The Hidden Twin (15 page)

I think of Nara Blake. She wanted my help, promised to help me in return, but do I trust her? If Bonner does have something to do with Jey's disappearance, my path probably leads back to the Temple of Rasus. Nara Blake has no love for priests; that much was clear. And I have to go somewhere.

The street spills out, as they all seem to do sooner or later, onto High Ra Square. Even after dark, when most citizens are indoors for fear of the rest of the citizens, the square is quietly humming with activity. Common people and priests of all ranks wander the smooth white flagstones, taking advantage of the city's version of a pleasant evening. I slow down, insinuating myself in between two groups of priests and casting a glance over my shoulder, before mustering a final effort to sprint toward the fountain of Dal Roet and throw myself behind it.

I peek out from behind the curved marble. Priests everywhere. Blue, purple, a few black, all sizes and descriptions. Gentlemen and ladies, urchins and wealthy brats, stritches, pet parakeets, and showy, fat raptors. No figure approaches the fountain in a purposeful way. Is it possible I have lost my attacker?

I straighten up, one vertebra at a time, my thigh searing pain up and down my body. The fountain spits and bubbles; people speak easily amid patches of warm fog. I chance a few steps toward the edge of the square, where a dark alley promises some small measure of concealment.

Two priests in black stop speaking and regard me as I limp too close to their private sphere. I pause and nod briskly, muttering, “Breathe easy, Beloved.” The words come out a bit wincing and strangled, but I flash what I hope is an innocent smile.

The high priests' faces are inscrutable for a moment, before one returns my nod and the other follows suit. “Breathe easy,” they say in unison.

At last, I reach the mouth of the alley and cast one final look over High Ra Square. Three young people sit on the edge of the fountain now, two boys with weak chins and a girl whose high-collared shirt is unbuttoned to well below her clavicle. They could easily be Jey and her friends, I think with a pang. But they are not. I know in my heart that, at this moment, Jey is not with anyone who could be called a friend.

My distraction has betrayed me. Eyes on the other side of the square flash in the light from the holy beacons set in the wall of the great Temple. The woman in black has found me.

I duck into the alley, weaving around old crates, stritch manure, and leaning sheet metal. It opens onto another, familiar alley. I press my back against a grubby wall and scan left and right.

Rubble is still strewn at the place where I melted the brick wall—I am close to the back door of the
Daily Bulletin.
I stagger to the gated end of the alleyway and yank on the door. Locked. In desperation, I pound my fists against the dented surface. “Hey!
Daily Bulletin!
I'm at the back door! Hey, there!”
Bang, bang, bang.
Nothing.

Waves of dizziness wash over me. I'm unsure how much longer I can remain vertical, and the woman in black will emerge at any moment. I doubt she will miss her shot here, and I have a strong suspicion that one bullet lodged in one's flesh is more than enough.

A swell of laughter intrudes on the quiet, and I remember the Pump Room tavern—it must also back onto this dirt-packed passage. I find the door about halfway down, where the sounds from the pub start to mix with the muted buzz of Mad Lane.

This door is unlocked, and I pop it open with a clank. I close it behind me and, with much effort, shift the inside handle to the locked position. It is a bit corroded, and takes a couple good shoves with my shoulders before it creaks into place. Finally, a moment to breathe.

Or a moment to fall to the floor in agony.

Mol's blazing buttocks!
I pull up my robes and examine the wound on the outer part of my thigh. It is not too bad, actually. It's bleeding, but not excessively. I poke at it a couple times with dirty fingers, but there is no sign of the little deformed piece of metal under the surface. I can remove it later, but for now I can at least get it bandaged.

Wash it first.
I take in my surroundings. This back storage room is dim, crowded with barrels and crates, and the sound of the Pump Room's evening crowd filters in through a slatted inner door. I crawl over to a shelf of jugs and grab the first one within reach. The golden liquid within stings down to the bone, but washes my incriminating blood away onto the straw-strewn floor.

I sacrifice a small sack of oats for a bandage, whispering apologies to the tavern keeper and dumping the evidence behind a stack of crates. Wrapped tightly in burlap, my leg feels a bit better, and I pull myself to my feet and wobble over to the inner door.

I peer between the slats, holding my breath. At the other end of a short hallway, I glimpse a crowded room, low lights, lots of movement and sound and color. The few faces I catch are flushed and bulging with laughter. I don't see any other priest robes, but surely a place like this is for everyone. It's just a matter of sneaking in when no one is—

A man starts down the hallway toward this storage room. I give a start, backing away from the slatted door. The last thing I want is to be mistaken for a thief and handed over to the city guard.

I have only seconds. Think, think. Hide. A row of large barrels stands against one wall, and I scramble into one and crouch, wincing. It would be nice to cover myself, but there is no time. The sides of the barrel are high enough to hide me as long as the man doesn't look in.

As soon as I crouch down, I hear the slatted door open. The man saunters to the other side of the room, and after a moment, I hear the dull rasp of small wooden barrels—kegs, most likely—being shuffled around. I don't dare breathe except with shallow sips, and I hold my knees to stop the fabric of my robes sliding against the edge of the barrel.

It isn't long before the man's footsteps take him in the direction of the slatted door once again, and I hold my lungs and my hands very still. Once he returns to the noisy common room, I'll wait a few minutes and then try to slip in unnoticed. I wait for the sound of the slatted door clicking back into place.

But it doesn't come. Could the man have left the door open and gone back down the hallway without my hearing him? I close my eyes, listening.

Two thudding footsteps, and a stern voice says, “What in wet hell are you doing in there?”

I gasp, startled, and raise my head a little.

The man is looking at me over the edge of the barrel, arms crossed. He reminds me of the stout, rosy-complexioned fruit vendor my father sometimes stops to talk with when we are out together. Only he wears an expression that promises wallops rather than peaches.

“You—you mean me,” I say.

“Your powers of deduction are staggering, Sister. What are you doing in my barrel?” he says gruffly. “Rather, what
were
you doing in my barrel, because you cannot possibly be sitting there
still,
even as I am preparing to call the guard and have you hauled away.”

I stand. “Oh. Right. I just—” I throw my good leg over the side and try to hoist myself out, but my robes catch the edge and the barrel tips over onto the floor with a crunch. “Rasus's flaming ass!”

The man raises his eyebrows. “Not very nice language for a woman of the Temple.”

Shit.
“Oh—” I scramble to my feet, the pain in my leg making my breath catch. “—well, I'm only a—” I look down at my robes. “—a blue one.”

The man nods. “Uh-huh.” He doesn't sound convinced. “You mean a postulant?”

“Postulant! Right. I knew that.”

“That gives me hope for the future.” He leans back against the slatted door, eyes twinkling despite his stern expression. “What's your name, Postulant? And think of a good one, or I'm calling the city guard. That was my favorite decrepit barrel.”

“I—” My mind is paralyzed. I won't give him Jey's name and I can't give him my own, since I don't have one. But he already knows I'm going to lie, so—I search my memory for a name, any name. “Nara Blake,” I say. “My name's Nara Blake.”

The man straightens up. “What?” His tone is no longer light, and he peers at me shrewdly. “Did you say Nara Blake?”

That was apparently the wrong name. “No,” I stumble. “No, I said Dal Roet. My name's Dal Roet. After my great-great-great-great—”

The man steps toward me and puts a callused hand on my shoulder. “How do you know Nara Blake?”

I back away. “I don't! I don't know what you're talking about. I—”

“Get the hell out of here, Sister,” he spits. “Before I smack your head off your shoulders.”

“Sounds like a deal.” I limp over to the outer door, imploring all the gods I can think of to have sent the woman in black away by now.

“Mr. Orm!” a girl calls down the hallway. “Any more gin? We've got a wedding party!”

“Coming!” the man bellows back. But something sticks in my brain.

“Mr. Orm?” I turn around. Why do I know that name?

“Well,” he says. “Now you have the advantage of me, clearly. Nevertheless, I'm calling the guard in thirty seconds.”

“No, I—
You
know Nara Blake, don't you?” My leg throbs and I put a hand to the warm wall, praying I don't pass out.

“I know I don't like questions.” Orm scowls, but he doesn't move. He's listening.

Risking everything is getting easier. I'm not sure that's a good thing. But I have nowhere to go, and Nara Blake is the only person in this city who has offered me protection. Whatever her motivations are, she has to be a better bet than the guard or the temple. Or the gutter.

“Orm,” I say as the memory slides into focus, “did you help Nara's brother Corvin after he was beat up in an alley? She was going to ask you to look in on him.”

He looks down his nose at me. “And how in Ver's green land do you know that?”

“I'm the reason he got beat up. No—wait—I mean, he was helping me run off these two—um—ruffians.”

“You're a damned liar.”

My sight is beginning to blur. I slide down the surface of the door and look up at Orm, who regards me with an expression I can't interpret. “I need somewhere safe. I think Nara would help me if she were here. Please. My sister is missing.” I leave out the part about having been shot in the leg, though he must see I'm not exactly at my best. Maybe he thinks I'm drunk. Maybe a few dips in the ale barrel wouldn't be a bad idea.

Orm doesn't move. I find his face through my hazy vision. “Nara wanted my help. She said … may you always walk under the fog.”

Something in his face changes. “You—you can't be— Curse you, you featherless little stritchlet,” he says. “We thought you were dead.” He takes a step to the right and lifts a hinged flap to reveal a handle set into the dingy wall. When he rotates it, a large panel slides back with a metallic
click-click-click-click.
Iron mesh stairs descend into darkness. I feel my eyes widen with astonishment. “It's safe down there,” he grumbles. “Until Nara tells us what to do with you. Now, up.” He pulls me to my feet and I steady myself for a moment, then follow him through the secret doorway.

“Cozy,” I say as we clink our way downward. Already I am thinking of the white-gray sky through the glass of the Dome as I remember the dank nightmare of the dungeon of the Temple of Rasus.

At least there is gas down here. I can see its steady, pure light from under the studded door at the bottom of the stairs.

“I hope you like beer and sandwiches, because we don't do anything else,” Orm says. I don't ask what kind of sandwiches. Unless the Pump Room is a lot more upscale than its creaking door and rusty flooring would have me believe, the sandwiches will taste like smoke regardless of what they're made of.

“Thank you,” I say. Orm takes a key from around his neck and rattles it into the keyhole, and after a moment we are stepping into the room beyond. The place called “safe.”

At first, I don't see the furniture or the colors or the people. I only smell an evasive sweetness; it is thick in the air here, almost overpowering. The heat hits me, too. Of course it's hot underground, but it feels unnaturally hot here, as though a fire were burning.

I steady myself, my hand against the heavy doorframe. A fire
is
burning, in a small hearth opposite the doorway. I begin to take in the rest of this round, brick-walled room. A row of books stands neatly on a graceful-legged side table flanked by stiff armchairs. A handful of people dot the room—men and women, my age, older, most of them wearing the dull colors of pump workers and mechanics. Some look me over appraisingly; some keep their heads down.

“Welcome to the Under House.” Orm crosses the floor. “I'll show you the bunk room. It serves its purpose, but don't expect the Copper Palace. Just through here.”

He pushes open an arched door. The bunk room is long and dark, and thankfully not so hot as the main room. A few cots jut from the edges, most of them covered by thin blankets of different colors. Metal hooks adorn the walls, some hanging dusters or scarves, some empty.

“There are spare clothes in here.” Orm pulls an old trunk from underneath one of the cots. “That is, unless you really are from the Temple.”

I give a little cough. “I, uh—”

“Oh, for the love of the Long Angel, you're the worst liar I've ever met.” He shakes his head, but smiles and heads back through the arched doorway. “Washroom is through there.” He points to the other end of the bunk room.

“My sister—”

“We'll find your sister,” Orm says, and for a moment his gentle, concerned face reminds me of my father. “Wash your face, put on something less goddamn conspicuous, and I'll fetch Nara. We'll see what she has to say about you.”