Lapis turned to the giggly group of women who had imbibed too much from whichever food stall they patronized. Their pained expressions indicated they thought the line to the restroom was far too long for comfort, but they refused to pay for one attached to a business and with a shorter wait. Of course, those businesses gouged for the privilege of their restrooms; she bet they made more off their toilets than they did selling merchandise.
If Maydie and Movique planned a similar festival next year, she would needle Faelan into insisting they set up more outhouses.
“Who’d want a big lizard for a pet?” another snickered. “Feeding them must cost a fortune!”
“They aren’t pets,” Lapis growled. A few glanced at her, and one presumptuous woman in Vale merchant finery flared her nostrils.
“You’ve been sitting with them,” she said with a sniff. “Do you own them?”
“They aren’t pets,” Lapis emphasized. “They’re intelligent beings with language and culture.”
The people surrounding her laughed, and while she understood, their amusement clawed at her, aggravating her annoyance.
“You think carrion lizards are intelligent and have culture?” the Vale woman rolled her eyes.
“They aren’t carrion lizards,” Lapis said. “They’re weeld kleeth, and these particular weeld kleeth are terrons, rather than pendegons or casilisks. They have equal rights to humans in Siindernorth countries. Unfortuantely here in Jilvayna, people mistake them for carrion lizards. They’re not.”
“I can’t believe you brought such disgusting things here,” the woman said.
Had she not just stated they were not carrion lizards? “Tell you what,” Lapis said. “Why don’t you go talk to them? You know the finger language?”
“No!” Deeper revulsion rocked her. “Only guttershanks use that.”
“The urchins aren’t guttershanks,” Lapis said, plastering a snarly smile on her face to keep from saying nasty things. “Neither are chasers.”
“You’re all a bunch of filthy reprobates,” she said, her voice choked as if ready to vomit. “The crown should have hung you all, to get your stink out of my city.”
A rich sentiment, coming from a woman stuck on the west side of the river. “I’ll remember that the next time I’m checking stakes,” she said, eyeing her up and down. “And if you’re listed, it will be a pleasure to speak with you again—before I haul your ass to the community centers.”
“I’m a business owner! That’s—”
She put her snideness into her laugh. “And business owners get staked the most often, because of their want to cheat their customers.”
Grey Streets residents, who eyed the woman with contempt, laughed with her, though those who, by dress, appeared to hail from other districts, remained resentfully mute. The Vale woman disliked the mockery, but Lapis did not appreciate the threat of hanging, so she did not care. She typically ignored the snobbiness of the merchants in relation to the less fortunate, but that night, the words scratched her and she despised the dig.
Mulling her grumpiness, she disregarded the continued chit-chat about her while the line slowly plodded forward. Sourness claimed her, and a night she had enjoyed in the past became a slog she dreaded. What was wrong with her?
Had she grown to dislike people that much? She caught the Vale woman’s press-lipped, flared nostril, silent tantrum, and admitted that, no, not people in general; just condescending heartless ones.
As a chaser, she saw egregious abuses. Pettiness played a role in many stakes, and while the majority of the vengeful ones ended up ignored, if the stake placer offered enough silver as a reward, someone would happily take it. An accidental bump into a richer woman could end in a shank being sent to the jail mines just because of perceived criminality, whether an actual crime took place or not.
Armarandos had attempted to quell much of that abuse but did not successfully squelch it all. Those reforms probably died with his demotion, and she wondered how many chasers would again take a stake from the likes of that Vale woman because silver spoke louder than decency.
She finished her business and scurried back to the booth, hoping to avoid further conversation with the hateful. She did not expect all to accept the terrons or the khentauree, but depression dampened her enthusiasm, to hear it so bluntly, so openly, and realize those people expressing disdain would never bother with the truth because that would upset their small-minded know-everything existence. It was far more comfortable for them to never find out.
She took pride in the fact she encouraged curiosity in the rats, rather than mindless acceptance of authority's words when those authorities did not know the answers themselves.
Patch sat just beyond the larger group at the booth, leg up on the bench, his arm dangling limply over the knee. He skimmed her expression and raised a glass, swinging it back and forth between his fingers. She accepted and sipped; watery wine, and she noted that the adults all had glasses of it. She focused on the barrel next to the building’s wall with the tap pointed out; the keg was three-quarters her height and fatter. Someone thought they all needed more than a bit of nice to soothe the rambunctious night.
He grinned at her skepticism. “Shara bought it,” he said. “Wine and dine and all that.”
“Uh-huh.” She sank next to him and sipped. Much better than what she typically imbibed, and sweet enough to go down smooth but too sugary for heavy drinking.
Carnival and Jarosa sat with the rebel group, the Minq and Lord Adrastos, chatting with the Ambercaast visitors while Rin and Lyet manned the paint and hailed them if a child needed a mask. It surprised her, that the terrons and khentauree appeared comfortable, but she admitted, they might hide their uneasiness better than she. Perhaps Path had something to do with it; she interacted with everyone, delighting in her hat, which she made certain flopped around quite a lot, and buzzed with infectious happiness.
Despite her demurring, she made a fine ambassador.
Yedin and friends still manned the farmer wagon, though his annoyed glances at his grand-da, who sat with the larger group and laughed and drank and swung his glass about, hinted at a wish to join them. The mischief had disappeared with Tovi and Lahna, to terrify some other guests. To her relief, no one made a point of chatting with her, going out of their way, and she slid into a semi-comfortable position against the wall.
“Where’s Faelan?”
“He took off with Jetta,” Patch said. “They’ll be back.”
“Hmm. After a nice but not quiet interlude?”
“Probably, though he said he wanted to visit Ruddy’s memorial.” He nuzzled the side of her head. “Jetta and Ulfrik shared notes with Wrethe, Jhor and Path when they got back, and they think they know where Bov Caardinva and Requet went.”
Her emotions froze, then settled into icy darkness. “Oh?”
“But tonight’s a celebration. We can start planning tomorrow.”
She grumbled deep in her throat but reluctantly accepted that rushing after them that night was not prudent or possible. After Ambercaast, she knew the enemy they faced, and equipping against tech weapons would keep whoever chased them alive.
A body slipped onto the bench in front of them. Lapis blinked at Keril—no, Ehren, in public she needed to use his rebel name—and she managed a smile, however pathetic. He nodded, his expression a reflection of her depression. “I’d like to talk to you. About . . . Anthea.”
She sucked in a breath that expanded her belly. “You’re not going to like what I have to say—and it has nothing to do with Anthea and how much she loved you,” she warned him. He cocked his head, frowning. “Carefully consider what you want to ask me because I might destroy your trust in someone you care about.”
“It’s about that day.”
“Yeah, and why Anthea didn’t show up for your picnic.” She would tell the truth but only speak her real name; hopefully other interested eavesdroppers did not realize Klyo and rebel Adelind were the same person. She would leave it up to Ehren to decide whether to ditch her like a sun-bloated fish or not.
The frantic rush of Klyo between them, planting her ass on the bench, and snatching Ehren’s arm, irritated Lapis. “Ehren,” she whined. The tone set Lapis on edge; before Nicodem fell, when someone denied the then-teen something, she irritated them into caving with nasal wheedling. It did not matter if she desired a treat or a dress or a love interest, she would aggravate everyone around her with her inane bleating—and then her mother would get involved.
“Adelind,” he warned, exasperated.
“You said we’d walk around the Lells.” Desperation infused her, and he eyed the woman confused.
“Later. I need to talk to Lanth.”
“Not later, now! Before Faelan and Jetta get back.”
“The celebration isn’t going to suddenly disappear.”
She yanked on his arm, unbalancing him. “Now, Ehren!”
He jerked back, annoyed, and heads turned their way. Damn her, making a scene.
“We’ll be here, when you get back,” Patch said with lazy aplomb before gifting Klyo with his wintry chaser stare.
Ehren did not appreciate the helpful suggestion. “I want to talk to Lanth first,” he insisted.
“Why? She’s spent the last eight years lying about having survived. What could you possibly talk to her about that isn’t a lie?”
Heat rushed into Lapis’s face; that scum-licking—
“And Faelan claimed they were so close. Ha! So close, that she refused to even tell him she lived. He wasted too much of his childhood on her, while she only pretended to care about him. He shouldn’t waste anything else.”
Klyo’s snide insult lit the fire of hate fizzing below the surface for eight years. Lapis slammed her drink down, sloshing wine over the side, loud enough to garner attention. Her eyeballs beat a shrieking rhythm as the hateful anguish rushed from her head and flooded her chest, down to her gut and her tingling toes.
“It’s because of you Anthea died,” she snarled. “Because of you she was at Nicodem that day.” Her throat constricted, and she had to force the words; soreness flared with each syllable. “You thought you’d interrupt her date with Keril, splattered her with ink.”
“I did not—”
“I know you did, because she told us. Because I saw the damn dress.” Her lips tightened against her teeth, and she curled her fingers; she wanted to punch that pert face, smear that pretty makeup, rip that pristine pale lavender dress, make her care that her sister died.
Anthea had raced through the back door, the stain spread across her breast, down her skirt. Lapis cried upon seeing her, stricken; such a pretty, white, elegant dress, with lace and shimmer and matching gloves. She had dreamed of borrowing it when she, too, became Anthea’s age, and that wish died on Klyo’s resentment.
Her sister’s unexpected arrival meant she caught Tiege’s bragging about releasing the dogs on Keril when he snuck from her room at dawn, and her expression changed from choking distress to furious. Humiliation overran her rush to change as she screamed her promised revenge; Lapis and Endre slipped away, to the berry bushes and away from older sibling snarling.
Her knuckles dug into the side of her legs, frantically shoving the memory down, unable to cap her resentful rage. “If you hadn’t been a jealous ass, she wouldn’t have been at Nicodem during the raid. But she had to change, and she died for it. Because of you and your jealousy. Because you hated her. And you’ve lied about it ever since, haven’t you? You know why she wasn’t with Keril on a picnic that day, you know why she died, and you lied about it for eight years. And here you are, telling people I’m the one they can’t trust.” She leaned closer, and Klyo tipped back, stark tears fleeing her eyelids. “I will never forgive you for what you did, Adelind. I will hold a grudge until the day I die because if my sister didn’t know you, she’d be alive today.”
Silence pricked her, internal, external; Keril’s wide-eyed disbelief, not as strong as she anticipated, the glimmerings of recognition, of realization, emotions reflected in the rebels who had known the woman since childhood. Patch’s acceptance, his smug half-smile, as if he knew . . .
Perhaps he learned more from her nightmares than he intimated.
“I don’t care what you have to say of me,” she said, her voice trembling low, as dismal as a fog-shrouded tree dripping water into the swamp at night. “I don’t care what lies you spread. I can hold my head high, because nastiness and jealousy aren’t my best friends.”
“You . . . you . . .”
“You always had momma to bribe your way out of trouble.” So many incidents, so much difficulty, so much harm, that followed her like lost puppies, but because her favorite target was the commoner, few cared. Anthea had, but she never severed ties, and Lapis could not explain why. “You always had momma to run back to and whine to and she’d throw money at whatever it was and make it all better. Well, you can’t bribe my hate away, asshole. You can’t bribe my truth away. I don’t care if people still support you. They can make every excuse they want as to why they think a hateful liar is more important to Faelan than I am. Doesn’t look like he dug deep enough to destroy all the rot, did he?”
Numbness coated her; Patch’s kiss to the side of her head did not puncture the pain. The booth blurred as he slipped his hand in hers and led her away from the rage-inducing woman, her hostility, the watery images of silent observers.
How had anyone trusted her? Lies fell from her pouty lips like air, and she constantly sought to circumvent the trouble and pain she caused by voicing even more falsehoods. She never acknowledged her viciousness because that would puncture her sculpted façade. Klyo had acted in the same way as countless other teens Faelan and Anthea’s age, selfish, demeaning, hurtful, though she was singular in that she never recognized the harm she caused. She brushed it away as she would a stray feather, as unconcerned as her parents.
“Lanth.”
She roused at the worry in Rin’s voice. Lanth. He finally called her Lanth.
“She’s not worth the hate, you know,” he continued. “Them’s like her poison souls, but you’s gotta swallow it first.”
“Go away,” she snapped. She did not need his lecture.
“I’m comfy here,” he told her.
“I don’t think we’ll have to worry about her poisoning anything,” Patch said.
“Why?” Rin asked, frowning.
“This is the first any of the Blue Council has heard of it. Faelan and Anthea had a strong relationship, and he’ll never trust her again, once someone tells him.”
“She’ll go to the crown, if Faelan tosses her out,” she whispered, dread obliterating her hate with one hammer-hard blow.
“No, she won’t,” Patch assured her. “She’s done enough underhanded shit that if she tries blackmail or becomes a turntail, she’ll suffer the repercussions. And . . .” He trailed off, then half-laughed, with a sharp shake of his head. “Ehren got drunk, on the anniversary, once. Talked about Anthea. He never saw Adelind as a love interest before that, and I don’t think they would have hooked up if she had survived. Death makes the heart fonder, makes one forget annoyances and irritations, but he loved your sister. He joined the rebels to avenge her. And he has, time and again.”
“Good.”
They meandered through the crowd until they reached the Wine and Brandy booth; customers curled around the wine-red stall and stretched back into the nearest alley. Patch scanned the waiting people, and Lapis stood on tiptoe, attempting to see the end; she supposed boredom triggered by an entire night’s wait for a drink would calm her down. Perhaps she could convince her partner that a less reputable Night Market business stand, with a shorter line, would serve them better.
He stepped through the line as if heading elsewhere, passing the counter. A harried woman glanced at them; he held up three fingers. Without missing an order, she snagged three tall cans of a Dentherion tea called dark brew and passed them to him. The drink had tempted Lapis when she visited the Night Market and possessed bits to afford something from Wine and Brandy, but she always bought something else because she hated the thought of supporting anything Dentherion. Her partner must enjoy it, to overcome his reticence in imbibing empire-made whatever.
He handed one to her, one to Rin, placed an enormous tip in the jar, and left to the worker’s absent call of thanks.
“How often do you buy this?” she asked, skimming the contents label. Tea and flavoring. Helpful.
“When I’m on a chase and too hyped on wake juice,” he said. “It’s called dark brew because it calms one down for sleep. I don’t know about that, but it’s nice. And it’s not so bitter you’ll hate it.”
Rin chuckled at that before uncapping the top with a grating sound and taking a swig. His mild surprise prompted her to do the same.
Patch rarely chose sweet drinks, but the subtle honey with the mellow tea tasted pleasant, with notes of a bakery’s kitchen and a spice store at the Night Market.
“Bet this’s good warm,” Rin said, sucking in a deep breath with his nose planted over the opening.
“It is. Add some milk, and it’s great for chilly nights.”
She smiled in anticipation of a night cuddled in his arms and sipping the warm drink, maybe while they sat beneath a twinkling sky. He nuzzled her hair, sending a tingle into her chest.
Rin steered them to a street act, where three players performed to an improvised accompaniment by a musician. He strummed a wrail, which had become popular at the Lells because tourists found the head-sized, hollow gourd with four courses and a long neck exotic enough to gape over. The gourd, called a necktap, came in a lovely variety of deep purples and pinks, an attractive attention-getter when varnished.
Lapis preferred Brone’s drums, or flautists, even if the reed flutes did not have the loudness to carry over the market noise like the metal whistles from Dentheria.
While she stuffed her unwelcome thoughts into an ashy pit, to be blown into flames on another day, they supported several performers, dropped bits into their bowls, and meandered on. The first pricks of embarrassment followed; she never should have called Klyo out so publically. She should have held her anger, bit her tongue, taken a walk, ignored the woman’s insufferable insults.
The last eight years, she had lost her knack for dealing with aristocrats. She knew that a sullen retort, a heated reply, would return to haunt her, because the ultra-snobby used any break in demeanor as a hammer, cracking the offense apart and leaving the quivering person a hollow reminder of themselves. And they enjoyed it, gorging on embarrassment and tears as if they were fine wines.
Many wealthy individuals saw malevolence as a game, and mocked, ridiculed, tore down, because it might enhance their social standing while destroying a foe. Klyo subscribed to it, which explained her constant want to harm Anthea, in word, in deed.
The rebels needed better agents than that.
She rubbed at her eyes and fought the pull of depression. That night, one that should raise her on clouds of happiness and cheer, dove darker for her. Interacting with those she disliked drove a wedge between the longed-for merriment and the grummy misery flooding her chest and overrunning her shoulders, her neck, heading for her brain.
She desperately wanted to snatch that fleeing delight, but it remained as elusive as a butterfly, slipping away from the tips of her fingers, to flit away into the press of bodies.
Rin halted, and she brushed his arm before realizing he stopped. She raised her head; Patch stiffened, but she recognized his vicious loathing simmering just below a frozen façade.
The Gods’ Hands sneered at them, his bully boys flanking him and an over-primped woman with bouncy blonde curls bound up in a stylish tail, a blue, short-sleeved lacy dress with wide skirts that no self-respecting Grey Streets resident would bother to wear, white slippers already caked in dust, a useless lace parasol, still open, over her shoulder, and silken white gloves with a stray smear of black along the edge of her palm. Lapis decided a professional had brushed the shimmery blue makeup on her face because the too-neat look screamed hired stylist.
She twirled the handle as a malicious smile bloomed across her ruby lips. The bully boys arched back from her to avoid the broad rib tips from smacking their cheeks and jaws. The Gods’ Hands stayed put, and one sliced a shallow cut across his cheek, blood welling but not running.
“Well, now,” she purred in a luscious voice that Lapis immediately despised. “When I heard you survived, I laughed. But here you are.” She ignored her and Rin, glinting eyes only for Patch.
“Survived?” Patch asked, taking a nonchalant swig from his bottle. “I’ve survived quite a few things. You’ll have to be more specific about what you mean.”
She lifted her lip as The Gods’ Hands reached for his dagger, a stupid thing to do with so many witnesses. Shank and commoner attention snaked to his hand, and a small space formed between him and those who noticed.
“Come, Aethon.”
Aethon? Who was she, that she knew Patch from before?
“Aethon?” He laughed at the patronizing tone, and her smile fled as if someone swiped it away. People scurried away from them, nervous, twitchy. “Seeza seemed to think that, too. Your mistake’s put my partner in danger, and since you don’t seem willing to rectify it, I will.”
“Don’t touch me,” she warned, clenching the handle until a thin crack ran from her fingers and up the wooden shaft.
“Touch you? How do you think a hunter ends a chase? There isn’t touching involved.”
Lapis glanced at the rooftops, her heart pattering hard in her chest at his warning, though she could detect no shadows due to glare from the street level. Dammit. Rin hissed as blue light zipped between buildings, faint enough that if one did not stare straight at the space, it remained unnoticeable.
“Think that’s Tamor,” the rat whispered as the woman stepped back, maliciously expectant. If she thought competence from The Gods’ Hands, he and his bully boys would disappoint. An ill-thought name for a chasing failure.
Patch stared at her, she stared back, and her anticipation dwindled; she glanced over at The Gods’ Hands. A crease pulled his brows to his nose, and he attempted to look up without appearing to look up, as one so suavely did when they needed to see something that far above their head.
The woman’s narrow gaze flicked back and forth, between Lapis and Patch; she lazily set her free hand on her hip and stretched her fingers, then tapped her bottle against her leg—a distressing act for the stranger.
“You should be more careful in hiring help,” her partner said, his voice a rumble of bitterness. “People who stake assassins with incompetent chasers end up on the wrong side of a tech weapon before getting introduced to the lizards in the Pit.”
Without responding, the stranger anxiously searched the rooftops. A shadow leaned over the edge of the one she, Patch and Rin faced; she could not quite distinguish the motion through the hazy brightness, but she thought they made the sign for ‘all clear’. Patch jerked his chin up in acknowledgment.
“I wouldn’t worry about a dead hunter or two,” he said. The woman’s head snapped back, her blue eyes bulging in sick disbelief. “The Lells owners hired competent guards from the private sector. They’ve been patrolling all night—and they aren’t going to care who a guttershanks works for, if they target the crowd with a tech weapon.”
“They weren’t targeting the crowd,” The Gods’ Hands snarled.
“How did a dull shit like you manage to stay alive?” Patch asked, impatient. “I suppose I should thank this fine, upstanding ass for hiring you, as you’ve proven incompetent to the last.” He leaned forward. “And I mean the last. I told you, if you caused trouble, I’d hunt you down.”
A confrontation the group thought would easily go their way had turned into a bid to outrace an enraged Patch and save their lives. Only the stranger did not realize it; she frowned, confused, as the bully boys turned to flee, right into the waiting arms of annoyed Minq.
“You can’t touch me!” The Gods’ Hands yelled as the guards snagged him, drawing unwanted attention to the confrontation. People dropped their voices, murmured, looked askance at the group, and kept their distance. “I work for Lady Damara! Her father, Lord Diros, won’t stand for this!”
Lord Diros? That horrible woman was Patch’s sister? His malicious delight concerned her. If she was the one who turned him over to the throne, would he go after her? No better time to exact revenge than on a detained person who just tried to have a Lells festival shot up. Who would stop him? Annoyed Minq?
“You disrupt the celebration, you get kicked out,” the lead Minq said as he avoided the parasol Damara swung at him. “Don’t care who daddy is.” He snatched the handle and yanked it from her, tossed it to a random stranger in the crowd, and grabbed her upper arm.
“Don’t you dare touch me!” she shrieked.
“You think we’re hands off down here in the Grey Streets?” he asked, amused, as he dragged her after The Gods’ Hands, who frantically struggled with the guards detaining him. “Unlike the crown, we don’t put up with the shit you just pulled.”
Patch took one step to follow; Lapis snagged his hand. He looked at her, and by Rin’s worried intake of breath, he realized something other than annoyance at a rich noble drove the bleak hate marring his being. “Please,” she whispered. Not that night. Not after he had given her the necklace, after he expressed his love with such a passionate embrace. She smacked her bottle into Rin’s chest; he grabbed it with a small yelp as she laid her fingertips on the gem, so her lover could not ignore her meaning.
He stilled, and tense moments passed before he laid his hand over hers, bowed his head, and fought for that civilized sheen that hid his rage, his loathing, his disgust. “You’re not safe, with them alive,” he whispered.
“Neither are you. But tonight’s a celebration.”
“And tomorrow?”
“We’ll take care of them together.”
His sarcastic laugh annoyed her. “We both know Faelan will give us that look.”
Ah. “Well, yeah.”
He tipped his head back and guzzled the remainder of the tea, not meeting her gaze. “We need to go back to the booth.”
She pressed herself into him, and he looked at her as his leg shot back to keep his balance. She caressed his stubble with the backs of her fingers and trickled them down his neck. “We both need to remember, life is more than vengeance. When I’m with you, promise and love fill the horizon, rather than anguish and hate.” She paused, her tummy churning. “Think Adelind is still there?”
“Nope. I think she ran away, like she normally does. She never takes responsibility for anything she’s ever done, and this will be just another bit.”
Embarrassment about revealing the secret in public tore through her. “Tonight wasn’t the night for my words, either.”
“Y’know, Lanth, she wouldn’t be all grievin’ ‘bout her words, if you didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout her nastiness,” Rin said, eyebrows raised and eyes narrowed to prove his point. “Give her the same consideration.”
“That’s definitely a rat way to look at things.”
“Yeah, so?”
“You’re calling me Lanth.”
“Yeah, feels and sounds funny, too,” he admitted as he held out her bottle. “But iffen I’s yer little brother, I should call you like you asked. And start bein’ a pain, too.”
“You’re already a pain.”
“Well, in a brother way.”
“How’s that different than in a rat way?”
She did not like his sly silence as he tipped his wizard hat over his face, or Patch’s stark, appreciative laugh.
