and refusing to budge. She rubbed her hands and shoved them under her armpits for warmth as her misty breath cascaded into the fading orangy-pink sunset.
She looked straight up, at the sprinkle of stars twinkling between wispy clouds, then at the snow-heavy railing that spanned the balcony. It overlooked the slumbering part of the garden, only leafless brown branches breaking the white monotony of drifts. Practically empty, like her soul.
She was not a tough shank. She was not a sly chaser, certainly not a hunter. But she had stepped into those unwanted shoes and stomped about, splatting those around her with mud and worse. She wanted to deny that, wanted to kick those shoes off and send them careening into nothingness while sweet water washed the stains away.
Nothing was sweet enough to wash the stains away. She was now a killer. She broke every promise she made, to herself, to Patch, because she panicked. Plan, prepare, execute; would a meticulous ‘what if’ have saved her, Lykas and Scand without the blood?
Her brother joined her, eyeing the blot before sighing and shaking his head.
“I thought it would have crashed by now.”
“Requet’s lucky,” she muttered. “Stars like him, I guess.”
He nudged her with his shoulder. “Maybe. Or maybe they’re waiting until he’s nearly here, when he’s expecting rescue, and send him to oblivion.”
“I’m supposed to be the cynical one.”
“Hmm.” He jerked his head towards the suite’s entertainment room, and she crunched her way back inside. Patch, slouching to the point of back-breaking posture, leafed through a thick set of papers. She settled near her partner, embarrassment slamming her, full-force. The more she replayed the confrontation with Beltin over the past two days, the more she regretted initiating it, and the dread that she looked foolish in front of him, Faelan and Patch, hounded her.
He reached the final sheets. “Seems a shame Vali still lives in the sewers,” he said absently. “But what she’s seen is interesting.”
“Have you been to her home?” Faelan asked as he closed the glass doors and drew the curtains. “I have. It’s not in a sewer, it’s in an abandoned depot. From the looks of it, I’d guess it was either the royal family’s private train station, or one reserved for court nobility. The walls have exquisite murals of holidays before Dentheria invaded, something you wouldn’t see in a typical transportation setting. She says shanks avoid the depot because Mama Poison has a reputation, so no one’s been there to spoil it.” He laughed. “She has proper terron pillows for a bed, and she’s taken lighting and other resources from the criminally minded. It’s so clean, I think she gets bored and sweeps and mops to pass the time.”
The image of a terron mopping a tile floor while whistling refused to leave Lapis’s mind.
“As long as she’s comfortable,” Patch said.
“She is. And the space she has is large enough she can move without bumping into a wall or a support beam. Truthfully, if terrons visit from Ambercaast, they’ll probably be more comfy there than here in a wallow.”
“So what’s Vali say?” Lapis asked, nudging Patch with her elbow.
“There was a group of shanks using the outer track of the depot to transport crates with a blue stag symbol.”
She narrowed her eyes. Ambercaast had plenty of supply crates with the blue stag on the side. Was that how that merchant smuggled khentauree parts into Jiy?
“She scared them off, and they left the crates behind. She recalled the blue stag stamped on items the markweza got from Mesaalle Kez, so tore them open. Jhor might want to take a look at what she recovered.” He lowered the paper. “While the crates don’t smell like Ambercaast, the shanks smelled of the Grey Streets.”
Wondrous.
Patch hefted the sheets. “This is everything you have on Kez?”
“That’s what we’ve collected so far,” Faelan said. “I have dossiers on everyone involved in all this strangeness—some of them are half a page, like Big Man, some are that.” He motioned to the papers. “Some, like Requet’s, are mainly Midir complaining about him. Funny, but not helpful.”
“Want me to visit Vali?”
“I want you to accompany Jhor and Sanna. The Minq and Cowl said the janks tried to bribe their way into the tunnels through their joint toll intersection yesterday. Since that’s the route Armarandos took to get Maurojay, Aventen and Raidyth to Ambercaast, it’s a good bet they’ve discovered something, and they’ll likely be nosing about, thinking they can bribe a shank for info.”
“Fun,” Lapis muttered.
“It should be, as you’ll be going with him.”
Patch grinned, wide and amused, as she regarded her brother with an irked glare.
“As missions go, it’s rather benign,” Faelan said.
“As missions go, no rebel one is benign,” she responded, as exasperated as a mother whose child lied to them about eating cookies despite evidence to the contrary.
Patch chuckled that. Faelan sighed.
“I suppose. And keep in mind, we’re looking to open the underground ways that Vali uses to reach Ambercaast. If you see anything odd, let me know and we can investigate. We need them empty of outside activity.”
“Not a problem.” Patch set the stack on the low table and stretched. “It probably couldn’t hurt to have Jhor put those birds the markweza had along the route.”
“Jo Ban thinks so as well, but we don’t have the equipment yet.” Her brother sighed and retrieved the papers. “Another in a long list of things that hopefully get done, but I’m not counting on it.”
“Are you pulling people from the field?”
Pulling people from the field? Lapis eyed them; what happened, that neither had confided in her?
“Yes. Uncle’s managing the Coriy group, Eithne’s in Vraindem, and I sent Ehren to Diytros. He’s not in a good place, and work is what he has.”
Lapis smashed her lips together and bowed her head. Her fault; she should have said something in private, not called out Klyo during a public event like Fools and Ghouls, tried to soothe his pain . . .
“It’s not your fault, Lapis.”
She looked up at her brother, and could not believe the words. She had caused pain with the truth of her sister’s death. “He didn’t deserve what Klyo got. I should have told him in private.”
“It may not have been the best time, but it’s better we know than to have her in our company.” He hmphed and readjusted the papers to hold them in the crook of his elbow. “We couldn’t find her after he ended their relationship, but her mother’s not quiet about where she’s at and what she’s doing—and she’s pissed that Ehren insulted her daughter by dropping her like an uncouth stablehand. Lady Thyra said she made a production at a theater show in Coriy, saying Klyo and Dareios are now an item—and Dareios is Meinrad’s kid. So Klyo ran to Rambart and Meinrad. That’s all I need to know about her loyalty to the cause.”
She lifted a lip; she and Relaine could snarl at each other, hoping to degrade a rival by butchering reputations all around. It seemed fitting, they landed in the company of two who had lost all hope of returning to the rebellion.
Patch patted her leg. “Come on. We’ll send a rat with a note, then visit Vali.”
Lapis had spent years believing Mama Poison was a large and unnerving creature living in the ruined temple with the carrion lizards. It embarrassed her, she had still assumed she did, despite evidence that the terron, as a thinking and feeling being, would hate the carnage littering the courtyard.
‘Twas all an act, to keep Vali safe from more serious attempts to take her out.
When they reached sliding, board-fortified glass doors blocking half a track, she studied the barrier with curiosity. An interesting entrance, and one that might confuse the random shank. Sanna pulled a long rope to the side, and while she heard no bell, Vali must have, for she slid the doors open with her claws and motioned for them to enter. Once inside, she caught a handle, pulled it closed, then slid three arm-sized bolts into place.
She was serious about security.
The depot around the door had glowing tiles on the walls, and Lapis did not notice any chips, cracks, or missing ones. Every three columns were glass-covered ad boards holding posters of current theater productions, adding vibrant color to the otherwise blinding whiteness.
Metal fixtures in the floor hinted that the terron had ripped signs or other objects out of their place to make room for her girth, and Lapis bet she used them as barriers to wall-off her chosen space.
The murals sat on the bottom floor, on each side of a ramp made from a stairway. The cheerful scenes, which spanned the seasons, depicted holidays Lapis had no familiarity with. Would the Jils know? She bet Darl would love to peep at these.
She agreed with Faelan, that they marked the depot as a place that catered to nobles; the scenes held richly clad individuals eating expensive foods, walking through decorated midyear shops, visiting orchards and picking apples, dancing in snow-circled, sparkly squares, and giving artwork and jewelry to priests, while poor slobs manned booths and ushered them around. The lesser were easy spots; they wore smiles despite how utilitarian their outfits, how hunched their shoulders, and how boring their tasks were.
Vali lumbered up the ramp, and Lapis touched the wrought iron railing as they ascended. Had a terron or two slipped out of Ambercaast and helped her? It seemed like the work of a good smith, with well-made leaves and stems filling the void between twisted balusters.
They passed through a wide opening that lacked doors and into a space that reminded her of an entertainment room. Two blue-stained low tables sat at each end, pillows surrounding them, paintings of landscapes lining dark wooden walls. Two chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the arms curving out and down to curled ends, where several fruit oil lamps hung. Another open doorway to the left held the kitchen; she glimpsed a stove large enough to roast a whole pig. How fantastic! Where had Vali dug it up from?
The terron motioned to the right. Lapis recognized the oversized playing cards sitting on the table they passed; a rat must have given them to her. They played with the same type; cheap paper with illustrations of various things like the night sky, mountains, flower petals, often misprinted so the color lay outside the lines.
Presentation did not matter. They still provided hours of enjoyment.
Vali looked at the cards and signed. Sanna nodded and turned to her.
“Vali says Rin gave her these cards. She is happy to have them; they pass the time.”
“Well, if you ever get bored, invite the rats down to play. Entertainment will abound, and they’ll remind you silence isn’t all that bad.”
Vali rumbled with lung-shuddering amusement and signed.
“She says she invited the reading circle when you were in Abastion. She forgot what a handful human children can be.”
“If they didn’t behave, I’ll talk to them,” Lapis said. The terron shook her head, the sides of her mouth moving up into a smile. She signed and Sanna buzzed, pleased.
“She says it was nice to have the boisterous, but it was nice to have the silence afterwards. After she deems it ready, she’ll invite the rats to spend the freezing nights here. She’s asked The Hollow’s terron smith to create a heating stove for this room. She knows Rin’s room is small, and she has plenty of space as long as she can heat it.”
There was a bite to the air in the home, so Lapis understood her caution. “Thank you,” she said. “Having a warmer, less crowded place to stay during the coldest nights will help. I’ll cover food for them.” Her smile widened. “And I’ll make reading before bed a stipulation.”
Vali signed, nodding. “She likes storytime,” Sanna translated. “Though, perhaps, with a few less toilet references.”
“Gabby,” Lapis sighed.
The terron led them down a hallway lined by functional wooden screens. She pushed one at the end aside and they entered a workroom that had claw-sized tools hanging on walls, from hammers to brushes, wrenches to drills. Piles of material sat in containers to the side of floor-to-ceiling cabinets. The tables were clear but for two to the right side, where tech sat in neat lines on their surfaces. Jhor hastened to them, then made an odd, disbelieving sound.
“Is this everything in the crates?” he asked. Vali nodded. He picked up a length of black metal, ran his finger on the slick side, and tossed it back. “Body mods,” he said. He snagged a half-sphere and showed it to Patch. “Look familiar?”
“Looks like the socket for my tech eye.”
“It is one—not as advanced, though. These are twenty, thirty years old. In Dentheria, they use them to train new military techs. Someone went through a Dentherion military storage and stole all this—and my bet is on the Beryl. They’re hunters based in Jiy, and Klow’s associated with Kez.”
“Grey Streets shanks work for Hoyt,” Patch said. “I can see him being forced to provide in-city services since he owes Mibi money and Kez holds both of them by the neck.”
Jhor moved down the table. “Some of this is illegal outside the military. This stuff,” and he pointed to a mix of silver, black and red metal, some forming whole items, some looking like they were cut away from something else. “This is Meergeven in origin. A sub-unit of Gredy’s mercs had modded limbs that looked like this—all illegal in Meergevenis, let alone here. They were supposed to enhance physical speed and eyesight, but they didn’t and failed often, sometimes in such horrific ways, the majority of his people refused to get them.”
“Vali, other than the Grey Streets, what else did the crates and shanks smell like?” Lapis asked.
The terron signed, with Sanna intently focused on her claws.
“She says the crates smell of decay and cold and fresh paint. She thinks they sat a long time in storage and someone recently conscripted them for use. The shanks smelled like the Grey Streets with a lingering dead grass stink she associates with the hills south of the Vale.”
“How intact are the southwestern tunnels?” Patch asked. “Last I nosed around them, most had collapsed.”
Vali rocked her head back and forth, then signed.
“Vali says that some have been dug out,” Sanna translated. “She doesn’t know when this happened but noticed lights in a once-dark tunnel after she chased random shanks away from her home two weeks ago. It led outside, and she is certain the Dentherions blocked it during their invasion. It was once a bay used to repair train cars, and soldiers targeted such places. She noticed a trail in the snow leading away, but did not follow it.”
“So shanks are getting into Jiy through once-abandoned tunnels, hoping to hide their activity.” Patch sighed as Vali nodded in agreement. “Have you looked at any others? If not, I’ll tell Faelan and we can get a group together to tour the tunnels.”
The terron shook her head and signed.
“You should probably do it in company anyway. I know your scales are the best for repelling a tech beam or shank knife, but a ceiling collapse might cause problems, especially in long-abandoned tunnels.”
She widened her eyes and nodded.
“I’d do it soon,” Jhor said, motioning to them with a metal square segmented on top by lines and words written at the bottom of each division. “If someone’s smuggling military mod parts into Jiy, the purpose can’t be good.”
“Getting fake arms so when the lightning gauntlets catch fire, the shank doesn’t die?” Lapis asked. Patch laughed and Jhor’s attempt to not follow annoyed her. Yes, she said it dry, but she meant it, too.
“Beats trying to figure out what’s wrong with the gauntlets,” the modder said. “Of course, if one goes up, so does the shank, and it won’t matter if they have a modded arm. Clothing and hair aren’t flame-resistant. Unless they pull the entire arm from their socket and throw it away—which I doubt will happen in a panic—they’re still in a dire situation.” He flipped the square and tapped the bottom; stamped on it was a gold ring with a squiggle in the center. “This is the markweza’s personal seal. I only saw it on items used to mod scientists.”
Lapis squawked. “None of the scientists we’ve met have mods, do they?” She never would have pictured any of the frightened people brave enough to suffer through a mod implementation. Patch spent months getting used to his—and she spent months helping.
“Yes, actually.” He tapped at his temple. “Mostly for eyes. The markweza offered to pay for the enhancements—but he made them use specific doctors who wouldn’t tell the authorities. They weren’t skilled modders and messed up most of the implants. I had to fix nearly all of them, and some of them were so warped, I replaced the whole thing with Dentherion-made sockets.” Jhor shrugged. “Having me fix things meant I, um, made a few changes. They wanted eyes that acted like microscopes, so fine. Other than regular vision, that’s all they do. The disappointment they couldn’t shoot beams out of their socket was intense.”
Sanna buzzed, not amused.
“Did the Dentherions confiscate the markweza”s stuff?” Lapis asked.
“Doubtful. Dentheria isn’t on the best of terms with Meergevenis, and upsetting the royal family by grabbing a prince’s possessions, however ill-favored he is, won’t sit well between them. I think the shanks already had them, through other means.” Jhor swept his arm across the table. “These aren’t random mods for random shanks. They only work if a skilled modder properly installs them, especially the military ones. That’s on purpose—Dentheria didn’t want their soldiers looted for mods by rebels or the underground.”
“So we have mod smugglers working for Mesaale Kez,” Patch said. “Jiy isn’t a smuggling hub, so they’re probably going to be used here.”
A tingle of unease spread from Lapis’s spine. Was Kez outfitting the hunters with mods? If Patch had one, of course others in Jiy did, but the thought of stealing military ones for assassins unnerved her. If the Beryl had someone like Sils or Jhor, mod origin did not mean much.
Jhor picked up a cylinder and peered into the vacant interior. “If Dentheria found old Taangin and khentauree tech, stored it with their modern wonders, and then left them unsupervised, I can see syndicates taking advantage and stealing the lot of it. Of course, if it’s old or dysfunctional, and they’re modding with it . . .”
“The Rams woman at the gate said that the best hunters the Beryl had left the syndicate. Do you think this is why?” Lapis asked. “Klow wanted them modded, and they said no?” After witnessing the deadly fire the gauntlets produced, she would have fourth, even fifth thoughts about trying out the glorious new tech.
Patch raised his eyebrow at her, then perused the items on the tables. “The best hunters either already have them, or hated the idea, especially if they did good work without them. If enough of the stuff failed, and Klow told them they’d need to use it anyway, I can see them liking their skin enough to leave. Or maybe one of the elite got a mod, it was a spectacular disaster, and the rest said Stars’ luck and ran.”
“The problem with mods like these is that you need to pair the equipment,” Jhor said. He tapped below his eye. “Like your patch. Your mod wouldn’t be nearly as effective without that enhancement providing a screen for your eye to interact with and extra sensors. It’s the same thing with the arm mods and the replacement bones, needing a biceps or thigh monitor. Weird things happen when pairs aren’t synced.”
Vali signed at Patch, and he cocked his head, tapping at his chin as he thought. “Yes,” he said absently, “but Dagby might be the best one to ask. If he has existing favors owed him, there might be a few hunters willing to talk to him about the Beryl and mods.” He chuckled at her reply. “Favors make the Grey Streets go ‘round.”
“How were they getting the crates into Jiy?” Jhor asked. “Horses?” He weighed a long piece of metal. “These are heavy when packed up together.”
Vali exaggerated her head shake, then motioned with her front claws to follow her. She led them back down the stairs and to the left, her bright emerald scales shimmering with a faint rainbow sheen when she neared the glowing white tiles. Now that her existence beyond Mama Poison was revealed, would she set aside the paint that muddied her appearance and keep the shiny look?
They faded as she entered a shadowy part of the downstairs, blocked with floor-to-ceiling old signs fused together. They passed a growly, wagon-sized generator, which made Lapis wonder what she needed it for, and to a cold walkway that led to a bay. Standing in a neat row were tech machines.
They had a tall front with leather-wrapped handles on each side. Transparent glass lamps bulged from the exterior and a slanted dash with round sensors holding arrows sat above a panel on the interior. The front attached to a floorboard of a rough black substance Lapis did not readily identify, and four small black wheels with faint green rings jutted out from the sides. The back had a shiny metal eye riveted in place, and a rusty hook that attached a flat wooden platform on larger wagon wheels to the machine.
Nothing special about the platform, either; ill-fitted boards and dented wheels. The spokes did not look as fitted as Lapis would want in a conveyance, but she supposed it did its job well enough. How odd, the shanks rode on tech machines but used a slapdash method to cart their precious cargo.
Of course, neither looked sturdy enough to plow through snow. They must have had them waiting at the tunnel entrance and unloaded another vehicle there, rather than driving them through drifts.
“They’re using footboards?” Jhor asked with a half-laugh.
“What are footboards?” Sanna asked, trotting to one and peering at the lamps.
“They’re used by wealthy people in Dentheria to quickly get where they want to go without dealing with traffic. If you’re a walker, get out of the way. The people who use them don’t care about running someone over to reach their hairdresser appointment that they’re an hour late to.”
Lapis winced. Jhor had a habit of making the odd comment that stoked her anger at Dentheria and its disregard for average lives.
“There is something odd,” Sanna said, bending closer. “A signal.”
“Trackers?” Jhor asked with a frown.
Sanna popped the panel off the nearest one, releasing a yellow glow.
“Huh.” Jhor sat back on his heels, revealing a transparent cylinder with metal lids and yellow liquid violently bubbling on the inside. “I do believe that’s keltaitheerdaal, and it’s not happy to see us. Time to run.”
