22nd of Thira, Continued

The door behind the shelves opened onto what could only be properly termed a secret bunker. There was a functional kitchen on the other side of a sitting area furnished with several well-worn couches, with several other rooms visible down a narrow hallway of reinforced concrete. The Innkeeper had turned it into a smuggling hideout, judging from the crates and boxes of contraband items stacked in neat rows along one wall, and the maps of the city spread over the rakkai table.

There was a faint snick as the door latched, and Marin leaned her back against it, watching me take a look around.

"Orrelian's parents survived the seiges down here," she said quietly. "Now it is home. You'll bunk down the hall. Fourth door on the right.  NaVarre already sent your things." She pushed away from the door and walked past me into the kitchen. "Washroom is through there." She pointed at a small arched concrete doorway with a metal door set in it. "Might as well make yourself comfortable, it's going to be a while."

I didn't move, staring at her as she set a kettle on for tea.

"I... The Coventry knows about Aethscaul," I got out. "We have to get word to the Longalis."

Marin turned to face me, her slim brows drawn together.

I met her eyes without blinking.

After a heartbeat, she nodded slowly. "Thank you. I will pass this along to Orrelian. He'll know who to contact..." Then she offered a small, reassuring smile. "Now relax, filla. If Dazh was going to kill your man he would have done it already. Go on. Get some clean clothes and a decent wash. There is hot water in the pump."

For a moment I stayed where I was, glaring at her, my hackles still bristling. I was sorely tempted to correct the assumption that Arramy was somehow 'mine,' but my objection faded on my tongue. What did it matter? I had delivered my piece of information. I had been focused on that task for so long that now it was done, exhaustion was fast catching up to me. I did need a bath, and I couldn't do anything but wait. Without another word, I turned and trudged down the hallway.

There were ten doors on either side. A few were open, revealing cavelike, windowless sleeping quarters. I pushed open the fourth door on the right.

The only things of any note inside were a wooden shipping crate at the foot of a narrow bed, and the large metal box on top of the mattress. The bed itself was plainly made, and the only other furniture was a small nightstand with a glass oil lantern on it. It was a room meant for sleeping; I could hazard a guess that Orrelian's underground operation didn't often allow time for much else. 

I started with the metal box. No surprise, it held the extra sets of forged travel and identity papers from Marin, Braeton's black notebook, Obyrron's journal, and the binders.

The shipping crate contained our luggage from the Racynne House, both Braeton's and mine.

I swallowed and drew my finger along the red spine of his Royal Klaghan traveling case. I hadn't really let myself think about what might have happened to him, but he couldn't be gone. He was the one who had said I should wait a few weeks before planning his funeral. The Coventry were still looking for him. So... he couldn't be gone. One of these days he was going to come striding in with some outrageous story to tell.

Throat thick, I ground my teeth and moved on to the crate. A few quick yanks removed the wooden lid, and then I was looking down at the familiar top of my traveling case nestled in a layer of packing straw. I pulled it free, dusted it off, put it on the mattress, popped the clasps, rifled through all the pretty clothes, and came out with my father's satchel and his coat.

For several minutes, all I could do was sit on the bed with the satchel open in my lap, inhaling the scent of Father's finecut Medrano.

Then, slowly, I unwound the red scarf from around my head and untied the knot at the end. The remaining black opals fell out onto my skirt, flashing tiny flames of blue, green and orange in the light from the hallway. Arramy's resinwood box landed among them with a dull, almost metallic thump.

Settingvthe opals aside, I picked up the box and I ran my fingers over the worn-smooth surface. I had never opened it. At first, I had been half-afraid of what lay inside, then there hadn't been opportunity. Now, there wasn't a reason not to anymore. What sort of gift would a man like Arramy have given me, anyway? Frowning slightly, I untied the twine holding the box shut and slid the halves of the lid apart.

It was a necklace: a simple braided leather thong with a burnished metal pendant strung on it. The pendant was shaped a bit like a heraldic shield, emblazoned with two pyrogryffs rampant on either side of an anvil in a wreath, and an eight-pointed star beneath it. There were tiny words carved into the back, written in letters I thought might be Roghuari. If they were, the thing was old, possibly pre-war or even earlier. Roghuari had been banned from the public square until only a few decades ago, an ancient punishment for the members of a long-ago Roghuaran uprising.

I blinked, then couldn't help a chuckle. He really did have mountain roots.  

My chuckle died, replaced by a rather strange feeling in my middle. This wasn't just a trinket to Arramy. It looked important. Personal. Even if it wasn't, wearing it would cross a deeply personal line – at least for me. It would be a constant reminder of the man.

Biting my lower lip, I lifted the necklace from the box and tied the thong at the back of my neck. Then I tucked it beneath the front of my dress, the slide of cool metal over my skin strangely final. I almost snatched the necklace back off, my heart pounding. I even raised my hands to find the knot, but then couldn't make myself undo it.

With a sigh, I rolled my eyes at my own reaction, told myself I was being ridiculous, put away my father's satchel and found myself something clean to wear – which had been the whole reason I was looking through my things in the first place. 

~~~

An hour later, I emerged from the washroom dressed in a genteel white blouse and a charcoal and silver striped skirt nipped in at the waist with a wide red belt, my hair clean and pinned up properly, and the rest of me rinsed free of river mud.

To my surprise, Marin wasn't the only one in the kitchen.

Three men and four women were sitting at the table, talking in quiet tones. Their discussion ceased immediately when they saw me standing in the doorway.

One of the men crossed his arms over a particularly muscular chest, one gave me a bland stare from behind a pair of spectacles, the third dipped his head politely, two of the women offered tight little grins, one gave me a brazen once-over, and the last one closed her mouth firmly on whatever she had been about to say.

"Ah. Here she is. Come," Marin said, waving toward one of the empty chairs at the end of the table. "Everyone, this is Brenorra Warring. Bren, this is our Vreis crew... Don't worry. Most of them won't bite," she added with a grin.  

As if my name had flipped a switch, what had started out as a tense first meeting abruptly turned into sober nods and willing acceptance. It couldn't possibly have been more obvious that they had heard of me before and knew something about me.   

I pasted on a quick smile as I sank into the offered chair, trying to remember names and faces as the others were introduced. The slight blonde woman going by the alias Songbird worked in the Magi's Dispatch Office. The two brunettes, Rugga and Ynette, worked in the merchant district. Then there was a tall, gaunt, middle-aged woman named Phaestra who was able to source just about anything. The men were Erdan Bottesarkis– a clerk in the City Council building – and his detail partner, Hedwyn Fargrave, a big, surly former soldier with a deep and abiding hatred of the Coventry. The third was a boy of about eighteen called simply The Cog, who specialized in everything from incendiary devices and weapons to engines and machines.

One thing became very clear as the group talked: the Island and the Longalis were only the tip of NaVarre's operation. The rest of the Iceberg sprawled out into every layer of society. He had his fingers in everything. Black market deals, spy networks, even political alliances, his reach was much larger than I had previously guessed. And from the sound of things, the Innkeeper was his right-hand man.

I sipped at a mug of hot Provincial that Marin put in front of me and listened as Rugga and Erdan rekindled the debate that had been going on before I sat down: what to do with Arramy.

"I just think we should keep the Captain alive. He knows things," Rugga pointed out. Calmly, I thought.

Erdan frowned and leaned forward, tapping his slender clerk's fingers on the table for emphasis. "But he's been on their side from the beginning. How could we trust anything he says?"

"'E may prove valuable as a bargaining chip," The Cog observed. "Why not keep 'im somewheres till we know 'ow useful 'e be?"

Ynette shook her head, her blue eye round as she glanced at the others. "My Da served alongside 'im in the last wars, an' the tales 'e do tell o' what that man did t'other side...'E's a right ruthless bastard. Don't be unerstimatin' 'im. E's too dangerous ta try lockin' up. E's too dangerous ta try keepin' alive. An' where would-ee put 'im? Here? I don't think so. 'E escaped the war camps."

"I'm with Ynette. I say extract what he knows by whatever means necessary and dump what's left of him in the river," Hedwyn muttered. "Problem solved."

I shot a dark glare at him, my stomach churning. The urge to speak up and defend Arramy was strong, but there wasn't much point, yet. My words would only add fire to what was already a heated argument. I understood their position, as disgusting as I found it. I wasn't entirely sure if I could trust Arramy either. Just because I wanted to didn't make it wise. So instead I placed my tea on the table and cleared my throat, ending a yawning lull in the conversation. "Why decide what you're going to do until you've found out what your leader has to say?"

Marin was regarding me through a speculative squint from the other end of the table, one eyebrow arched. She opened her mouth to say something, but then snapped her mouth shut, her gaze sharpening on the door to the cellar.

The pull was moving. A split second later it opened to reveal Orrelian. He paused, gave us all a stern eyeing, then stood aside as Arramy came ducking warily into the room.

Silence fell, thick and tense.

I swallowed. Arramy's hands were bound behind his back and he had a few nasty looking red welts on the side of his face that would be bruises later, but otherwise he wasn't in any worse shape than he had been.

Those pale eyes found mine and held for a moment before dropping away as he walked ahead of the Innkeeper.

Orrelian kept a long-barreled pistol trained on Arramy's back as he pushed a large crate out into the middle of the sitting area floor. "Sit," he ordered, gesturing toward the crate with the nose of the pistol, then waiting until Arramy sat before continuing into the kitchen to stand at my end of the table. "Erdan, why don't-ee tell us what be goin' on topside," he commanded without looking away from Arramy.

Erdan sat up a little straighter, surprise crossing his narrow features. "There was an emergency Council held last night. They approved a blockade of the lake," he announced. "Canal ports will be shut up tight by tomorrow, and all travel will require papers. It's worded as an emergency response to a clear and present threat to the city, but the motion was put forward by Lord Morlish and supported by the members he's got in his back pocket. It stinks of a silent power grab."

"Ynette?" Orrelian asked.

"The Dailies be callin' the explosion an outright attack," Ynette said, slowly. "They be blamin' Illyrians... Street's buzzin' people be anxious there be possibility o' goin' a-war again. Some be for it, some against."

"What-ee make of that, then, Cap'n?" Orrelian asked, his face betraying nothing.

Arramy's gaze was fierce, but his tone was even. "Sounds like textbook General Argoss. Mask what's really going on by spreading rumors and diverting attention, give the public someone convenient to hate, stir things up till everyone is taking sides." He shifted a little on the crate and looked away. "The blockade is just the beginning. This is going to get much worse."

"Enough of this," Hedwyn spat, glowering first at Arramy then at Orrelian. "He's Coventry. He should be floating in the Panevys with his throat slit. What is he doing here?"

Orrelian remained impassive and deceptively relaxed. "Anyone else?"

After a few glances around the table, Erdan and Ynette both raised their hands, followed a heartbeat later by Songbird.  The Cog kept his hand down, but Rugga grudgingly raised hers.

Marin crossed her arms over her chest. "Why don't you just tell us what you're planning?" 

With a pointed glance at Hedwyn, Orrelian pursed his lips, then dipped his head, acknowledging the opinion of his crew while somehow putting his foot down at the same time. "NaVarre forced Coventry ta bring their operation up by months, if not years. They're off-plumb an' runnin' scared, makin' decisions fly-like. We won't get better opportunity than now. Cap'n, there, swears 'e knows location o' secret Coventry bases, an' more asides. If that checks out, we could take the fight ta them, fer once, an stand chance o' findin NaVarre. So 'e stays. Provisionally."

I must have been holding my breath until that moment because all of it suddenly left my lungs. 

Hedwyn swore and let the front legs of his chair thunk back down on the floor.

"I know, I don't like it either," Orrelian said, absolutely unruffled. "Everythin' in me 'ates the idea of lettin' 'im talk when e's done so much damage. But hurt feelins in't gonna win this war." He looked at Hedwyn again, patiently outwaiting the younger man's hot head.

Finally, Hedwyn relented with a churlish curl to his lips, his gaze needle-sharp as he skewered Arramy with it. "So where are these supposed Coventry bases, then, Captain?"

Orrelian lifted his eyebrows and gave Arramy an expectant glance.

Arramy didn't bat an eyelash. "Give me a pen."

~~~

The crew's questions lasted until well after midnight. Arramy answered all of them, indicating on Orrelian's tactical maps where at least five different Coventry bases were, with detailed plans of building, fortifications, weaponry, and personel. He listed off names of agents, as well as their locations, and sketched several engineering diagrams of the Coventry's flying ships that had The Cog practically humming with excitement.

By the time Orrelian finally stopped, there was a staggering amount of information scrawled on sheets of paper strewn all over the table and pinned to the walls in the sitting area.

One by one, the others left, ducking out through another door that led into the catacomb of forgotten wartime tunnels running beneath the city. They had covers to maintain, and real jobs to go to. The Cog was last, and then it was only Marin, Orrelian, Arramy and I, the three of them nursing bottles of bootleg beer while I sat sipping a sixth cup of tea.

Arramy and Orrelian were talking military strategies and swapping battle stories from their time in the Straights. They looked relatively relaxed, but both of them were still taking the measure of each other, two war wolves sizing each other up, measuring fang against fang, claw against claw. Still, Arramy was no longer tied to a chair, and Orrelian didn't seem to be of a mind to tie him back up, either. 

I wasn't sure what to think about that. I wasn't sure what to think about any of it at all, not NaVarre's disappearance, or the political intrigue going on in the Council, or what my role would be in this new place I had landed. There was one thing I did know. They were about to wage open war on the Coventry. Between the documents in my fathers binders and the encyclopedia of information in Arramy's head, they had enough to target specific operations and do real damage. No more sniping at them in the dark.

I bit my lip. NaVarre had said the Innkeeper would get me back to Aethscaul. But now, with a blockade looming, that option appeared to be slipping away. 

My gaze found Arramy again. The night had been rough on him. His hair stuck up at odd angles, the welts were beginning to purple on his cheek, and his eyes were weary. He hadn't held anything back. I had listened hard as he talked, but there hadn't been any hesitation, or any hint that he was playing some other game. He had poured everything out like he was glad to be rid of it.

Would he stay? I swallowed hard, something very much like hope uncoiling just a little in my middle. Did I want him to? Yes. Too much.

There was a lull in their story-telling, and Arramy glanced at me, those frigid-steel eyes meeting mine for a moment. Then he looked away again, brows lowering.

Marin tilted her head as if she had discovered something intriguing, and shot a sidelong look at me, before sitting forward and taking Arramy's empty beer bottle. "Alright, gentlemen. Social hour's over. Washroom's in the back, Captain. Your kit is in the last room on the left. Go on."

NaVarre must have sent Arramy's things along with ours before we left the Racynne House. Had he done that before or after he knew Arramy was playing both sides?

Arramy gave Marin a wry glance, then got to his feet. With a parting nod to Orrelian, he headed for the hallway and what was evidently going to be his room, his footsteps more of a trudge than a stride.

I let out a long breath and put down my tea mug, then turned to the Innkeeper. "I was thinking..." I started, breaking the silence that had stolen into the kitchen. My voice sounded scratchy. I cleared my throat and began again. "Or rather, wondering...  Could you use a translator? Now that the blockade will make getting to Aethscaul difficult, I mean."

Orrelian pursed his lips, studying me through a thoughtful squint. Then he took up a pen and began doodling something on a scrap of paper in front of him. "What do you think, Marin? Could we use a translator?" He asked, picking up the paper scrap for a second, flashing the pattern of dots he had just scribbled before crumpling it up into a ball. 

Marin smirked a little, staring at me.

Something was going on. "What?" I asked slowly.

"How many dots were there?" Orrelian asked quietly.

"Seven," I said, then, when the two of them just looked at each other, I went on with, "I'm fairly good at accents, too, if that would be more useful."

Marin smirked some more as if she had just won some sort of previous argument.

Orrelian lifted an eyebrow and shook his head, then turned those fathomless dark eyes on me. "T'be honest, there in't much call fer translators a'present, Miss Warring. Songbird does most' o our listenin' work. But tellus... 'ow be-ee at pickin' locks?"

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