“You cannot wear your wings,” Cassi said firmly. “Not as the guest of honor. When’s the party?”
“Three days from now.”
“No problem. Pyke, tell Dispatch that Taya and I are taking the day off.”
“Why? To go dress shopping? The boss will love that.”
“He will if he wants our caste well-represented in front of the exalteds,” Cassi retorted.
“I’ll tell him,” volunteered an icarus from the next table. “Don’t worry, nobody’s going to fuss. Taya deserves a day off, anyway.”
“Thanks,” Taya said, chewing on her lip as she re-read the invitation. Clothes. She’d never thought about clothes. But a diplomatic envoy would need clothes, right? Oh, Lady, she was going to have to learn how to wear fancy clothes.
“Come on,” Cassi said, standing. “I know exactly who you need to see.”
Several hours later, released from her dress-buying ordeal, Taya fled to a news stall by Gryngoth Plaza. News about the wireferry accident had been pushed aside by last night’s refinery bombing.
“You going to buy that, then?” the news seller grumbled as Taya skimmed the headlines.
“No … no, thank you.” Taya handed the paper back to the woman, who took it with a gnarled, ink-stained hand. Taya was reminded once again of Cristof’s dirt-stained hands.
It was easy to envision him planting a bomb, his long fingers setting the hands of a timer with painstaking precision and getting dirty as he slipped explosives inside grease-covered machinery. He was outcaste. That meant he was unreliable and quite possibly dangerous. Honest citizens didn’t reject their caste and carry around air pistols. He hadn’t hesitated to shoot that Demican mugger, had he? He had a violent streak.
Wind disheveled Taya’s short, auburn curls and numbed her ears.
On the other hand, he was exalted by birth and by caste, and the brother of a decatur. Could the Lady have let a flawed tool slip through her Forge to be born into a sacred body? Taya wasn’t a religious idealist. She knew that accidents happened; that sometimes a good tool could be damaged by careless use. Still, exalteds were usually above reproach.
Usually. Decatur Neuillan was the most recent exception.
Icarii stand outside the traditional caste hierarchy.
“Fine!” Taya slapped a hand on the news counter and straightened. “Let’s see if he believes it.”
“I beg your pardon?” asked the old woman. Taya gave her an apologetic wave and strode toward Whitesmith Bridge.
Ondinium’s bells tolled noon as she walked down the broad, switchback levels of the bridge, jostled by castemarked citizens and inkless foreigners. The sector gate between Secundus and Tertius was wide open, but the number of lictors guarding it had been increased, and the lines were long. Taya wished she had her wings as she stood in one of the citizens’ queues, pulling out her identification papers. The other Ondiniums in line gave her unmarked face a curious glance, then spotted the icarus pin on her lapel and turned back to their own conversations.
Taya had been mistaken for a foreigner before; it was one of the hazards icarii faced when they weren’t in harness, especially if they didn’t have proper copper skin and dark hair. Taya had inherited her Mareaux-blooded father’s auburn hair and pale skin, although she had her mother’s dark eyes. Once, when she’d been younger, she’d dyed her hair black to try to fit in. The color had been flat and lifeless against her pale skin, and the dye hadn’t set well. Every time she’d washed her hair, the water had turned dark. She’d never repeated the experiment.
The lictor at the gate gave her a close look as she stepped up. He scrutinized her papers, then snapped the wallet shut and handed it back with a polite nod.
“Travel safely, Icarus.”
“Thank you.” She tucked her papers away and stepped into Tertius.
Little differentiated the top of Tertius and the bottom of Secundus; smog and soot darkened both equally. But the lowest sector of the mountain grew flatter as it spread out toward the foothills and rivers below, and it bristled with more chimneys and smokestacks per square mile than anywhere else in the city. The streets grew narrower and dirtier as one traveled deeper into the sector, and the residents, on the whole, became poorer.
Taya had studied other countries to prepare for her diplomat corps examination, and she knew that many foreigners considered Ondinium’s capital to be a sulfurous hellhole. They objected to its smog and dirt, to its chimney- and wireferry-filled skyline, to its tightly built streets and buildings, and to its caste system and strict, sometimes ruthless laws. But at the same time they envied her country’s material wealth and rich culture; its high rates of education and employment and its low rates of poverty. They coveted Ondinium’s technological resources and, most of all, they lusted after its priceless mines of ondium.
Ondinium hadn’t sent an army to war in hundreds of years, but it had weathered numerous invasions, and its lictors were among the best-trained security forces in the world. Not even Alzana, Ondinium’s most aggressive rival, bothered testing its borders anymore. Now warfare was carried out with spies and thieves instead of soldiers and cannon; with bombs and terrorism instead of armies and sieges.
Taya glanced around, but the site of last night’s refinery bombing was obscured by Tertius’ high walls and roofs. As a child, she’d spent much of her time climbing those roofs, playing on broken, sooty tiles and watching bright-winged icarii swoop overhead. None of her family or friends had been surprised when she’d taken the Great Examination and been chosen to join the icarii. She’d considered it a dream come true.
She stopped at the stairs that led down from the street to Cristof Forlore’s basement shop. Three grubby children, two boys and a girl, were sitting on the steps, trading small chunks of metal.
One of them looked up at her. He was the oldest, but his bare face indicated that he hadn’t taken his Great Examination yet. Still under seven, then.
“Shop’s closed,” he said. “But the clockwright’s coming back soon, should you wanna wait, then.”
She glanced at the door. A hand-printed “Closed” placard hung on its knob. Her eyes wandered over the shop’s sooty facade. Nothing about it indicated that the proprietor had a wave on his cheek instead of a circle on his forehead.
“He’s not hiding inside?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.” Taya debated with herself. If she had been wearing her wings, she wouldn’t have thought twice about leaving and returning later, but she didn’t care to climb Whitesmith Stairs more than twice in one day. “I’ll wait. Are you his friends?”
“Neighbors.” The boy jerked a thumb at the wigmaker’s shop next door.
“You wanna play pick-up?” The younger boy held up a small, vulcanized rubber ball. “We’re playing for disks, ain’t we?”
Taya crouched. “I don’t have any disks.” She had, once. Just like these three children, she and her friends had collected chunks of slag from the forges and used them as a makeshift currency between themselves.
“How about that feather, then?” the older boy asked, pointing to her icarus lapel pin.
“Sorry— it belongs to the government.” Taya dug into her pockets and found a few coins. “I’ll play you for pence. Six disks to a penny.”
“Four.”
“Five.”
“Done.”
The youngest child, a girl who couldn’t be older than four, drew an unsteady circle on the cobblestones with a nub of chalk. Taya and the three children knelt around it, concentrating on the bouncing ball and the bits of colored stone used as markers.
Taya lost the first five games and then won back three of her pennies as her old skills returned. She laughed, snatching the ball in midair as it bounced off the edge of a cobblestone and angled toward the steps. The oldest boy grinned.
&nbs
p; “You did that on purpose,” she accused, bouncing the ball into the circle for the next player.
“Just testing you, weren’t I?” he replied, cheerfully.
The little girl’s head snapped up and she looked down the street. “Clockite’s back!”
Moving fast, the two boys swept up the remaining markers. Taya grabbed her three pennies before the oldest snatched them up — he gave her an unrepentant smirk — and turned. The three children flung themselves on top of the steps.
Cristof’s steps slowed as he drew nearer.
Even after meeting him twice, Taya couldn’t help but feel an odd jolt at the sight of his bared castemark. He was dressed much as he’d been last night, in a dark suit and greatcoat, and held a paper-wrapped bundle in the crook of one arm. The autumn wind played through his defiantly short hair, making it stand up in dark, uneven chunks.
He glanced at her, then fixed his gaze on the three children who stood in a line between him and his shop door. His countenance darkened as he peered at them from over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles.
“What are you three loathsome brats doing on my stairs?” he demanded.
Taya drew in an indignant breath, but her protest died as she saw that none of the children were upset by the outcaste’s words.
“We cleaned ’em for you, din’t we?” the girl piped up.
“Did you?” Cristof took a step forward and looked past the children at the steps down to his basement door. “Am I to consider that clean?”
“Uh-huh.” The girl squatted, her ragged smock pooling around her feet, and wiped her hand over the step. She held it up. “See, no dirt!”
Taya bit her bottom lip. The girl’s palm was filthy from playing pick-up on the street. But the steps, although stained, were free from the loose layer of ash that covered so much of the rest of the street.
“I see.” Cristof gave the boys a skeptical look. “I suppose you two made your sister do all the work.”
“Nope. We got three brooms.” The youngest boy pointed to the twig brooms stacked at the bottom of the steps. “We all took a turn, din’t we?”
“And you all expect to be rewarded for it, no doubt.”
“Fair’s fair,” the boy declared.
Cristof turned his relentless gaze on the oldest boy.
“Nothing to say for yourself?”
“Sixpence for sweeping, then, and one for keeping your customer here while you was gone,” the boy replied smartly, jerking a thumb at Taya.
“I doubt she’s a customer,” Cristof muttered. He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, counting two pennies into each boy’s hand and three into the girl’s.
“Thank you, sir.” “Thank you, Mister Clockite.” “See you tomorrow, sir!”
The three grabbed their brooms and hustled off, waving to Taya. She waved back and turned to Cristof.
“Mister Clockite?”
His gaze narrowed, then he looked away and headed down the steps.
“Jessica has trouble pronouncing her r’s,” he muttered.
“I think it’s cute, Exalted. They don’t call you by your title?”
“I get enough titling from the adults around here.” He fumbled with his keys. Taya lifted the bundle from his arm, smelling sausage and pickles. He grunted and unlocked the door, pushing it open and flipping the “Closed” sign to “Open”. The jangle of ticking and whirring greeted them as they stepped inside the shop’s dim interior.
“What do you want?” he demanded, turning and retrieving his lunch. “Where are your wings?”
“I’m off duty today.” Taya was suddenly reluctant to ask him about the night before. Cristof’s little charade on the steps had made her question her suspicions. “Loathsome brats,” indeed. She went on the offensive, instead. “Why are you so rude to those children?”
“Because I’m a rude person.” He pushed aside a large schematic, clearing a spot on the table. Then he unwrapped his bundle, pulling back layers of increasingly greasy paper until he revealed a hunk of pale cheese and the sausage and pickles she’d smelled. Her stomach growled. All she’d had for breakfast had been tea.
Cristof walked out of the room through the curtains in back.
Taya unbuttoned her coat and looked around. The jeweled birds were back in place, floating on the little pieces of string that tied them to the shelf. The shop shutters were open, but little light penetrated the sooty window panes.
She cocked her head to read the schematic Cristof had shoved aside. It looked like a map of the city sectors.
She reached out and tugged it right side up.
It was a wireferry map, showing all the lines that ran from sector to sector and up to Oporphyr Tower. Symbols had been jotted all over it in pencil.
She leaned closer, worried. Was one of those marks over the vandalized spot?
Cristof returned with two tin cups and a short, dark bottle. Taya straightened and pulled her hand back. Ignoring her, he broke off the bottle’s wax top and set the cups on the table.
“It’s a stout,” he said, pouring.
Taya gave him another look, not certain what to make of the implicit offer.
“Thank you,” she said at last. Even an ill-tempered outcaste couldn’t object to good manners.
He handed her the drink without a word and poured another for himself. She cradled the tin cup between her hands, watching. He had a deft hand with the bottle and knew how to keep the frothy head thin as he poured. She wouldn’t have expected beer-pouring skill from an exalted who’d undoubtedly been raised with servants to pour him the very best wines and liqueurs.
He finished and looked up.
“I’m still waiting for you to tell me what you want.” His voice was edgy. “Unless you have a watch to be repaired, I can’t imagine what business we have together.”
“I don’t own a watch.” She paused, considering her options. Honesty won out. “I came to ask you a question about last night.”
“I’ve already reported the attack to the lictors.” He took a sip of the beer, absently wiping his mouth with his thumb and setting the cup back down. He picked up a small knife, cleaned it on a smudged rag, and began slicing the sausage. “They said they’d inquire at the hospitals for the Demican we injured.”
We. She was glad he hadn’t put all the blame on her.
“Thank you. I talked to them, myself, last night after the fire. But that wasn’t what I was going to ask.”
He cut the pickles in half and began carving off heavy slices of cheese.
“Then ask.”
She set the cup down on the table. “Why were your hands dirty when you met me?”
The knife paused. He cocked his head and gave her a blank look, his grey eyes puzzled behind his spectacles.
“What?”
“Your hands were dirty when you met me last night. Saved me,” she amended, to give credit where it was due. “I was wondering why.”
He frowned, setting down his knife. She paid attention as he reached for the rag he’d used to clean off the blade and wiped his greasy fingers on it.
“That’s a strange question,” he said. “Why would you—” He stopped, letting the rag fall to the tabletop. Then he smiled without humor. “Oh. I see. You think I may have been setting a bomb.”
Taya took a deep breath, then let it out and lifted her chin.
“It’s a fair question. I wouldn’t dare ask it of any other exalted, but you shouldn’t mind being interrogated by an icarus.”
A twitch of his jaw acknowledged the reference.
“You know, Icarus, if I were a bomber, you’d be in a great deal of danger right now.” Without looking down, he touched the knife with one slender finger.
Taya didn’t look down at it, either. If he
were going to attack her, he’d have done it without warning her. He was just being unpleasant again.
“Are you?”
He sighed and shook his head, lifting his hand away. “No. But you should be careful how you accuse a man. If you’re suspicious of someone, tell the lictors.”
“What about that?” Taya jerked her head toward the wireferry map. “I find that a little suspicious, too.”
He picked up the map and folded it, his lips tight.
“I was plotting alternate routes to Primus and the tower. I dislike traveling by wireferry at the best of times, and I find the thought especially unpleasant after yesterday.”
Taya frowned as he set the schematic on a shelf and turned, pushing up his spectacles.
“Now, if the interrogation is over, I have work to do.”
Taya shook her head. “I’m sorry, Exalted, but you still haven’t answered my question. Why were your hands dirty last night?”
“Oh, for the Lady’s sake!” Now his voice sharpened, giving her a glimpse of the same bad temper he’d showed last night. Oddly, his irritation reassured her. It was an honest emotion, unlike his strained good manners. “I was realigning the gears on a sector clock. It’s been losing time all month, and I finally became impatient with it.”
“You became impatient with something?” Taya struggled not to smile. “But you’re so self-possessed, Exalted.”
He seemed taken aback; then he glowered.
“Why didn’t you wash your hands there?” she pressed.
“Clock towers don’t come equipped with water pumps. I would have used the Market fountain, but I heard you shouting.”
“Oh.” Not guilty, then. She was surprised by the distinct feeling of relief the thought gave her.
Noticing that his expression was still sour, she flashed him a smile.
“Thank you, Exalted. The question’s been nagging me all morning, and I’m glad I have an answer. Now the interrogation’s over.”
He let out an annoyed hiss and took another swallow of his beer. His eyes fell on her dented tin cup, sitting untouched on the table. He picked it up.
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