The Hanging City (63)

Secrets dance around my teeth and tickle my tongue.

Very quietly, I repeat, “But . . .”

But I am more like my father than I want to believe. I wield fear, just as he does.

“But they inevitably learned that I was different, just like Grodd did. And I had to leave. There aren’t many human townships to take shelter in. So I took my chances with Cagmar.”

Silence weighs down the room. I wonder if my tale put Azmar to sleep. But I hear him shift, his heels sliding against the floor as he stretches out.

“You could have spun that into a much different answer,” he says quietly.

“I could have. But I meant what I said, Azmar. I trust you.” Though I still hold back my deepest secret, I have told him more than I’ve told anyone.

“Why?”

“Why do I trust you?” I whisper. “Because you are sincere and noble. Why did I tell you my story?” I think of his words on the bridge. “Because you asked.”

He doesn’t respond, but I think I feel his small smile cut through the darkness.

I tuck my head down and focus on my breathing, feeling safe with Azmar between me and the door. My thoughts feel lighter, my chest warm, and sleep soon encompasses me.

When I wake the next morning, both blankets cover me, and Azmar is gone.





Chapter 16


Azmar is angry when I get to his apartment.

One who did not know him well would not see it, but to me, and certainly to Unach, it’s obvious. The sharp way he moves. His curt responses to questions. The heaviness to his silence and the way his gaze unfocuses, like he’s lost in thought. I gape at him when I arrive, and find it difficult to look anywhere else. He laces his boots so tightly he nearly breaks the string.

Unach is oddly quiet, but not angry. At least, I don’t think she is. Unach is loud when she’s angry. She doesn’t feel the need to temper herself like others do. She merely sips her brew and watches her brother in a curious fashion. It’s not until Azmar retreats to his bedroom and comes out with a leather belt, laden with three menacing daggers, that Unach speaks.

“Are you going to tell me or not?”

Halfheartedly measuring millet, I ogle the daggers. Why is Azmar arming himself? I try to meet his eyes, but he doesn’t look at me.

“Tell you what.” It’s more a statement than a question.

Unach snorts. “Why you’re acting like a bitch in heat?”

Azmar glowers at her. “There’s a lot to be done in Engineering today.”

“So you need your knives.”

“Right now, I prefer them.”

Rolling her eyes, Unach grabs a slate and a piece of chalk and scrawls across it. Her handwriting is much more legible than Azmar’s. Azmar writes as though his hand can’t keep up with his thoughts, and he cuts every possible corner to speed it up. “Once the workforce heads approve your paperwork, Lark, which should be today, your shifts at the south dock will likely be cut—”

“I would like Lark’s help in Engineering,” Azmar interrupts.

I bite the inside of my cheek, glancing from sister to brother. My pulse quickens. Azmar isn’t upset with me, is he? Did my confession last night rankle him? Did I say something wrong?

My spirit sinks. Nowhere else to go.

Unach turns toward him. “For how long? She has a shift today.”

I do, but it’s not until this afternoon.

Azmar shrugs. “Until the work is done. We need extra hands, and she can do the numbers.”

Unach frowns. “She’s my servant, Azmar. Not yours.”

“I’m requesting her.”

Unach holds her brother’s gaze for a second too long to be comfortable.

“I’m not anyone’s servant yet,” I murmur.

Unach huffs and drops the slate. “Fine. Go.” She pushes off the chair and strides for the door, closing it a little too hard.

Azmar waits a minute before grabbing his pack. “Come.”

Drying my hands, I hurry after him. Fortunately, I don’t have to prod for the information I want; Azmar offers it freely. “Someone came to your door last night.”

I trip. “Wh-What?”

“I heard him approach and turn the knob.” Azmar’s set jaw emphasizes its bony nubs. “I stood to intercept him, but I hit your table. Scared him off. I didn’t move swiftly enough to identify him. Or her. It may not have been Grodd.”

My heart flitters. Who else would it have been? I didn’t hear a noise . . . or if I did, my mind must have encompassed it into a dream that I’ve already forgotten.

The table was my fault; I never moved it back. Were it not for that blunder, Azmar might have caught him.

“I didn’t hear anything,” I whisper.

We reach the lift. Azmar grabs the rope and begins hauling it upward. “It happened less than three hours after I arrived.” He slows, holding the rope with one arm, and turns to me. “Could you do it again? What you did in the caste tournament?”

Lightning pops up my spine. “I . . . I don’t . . .”

“Could you do it again?” His question is firm, unrelenting.

I swallow. Tense. Nod.

To my astonishment, relief relaxes his features. He’s not wary of me, not afraid. Does he comprehend, even distantly, what I can do? He’s a smart trollis; of course he must. And yet if he does, he would surely hate it, as others have.