The Mirror King (Orphan Queen) (8 page)

Though several of my own tools were included—I recognized the worn parts on my lock picks—everything else was just like Black Knife’s, the size adjusted to fit me.

“And to think,” I muttered at the array of darkness on my bed, “I really just wanted pants.”

There wasn’t a note, but I knew where everything had come from. Tobiah must have worked for weeks to put together this bag.

By the time the Hawksbill clock tower chimed twenty, four hours before midnight, I was ready. All in black, my braid shoved down the back of my shirt, I armed myself and stepped onto the balcony.

I pushed up to my toes; the boots were stiff with newness, and felt strange around my calves, but the treads were deep and strong. I could climb.

Scanning the darkness for guards, I hooked my grapple to the rail, near where it met the palace wall, and rappelled to the ground. My toes touched with barely a sound, and I coiled the line to stow it on my belt. There was a place for everything. Beautiful.

Soft voices carried on the breeze, coming from the far end of the palace. There’d be more nearby. In the forest. In the ruins of the outbuildings. I avoided them all as I moved toward Greenstone.

Usually this area was quiet after dark, when most of the workers returned to their homes, but now, a soft rumble of life swirled up to my perch on the Hawksbill wall. Voices skittered from inside doorways and alleyways where people huddled
under threadbare blankets and in patched caps and jackets.

Heart sinking, I sidled along the wall to plan my path through the district. I shouldn’t have been surprised to find dozens—maybe hundreds—of displaced people hiding here, and I couldn’t begrudge them the meager warmth they found in the lee of wide buildings. But their presence was going to make my investigation more difficult. Greenstone roofs were harder to navigate than those in Thornton and the Flags. Here, the buildings were spaced to allow for large carts. Railroad tracks sliced through a few streets, though in the century since trains had been decommissioned, much of the iron had been stripped to put to better use.

“Hush,” someone hissed.

The hum of voices was silenced immediately, replaced by the
thud thud
of boots on pavement. I pressed myself flat on top of the wall and watched over the slight lip in the stone.

Lanterns held aloft, police poured through the streets. “This is a restricted area!” one called. “No one is permitted to be here after dark. If you leave now, you’ll receive no punishment. But if we have to remove you by force, you’ll be taken out of the city and not permitted inside again.”

No one moved. The police formed lines down the center of the streets, peering into the shadows, though with those lanterns their night vision must have been shot. “We know you’re here. You have two minutes.”

I held my breath, waiting to see if anyone would follow orders, but the homeless pressed tighter into hiding places, and shadows shifted in the grime-smeared windows of abandoned buildings.

The first minute slipped by.

“Just step into the light,” one of the officers shouted. “This area is dangerous. You can’t stay here. But there are shelters in the Flags.”

Another officer spoke directly to a doorway where I’d seen a family huddled. “Greenstone was hit hardest during the Inundation. It hasn’t been fully secured—”

“Nowhere has been secured but the palace!” a man shouted. “Even the shelters are dangerous! We live in terror while nobles plan more parties!”

Chaos exploded in the street. Homeless scattered in all directions, some toward the police, who lifted their batons to defend themselves, but most just ran away. Shoes—even bare feet—pounded the paving stones as people began grabbing their belongings, lifting children, and vanishing around buildings.

Icy wind breathed in from the west; I shivered on the top of the wall, watching as lantern-wielding police officers took off after the homeless. Screams and cries sounded as people were captured. Officers cuffed some to poles, and cuffed others to them, creating a chain of prisoners guarded by a few officers while the others chased down those who’d escaped.

After the initial frenzy, the roads below me grew quiet, with only the occasional sob and cough to break the long note of wind cutting around corners.

I peered down to count how many the police had arrested.

There were several groups of people huddling together—families, some with small children—and many who looked like strays caught when their friends or relatives took off.

There were just over a hundred people, plus others the police
were dragging back. Only three or four police stood guard.

A handful of officers was no problem, but even a hundred frightened people could turn into a mob. I’d seen people react to Black Knife’s presence before; often it was friendlier than I wanted to risk. Anyway, I doubted Black Knife being revealed as Princess Wilhelmina would win me favors. But what could I do? I was just one person, and wasn’t finding Patrick more important?

Shame welled up inside me. Allowing the police to force these people out of the city was as good as giving my approval.

Cold air seared the back of my throat as I felt my hip for the small crossbow. Just because I couldn’t risk going down there didn’t mean I couldn’t give the prisoners a chance to escape.

I cocked the string and loaded a small bolt into the slot, then adjusted my position and took aim.

The bolt struck home in an officer’s leg, and a new wave of panic erupted as prisoners screamed and struggled to free themselves. My next four shots went quickly, all but one finding their targets.

“Black Knife is here!” someone yelled, followed by, “Black Knife will save us!”

I pulled away from the edge of the wall. With any luck, the prisoners would simply steal the keys to their cuffs and leave.

Officers returned to help their injured comrades. I took a few more leg shots before springing up to run along the wall, away from the action.

Wind pushed at me, but I ran until the shouts and cries faded with distance. Only when I was alone again did I pause and crouch, and survey the northernmost edge of the district before
me. My breath came in short gasps, mist on the winter air.

Had I done the right thing back there? Had I done enough?

There were so many people displaced because of the Inundation. Maybe Greenstone wasn’t the safest district in the city, but surely it was safer than being forced outside the walls, or into crowded shelters in the Flags. With new refugees coming into the city, the shelters would only become more congested.

I shook away those worries. I’d done what I could.

Cautiously, I descended to the street and kept to the shadows, making a straight line for Fisher’s Mouth. It felt good to stretch and push, to allow the night air to surround me. Everything in the palace seemed so far away now.

But the problems of Skyvale were more real than ever. Though the Inundation had lasted only a few hours, the effects were profound: ripples of stone cascaded down a warehouse, as though the building had been momentarily molten; squirrels that had been darting over buildings were now petrified, caught mid-crouch forever; and pipes meant for plumbing had partially phased through the factory where they were manufactured, giving the huge building a weirdly skeletal look.

This was the beginnings of the wraithland.

I hurried on.

Fisher’s Mouth was on the far side of the district, where the river coursed under the city wall. During the day, fishermen ran nets across the water. They could usually be persuaded to part with some of their catch in trade for items pinched from the more wealthy areas of Skyvale.

Tonight, the fishery was empty, save the sounds of a handful of people downstream. A child shrieked at the chill spray of
water while adults scolded the girl. “
Be quiet
,” they said.
“Police will find us
.
”

I slipped along the river, wrinkling my nose against the pungent odor of fish. It was hard to believe no one had come to steal a few meals, given the dozen barrels ready to be transported into the building.

One look into the barrels told me why. Brown-striped bass and red-bellied sunfish lay dead, but where the fins had been, now were hands. Tiny and brown, with webbed fingers. Their dead-eyed stares were strange, too. They looked human. Some had lips.

Bile raced up the back of my throat, and I turned away.

I had brought this here. My magic. My wraith boy.

Wary, I crept into the building, hands on my daggers. Heavy, wet darkness wrapped around me like a cloak, and I paused to let my eyes adjust.

A feral cat yowled. A deeper growl followed, coming from somewhere behind crates of packaged fish, which rose along the walls. The damp storage area and the crash of the river rushing at my back absorbed the sound.

I checked behind every crate and barrel, but found no sign of Ospreys. The small office had been raided for its supplies.

In the distance, the clock tower struck twenty-three. I needed to get back soon. Thanks to the additional patrols, I’d have to give myself plenty of time to sneak back through Hawksbill. Rushing had gotten me caught before.

Halfway out the door, I stopped. A creamy white paper fluttered in a draft, caught against the wall. Even dirt streaked and crumpled, it was easy to see the paper was too fine for a fishery.

I smothered a laugh as I rescued the palace stationery from the wall. The list was in Melanie’s handwriting, as familiar to me as her face and voice.

Locations, numbers: I knew this list. These were the resistance groups in Aecor, the list we’d copied during our infiltration of Skyvale Palace, though in a different order than the one I recalled.

“Oh, Melanie.” I folded the paper and tucked it into a pocket. “You are so clever.”

I could almost hear her reply:
“Say it again
.
”

Melanie
hadn’t
turned. She hadn’t. Patrick must have wanted to move on as soon as she’d returned, so she’d left something she knew I’d be sure to spot.

Outside, I started for Hawksbill, but a scream downriver cut the silence.

My heart thundered as I hurtled myself toward the shrieks and adults’ shouts for the girl to move away from the water. Someone called for the police to help.

I sprinted along the riverside, the churning waters inky at my right. In the high moonlight, spray glittered as a creature lurched from the depths. It was all sinuous scales and snapping jaws, some terrible fusion between lizard and snake, and as big as a hunting hound. Enormous fangs dripped black fluid as it plodded toward a group of six or seven people, including the girl who stood just ahead of the others. Carefully, she backed away, one long slow step at a time. The whites of her eyes shone wide.

“Come on,” urged the adults. “Just a little farther.”

The girl whimpered, making the wraith beast leap forward—

“Hey!” I jumped out from the shadow of a melting wall,
sword sliding out of its sheath without a sound.

The wraith beast whipped around in a flurry of claws and fangs and scales, wraith-white eyes trained on me. The girl spun and ran for her family; they caught her with reaching arms and dragged her from the beast’s sight.

It slithered toward me, four stubby legs pumping to keep up with the rest of its body. Wraith had not been kind to this creature.

My sword shone between the beast and me, an unfamiliar stretch of steel. I’d wielded swords before, but not this one, and never one so fine. The hilt fit my hand perfectly, though; like the rest of my gear, it had been made to suit me.

I held my ground until the beast reached me, and then sliced my blade through the air. The creature leapt back, a tangle of long body and tail, but righted itself quickly. The milky eyes fell back on me as it came around to my left side. I brought my sword inward, but the blade connected with a fang and slid down the length with a
shing
. The black liquid dripped from the tip of the fang, catching on the edge of my blade. Metal sizzled as the venom dribbled down the steel.

Swearing, I thrust my sword at the creature, catching its nostril. It shrieked and pulled back, almost as though reconsidering its chosen prey.

“You ruined my new sword,” I grumbled, turning slightly to dip the sizzling metal into the dark river to neutralize the venom.

The snake-lizard hissed and struck; I barely had time to lift my sword in defense as the fangs crashed toward me. Water droplets glittered as the blade arced through the air and caught
the creature’s mouth, cutting a long gash across its face. The creature made a sound between a scream and hiss before it whipped around me, toward the water.

I couldn’t let it escape. It would just find someone else to attack, and I could only imagine the kind of damage it would do if left unchecked.

I lunged for the beast, driving my blade deep into its side. Too deep. As I tried to pull it out, the snake-lizard swung around and the hilt slipped from my hand. My sword went skittering across the paving stones and the creature crouched as though to leap onto me.

My hands found my daggers, but I was too slow. The wraith beast’s front feet hit my shoulders and I dropped backward, trapped under the weight of the beast. Venom glistened on the fangs—

I jerked up my daggers and thrust both blades into its throat at the same time as I brought up my knees and shoved it off me.

The beast rolled away, blood pouring from its wound. It didn’t attack again, but its chest still moved with breath.

One eye on the creature, I bent to rinse my daggers in the river, then find my sword.

“Black Knife,” someone breathed.

I spun to find the family still huddled in the entrance to the street, away from the fighting, but close enough to watch.

Without a word, I snatched my sword and dragged the good edge along the snake-lizard’s neck once more, just to be sure. White mist poured upward; I moved out of the way.

“Thank you, Black Knife!” one of the women called. “Thank you for saving my daughter!”

“Don’t.” It was my fault the wraith had come. My fault Skyvale had been transformed into this nightmare. My fault it would only get worse.