“Lot of time and power went into this,” Detan said, unable to keep the warm tinge of admiration from his voice.
He looked back at Tibs’s bruised face and his stomach clenched. He wanted to respect this woman, this creature who had strung them all along so fine and easy. But there was Tibs, his face a mess, and who knew what Ripka’s looked like now? Good people, both of them. The doppel should have thrown him to the vultures instead. Then at least they could have been pals one day. Not now. Not ever. Not after she’d flown off and left Ripka to rot.
Gritting his teeth, he stepped through the sel membrane. It moved against him, sensing in him some sort of kinship neither man nor substance understood. Its touch was familiar, wanting. The caress of a lover too far gone to ever hold again.
But then he was through, and all sense of intimacy vanished, as ephemeral as any real lover Detan’d ever held. Tibs followed, stifling a yawn, and Detan wondered if the doppel felt the same thing he did every time she made use of her creation. He shook the memory of her smile from his mind. Set his shoulders. Clenched his jaw.
While Tibs set about picking the lock to the lady’s back door, Detan examined the alley. The doppel was clever, and that was beginning to itch at his sense of danger something fierce. She’d had the forethought to put up a real wall just two long steps in from the sel membrane, separating the place where her back door emptied into the alley from all the others.
Through breaks in the crumbling mudbrick he could see that her neighbors had made good use of their alley, keeping it clean and neat. On the doppel’s side flowering succulents were planted up the dividing wall. They must have thought her a gentle old lady who just wanted this bit of land for her garden. He picked one of the plant’s carnelian blooms and tucked it into his buttonhole.
Tibs opened the lock and stepped aside to let Detan pass first. Neither of them were proper fighting men, but Detan liked to imagine he could be handy with his fists and his knife if the need arose. Things seemed mighty needful now, so he freed the knife from his belt and stepped into the apartment.
It was pitch black inside, and he strained his senses so hard he wondered if he could trust them. There was sel here, somewhere, tucked away and not moving. Detan cursed himself for not knowing nearly enough.
He crept forward, hearing nothing but his boots whispering against the rug and his breath pumping in and out at an embarrassing rate. With the little bit of moonlight slipping in through the opened back door he could make out the usual trappings of a sparse living room. A wide table to step around, a hearth and kettle stand, a few chairs covered in quilts like his grandma had once made. A curtain in a doorway, separating this room from the sleeping room.
Knowing he didn’t have the time to let his eyes adjust properly, he waved Tibs in and pointed at a brass lantern sitting in the middle of the table. He kept his gaze stuck on that curtained door, waiting for any movement, any sound, any sign at all of life lurking beyond. Straining his sel-sense to the edge, he could feel the sel in there, still and calm.
Tibs got the lamp lit and Detan braced himself, knife held at the ready, for an angry doppel to come at them. After a while, Tibs chuckled into the tense silence. “I think the lady has other business to see to tonight. I doubt we’ll be seeing her again, now she has what she wants.” Tibs paused, glancing pointedly at the blade in Detan’s hand. “Best put that away, my eye’s getting anxious.”
Detan let his shoulders slump. “I really hate this life-and-death nonsense, Tibs ole soul.”
“I know it.”
Still tense as a rockcat in a puddle, Detan motioned for Tibs to follow and crept toward the curtain. He swept it aside and thrust his arm through, knife first, fearing the screech of an angry woman. All he got was silence.
“Welp, that was a whole lot of sneaking about for nothing,” he muttered.
“Indeed.”
The bedroom was empty of living things. Sparse as it was, he couldn’t see a single place big enough for a woman of any build to hide. A solid bed took up the center of the room, its linens finer than anything Detan’d seen in a long while. On the wall opposite the foot of the bed was a little table with a mirror and chair, cluttered over with all the strange accoutrements of womanhood. A drying line was hung across the back wall, the doppel’s clothes slung over it. No sign of medicines of any sort.
He flipped open the lid of the trunk at the foot of the bed and grunted. Inside, folded with extreme care, were the clothes of a mining man. They’d been scrubbed, but blood was a hard thing to wash away.
“Looks like we found the lass’s nest,” Tibs said over his shoulder.
“Let’s tear the place apart, see what we can find.”
For the next full mark Detan and Tibs put their backs to the task. Truth was, there just wasn’t that much to search through. He found a slim folder in the bottom of the trunk, tied up with a ribbon, and sat down on the vanity stool to pore through it. There were mostly letters of a family nature, and he caught the name of one of the dead boys many times. Her son, Kel.
In the back of it all, he discovered sketches of a man’s face done in an unpracticed hand. As he flipped through them, they grew in competency, until he could see all the lines of the man’s face clear as his own; lifelike enough that Detan half expected him to turn his head and tell him to sod off and mind his own business. The man looked older than the seventeen monsoons stated in the file he had pulled. Detan frowned, remembering the feel of that report – strange dents in the paper. Had it been altered, too? Why bother?
“Anything of import?” Tibs asked, breaking a silence that had snuck up on them both.
Detan jumped a little and shook his head. “Just what we expected. This doppel of ours is out for revenge. This has gotta be her son, one of the boys that died in that line accident.” He held the picture up for him to see. Tibs took it, his worn face wrinkling as he examined it.
“She’s very good.”
“She practiced. A lot. I think she’s been planning this a long time.”
“Seems that way. That trick with the alley wall alone must have taken her a good full pass of the seasons to plan.”
“She’s gotten so much stronger through practice, all on her own. Look at these.” Detan fanned the progression of faces out on the vanity. “Even just drawing with charcoal, not sel.”
“It’s too bad she’s done it to become a murderer.”
“Can you blame her?”
“No, not really.”
Detan bowed his head and ran his fingers through his hair. All that talent. All that raw determination, and if Thratia had her way she was going to be gobbled right up by the empire. Oh, she’d make her go through the motions of walking the Black all right, just to show the people that she could, but there’d be someone out on the ridge waiting for her. Waiting to take her to Valathea.
“It’s not right. Doing to her what I’m running from myself.”
“She’ll have a chance at life. As it stands, Ripka will die. She’s not valuable enough for them to save her life, you know that.”
He stood and paced. Back and forth, back and forth, cutting a trough through the floor with the force of the anger in his steps. Tibs was right, he knew it. He knew he had to find this woman, to trade her life for another. Had to take the scant sel he’d found covering the alleyway and send up a flare, something to get her attention. To lure her near so he could talk her into a trap and hand her over, tied with a bow, to the very people he was running from. If that was even enough to get her attention in the first place, there was no guarantee she’d come running when he signaled.