Chapter 21: Cacophony

Lapis expected a larger contingent of armed protectors to seep out of the rooms, intent on safeguarding Midir, but only three others popped in after Varr’s roar, all wearing typical brown leather and no identifying cloth or badge.

“How close are they to the Swan, Captain?” Varr asked.

“We’re just down the street,” she said heavily. “You need to evacuate, my lord.”

Patch had contingency plans for nearly everything, something he shared with Varr. Lapis scooted over to Ciaran and they waited patiently for orders, though her heart beat hard and fast against her chest.

What if Perben had followed them? What if he brought Gall’s soldiers to the Kells to get rid of his most pressing threat? She should have been more careful, she should have used more backways and ugly alleys to reach their destination. Guilt slammed her, hard, and she fought against it—a losing battle, but she fought anyway.

A hard crack and crash resounded from the outer door. The leather-clad people, one man, two women, rushed towards the commotion with Varr as Patch retrieved two lamps from a closet. He turned a knob to light them and handed one to Ciaran before opening a door next to the large window and jerking his hand to them.

Ciaran made certain to bring up the rear, which prompted more guilt, but it allowed her to hustle onward with Neassa, who had turned a not-healthy shade of pale and rapidly blinked over-bright eyes. She smiled at her and settled her hand on her back, hoping it brought some comfort.

Patch led them down a steep flight of creaking stairs that went down further than five stories. It ended in a small earthen room once used as a cellar. The rotting wooden shelves held no items, which was fine because the thick, musty smell would have seeped into anything stored there and made it inedible. A rough, dark tunnel braced by wooden beams stood opposite them.

The air silently vibrated after another explosion, and bits of dust and dirt erupted from the walls. The larger debris hit the ground in a shower, the rest dirtied the air and hung there, bright sparkles in the lamplight. Her partner rushed them through the passage, and they exited into a hallway completely covered in large white squares. Grime coated them, but the surfaces remained clean enough their soft glow lit the space, and far better than the lamps.

“What are those?” Neassa asked as she peered at the tiles, distracted.

“Some sort of pre-Dentherion light,” Patch replied. “This part of the Kells has hundreds of similar tunnels. Most are still in use because so many underbosses live here. They’re pretty overprotective of the tiles since they’re left-over tech from before the invasion, and no one knows what they’re made of, let alone how to replace them. So don’t touch them.”

What material still produced light after two hundred years? Lapis’s curiosity about tech rarely elicited answers to her questions because no one knew. She supposed there might be an old book somewhere in a noble’s library that spoke of the miraculous accomplishments, but those remained far outside her ability to access.

They proceeded through short hallways and larger rooms, some dimmer, some brighter. Broken, rusting metal tech casings lined the walls, with buttons, levers, cracked screens. Some contained cabinets below them, the doors asunder, wires tangled about the interior. Fractured, dented lockers with thick cobwebs stood in a few spaces, small mounds of debris dusted against them; the rest of the passages looked as if someone habitually swept them. If underbosses used them, that made sense.

Neassa had her sleeves bunched up and shoved under her nose, as if she did not like the rot-underlying-dust smell that permeated their path. Lapis would have done the same, if she thought it would block the stench.

The Stone Streets had several underground escape routes, too, ones that failed to help the royal family and their retainers evade Dentherion soldiers, but which served modern guttershanks well. Considering the rot that seeped into the very earth there, Lapis never attempted to enter one, no matter how lucrative the stake. But, perhaps, she needed to ask Patch and Brander about other, viable routes.

They exited into a humongous, shadowy room with a high ceiling hidden by a dull brownish haze. The whitish tile lights disappeared, replaced by the flickering flame of multiple fires. People crowded about them, singles, families, some cooking, some huddled close for warmth. Boxcars of various dilapidated states spanned the entirety of it in irregular rows, some decorated with curtains, some with yard art stuck near the makeshift doors, some painted bright colors at odds with the hazy and dull atmosphere. Stairways ran up to a brighter lit second story that wrapped about the walls, and more sound came from the area.

“What is this place?” Neassa asked, nervous, distrustful.

“Underville,” Patch said shortly before he led them through a back alley that skirted the better-lit sections containing people.

Lapis caught Neassa’s step. “Underville’s a community where shanks beholden to underbosses live,” she whispered. “The ones here don’t make enough money to pay rent in a better place, but they’re on a high enough rung they can stay here rather than the Stone Streets. Some of them are very wanted criminals, so Underville’s their hideout. Guards don’t come here, which suits everyone just fine.”

Underville was notorious for letting residents be. It had a loose sense of community that the underbosses promoted, but little beyond that. They took pride in being a step up from the Stone Streets, however they managed to obtain it. Lapis never had cause to visit, but Patch caught many a stake there. They accepted his presence as they accepted any other, and his reputation kept him safe amongst the thieves. A few had even helped him, figuring that, if a shank did something terrible enough that the famous assassin hunted them down, a decent payday as ‘keeper would ensue.

Patch never skimped on paying for that help. He had a quiet, melancholy respect for those living there, for they managed a way out of the Stone Streets, however illegal.

A burly man with dull brown, cropped hair, dull brown skin, and dull brown clothing, sat atop a stout box to the side of a wide, empty doorway. Hanging fruit oil lamps lit the corridor beyond, their scent spicy and sweet. He noted them and did nothing as they passed through; Patch poured a few coins into a dented metal bowl next to him. He accepted the bribe with a grunt, then gaped in shock when he realized the price paid for his silence.

The corridor led to a wide set of chipped concrete stairs with a mangled, discolored rail down the middle. Faint square grout lines marred the walls, indicating someone had long ago looted the light-producing tiles. They climbed three floors before they left the underground. A curved metal awning spanned the entrance, heavily dented but still standing. Taller, Dentherion-constructed buildings circled it, the narrow gaps between providing convenient escape routes.

Patch led them to one, then halted. “I’m going to scout ahead,” he told them in a deep, emotionless whisper. “Lapis, Ciaran, you shouldn’t have any problems. This is the least-used exit from Underville, so there shouldn’t be more than a person or two using it. If you see more than that, head to the street. I’ll find you.”

Lapis had stood through more agonizing waits for Patch than she cared to think about, but the present one proved especially painful. What would she do, if he did not come back? Get Midir to safety, of course, probably to the House where Faelan and his people could help him, then return, searching for her partner. She always thought about losing him when she stood alone, in dread anticipation, and made mental plans to look for him, to find him, take him to a doctor if necessary. She never got past that part, because she did not think she could bear to violently lose another close to her.

She almost laughed. She never pondered it, but that might explain her deep, inscrutable reluctance to renew ties with family and friends from her youth. Death stalked nearly all of them.

Midir exuded calm, standing with his hands behind his back, while Neassa paced, her small fists under her armpits. “Are you alright?” She had to ask, considering the situation.

He nodded. “I don’t think I’m in any danger, actually.”

Ciaran raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“Adrastos has corresponded about his current underground affairs. He’s pissed off the underboss you mentioned earlier, Hoyt. If the man deals in Taangis tech, as Adrastos thinks, he might believe that his men have the weapons to take him and his guard out. They don’t. They’re underfunded, undertrained, and Adrastos and his people have years of experience with forbidden, illegal things.” He laughed without humor. “I think this Hoyt tried to catch him and his people unaware, hoping for revenge. My being there was a coincidence, nothing more.”

“If they believe an important guest was there, and that harming them would harm Adrastos, you still are in danger,” Ciaran pointed out.

“True, but they have no idea who that guest is. And they will not find out—I doubt you realize, but the Minq’s third-ranked underboss lives on the fourth floor. Attacking anywhere near the building guarantees syndicate involvement, and Hoyt will wish to his dying day, he had not roused them. Shara refuses to bow to the warlike behavior of her predecessor, but she will act on an obvious threat to her people.”

“You know the Minq’s primary underboss?” Lapis asked.

“She’s my cousin,” Neassa murmured, so quiet her words barely made it past her lips. “I’ve introduced them. Shara’s a wonderful person, she really is, and she has far more friendly feelings towards the rebellion than the throne assumes.”

Lapis almost laughed at the absurdity. One did not become an underboss of the Minq through wonder and nice thoughts.

“The Minq are a bit different than you might suspect,” Midir agreed. “The larger organization is sympathetic to rebel causes because Lord’s Council incompetence has affected their business, and therefore, the money flow. They may be greedy, but they also take their status as grand old syndicate very seriously, with several members claiming the Minq began the original rebellion against the Dentherion empire. A conceit, surely, but one I work with.”

Perhaps Midir did not remain as hidden as she assumed.

Patch returned, slipping into the alley silently enough, Neassa did not realize he stood next to her until she turned.

“Well, it’s becoming a full-blown underwar out there,” he grumbled. “The guard and palace soldiers are just arriving, and they’re targeting any large group just in case they’re involved. We need to get out of here. Lapis.”

She focused on him.

“Rik’s here, with his cart stuck in a line of drivers. He has crates with Lord Daros’s seal, so he probably has a pass the guards will accept if they stop him. Ask if he wouldn’t mind taking you across the bridge, then get Midir to the Eaves. Neassa, do Shara’s people know you?” She nodded. “Good. She has access to a particular section of tunnel that leads under the river. We’ll need your connections to use it. Ciaran, you’re with us.”

Patch trusted her with Midir’s safety. The sudden bout of cold anxiety combated with the warmth filling her chest; he believed her competent enough to keep the heir to the Jilvayna throne protected. “Where’s Rik?”

“Down the street from here, near Greenling Park.” He pointed to the left and south.

She hugged him briefly, then hugged Ciaran. “Stay safe,” she said, ignoring his startled look. She may not have spoken with him for eight years, but she had strong, wonderful memories of him, and that he worked to bring the traitor to justice without losing his objective proved his integrity.

She led Midir away, thankful he did not have an eyesore of an outfit that would draw unwanted attention. How drastically he had changed, from the ostentatious noble she remembered.