Run. Run.
Her face numbed, her lungs numbed, her legs numbed after screaming their displeasure.
Run. Run.
One thought; the Jils tunnels. They led to the palace. She knew the way to the one Patch, Path and Nolin explored. It led to an unused atrium.
The exit was two stories up and a straight drop. No rope, so she would not get back up that way. Hang over the edge. Fall. Any sentries would die under the purple beam. She had no time for nice.
Run. Run.
The Docks’ bridges had lazy guards manning the tolls, and they never stopped chasers. She raced up the slippery incline, avoiding the few who traveled across on foot, in carriage. No nasties on horseback, a boon.
Light flared from the top of the Green Castle peak, illuminating the bottom front of the skyshroud. Gall wanted everyone in Jiy to know the Dentherions had arrived, that the Dentherions would keep him on the throne.
Requet was a Dentherion, but not a savior.
Jumping the toll gate and zipping past the collector busy with a box-filled wagon earned her a snarly shout, but nothing else. She pounded up the stone bridge, the sounds of water beneath her feet combining with the moisture-laden wind. The streetlamps on curled metal hooks swung, their eerie creaking in time with the gusts. At least the frozen night kept random strangers out of her way.
Despite her scarf, her lungs ached as she tried to shove more cold air into them, and she slowed, gasping.
No no! She needed to run!
She wrapped the bottom of her hood around her mouth, shoved the top of her coat collar higher, and hoped her lungs kept working.
Rather than slip and slide along the iced paving stones, she ran on the crunchy snow to the side. She hit the bottom of the bridge and sped past the shuttered shacks and rickety cottages that lined the main road on the island in the middle of the Wrain. The edges had docks, cranes, warehouses, and those who worked in them inhabited the dilapidated housing, built by richer owners to stuff their poorest employees into, giving them a roof and nothing else.
Gall did nothing about the conditions, keeping the poorest poor to elevate his dim star.
The next bridge had shanks, all hunched down, hands shoved into pockets. One glanced over his shoulder, shouted, and the lot turned, hooted at her, spanned the road to stop her. She triggered her gauntlet and swiped; she jumped over the bleeding man who failed to avoid the strike as his companions screamed in shock at her.
They should know better than to bully a chaser on a stake.
She coughed as her lungs protested the speed, the cold. Run, run, off the bridge, towards Songbird, she could not slow down. Because . . .
A carriage driver drove her into the snowbank lining the road, the crack of his whip on her coat sleeve a warning. Not a noble servant, but a stable courier carting well-off merchant drunks home after their indulgence in Kells’ entertainments. Laughter rang from the interior and glasses clanked together.
Carriage after carriage passed, the drivers snarling at her. Bored, were they? Not her fault, they had to sit with their vehicle in this terrible cold, waiting for assholes to stumble out of a sweet house.
Ignore them. Run, run.
The horse for the last-in-line transport clipped at a faster trot than her ragged legs, so she grabbed the back pole, set her foot on the platform a footman would normally use, and plastered herself against the back.
Gasp silently—not that the passengers would notice, as loud as they were, but she did not want to cause a scene. No time for the driver to stop and stalk to the back to chastise her for catching a lift, and flashing her weapon would get the guard after her for threatening wealthier citizens. She winced, slapped her hand over her mouth, and struggled to fill lungs seared with cold.
The skyshroud’s blue jets flickered, one after another, racing to the back end. No. NO!
She would rescue Faelan before the ship crashed. She would rescue her brother, who never gave up on her, when, by rights, he should have swum in fury at her silence concerning her escape. He understood her, kept the secret so the traitor rebel would not find her, finish her.
He sacrificed for eight years, until she was ready to break her shell and speak with him.
Tears fled down her cheeks, burning a pathway to her neck. She would never let Gall take what she had just rediscovered. She would never let him take her brother. Snuffling, she recalled her four-year-old self latching onto Faelan’s leg when he needed to travel with their father, begging him not to go. And he picked her up, promised to read their special book with her when he got back, and gave her a tight hug.
He never broke that promise. And she would not break this one.
A roaring demand came from inside the carriage, and the horse increased speed, passing slower vehicles. She turned to face the wooden back, keeping one foot on the platform, the other on the bottom molding, and pretended she was a guard. The other drivers noticed her, focused on her, but she kept her head down and said nothing.
Golden streetlights blazed high above her head, marking the entertainment row that sat along the bend in the Wrain. Restaurants, taverns and bars in that part of the Songbird district remained open even at the late hour, and so did curative shops selling drunkenness and hangover medicines along with a plethora of snacks. People swayed down the streets, laughing and talking, and the carriage slowed to keep from running them over.
She had caught her breath. She hopped off, keeping to the pavement between the road proper and the sidewalk, and ran.
Frozen slush in jagged waves pushed against the soles of her boots, but she ignored it; run, run.
People shouted at her, some swiped at her as she narrowly avoided them. They should tread cautiously; they knew the signs of a chaser at work, knew what happened when they interfered with an important stake. Shanks in deed if not class, and she would treat them no differently.
She took an alley that led to a back trail running around the southernmost base of the Green Castle mountain and directly to the bridge crossing to the Bells. Couriers used it, especially if their deliveries were short on time; she knew from reading histories it was ancient, a road built by the Jils that meandered to sacred hills outside the city where they performed communal blood rites of passage.
Taangis destroyed the tribe, but they could not obliterate the shortcut from the sandy embankment of the Wrain to the various bridges over the Avranda.
Darkness blanketing the deserted way made her step uncertain, and she slowed, gasping, crying. Run, run! With trembling fingers, she pushed the handle of her right gauntlet into her palm, lighting the way so she could comply. She held her arm out, an awkward pose, but she had no options unless she wanted to walk.
She had no time to walk.
Travelers had trampled the sides, providing a flatter, crunchier running surface. No ice. Forcing her tired legs faster did not please her body, but her mind chanted ‘run run’ in time with her step. She would make it. She would save her brother.
The first brush of pinkish dawn touched the sky. The roads would soon fill with early-risers heading to work or carting cargo for someone or other. Sneaking into the palace at night would have been better, but Gall would never hold important captives for more than a day. A quick demise of enemies described his reign, no magistrate involved. Justice was never his goal; revenge, pain and suffering were his pleasures.
Hooves pounded behind her; whoever galloped towards her better just leave her to her race. Any shank who thought to stop and make a sly innuendo would find himself in the snow. She could borrow his horse and reach the tunnels faster.
A flurry of snow, and the horse stopped. Dammit! She looked up, seething.
Tuft held out his hand. The wind caught his hair and tail, blowing them about like branches caught in a storm.
Tuft.
She grabbed his palm and squeaked as he yanked her onto the back of his lower torso.
Khentauree raced past as she settled into her seat. Ice clamped onto her upper legs before he took off after them. Her body leaned back at the surge, and she grasped his waist to pull herself back into place.
Patch—Patch!—looked over his shoulder at her; he and Jetta sat on Chiddle, Dov next to them. Dov? How had they convinced them to join Faelan’s rescue? Her partner blew her a kiss; she gasped, her lungs protesting, and winced before raising a hand and waving at him with just her fingers.
The leading khentauree picked up speed, and they all followed; she recognized Sanna and Jhor. Of course.
She pressed her hand against her chest, struggling to breathe, willing her heart to quiet and not blot out most sound with its pounding.
“Khentauree move faster than humans,” Tuft chided. Lucky mechanical being, he did not have to breathe while in motion. “We will reach the palace quicker than you on your feet.”
“Thank you.” She refused to break down and sob. “But this puts you in danger.”
“Vision said we would know when our strength was needed. Dov and I disregarded her, but when Rin told us, we knew she spoke true. Chiddle and Sanna knew. Ghost gave them his blessing.” His head swiveled back to her. “Ghost told Dov that to protect khentauree, we must protect humans. He is right, but those words were for Dov. You unhooked Ree-god the Manipulator, Ree-god the Destroyer. You helped khentauree, unbidden. I will help you.”
“We’ll save my brother,” she whispered.
“Yes. And Double Catch and those with them. This human king and his retainers are as pitiless as the mine owners. There will be no salvation for them.” His head returned to facing forward, and relief flooded her. As much as she respected khentauree, when they rotated their heads around, her tummy twisted in protest of the unnatural motion. It was perfectly fine for them, so she must get accustomed to it, but it still squicked her.
Tuft caught the others as they rounded an over-steepened cliff—and ran past the exit to the bridge.
“Yvere’s waiting for us,” Patch called over the crunch of hooves. “There’s a shortcut to the main tunnel on this side of the mountain. She said they don’t use it because shanks took up residence, but they won’t bother us.”
“Not with the khentauree,” she agreed, rubbing her chest vigorously and wishing her lungs would heat up.
“How did you get this far so quick?” Jetta asked. Tears touched her otherwise hard tone. “You run fast, but not that fast.”
“Took a ride on the back of a carriage.” She winced, unable to ignore her body’s unhappy complaining about her flight. “Loud drunks don’t care.”
“Yvere’s getting us to that opening over the northern atrium.” Patch leaned over, handing her a bottle; where had that come from? Tuft snagged it and gave it to her. Water. She guzzled it, hoping she did not need to save it.
Save it? She might be dead before the sun reached noon. No saving required.
“Sanna speaks to Yvere and to Caitria,” Tuft said. “The rebels and Minq come. The Rams will join them.”
“We have to get Faelan and Double Catch and their entourages out of there before the skyshroud crashes,” Patch told her.
“We have to get Faelan and Double Catch and their entourages out of there before the king kills them,” she snapped back. “He wouldn’t call back janks to be his audience otherwise.”
“We will save them,” Tuft said, no buzz to his voice, only warmth and a firm belief in his words.
“Yes, we will,” Chiddle agreed. “We are unexpected vengeance.”
Sanna leapt into a snowdrift, and the others followed; the piles came to the khentaurees’ bellies, but that did not stop their pace. They jumped back and forth with huge bounds, and zig-zagged up the mountain. Lapis knew she would never have held her seat without Tuft’s icy clamps.
They reached a trampled footpath that led to a grated entrance; Yvere stood there, tech light in hand, gate open, motioning for them to enter. She wore a thick tan coat that fell to her knees, with a long-barreled tech weapon strapped to her back and a holster with a smaller one sitting on her hips. A tight tail kept her hair back from a comms headset. Did she plan to invade the palace with them? This was not her fight! Still, Lapis appreciated the bravery because they had no guarantee any of them would exit alive.
That included the khentauree. Why had so many chosen to help?
They clattered into the dank tunnel, and Yvere closed the gate with a bang. The khentauree’s foreheads lit with cyan light, illuminating the gigantic metal tube from which icicles hung. Ice filled the grooves in the flooring; the way would be slick and treacherous.
“I will take you,” Dov told the Jils. They did not sound as confident about having a human ride them.
“Are you OK with that?” Lapis asked.
Dov’s head swiveled to her. “Yes. We will lead.”
They sounded certain about the leading part. With their and Tuft’s help, Yvere mounted. Ice formed to keep her in her seat; Lapis looked, and everyone but Jhor had clamps over their legs. How the modder sat on Sanna without falling, she could not guess.
“We have some Yoh Rikarde undershanks holed up here,” the woman said, her low voice echoing back as Dov whisked ahead of them. “They got kicked out of Underville, but as far as I can tell, they haven’t caused much trouble since moving here. There are a few shacks, a big communal fire, but most have cardboard screens for privacy and a small living space. No tech. They shouldn’t bother us.”
A small boon, but when it counted most, those could loom large.
