Copperhead i-2

by Tina Connolly

  “You can’t blame them,” said Helen. She picked her way down the crumbling stone stairs. A few lights strung here and there lit patches of the tunnel with a faint yellow glow. They appeared to be getting into the remains of an old sewer system, long ago cut off from the new city plumbing. It was quite dank, but it did not smell any worse than mold. She put her wrist to her nose, breathing in the lavender scent of Frye’s dress, and below that, her own citrusy smell from Frye’s soap.

  “Of course you can,” said Rook. They reached the bottom of the stairs and he took her hand and pulled her along by the light of his electric flashlight. They were walking along a stone embankment; below them rainwater washed slowly along the old stone tunnels, heading out to sea. Marking the tunnels were painted symbols in different colors—they must form a map of sorts, but Helen could not see any pattern to them. “If they’re justified in hating you simply for being human, then you’re justified in hating them for being not,” Rook said. “Copperhead is justified in their hatred. You can’t legitimize hatred.”

  “Still,” she said. “I guess I didn’t expect a welcoming committee.”

  “Closed to outsiders,” Rook said. He stopped and she looked up at him in the yellow flashlight glow. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t fit in with the dwarvven any better than I would in your world.” Helen looked at him wonderingly. “Not that they even accept me,” he said, and there was a touch of bitter to his voice. “Except I’m useful.”

  “Rook,” she said, for this was why she had come. “What is your role in this? Someone told me you’re working for Grimsby as a spy. But you can’t possibly be … can you?”

  Quietly he said, “I only do what’s necessary to get them to trust me.”

  So Alistair had been telling the truth. “A double agent,” she said slowly. “You probably swear the same thing to Copperhead about your time here with the dwarvven.”

  His face was in shadow; she could not read it. “I wish I weren’t working for either of them. But my history with the dwarvven is … complicated.”

  “Tell me,” she said, remembering what he had said of his past two nights ago. “You know how I ended up on my path. Tell me how you went down yours.” There was silence for a long time, and finally the things he hadn’t said in the dark the other night came out now, in that cold quiet tunnel.

  “It was almost six years ago,” said Rook. “I was seventeen and it was almost the end of the war. You know what it’s like when you’re seventeen.”

  “Yes,” murmured Helen.

  “I thought I knew everything. And … I was angry. I was tired of being laughed at for being havlen. At the same time, being havlen meant I could go among the humans, and pass.” He exhaled. “We were sick of the war dragging on, you know. The sensible ones hunkered down and figured it would be all over soon. But there are dwarvven who’ve hated humans for the last two hundred years, since Queen Maud’s son threw us all out. They’re not content to stay home and read books and invent things. They’ve had it in for humans. And after months and months of war … some of them started to believe they saw a way to make the humans pay. Chief among them was a girl named … Sorle.” Rook suddenly stopped and looked sideways at her. “You don’t really want to hear this, do you?”

  “Tell me,” she said, for although she was not sure that she wanted to hear that his life revolved around this Sorle person, she wanted to know his story. What was he capable of? What was he involved in? Why did she feel in her bones she could trust him completely, even when he’d admitted that he was playing the dwarvven and the humans off each other? The answer to that last was that she was a fool, of course. She was here in the dwarvven compound to prove it. Helen took a breath and wrapped her coat tighter. “Tell me.”

  Concern showed on his face. “You look tired,” he said. “You didn’t come here to hear this.”

  “What’s that? It’s easier not to tell embarrassing stories about yourself? You’ve already told me how you made a fool of yourself over Frye; now tell me how you fell for Sorle. It’s the oldest story in the world, isn’t it? You did everything she asked to win her heart.”

  Amusement flickered. “One usually does not tell the new lady about one’s past affairs.”

  A delightful shudder danced along her bones, but she said lightly: “Not new, but old and married.” Affairs was right. He was the sort of man who had a million. He talked to every girl the way he did her—which was delightful, make no mistake, but not exactly something you could take to the bank. She let the conversation flow away from him having to admit terrible secrets and into things that were amusing to talk about. “So spill. How many past girls have there been? A dozen? A hundred? A whole harem, as in the stories of famous lovers? But come to that, I couldn’t possibly figure you for a famous lover, for we’ve already established that you have no idea of proper dancing nor etiquette.”

  “Oh, I have a clever way to refute that,” he said.

  “Which is?”

  In the flashlight glow his hazel eyes looked into hers, light and laughing. His sandalwood scent curled around him. “Well,” he said.

  But then there was a noise behind them and twenty, fifty dwarvven poured down the main stairs and hurried through the tunnel, some bumping past them, some splashing in the few inches of rainwater on the concrete floor. They appeared not to mind the cold and dank. One of them hallooed cheerfully to Rook. “Bringing your latest girl to the dance?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” said Rook. She watched his smile fade as he turned back to her.

  For no reason she thought of Alistair. But things were going to be okay with Alistair now. She had the secret to making them okay. So it didn’t matter how many girls Rook had, or what his past was. Not to her. “Tell me then,” she said into the waiting silence. “What happened with Sorle?”

  He walked a few more paces, pulled aside a curtain, and gestured her through. The new hallway seemed much the same in the cursory examination via flashlight, but the curtain dampened sound from the main tunnel. There was a stone ledge and they sat on it. The flashlight played around the puddles on the floor.

  “Sorle,” he said at last, “wanted to blow up Parliament.”

  Helen sucked air over teeth. “And?”

  He stood the flashlight between them, where it caught the edges of his expression. “We aren’t quite as awful as you think,” he said, “even if we were all seventeen and a pack of thickwits. We were going to do it when they were out of session. My job, of course, was to pass as human, be charming—get the keys from the night watchman to a certain back door we needed. They had other jobs like gathering the supplies for the explosive. Many of those were things that dwarvven have, you know—but of course most adults weren’t going to be in favor of, or even informed of, this particular blow for justice till it was all safely over.

  “I got the keys out safely. And then they all got caught on their end.” His jaw went tight. “I went in to put the keys back, so the man wouldn’t get into trouble. That’s when he caught me. Ran after me down to the wharf—fought me. I hit him too hard—he fell into the water—it was nighttime and he was gone instantly. I waded in, holding on to the pier—but he was gone.” He let out a long breath of air. “The problem with charming things out of people is that you have to understand them. And by the time you understand them, you care for them.…” He shook his head. “When his body washed up a couple weeks later, the human courts ruled it an accident.”

  “Oh, Rook…,” said Helen. “How did the dwarvven find out?”

  “I told them,” he said. “During the dwarvven trial. They censured the others and sent them home for community service for six months—by which time the war was over. But someone had actually died in my case—and then, I was havlen. I was officially told it was my bad blood showing. In public I was told off and sentenced to six years hard labor in the mines. I went there. It was … miserable. A month into it a man ‘unofficially’ came and told me I could better serve my people as a spy.…” He trai
led off. “Sometimes I think it’s worse than the mines.”

  She was silent and he said, “You see I’ve thoroughly managed to depress you. I propose all the secrets we share from now on be light and scandalous. Back in school, we did a production of The Pirate Who Loved Queen Maud, and I played the pirate—mostly because as the tallest I was best able to carry off our leading lady on my shoulder. All went well until I was required to leap from the set of the deck to the crocodile-infested waters. The boy playing the crocodile sat up and roared, and I tumbled end over end onto the deck, splitting my trousers in the process. Your turn.”

  The gap between the two stories was so large that it took her breath away, and she could not immediately find her clever response.

  And so he picked up the flashlight and shone it elsewhere, away from them, and said lightly, “Well, keep your secrets then.”

  “I have no secrets,” she said, finally picking up her cue. “I was just wondering how well the rest of the dwarvven danced.”

  “Come and find out,” he said immediately. “Goodness knows we could use a lift around here. Times are hard and getting harder. So many dwarvven let go from their employment. Finding work never used to be a problem, until Copperhead gained a foothold in the city. Some dwarvven have already headed back to our own country, deep in the mountains. Given up on the city for a generation. But come back tonight and dance. We will have fun.”

  Helen sighed. “No, I was being silly. I have so much to do, now that I’ve found Jane. Frye’s helping me convince The Hundred, but she can’t do it all herself, even with her fey charisma. I should be doing that now, but I came down to ask you about your involvement with Copperhead. Which I guess if I believe you is nothing worse than I already knew. But after I found Jane at the warehouse I just didn’t know what to think or whom to trust.”

  He stared at her. “What warehouse?”

  “You mentioned the statue of Queen Maud,” Helen said, “I thought as a joke. But Alistair mentioned it, too, and that led me to Jane, who was wandering around this strange warehouse full of cages, and Grimsby’s invention; you know, from the meeting? Jane didn’t exactly seem to be trapped there, but she was certainly there. And the warehouse must belong to Grimsby—Jane thought so, too. And if you’re spying on them as well as for them, anyway … well. Tell me what you know.”

  “You found the warehouse? I wasn’t sure there really was one. And you just, what, stumbled on it?”

  “Well, it was kind of lit up blue,” Helen said. “Not exactly hard.”

  “Lit up blue,” Rook repeated. “To you, you mean?”

  She stared at him. “To me only? Is that what you mean? But why me? Because of my face?”

  Rook shook his head. “I don’t know. Look, I need to find that place.”

  “So you guys can blow it up?” He looked wounded and Helen raised her lilac-gloved hands. “Look, I’m tired of pretending I’m a scatterbrain, even if it’s generally true. If you’re spying for the dwarvven, then clearly you have a reason. So even if I trust you—which might be a big if—then still still still. You guys are after Copperhead and Copperhead is after you and you can’t just all go around acting tiresome and manly and declaring war.”

  Rook slumped down. “I’m not,” he said. “But my history is against me.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Even with you and you barely know it. Look, I won’t make you show me the warehouse tonight. But I think you should bring Jane here, to me. If what you say is true, then Copperhead wants Jane for something she’s able to do. They must have put her there in the warehouse, right?”

  Helen’s mind worked. “Or not all of Copperhead,” she said slowly. “Alistair thought Jane was still missing. He thought that’s why Grimsby and Morse and Boarham were mad at him. But this is Grimsby’s warehouse, so he must have known Jane was there. Or even put her there, without telling Alistair and the other top party members. Which means … which means that Jane didn’t run away after all. Jane said something about thinking there was a man in the attic.… Someone could have grabbed her.”

  Rook looked sober. “We were both right there, watching that machine like fools. If it hadn’t gone haywire from interfering with Jane’s process, you wouldn’t have known she was missing for another hour.” He puzzled it over. “But most of the key Copperhead players were by the machine.”

  Helen tried to focus, tried her damnedest to replay that scene in the attic, after the lights went out. Who was missing? “Boarham,” she said slowly. Hefty thug Boarham. One of the two right-hand men. “Grimsby must have planned all along to kidnap Jane. He must have sent Boarham to grab her. Take her out the garret window and down the fire escape. Take her to the warehouse. Ransack her flat for those faces while I was busy taking the trolley…”

  “With a motorcar he would have had plenty of time to beat the trolley,” Rook agreed.

  “But then, if Grimsby planned to take Jane, he must have known about my plan with Millicent to have Jane replace her face,” Helen said. She clutched Rook’s arm as her voice rose higher, connecting the dots. “He knew he was going to be leaving her in the fey sleep because of this. Where she might die. His own wife. His own wife.” She realized what she had done and let go.

  “Has Millicent recovered?” said Rook, tactfully not flinching away from her grasp.

  Helen shook her head, trying to shake off the rising sensations of guilt and fear. “I don’t know. I’m just now realizing that Jane was very vague on that point. And I don’t even know where Grimsby’s stashed her. He said someplace safe but … oh goodness. He could have just offed her and how would I know? She was trying to run away from him.”

  “Maybe he knew that part, too.”

  “And maybe she knew he knew. She told Jane something.” Helen flung up her hands. “Ugh, that man is awful. I didn’t know it was possible to hate him more.” She paced, thinking. “All right. So why kidnap Jane? I knew Copperhead disliked Jane but they claimed it was because she was working against them. What if, for Grimsby at least, that’s not entirely true? Jane did have extra powers before. She could actually use her fey substance in a way most women couldn’t.” Helen whirled, bits of gravel skidding off the walkway and down to the water below. “What if he took her to the warehouse to test his machine out on her? Three days of torture—that would make anyone lose it.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “I left her at Frye’s.”

  “Frye’s trustworthy. No matter what you think of me.”

  “Trustworthy but not there,” returned Helen. “Frye was going to try to find some of those women and win them to the cause. Jane’s all alone in the house. And she said—she said about the warehouse that things were patchy—going in and out. What if her mind’s gone again? What if she was just temporarily sane this morning, and not all the way better? And then, with no one watching her … anyone could just waltz in and take her away.”

  Rook nodded, watching her come to the inevitable conclusion.

  “I have to hide her where no one knows where she is,” Helen said. “I have to bring her here.”

  “You can trust the dwarvven,” he said. “We might be grouchy, but we’re forthright. We always pay our debts, and we’ll always tell you when we hate you.”

  Helen managed a weak smile. “Good to know.”

  * * *

  Heart in throat, Helen rang the bell at Frye’s for ten minutes before Jane finally answered the door, apparently all alone. Frye must have lent her clothes, too, for Jane now wore a bulky royal purple cardigan over her grey evening dress. Helen’s heart sank as she saw the vague expression on Jane’s face, just as she had been in the warehouse.

  “Oh, Jane,” said Helen helplessly. “What took you so long to come to the door?”

  “I was dancing,” said Jane.

  “With whom? Who’s here?”

  Jane shrugged. “I used to dance with Edward. And sometimes with Dorie. La, la…”

  “Oh goodness, Mr. Rochart,” said Helen. “What if he’s
finally arrived in the city and sent over a note?”

  “Are we going somewhere?” said Jane.

  “To safety,” said Helen. “Before someone comes and takes you away and you just let them.”

  “My bag,” said Jane. “I need my bag.”

  “Really?” said Helen. “You’ve managed just fine without it.”

  “My bag,” repeated Jane. “My bag, my bag.”

  “Ugh,” said Helen. She looked at the clock. “If we go all the way out to Alistair’s, we’re going to be late getting back to Rook. I told him an hour. And that new curfew’s at dusk, you know.”

  Jane turned wide green eyes on Helen, stared at her as if this information had no possible meaning.

  “On the other hand, maybe your fiancé has sent a note, and then maybe he’ll have an idea of what’s going on with you. He’s had a lot more experience with fey problems than any of us.”

  “Fey problems?”

  “Fine,” said Helen. She dragged Jane out of Frye’s and through the streets, eyes peeled for a cab. She swore several times. “This is no time to be taking the trolley,” she said. “Where are those damn cabs?”

  Jane merely followed, eyes wide and lost in some other world of her own. She looked ethereal, otherworldly, wafting along behind Helen. But at last they made it to the theatre district, which, even with the new curfew, was busy enough to have cabs. Helen hailed one of them and bustled Jane into it. Through the window she could see the glut of frantic actors milling around and commiserating with one another.

  Helen gave the driver the address and they hurried through the cold night till they reached the ugly row house on the good street that belonged to Alistair. That was when it occurred to Helen that, even though she had “fixed” Alistair, it might not be enough to withstand the sight of seeing Jane, who apparently he thought should be held for murder.

  “I am not going to waste time yelling at myself,” muttered Helen.