The Hidden Twin (17 page)

“Oh, Mol's tongue, can't you see what she's doing?” A biting voice pierces the hot air. Fir scowls at me. She has risen from her seat and gestures. “We're not seriously going to entertain the idea of a jailbreak at the Temple of Rasus!”

I rise and nod to the table. “I will take my leave, then.”

“Wait!” Nara and Elena speak in unison, then look at each other. I pause, a few steps from the door. Elena continues, “Of course we will help you free your sister. And if we have to do it now”—Fir swears and pounds the table, but Elena goes on—“if we have to do it
now,
then we will. That's all there is to it.”

“And then what? She decides to help us out of the goodness of her heart and be our redwing savior?” Fir stabs a finger in Elena's direction. “False hope is worse than no hope. You're a bunch of fools if you think a redwing actually exists. She's probably just another heretic with false scars.”

Corvin sets his mug down heavily. “You're crossing a line, Fir.”

“Show us your bullet wound, redwing,” Orm says. “I'll pull that deformed little metal bastard out of there, and Fir can see all the blood she wants.”

“Not good enough.” Fir points at me, takes two wide steps to where I am. “I'm sick of these rebel princesses from the Feather and Scuttle seeking us out. We've dealt with their tricks before. Sleight of hand, illusion. Just like the bloody Temple. She's had plenty of time to ink her bandages.”

“I saw her blood,” Corvin says, resting a fist on the table. “Nara can vouch for it.”

“Nara and Corvin,” Fir scoffs, “and no one else.” She saunters over to me. “You've got a twin sister and you're unmarked. That's all we know.”

The room is quiet; even Orm holds his tongue as Fir goes nose to nose with me. I don't back away. If this is some kind of test, I'm sure as wet hell not going to let her get the better of me. I let her lean in, the sweet, sharp scent on her making my nostrils tingle.

Her eyes narrow. “You know what I think?” she snarls. I don't respond. She turns to the others. “That's
all there is to know.
She needs help getting her goddamned unmarked twin out of the temple prison, that's all. And isn't that what we're just about to do? Fools.”

The people around the table erupt into mutters, throwing me doubtful looks. Elena's face is impassive. Orm looks at me as though I owe him some kind of response.

“So what's your game, princess?” Fir unsheathes her long saber in one violently graceful motion. I don't move. “Are you a spy?” she asks, soft and treacherous. “Or just a very stupid girl who thought killing priests would be fun?” Now she brings her saber to my throat. A few Fog Walkers gasp as the blade presses against my skin—just the right amount of pressure not to pierce. She knows what she's doing.

I look into her flashing eyes and I know her. She has a space here, and I am not allowed in. But to call me human? If she only knew what I would give for that to be true!

I am no human. And if I am to exist at last, let it be as myself.

“Fir!” Nara stands, hands on hips. “Stop this!”

Fir turns, instantly playful. “Just a joke, Nara.” She looks at me again. “Fine. I'll rescue your dear sister. Why don't you stay here and I'll write you when I've saved the day? Only—I didn't get your name. Oh, right, your kind don't have them.” She steps away, smiling sweetly at Nara and lowering her saber.

Almost
lowering her saber.

I am too quick for her. I grasp the blade, still at my throat, and she staggers. She turns back, eyebrows drawn in surprise.

“My name?” I press the edge of the blade into my flesh until I can feel the blood trickling down my neck in thick, hot rivulets. The others jump to their feet. Mugs clatter to the floor. Fir's eyes widen and she tries to back away.

I release the blade, now black with my extraordinary, unmistakable blood. “My name is Redwing.”

 

twelve

So far, my least favorite thing is the pants.

Corvin and I stretch out on the roof, our elbows over the apex. He fiddles with knobs on his binoculars, though how he can see anything on this moonless night is anybody's guess. A streetlamp casts a murky pallor over the gated doorway of the workhouse across the street.

“It's the chafing,” I whisper. “My thighs are not used to all this excitement.”

“I wear pants like this every day.” Corvin peers through the binoculars. “Your thighs can handle it.”

I squint into the darkness. “Yours aren't so tight. And Orm did just pull a bullet out of me. Not the sort of thing you want tweed rubbing against.”

“One would think you'd be more concerned with the goddamn slice you made in your own throat with Fir's saber.”

A black scarf tied around my neck hides the bandage. The cut stings when I move my head, but it will heal. Besides, it was worth it.

“None of the Fog Walkers wonder if I'm really a redwing now, though,” I whisper.

Corvin laughs. “No. No, you're right about that. You're out of your mind, but you're right.” He looks at me. “You've got to start taking better care of yourself, Redwing. I see you've got part of an ear gone as well. You're starting to look like a half-plucked alley hen.”

“Oh,
that
.” I finger the ear the stritch whip sliced. “I just need a new hairstyle.”

I flash him a cheeky smile and his expression softens. It catches me off guard, and for a moment, we look at each other in silence. He seems like he's about to say something, but a sound from below steals his attention.

A figure approaches from inside the gate, indistinct in the night mist. “Here she is,” Corvin whispers, and we are both silent, tense. I'm still not entirely sure how this game is played or what the teams are.

The figure swings the gate open slowly and pauses, looking up and down the street. The streetlight illuminates an old woman's face. There is something shifty about her, her patchy coat and rough edges. The way her eyes squint in the dim light.

I frown and lean over to Corvin, my words the barest whisper in his ear. “Who is she?”

He leans his head in my direction. “Teppa the Fowl. We can't talk to her here. She'll just run back inside, and I'm not about to tangle with the workhouse guards. Got to get her out in the open.”

Satisfied, she closes the gate behind her and hurries off. In an instant, we are up and following swiftly.

We keep to the rooftops, our black attire sometimes hiding us even from each other as we trail her. I try to keep pace with Corvin as he slips under pipes and over pitches, in and out of the darkness of gables and the striped shadows of iron balconies. The old woman moves below, winding through garbage-strewn alleys and broad cobblestone streets. I am a tiny bit grateful for the snug tweed now, as I brush against jagged edges and squeeze through openings that might have been made difficult by the fullness of my not-as-stylish-as-Jey's stylish pants.

At last the woman stops at a well-lit storefront:
FLOWERS OF THE FINEST SILK & PAPER
. From a pitched roof across the way, Corvin and I watch as she pulls something from the recesses of her old coat and starts to fiddle with the door. “A simple flower merchant?” he whispers. “No scruples. None at all.” Then he gives me a nod and jumps down through the mist to the cobbled street. What did that nod mean? Am I supposed to follow? I refuse to jump from this height onto a recently shot leg.

Cursing under my breath, I grasp a nearby drainpipe and shimmy down, streaking my hands and clothes with rust. Corvin is already across the street, looming over the woman.

“Nope, nope, nope. No Temple jobs. Nope.” The woman shakes her frizzy white hair.

Corvin nods to me as I limp over to them. “Ah, Teppa, I hope you'll enjoy meeting my new friend. Say hello.”

Teppa the Fowl's vacant, staring eyes reflect dull light as she swings her head my way. “Speak, ruffian, or I'll gut you.”

Corvin shakes his head condescendingly over her shoulder, but I am not so quick to dismiss her threats. She looks—potent.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss—er—Miss Teppa.” I hold out my hand in greeting as I have become accustomed to do, but she doesn't acknowledge it.

“‘Miss Teppa,' is it?” She rasps a laugh. “Where did you dig up this one, Corvin Blake? Another starry-eyed revolutionary ready to die for the Fog Walkers?” She leans in, the scent of soot and decay wafting over me. “Just be sure you're ready, love, because die you will.”

“Shut up,” Corvin says severely. “Listen, I told you, we need to get into the detention level of the Temple of Rasus.”

“I am not your personal lockpick, you thugs,” the old woman spits, then coughs. “No deal.”

“Here's my offer,” Corvin says. “You can either get us in with your slippery little fingers, or I'll pick the lock myself with your bloody teeth.”

I look at him in astonishment. Threats, pistols, sabers—who are these Fog Walkers?

But Teppa the Fowl only laughs and puts a scabby hand on Corvin's arm. “Ah, my Corvin Blake. If you are as handsome as you sound, then the gods truly had their vengeance in making me blind.”

*   *   *

Fir is waiting for us in High Ra Square, lounging against the giant obsidian redwing. The square is finally deserted, the temple beacons casting a strange, beautiful patchwork of soft light on the vast expanse of flagstones.

Fir stretches lazily as Corvin, Teppa, and I approach. She saunters over to us, one hand tucked in her pocket, the other gesturing to the enormous statue. “I see it now,” she says to me. “There is definitely a family resemblance.”

I ignore her. Corvin says quietly, “We go in the front, take the servants' stairs to the detention level, and bring the prisoner out the way we came. The … new girl … is the priority. Fir and I will deal with any situations that present themselves.”

I swallow.
The new girl is the priority.
I know what that means, what he's not saying.
The redwing is the priority. Her life is the priority. Not her sister's. Not ours.

“Risky,” Teppa says. “But it's not my skin. I was coerced.”

“We can't bring the prisoner out the damned front door,” Fir hisses. Corvin throws up his hands, but I jump in.

“No,” I say. “We don't go out the front door. We go all the way down the servants' stairs, to the lower kitchen. There's a window in the pantry we can climb through.”

Teppa hacks out a laugh. “The new girl has done her schoolwork.”

Fir glares at me, but gives a crisp nod. “We enter in pairs,” she says. “If there's anyone in the vestibule, we go all the way into the sanctuary as though we're there to offer prayer, all right? When the vestibule is empty, we find the staircase.”

Corvin and Fir enter first, then Teppa the Fowl and me. Two high priests in black amble toward an ornate door, laughing softly at some joke as we pass through the gaping vestibule. They don't pay us any notice, but Corvin and Fir cross all the way to the large doors to the sanctuary and go inside. Teppa follows, keeping only a foot or two behind them, so I hang back.

I have nearly reached the sanctuary when I hear the groan of old hinges. I turn to find a hunched figure emerging slowly from the ornate door in front of the black-clad priests. The priests stop their conversation and move aside, bowing low—so low that through the soft pattern of night light I see their knees touch the floor.

I give a start. Someone before whom even high priests kneel? It can't be the Onyx Staff. I bite my cheeks, willing this to be true. And no, it isn't him. It is an old man, who carries not a staff, but a basket. He is dressed in pink robes, elaborately ornamented with ribbon, and he moves with small, slippered steps. The Salt Throne. The most powerful priest in all of Caldaras.

To my horror, he turns his head and fixes me with a gaze. It is too dim to see his eyes well, but the meaning of the gloved hand he extends in my direction is clear:
Come here.

I give a panicked look toward the sanctuary. No sign of the others. I look back at the Salt Throne, who is as still as the stone pillar next to which he stands. He holds his hand out patiently.

What can I do but go to him? It would be far worse to disobey. At least now I have some small chance of coming out of this unscathed.

The high priests step back, smiling. What do they know? Am I done for? Or are they just … smiling?

“Good evening, Beloved,” the Salt Throne says in a thin voice. “Welcome to the temple. I am on my way to offer nightkiss petals to the holy fountain.”

I bow low. Something tells me this isn't an occasion for a handshake. “Good evening…”
Wet hell, I don't know what to call him.
“Good evening, Beloved,” I say.

The high priests both gasp. Ver's ass, I've fouled it up; royally, by the sound of it. But the Salt Throne just looks at me. Then his wrinkled face ripples like water—a smile. “A term reserved for one's equals or inferiors,” he says. “According to the Temple, that is. According to … me, I suppose.”

I bow again, lower, touching my knees to the floor. “I apologize, Your Benevolence, I—”

“‘Benevolence' is reserved for the Onyx Staff,” the Salt Throne says, gesturing as one of the priests helps me to my feet again, “and I've always wondered if that was a bit of a joke. Most would call me, ‘Your Brilliance.'”
Your Brilliance. I
knew
that!
“In any case, there is no need to apologize, Beloved.”

I keep my eyes lowered. “I am honored by your greeting, but I am ashamed that I did not address you properly.”
Please don't have me boiled again. Or shoot me. Or slice my head off.

The Salt Throne puts a light hand on my shoulder. “I wanted to speak with you because my heart told me you had something valuable to say. And now I know it is this: We are all beloved of Rasus, the godking.” The priests make their open-palmed gesture; I try to follow suit but end up just kind of waving at them. “All of us, lowly and exalted, are equally warmed by the rays of the sun. All are beloved.” He closes his eyes. “Thank you.”