Shadow Dance

by A. E. Pennymaker

  "What-ee make of that, then, Cap'n?" Orrelian asked, his face betraying nothing.

  Arramy's tone was even. Calm. "Sounds like textbook General Argoss. Disguise what's really going on by spreading rumors and diverting attention, give the public someone convenient to hate, stir things up till everyone is taking sides." He shifted a little on the crate and looked away. "The blockade is just the beginning. This is going to get much worse."

  "Enough of this," Hedwyn spat, glowering first at Arramy then at Orrelian. "He's Coventry. He should be floating in the Pannevys with a bloody double smile. What is he doing here?"

  Orrelian remained impassive and deceptively relaxed. "Anyone else?"

  After a few glances around the table, Erdan and Ynette both raised their hands, followed closely by Songbird. Cog kept his hand down, but Rugga grudgingly raised hers.

  Marin crossed her arms over her chest. "Why don't you just tell us what you're planning?"

  With a pointed glance at Hedwyn, Orrelian pursed his lips, then dipped his head, acknowledging the opinion of his crew while somehow putting his foot down at the same time. "NaVarre forced Coventry ta bring their operation up by months, if not years. They're off-plumb an' runnin' scared, makin' decisions fly-like. We won't get better opportunity than now. The cap'n, there, swears 'e knows locations o' secret Coventry bases, mongst other things. If that checks out, we could take the fight ta them fer once, an stand chance o' findin NaVarre. So 'e stays. Provisionally."

  I must have been holding my breath until that moment because all of it suddenly left my lungs.

  Hedwyn swore and let the front legs of his chair thunk back down on the floor.

  "I know, I don't like it either," Orrelian said, absolutely unruffled. "Everythin' in me 'ates the idea of lettin' 'im talk when e's done so much damage. But hurt feelins in't gonna win this war." He looked at Hedwyn, patiently outwaiting the younger man's hot head.

  Finally, Hedwyn relented with a churlish curl to his lips, his stare needle-sharp as he skewered Arramy with it. "So where be these s'posed Coventry bases, then, Captain?"

  Orrelian lifted his eyebrows and gave Arramy an expectant glance.

  Arramy didn't blink. "Give me a pen."

  ~~~

  The crew's questions lasted until well after midnight. Arramy answered all of them, indicating on Orrelian's tactical maps where at least five different Coventry bases were, with detailed plans of buildings, fortifications, weaponry, and personnel. He listed off names of agents, as well as their locations, and sketched several engineering diagrams of the Coventry's flying ships that had Cog practically drooling with excitement.

  By the time Orrelian finally stopped, there was a staggering amount of information scrawled on sheets of paper strewn all over the table and pinned to the walls in the sitting area.

  One by one, the others left, ducking out through another door that led into the catacomb of forgotten wartime tunnels running beneath the city. They had covers to maintain, and real jobs to go to. Cog was last, and then it was only Marin, Orrelian, Arramy and I, the three of them nursing bottles of bootleg beer while I sat sipping a sixth cup of tea.

  Arramy and Orrelian were talking military strategies and swapping battle stories from their time in the Straights. They looked relatively relaxed, but both of them were still taking the measure of each other, two war wolves sizing each other up, measuring fang against fang, claw against claw. Still, Arramy was no longer tied to a chair, and Orrelian didn't seem to be of a mind to tie him back up, either.

  I wasn't sure what to think about that. I wasn't sure what to think about any of it at all, not NaVarre's disappearance, or the political intrigue going on in the Council, or what my role would be in this new place I had landed. There was one thing I did know. They were about to wage open war on the Coventry. Between the documents in my father's binders, NaVarre's notebooks, and the encyclopedia of information in Arramy's head, they had enough to begin targeting specific operations and doing real damage. No more sniping at the enemy in the dark.

  I bit my lip. NaVarre had said the Innkeeper would get me back to Aethscaul. Now, with a blockade looming, that option appeared to be slipping away.

  My gaze drifted to Arramy again.

  There was a stillness to him, the sort of stillness that runs soul-deep, as if he had lived a lifetime in the last few days. Was he thinking about his brother in that stillness?

  The night had been rough on him. His hair stuck up at odd angles, the welts were beginning to purple on his cheek, and his shirt was rumpled. He hadn't held anything back. I had listened hard as he talked, but there hadn't been any hesitation, or any hint that he was playing some other game. He had poured everything out like he was glad to be rid of it – or, perhaps like he had been holding onto it to protect someone else, and now he had no reason to hold on anymore.

  Would he stay? I swallowed hard. Did I want him to? Staring absently into my teacup, I tried to imagine what life would be like if he left. I couldn't. Instead, something started unravelling a little in my chest, and that feeling of walking off a cliff made my stomach knot up. I took a quick gulp of tea.

  There was a lull in their story-telling, then, and Arramy glanced at me, only to look quickly away, brows lowering.

  Marin tilted her head as if she had discovered something intriguing, and shot a sidelong study at me, before sitting forward and taking Arramy's empty beer bottle. "Alright, gentlemen. Social hour's over. Washroom's in the back, Captain. Your kit is in the last room on the left. Go on."

  NaVarre must have sent Arramy's things along with ours before we left the Racynne House. Had he done that before or after he knew Arramy was playing both sides?

  Arramy gave Marin a wry glance but did as ordered and got to his feet. With a parting nod to Orrelian, he headed for the hallway and what was evidently going to be his room, his footsteps more of a trudge than a stride.

  I let out a long breath and put down my teacup, then turned to the Innkeeper. "I was thinking..." I started, breaking the silence that had stolen into the kitchen. My voice sounded scratchy. I cleared my throat and began again. "Or rather, wondering... Could you use a translator? Now that the blockade will make getting to Aethscaul difficult, I mean."

  Orrelian pursed his lips, studying me through a thoughtful squint. Then he took up a pen and began doodling something on a scrap of paper in front of him. "What do you think, Marin? Could we use a translator?" He asked, picking up the paper scrap and flashing the pattern of dots he had just scribbled before crumpling it up into a ball.

  Marin smirked a little, staring at me.

  Something was going on. "What?" I asked slowly.

  "How many dots were there?" Orrelian asked quietly.

  "Seven," I said, then, when the two of them just looked at each other, I went on with, "I'm fairly good at accents, too, if that would be more useful."

  Marin smirked some more as if she had just won some sort of previous argument.

  Orrelian lifted an eyebrow and shook his head, then turned those fathomless dark eyes on me. "Ta be honest, there in't much call fer translators a'present, Miss Warring. Songbird does most our listenin' work, but tellus... 'ow-ee be at pickin' locks?"

  Meet the Author

  The sixth of seven children, Ms. Pennymaker grew up in rural Pennsylvania as the daughter of a Presbyterian minister and an artist.

  Random fun fact: her first real attempt at writing was a Martin Jacques fanfic about a talking mouse named Cheddar.

  Anna fell in love with the English language at a young age and went to school to be an English teacher, although she would have gladly majored in art as a sideline. She now lives in the Midwestern United States with her globe-trotting husband, an aging Great Dane named Bear, five kids, and a growing collection of houseplants.

  When she's not writing, reading, or working on something 'artsy-fartsy', she's chasing her children around rural Wisconsin, drinking too much coffee, or pottering about in her garden.

  Connect with A. E.
Pennymaker

  You can usually find A. E. bashing about on the following online platforms.

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  @a.e.pennymaker

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  Feel free to follow Anna, favorite her work, leave a review, or send a message through whichever platform you prefer. You may even bump into her while she's working on her current Work in Progress. She will not mind.

  Note: A. E. does not have a mailing list, nor does she have a newsletter. *gasp* What? In this day of constant newslettering, account hacking, and email harvesting? However does she expect her readers to find out what she's up to? The same way she finds out what her favorite authors are up to: she follows their Instagram or Facebook accounts, visits their website, or adds them to her 'favorite authors' list on Amazon or Barnes and Noble (or whatever), none of which results in international violations of privacy laws when she accidentally sends out an unsolicited email to someone in Italy or the EU, for instance. (This is a thing.) Nor does it result in her having to keep someone's email on her personal computer, which would be weird, or curate a list of people who may or may not want to be subscribed or unsubscribed, which would be tedious. She also doesn't have some Email Handling Automatic Market Funnel thingy between her and the public. If you send her a message, your message won't be seen by anyone but Anna, and she's the only one answering, which makes her happy.

  Books by A. E. Pennymaker

  The Shadow Trilogy

  Shadow Road: Book 1

  Shadow Dance: Book 2

  Shadow War: Book 3 (Coming June 2021)

  Sneak Peek at Shadow War

  (Shadows Rising Trilogy, Book 3)

  Bren's new life with the Innkeeper's team of rebels is dangerous, but they are doing real damage to the Coventry. Then, after a raid gone wrong, Bren and Arramy wind up running for their lives across the Coalition provinces, trying to find a way back to the resistance.

  Instead, Bren is taken by the Caerhundars. Once again crossing the sea, this time Bren is in shackles, part of a shipment of human cargo bound for the Coventry's sprawling fortification hidden deep in the colonial mountains. At first Bren is only trying to survive the brutal working conditions of the Agricultural Sector. Then her language skills present an opportunity to work as a translator in the Paradazh Headquarters. It means close and constant contact with the very people who are still hunting for her – but how better to spy on them?

  Surrounded by enemies, Bren races against the Coventry's plans to overthrow the Coalition, relaying information to her enigmatic contact in the Illyrian underground. With all-out war looming, Bren's will to live, her strength of mind, and her humanity will be tested like never before as she fights to return to the man she has come to love.

  Keep scrolling and you will find bonus content from the final book in Pennymaker's Shadows Rising series, coming June 2021.

  1. Thief in Training

  3rd of Eylestre

  The room was quiet. A beam of moonlight filtered through the slats of the shutters, gilding silvery lines across the carpet. The lines formed a V where they met the edge of the bed, marching up over the coverlet in strict angles until they reached the plane of the mattress, where a definite wobble in the terrain revealed something large and lumpy beneath the blankets.

  The lump let out a reverberating snore.

  Ever so carefully, I relaxed my death-grip on the squeaky shutter that had brought me to a dead stop on the windowsill. I left it unlatched. It was a small risk, outweighed by the possibility that I would need to leave in a hurry.

  Easing all the way into the room, I crouched on the padded window seat before gliding one foot at a time to the floor, using every remaining shred of my grace and deportment lessons to maintain my balance as I kept my body close to the wall. An absurd urge to giggle bobbed up as I imagined Mistress Floratina clapping her hands in a long-ago dance class, droning, "you are the wind, you are the water, you must flow."

  This is a test, you idiot, focus. With a quick shake of my head I kept moving, ducking swiftly into the inky shadows beyond that mote of moonlight, keeping my soft-soled boots silent on the carpet as I stole across the bedroom.

  My 'mark' let loose a gusty sigh and rolled over.

  Instantly, I found the dark angle of the upright bureau and froze there, my heart clamoring in my throat. I stayed like that until the man's mutterings subsided into steady breathing. Then I darted forward again.

  My target wasn't in this room. It was his study I was after. In five smooth, fluid strides I reached the door.

  It was locked, and for some reason the key was still in the lock plate. I eyed it suspiciously, a little prickle of warning running along the back of my neck. I could take the key with me. It might prove useful later, but this could be the 'leave it as you found it' portion of the test. I bit my lip. It could also be something we hadn't gone over yet that Orrelian wanted to make me 'learn by doing.' One of those lessons had been 'don't stand round thinkin', make yer decision' so I turned the key, opened the door, slipped through, then closed it behind me, leaving the key on the inside.

  Glancing quickly up and down the hallway, I pulled my pair of forceps out of the tool slot in my sleeve and locked the door again from my side, sliding the narrow pincers through the keyhole to grab the end of the key and turn it. I was going to leave through the study window anyway.

  The study was supposed to be across the hall to the right.

  Sticking close to the wall where the floorboards were less likely to squeak, I prowled quietly down the hallway, every sense sharp.

  This was the most exposed area in the plan. There wasn't a scrap of furniture, which meant there were no places to hide, no shadows to meld with, nothing but two straight green walls and a bare wood floor. With the door locked behind me, the best I could do if someone came out of their room was to drop like a rock and hope.

  No one came out, though, and I stole across to the study door.

  It opened in – no hinges to tamper with – and it was locked. It was a high-end lock, too, that required a double-angled key.

  I slipped my set of picks out of their spot next to the forceps and set to work, concentrating on the feel of the hook as it navigated the pins inside the lock. One. Two. Three. The fourth turned to the right, and the latch gave way with a faint snick.

  With another wary glance up and down the hall, I began examining the door frame.

  There. Faint signs of wear at my mark's eye level. He wasn't a very tall man, fortunately. He was also paranoid, according to the file Orrelian had handed me. Thus, the top of the door would be unlikely, but I kept checking and found a second, slightly more obvious scuff mark at the bottom. How fun.

  Working quickly, I teased the edge of one of my metal cards through the crack between the frame and the door and drew it upward, following the slide pattern left by whatever my mark used to disarm the alarm on the other side. There was a mechanical whir, but nothing more. No blare of klaxons or clang of bells.

  One down.

  I wedged the point of my dagger beneath the door, lining it up with that scuff mark, and tapped it through the crack. There was a click, and then the door began swinging open.

  For a heartbeat I waited, listening for any sign of disturbance down the hallway. Everything was quiet. On a hunch, I gave the doorway a thorough scan, searching for tripwires or triggers before stepping warily into the room and gently closing the door.

  I rolled my eyes when I saw the 'booby trap.' Two buckets perched on a shelf above the lintel. The dagger had pushed a recessed button on a small triggering device, allowi
ng it to roll easily over the floor. If it had been stable, the door would have hit it, which would have knocked over the pole holding up the platform, and I would have been covered from head to toe in glue and feathers. I had to smirk a little. Someone had probably just lost one of Marin's bets.

  The smirk disappeared. When I did this for real, getting caught wouldn't mean anything so harmless.

  I reset the alarm and the trap. With the door shut, there wasn't as much chance that anyone was going to hear me sneaking around, but I still kept my footsteps quiet as I shook my ambient torch and took stock of the 'study' by its pale green glow.

  Finding the information Orrelian wanted wasn't difficult. The letter was sitting in the 'outbound' tray on the desk, all ready to go for the morning's post. Careful not to touch anything but that, I peeled the flap open, extracted the piece of stationary inside it and pressed the letter flat on the carpet, my ambient torch next to it. Another precious minute passed as I took out the portable sylvocapture tucked into a pocket of my vest, popped an exposure disk into the slot, centered the letter in the lens, and flicked open the capture cover. It would be grainy without the bright light of an exploding element, but Marin did wonders with fixing such things. I repeated the procedure from a different angle, then folded the letter up and returned it to its envelope, sealing it again and placing it back in the tray exactly as I had found it.

  Now for the second-layer things.

  My mark kept his account book neat and tidy. Too tidy, as if he had been copying numbers into it from somewhere else and didn't have to do the math or make an erasure. I found his real books on the bookshelf, disguised as a periodical, and used several more exposure disks, recording pages that had interesting payments being made. The 'periodical' went back into the shelf it had come from, also exactly as I had found it.