In the Shadow of the Gods

by Rachel Dunne

  She had to walk with a twist in her step, to keep the knife from bumping against her leg, to keep anyone from seeing it sway when she walked. Guards got twitchy about pups with knives, and she didn’t want that kind of attention.

  They went to a fence, a man who’d managed to make it out of the Canals and still had a soft spot for Scum. He bought up everything Rora’d stolen, no questions, and he even gave her a good price on a battered sheath for the knife. It was a little big, but it was better than rags. She and Aro stripped off the clothes Nadaro had given them and traded them in for plainer things, clothes that wouldn’t get them noticed down in the Canals. The fence offered her a good price for their boots, but that was something Rora couldn’t bring herself to sell, not with winter coming on. Still, after all of it, she had five silver gids and a few durames, and a pouch to keep them in. She stuffed the gids in her and Aro’s boots, and kept the coppers in the pouch around her waist.

  And after that, there was no more putting it off.

  Sure, she took her time about it, taking the windingest route through the city, crossing all the way over to East Quarter, where the houses were just a little nicer, the people just a little meaner. They climbed down under a bridge, wedging fingers and toes into the torn-out bricks like they’d done hundreds of times before under a dozen other bridges. Mercetta was full of bridges, and full of the water that ran under the bridges, and full of the Scum that lived on the water.

  Soon as her feet touched the ledge, a hand snaked out to grab Rora’s arm. Stinking breath hissed into her face as a man said, “Gimme whatever you got.”

  “Rora!” Aro shouted, but by then the too-big sheath was rattling, and the knife was shining bright in her hand, her bad hand that maybe wasn’t so bad now it’d been getting so much use, and the man let her go.

  “No trouble,” he whined, backing off with his hands raised, baring rotten teeth and looking like he was ready to give trouble soon as she turned her back. “No trouble with you, girl.”

  “You stay back,” she said, shaking the knife at him.

  He spewed reeking laughter at her, but he did stay back, watching with hard eyes from the shadows under the bridge. Aro dropped to the ground behind her and they backstepped together, Rora keeping her eyes on the man, but he stayed where he was. They turned a corner, leaving the man and the bridge behind, and Rora spat into the canal. “Welcome home.” Aro just sniffled.

  The Scum had done what they could as far as bridges went, but when you only had stolen goods and castoffs to work with, it wasn’t too surprising the bridges were as few and poor-built as they were. The first one they came to was no more than two ropes stretched across the canal, one foot high, the other shoulder-high to Rora. The ropes were old and scummy and smelled like mildew, but there wasn’t much in the way of options. There was a blue mark chalked onto the walls just ahead that looked something like a snake, and Rora was damned if they were going to go anywhere near the Serpents. So it was cross the shit bridge, or get drowned by the first Serpent to spot them, and that was no choice at all.

  Rora went first. She was heavier, so if the rope was going to break, it’d do it for her, and she was a better swimmer anyway. Better shimmy-er, too, made it across in half the time it took Aro, once she finally got him to put his feet on the rope. Then it was down more winding, smelly canals, past lion-shaped yellow marks and red claws and shapeless green splotches and all the other pack marks, and across the first bridge they found once Aro spotted a black handprint on the walls. Finally they found a white mark that looked close enough to a snarling dog to put Rora somewhat at ease. They walked on, into Whitedog Pack territory.

  It didn’t take too long for an eye to stop them. He dropped down from above, probably perched and watching from the ledges, and nearly squished Rora. She landed on her back with his foot on her chest, all the air whooshing out of her. Aro screeched like a girl, and the eye laughed. He leaned down over her, his face swelling huge to her foggy eyes, and his stale, oniony breath washed over her. “What’re you doin’ here, girl?”

  Rora managed to suck in enough air to gasp back out, “Come to be a Dog.”

  “Have you now?” He laughed again, and she gagged on the stench of his breath. Aro was whimpering somewhere behind her, too scared to do the smart thing and hide. Her head was still fogged up, but she made her hands start moving, one trying to push the eye away, the other reaching. “Scrap sees to the pups, and he don’t have much use for whimpery pups at all, truth t’ tell. Your boy there . . .” His chin jerked up, toward where Aro would be, and her fingers weren’t moving fast enough, clumsy and weak. “He don’t look too strong. Bet he don’t swim too strong neither. Might be Scrap can find a use for you, girl, but your boy there ain’t good for more’n fish food.”

  Finally her fingers found the gem, cold and hard, and she pulled the knife clattering from the too-big sheath and sliced it across the back of the eye’s leg. Nothing deep, just enough to tear his breeches leg and some skin, and pull a yelp from him. He jumped back, which was all to the good, and Rora drew in a good and deep breath. Some of the fog crept back away from her, and she sat up carefully. Aro threw himself at her back, wrapping his shaking arms around her.

  A laugh rang out, not the eye’s laughter but a woman’s. She dropped down next to the cursing eye, a tall dark woman with a flashing smile. “Best watch out, Cross,” she said cheerfully. “This pup’s got teeth.”

  “She won’t when I’m done with her,” he growled, stepping forward, but the woman held out a hand to stop him.

  “Don’t think so. The Dogshead likes pups with some fire to ’em. Your name, girl?”

  Rora shrugged off Aro’s arms and pushed herself slowly up to her feet, keeping the knife held tight but not quite so threateningly. Aro hovered behind her, trying to look small and worth no one’s while. It was the best kind of defense he had. Rora looked the woman in the eyes and said, “My name’s Sparrow.” A little bird, plain and quiet but fierce in its own way. It was the name she’d been giving out since she’d realized her real name wouldn’t do—Nadaro was just more proof of that.

  “And the boy?”

  Before Rora could even open her mouth to name him Finch, Aro’s voice piped up, high and scared but determined, “Falcon.” Rora choked back a groan but kept herself from elbowing Aro in the nose.

  The woman snorted. “A nice flock we’ve got, eh, Cross?” The eye was still grumbling, didn’t answer. “I’ll take ’em, then. Come, pups.” She motioned for them to follow her, and Rora did. It was that, or fight the eye, and she didn’t see much chance there.

  Aro stuck close to her heels. As they passed by Cross, she heard him mumble at the woman’s back, “So long as my hands are clean of it.”

  They passed by a few more dogs’ heads chalked onto the walls, each one bigger and meaner-looking than the last. Deep into Whitedog territory. The longer they went without the woman knifing them, the more Aro seemed to trust her, and he’d soon scampered up to bother her. “Who’re you?” he asked.

  The woman smirked down at him. “I’m called Tare.”

  Aro’s nose wrinkled. “What kind of a name is that?”

  “The one I chose, same as you, Falcon.” Tare’s hand moved, and Rora had nearly planted her knife in the woman’s back before she realized Tare’d just reached down to tousle Aro’s hair.

  “So what are you?” Aro pressed. “That eye listened to you. He was scared of you. You must be someone important.”

  She laughed. “Maybe you should learn from him.”

  “But you’re not that scary. So that means you have to be important. Are you a mouth? Or an ear? You move real quiet, are you a foot? Maybe an arm?”

  “Ar—Falcon . . .” Rora hissed at his back, but he ignored the warning.

  “You, boy,” Tare said, with a smile on her face but her voice flat as the stones they walked on, “are the loudest little falcon I have ever seen. Beak flapping that wide, you’ll never catch any prey. Or secrets.”


  Rora grabbed the back of his shirt and dragged him to her side. He kept his eyes down on the ground, but not because he was scared or ashamed, like he should’ve been. He was thinking. Rora smacked him on the back of his head to try to knock loose whatever thoughts he was having. He shot a glare at her, but for once he kept his mouth shut.

  Whitedog Den was smaller than Blackhand Den, where they’d lived before Nadaro, but fuller, too. There were people everywhere, felt like as many people as had ever filled the markets topside. Back with the Blackhands, Rora’d felt like a coin rattling around a burlap sack; it’d been easy to avoid everyone except Twist, who’d been mother long enough it almost seemed like he could sense his pups no matter where they were. Unexpectedly, Rora wondered if Twist missed them, if he was angry they’d gone. “You’re a good pup,” he’d told Rora once, stroking her hair like no one ever did. “You’ll make a better foot, and maybe even a finger before too long. You’re a special pup.” But then she remembered why he’d had to calm her down, the blood dripping from Aro’s nose and mouth and the handprint on his cheek, not black but red and shaped just like the hand touching her hair. She ground her teeth, and didn’t care if Twist missed them. She rubbed the blue stone set into her dagger, and she hoped he died.

  There were more people in Whitedog Den, but Rora and Aro were just pups, and pups didn’t get second looks. Tare did, though, and sometimes the lookers flicked their eyes down to the two pups trailing behind her, and Rora saw curiosity in those eyes. She kept her hand tight on the dagger. Curiosity meant greed and wanting and blood and death.

  There were two fists guarding the other end of the den, and a rotting dog’s head stuck onto a pole. Flies buzzed around the empty, black eye sockets, and the tongue hung swollen out of the mouth like some huge fat leech. Aro half hid behind her, scared of anything he didn’t recognize, but the head didn’t scare Rora. The teeth, probably sharp once, were rotten, and maggots writhed around the jagged stump of its neck. It was dead, as obviously dead as anything could be, and you didn’t have to be scared of dead things.

  The fist standing closest to the dog’s head nodded to Tare, and said through his nose, “Best send Brick out t’ find a new dog.” He drew in a quick sharp breath, and looked like he was about to be sick.

  Tare chuckled. “This one suits just fine. Hasn’t even started to fall apart yet.” She clapped the man on the shoulder, and then walked past.

  Rora hesitated, Aro with her as ever. “Where’re you taking us?” she called at Tare’s back.

  The woman didn’t even look back, but she said, “I told you, the Dogshead likes pups with fire. You got fire or not?”

  You couldn’t walk away from a challenge like that in the Canals, not if you wanted to be anything, and anyway it wasn’t like they could just walk back out of Whitedog territory. So they left the stinking dog’s head behind, and walked into the heart of the den.

  “Rora,” Aro whispered urgently at her side, “pups don’t get to see heads, not ever. Where’s she taking us?”

  She didn’t have an answer for him, and maybe he was right. Packheads didn’t care about pups, didn’t waste their time with them. You could make it all the way up to mouth, she’d heard, and never once see the head, so why should she, a pup, expect to? But she remembered Tare dropping down out of nowhere and saying, The Dogshead likes pups with some fire to ’em, and she had to hope, because all she could think of was Nadaro with blood leaking from his chest and hissing, The darkness knows your name, and it never rests. My brothers and sisters will find you. And if there was one thing the Canals had taught her, it was that when times got rough, a smart pup got protection.

  The canal ended all of a sudden, a big brick wall stretching all the way up topside, and there was a door in the wall, the first door Rora’d ever seen in the Canals. You didn’t have doors down here, because doors meant rooms, and rooms meant getting trapped when the Canals flooded, and that usually meant death. So doors were, all in all, a pretty bad idea. But still, there was a door, and Tare rapped her knuckles against it and swung it open in the same instant.

  What happened next was a blur that Rora had a hard time following, but she saw knives flashing and thumping fists, and heard breath whooshing out in painful grunts, and then there was a man lying on the floor at her feet, gasping like a fish as Tare held two knives to his throat.

  Then a voice inside the room laughed, and a man said, “He’s getting better, I’ll give him that.”

  Tare grunted and stepped back, putting both knives in one hand and hauling the man to his feet with the other. “Still too slow,” she said, thumping him on the back.

  “He almost had you, and you know it.” Peeking around Tare’s hip, Rora saw that the man inside was leaning against a tall table, a smile twisting up one side of his mouth. “Go on,” he said to the wheezing man. “Get a drink, Tare can watch me for a spell. Least she could do for you.”

  As he hobbled gratefully away, Tare motioned the pups into the room ahead of her. Rora made sure her hand was on the blue gem of her dagger before walking in with Aro on her heels. She stopped just inside the door, gaping up in amazement. The room had no ceiling, and no walls except the one they’d just come through. There was a glimmer of sky way up above—a sinkhole, probably—and a broken-off canal trough dumped down water in an enormous half circle of waterfall that made like a wall for the rest of the room. The floor was slimy, slippery wet under her boots, and the air warm and misty, dampening her hair and face and clothes.

  “What’s this?” the man at the table asked, eyebrows raised as he looked from Rora and Aro to Tare.

  “Pups I thought you might like to see.” Tare walked over to a small cupboard off to the right, near where the waterfall disappeared beyond the edges of the floor, and poured a murky red liquid into some cups. She gave one to the man first, then brought one each over to Aro and Rora. Aro sniffed at his and lifted it to his lips, but Rora tugged on his sleeve to stop him; she waited until both Tare and the man had drunk from their cups before she let Aro’s arm go.

  The man at the table smirked again. “Cautious pup, eh? Don’t see that often enough these days.”

  “Most pups have their heads so far up their asses they can’t breathe without being given a go-ahead,” Tare agreed. “Got a feeling about this one, though.”

  Rora flexed her fingers around the dagger’s handle, gave the man at the table a good looking-over. “You’re the Dogshead?” she asked.

  He smiled the crooked smile again and asked, “Don’t I look like it?”

  Tare leaned her hip against the table and gave Rora a stern look. “Best show some of that fire, girl.”

  “Speak,” the man prompted.

  Rora’d never expected to meet the head of any pack, or that she’d have to ask the head for protection at all. The arm, maybe, or even the face, if Whitedog was as tight as everyone said. She didn’t know what to say to a head. But here she was now, so she’d better start talking. She squeezed the blue gem, and felt stronger knowing she had the dagger.

  “We started out Rats,” she said.

  The man spit. “Fecking hate Rats,” he muttered.

  “Us too,” Rora agreed. “Left soon’s we could. Joined with the Serpents, they taught us how to beg and thief, but . . .”

  “But Serpents are bastards, too,” the man said, nodding.

  “Right. We tried to make it topside for a while, but”—Aro sitting in a puddle of blood, crying, “She knew, she knew . . .”—“it didn’t work out. So we went to Blackhands, ’cause we’d heard they were tough, figured they could keep us safe. But we had to leave there pretty quick, and I don’t think they’d be too happy to see us again.”

  “So you need a new pack,” Tare said. There wasn’t a smile on her face anymore, or on the man’s. “You’re more boring than I thought, pup. What’s to keep me from tossing you into the fall and seeing how deep the Canals go?”

  “Everyone I’ve ever heard says the Dogshead loves to make deals,�
�� Rora said, thinking fast, fingers rubbing on the blue gem. She looked at the man, trying to sound like she knew what she was doing. His eyebrows lifted up, but he didn’t say anything. “I’ve been a pup long enough to know how it all works. But I’m better than a normal pup, I can do more. I’ll do whatever needs doing.”

  Tare tilted her chin up, asked, “And your boy there?”

  “I don’t want him begging or thieving. I want him kept safe.”

  The man laughed, a low sound that wasn’t really a laugh. “Awful high demands for a pup to be making. You’d best have a good offer on the other side of that coin.”

  Tare didn’t say anything, just looked at Rora’s eyes, and Rora looked right back at her as she pulled on the blue gem, pulled the dagger out from its sheath and held it in her left hand to keep it steady. “This is what makes me better than a pup,” she said. “I killed a man with it yesterday, and I’ll kill with it again, if you tell me to.” Before she could think better of it, she drew the knife down across the palm of her right hand. The arm was still useless, what’d it matter anyway? But she still felt the pain shoot up her arm as she cut into her hand. Aro gasped, but Rora kept her pain locked up tight inside as she held her hand out, dripping blood onto the slimy floor. “My life and my knife,” she said, “for my brother’s safety.”

  Tare and the man looked at each other for a long time, and then together they turned to look at the back of the room, at the center of the waterfall. “Your call, boss,” Tare called out, “but for me, I’d take the girl.”

  Something poked through the waterfall from behind, a big stick, splitting the water in a triangle. And inside the triangle there was a woman standing, with serious, watchful eyes, and they were fixed on Rora. She stepped forward, through the split water, pulling the stick with her so that the water fell into place at her back and kept on tumbling down and down, just like there wasn’t anything on the other side of it.