Lapis held the item up to the dim light in her room. It looked like a personal seal, with three rings and a diamond with a curly, unreadable initial carved into the metal bottom, but the thin gold handle with wings did not strike her as stout enough to withstand a push into wax, or multiple ink stamps.
“Do you know whose this is?” she asked, showing the design to Patch. He glanced at it as he dried his hair, then shook his head.
“No. It’s not a noble or syndicate seal, and it doesn’t look like a typical underground merchant stamp. Those tend to have bones or fire or something like that.”
Since the object and bits were the only contents of the bag, it did not appear that the men Patch took out possessed anything of import. Too bad, they did not have their stake info inside. She scooped everything back into it and swung it by the strings. “What do you want me to do with it?”
“Put it in a cache for now. I’ll take it to the House later today.” He sighed and hung the towel up on its hook. “I need to talk to Sherridan and Ciaran about Mesaalle Kez. I’m wondering if her interest in Jiy isn’t about syndicates and influence, but Ambercaast and khentauree.”
She grimaced. “And the rebellion’s caught in the middle through bad luck.” She rose and walked to the windowsill; that niche was empty, and just large enough for the bag. “This is why I never wanted Rin involved with rebels.”
“No, and you wanted to toss the rebellion into the Pit after you confronted Perben. Things have a way of working out strange.”
She popped the board out, secured the bag, and pressed it back into place, the words tumbling through her brain. Working out strange? She had choicer descriptions to explain the changes in her life since her brother re-entered it. She had yearned to kiss the organization good-bye, but she knew Faelan and Midir, Jarosa and Carnival, had the best intentions. They sought to free their peoples from Dentheria’s shackles and grow their lands into viable countries that cared for their citizens rather than sucking them dry. Dreams led them, hard work backed them, and if she had followed her heart rather than her anger and pain, she could have become a part of the dream when it mattered most. Instead, she hid and plotted unsuccessful revenge on the rebel traitor.
“You wouldn’t have met the terrons or the khentauree, if you’d remained in your shell.”
True enough, and she valued those friendships.
She looked up as he wandered over and bent down for a kiss. His lips tasted sweet, and she savored them, wishing they had time for snuggles and more, but wake juice called her partner, and she was a poor substitute for that. She still settled her fingers between his breasts and slid them down to the hip-hugging waistband, enjoying the sleek skin beneath her tips.
His hand smoothed her neck, and he drew away before touching the stone he had given her during the Fools and Ghouls celebration. Sentimentality struck that morning, and she donned the jewelry that reminded her others loved and cared for her; his necklace, her brother’s chain adorned with the charms the rats gave her, and both silver bracelets. Patch’s jewel did not match the rest, but she did not care. They all represented her, as imperfect as she was.
A polite knock on the door, and Patch, with a sigh, answered. Dagby stood there, two jugs of wake juice in hand, and a knowing look on his face. Her partner eagerly accepted the gift, and Lapis waited for him to break whatever news he had.
“You’ve a guest,” he told her. “Says his name’s Baldur.”
Her decent mood shattered, leaving loathing in its wake. After Meinrad and Rambart’s visit, she should have anticipated his. Once he heard about the ‘shroud’s crashing, his worry about his daughter would have forced him to find out if the rebels had gotten her off Requet’s monstrosity yet—and since she was Faelan’s sister, she would know. Should she meet with him or boot him across the river? Perhaps she should let him squirm, giving him time to remember his sniffing contempt towards her, and how that might bite him now.
Patch threw on a shirt, stuffed his feet in his boots, and clambered down the stairs. Eager, eh? Sour dislike and the want to remain in her room warred with the need to do the right thing. No matter how much she despised the man, he, as her parent, deserved to know about Vivina’s whereabouts.
Dagby cocked his head at her and she half-smiled. “He was the head of the rebels here in Jiy until my brother showed up. Requet thought his daughter had intimate knowledge about Midir and Faelan and kidnapped her. Baldur wants the rebels to get her back, but as she’s on a ‘shroud, that’s not happened.”
“So he’s worried.”
“Yes. And she’s the adored daughter, so it’s genuine worry, and not some fake merchant emotion pried from a dried-out heart and displayed so others think he’s human.”
Dagby laughed. “I see Ambercaast and the Shivers has improved your view on the average man.”
She grabbed her key and locked the door before heading downstairs, smoothing the thick black overshirt that fell to her knee. Hopefully the Eaves did not drown in midday chill. Dachs did not heat the tavern until customers filled the place, and she disliked huddling down on the bench, shivering in cold.
Dalia leaned on the bar, eyeing Baldur with enough annoyance, he must have made a snarky comment about her and her position. Lapis doubted his respect for cooks had miraculously improved since the palace raided the rebel House. Patch sat at the reading table, jug in front of him, leg up on the bench, his half-glare smile making the man and his three guards shift with unease. The few early customers went about their meals, ignoring the uncomfortable lot blocking the door because they did not trust her partner enough to proceed further.
“Welcome,” Lapis said, and motioned to the nearest chair. “Have a seat.”
“Where’s Vivina?” Baldur blurted.
As sociable as always. She took in his thick, ankle-length green coat with gold embroidery creating vine and fruit designs, matching scarf, heavy black boots, and the silken hat that did nothing to warm his red face or ears, and remembered other times, other places, when he wore fine clothes to intimidate. During those meetings, he meant for the rich attire to remind her he lived far above her in social status and power and deserved her compliance without question. Too bad for him, she no longer had to play nice to survive the House he built. She leaned on the tabletop, her other arm cocked against her waist.
“She’s on her way here.”
Baldur blinked, then perked up, his brown eyes filling with hope. She held up her hand to stop his rise to joy and motioned to the table.
“There’s more to it. Have a seat.”
He bustled over, the news propelling him. His guards looked at each other and hustled after, annoyed and unwilling to hide their distrust. Did they expect her, or more likely, Patch, to spill Baldur’s blood in the Eaves without more provocation than he had shown? Snobby merchant was not a killable offense, and she liked Dachs too much to bring that trouble to him.
The chair creaked in protest as Baldur flumphed down and wiggled about for a comfortable position. His gaze strayed to Dagby, who leaned against the wall and silently regarded the exchange, then bounced to Patch, who did not move, did not speak, just kept his half-glare smile going. The merchant clasped his hands together on the table, one thumb rubbing the other in fast repetition. Nervous, much? His guards curled their fingers around their sword hilts, each with an unpleasant grimace.
She leaned closer. “Requet’s returning to Jiy in the ‘shroud,” she said, dropping her voice to a near whisper. He frowned, the immediate puff up into rage replaced by forced calm as his eyes snaked to Patch. She did not have to look, to know the warning he gave with a cocked eyebrow. Why provoke him? The House had not dissolved so long ago, that he had forgotten her partner’s temper. “He wants to ditch the ship and walk on solid ground again. Seems the ‘shrouds crashing in Dentheria changed his outlook on his future if he stayed on one.” She forced a smile. “Midir has told him he will do as instructed if he wishes to land the thing. Vivina is onboard, hale despite the circumstances of her kidnapping, and enamored of dear Requet. You’ll have to navigate her new love on your own.”
“He’s a noble’s son,” Patch said, his tone heavy with dark humor. “Might prove quite the catch, if brains isn’t a requisite.”
Baldur, speechless? His mouth hung open as if he smelled something sour and had no idea how to get away from the stench. Good. Playing nice with him stressed her. “If I were you, I’d kept this between us. We’ll be in touch when they get here.”
He curled his upper lip and prepared to yell, rage flushing his face, his right eyebrow twitching. She intercepted his reaction with her own displeasure.
“If you want updates on your daughter before she arrives on your doorstep, don’t say another word.”
His fingers dug into the tabletop and he puffed up, a seething mass of pissed parent, then shoved his anger into his gullet. It took effort, and the glint in his eyes concerned her, but he held his peace. How wonderful, he no longer felt comfortable pouring abuse on her to prop up his station. He wobbled to his feet when he realized she had nothing more to say, and leaned heavily on the table.
“If you don’t keep your promise—”
“What are you going to do about it?” She straightened, refusing to honor his intimidation. The time his rage scared her had long passed. Still, his sly smile sat ill with her; whatever he planned, hopefully it worked as well as his previous, failed plots. Turning with his nose stuck high, he heaved his girth past the customers with as much pomposity as he could manage.
His guards did not turn their backs on the three of them as they left. Why the overcaution? Who had made the threats? Not her!
Outside the tavern, other ex-Jiy rebels milled in the street, hands shoved into coat pockets, apparently expecting Baldur to have spoken for them. Poor shanks, did they assume Faelan and Midir would open the organization back up to them? She supposed lusting after a return to meager duties for a decent salary drove most of them, especially in the colder End Year months. Too much had happened in between the dissolution of the previous rebel incarnation and the present; if they rejoined, fighting and dying was what they should expect, not a straightforward mission or two delivering packages and an easy chair upon their return.
Patch rose, kissed the side of her head, and waltzed after the ex-headman and his guards, intent on the crowd outside. Dalia watched him, then her; she nodded, and the woman retreated to the kitchen to make a meal for the three of them. She could use hot tea and warm food; waiting up late with Diz and Nolin had made her hungry, and she had no snacks in the room.
Dagby snagged a chair and sat at the end of the table, taking a swig and watching the men and women flock to her partner before ignoring them. “Patch put up with him?”
“Barely. He hated him then, hates him now, and Baldur should realize his goodwill begins and ends with mine. That ass was more concerned with sucking up profits by association than doing the hard work of leading, and his neglect led to the fall of the House in Jiy.”
“I feel like I should remember him, but I don’t.”
“Not worth remembering.” She smiled at Dalia as she set a teakettle and cup in front of her, then a cup-sized strainer. She gratefully wrapped her hands around the hot ceramic, uncaring if her pads stung.
“I get the impression, you’d say that about most of the Jiy lot.”
“I would.” She shrugged. “Diz and Nolin settled?”
“Yeah. I stopped by the House, talked to Ciaran.” He chuckled. “Apparently the rats’ tale was quite the entertainin’ bit. He said he made them squirm, when he asked how they acquired that shiny new information.”
“I’m sure.” She set the strainer over the cup and poured the tea, a small smile tugging her lips. Experiencing Ciaran’s guilt trips should make an impression as strong as Faelan’s.
“He sent word to the workstation about the head theft. Faelan’s concerned about that; the Black Hats have been patrollin’, and there’s evidence some undershanks have nosed around Ambercaast, but they haven’t caught anyone yet. No one knows if they’ve made it into the tunnels.”
“Are the khentauree and terrons patrolling them?” The soggy leaves smelled comfy, like warm flower petals. She did not remember the name, but when she asked for the flower petal tea, Dalia knew which one.
“Before Jhor left, the terrons asked him to install the security cameras from a stash they found in the scientists’ gear, and they’re monitorin’ the entrances. They don’t trust the shanks who were there to stay gone.”
“Not if they think the mines might have aquatheerdaal. So why now? Ambercaast isn’t the easiest place to find, and now snow’s blocking the way.”
“Desperate shanks lookin’ for a few bits,” Dagby offered.
She sipped her tea, the physical warmth unable to compete with the emotional chill creeping through her chest. What did Diros expect to find in a rusting khentauree head? Or had Kez ordered him to retrieve an extant one, and he, unwilling to sully his hands, sent shanks in his stead? Hopefully the patrol group that the scientists loosed onto the unsuspecting forest had already stopped functioning in the cold, allowing Ghost to retrieve them. She did not want to see one of them in the hands of a man as unscrupulous as Patch’s father, or sent on to a woman like Mesaalle Kez.
Dagby drew circles on his jug, his gaze distant. “Never thought I’d be in this position. I had no plans other than to get sober. But happenstance brought you to my door, and now I’m in the best situation of my life. I owe you, Lanth.”
She blinked at him, shocked at the admission. “You’re welcome, but since it was happenstance, you owe me nothing.”
“You may not think it, but you changed my course. Granna Cup’s mentioned it. She was afraid I’d slip back on brainbreak if I didn’t find somethin’ to occupy my days. Got that now, in abundance.”
“If you’re willing, my brother will work you.”
“Discoverin’ that.” He laughed. “Discoverin’ the rats aren’t shy about questions, too. Compared to what I did before, it’s satisfyin’. I know I’m makin’ a difference. Granna’s said I’m returnin’ to the kid she knew.”
“How are she and Cassa getting along?”
“Splendidly.” He rubbed at his chest, as if the question made him uneasy. “And she’s welcomed Tovi into her grandkids’ circle. She said he’s bright, enthusiastic, motivated, and after spendin’ some time with Cassa, she’s pretty certain we’ll be together until the Pit calls us.”
“You don’t sound as certain.”
“I know where my heart is, and it’s with Cassa. Can’t explain it, other than I knew, when I first met her. I also know where my past is, and I’m terrified it’ll rear up and take what I’ve started to build.”
Lapis understood that fear too well. Perben still walked the streets, and she did not trust Lady Merika to keep him under her thumb. He had failed to end her twice, and he never let loose ends trail behind him.
“I think you’ve taken steps to ensure you don’t.” She sipped her drink, then smiled at him. “I didn’t know you before you got sober, but I like the person you are now.”
His startlement amused her. Considering gossip, she had not expected to have much use for a hunter who took stakes to pay for his brainbreak habit. If he had remained as such, she would have gotten what info she could from him and left him to his life. Dagby was lucky, his granna refused to give up on him. Few in the Grey and Stone Streets experienced that love and dedication.
She worked with enough rats thrown from their homes to know.
“Besides,” she said, bapping his lower arm, “you’ve helped me in tough situations.”
He shook his head before taking another swig. “Your skills are as fine as any who’ve been workin’ chases for twenty years. And you use them for the good of others. Chasers like to brag that they’re the only justice the common folk have, but how many bend their heads to read the stakes at the bottom of the pin boards, or take the time to flip to the backs of the stake books?” He set the jug down, a wistful smile brushing his lips. “I never realized how many Patch takes. I was always intimidated by him and avoided him when I could. Maybe if I hadn’t, maybe if I’d seen he didn’t think of the lesser as less . . . maybe I would have swallowed the truth in Granna Cup’s words quicker. I was too obsessed with being the admired shank everyone wanted to know, and couldn’t admit that I bought that admiration rather than earned it.”
Popularity had never been a goal Lapis sought, though her partner experienced it despite his want to remain in the shadows. She peered outside to check on him; the animated arm-waving and furious looks proved the ex-rebels did not find a sympathetic ear in Patch. He already offered those he thought would promote the rebellion’s ideals a place in the new House. He had no use for the rest of them, and she doubted anyone could change his mind.
She hoped their revenge did not equal them telling the palace that a couple of rebels resided in the Eaves.
