Chapter 10: Reunions

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Ugly sludge and darkness filled her.

Her nightmares burst into life, her shock a platform for the crushing memories of Perben the traitor slicing her little brother’s neck with his giant sword, of the soldier smashing Neola’s face in with his mace. She gasped, swallowed air, fought not to puke. Not in front of the rats. The Grey Streets met weakness with disgust and death.

She clutched the glass she held, something ceramic; it shattered, and she stared at the minute cuts and blood running with water before someone wrapped a towel about her hand. A clean towel, not an item scrounged from a cubby or a harried shopkeep.


A soothing smoothness laced Faelan’s tone, with an underlying fury he could not quite quell. She clenched her hands; the envelope crinkled loudly. She slammed it down onto the bench next to her and mentally screamed her rage and sick pain.

The memories shattered her peace. She needed to concentrate on something else, like what terrible thing happened the night before, that Sir Armarandos demanded she meet with Fyor? That trouble would keep her occupied until she could find a secluded place to hide.

“We need to go to the guardhouse.”

“Not lookin’ like that you ain’t,” Rinan told her.

“GO AWAY YOU STUPID RAT,” she screamed. Heat filled her face, her neck, exploded behind her eyes and she could barely see through the tears. He pursed his lips at her, exceedingly unimpressed, his stubborn streak rising, defiant, as his green eyes flashed.

“You knows I won’t. I’s the Lady’s man, even when you don’t think it,” he reminded her.

Running footsteps echoed to them just before Lyet and Scand skidded to a stop; she had not realized they left. What was wrong with her?

Lyet imperiously held out a damp cloth. She accepted it; cool, soaked with water. She wiped at her face, then swiped the remaining blood on her palm away, uncertain which way her emotions would now fall. She had not had a break like that since leaving Coriy, and she despised succumbing to one in front of a brother she no longer knew and the rats. What must they think of her?

She finally raised her head and glanced about. They squeezed into a small, roofless, half-circle gazebo set in the old city wall. Broken columns stood sentry to the cracked benches, the once-white stone a dingy, muddy ashen color, like everything else in the Grey Streets. Few bothered to mingle in that section of the district unless they had some illegal business to conduct, so the average resident would never see that her soul reflected the condition of the limestone on which she sat.

“We may wish to postpone this meeting.”

She glanced at Faelan, then shook her head. “No. It must be important if Fyor’s sending the rats to find me. More important than . . . this.”

At least they kept their outrage to themselves.

She scrubbed her lower arm across her face to erase the tingling clean left behind and rose, handing the wet cloth to Lyet before she snagged the crinkled envelope. She doubted a lengthy stop would help her state, and the quicker she met with the guard, the quicker she could sequester herself in some small, secluded place and truly vent. Or die of shame; she had yet to decide.

She led, which suited her. No one spoke, which also suited her, though Faelan and the rats cast each other looks as she hastened across the roads and proceeded to the guardhouse with far more speed than necessary. The quicker she met with Fyor, the quicker she could leave and  . . . and do what? Ponder her mistakes?

She never expected to renew her relationship with her older brother, never thought he would meet the street rats, and she had no plan how to handle that, the questions from both sides, or the shattering of her carefully constructed city life. She did not want to see the distrust in the rats’ eyes because she neglected to be completely truthful about her past with them—at least, the little peek of the past she let them see. She did not want to see the same in Faelan’s, because while she knew he lived, he had spent part of the last eight years believing her dead. He knew she never attempted to search him out, and while he hid it, her distrust had to hurt.

Lapis pulled her hood further down, keeping her wretched state hidden from the casual viewer as the five of them walked into the Lells Guardhouse yard. More guards than usual bustled about, and she noted very few traders. Not a good sign. Dread twisted her stomach as she headed into the brown-stained interior. She did not see Fyor, but one of the other guards she often returned stakes to waved them down the right hallway. She whispered her thanks, which he accepted with a smile while he watched a ‘keeper complete a form with a slow, methodical hand, and headed down the way.

Maybe she should make Rin ‘keep for her. A random thought, but she welcomed the distraction. Her stakes rarely held trouble, and if she could make him fill out the completed stake forms while she returned to the Eaves, ate a late meal, and listened to kids read, she should. He’d earn a few bits without pickpocketing, so a win, all around.

Fyor sat in an office to the very back, door open, listening with an overly polite expression to a merchant who had very loud opinions about the guttershank who stole his moneybox early that morning. He had slicked back, but not styled, his dark brown hair, and grey tinged the skin under his soft brown eyes; had he got any sleep the night before? He glanced at them and nodded before leaning over the table and sliding a stake sheet to the excited man.

“Fill this out and return it to Guardsman Wrainven at the front.”

“But—” the merchant protested, surprised at the abrupt conclusion of their talk.

“I have other business, I’m afraid.” Fyor rose and motioned to them; he led them back through the foyer and to a narrow, dim hallway across from the front entrance. At the end was a stout hardwood door with a single sconce lighting its dark brown paint. He opened and held it while they all slipped inside. “Thank you for coming at such short notice.”

“You were lucky,” Lapis told him. “Rin caught me out and about. What’s up?” Her voice sounded a little raw, but not far off normal. Fyor flicked his gaze to Faelan, the single person he did not know, and she withheld a little sigh. “Guard Superior Fyor, please meet my brother. He’s a partner with my other unexpected visitors.” He looked surprised, and she took advantage. “Yeah, it was a shock for me, too.”

He nodded then looked pointedly at the rats. “I appreciate your quick action, but this is between myself and the Lady.”

Scand sighed mightily. Rin glared and looked to protest, glanced at Lyet, then smashed his lips together and retreated out the door, casting Lapis a worried look before he moved beyond the jamb. Lyet ushered Scand out, and both reflected Rin’s concern.

Before Fyor did more than stare at her brother, suspicious, the man she met the night before, Sir Armarandos’s father, bustled in. He wore a sleek grey raincoat and a fine black jacket and pants beneath, common business meeting attire among the gentry, though his snowy hair waved softly about his head, an attempt to undermine the stern look. He glanced at her, his crisp grey eyes intent, no-nonsense, before he stopped in shock.

“Faelan, my boy!” he cried.

He knew Faelan. He knew Faelan?

“Lord Adrastos,” Faelan said, shaking his hand, smiling his charming half-smile. While she had not spoken to her brother in eight years, she recognized when he trusted someone, and his movement, his tone, indicated he held the man in deep respect and confidence.

Fyor closed the door, not bothering to hide his own surprise.

“Figured you’d be around, when I saw your sister,” Lord Adrastos told him.

“I didn’t know she survived,” Faelan told him.

“Shock for you, too, then.” He nodded and helped himself to a chair. Lapis took that as an invitation to sit. “But seeing Iolanthe in her eyes, I knew.”

“Do I look that much like my mother?” She had to ask.

“Yes,” came the chorus.

Well, then.

“You’re the one who wanted to speak to Lanth?” Faelan asked as he, too, found a seat. Fyor chose the chair behind the single desk in the room.

“Yes,” Lord Adrastos admitted. “Though the guard’s interested as well. It’s good, that you’re here. Saves me a trip.”

A trip? Was she correct, then, in assuming Sir Armarandos’s father had a rebel name? Who might he be?

“When I got back from the hullabaloo last night, my wife gave me a message from a contact. It made the obvious connection between Hoyt and Nevid. Nevid’s the guard who started all this,” he said, waving his hand and looking at Faelan. Fyor appeared to want to interrupt but thought better of it. She had the impression that Lord Adrastos was not a man to contradict, but the superior squirmed in curiosity over the stranger the elder immediately welcomed and took into confidence. “But he had another bit. He said that a chaser named Aethon upset Hoyt by interfering in some stake or other that another chaser, Predi, was supposed to complete. It was important, something to do with tech, and they wanted payback. After some digging, someone supplied them with a name and told them his partner was Lady Lanth. So they decided to go after Lanth, here,” and he indicated her.

Lapis blinked. “But . . . I don’t know anyone named Aethon.” She had never encountered another chaser by that name, though plenty of out-city ones came and went on stakes without her meeting them. One of them had likely carried out his stake, completed it, upset Predi in the process, and left. She wondered if he was part of the last incident that forced the confrontation between him and Patch. But why did they assume she was this Aethon’s partner?

Fyor raised an eyebrow. “Not your partner?”

She shook her head, the dread growing. Someone targeted her for the actions of another, someone she had never met but may end up dying for. “No,” she said. “He did have a couple of not-good-for-Predi encounters, but he’s not called Aethon. I don’t know anyone who is. A lot of chasers don’t really like hunters, so it could be, that someone from out-city came in and they had a spat. I don’t know why they’d link us, though.”

Fyor nodded and sighed. “I don’t recall any chaser named Aethon working in the city, though I don’t know all the out-city ones.” He leaned on his elbows, pressed his fingertips together, and tapped his index fingers against his lips. “It may be, someone decided to try their hand at chasing, had a terrible experience, and dropped out of it. But that doesn’t explain how you got linked to him.”

She shook her head again. “I’ve never worked with someone named Aethon. I’m on my own or in the company of my partner. I usually only see other chasers when I’m turning in a stake, and they ignore me because I’ve never competed with anyone for a stake. I choose the ones others don’t seem interested in completing.”

“That’s true,” the guard said. “You do important work for little reward. Many of us respect that. It’s why we’re puzzled, why Hoyt wants to make you a target. Lady, you may not think so, but the Grey Streets respect you, not just for bringing justice to those of little means, but because you do what you can to help the street rats. How you shifted Rin from sullen and angry to productive teen is extraordinary.”

“I didn’t have much to do with that, Superior Fyor. Rin achieved it on his own.”

“Perhaps so, but he watched a woman he respected walk a different path from the normal Grey Streets way,” Fyor replied. “You are a beacon to others because you’ve shown that one can succeed without falling into the underground trap, and that kindness and charity aren’t liabilities. Hoyt’s misunderstood your support if he thinks he can target you and reap no repercussions. And maybe he, personally, will not, but his men certainly will. It won’t just be your rats seeking revenge on bit shanks, either. This has the potential to backfire on anyone who works for Hoyt. That, in turn, would harm his ability to hire men and make him vulnerable against other underbosses. He doesn’t take chances like that. What’s prompted him to do so in this case is unclear and worrisome.”

He could say that.

She sank back. She rarely took the stakes of well-known criminals because of the potential backlash against her reading circle if she screwed it up. While she helped Patch on a few more dangerous, rebel-related outings, when on her own, she kept to the small-time, safer chases that paid a few bits and which never attracted attention from the underground. If Hoyt had staked her and a chaser took it, they would probably go after the rats to demoralize her, make her susceptible to attack. How was she going to keep them safe?

If she told the rats, they would shrug. All of them, at one point, entertained the bad graces of a guttershank, and they turned fleeing into an artform. They would consider themselves up to the task of outwitting and outrunning Hoyt’s people, and while they avoided the common shank, Hoyt employed far more dangerous individuals who would not care about their tender years, only about completing their stake.

“I know you’re worried,” Lord Adrastos said. “So’s my son. But,” and he held up his index finger, “this gives me the opportunity to go chat with some of the underbosses. It’s not well-known, but the syndicates hate Hoyt. They feel he draws unwanted attention to their activities by being loud, obnoxious, and stupid. If something happened to you, they’d have to do some unpalatable hiding because it would give the guard a reason to hunt down and clean out the villains. The knight superiors will promote it because they’ll see it as a way to regain lost influence and respect, and my son is certainly a law-oriented man. It’s in their interest to remind Hoyt that they don’t appreciate this kind of revenge. Their displeasure may not scare Hoyt, but it will scare anyone he sends after you, hunters included.”

“How would it scare a hunter?” she asked.

“Most rely on more than one syndicate for income,” he replied. “If the only underboss hiring them is Hoyt, they won’t be making much money because he doesn’t have the funds to pay for the really big stakes—and hunters enjoy the silvers. They’re not going to want to lose their comfy homes in the Orchards or the Kells, and if the syndicates tell them they won’t pay out to anyone who touches you, the hunters will stay clear. Never underestimate what greed will accomplish.”

That did not make her feel safer.

“When are you going to have these chats?” Faelan asked, settling his chin in his palm.

“Today, some tomorrow. The underbosses are curious as to why I want a formal meeting. I’ll spin it as me showing them goodwill, which they will understand and accept. I’ll expect something in return for the info, but I always call in what’s owed at later dates, and nothing that ever inconveniences them. Last time, I asked the Minq to get me Rulen apple seeds. Underboss just shook his head as he handed over the packets.”

“Apple seeds?” Faelan asked, amused. “Don’t you have enough apples in your orchards?”

He laughed. “Never,” he denied. “Some of my citrus died, so I had space. They contracted the fungus that took out several of the groves southeast of Jiy. I got it under control, but not before it killed a few of the trees.” He pursed his lips. “That was another favor, asking for Dentherion chemicals to kill it. Persistent and deadly, that fungus. We experienced a light winter, so the deep cold didn’t eradicate it, like normal. It wasn’t pretty.”

Lapis inwardly fumed. Why not chit-chat about apples and citrus while her life was a target? Even if Lord Adrastos met with the underbosses, between now and whenever they issued decrees, she and the rats remained in danger. She could hide at the rebel house, but the urchins did not have that option.

“Sir Armarandos’s urchin ban is still in place,” Fyor reminded them. “No chaser will receive another payment for a stake from the guard if they target the street rats. They’ll need to give up the profession or look to the underground for work—and if Lord Adrastos convinces the underbosses that targeting you is not in their best interest, they won’t find stakes there, either.”

Money. The world did revolve around recompense.

“I need to spread the word to the rats,” Lapis said. “I’m not certain I can convince them it’s more than a game.”

“They band together in times of need.” Fyor sat back and settled his hands, palms down, on the desk. “It should only be for a few days.”

Lapis stared at Fyor, a sudden dread prickling her shoulder blades. “Do you think that guttershank and his partner, the ones from the Eaves we took down a couple of days ago, had anything to do with this stake?”

“I . . . don’t think so, but we haven’t gotten an answer from either about why they were chasing street rats in the first place.”

Dammit. “Superior Fyor, is there anything else?”

He shook his head. “No. How may I contact you, if more information comes to light?”

“Leave it with the rats, like you did this time. I have a reason to check with them instead of just focusing on my stake.” She glanced at the old man as she rose, then bowed, a small, perfunctory action that indicated respect but not overwhelming awe. The envelope in her hand crinkled loudly, reminding her that it existed, and she needed to give it to Fyor. “Thank you, Lord Adrastos, for taking the time to help someone you don’t know. You’re doing me a favor.”

He waved his hand as he, too, rose. “A favor, eh? Well, I’m certain I can find some way for you to return it.”

She smiled at that. She wondered if he would understand the Grey and Stone Streets way of bartering for services, but he obviously had some familiarity with it. She held the envelope to Fyor, who took it with raised eyebrows.

“This is a copy of the papers Predi had,” she told him. “They’re addresses and don’t seem to have anything in common.”

He opened it and scanned the contents as Faelan gained his feet. The elder patted him on the arm, a warmly affectionate touch. “Now that you’re here, I expect you’ll accept a dinner invitation. Nerine will love to see you.”

“I’ll send word. It may not be within the next few days, but soon.”

He nodded. “Of course. Might pull Krios out of his shell, too. He’s been far too secluded, these past few years.”

Fyor raised an eyebrow and a nervous twinge jumped through Lapis’s breast. If Faelan knew she survived, Midir would find out sooner rather than later, and would want to see her again. Varr would be on his heels. Varr, more than Faelan, would be incredibly hurt by her secrecy, and she anxiously anticipated his anger.

Lapis half-expected the rats to be waiting for them in the yard, but the three had vacated. Good. She needed time to think about explanations and assumptions, and how she might keep her eyes dry and her heart steady when she told them of Faelan’s survival—and how the rest of her family was truly dead. No miracle would return them to the living.

Neither spoke until they left the yard and wandered down a sparsely populated street that led to the Lells. “You know Sir Armarandos’s father.” She could not tell whether she sounded resentful or curious.

He laughed under his breath. “He’s Grumpy Garden Man.”

Lapis stopped. “What?”

Her mother had loved telling that story. She loved describing how she and Lady Thyra donned mottled clothing and snuck into the sweet-smelling mini-orchard of the grumpiest man at court by clambering over the rather short stone wall. They helped themselves to the best pieces while enjoying the scent of fresh fruit and wet soil, then clambered back over the wall. Grumpy Garden Man had not found the theft amusing, and stormed about court, looking for the culprits. So she and Lady Thyra continued to sneak in, take their fill, and sneak back out, just to tweak his irritation.

In response, he laid a trap. A well-implemented one, with a large net hidden by soft soil, meant to capture anyone who walked on it and keep them hanging from a tree until the morn. He eagerly crouched behind some bushes, beyond ready to catch the thieves, but Iolanthe noted something odd about the displaced soil on that path and they avoided it. Furious, Grumpy Garden Man took off after them—and caught himself in his net. He had hung upside down throughout the night, shrieking into the wind. No one in his mansion heard him, and it was not until morning, when his concerned wife went looking for him, that she discovered what happened. She laughed so hard at her disheveled husband, she could barely tell the staff he needed help.

Lapis had always imagined a middle-aged, greying man flailing about upside down and screaming like a ghost with a grudge. She tried to reconcile the two impressions and floundered.

“Mother would take me and Anthea to visit every once in a while. He might have been furious at the time, but he also claimed that she and Lady Thyra would liven up the dullest day. He enjoyed their company. He was heartbroken when she died.” He glanced at her. “Don’t underestimate his want for revenge, either. His hatred for Gall has had eight years of growth in very fertile soil.”

She nodded. “What’s his rebel name?”

“Riaghan. He doesn’t use it much, though. I almost think, he’s daring Gall to come after him.”

She had not heard of Riaghan, and she wondered how many in the Jiy House even knew he existed. Belatedly, she pushed her feet into motion, and paid more attention to her surroundings. Faelan kept her step, glancing about at the people hustling on their own errands. All seemed typical Grey Streets residents, and no one struck her as a guttershank or a chaser.

“How fast will the word spread among the urchins?” he asked.

“Fast. It always does, if they’re in danger.”

He nodded. “Patch has mentioned Hoyt a few times. He finds him an ugly stain on Jiy but hasn’t yet had the opportunity to dispatch him. He will now.”

“Will he?” she whispered.

Faelan regarded her steadily, then studied the street about them. “Since you’re involved, yes. We must speak of Aethon, but not here.”

Ah, so he was a rebel. Whose city name was Aethon? Rebels kept their identities secret for a reason, and she never pushed for revelations on what they preferred to keep hidden, and she expected the same in return. She supposed that explained her surprise that Brander so readily broke his silence, especially since he would prove an exceptionally valuable stake.

If Faelan knew them, they must complete missions in southern Jiy, which discounted Sherridan and several other ranking members of the House. That narrowed the pool, but she still knew too many rebel men who fell into it. “I’ll alert who I can at the Lells, then we can go to the Eaves and my room. It should be safe enough to talk there.”

The first drops of rain pelted her nose as they reached the market, and a crisper wind ruffled through the bright awnings and tarps. The busy streets quickly thinned, though a few intrepid souls with umbrellas and hoods still meandered the ways, looking at merchandise tucked under wide protections. The rats never had much in the way of cover, so they would be packing up.


She glanced at one of the keeps, a chubby woman of short stature who had the voice of a roaring wildcat when she wanted potential customers to hear her over the general market noise. “You all right?” she asked. “We heard about you gettin’ caught up with guttershanks last night while helpin’ Sir Armarandos!”

She smiled, as vibrantly as she could manage. “Thank you for your concern, Stelli. I’m fine. It was a surprise encounter, but I managed without a scratch.”

“Surprise encounter?” another keep asked as he tied a cloth over his produce. “That’s a bit understatin’ it, ain’t it? I heard that the Tree Streets superior hired a bunch ‘a Stone Streets shanks to go after Sir Armarandos and you just happened t’ be there. Heard Orinder had somethin’ t’ do with it, too. He’s been wantin’ t’ take you down, Lady, ‘cause you speak for the rats.”

“Whether Orinder’s part of the plot, I don’t know. There were a lot of Stone Streets bit shanks there, though, and not a one knew how to use a knife. I may not go after the large stakes, but I chase enough I can handle a shank who keeps dropping their weapon.”

More than one keep laughed at that, enjoying the thought of incompetent rogues. Lapis waved and moved on, hiding her startlement at the concern. She knew some of the Lells sellers, greeted them when she walked by their stalls or their stores, but she hardly counted them as friends. Perhaps they were fishing for gossip, and she, having been there, could give them some juicy bits no one else had heard.

Faelan’s small smile as more keeps hailed her meant he thought their worry justified and their relief real.

Brone, Phialla and Ness were hurriedly stuffing the pottery items into the small wagon they used to move them back and forth from the Eaves. Ness noticed her first and unabashedly gawked at her brother. She wished he had a hood, and briefly pondered demanding he wear hers.

“It’s rude to stare,” she told the rat, trying to keep as much grumpy out of her tone as possible.

“But—” he began, pointing at an amused Faelan.

“Apparently my brother survived the fire,” she told them, very serious. “We’ve spent eight years thinking the other died.” She motioned at him. “This is my older brother, Faelan. So be NICE.” Their wide, delighted smiles made her nervous. “Faelan, this is Brone, Phialla and Ness. Brone’s a busker and Phialla and Ness make and sell the pottery.” She hunkered down next to them and dropped her voice, motioning them nearer. They squeezed close, their heads pressed together. “Listen. Don’t come to the Lells for the next few days. I have enough for you to eat on until I give the clear. Hoyt’s looking for revenge on me for something someone else did, and they’re claiming he’s my partner, which he isn’t. He’s in for a rude awakening, but that won’t happen for a couple of days. I need you to spread the word. You street rats are a target, and you need to be careful.”

“No different than normal,” Brone told her, not shocked by the words. She wondered what gossip the rats had already heard to make him so blasé.

“It is different than normal, because they’re using tech,” she insisted.

Ness’s uncertainty tweaked her heart, but he needed to know the danger. Phialla looked at the younger boy and nudged him with her shoulder.

“It gives us time to make more stuff,” she said. “Especially those tiles Mairin told us how to craft.” He nodded, looking miserable. Brone grinned and patted his leg.

“Stay with Rin. He’s got a big place now. He won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Don’t go anywhere alone,” Lapis warned them.

“Well, I’m going to find Lykas and we’ll tell as many others as we see,” Brone said. “Most have already cleared out, so we’ll visit their cubbies. Are you going to the Eaves?”


He produced a quick smirk and smacked her arm. “You worry too much, Lady. We’ve all had some guttershank after us at one time or another. Besides, it’ll give everyone an excuse to visit the reading circle.”

“Have you seen Rin, Lyet and Scand?”

He shook his head. “Not since they went after you. We were all real worried, Lady, when Fyor went to the trouble to leave messages with us. You’re not a flamboyant chaser that draws underground attention by bragging and then gets in trouble because of their big mouth. We knew something was wrong, if he wanted to track you down about it.” He hopped to his feet. “What happened with Sir Armarandos and the guttershanks last night is already spreading like wildfire with the gossips. Everyone’s on edge and suspicious. I don’t think the shanks are going to have as much opportunity as they think, to get to us.” He waved and trotted away.

“We’ve got this, Lady,” Phialla said. “You can head on to the Eaves.”

“It will go faster, if we help,” Faelan said, grabbing a stack of plates. Lapis’s surprise lasted as long as it took her to glance at him; his seriousness sparked a shiver up her spine. He noticed someone, then. She moved about as she helped the rats load up the rest of the pottery and shove the ratty blankets between the pieces, scanning the area out of the corner of her eye.

She saw him. She should have spotted him far earlier; he wore an expensive Dentherion shirt, the gold cloth shining in the dull light, and stood beneath an awning with a couple of other tourists, who bemoaned the weather and hastily made other plans. He leaned against the side of the building, arms folded, and stared at the four of them as if memorizing their features.

While she trusted Brone to worm his way out of trouble, Phialla was not much of a fighter and Ness was nine. Accompanying them assured their safety, since she and Faelan would care for any shank problem.

What other shanks plied the Lells, looking for rats? What about Rin, Lyet and Scand? Hopefully Rin carried his knife.

Nothing untoward occurred as they walked as fast as the wagon allowed to the Eaves, the pottery rattling about as if desperate to attract attention. She led them through a few back alleys and down busy roads with enough people scurrying about to hopefully confuse the shank following them. She thought they lost him, but since everyone knew about the reading circle and the Eaves, the precaution meant little.

The rain kept a steady drum of drops by the time they reached the tavern; Phialla and Ness scurried through the pottery room’s outer door, nearly overturning the wagon on the wooden weather strip. Faelan caught it with a laugh and the two rats reddened. Lapis quietly closed the door and locked the three bolts; while a crafty shank might pick them, it would take long enough for the two to flee, tell Dachs, and have him confront whoever entered without permission.

They settled the wagon by the pottery wheel, and Faelan gingerly touched the grooved surface before studying the rest of the room. Lapis had helped Phialla with the setup, purchasing cheap shelves to hold product and materials. In the far corner stood Ness’s paint table, with so many multi-colored splatters and drips it became a folk art piece on its own.

“This is nice,” he said, then smiled at the two urchins. “Mairin told you how to make some pottery?”

Phialla grinned back. “Yep! She told us about how to make these steppingstones that Dentherion tourists like to buy. There’s a lot of them buying stuff in the Lells right now, so maybe we can make more bits than we usually do.”

“I paint everything,” Ness said proudly as he whisked around his table and plopped into the rickety chair.

“That’s a lot of work.” Faelan skimmed the rows of fired clay that needed Ness’s brush. The two had gotten better about keeping their jumble of pieces in something of an order. The first few weeks that Ness had helped Phialla, he dumped the pottery wherever he saw fit, and smeared the fresh paint against unfired and finished items alike. Phialla had yelled at him for it, and Lapis intervened before they decided that hitting one another would solve the problem.

“It is,” Ness agreed with a sigh, then puffed out his chest. “But I’m good at it, and we sell a lot of stuff.”

“I need to talk to Dachs,” Lapis told them, then tapped the locks. “Keep it locked.”

“Yes, Lady,” they said in unison.

She slipped through the inner door and into the main room, Faelan behind her. The tavern was fairly empty, with only a few regulars sitting out the storm while eating a meal Dalia prepared. She supposed she needed to buy food for her and her brother, too. She had yet to eat, and she had no idea when he last supped. A warm meal, after the chill rain, sounded better than good. She stood at the end of the bar, patiently waiting as Dachs finished saying something to Dalia, then turned—

—and dropped the glasses he held. They shattered on the hardwood floor, sending liquid in all directions, soaking his pants and the hem of Dalia’s dress. Everyone gaped at him, shockingly confused, while he stared at her brother with rounded eyes.

“I see your welcome’s improved, Dachs,” Faelan said, with deep humor.

The barkeep spluttered, then waved his hands about. “I didn’t know you were in town!” he said, and the awe coloring his tone indicated he recognized her brother—which explained his shock upon seeing him. The Leader of the Jilvayna rebels did not casually walk into random bars, after all. He looked at her, as if realizing something he should have long since guessed. “You know the Lady?”

“Lanth’s my little sister,” he told him, his voice warm, soothing. “I thought she died eight years ago. I’m ecstatic she’s alive.”

“The fire.” Dachs nodded absently. If he knew Faelan, he knew how Faelan’s family died—it was no secret, how Gall eradicated Alaric, Iolanthe, their children, their servants and retainers. Since the barkeep’s curiosity rivaled Rin’s, she had no doubt he would pester her about the connections.

“Dachs, Fyor spoke to me earlier.” She might as well distract them both.

He fell from his shock and hastened over, ignoring Dalia’s protest about walking on the glass while she fetched a broom. “What happened, Lady? The rats were real worried.”

“Some random chaser caused problems for Hoyt, and Hoyt decided he’s my partner,” she told him, keeping her voice low. He leaned forward, frowning. “He’s targeting me and the rats. He’s in for a surprise, but that won’t happen for a few days, so expect some unwanted attention. Someone already followed us out of the Lells. He’s tall, has brown hair, and he’s wearing a nice, shiny gold Dentherion shirt. Not a typical shank or a resident. Keep a look out, OK?”

He nodded, frowning deeper. “How’d Hoyt decide this chaser was your partner?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Fyor and I think he might be from out-city and got caught up in a bad way with one of Hoyt’s stakes, because neither of us has heard of him. Why Hoyt thinks we’re connected is beyond me.”

“I’ll keep a look out.” He patted her arm in comfort.

“If the rats come in looking for a meal, I’ll cover it. Rin will pay the tab if I’m not here.”

“It’ll be warm and ready for them,” Dalia called softly as she brushed the glass into a pan.

“Thank you,” Lapis whispered. “Faelean and I need to dry off. We’ll be down to eat in a few.”

Her room stood clean and tidy, meaning Lyet had swept through. When the urge hit, she had a neat streak that rivaled any Lapis had seen. She silently thanked the teen; it meant she need not feel shame in showing her sibling her living space. She grabbed a towel and handed it to Faelan, who rubbed at his face and mopped his hair while she retrieved water for the washbasin, cleaned the ceramic slices on her hand, wrapped it in white, thin cloth, then rummaged for a dry outfit.

“Are you cold? I might have a jacket or coat that will fit,” she asked from the wardrobe as she changed.

“I’m fine,” he told her. She hopped out, hoping the chill clothing warmed quickly. He glanced about, lingering on the few books neatly set on top of the dresser. “Dachs never realized, did he.”

“No. You know him.”

“He used to be a ‘keeper for us. He helped with the dangerous stakes, the ones that might land a ‘keeper in jail for completing them, depending on the sourness of the guard. We lost a good man when he decided to retire and buy the Eaves.”

“He’s never said much about his past.”

“I suppose not.” He moved to the washbasin, set the towel on the edge, and wrung his clothing out into the bucket she used to retrieve water. “Maybe I should have sent a note or something to tell him I’d be dropping by.” He glanced at her, but she could not read his expression. “Patch told me to visit the Lady at Dachs’s place.”

She blinked back reactionary tears. “He said that?” How would she have reacted, if her older brother had unexpectedly wandered into the Eaves while she sat below with the rats. She might have simply gone numb until she could be by herself and worry through how she felt. Too many emotions would have crashed through her and shutting down would have preserved her sanity. “He knows who I am.”


“Tearlach said something about him collecting evidence on the traitor, probably because he knew. And he said you guessed who he is.”

“That . . . was easier than you think.” The darkness of ashen, furious hate filled him, emotions only one who suffered utter betrayal could feel. “He thinks I’ve just gotten too busy for him, but I can’t be near him.” His eyes flashed and hardened into amethyst chips. “He’s going to die for it, Lapis. I promise he will.”

“Because of Lady Ailis’s evidence?”

“No.” His grip on his clothes tightened. “She should have told me you survived. She didn’t trust me enough to tell me, and I can’t quite forgive her for that.” Iced anger tinged his voice, coupled with an underlying bitterness. “She knew damn well I would have found you. I would have protected you, even against my supposed best friend.” He stared at her. “And so did you.”

Tears, over-hot and runny, fell down her cold cheeks, accompanied by a gut punch of remorse. “I . . . I thought everyone had abandoned me. I didn’t think I was important enough to care about.”

“How could you think that? I never would have abandoned you.” He firmed his chin. “I was pissed, when I realized you survived. I was hurt, that you didn’t think I’d rescue you. That you didn’t trust me enough to even try to contact me. That . . . that I was . . .” He stopped, squeezed his eyes, and swallowed, hard. “I’ve had years to think about it—and Patch has made enough insinuations, that I know you thought everyone deserted you.” He held up a hand, looking at the scars. “I failed you.” His voice, deep, desperate, broke.


“I couldn’t get free,” he whispered. “I was frantic. I tried for three days, before uncle took me to Ramira and forced me to stay with Jarosa. I failed. I failed, and you suffered for it. I didn’t desert you on purpose, but that doesn’t matter. You were alone and scared and I couldn’t make it to you and help. My failure made you think I didn’t care enough, love you enough, to come for you, and I can’t forgive myself for that.”

No time. No time to ponder, to worry. No time to decide the best way to speak with him, to salve her own heart. She smashed the tiny shards of her false belief and uncertainty as she grabbed his hand and traced lightly over his wrist, feeling the roughness against her fingertips. “Tearlach told me you had scars because you tried to come for me and couldn’t get away. I went for so long, thinking you hadn’t bothered.” She snuffled. “I knew better. I should have guessed the rebels kept their favored son from acting. But after the funerals, I didn’t know what to do.”

“Favored son? Hardly.” He blew his breath out, sarcastic, then his expression fell. “You went to the funerals?”

“I thought you’d be there.” She barely heard her own words.

He covered her fingers with his own, warm against her chill, and pondered the touch. “I can’t imagine what that was like. I don’t think I would have been able to do it. I couldn’t have watched them all buried. But you were always so strong, Lapis.” His grip tightened. “There was a part of me that never believed you had died. Couldn’t believe it. Not you. Not my sneaky and stubborn little sister.” He paused before rushing on. “Those were the worst, the nights after the attack. The nights that I should have been home, playing card games with Anthea, Calanthe and Tiege before tucking Endre in, then reading to you before you fell asleep. Nicodem was gone, my family was gone, but my memories refused to leave.” He tried to laugh. “It’s why I wanted to visit Lady Lanth when I got here. The reading circle. I just . . . I knew.”

“How did you find out about me? Patch told you?” Her voice quavered, and she could not stop it.

“No. I guessed, when he told me his partner liked those sour fruit wedges with cinnamon on top, dipped in thick frosting.”

Oh. She did really like those. She had tried to make deals with Faelan as a child, to get him to give her his slice. She even cleaned his room once, though, as a six-year-old, what she considered clean differed greatly from what his fourteen-year-old self deemed sufficient. They ended up sweeping and folding and hanging clothing up together, and he still gave her his dessert.

“Things fell into place quickly after that. I was furious at the deception, but I figured out why he kept the secret. Because of Perben. He always hated him, and made it clear during their first meeting that if he ever saw him again, he’d kill him. He shocked everyone, but he said it so coldly, his eyes were so dead and dark, we believed him. Perben’s avoided him ever since. I didn’t understand the hate, until he slipped up.” He stared blankly at their hands, trapped away in his memories. “Patch listened to you replay events in your nightmares, so he knew who led Kale’s men into Nicodem. But he, like the rest of us, also knew that Perben spent a lot of time before the attack weaseling his way into the good graces of noble rebels. He set himself up as the ultimate patriot, and too many agreed. Rambart and Meinrad still love him like their sons, and they’d never believe ill of him without the evidence Lady Ailis is collecting. They’ve put him on a pedestal, over more qualified people, and brag incessantly about his successes. They’d throw me out of the rebellion before they’d ever consider his role as traitor, because it would call into question their own judgment.”

Throw him out of the rebellion? Faelan was their center, and if they did exile him, they would fall apart because, like their father, he possessed the strength of will and the charisma to convince people that the rebel’s fight was moral and to keep them loyal to the dream. It was an exceedingly rare gift. “There’s no rebellion without you.”

He smiled through his own tears and settled his hand against her cheek. “That’s not true.”

“They can’t get rid of you,” she insisted.


Maybe, nothing. “What’s his rebel name?”

“I’m not going to tell you that, and you damn well know why.” She gritted her teeth, which he ignored. “You’ve other dangers to care for; you don’t need a traitor hunting you right now. I won’t lose you to him yet again.”

He assumed, like she did, that Perben, once he realized she still lived, would come after her.

She did not know, which one of them moved first, but her arms wrapped about him and she held tight, squeezing him like she had as a child when he came home after a long absence. Her excitement at his arrival never failed to amuse him, and he always returned her hugs with enthusiasm. He had smiled as she cheerfully related whatever trouble she and Neola had gotten into most recently, as if he truly enjoyed her stories. Tearlach said he never denied being a doting older brother, and she had ample evidence of it.

She never should have doubted.

Her clothing soaked up the wet from his, but she did not care. She needed the comfort, and her older brother did not hate her to the point he refused to give it. At least the tears she cried into his shirt blended with the rainwater, masking her sorrow and guilt.

She finally pulled back, and he loosened his hold. His eyes, overbright and watering, made her feel low. She needed to concentrate on something other than the certainty that Faelan had mourned for their family’s loss years after her heart hardened against him, and did so in darkness, alone. “This Aethon’s a rebel, isn’t he.”

He let her go and took a deep breath. His reluctance piqued her curiosity, but she felt too raw to ask after it. “He’s tried to leave the past there, with limited success. He’ll be furious about this.” His voice dropped even lower, and she barely discerned the words over the soft hum of from the tavern below. “Aethon. That’s Patch, Lapis. Aethon’s his birth name.”

She did not think lightning zapping her could have made a greater shock. “What?” She could scarcely form the word.

“Aethon died just before Nicodem fell, and Patch rose in his place. His family found out about his rebel connections, however loose they were, and their shame prompted his sister to hand him over to Gall’s guard without a backwards glance. Gall decided to hang him at a crossroads, getting his revenge while saving the rest of his kin from embarrassment.” He snarled. “I cut him down before he died. He lost his eye, but not his life. He buried Aethon that day and became Patch. That someone gave this information to the underground and put you in danger is going to rip apart the blanket of humanity he hides under and he’s going to rampage. I don’t think I can stop him.”

“I can,” she said as she wobbled. Faelan grabbed her shoulders and held her in place while she regained her center.

Patch never spoke of his past, though it haunted him in thought and deed. Lapis never asked after it; she had her own secrets she refused to divulge. She never pushed him, because in this, they had a bond of secrecy, and an unspoken if unfulfilled desire to press on towards the future together rather than drown in the sorrows and darkness of days long gone. In some ways, she never wished to know who he was before he rescued her; he provided a clean slate of a man she could sketch safety and love onto without interference from mucky memories.

“Who else knows about his past?” she asked.

“In the rebellion, not many,” Faelan told her. “Me. The rebels who rescued him. His original rebel contact.” He shook his head. “They’re all in Coriy except for his original contact, but Shawe won’t turn him over to the underground.”

“No, not Shawe.” Patch trusted the smith explicitly, even above Brander and Sherridan, and if he had doubts about the man, that trust would have evaporated. It explained some of the hints and insinuations she witnessed between the two, and their comfortable understanding of each other.

“I’m the only one left on the Blue Council who knew him from before. I’m pretty certain Lady Ailis knows who he is, but she’d never sell a soul to the throne or the underground. He never took a stake before becoming Patch, and I can’t imagine him intimating anything to a guard or another chaser about his past.” He caught her gaze and held it. “If he didn’t tell you, he didn’t tell anyone.”

“Maybe someone from court saw him and recognized him.”

“It’s a possibility. He does tend to take their stakes, though in the normal way of things, stakeholders never meet those who complete them.” He ran his fingers through his hair, wincing as they caught. Lapis retrieved her comb and handed it to him. She cringed as he ripped it through his tresses, no thought to any knotty damage of the fine strands. “He hasn’t mentioned meeting anyone who might have known him, and I just spoke with him two days ago.”

“Where is he, anyway?”

“Escorting some of the Blue Council here.”

Lapis glared at him. “An escort mission?” She clenched her hands. “He’s on an ESCORT MISSION?”

Faelan had the decency to flush. “A few older nobles have an unwarranted fear of Jiy and the possibility of capture. He’s . . . well, smoothing their way.”

“Does he hate you forever for forcing that on him?”

“He said something, but I was busy and didn’t hear it all.”

Faelan blinked at her, then laughed. She glared back, her lips pressed firmly together, her eyes narrowed. Did he realize, the depth of complaining Patch indulged in after one of those missions? How she sat through night after night of his deriding noble jackasses for their over-presumptuous belief in their own importance? She needed him now, and where was he? Off ushering some inflated toad into the capital while they whined about the hardships of travel as they hid, comfy and warm and dry, inside a carriage?

Maybe it was a good thing he left before she met up with him.

“Think food’s ready yet?” he asked, distracting her.

Lapis glanced at the door. “Yeah.” Warm food, a warm drink. They needed it.

“Lapis.” She looked at her brother. “I’ll do better.”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that?”


“Alright.” But he was not the only one who had a past to surmount. He was not the only one who desperately desired forgiveness.

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