“This . . . is really clean.” Faelan ran a finger across the unpainted wood in the narrow walkway that led from a hidden door near his room and to a small cellar under the back garden.
“Patch keeps them that way,” Lapis intimated. Not that he had a neat streak like Lyet, but he insisted on keeping the ways clear, so they proved less attractive to vermin. “He tours the house with a brush and cloth. No one knows he’s doing it, either.”
“I’d image not,” her brother murmured. “He prefers the secretive.”
Lapis smiled as she led him through the way, a small, single-candle lantern held in her left hand. She had done her share of wiping away cobwebs and dusting floors in the routes designated for the rebel children. Sixteen of them, from babies to twelve years of age, attended a daycare Vivina, Baldur’s daughter, ran for them. Most were under ten, and she knew, from experience, that if it came to running for their lives, having a grubby, rat-infested place to navigate would not keep them calm and attentive.
“I’m surprised the rebels are still here,” Faelan said. “The House used to move about far more than it has these last few years.”
“Baldur likes it here, and he hates the warehouse,” she told him. “So here we stay. Patch thinks it’s a bad idea, but our dear ‘I know better’ headman refuses to listen to him.”
“It is a bad idea.”
They reached the cellar. It was a small stone room that held nothing but a short ladder leading to the trapdoor. Lapis went to the left wall and grabbed a mottled grey rock with the tips of her fingers. She slowly pulled it out and snagged the key from the back of the hole. She hastily unlocked the door, then returned it to the hiding place.
Faelan waited patiently as she raised the door, listening for sounds in the garden. Hearing nothing, she opened it wider and climbed up, then held it for him. The unwieldy bushes Baldur neglected to trim provided a dense cover for any using the exit, and Patch, while he insisted on neatness in other places, kept the plants overgrown there, on both sides of the wall, to hide an escape. Lapis crept to the tumble of dirty stone by a large hole in the barrier and pointed to the hedges on the other side of the street.
“Sneak behind those bushes, and you’ll reach a ladder on the side of the building. It’s bolted and rusted into place, so it’s unlikely someone will remove it before it’s needed. Once you get to the roof, there’s an arch from it to the next one over. Get down to the alley on its western side and enter Greystone Street. It has traffic day or night, and it’s easy to mingle with the crowds.”
“Why is it so busy?”
“It houses drug dens, bars, clubs, you name it. The entertainment never stops, because Dentherion merchants man the businesses and they want them to be open all day. A lot of underground deals take place there. The two sides will hire a prostitute or a drug handler, then complete their transaction under the guise of doing something else. They pay well for silence, so the men and women they tap refuse to talk about it.”
“The underground in Jiy works a bit differently than in other parts of Jilvayna,” Faelan said. “They seem far more open here.”
“They are. I’m not certain why. Patch thinks Gall has too many deals with underbosses, and if he plans to keep them silent, he needs to put up with their outings.” She retrieved the key from its hiding place at the base of the wall and relocked the door, then returned the dirt-encrusted object to its resting place. She crept to her brother, and peeked through the hole before leading him from it; she never dared try to sneak through the bushes facing the House, just in case someone looked out of the windows at the wrong time. Patch meant for certain ways to remain secret, as he prepared for Faelan’s eventual visit.
They walked to the western side of the House, which bustled with activity. Teens and women washed bedding in the fire-heated, dented metal tub that sat in a wide circle of trampled dirt. Towards the fence, rows of thin laundry lines ran between greying poles, awaiting the burden of wet fabric. Bottles of Dentherion soap rested against the side of the building, a burst of dull color against the flaking, grungy stone. Lapis felt grateful no one tapped her to help; she disliked scrubbing her own things, let alone items for nobles who would never appreciate the work that went into making them comfortable. Most cast her jealous looks, and she did not blame them. She, too, would hate to be out washing laundry, wincing as the cleaning liquid caused her hands to dry and the skin to crack.
They avoided rebels rushing back and forth and made it to a vacant hallway. Lapis glanced up at her bemused brother and nudged him with her elbow.
“What do you want me to say about us?”
“That Patch speaks often of you, and I wished to meet you. It doesn’t have to go beyond that.”
She nodded. She doubted it would salve the curious mind, but she never cared whether other rebels approved of her or not.
The afternoon drifted away as she cautiously showed Faelan the shadowy corridors and hidden doors he could use as escape routes. She ended the tour in a room with new, unpainted wooden walls and sconces that behaved as stereotypical doorknobs. He raised an eyebrow at her and she half-laughed in disgust. “Baldur’s idea,” she told him. “He needed something easy to remember. Third sconce to the left opens the left door, third sconce to the right opens the right door.”
Faelan sighed as she demonstrated. The thin wood swung open, creating a large perpendicular barrier that would break under sword or mace, and closed with a loud crack. “Easy to remember, huh.”
“Yep.” If Gall’s soldiers busted in, neither she nor Patch believed he would hustle to the room and recall the correct sconce through his panic. Hopefully the sympathizers they paid for advanced warning of raids would alert the House long before the palace men stepped foot in the place.
Relaine’s high, delighted laughter echoing from the hall raised the hair on her neck. No. No. Faelan donned the peaceful expression he used when he had to navigate trying circumstances, and Lapis envied him the ability. She pulled her hood lower, a shiver racing through her hands.
How many times could she encounter Perben before she struck?
Relaine, accompanied by the traitor and a couple of men she did not know, sauntered into the room, beaming like a child given chocolate for the first time. She halted, surprised, when she realized others occupied the space, and the rest of the group smiled in greeting.
“I see you’re looking at the House routes and protections as well,” Perben said. “That’s good. Meinrad and Rambart believe they aren’t adequate.”
“I’m under the impression Patch has spent a great deal of time making certain they are,” Faelan said smoothly. One of the other men snickered at that.
“With the headman undoing it all?” he hazarded.
Her brother smiled at that, but the humor remained on his lips; his eyes sparkled with a coldness no one else recognized. “Perhaps. This room is quite the example.”
“It’s good that you’re here, Faelan,” Perben said, running his fingers through his curls to push them out of his eyes. “This is Relaine, and she’s been kind, to show us about.”
Relaine leaped forward, puppy-eager. “Hello! I’m making certain everyone knows that, if they need something, I’ll be the one to contact. My door’s always open to the Blue Council!”
“That is generous of you,” Faelan said, bowing his head slightly. “So far, however, I’ve found the previous preparations suitable to my needs.”
“That’s good,” she gloated, believing the acknowledgment of her hasty arrangements meant more than he intended. She glanced over at Lapis, and her excitement could not quite hide the maliciousness that lit her eyes. “Since I’m already leading a tour, I can show you the rest of the House. Lapis is serving at the dinner tonight and needs to prepare for her duty.”
She wanted to smash the self-satisfaction off her face. She did not get past the thought before Faelan laughed and shook his head.
“I’m afraid I’ll need to leave such to my friends here,” he told her, sweeping his hand towards the men. Perben’s face fell at the words, while his buddies accepted his refusal with knowing smirks. “I’m told there’s correspondence from Midir waiting for me, and considering the mood he’s been in, I feel obliged to respond quickly.”
“Is Midir coming?” one of the men asked, surprised. “Meinrad said something about it, but I didn’t believe him.”
“He plans to,” Faelan said. “Our visit hasn’t prompted it, however. He’ll stop by with Varr—” and two of the men winced “—and make a rare appearance, then continue with his true business here. I’m not certain exactly when.”
“Who’s Midir?” Relaine boldly asked. Perben raised an eyebrow at her and Faelan managed a half-smile. Did she truly not know who the rebellion struggled for?
“An important member of the Blue Council,” he told her. “He’ll not be staying here, so you need not ready yet another room.”
“He’s secretive and not very sociable,” another of the men told her. “Most of us haven’t even met him.”
Of course Varr kept Midir far, far away from Perben, which meant he kept him far, far away from Perben’s friends. Faelan wore the badge of Leader of the Jilvayna Rebels, but Midir was the royal he fought to place on the throne. If he suspected his best friend of traitorous acts, even if he told no one else, he would have imparted the information to Varr. And Varr, the loyal bodyguard, would make certain their contact remained minimal.
Faelan ushered Lapis from the room with laughter and smiles for the men, while Relaine cast her a look that would have killed her, had she the power of fairy tale witches. No doubt the thought of capturing Faelan’s interest made her drool; too bad, because she, as dutiful little sister, had a few things to say to her sibling about the woman and her fake sincerity.
And, if what she had heard about Jetta held any truth, Faelan already had a beautiful and talented lover who did not need to grovel for attention.
She glanced at him as they hastened down the hallway; an inner fire burned within him, and while he portrayed a pleasant exterior, he made her uneasy.
“What?” she asked, hoping to dispel the twinge of fear.
“Meinrad,” he gritted quietly. “How did he find out? Midir’s visit was a closely guarded secret. I told Caitria and Mairin because they need to scan my room for hidden tech, but no one else, and they would never betray my confidence. He asked me about it while you were gathering your bathing supplies, and he avoided answering my questions about how he came to acquire this information.”
“Misguided note?”
“Perhaps. Unfortunately, Meinrad is the type to open said misguided correspondence and nose about.” He sucked in a cleansing breath, which did not help calm him. “The runners in this House are atrocious. The early arrivals have all mentioned something, with varying angst.”
Baldur likely gave the duty to his closest sycophants, and they had a single brain between the lot of them, and that brain was Baldur’s. “I can introduce you to someone who can stay discreet.”
“You don’t want to run my errands?” he asked, a tinge of laughter creeping into his tone.
“No.”
He chuckled at her firmness.
“His name is Whitley. I’ve worked with him before. He’s loyal and has a good heart, and taken with the thought of you being here. If you use him as a runner and impress upon him the importance of silence, he won’t mutter a word. If what Relaine said is true about serving, he’ll be in the kitchen.”
Whitley was there, leaning against the yellowed, peeling paint while Selda bustled about, getting something for Caitria. He looked as bored as a sixteen-year-old managed, though he watched a rebel, someone conscripted to help prepare food, hold the leg of a plucked chicken in one hand, a knife in the other, and grimace in confused dislike as he considered how to butcher it. He must have upset the stout cook, for her to have given him the unfamiliar task.
“Faelan!” Caitria called, delighted.
Every eye snapped to them. Lapis wanted to crawl into a cabinet and hide.
The rebel proffered a bowl of crisp tuber strips, golden-brown and sprinkled with the special hot and sweet spice blend Selda only used for exceptional guests. Faelan grinned and took some. She could not stop herself from taking a handful when Caitria offered.
“Selda is amazing,” she told them. “These are the best fries I’ve ever eaten.”
The cook, normally red-faced from her heated work environment, turned an even brighter shade of burgundy. Faelan smiled at her, the careful mask he showed to Relaine and Perben gone.
“I also told her that you’d be eating in your room, not with the rest of the Blue Council.”
Selda’s hue returned to normal and she nodded, her blonde bun flopping about. “I understand bein’ careful,” she said—a warning prompted by her dislike of Baldur. She motioned at Whitley, whose casual boredom had switched to intense interest. “Whitley here’ll deliver your meals.”
“Ah, Whitley,” Faelan said, looking at him as he popped a fry in his mouth. “Lapis said I should use you as a runner.”
His shock, and Selda’s immediate, wide-grinned approval, settled something within her, for having volunteered him without his permission.
“I need someone who is discreet and can keep quiet.”
“I can do that!” Whitley declared, popping from the wall. Lapis knew, he would agree to quite a lot more, for the chance to work for Faelan. She imagined the jealousy the assignment would bring, from the younger adult rebels who thought themselves far more reliable and rebel-y than the lad—and the fury from Relaine. She wished she had thought of that before mentioning it, but she also knew he would follow where Faelan led—no listening to the Perben’s of the rebellion and stabbing him in the back when convenient.
“Good.” Her brother popped another fry. “These are really good.”
“I’m going to eat them before I even get them to Ciaran,” Caitria said guiltily. Then she brightened, her cheeks glowing pink under her sprinkle of freckles. “I’ll blame you.”
Faelan had a fry halfway to his mouth before he sternly regarded his friend. “Do that,” he muttered before scarfing the rest.
“There’s plenty.” Selda waved at several baskets with the edibles haphazardly displayed inside. They sat among breads and covered pots, boards with soft cheeses and crackers, and wide plates with seared vegetables. The House never ate so well, and Lapis wondered how much of his own funds the headman poured into the food budget to make him look leader-like. “I’ll send Whitley with more.” Her expression fell, to serious and morose. “Baldur wants you to serve tonight,” she began in a heavy tone.
“Unfortunately, I have need of Lapis,” Faelan immediately responded. “I’m certain Relaine or some other rebel dying to attract Blue Council attention will happily oblige the headman in this.”
“You’re in a good mood,” Caitria said drily as the kitchen staff gaped at her brother, except for Whitley, whose satisfaction coated the air about him. The dig at the absent woman caused Selda to raise an eyebrow, but she did not defend her, either—and would spread his unimpressed words to whoever wanted to hear them.
“Am I?” he asked as he snagged more fries before turning on his heel and heading to the hall. Lapis waved at the cook and trailed him, not certain what else to do. Caitria refilled her bowl, laughing, before catching up.
“I don’t think this House is ready for Faelan,” she intimated.
“Ready or not, they’re stuck with me.”
Her neck prickled before Lapis consciously recognized Relaine’s laughter. She hissed through clenched teeth; Caitria settled her hand between her shoulder blades, a comforting act but also a warning. She fought to regain the control she had earlier, with limited success. Were they following them? Of course, after a walk around the house, Relaine probably suggested a visit to the kitchens for refreshment, thinking to show off her new toys to the House gossip, so their presence was not so odd.
Hopefully Selda intimated Faelan’s words to her, in front of the men she so desperately wished to impress.
Accompanying the woman were additional rebels, all on friendly terms with the original group. Perben eyed the rambunctious set with a critical eye but said nothing to dowse their fun, though he had his fingers clenched into white fists that tapped against his biceps. Faelan nodded to them; Lapis kept her head down and hurried past, while they acknowledged the bubbly rebel and asked after her delicious-smelling snack. Her bright replies sounded off; her tone was not so light, her words careful, guarded, not the easy-going way in which she had just spoken with Faelan.
Her brother put as much space between them as fast as possible; Caitria did not look askance at the behavior, so she said nothing. They reached his room and placed a closed door between them and the rest of the House before she gathered her thoughts about the outer signs of his deep and consuming hate of Perben.
“Lapis, since Patch isn’t back yet, I want you to stay with one of us until he returns.”
She blinked at her brother, and his seriousness made her tummy flutter.
“You think they were following us.”
“I do, though I suspect Relaine wishing to show off is behind it. That doesn’t mean Perben won’t take advantage of her generosity and discover where you sleep.”
“It’s a good guess,” Caitria murmured as she flumped onto the couch next to Ciaran. “If tailing you will get her into the good graces of a few Blue Council rebels, I think Relaine’ll comply with whoever asks, and Perben’s never been picky about contacts. I don’t understand her need, though. She has other talents that serve her well—why not rely on those rather than the vacillating whims of aristocrats.”
Vacillating whims. Lapis almost laughed; the words described her as well. She should stamp them on her forehead because she doubted she would get the opportunity to sit alone, think about the events of the last two days, and draw hard-won conclusions from the sludgy mess of her emotions. “I’ll stay here,” she said. “If you send me out on errands, people will assume I’m a stand-in for Patch, so it won’t seem odd if I’m in and out at all hours.”
“Don’t say that,” Tearlach advised as he stretched and rose from the table. “He’ll abuse it for all it’s worth.”
She smiled. In her youth, her brother never took advantage, and never forced another to do what they really did not want to do—her included. Of course, he made her feel worm-low for not apologizing or admitting her wrongs, which proved far, far worse.
“And why are so many of the secondary members here?” Faelan asked. “I made myself quite clear that only those who sat in Council meetings needed to travel to Jiy.”
“You mean, Meinrad and Rambart ignored your orders?” Ciaran asked drily as he tapped at the map spread out on the coffee table and hanging low enough to touch the floor. It was a beautifully colored display, with each district a different hue, important structures and businesses denoted, and names for nearly every street. Only Dentherion-printed materials had that amount of glossiness. “Brander and Sherridan suggested several places that would serve well for the meeting, and we’re planning to tour them in the next few days. How clandestine do you want it?”
“Istak said the potential ally is from a wealthy family but has spent the last few years in Abastion working with charities. They won’t balk at a meeting in a less reputable part of town, though something outside the Stone Streets is preferable. The Shale Alliance set up theirs at an autumn festival beer tent without mishap. But—” and he held up a finger, “—we need to consider Meinrad and Rambart’s nosiness. Meinrad already asked after Midir’s visit, and no one other than my circle should have known. I don’t want them to even have a whisper about this contact.”
“Wait, how did he find out?” Caitria asked, outraged.
“I don’t know, but we need to look into it.”
Ciaran nodded absently, then returned to the map. “Most of the places they suggested are in the Grey Streets, the Orchards, or the Kells. There are a couple in Blossom, and it’s out-city, so those locations might be more secure.” He lifted a few sheets of paper and waved them at Lapis. “Take a look.”
She retrieved them, flipped her hood back, and settled in a chair to read while the others discussed Meinrad and his illicit knowledge. She skimmed the names of restaurants, cultural centers and underground businesses; she had no outright objections to any of them, though, when she reached the Eaves, she paused, raised an eyebrow, and regarded Ciaran with lidded eyes. He ignored her, though Caitria’s impish smile indicated she knew the cause. She perused the remaining list; they all held some risk, but considering the sensitive nature of the outing, the two meticulously considered the locations. Personal visits would help narrow down the places to an appropriate few.
“Brander and Sherridan are taking this extremely seriously,” she told them quietly as she handed Ciaran the sheets. “Each one of those suggestions has potential escape routes and large enough casual crowds to hide underhanded affairs.” She stretched, her mind replaying the names. “Blossom might be our best choice, though. The underground conducts business there all the time, some of it very open, and no one’s punished for it. You’d be hiding among thieves.”
“We’ll canvas that first,” Ciaran said. “We might need you to take us about, Lapis. Baldur called for Brander and Sherridan, and it appears they’ll be here for the time being.”
She glanced at her brother, then ordered her thoughts. “He’s afraid,” she finally said.
“Afraid?” Faelan asked.
“Relaine brought Perben to meet him while he was yelling at me. He freaked out. Perben said Meinrad and Rambart asked that he look at the escape routes and Baldur screamed at them to get Sherridan. He got very quiet after they left and waved me on. He’s never done that before. If I’m in his office, I’m in there until he chokes on his rage.”
“I don’t think he’s met Perben before,” he said. “At least, not that I’m aware of.” He fixed his heated gaze on her. “Until he chokes?”
“He doesn’t respect the rebels here,” she replied, a non-answer but one she felt comfortable expressing. He continued to stare at her and she fidgeted; she had not experienced the annoying pleasure of a family member glaring at her for eight years and having over-protective brother mentality kick in did not make it more enjoyable.
A knock on the door caught their attention; Tearlach answered and allowed Whitley in. He shuffled slowly under the weight of a large tray that emitted the delicious scent of Selda’s special spice. Lapis jumped to help him cart it to the makeshift bar, where they settled it on the countertop. Everyone in the room gathered about as she withdrew the lid, revealing a nice appetizer spread of crackers, cheeses and vegetables, along with an enormous pile of fries liberally coated in the special seasoning, accompanied by a cool-tasting, savory cream sauce.
Caitria slipped behind the bar and retrieved a black box from underneath the counter. She pressed a few small black buttons held within silver circles, and it made a strange clicking sound before a green light swept over the food. Whitley’s eyes practically popped from his head, and while he trembled, he remained rooted instead of nervously stepping back. Lapis set her hand on his shoulder and squeezed; hopefully he overcame his trepidation with tech, because it seemed Caitria owned her fair share of it.
The box produced a series of beeps and the small black screen at the top displayed chemical names. Was this their poison detector? How did the green light extract the substance information?
“It’s clean,” she announced. “Which doesn’t surprise me. Selda doesn’t seem like the poisoning type.”
“She isn’t,” Whitley said firmly, shaking his head. He swallowed hard before continuing. “She’d never consider it.”
“Not Selda,” Lapis agreed. The cook, while gossipy, would never intentionally harm another, especially with something as underhanded as poison. She nudged him. “What happened with Relaine?”
Whitley grimaced, his fear of unknown tech falling away. “Selda told her she was going to have to serve because the Leader needed you, and if the other rebels weren’t there, she probably would have exploded and given herself a heart attack and died on the spot. Apparently she’s the only one allowed to schmooze with the Blue Council. Not that she doesn’t want to serve, because she does, but she’s upset you’ve upstaged her. And then Selda told her what Leader Faelan said, and I thought steam really did come out her nose.”
“I upstaged her?”
Whitley motioned to Faelan; no words necessary. “She asked if anyone’s reminded you that you’re supposed to be Patch’s lover.”
The House rebels really thought that was all she was good for, did they not.
“I don’t understand why this is an issue,” her brother said, annoyance tinging his tone as he snagged one of the small plates and piled it high with fries.
“J-e-a-l-o-u-s-y,” Caitria spelled before grabbing another plate.
“Whitley.”
He stiffened at Faelan’s calm words, almost saluted, thought better of it, and kept his hands clenched at his sides. Faelan smiled, amused, before walking to the table and retrieving a purple-sealed white envelope with Lord Adrastos’s name and address neatly written on the front. “I need this given to a courier, but at a city place, not here.”
He took it as if he accepted precious gold. “I can do that,” he said. Her brother dropped a few coins into his hand for the service, and the lad whisked away, intent on his duty.
Caitria glanced at Lapis. “How well do you know Whitley?”
“Well enough. He’s not the most popular or liked teen here, so Baldur lumps us together to serve for special occasions. His father’s a staunch rebel, and neither would betray the Blue Council.”
“I’m surprised, how many resent us,” Tearlach said as he filled his plate.
“They don’t resent you as much as they dislike the fact your presence is questioning Baldur’s leadership. After all, we train the replacement headpeople, and they’re very vocal about why Council rebels deemed their predecessors deficient during similar visits. Wait until you meet people through Brander or Sherridan. They’ll be more inclined to you.”
Lapis took some food, not in the mood to eat, but knowing she needed something in her stomach. Queasiness twisted her tummy if she went too long without a bite, which happened all too often when her emotions played havoc with her body. She had to admit, Selda provided her brother with far better fare than she typically prepared, and she would be remiss if she neglected her taste buds.
Faelan walked over to the table and retrieved another envelope, flipping it forward to call her attention to it before tossing it down. “That’s going to Midir,” he told her.
“Faelan—” she began, but he held up his hand.
“You’re the only local I trust with this one, Lapis.”
She wanted to whine. She did not know how to respond to Faelan, let alone Midir and Varr. She sucked in a trembling breath and set her plate down before sitting and hunching over. Varr would be so disappointed in her. In all her fantasies about Perben’s death, she never once assumed she would see the bodyguard again. He had doted on her as a child, and she cared deeply for him, but she never thought he would reenter her life.
“Where is he?” she asked hoarsely.
“At a hidey-hole apartment Adrastos set up for him. It’s in the Kells. The building’s called The Swan on Junperrijer, and it spans the entire top floor. We haven’t settled on a code phrase yet, so ask after Varr.”
While the Kells did not have the fanciest neighborhoods in Jiy, Junperrijer was a very, very nice place. Trees grew wherever a tree could take root, towering over manicured hedges, delectable flowerbeds, a wondrous library and arboretum, and refined buildings of stained wood with elegant, dark beams crisscrossing the exterior, instead of age-dulled stone. Many, many wealthy but not too influential underbosses called it home, so she never worried about a concerned resident wondering why a Grey Streets chaser like herself wandered its streets.
“I’ll go tonight, when everyone’s at dinner.”
“You’ll need a partner,” Faelan reminded her.
“I’ll go with you.” Ciaran held her plate under her nose and waited patiently for her to retrieve it. She glared at him, but he did not move until she hesitantly grabbed it. Dammit, she had two men playing at annoying older brother and she resented their interference. She could damn well decide when she wanted to eat and when she did not.
Her shoulders slumped. How was she going to manage the rest of their visit?
