She outran the men, which would have made her proud, if memory and panic did not crash together and obliterate everything outside her focus.
LX70, searching for the cemetery. It was near the theater. That shadow . . . had it been a khentauree? Had her etak arrived in Jiy long before anyone suspected? Out of the way place, locals too scared to investigate odd happenings . . . If Copper stumbled upon them, if they saw him as a threat—
Why had the rats decided on the Ella, of all places? They had to know the rumors of ghosts, how the last residents who attempted to live there had strange things happen to them. Gossip about dangerous places spread like wildfire through the rat ranks, because it kept them away from risky cubbies.
“LADY!”
She stumbled to a halt as Rin and Lykas, Heran and Nilas, erupted from an alleyway and raced to her. They shoved close, eyes wide, brows wrinkled, mouths drawn down in panic.
“Lady, they’s made it to the theater,” Heran cried. “They’s shootin’ somethin’, ‘n then ever’thin’ went dark!”
Whimpering was not a Lady Lanth act, but she could not stop the sound. A battle, between the mercs and LX70, or Copper and the community center guards? “Do any of you know the rats that just moved in there?”
“Rats moved in?” Heran asked, rearing back, horror switching to aghast shock.
“Heard nothin’, Lady,” Nilas gasped. “Who’d do that, ‘specially after Lykas got kidnapped? It’s got a bad reputation all ‘round the Grey and Stone Streets.”
“Damn you’re fast,” Dagby muttered as he and Dachs caught them. “Just so you know, you’re not rushin’ in on your own.”
“Mercs made it to the Ella,” Lapis snapped.
“They’s had a battle, ever’thin’ went dark,” Heran said.
“Copper went in to check on those rats, and he never came out," she continued. “The guards who went looking for him disappeared, too.”
“Oh, this gets better and better,” Rin declared, in perfect imitation of Patch, as the others gasped. Dachs gasped out a startled laugh as Lapis stared at him, wavering between smacking him or ignoring him. He heard it too, then. She would have a talk with her partner later about his unintended influence on the rats and remind him to watch his words and his acts. They sponged them up because they came from him, and his role-model persona needed work.
“I know a way in,” Dagby said, hands on hips, attempting to nonchalantly suck in air and failing. Had she run that fast? Compared to Patch, most rebels she knew, and the rats, she had the slowest feet in town. “It should get us in a position to see what’s goin’ on without exposin’ ourselves.”
She shuddered. She and Scand hit a balcony first, and . . .
“You up to this?” Dachs asked, setting a hand on her shoulder.
“I have to be.” She swallowed, then rubbed at her throat; the lump refused to leave. “Copper’s done so much for us, always has the best interest of everyone in mind. I’m not leaving him to mercs or military khentauree or worse.” She pointed at the rats. “Get to the Eaves, tell Lyet and Jandra we need to get the info to Sherridan. Be on the lookout for Minq or rebels; there should be a group on their way to the cemetery. Tell Scand not to return to his cubby until we check out the temple.” She shoved a hand into her bangs, fighting the trembling that coursed through her.
“Lady.” Worry laced Rin’s words, but whatever else he wanted to say faded from her consciousness as Lykas held out his hand. His eyes were too wide, his mouth too firm, his lip a tad trembly, but he would go with her, face the memories, as terrified as she. LX70 and the mercs and the danger they posed did not matter. She snagged it, and before the rest protested, ran for the theater.
Dagby took the lead, though by the strained squinting of his eyes, it cost him. The streets, the people, blurred under her tears as she stared at his back, and the perturbed shouts faded into a ringing buzz. Darkness swallowed them, shaking her from her terrible recollections; they had left the roads and trekked down a back lane that rested between rows of tightly clustered townhouses. Each had disintegrating whitewashed columns holding up the remains of wooden awnings over cracked cement stairs and warped metal railings. The once-opulent accommodations now housed the embarrassments of embarrassments for noble families, the sons and daughters who had fallen far enough, their kin could not justify sending them to the old but better-kempt mansions. Instead, they resided in the townhomes at the edges of the neighborhood, the remembrance of riches faint, the immediacy of their situation a stark reminder that they had no hope of pulling themselves from the Grey Streets and shame.
Not that many cared. Upper-class drug dens were still upper class, with enough money to make the inhabitants forget their lives in a brainbreak stupor. Their senselessness had made them easy to drag to a guardhouse, though.
They left the townhomes behind, weaving through a ragged patch of brush before entering a narrow trail between the theater’s warped, southwestern wrought-iron fence and the edge of the cliff that overlooked the Shells. She doubted many besides shanks, chasers, and rats took the way; no railing kept the unwary from plummeting over the side, and the height ensured a crunchy death when they landed.
She tried, and failed, to ignore the three-story theater. Its stark darkness opposed to the surrounding, moonlit snow sent shivers through her; it stood as deathly still and silent as a crypt, no hint of merc violence from the interior. The dilapidated half-columns on the ground floor hid in shadows, but the broken windows glinted between them, the sharp reflection of the moon fading from one to the next as they crept on.
Lykas squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back; the memories must ride him hard, too. She smiled at him, though she doubted he noticed, her hood hiding her expression. That was for the best; her pathetic attempt at comfort would help neither of them.
Daby stopped, studied the area, then hopped over a fallen section of fence and waded through deep drifts to a window that, by the reflection, retained more of its glass than its brethren. They followed, single file, as he fumbled with a column, then pulled a narrow ladder slowly out from a crack that ran its length. Lapis craned her neck, but could not tell how far up it reached.
“There’s a ladder?” Rin asked, consternated.
“Only a few independent chasers know of it,” Dagby whispered. “My mentor put it here, and only his lot use it. It’s a secret for a reason. The theater’s a shit place to chase down a shank, and the height keeps us out of reach of whatever lives here.”
The way he said it . . . “You believe it’s a ghost?” Lapis asked.
He hmphed. “It’s somethin’,” he muttered. “Seen too many strange things to ignore.” He tapped his fingers against the rail. “This goes to the third floor. Take it one at a time. You’ll hit a little ledge; I’ll have the window open. It leads to a hall like the lower levels. It’ll be dark and as cold as out here.”
He scurried up, and long before Lapis thought he should have reached the top, the ladder jangled. She pushed Lykas ahead, and he clambered up, slow and cautious enough for silence.
“Lady,” Rin whispered.
“I’m fine.”
“But—”
“The more you remind me, the less fine I get.”
“Lykas’s feelin’ it, too,” Dachs murmured, his voice a low drone. “Don’t be afraid to back out. Me and Dagby’s plenty to find out what’s goin’ on.”
“Yeah.” Her shoulders slumped at the concern, but knew her embarrassment kept her there. Lady Lanth was a nonchalant, brave chaser unbothered by the nasty common shank, not the shuddering ball of dread she now portrayed. It would ride her that night, and claw at her like a cat for several into the future, and if something had happened to Copper . . .
Why now? Why did everything crash to splinters at her feet now, when a few days previous, hope finally trudged its weary way through her dreary soul? When Dachs said never a sprinkle, always a storm, he could not have been more right, and she wished he had not tempted the non-existent gods to prove it.
Rin pushed her at the ladder, and she went up with a gasp. The darkness was the same darkness so she could not see, only feel, the contraption swaying, and she had to force each hand, each foot, to the next freezing rung. She silently chanted up, up, reaching a faintly lit ledge before she lost the rhythm on terror. Dagby’s light sat on it, shrouded in a cloth to minimize the beam’s intensity. He helped her through the open stained-glass window, which still retained its color and lead despite the years, and she joined Lykas huddled against the wall. He had wrapped his arms around his knees and hunched over, eyes darting back and forth.
She slipped her arm across his shoulders and hugged before pulling out her handheld light. He slid his arm around her waist, and they held onto each other as if they were the last buoy in a sea of empty grey waves.
She covered the end with her scarf and pointed it both ways. Carpet covered the floorboards, the blues and golds highlighting red flowers still saturated despite the years. The walls sported a dark, fuzzy wanescotting, above which sat wooden panels that still held ornately framed paintings. Etched gold plaques listed names, though she could not tell what they said from her lower perch.
Golden sconce lamps jutted from the wall between the windows, many retaining grime-coated covers, the once-white fabric looking a dull grey. A faint glimmer of moonlight passed through the stained glass, but not enough to illuminate the hall. Knowing the history of the place, it puzzled her how the third story still had gold and decorative anything; Dentherions or guttershanks should have looted it long ago.
“Never been up here afore,” Rin whispered, standing tall and looking around as he broke the oppressive quiet. “It’s not like the bottom part.”
“The doors from the second floor are barred from this side,” Dagby said. “When the Dentherions raided, the staff locked themselves up here—or so my mentor said. He’s descended from one of them, and it’s a family tale they tell. While they looted, the staff slipped out using that ladder, and left before anyone was the wiser.”
“I’ve been around this place plenty,” Dachs huffed as he crawled through the window. “Never once saw that ladder.”
“My mentor wanted it hid, and a cracked column, unless someone sticks their fingers inside, works.”
“Who’s your mentor?”
“Jabby.”
“No shit?” Dachs asked, impressed, as the rats’ mouths hung open. Lapis found that interesting; Jabby was a rebel plant in the underground, and perhaps that explained Dagby’s willingness to join the cause.
“He’n Chinder were friends,” Rin said. “Met ‘m a couple times. Seemed over-confident but kind enough.”
“Smacked me when he realized I’d fallen to brainbreak.” Dagby leaned over, grabbed the rails, and guided the ladder back into its hiding place. “He was harsh. Even had words with Granna Cup about it. She said she wouldn’t give up on me; he came around after the speech, said she was right. She told him of course she was, he’d do better to listen to his elders.”
Lapis tried to stifle her laughter at the outrageous statement; she did not think Granna Cup had more than a couple months on Jabby—and she again marveled at the woman’s aplomb, to confront a crusty old chaser who had seen far too many nightmares during his long years to put up with apprentice mischiefs.
“Yeah, I didn’t say a word. Ain’t gettin’ in that fight.” Dagby winced at the dire thought and again took the lead.
