The Orphan Queen (10 page)

“Which is good.” I locked the door and took inventory. Large sheets of white, fine-grained paper. Richly colored inks. I'd be hard-pressed to steal something better. “Really good, considering we'll have to show off all the drawings we promised.”

Melanie grinned as she lifted the lid of a hand-carved box; it smelled of rosewood. “Pens. Dozens of nibs. They really are
trying to make us feel at home.” She removed an ebony-handled pen and turned it in her hands. “What else do you think we could request? The king's head on a pike?”

“Hmm.” I gave an exaggerated tap on my chin. “How does one word that kind of request?”

“With liberal repetition of the word
please
, I expect.” Melanie shut the box. “I'm ready to begin transferring the map right now, if you are.”

I glanced at the mantel clock, hands drawing toward twenty-two. At the window, darkness peeked around the edges of the curtain. “This late?”

“You're imagining we'll have a convenient time tomorrow?” She shook her head. “Between dress fittings, social meals, and our gossip-collecting efforts, we're scheduled every moment. We have four tasks. The faster we get through them—including this one—the faster we can return to the old palace.”

I cast a quick, longing gaze toward my bedroom before I sat at the table. She was right. There was no better time than now.

Melanie fished the draft of our map from its hiding place behind a bookcase, and we got to work.

An hour later, everything was transferred to the larger paper, though we were still missing portions in the royal wing and details about who lived where. We'd get more over time, but for now . . .

“It's almost a respectable map.” Melanie folded the smaller papers in with our collection of reports for Patrick, and a letter from me to Connor. “Think he'll appreciate having the draft?”

I rolled my eyes. “It won't be enough to please him.”

“Perhaps it will placate him for now.”

As I finished cleaning the pens, I mimicked his favorite disapproving tone. “You're not working fast enough.”

Melanie deepened her voice into his, too. “We should have had the entire palace infiltrated with Ospreys by now.”

I couldn't cage my laugh. “Yes, all twelve of us against thousands of them.”

“Nine. Quinn took Ronald and Ezra to raid that supply caravan.”

“Oh right.” Worry settled in my stomach again. “Nine.”

“Wil.” She leaned forward. “You know I only voted with Patrick because I
do
think they're ready for that job.”

“Sure.” A shiver passed through me. Why had Patrick sent Ezra on such a dangerous mission? “I disagree, but I understand.”

“I know.” Melanie pushed herself to her feet. “Unless you need help with your hair and dress,
Lady Julianna
, I'm going to change and get these documents to the drop.”

“You just took a scheduled report last night.” Again, she'd stayed out later than necessary and denied it in the morning.

“Last night we didn't have the spare map.”

“Very well.”

She beamed and pranced toward her bedroom.

I slipped the new map-in-progress in between other sheets of paper to hide it, then hurried into my bedroom and shut the door. I pulled the pins from my hair, letting the brown strands tumble down over my shoulders. A quick braid later, I was shimmying into a dark shirt and trousers when Melanie called from the other room.

“I'm going.” Her voice was high, almost giddy.

The sitting room balcony door clicked open and closed as I
grabbed my dagger and waited by the door in my room. With the curtain nudged aside, I could just make out Melanie's form moving across the courtyard, guards none the wiser.

Well. This should be fun.

I tucked my braid under a black cap and followed her.

The night was cool and breezy, with a pale odor of wraith on the air. After a quick survey of the nearby balconies—no one was out tonight—I grabbed the rail and swung myself over, one side pressed against the palace wall. My legs dangled, boot-clad toes scrabbling for purchase. I found a ledge and readjusted my weight, then wedged my grappling hook around the balcony rail. Cautiously, I climbed three stories down to the gentle sloping roof below.

I gave the line some slack, shook it, and coiled it so that it fit in a clip on my hip.

The tiles on the roof were slick, but the treads of my boots gripped and my footing was secure. One more climb down to the ground. My toes hit the courtyard with hardly a sound. The whole night held its breath as I raced after Melanie.

She was far ahead of me by now, a slim figure keeping to the shadows, nearly invisible. If I hadn't been looking for her, I'd have never known she was there.

But she and I had the same training. I knew all her tricks.

I followed her through the King's Seat and Hawksbill. The mansions were hulking shadows in the dark, glimmering here and there with mirrors. Fountains splashed and wind chimes rattled. There was a party in one of the houses; laughter carried from an open window. Farther away, dogs barked, and the clock tower chimed twenty-three: an hour before midnight.

When Melanie climbed over the wall surrounding Hawksbill, I followed a minute later.

In Thornton, she stayed on the streets, but I ascended to the rooftops where I could keep an eye on her. While most of the shops were closed this late, the inns and taverns were brightly lit with candles and lanterns. Gas lamps hissed at intersections, making it impossible for anyone to hide, but Melanie slipped through the crowd, unnoticed. A few times, her hand flashed out and into someone's purse. She pocketed her prizes.

At last, we reached Laurence's Bakery, its windows dark now. Melanie stole around the back of the building and wrestled out a loose brick near the chimney. She stashed our reports and map inside the hollow, then replaced the brick.

It hadn't taken her three hours to get here, so—

Melanie glanced over her shoulder before she climbed onto the roof and headed south, deeper into Thornton.
Now
what?

Maybe she was bored not being able to steal things in the palace and simply needed to scratch that itch. But she wouldn't hide that from me, surely.

I followed, keeping my distance as she crept across peaked roofs, climbing and leaping and scrambling where necessary. Thornton's architecture was such that anyone with the skill—and who didn't mind heights—could use the roofs as a second and secret road. People almost never looked up, but we had to be careful in daylight; the mirrors scattered across the western faces of buildings could give us away.

In one of those mirrors, a shadow darted across the reflection of the slender crescent moon.

Someone was behind me.

Maybe someone from another gang. Soon, they'd go somewhere else and be out of sight, so I didn't turn around and alert them to my knowledge of their presence. They probably hadn't seen me.

Still, I checked my stealth as I continued after Melanie. She headed into less crowded areas of the market district, where being noticed wasn't such a danger, but I kept lower to the rooftops and wished the darkness were a palpable thing I could gather around me like a cloak.

It
could
be.

No. Fantasies were one thing, but actually using the magic would always remain a last resort.

Minutes later, the shadow appeared in a mirror once more, gone so quickly it might have been my imagination.

Someone was
following
me.

I stuffed down my indignation. I was following Melanie, after all. Still, I didn't want to lead this person to wherever she was going. Not when I didn't know. It could be something Patrick had asked her to do.

But why wouldn't he have told me, too? Unless he knew it was something I wouldn't like.

With one last glance at Melanie's vanishing figure, I slipped behind a chimney, its bricks warm with smoke and fire from below, and I waited.

My pursuer would slow, would watch for me in the direction I'd been heading, wondering if he'd missed seeing my leap onto the roof of the next building. He'd be curious whether I'd somehow spotted him. Because he'd been careful. Quiet. Only chance had let me see him.

I steadied my breathing and strained my hearing beyond the pounding of my heart and the wind that kicked up dirt and trash. Paper scraped the side of the building, and a door slammed down the street. Wind moaned around corners. Chimes clattered.

The chimney seemed to blur as a darkness moved forward.

Without hesitation, I grabbed my pursuer's wrist, yanked him forward and around, and slammed him back against the chimney where I'd been hiding. My hand was splayed out across his chest, pinning him, and my dagger gleamed against the black skin of his throat.

No, not skin. Silk. It covered his entire face, save his eyes.

“Black Knife.” My blade stayed steady at his throat.

“You won't look, but I hope you'll believe me when I say there's a dagger at your stomach.” Darkness obscured what little of his face was visible, but his eyes remained on mine.

“I believe you.” Neither of us moved, maybe both of us thinking about how we'd react if the other attacked. Or how we could attack first, without getting killed. For either of us, it would take only a quick flick of the wrist to make the other bleed to death. Even if I cut his throat, he could gut me in his last moments of life. And the other way around, too.

“So what do we do?”

“Why were you following me?”

“You were sneaking around on rooftops. Only dangerous people do that.” His arm shifted and the point of his dagger caught my clothes and scraped my skin. I adjusted the angle of my blade on his throat, and neither of us moved. “We both know how a fight would end.” His voice was low and menacing.

A fair fight, perhaps. But I could bring our weapons to life.
I could bring this roof to life. I could make them fight for me.

“I suppose.” My eyes watered with the need to blink against the cold wind, but I couldn't look away from Black Knife. Now that we were practically nose to nose, my perception of him shifted: he was young, not a grown man like I'd thought.

“You're a very interesting thief. I've been trying to find where you and your gang stay, but no one seems to know. No one seems to know even your first name.”

“I treasure my anonymity. I'm sure you can appreciate that.”

In his
humph
, I could almost hear a smirk, but the black cloth concealed the expression. “I've never seen you alone before,” he went on. “Usually, you have quite the entourage. Or at least that black-haired girl. You two seem close.”

Why was he talking so much? To confuse me? To trick me into relaxing? Whatever he was up to, it wouldn't work.

“I don't need my friends to protect me from you.” Wind picked up, howling now. A faint, acrid stench rode the air. A trash bin clattered and a cat yowled.

“No. That is obvious.” He broke our stare, glancing toward the street below. “I have a proposition. We both agree that standing here with blades at each other's bodies is not going to accomplish anything but cramped muscles. So why not back off and sheathe our weapons? And if we decide to fight, we can get right back into this position. I prefer this to potentially falling off the roof.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I don't trust you.”

“I don't trust you, either.”

“So we don't move.”

“Ever?” He met my eyes again, and seemed to search me.
“You may not believe that I have things to do besides chase you around the city, but it's the truth.”

“Doesn't change that I don't trust you.”

“If I dropped my dagger?”

I let the corner of my mouth curl up. “You'd pick it up and throw it at me as soon as I retreated.”

“If I handed it to you?”

“I'm sure you have more weapons.” That sword he used so much.

“So you'd rather stay like this.” When I didn't answer, he pulled back his blade and my clothes shifted straight again. “I'm not going to stab you. I'm lifting my hand, see? I'm going to put the hilt by your hand. You can take it.”

His movements were slow, both of us waiting to see if I'd slice his neck open, but when the dagger came into view, he'd shifted his hold so the weapon hung between his first two fingers; it would be impossible to get a good grip on it before I attacked.

“That's
my
dagger.”

“I know. In your haste to escape our last pleasant meeting, you abandoned it in a glowman's hand.” His eyes never left mine. “Take it.”

I snatched the hilt and took several strides backward, keeping the edge of the roof to my left.

But before I could decide to run or attack or
anything
, Black Knife drew a miniature crossbow from his belt and leapt off the roof.

I reached the edge of the roof just in time to see him hit the ground, crouched and balanced on the balls of his feet and one
hand. Like the jump didn't faze him, he lifted the crossbow and shot a bolt into the darkness across the street.

The darkness roared and reared up, assembling itself into the shape of a huge black cat, all pale scars and sinewy muscle. Crates and beams clattered aside as the beast charged Black Knife, who reloaded his crossbow and shot again. The bolt struck the cat's throat, making the cat stumble, but it didn't halt.

With another yowl, the beast pounced. Black Knife rolled away as immense paws thudded on the ground, making even the building shudder under me. The cat seemed to be
growing
as it prowled around Black Knife, who shot it again and again.

Small black bolts protruded from the beast like whiskers. It let out another bone-shaking roar as it closed in on Black Knife, trapping him against the wall.

That hardly seemed to concern him. From a sheath along his back, he produced a black-handled sword and pressed his attack.