Shadow Dance

by A. E. Pennymaker

  Would I ever be able to trust him? I couldn't say yet, but for all the awful things that had happened because of him, there were also good things. It was complicated, but I could admit that much. If he hadn't come back, the clothbadges would have caught up with me before I had even reached the dining room. "Thank you," I whispered. "For saving my life. Again."

  Arramy cleared his throat. "Aye, well, I had to bring us even... And don't thank me yet. We're stuck in a closet."

  A grin threatened to break through, and I bit my lower lip.

  Then the pantry door swung open.

  My grin fled.

  Slowly, Arramy raised his hands.

  The Innkeeper stepped back and motioned with a swift jerk of the bullnose rifle cradled at his shoulder, never taking his eyes off of Arramy. "Move."

  Arramy ducked out of the speakeasy. "I'm not here to make trouble."

  "I don't care," the Innkeeper said. Cold as ice. "You too, filla. T'yer left. Kaier, get door t'third cellar. Quick now."

  Kaier darted forward, deeper into the kitchen. The pantry wasn't the only secret hideaway; she pushed some sort of trigger on the tile wall beside the round stove, and a door-sized section folded into itself. She lit a gas lamp on the wall, illuminating a set of metal stairs that led downward, then stood out of the way to let Arramy through.

  I balked in the doorway until the Innkeeper gave my shoulders a swift prod with the nose of the rifle and growled, "Don't try anythin' stupid. Keep goin'."

  "I'm not the one being stupid," I shot back, but another tap from the rifle had me following Arramy, my mind racing. There had to be some way out of this before it got any worse.

  The 'third cellar' was a relic of the Liberation wars, a cavern of concrete and stone girded with iron, built to withstand city-level explosions and razing fire. Now, the walls were lined with shelves that held all sorts of items. Machine parts. Reels of wire. Tools. There was a workbench built along the far wall beneath a row of gas lamps, but the middle of the room was bare, with a single unshaded sconce hanging over a solitary chair in the center of a rubberized canvas.

  Arramy stiffened as he descended the last few steps and saw what was waiting for us.

  "In the chair, Northlander," the Innkeeper said, coming down last, rifle aimed at the back of my head.

  This was exactly what I had been afraid of. I reached the metal-plated floor of the bunker and wheeled around, putting myself between the rifle and Arramy. "No, you don't understand, I'm Brenorra Warring, my cover name is Larra Anderfield, and this is Captain Arramy —"

  "Oh, then 'e definitely gets the chair," the Innkeeper said, his tone ominously low and sing-song. He sidled along the wall till his back was to the corner, keeping us both in his sights, the gun unwavering at his shoulder in a way that said he had spent time in the military.

  There was the sound of movement behind me and I flinched, fully expecting Arramy to launch a sudden, vicious attack on the Innkeeper, rifle or not, but he just walked over to the chair, turned around, and eased down into it. Then he bent and shoved first one foot then the other through the shackles chained to the bottom of the chair legs, popping the pins into the latches. When he had secured his ankles, he slid his hands through the loops of wire on the frame of the seat and sat back.

  I leveled a cutting glare at the Innkeeper and crossed my arms over my chest. "This is absolutely unnecessary. He's an asset, not a threat. He has inside knowledge of the Coventry."

  That got an incredulous snort. "I don't recall askin' yer opinion, filla. Now, go on. Cinch 'is 'ands."

  "And what if I don't? Are you going to shoot me?" I spat.

  The Innkeeper glanced at me, then back at Arramy. "Nah, I'll just shoot that one. Can't exactly let 'im leave, now, can I?"

  My mouth dropped open. "What —"

  "It's alright." Arramy's voice was deep and a little rough, but he flashed a humorless grin when I looked at him. "Just do as he says."

  Outwardly, he seemed calm, but his shoulders were tense, muscles coiled for a fight, and there was something fierce in his eyes, wild and dangerous as a cornered wolf. He was holding it firmly in check, forcing himself to stay in that cellar. It wasn't fear holding him there. He had gotten out of worse situations with far less at hand than a room full of large metal tools. So, what was he doing? Biding his time? Giving up?

  All I could do was stare at him, willing him to pull some incredible escape plan out of nowhere and get away. He didn't, though, and I couldn't make him if he was determined to stay caught. With a heavy sigh, I turned and crossed the floor to the rubber canvas, hunkered down, and began working at the ratchets that tightened the wires, securing his wrists to the sides of the chair.

  "I'm sorry," I whispered, throat thick.

  "Don't blame yourself," Arramy muttered. "I wouldn't trust me either, if I were him."

  "Right, that'll do," the Innkeeper announced, lowering the rifle. He kept it armed and at his shoulder, though, and his attention didn't shift from me as he raised his voice, calling down to the other end of the room, "Marin! Can ya come escort young Miss t'apartment, please?"

  Surprised, I turned to find Marin coming out of a doorway hidden behind a shelf full of metal canisters. She took in the situation without batting an eyelash and began making her way through the tool racks and reels of wire, heading for me.

  "I'll be fine, Bren. He can't get answers out of a dead man," Arramy murmured when I started shaking my head and jutting my chin.

  I gave him a sidelong glance. I didn't want to leave him, but it was clear he didn't want me there. Blast him. I drew myself up and faced the Innkeeper again. "Just don't hurt him. Please."

  It seemed Arramy wasn't the only one taking sides.

  Then I started walking, striding past Marin without looking back.

  ~~~

  Kaier: (kay.ur)

  47. To War

  14th of Dema, Continued

  The door behind the shelves opened onto what could only be properly termed a secret bunker. There was a functional kitchen on the other side of a sitting area furnished with a collection of mismatched, well-worn couches, with several other rooms visible down a narrow hallway of reinforced concrete. The Innkeeper had turned it into a smuggling hideout, judging from the crates and boxes of contraband items stacked in neat rows along one wall, and the maps of the city spread over the rakai table.

  There was a faint snick as the door latched, and Marin leaned her back against it, watching me take a look around.

  "Orrelian's parents survived the sieges down here," she said quietly. "Now it is home. You'll bunk down the hall. Fourth door on the right. NaVarre already sent your things." She pushed away from the door and walked past me into the kitchen. "Washroom is through there." She pointed at a small arched concrete doorway with a metal door set in it. "Might as well make yourself comfortable, it's going to be a while."

  I didn't move, staring at her as she set a kettle on for tea. "The Coventry knows about Aethscaul," I got out. "We have to get word to the Longallis. And NaVarre went after the Coventry. I don't know where he is."

  Marin turned to face me, her slim brows drawn together.

  I met her eyes without blinking.

  After a heartbeat, she nodded slowly. "Thank you. I will pass this along to Orrelian. He'll know who to contact..." Then she offered a small, reassuring smile. "Now relax, filla. If Dazh was going to kill your man, he would have done it already. Go on. Get some clean clothes and a decent wash. There's hot water in the pump."

  For a moment I stayed where I was, glaring at her, my hackles still bristling. I was sorely tempted to correct the assumption that Arramy was somehow 'mine,' but my objection faded on my tongue. What did it matter? I had delivered my information. I had been focused on that task for so long that now it was done, exhaustion was fast catching up to me. I did need a bath, and I couldn't do anything but wait. Without another word, I turned and trudged down the hallway.

  There were ten doors on either side. A few were
open, revealing cavelike, windowless sleeping quarters. I pushed open the fourth door on the right.

  The only things of any note inside were a wooden shipping crate at the foot of a narrow bed, and the large metal box on top of the mattress. The bed itself was plainly made, and the only other furniture was a small nightstand with a glass oil lantern on it. It was a room meant for sleeping. I could hazard a guess that Orrelian's underground operation didn't often allow time for much else.

  I started with the metal box. No surprise, it held the extra sets of forged travel and identity papers from Marin, Braeton's black notebook, Obyrron's journal, and Father's binders.

  The shipping crate contained our luggage from the Racynne House, both Braeton's and mine nestled side by side in packing straw.

  I swallowed and drew my finger along the edge of Braeton's Royal Klaghan traveling case. I hadn't really let myself think about what might have happened to him, but he couldn't be gone. He was the one who had said I should wait a few weeks before planning his funeral. The Coventry were still looking for him. So... he couldn't be gone. One of these days he was going to come striding in with some outrageous story to tell, that beautiful, incorrigible pirate smile on his face.

  Grinding my teeth, I hauled my own traveling case up out of the packing straw, balanced it on the corner of the crate, dusted it off, and then heaved it over onto the mattress – which must have been a rather comical show, since the case was easily three times my size.

  Muttering about having too many clothes for sane people, I popped the clasps, rifled through all the pretty things Ina had so carefully packed, and came out with my father's satchel and his long coat.

  For several minutes, all I could do was sit on the bed with the satchel open in my lap, inhaling the scent of Father's finecut Medrano.

  Then, slowly, I unwound the red scarf from around my head and untied the knot at the end. The remaining black opals fell out onto my skirt, flashing tiny flames of blue, green and orange in the light from the hallway. I fished around in the bottom of the satchel until I found the velvet bag with my necklace box in it, sending a silent thanks to Ina's super-efficiency when I found it.

  I frowned. There were two items inside the bag, not just the one. I loosened the tie and emptied them onto the bed.

  The black necklace box fell out, and then a plain resinwood box landed next to it with a dull, almost metallic clunk.

  Arramy's gift. I had nearly forgotten it. Ina must have found it in my room and packed it with my other things.

  I put the opals in with my compass rose necklace. Then I picked up the resinwood box and ran my fingers over the worn-smooth surface, tracing the waxed twine holding it shut. I had never opened it. I had been afraid to, at first, and had put it on my dressing table before we left.

  What sort of gift would a man like Arramy have given me? He couldn't very well fit a grappling hook in something so small. Biting my lower lip, I untied the knot in the twine. The box came apart with the ease of age.

  It was a necklace: a silver pendant strung on a simple braided leather thong. The pendant was heavy, of the sort poured into a mold rather than stamped out of sheeting. It was shaped a bit like a heraldic shield, emblazoned with what looked like two pyrogryffs rampant on either side of an anvil inside a wreath, with a constellation of stars beneath it, although the details had been rounded off and rubbed nearly smooth by wear. There were tiny words carved into the back, written in letters that looked vaguely Roghuari, all angles and lines. If they were, the thing was old, possibly pre-Ascenscionist or even earlier. Roghuari had been banned from the public square until only a decade ago.

  I blinked, then couldn't help a chuckle. He really did have mountain roots.

  My chuckle died, replaced by a rather strange feeling in my chest. This wasn't just a trinket to Arramy. It looked important. Personal.

  Chewing my lower lip some more, I lifted the necklace from the box on impulse and tied the thong at the back of my neck, just to see if it fit. The slide of cool metal over my skin was strangely right. So right, I almost snatched the necklace back off, unsettled. I even raised my hands to find the knot, but then couldn't make myself undo it.

  It was only a necklace. With a sigh, I rolled my eyes at my own reaction, told myself I was being ridiculous, put away my father's satchel and found myself something clean to wear – which had been the whole reason I was looking through my things in the first place.

  ~~~

  An hour later, I emerged from the washroom, dressed in a neat white blouse and a charcoal and silver striped skirt nipped in at the waist with a wide red belt, my hair clean and pinned up properly, and the rest of me rinsed free of river mud.

  To my surprise, Marin wasn't the only one in the kitchen.

  Three men and four women were sitting at the table, talking in quiet tones. Their discussion ceased immediately when they saw me standing in the doorway.

  One of the men crossed his arms over a particularly muscular chest, one gave me a cursory glance from behind a pair of spectacles, the third dipped his head politely. Two of the women offered tight little grins, one gave me a brazen once-over, and the last one closed her mouth firmly on whatever she had been about to say.

  "Ah. Here she is," Marin said, waving toward one of the empty chairs at the end of the table. "Everyone, this is Brenorra Warring. Bren, this is our Vreis crew... Don't worry. Most of them won't bite," she added with a grin.

  As if my name had flipped a switch, what had started as a tense first meeting abruptly turned into sober nods and willing acceptance. It couldn't possibly have been more obvious that they had heard of me before and knew something about me.

  I pasted on a quick smile as I sank into the offered chair, trying to remember names and faces as the others were introduced. The slight blonde woman going by the alias Songbird worked in the Magi's Dispatch Office. The two brunettes, Rugga and Ynette, worked in the merchant district. Then there was a tall, gaunt, middle-aged woman named Phaestra who was able to source just about anything. The men were Erdan Bottesarkis– a clerk in the City Council building – and his detail partner, Hedwyn Fargrave, a big, surly former soldier with a deep and abiding hatred of the Coventry. The third was a boy of about eighteen called simply Cog, who specialized in everything from incendiary devices and weapons to engines and machines.

  One thing became very clear as the group talked: the Island and the Longallis were only the tip of NaVarre's operation. The rest of the iceberg sprawled out into every layer of society. He had his fingers in everything. Black market deals, spy networks, even political alliances, his reach was much larger than I had previously guessed, and from the sound of things, this Orrelian the Innkeeper was his right-hand man on the continent.

  I sipped at a mug of hot Provincial that Marin put in front of me and listened as Rugga and Erdan rekindled the debate that had been going on before I sat down: what to do with Arramy.

  "I just think we should keep the captain alive. He knows things," Rugga pointed out. Reasonably, I thought.

  Erdan frowned and leaned forward, tapping a slender clerk's finger on the table for emphasis. "But he's been on their side from the beginning. How could we trust anything he says?"

  "'E may prove valuable as a bargaining chip," Cog observed, his Tettian accent strong. "Why not keep 'im somewheres till we know 'ow useful 'e be?"

  Ynette shook her head, her blue eyes round as she glanced at the others. "My Da served alongside 'im in the last wars, an' the tales 'e do tell o' what that man did t'other side...'E's a right ruthless bastard. Don't unerestimate 'im. E's too dangerous ta try lockin' up. E's too dangerous ta try keepin' alive. An' where would-ee put 'im? Here? I don't think so. 'E 'scaped the Panesian war camps."

  "I'm with Ynette. I say extract what he knows by whatever means necessary and dump what's left of him in the river," Hedwyn muttered. "Problem solved."

  I shot a dark glare at him, my stomach churning. The urge to speak up and defend Arramy was strong, but I didn't want to a
dd fuel to that fire blazing in Hedwyn's blunt face. I understood their position, as disgusting as I found it. Just because I hoped we could trust Arramy didn't make it wise. So instead I placed my tea on the table and cleared my throat, ending a yawning lull in the conversation. "Why decide what you're going to do until you've found out what your leader has to say?"

  Marin was regarding me through a speculative squint from the other end of the table,. She opened her mouth to say something, but then snapped her mouth shut, her gaze sharpening on the door to the cellar.

  The pull was moving. Then the door opened to reveal Orrelian. He paused, gave us all a stern eyeing, then stood aside as Arramy came ducking warily into the room.

  Silence fell.

  Arramy's hands were bound behind his back and he had a few nasty-looking red welts on the side of his face that would be bruises later, but otherwise he wasn't in any worse shape than he had been before. His eyes found mine and held for a split second before he lowered his head and walked ahead of the Innkeeper.

  Orrelian kept a long-barreled pistol trained on Arramy's back as he pushed a large crate out into the middle of the sitting area floor. "Sit," he ordered, and gestured toward the crate with the nose of the pistol, waiting until Arramy sat before continuing into the kitchen to stand at my end of the table. "Erdan, why don't-ee tell us what be goin' on topside."

  Erdan sat up a little straighter, surprise crossing his features. "There was an emergency Council held last night. They approved a blockade of the lake," he announced. "Canal ports will be shut up tight by tomorrow, and all travel will require papers. It's worded as an emergency response to a clear and present threat to the city, but the motion was put forward by Lord Morlish and supported by the members he's got in his back pocket. It stinks of a silent power grab."

  "Ynette?" Orrelian asked.

  "The Dailies be callin' the explosion an outright attack," Ynette said, slowly. "They be blamin' Illyrians... Street's buzzin' wiv' worry. People anxious there be possibility o' goin' a-war again."