It was bright and loud and full to bursting inside the tavern, and all of it bundled together really made Rora want to stab someone. The musician singing much too loud for how bad he was at singing—he’d be a good choice. Or the bruiser who kept grabbing for her arm; there was no denying a knife in his ribs would improve Rora’s opinion of him. Any of the men or women, really, just standing blindly in her way. But the one who most deserved her knife—most often deserved it, but especially now—was the sandy-haired man—boy, not man; that much was clear—playing cards with a group of fingers and losing all her money.
She grabbed him by a handful of the hair he so lovingly brushed every morning and put a foot against the back leg of his chair, so that when she tugged back on his pretty locks, it sent him and the chair both tumbling. The fingers, who could see her, who knew who she was, all held their hands up, trying to look like the lice they were. Aro, though—always slow to think but quick to react—started shouting even as he was falling, “Stone, help!” And the bruiser, who didn’t know who he was grabbing at and was too thick to notice the fingers’ reactions, tried to wrap his meaty arms around Rora. It didn’t work, of course, because he was as slow and dumb as his name, and Rora ducked easily away and came back up with her dagger in hand. While Stone was still looking surprised at his empty arms, Rora reached up—a stretch, damnit—and brought the blue gem down hard onto the base of his skull. She didn’t have enough leverage to really knock him out, not with his height and her distinct lack of it, but it was enough to give him a lump and a headache and spinning eyes long enough for Rora to grab her brother by the back of his shirt and drag him through the milling, laughing crowd. They made way for her this time, though it probably had as much to do with Aro’s flailing limbs as with the glare she kept flinging around.
She let him go once they were out on the street, and he quickly scrambled to his feet. Ever since he’d grown a head taller than her, he’d learned never to face her without standing. She usually let him, because he needed any advantage he could get. Not this time, though. Neatly, she kicked his feet out from under him, sending him back to the ground. She smiled inside at the thump and the poof of dust he made, but outside she kept her face grim and angry and full of the desire to use the knife she’d put away.
He tried to get up again, because he had a hard time taking hints when he drank, so Rora stepped down on the inside of his thigh and pinned him there. He used his only real defense, then, the big innocent eyes that’d always softened her heart. They still did, some things never changed, but Rora did her best to hold on to her anger. She used the voice Tare’d taught her, level, deadly calm. “Burn tells me you’ve been here drinking these last three days.” He nodded, still using the big eyes, still thinking they’d be enough to get him out of trouble. “These last three days,” she repeated, “when I thought you were dead.”
“Not dead,” he slurred, “just very, very drunk.”
She leaned down and slapped him then, only because she couldn’t bring herself, despite everything, to punch him. She had once, a few years ago now, and knocked out one of his teeth. He’d moped for two days straight and hadn’t talked to her for a month because of it, not until Slip had forced a berbiere at knifepoint to make him a fake tooth that looked just like a real one. Rora still got mad about that, sometimes, but not near as mad as she was now.
“We thought you were dead,” she said, trying hard to stay as calm as her voice sounded, “all of us. The Blackhands said they did it, and sent a hand to prove it.” She looked down to check, because she hadn’t yet, but both his hands were still there. Bare, because all his rings were back in the Canals, pried off the flaking, burned hand they’d sent her. “I didn’t believe it,” she went on, “so Worm was nice enough to take me to see your body. Your body.” She had to stop, then, because the memory still made her sick. They’d burned the body, of course—Blackhands always did—but not enough that she couldn’t recognize him, couldn’t see parts of her own face staring back around the black, burned flesh. She’d killed Worm without even a thought, only the second man she’d killed outside a contract. She would’ve killed any other Blackhands she could, too, if Tare and Garim hadn’t dragged her away.
Aro pushed at her leg, and she let him up this time. His eyes had gone soft, and he reached for her, but Rora turned away, started walking. She knew he’d follow. She took them down a familiar alley, dark and quiet, away from the street, and when she turned back around he was there, arms wrapping her in a gentle hug. “Rora, I’m so sorry,” he whispered against the top of her head.
She leaned against him for a moment, just a moment, but he smelled like ale and sweat. Pushing him away, gently now that there wasn’t anyone around to see, now that the anger was mostly leached away by the memory of the burned body, she crossed her arms over her chest and looked up to meet his eyes. “Tell me what the hells happened, Falcon.” She stressed the name; he still forgot sometimes, after all these years.
With a sigh he sat down, leaning his back against the wall. He patted the ground next to him and, feeling too tired to even stand anymore, Rora sank down next to him. “Me and Leaf were out drinking,” Aro started, eyes closed, head back against the wall. Of course, Rora thought, but she didn’t say it. “We didn’t realize we’d gone too far till we were already there. Coro was waiting, with his thugs. They jumped us. Took Leaf down right away, knife through the eye. Very clean. You’d’ve been impressed.” He was quiet for a while, and so was Rora. There wasn’t much to say, not yet.
But the silence went on and she almost thought he’d fallen asleep, but she could see his throat working, swallowing hard, and his eyes squeezed tight shut. So she finally opened her mouth, needing to say something to let him hold on to. “Blackhands’ve been looking for an excuse to start a war for a while now. I suppose they wanted you to be it?”
He nodded silently, swallowed again, pulled himself together. “That’s about what Coro said. They started after me, and I got scared. I . . . it went bad.”
Rora had to take a hard swallow of her own. “It happened?” When he nodded, she looped her arm through his, leaned her head against his shoulder. He leaned into her, and against her hair she felt his cheek wet with quiet tears. “They could’ve used any of the bodies, I suppose, once they found ’em . . .”
“You always said Leaf looked enough like us he could keep us safe in a pinch.”
Rora nodded slowly against his shoulder. “I did say that.” She’d liked Leaf. He’d been as good an influence as Aro’d had lately. “Why didn’t you come find me, though . . . after? I’d’ve helped you. I always have.”
His shoulder shrugged under her head. “It hurt too much. I just wanted to get away for a while. I . . . I guess I didn’t think much beyond that. I’m sorry, Rora.”
“It’s fine.” How could she be mad at him anymore, knowing now? “Just don’t do it again.” She meant for him not to disappear again, but it worked for the other thing, too.
“Can we go home now? Please?”
He was still teeteringly drunk, so she got up first so she could haul him to his feet. She wasn’t much good as far as a crutch went, being so much shorter, but Aro was stick thin and she was strong enough to mostly hold him up with an arm around the waist. She kept to the alleys and back lanes—it wouldn’t do either of their reputations any good to be seen like this. Well, maybe it’d add to the soused legend that was Falcon, but she wasn’t much in the mood for feeding that.
Managing the ladders was more excitement than she needed on this already too-long night, but she got Aro down into the Canals without him falling too far. The bridges were another story, but the water was low enough and sluggish enough that the few times he tipped into it didn’t do him much harm. Luckily, it wasn’t too far to safe territory, and she made all the appropriate signs to keep the eyes and feet in their roosts. The den was quiet this late at night, full of sleepers on their rafts or in alcoves, a few fists on guard duty gently tossing dice. Rora wasn’t halfway across the den before a woman materialized on Aro’s other side, looping his other arm over her shoulder. “Mother be praised,” the other murmured. It was too dark to see, but Rora knew Slip’s voice well enough. The two of them together got Aro, already mostly asleep on his feet, settled into an alcove. “Garim’s been waiting for you,” Slip said as she tucked a blanket around Aro. “You better go see ’im. Don’t worry, I’ll stay here.”
Rora hesitated, long enough that the other woman definitely noticed it, but that was a familiar dance between them. Rora’d never been able to bring herself to trust the older girl, mostly for all the trouble she’d got Aro in over the years. But she knew Garim had been just as worried as she was, and it’d be cruel to keep him waiting. She’d have to report to Tare, too, and there was no sense delaying that. So much as she didn’t want to, she left Aro with Slip.
The fists guarding the entrance to the heart of the den, next to the rotting dog’s head, knew her, of course, and let her by without a word or a look. She could still remember when she’d thought the walk took forever, back when her legs had been small—or smaller, really—and the whole den had felt like a maze. It’d taken her a year to realize Tare was trying to keep her lost, taking a different way every time. Tare’d laughed when Rora’d finally accused her of it. “Took you long enough. I had to use longcuts that haven’t seen feet in decades, fleece-for-brains.” Now it was simple enough, the second left, the next right, and a long stretch to the circle room with three other channels branching off it. That’s where she found them waiting.
Garim was pacing, like he did when he was nervous or angry, so it was hard to tell which one he was feeling most. Tare was leaning against a wall, sharpening one of her knives like usual. She saw Rora first and made the knife disappear—not even Rora knew where the hand kept all her blades. “Well?” Tare asked as Garim spun to face her, too.
“He’s alive and drunk,” Rora said. When it was just the three of them, she didn’t bother with anything like an official report. “No worse off than usual.”
Garim sagged with relief. “I may just have to make Bone a mouth for that,” he muttered.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tare said. “His mouth’s too big for him to be any good as a mouth.”
Garim waved a hand like he was shooing away flies. “All talk for later. Come on, the Dogshead’s been waiting.”
They fell into line, Garim leading, Tare bringing up the rear, as they went down the left passage. Over a board bridge, taking a right, and then they came to the only door Rora’d still ever seen in the Canals. There was a knife on guard who gave the door two smart knocks before swinging it inward and letting them pass.
Sharra was at her desk, just where she always seemed to be. The packhead was supposed to be a mystery; most of Whitedog Pack didn’t even know who their head was, and Sharra wanted it that way. There was a time, Tare’d told Rora once in a low whisper she’d hardly been able to hear, when it hadn’t been that way, when Sharra had always been out among her pack, acting like any old fist. That’d been before her leg, and Rora still didn’t know the whole story behind that—it was the one thing neither Tare nor Garim would talk about, and she wasn’t about to ask Sharra either. But now the Dogshead spent near all her time in the waterfall room, passing all her words on to Garim, who saw they got to where they needed to go. That was how it was supposed to be, the face told her, but Garim always seemed sad when he said it.
“How’s my boy?” Sharra asked, looking right at Rora. That intense gaze always made her feel like Sharra could see under her skin and straight to her heart and mind, and much as she liked and respected the Dogshead, that wasn’t something Rora wanted.
She did straighten her back and clasp her hands for an official report this time. “Alive and unhurt,” Rora said. “I found him in the Stinking Pit, just like Bone said he was. He’s sleeping now; probably will be for a while.”
“And did he tell you what happened?”
“Coro got him and Leaf in a bad place. They killed Leaf right off, but Falcon managed to get away before they took more’n his rings.”
Tare was frowning. “Get away? Just like that?”
Rora shrugged; she’d gone over this part carefully in her mind, knowing they’d ask. “He’s always had the dumbest luck. There were only four men, two of ’em green. He said it happened fast enough he couldn’t remember it right, but he got away while they were fighting over his rings.” She shrugged again. “Dumb luck.”
No one said anything for a while, but Sharra was staring hard at Rora, and she supposed Tare was, too, but she didn’t look away from the Dogshead’s gaze. Didn’t blink, didn’t twitch, didn’t even think in case Sharra saw her thoughts behind her eyes. Finally the head gave a small nod, let go of Rora’s eyes. “And then?”
“He was scared. Sad over Leaf. He wasn’t thinking clear, and didn’t want to think at all.”
“So he went and got drunk,” Tare muttered distastefully.
Garim made a low, angry noise in his throat. “And I suppose he just lost track of time, is that it?”
Rora met the anger in the face’s look. “No one’s madder about it than you,” she told him levelly, “except me.”
“Did you hit him?”
“Twice.”
“Enough.” Sharra sighed, rubbing a hand over her eyes. Moving with practiced experience, Tare ducked through the waterfall and came back out, not much more wet, with a plain chair. The Dogshead sank into it gratefully, only a little stiff on the leg that didn’t bend right. “The fact that Falcon is still alive only means the Blackhands couldn’t manage to track him down a second time.”
“Which means they don’t know where he is,” Tare said, thinking aloud with Sharra like they so often did, “or that he’s even still alive.”
“Or that we have him back,” Sharra finished. Her eyes moved back to Rora, then away. “Tare, you mentioned a contract that came in tonight?”
She didn’t see the dismissal until Tare was leading her to the door. They were always like that, thinking and moving faster’n Rora could keep up with. “Go find Goat,” Tare said. “He’ll give you the details.” She paused a moment before closing the door on Rora. “You did good tonight, Sparrow. And don’t worry. The Blackhands will pay . . . now we’ve just got more options for how.” Then she did close the door, leaving Rora on the other side of it.
The knife was still on guard, and he looked like he was about to say something. The look on Rora’s face must’ve stopped him, which was good because she was in no mood for talking. She understood it, that she was just a knife, not fit to talk politics and war with the head, face, and hand, even if it was her brother who would be at the heart of all their talks. She understood it, but it still made her gnash her teeth. “It’s not that we don’t trust you,” Tare had explained the first time she shoved Rora unceremoniously out of the room. A minute later, when she’d swung the door back open and sent Rora tumbling forward, her ear pressed to the ground instead of the door like it had been, Tare’d grinned like a wolf. “It’s just that we don’t trust you.”
She wanted to go back and find Aro, but she knew he’d be sleeping for a good long while, and not being able to yell at him some more would just make her angrier, until she was likely to punch him in the face while he slept. A contract would help get her mind off the night, if nothing else.
The knifeden was a string of quiet rooms, all propped-up boards and blankets hung up for doorways, and the common chamber with chairs and pillows and tables. It was full at this time of night, the nocturnal knives talking or drinking or dicing, but they were never a loud bunch. She spotted Goat easy enough—you couldn’t miss that big a man in that small a room. He’d had Tare arrange it, the big divan that barely managed to hold him, getting all the fingers to work together to nip it from one of the classier parts of North Quarter. Rora’d stood with the rest of the pack, trying to smother laughter as they watched the dozen fingers trying to navigate the canals with the big divan propped on their shoulders. These days, Goat didn’t leave the divan unless Tare made him.
Rora plopped down into the little open space between Goat’s girth and the edge of the divan, and said, “Tare sent me to talk to you about a contract.”
Goat gave her an appraising look. “This supposed to be a reward or a distraction?”
“Distraction, but not from what you think. Falcon’s fine. Dogshead just wants me out of the way.”
Goat nodded sagely, folded his hands over his considerable belly. Tare said he’d been skinny as a stick once, and the best knife she had; but years of being the hilt and just overseeing his knives had made him . . . not lazy, but he did too much eating and relaxing for how little moving he did. He was still a damn good hilt, though, there was no arguing that. “You’re going topside, then. East Quarter, Fishertown. You’re looking for a big boardinghouse with a blue door. Alley side, second floor, should be the second window, but if it’s not a sleeping old man, best move onto the third room.”
“Who’s the mark?” Rora asked.
Goat fixed her with the same hard look he always did. “An old man. Old men already have death breathing on their necks, so I wouldn’t spend much more time thinking about it. Go fill your contract, knife.”