Rin lounged in the windowsill, arms tightly crossed, knees up above his head, and glared daggers at the pretty leaves on the shade tree outside the glass. Lapis had no idea what to say to him because she had no idea what set him off. She made circles on the tabletop with her index finger and pondered ways to broach the subject without making the rat more upset.
“Rin,” she began. He sullenly regarded her, then turned back to the exterior view.
Several large shade trees with glossy purple leaves and tiny red fruits grew around the new House. The plants hid most happenings within the place behind thick boughs and stately canopies, purposefully left untrimmed so their growth reflected that of other mansions in the area; overrun by foliage to hide the inhabitants from the goings-on in the streets beyond. It always amused Lapis, that the down-and-out nobles who refused to give up their ancient family estates pretended the greenery hid their shame, or in any way protected them from the creeping desperation contaminating the Grey Streets surrounding them.
Upon viewing the cracked, white-washed facade, with years of dirt staining the sides, muddy windows and loose sills, she assumed the interior also needed work, to become a suitable House. Patch enjoyed her surprise when she traversed the back entry and receiving room. They reminded her of Nicodem and various noble homes she visited as a child, with soft and elegant furniture in warm blues and browns, wallpaper with a generic family crest design, vases holding ornamental flowers and silk-wrapped branches, and watercolors depicting enticing landscapes. Her boots sank into the rugs, and she anticipated walking on them in bare feet. A bar with dozens of liqueurs and glasses spanned half the right wall, a strong indication someone decorated this room for visitors.
The hallway leading to the rest of the House had yet to be remodeled; the dingy bluish-grey wallpaper peeled at the corners, the wooden floor had dulled, and no paintings adorned the walls, but the potential for more screamed at her. She liked the wide, scrolled banister, which led to the second story and several rooms that indicated whoever built the place either raised a large family or entertained many guests for extended periods. She wondered if Patch might answer questions about his forefathers, or if the discussion would spark unwanted memories and hate.
She heard Jerin moving about in the bathroom attached to the room; she needed to talk to Rin before he interrupted.
“So what’s wrong?”
She hated being blunt with the rat, but sometimes, it proved the only way to break through to him.
He heaved himself off the sill and took himself out the door.
Unwarranted guilt slammed into her. Yes, teenager equaled moodiness, but she despised dealing with it. She always assumed she had done something to trigger it, and while sometimes that was the case, most of the time outside influences hounded them.
Of course, if that outside influence was Jerin . . .
She glanced about the room in which Caitria settled the lad, focusing on something other than Rin. Nothing special caught her attention; it contained wooden walls, a dresser, a single-person bed with coarse linens, dusty throw carpets on scuffed boards, and a dinged desk with drawers and shelves to either side that held paper, pens, and envelopes. The room might hold five rats, though, since the table only had two chairs, the bed would need to double as a couch. Hopefully it provided a safe space for the lad; she knew, the fear of being hunted, and the overwhelming insecurity that brought.
Jerin exited the bathroom, worming about in fresh clothing, his hair dripping onto his shoulders. The plain white shirt and brown pants were too large, but she did not think this House had many items fit for a younger person to wear. He glanced at her, looked down, and shuffled to the bed before flopping onto it.
“How are you feeling?” She suspected the answer, and also assumed he would demure.
“OK.”
“Are you hungry?”
He shook his head. “Caitria showed me where the kitchen is, so I know where to go when I am. The cook. She’s nice.”
Lapis nodded. “The people in this House are nice. They’re going to help you figure out what’s going on.”
He sucked in a rapid, unsteady breath. “I don’t understand any of this.” A few tears leaked down his cheeks. “I’m just a student at Willington’s. My mother sells . . . sold jewelry. Why would anyone like the Black Hats want me?”
Lapis had comforted many a new rat; some rejected her sympathy, others clung to it. He snuffled into her chest and vented sorrow, and she held him and pushed her own memories into a dark, deep place, where she could worry at them later.
A soft knock on the door grabbed her attention. “Yes?”
Brander came in, carrying an armful of packs, followed by a gaggle of rats as heavily laden. She raised an eyebrow at the amount, but he only smiled as he set his load on top of the dresser. Who had asked the rebel to join their expedition to Willington’s?
“My stuff!” Jerin said, leaping from her and hustling over to his belongings. “How—”
“Willington’s is an easy in and out,” Brander said before settling in a chair at the table. Scand laughed and held out a few sheets of paper to her; she accepted them, glanced at the writing, and frowned.
Ramish.
“I took them off a few Black Hats,” he announced smugly. “After all the trouble they caused at the Lells, it was the least I could do.”
“The least you could have done was leave them be,” she reminded him drily. “I wonder if anyone here knows Ramish.” She did not think Jarosa had returned from her impromptu battle with the Black Hats, but perhaps another rebel spoke it.
Gabby hopped into the room, bouncing about gaily. How many rats followed Brander into the House? Was Faelan OK with that? “We staked Willington’s good!” she crowed. “Superior Fyor didn’t know what to do when I told him about it, and he watched me fill out the paperwork. Then I told him that Sir Armarandos taught me, and he was impressed!”
“I’m certain he was,” she murmured.
“I told him about having lunch with Sir Armarandos and his dad. And he was even more impressed. Copper told me I’d make a fine knight, too.”
Lapis had no doubt.
Deciding the rats and Brander would keep Jerin occupied, Lapis hustled downstairs and nosed about, looking for signs of rebel. She discovered a room that looked to be a small ballroom converted into a comfy space, with dark-stained seating and tables, plush couches, thick carpets, furniture by windows draped in heavy, dappled brown fabric held to the sides by long, golden tassels. Paintings of broad, soft landscapes filled the wall space, along with a couple tapestries she decided Jarosa must have provided, because they held Meint religious scenes.
Faelan and Jetta sat on a couch, nestled together, Lady Ailis in a plump chair near them that made her look child-like, Caitria and Mairin discussing something with them in urgent tones. They all looked at her as she entered, and she had an odd moment of discomfort, like what she experienced as a child when she unwittingly interrupted her father doing rebel things.
She raised her hand containing the pages. “Anyone want to read some Ramish from the Black Hats?” she asked. Lady Ailis clucked her tongue and raised her hand.
“Give them to me. I know Ramish very well.” She squinted at her as she passed the pages to her. “We heard Jarosa killed one of the Black Hats?”
“Nailed their leader in the face after one of his snipers tried to take her out,” Lapis said. “They hit her in the chest, and it pissed her off.”
Everyone sighed at the inevitable conclusion to that insult.
“At least it wasn’t a head shot,” Mairin grumbled as she leaned over to view the pages.
“And you escaped, unscathed,” Faelan said, searching for any hint of injury. “Rin said you encountered some more Black Hats on the way to the House.”
“Yes. They didn’t attack, but they did want to talk to me,” she said. Questions raced through her brother’s eyes as Jetta frowned, concerned.
“Really,” he said.
“They are under the impression I have a partner named Aethon and they want to know where he’s at.”
He cocked his head at her, thinking. “Hoyt thought that as well.”
“Yeah. He used Seft to hook up with the Black Hats, so it must be a common belief throughout their extended ring. They never said why they’re looking for him, either, but they expected me to produce him.”
“But Patch was with you,” Caitria said. “How did they react to his being your partner?”
She clasped her hands behind her back and rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. “They didn’t believe it, even with him standing next to me and claiming the connection. We were even told Danaea was his partner, not me.” She puffed out her chest, pretending to great importance. “They handed me a communications device and I got to talk to Leadcommander Requet of the Estark Skyshroud himself about Aethon. He wanted a personal meeting with me to discuss my not-partner. I told him to meet me at the Night Market or I wasn’t bothering.”
“Oh no.”
Her brother’s aghast disbelief annoyed her. Lady Ailis reflected his expression, which annoyed her more. They must realize, she had matured since her childhood.
“I was polite,” she insisted, grumpy.
“Polite is a relative term concerning your conduct,” Lady Ailis reminded her primly, with the same raised eyebrow, narrow-eyed exasperation she remembered from her childhood.
“I’m twenty, not ten.”
“Hmm mmm.”
Patch laughed, and foreboding roared through her as he entered the room, accompanied by a wispy rebel with shaggy sunset-brown hair, round hazel eyes, and wearing a bright yellow sunflower slip dress. He walked to her, gently brushed her back before wrapping his arms around her shoulders. “I thought she was exceedingly polite,” he stated, his voice thrumming with humor.
“Coming from you, that’s not a comfort,” Lady Ailis said.
“She spoke with him, didn’t say good-bye, threw the communications device at the Black Hat leader, and walked away. Perfect.”
A frog could not look grumpier than Lapis felt. “When you say it that way—” she began.
“It’s in line with the respect Dentheria gives us,” the wispy rebel proclaimed, all grins and chuckles.
Scand rushed through the doorway, his face as red as Rin’s hair. “Lady!” he said, handing her the paper bag the shopkeep had given her. She left it in Jerin’s room, and from the inept rerolling of the top, the rats had peeked. Curiosity was going to bop them on the head one day. “And Jerin found stuff in his things that aren’t his.” He pushed his clenched fist at her; envelopes stuck out between his fingers. She set the bag down and took the mail, glancing at the stamps as Brander wandered in, looking through some other bits.
“These were tucked into his things,” the rebel told them. “And I think it’s on purpose. This is correspondence between the headmaster at Willington’s and Hoyt’s man, Siward.” He settled on a random chair and leaned over his knees as he continued to scan the pages. “From what I’ve read, Siward informed the headmaster of his mother’s death and claimed he was Jerin’s guardian. He said his people would retrieve the boy, they just needed to know who he was. I can’t tell whether the headmaster was suspicious, or if he wanted to quickly wash his hands of a problem.”
“Who’s the head?” Lady Ailis asked, rising. “I can find out the truth of it. I’m certain Lord Adrastos would love to accompany me to a meeting.”
“I’m certain he would,” Faelan murmured.
“Miter Courgaiss. As Willington’s headmaster, he probably lives in the Meadows or across the river in the Bells. Jerin might know.” He sat back and ran his hand through his bangs. “I told him we need to talk to him about his mother. He knows her name, Danella, and that she lived in the Meadows.”
“She didn’t live in the Meadows,” Jetta said. She regarded the floor despondently, the foot on her crossed leg bouncing up and down. “Another lie for her child.”
“He said she was a merchant who sold jewelry. He showed me a pendant. It’s very nice, and something she either stole or took from a stake. Only nobles wear opal items like that.”
“This is going to break his heart,” Lapis said.
“We don’t have to tell him exactly how horrible his mother was,” the wispy rebel pointed out.
“Lapis, meet Linz,” Faelan said with a soft smile. “They ‘keep for Jetta.”
“I can’t replace Dachs,” they said with humorous regret, “but I get the job done. Eventually.”
Patch laughed. “Eventually, eh? Good way to spin it.”
They made a face. “OK, so it took three days to clear out the Dunes. But there was a lot of stuff there!”
“It was a studio apartment. How much stuff could Den possibly have crammed into it?”
“He was a hoarder. We found burned matches, cracked glasses, receipts ten years old, shards of something or other strewn across the kitchen . . .” They took a deep breath. “I cannot wait, until I’m a chaser and get to order some other shlub to pick up after me.”
Jetta laughed, and it did not sound too forced. “Pick up after you? Maybe that’s why you take so long, Linz. You play housekeeper instead of streetkeeper.”
They grumbled something under their breath. “Anyway, I think I found something about our current and very strange situation. It’s . . . weird.” They glanced about the room, then beamed happily. “Time for a meeting!” they said brightly.
Lapis assumed that was a not-subtle hint about rebel secrecy.
The sounds of others entering the House carried to the room. Caitria leapt up, raced out, then returned with several people, Ciaran included. The incident at the Lells must have ended, and in favor of Jiy.
“Well?” Faelan asked drolly.
“I have rarely seen a man so pissed as Sir Armarandos is with Jarosa,” Ciaran said. “I have rarely seen Jarosa meekly agree that what she did was stupid and she’s very sorry for everything.”
Her bodyguards’ surprise reflected Lapis’s own. Jarosa never apologized. It caused some harm to the Wolf Collaborate, but she stubbornly continued the tradition.
“He made me promise to stay put for a few days,” the Ramiran rebel said as she stepped from behind the taller man, guilty and subdued. A huge, black-ringed hole filled the center of her shirt; without a marching shirt beneath, she would have died. “They did shoot at me first,” she reminded the room, pulling down the hem so they could better look at the damage.
“What did you say to them to make them lose their minds in the first place?” Patch asked.
“I told them that . . . um, the Pit had smarter people. And maybe something about clearing the air of refuse.”
Linz shrieked with laughter and hugged the despondent rebel about the neck. “I’d have done the same thing,” they declared.
“So I don’t suppose you’d like to accompany me to visit Sir Adrastos?” Lady Ailis asked. Jarosa perked up and Ciaran shook his head.
“No.” His voice was rock-hard. “Stay put means stay put!”
“It’s just a little jaunt,” Jarosa said.
“There is no such thing as a little jaunt in Jiy when you’re involved,” he told her.
Lady Ailis raised the Ramish pages before rising and handing them to Jarosa before she took exception to her son’s words. “These are Black Hat correspondence. You should read them.”
The deadening of Jarosa’s expression as she perused them alarmed Lapis. What had Scand found?
“A working dinner meeting, I take it?” Faelan asked drolly.
“Yeah.” She glanced at Lady Ailis. “Why do you need to see Adrastos?”
“I want to ask him about the headmaster of Willington’s. He put correspondence between himself and a guttershank named Siward in with Jerin’s things, which means he expected someone to find and use the information.”
“That probably goes along with this.” Jarosa held up the pages. “It may be an evening meeting, Faelan. I think talking to the headmaster is important enough to delay.”
“How urgent is the info you found, Linz?” he asked.
“Not so very, but notable. This evening will be a good time to meet.”
“It gives you time to talk to Jerin and see if he can recall anything relevant about his mother,” Patch said.
Lapis pulled away, burning with curiosity but not really excited about spending time in a drawn-out meeting. Perhaps she should find the kitchen and see if Selda had moved to the new House. She wanted food, and she refused to wait until Jarosa returned at whatever hour she deemed fit. She handed the envelopes to her brother, who eyed the bag.
“What’s that?” His eyes trailing along the shop’s name.
“The Black Hats were yelling about needing someone to speak Ramish, and someone did help. A shopkeep gave me this as a thank you for keeping the translator safe.” She opened it. “I don’t even know what she gave me.”
“Lady!” Scand called, frantic, before she pulled out a lump of straps and buckles attached together with rivets. She blinked at it, confused, as the rat turned an even more brilliant shade of red.
“What . . .?”
“It’s a harness, sort of,” Brander said, strained, but whether embarrassed or because of strangling laughter, she did not know. “For . . . a good time.”
A good time. No. Oh no.
That the brightest of ruby blushes spread across Patch’s cheeks did not help.
What kind of clothes did Mitta sell?
