RIP STRUCK THE FLINT OF HIS LAMP. He had never come so far into the earth, to where his brother had gone to hide. He found tracks in the gravel. Bits of wood stacked in the shape of tiny towers. He pushed his lamp through the pinch, ducked, and pressed himself in. There, among the discarded remains of abacuses, barrel staves, torn fishing nets, locks with keys broken in them, and vihuela strings, he found what remained of Fenn.
He cleared a place to sit, reached into his pocket, and uncorked a flask.
There was a time when he and Fenn had raced the halls of Thebes House, wild in the eyes and not yet sharp in the teeth, when they won all the races and knew all the hiding places, when they taught each other to make knots on pairs of spikes. Before they realized who they were and what Fenn had to do to stay alive.
Then there was that day. The regnat and one guard. No witnesses. The choice of three lines. Rip pointed, and the guard strapped both brothers to the end of it. Just before they neared the earth, they realized it was the wrong line. Fenn wrapped himself around Rip. Held him in his arms. Fenn was the elder, after all.
Rip raised his flask. “Stay high.”