Page 26 of The Darkening (The Darkening)

Chapter 7

They make no move to stop me as I head back the way I came, through what I can now make out to be a clothes shop. The shop’s façade is old, with peeling paint. No indication that it hides a secret pub where former revolutionaries come together in a knitting circle.

I shake my head, but it’s no small comfort to know warm food is just a knock away.

The air’s extra muggy and cold after the warmth of the secret pub. A scrap of paper chases the wind across the street, catching on my foot. I pick it up. It’s an ikon-duplicated proclamation declaring that the Regia is hard at work on a grand plan to push back the Storm. It asks all to donate any metal to the Wardana and offers a hefty ration of food in exchange.

It might be all the talk of revolution, but it strikes me as a clever way to get fifth-ringers to give up their weapons.

I wrap my shawl tight and hurry along. When I turn the last corner, he’s there. A line of people wait before him, and others huddle around the edges of the small square. It’s hardly a square; more like a gap between two buildings, just large enough to house a well. The one benefit is that wood slats above shield it from the Wardana’s eyes.

As I watch, some of the folks hovering nearby join the line, but others seem to think better of it and leave.

I edge to the side, until I get a good view of him. He wears his hood low, and a dark shawl covers the lower half of his face—he’s taking no risks with his identity. From a sack, he pulls long, flat objects wrapped in cloth and distributes them after having a word with each person who comes up to him.

I wait the good part of an hour for the line to disappear. Out of boredom, I scratch perfect circles into the wall beside me. After ten or so, a black cat slinks across the street and sits beside me, grooming itself. I kneel and offer my hand. It sniffs my fingers and, with great dignity, allows me to pet it. It’s soothing.

After what feels like a few minutes, I glance back at the well, and my hand stills. He’s gone. It’s empty.

I step out of the shadows, fully into the square. Stupid, Vesper. Where did he go? He could’ve taken any one of the four paths that lead away—I’ve no chance. I’ll have to come back tomorrow. A whole day, wasted. Dalca could be doing anything to Pa. I don’t have a day to lose.

“Looking for me?”

I jump, spinning around to face the voice, and my shawl slips down to my shoulders.

He was leaning against the wall in a pose of supreme smugness, but he starts as I turn. I eye him. Jumpy guy, but that makes sense. The cat slinks between his legs, doing figure eights around his feet.

I find my voice. “I was told you might be able to help.”

“I help many people with many things,” he says, affecting an airy tone. His boots gleam even in the dim light. Heavy, thick-soled boots,without a scuff or a scratch on them. Those aren’t the boots of an ordinary fifth-ringer. “But you—what is it you need?”

“I’m looking for a way into the third. I’ll take any work.”

“My specialty is more, well, taking things out of the third.”

“I can pay.” I flash the gold coin before slipping it back in my sleeve.

His act falls away. “Why do you want this?”

I bite my lip.

“You have to trust me with that much, at least, if I’m to help.”

Your father kept you a secret. He kept you safe.Safety’s not what I need. I lean close and whisper to his cloaked ear. “The prince has my father.”

He straightens, like a string pulled taut. He glances over his shoulder. “Let’s get somewhere a little less exposed for this talk, shall we?”

I cross my arms, studying him through narrowed eyes. How much trust are we talking?

He rolls his eyes, then digs in his pack and throws me a parcel. “Stab me with that if I give you reason not to trust me. Fair?”

Under the cloth gleams an ikon-engraved blade. I snap the cloth closed, tucking it under my arm, where it’s partially concealed by my shawl. “Fair.”

“Follow me.”

One street over, he stops at a dead end. The cat that I’d assumed was his scampers off. Once-ornate carvings cover a wall, but time has worn them smooth in patches. He glances over his shoulder before twisting a thin piece of stone. It slides noiselessly, and for a brief second I can make out the faint trace of an ikon in the carving. A section of the wall snicks open, and he waves me through.

It’s pitch-dark, but he hums as he enters behind me and shuts the door.