by Adi Rule
He looks down his nose at me. “And how in Ver’s green land do you know that?”
“I’m the reason he got beat up. No—wait—I mean, he was helping me run off these two—um—ruffians.”
“You’re a damned liar.”
My sight is beginning to blur. I slide down the surface of the door and look up at Orm, who regards me with an expression I can’t interpret. “I need somewhere safe. I think Nara would help me if she were here. Please. My sister is missing.” I leave out the part about having been shot in the leg, though he must see I’m not exactly at my best. Maybe he thinks I’m drunk. Maybe a few dips in the ale barrel wouldn’t be a bad idea.
Orm doesn’t move. I find his face through my hazy vision. “Nara wanted my help. She said … may you always walk under the fog.”
Something in his face changes. “You—you can’t be— Curse you, you featherless little stritchlet,” he says. “We thought you were dead.” He takes a step to the right and lifts a hinged flap to reveal a handle set into the dingy wall. When he rotates it, a large panel slides back with a metallic click-click-click-click. Iron mesh stairs descend into darkness. I feel my eyes widen with astonishment. “It’s safe down there,” he grumbles. “Until Nara tells us what to do with you. Now, up.” He pulls me to my feet and I steady myself for a moment, then follow him through the secret doorway.
“Cozy,” I say as we clink our way downward. Already I am thinking of the white-gray sky through the glass of the Dome as I remember the dank nightmare of the dungeon of the Temple of Rasus.
At least there is gas down here. I can see its steady, pure light from under the studded door at the bottom of the stairs.
“I hope you like beer and sandwiches, because we don’t do anything else,” Orm says. I don’t ask what kind of sandwiches. Unless the Pump Room is a lot more upscale than its creaking door and rusty flooring would have me believe, the sandwiches will taste like smoke regardless of what they’re made of.
“Thank you,” I say. Orm takes a key from around his neck and rattles it into the keyhole, and after a moment we are stepping into the room beyond. The place called “safe.”
At first, I don’t see the furniture or the colors or the people. I only smell an evasive sweetness; it is thick in the air here, almost overpowering. The heat hits me, too. Of course it’s hot underground, but it feels unnaturally hot here, as though a fire were burning.
I steady myself, my hand against the heavy doorframe. A fire is burning, in a small hearth opposite the doorway. I begin to take in the rest of this round, brick-walled room. A row of books stands neatly on a graceful-legged side table flanked by stiff armchairs. A handful of people dot the room—men and women, my age, older, most of them wearing the dull colors of pump workers and mechanics. Some look me over appraisingly; some keep their heads down.
“Welcome to the Under House.” Orm crosses the floor. “I’ll show you the bunk room. It serves its purpose, but don’t expect the Copper Palace. Just through here.”
He pushes open an arched door. The bunk room is long and dark, and thankfully not so hot as the main room. A few cots jut from the edges, most of them covered by thin blankets of different colors. Metal hooks adorn the walls, some hanging dusters or scarves, some empty.
“There are spare clothes in here.” Orm pulls an old trunk from underneath one of the cots. “That is, unless you really are from the Temple.”
I give a little cough. “I, uh—”
“Oh, for the love of the Long Angel, you’re the worst liar I’ve ever met.” He shakes his head, but smiles and heads back through the arched doorway. “Washroom is through there.” He points to the other end of the bunk room.
“My sister—”
“We’ll find your sister,” Orm says, and for a moment his gentle, concerned face reminds me of my father. “Wash your face, put on something less goddamn conspicuous, and I’ll fetch Nara. We’ll see what she has to say about you.”
When he has gone, I creak open the trunk and start to paw through its modest offerings. Of course, everything smells like mothballs. I pull out a tatty muslin shirt and head to the washroom to rewrap my leg. At least it’s probably more hygienic than an old sack off the floor of a dirty storage room. Slightly more hygienic. And I do wash my face, my fingers relaxing a little as I test the fresh basinful of hot water.
Back in the bunk room, I throw my robes to the floor. The trunk’s modern underclothes feel better against my skin. I pull on an old pair of pants, simple and in good shape. They are from a time not so long ago as to be completely outdated, but their sturdy black twill doesn’t billow like the airy silks and light muslins that now pepper the streets. I find them a bit restrictive, but there are no other options. I button a worn shirt—why would anyone need so many buttons?—and tie my hair up, not as elegantly as Jey can do it, but in a way that at least implies domesticated.
A knock on the bunk room door. “Come in!” I call.
Nara Blake strides in. “Well,” she says, “you got yourself executed rather more quickly than I’d imagined.” She leans against the wall, arms crossed.
“That’s a hell of a greeting,” I say, wincing as I lower myself onto a cot. “Aren’t you even surprised to see me?”
“A bit,” she says lightly.
“I did get thrown into a boiling lake.” I draw myself up. “Most people might be a little impressed.”
She pushes herself off the wall with her shoulders. “I said I was surprised to see you.”
“And you couldn’t even be bothered to run a story about my execution?”
Nara shrugs. “Your execution was a secret. The Beautiful Ones don’t even exist. I don’t know about any of it, officially. Besides, what would I have said? ‘Onyx Staff Offs Another One’?”
I feel my jaw drop. “What?”
She takes a step toward me, eyebrows drawn. Her mouth is— Is she smirking? “My dear, don’t you know why everyone is afraid of the Onyx Staff?”
“I didn’t know everyone was afraid of him. I—my father told me not to speak to high priests.”
“Your father was right. The temples have a lot of power, especially the Temple of Rasus. The priests are very … devout. And people who displease the Onyx Staff—heretics, revolutionaries, criminals, newspaper editors who print the wrong story—they sometimes disappear. Poof! Like steam off the ass of an overworked stritch.”
“I could have lived without that image.” My leg throbs and I shift my weight. “But that’s—that has to be illegal. Right? No trial, no conviction? And only the gods can punish someone for heresy. Why doesn’t the Commandant do something?”
“Do something?” Nara sits on the edge of the cot opposite me. “Even if he wanted to take on the Temple of Rasus—which would be fairly insane, even for a politician—he couldn’t possibly prove anything.”
I lean forward. “What? Why not?”
“The Onyx Staff doesn’t bellow out orders like a dictator,” she says. “He insinuates, or he uses metaphor, or he talks about something else entirely. And people magically end up—well, some of them end up at the bottom of Lake Azure Wave.”
I don’t know how to respond. My shoulders slump back against the wall behind my cot.
Nara adjusts the front of her tidy jacket. “Sorry, does that spoil your squeaky-clean image of Caldaras City?”
I scowl. I’m pretty sure Nara Blake is on my side, if there are sides to be on. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t irritating. “Still. Secret or not, you did know what happened to me. And one would think your readers would have been mildly interested.”
Nara smirks. “Well, look at the recluse who wants to be famous now.”
I huff. “I am not a recluse, and I certainly don’t want to be famous. It’s just that I thought this whole thing might be a bigger deal since I’m a—you know.”
Now she gives me a hard look. “No, I don’t know. Are you trying to tell me something?”
I breathe in. Didn’t I decide to trust Nara Bl
ake the moment I asked for her help?
I put a hand to my top button. No! my mind yells. Wrong! Stop! But my fingers pull the button loose, then the ones underneath, all the way down. I stand, slipping my arms out of their sleeves, and now I wear only the short chemise from the old trunk. I turn away to give Nara Blake a full view of my bare shoulders and naked upper back.
To her credit, Nara reacts nothing like the priests in the temple sanctuary. She glances at the door to the common room, then blinks, takes a deep breath, and steps toward me. I don’t move as she touches my back. “That part’s true, then,” she says. “The scars.”
“I’ve got the blood, too,” I say.
“So I’ve heard. I’ll have to take Corvin’s word for it, I suppose.”
I put on my shirt and start to button it back up. “I’m not opening a vein for you. Don’t even bother saying please.”
“Well. Good. Now that we’ve got that out of the way,” Nara says, “maybe you can do something worthy of a story in the Daily Bulletin.”
“I’m a bit out of tricks. Getting boiled alive was supposed to be my big finish.”
She snorts. “My friend, you don’t think you’re the only redwing the Onyx Staff has had thrown into Lake Azure Wave, do you?”
I put a hand to my forehead. “What in wet hell are you talking about? Of course I’m the only redwing he’s thrown in the lake. I’m the only goddamn redwing!”
“As far as we know, yes, you are,” Nara says. “And you know how rare—how impossible that seems, even to those of us who accept that real, living Others, straight out of a fairy tale, have visited this very city. But power needs fear to survive, and there is nothing in Caldaras more fearsome than a redwing. So to lend an artificial hand to his very real cause, the Onyx Staff sometimes … creates them.”
Wait, what? “Creates—?” But I stop myself. I remember the guards in the dungeon preparing to whip my back—and stopping when they realized the scars were already there. I remember the dagger that sliced my arm before the whole sanctuary, the cut that didn’t hurt and was miraculously healed when I awoke only days later, but that nevertheless produced a torrent of black blood for all to see. The cut, I realize, that was never there at all. And I remember the look of utter shock on the face of the Onyx Staff when one of his “redwings” actually fought back.
Nara rises and crosses to the door. “Well, welcome to the Under House.”
“That’s it? Opening your doors to a fearsome mythical creature like I’m a random tourist? Aren’t you supposed to be getting the vapors or something?”
“I’d rather help you free your sister.”
Relief—or is it hope?—balls in my throat. “Can you really?”
“I certainly hope so.”
I speak with more emotion than I intend. “Why help me, Nara?”
She blinks, and for the first time I notice the shadows under her eyes. “You are a rare thing, my friend. Unique in ways that make you extremely important to us, and to our enemies. We need your help.” She smiles weakly. “And … well, I wouldn’t want anyone kidnapping Corvin. It would make me quite angry. I imagine you feel the same way about your sister.”
“Yes. Thank you,” I say.
“Very well, then,” Nara says, businesslike. “But I’ll be honest—I’m afraid this might be dangerous.”
I smooth my hair and check my reflection in the glass of a framed landscape on the wall. “I’ve already been killed once.”
Now she turns to me, serious. “Yes. And the fact that you’re dead is the only reason you’re still alive.”
* * *
When Nara and I enter the common room, Orm and a woman are sitting at a long central table that holds collections of papers and pewter mugs. They rise when they see us, and the woman takes Nara’s hands in hers. Nara looks to Orm and says, “How is he today?”
Orm nods. “Right as rain. He’ll be here in a moment, I should think. I sent a boy to fetch him.”
Nara looks at the woman now, tall and delicate with shining blond hair, and says, “Elena. This is—is—” Nara looks at me. “Well, this is she.”
Now the blond woman turns her attention to me. She extends a hand, and I curl my fingers around hers.
“A living, breathing redwing!” she says, her eyes shining.
“This is a bit of luck, isn’t it?” Orm winks. “And to think, I almost had you hauled off.”
I shoot Nara a wide-eyed glance. Is it her intention for everyone in Caldaras to know what I am? She doesn’t respond.
“Welcome, friend,” Elena says, releasing Nara’s hands. Her voice and eyes are soft, the opposite of Nara’s steely exterior. “We are the Fog Walkers, those who leave the shelter of Mol’s warm breath only to protect his city from harm. There is great danger coming, but you may just give us a chance.”
I frown. “Danger?”
Nara makes a dismissive gesture. “She doesn’t know anything yet. And her sister’s gone missing.”
Elena’s face falls, the green of her shirt reflected in her eyes. “Oh, yes, of course. You must be positively climbing the walls. Come, sit.”
We gather around the long table—Nara, Elena, Orm and I, and the other residents of the Under House. They smile and make room for me, offering words of welcome. All the contact makes me light-headed. Or maybe it’s the pain in my wounded leg. I try to smile back, be normal. But they know what I am, these people. When does this dream end? When will I wake up, midair over Lake Azure Wave? I take a swig from my pewter mug, which contains a liquid that might once have been beer before it was wrung out of someone’s old watery stockings.
A moment later, Corvin emerges red-faced and weary from behind the studded door to the stairway. He gazes at me, astonished, then shoots Nara a questioning look.
“Sit,” Nara says. “Our redwing is not drowned after all.”
Still watching me, Corvin hastens to the table and lowers himself next to his sister. “You’re looking well for a dead person,” he says with ragged breath.
“You, too,” I say, which makes him gurgle-laugh.
“We lost you on Roet Island,” Corvin says, and Nara gives him a sharp look.
I lean forward. “You were watching me?”
Now Nara regards me dispassionately. “I told you we needed your help.” There is no cruelty in her features, but I realize with a shiver that Nara Blake is used to getting what she wants. I study her carefully painted eyes, her flawless, powdered skin. Something in me knows she is good, in the way a just law is good. But good doesn’t always mean right. Or kind.
Suddenly, the studded door crashes open and in strides a young woman, tall and striking, with glossy, unpinned hair and red lips, dressed all in black. On one hip hangs a long saber, on the other a pistol. She says nothing, but casts a sour glance over the room before sitting heavily at the table and pulling a mug toward her.
I jump to my feet. “You!”
She raises her eyes. “Oh, damn it.”
“What’s going on?” Elena says. “What’s the matter, Fir?”
The woman—Fir—has risen from her seat and gestures violently at me. “What is she doing here?” She looks at Corvin. “Don’t tell me you got her! I swear, if you’ve stepped on my toes again—”
I point. “You shot me in the flaming leg!”
“What?” Orm puts a palm to his forehead. “For the love of all that’s on fire, girl, why didn’t you say anything? I’ll have you fixed up—”
Corvin stands now. “What is all this about?”
Fir looks knives at me. “She was in the house.”
“In the house?” I look to Nara, Corvin, Orm. “You mean, in the house where I live? Who is this woman? Did you send her to kidnap me, too?”
“You weren’t supposed to shoot her!” Corvin looks horrified.
“She ran!” Fir says. “My assignment was to bring her back, and I wasn’t going to lose her the way you did!”
Elena speaks calmly. “You were meant to persuade her,
Fir.”
“I was meant to produce her,” Fir hisses. “And when I get a job, it’s because persuasion has failed.”
“Enough of this!” Nara barks. “Fir, Redwing. Redwing, Fir. Now, everyone shut the hell up and sit down.”
Everyone sits, and I cast a wary eye over the room. Fir takes a swig from her mug. I guess the Fog Walkers really do need my help. It’s baffling.
“The Deep Dark is a week away.” Nara is all business now. “That’s what our priority is, to get the redwing to the Heart in time for Crepuscule. If Sunny’s information is correct, the bonescorch orchis will be a problem. But now that we have the redwing—”
“No.” I slap the table. The Fog Walkers are silent, eyes on me. Nara sets her mouth disapprovingly. “‘The Heart’?” I snap. “‘The orchis’? ‘The redwing’? I will not be an item on your scavenger hunt. Whatever it is you need of me, we rescue my sister first. And I must write to my father as soon as possible.”
“The work your father is doing with the blight is critical,” Nara says. “It’s best for him to stay where he is. Your sister has been taken to the Temple of Rasus. She is in no danger for now.”
“What?”
“She is in no danger.” Corvin’s tone looks to soothe my ruffles. “They are most likely keeping her for questioning, that is all.”
I glare at him. “I know exactly how their questioning goes.”
“In any case, the Heart takes precedence,” Nara says. “Then, I promise you, we will free your sister.”
I stand, even as my leg throbs. “I don’t know whose heart you’re so flaming interested in, or why you care about the Empress’s damned party, or why in Ver’s green land you need my help so much that you’re willing to send her”— I jut a thumb at Fir—“to ‘produce’ me. But I’m going to free my sister before I do one more blazing thing, and if you can’t help me, I’m walking out that door.” I fold my arms. “Choose.”
“Oh, Mol’s tongue, can’t you see what she’s doing?” A biting voice pierces the hot air. Fir scowls at me. She has risen from her seat and gestures. “We’re not seriously going to entertain the idea of a jailbreak at the Temple of Rasus!”