Fox’s Tongue and Kirin’s Bone

So he had a father after all; so what. Most people did. So his father had killed a king. No surprise there, either. So had Aaron.

“I don’t listen to dead men.”

The old ways were as he remembered them: cool and dark. The handprints on the opposite wall were the same rusted red-brown, overlapping in location but missing each other entirely through the years. Aaron took out his dagger and ran the blade down his palm, the bite dull and distant. He left his print below Rose’s. The closing door silenced the banshees’ keening. He was alone in the dark.

* * *

The man had blond hair. Blond like wheat ready for harvest, like the autumn sun itself. Blond like an enclave man far from home. In the field of reds and browns that filled the capital, he stood out every bit as much as a boy with black hair and a southerner’s look. Aaron had always wondered if that was why the man had kept him: so they could stand out together.

He’d taken Aaron into the upper town, once. A friendly trip. Aaron had been about seven. They’d seen a murder trial in His Majesty’s own palace, trading elbows in each other’s ribs at the especially solemn parts. Afterward he’d taken Aaron to the execution, but they’d spent most of their time wandering between shop fronts. Justice made for a fine spectacle, but a dead man could hardly be expected to hold their attention.

The man’s hair shone in the afternoon light. Aaron had followed him, like the shadow he cast.

* * *

A light. Aaron wanted a light: a torch, a candle, a lantern. The old ways were pitch black, and his heart loud in his chest.

He was in no danger of getting lost. He’d been raised in Twokins—keeping a sense of direction, a sense of elevation, was a basic survival skill. The Faces who didn’t have it didn’t last, simple as that.

He didn’t want a light because he was afraid of getting lost. He wasn’t afraid of running across the duke in the darkness, or of missing Rose. Their breathing, the scuffs of their shoes against the floor—he would know them before they knew him.

The stone was dry and dusty under his feet. Cold. He’d left his boots back inside the room; there was a familiarity to feeling ground he couldn’t see.

Probably Rose was navigating in the dark, as well. The ways ran straight enough, and he’d never known her to carry a light. Maybe when she was exploring new passages, but with the banshees howling, and her ducking in quick? No, he didn’t think she’d have light with her.

The duke, by contrast, likely did; there had been ample lamps in the king’s apartments, and nothing to stop him grabbing one. That would be to Aaron’s advantage—all the easier to find his father in the darkness.

Aaron wanted a light because he wanted a light; there was nothing more to it than simple weakness. He did not go back for one.

He didn’t need a light.

* * *

“You don’t need a light.”

Aaron couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said back. Something small and frightened. It was a pathetic, cringing sort of memory. The kind that clings to the mind like an oily film on water. Why was it that happy things and boring everyday things could sink so easily, when memories like this always stayed to poison the surface?

“You don’t need a light. Rats live down here, and they don’t need lights. Bats don’t need lights. If you’re scared, get yourself doppeled like a proper Twokin, and have done. How old are you? Nine already?”

“I don’t want to be doppeled. I want—I’m going to leave this place. And if you try to follow me, I’ll tell everyone up there what you are. They’ll kill you. Hang you or skin you or—”

It had been something like that, anyway. He hadn’t been a very smart child. When his ears had stopped ringing, he’d been looking up from the ground. The man’s hair was white light and black shadow as he stood over Aaron, the torch guttering towards its death.

“You don’t need a light,” the man said, and he ground the flame out against the stone. “And this is the last I’ll carry one for you.”

* * *

The way down to the lower exits was through the same long hall as the roof’s stairway. He remembered from his visit with Rose; remembered with the accuracy of someone used to seeing a place once, and keeping it remembered thereafter. He felt the stair before he saw it. A slight tug to the air, a current of cold seeking its way downward. He trailed fingertips along the wall out of habit, not necessity.

It felt different than he was used to—smaller cut, cleaner finish. Not like the rat tunnels that made up the deep Downs. He could tell at a touch that no one had been trying to kill the people who’d made this. Not while they were making it. Luxury was cut stone, and all it implied.

* * *

“Why even bother?” Aaron had asked, running his hand over the smooth stone. Even the ground had been leveled. Swept clean, too, so that his feet were getting the floor dirty rather than the other way around. And yet, more people wore shoes up here than in Seventh Down. He didn’t understand it.

“Because cave walls aren’t good enough for the upper Lords,” the man had answered. He leaned against the blacksmith’s anvil, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Lords live down here?” Aaron stood out of reach, a few feet away. He wiped a hand over his forehead, clearing beads of sweat from his brow. The furnace was at their backs, and roaring. Its owner had only stepped out for a short while. He’d never known there was such a thing as being too warm. It was hard to remember, in Twokins, that the world did not always remain the same chill temperature.

“They used to. Back before the dragons accepted the pact.”

“Did the king live down here? The upper king, I mean.”

“Oh, aye. That’s his old castle you’ve seen, built right into the heart.”

“Can we live there?”

“Why don’t you try it. See how that goes for you.” This was one of the man’s favorite sayings. Generally, the implication was obvious. “If you come back alive, turns out your parents were—ah, here we are.”

The woman pulled up short, her hand tightening around the knob of the half-opened door. Her surprise lasted only a moment. Then a fire came to her eyes, a match for the furnace behind them. She stepped inside, her back straight, her shoulders squared, her voice smoldering.

“Our business is done,” she said. “I’ll not sell to you again. Get out.”

“Now see, I’d be fine to leave things there,” the man said. “But as I hear it told, you’re not selling to anyone Kindly, yet your furnace…” He glanced casually over his shoulder. “Well, it’s still burning.”

“Out,” she repeated, a hand clenched around the dagger at her side.

The man shrugged. He pushed off from the anvil, casually reaching his arms over his head in a dramatic stretch—his hands were well clear of his weapons as he brushed past her, her eyes trailing him all the while. At the doorway he turned, one eyebrow raised. “It’s a nice blade you have there. Made it yourself, did you?”

“Out,” she replied, through gritted teeth.

Aaron did his best to stay small and still. He was waiting for the man’s order to follow; he wasn’t allowed to leave that spot until it came.

“Aaron,” the man said, “I like that dagger. Bring it back with you.” He gave a little wave as he shut the door. “I won’t wait up.”

She spared Aaron a glance, but otherwise wasted no time in throwing the locks on the smithy’s heavy door. Aaron stood where he’d been left, his throat dry. After a few tries at swallowing, he managed to find his voice.

“Ma’am? Could I please have your dagger?”

The look she leveled on him was not unkind. “He called you Aaron?”

“Yes, ma’am.” There was just enough space between two of the racks for him to fit, if he kept his shoulders tucked in. He stood very still as she approached. The stone was cold on his back, the furnace hot on his face.

“How old are you, Aaron? Nine? Ten?”

“Twelve, ma’am. I think. Please, ma’am. I can’t go back without it.”

“Then don’t go back.” Slowly, she reached a hand out towards him, like she was reaching out to touch a fawn. Her fingers brushed a black strand out of his face.

“I have to.”

“No. You don’t.”

Saying a thing didn’t make it true. He took in a shaky breath. “He wants for me to kill you. That’s what he really meant.”

“I’m not going to hurt you. Not all the world’s like Twokins, Aaron. You’re still human, aren’t you? The castle’s got amnesty for Faces. You know what that means? Amnesty?”

Amnesty meant people ran away and got themselves netted by redcoats, and no one saw them again. Or they didn’t make it that far, and everyone got to see what came to them. It was one of the words he hated—a word with the lie built right in.

It was her knife hand she was using to brush his hair. The blade itself hung from a braided belt on her waist, unguarded.

Aaron caught up to the man on the border with Fourth Down, where the leveled floor and the smooth stone walls gave way to rough-hacked stone. There were still lanterns set in the walls here, carefully maintained by the king’s own men for the benefit of his citizens; just a few steps farther, and the darkness of Twokins began.

“I got it,” he said, holding the dagger out. The man didn’t even glance down.

“Is she dead?”

Aaron kept silent.

“Did you understand I wanted her dead?”

There was nothing much to say to that, either.

“You’re never fool enough to lie to me, Aaron. I like that. But make no mistake: we’re going to get you blooded. Their blood or yours; it’s your choice.”

The hand he set in Aaron’s hair was warm, and almost gentle. It was a hand with lies built in. Mutely, Aaron offered up the blade again.

“Keep it,” the man said. “It’s better than yours.”

Aaron didn’t want to, but he did. As they crossed into Fourth Down, the man’s bright hair looked like light extinguishing.

* * *

The change in gradient was subtle, but obvious to eyes that were accustomed to complete darkness. Total dark had an almost palpable quality: it was a thing that wrapped around the eyes, so that they were always looking but never seeing. A person’s vision would never adjust, no matter how many years were spent in it. But add in just a hint of light, from around a corner, from down the length of a passageway—and suddenly, there was gray mixed in with the black. A little more, and the difference between a wall and a door became clear. Come to the edge of that doorway, and each stone began to stand out again as its own thing, separate from the rest. Aaron pressed his back to the wall, gripped the hilt of his dagger in his hand, and inched forward.

* * *

Their main home was below Seventh Down, marked by nothing but a series of cracks tucked in between larger caves. Nothing special to look at, and worse to enter. To someone who didn’t know the way, they were a panicky affair—they pressed down and down, narrower and narrower, so that a man had to turn on his side and hold his breath just to get through. In some places, he had to crawl on hands and knees, and finally belly. If he carried a sword, he could not wield it; if he carried a dagger, he might just manage. If he were in plate armor… well, good luck fitting through without taking off a vital piece or two. These tunnels were for rats, not rat catchers.

To anyone who knew what waited up ahead, that squeeze was the last press to safety. The final few feet to home.

The cavern opened up suddenly and spectacularly. Even with the brightest lantern, there was no seeing the other side, or the ceiling above. The underground river rumbled over their roof, a constant growl of warning that lulled them to sleep at night. To the west the great waterfall split around the castle and crashed down to depths best left alone. Their own deep basin flowed languidly to join it, undisturbed by all except the occasional drips from hidden stalactites, and the rare curve of a ribbed fin cutting the surface.

From a distance, their home looked like stars in the night sky: pinpricks of light hanging in the darkness, lanterns and cook fires clinging to the unseen far wall. It wasn’t just the Kindly Soul’s home, of course. For all their influence, they were a small group, and this was a bigger place than that. But there was no doubt as to who was the brightest star.

“Why are they putting the lights out?” the boy said, holding tight to his brother’s arm. “I thought we were safe here. I thought the royal guard never made it this far.”

He was nine, maybe ten. Aaron could remember that age, if he tried. He didn’t usually want to. “It’s just to be safe. We’re going to block the tunnels after you lot are in, but we can’t risk some rat catcher spotting light through a chink in the wall, and getting the bright idea to start digging.”

“And what if one of them slips in before the hunt, playing at being a refugee?” one of the older boys with him asked, casting a hard look around. “You’re not exactly discriminating in who you take in.”

Aaron cast a glance back over his shoulder, and found green eyes meeting his gray. “Your name?”

“Kieran,” he answered. “That’s Pieran. This is Cormac.” He nodded to a young man who may as well have been his doppel, and to the younger boy who still clung uncertainly to his arm. Kieran and Pieran were older than Aaron’s fourteen, but not by many years; they were eighteen, or perhaps nineteen.

“I think we’ve got some of you lot down here already. Rafferty, right?” Aaron asked. The older boy shrugged a confirmation. “Big family. Is it true that you were merchants? What’s that like?”

“Is it true that you’re his pet?” the young man retorted. “What’s that like?”

“Kieran,” the other one snapped. “Please excuse my brother, Aaron. It’s… a sore subject.”

Aaron nodded stiffly. He hadn’t given them his name. Apparently, they’d done a bit of asking around before deciding to shelter here.

They were treading, carefully, along the ledge that wound around the cavern’s side. Most of it was natural. Here and there were signs of men: rocks that had been wedged in to fill a small gap in the trail, boards that had been laid to cross a larger one. With the small lantern Aaron carried, he hardly even needed to pay attention to where he stepped. The brothers moved much more cautiously, keeping their younger brother to the inside of the path. They came upon a rope ladder; Aaron gestured for them to go ahead of him, as he scanned their back trail. At the top, other Kindly Souls waited to help them get their footing. It was not the flattest of landings, and could be a bit disorienting to someone who stood up unprepared.

“Still,” the more tactful of the elder brothers said, as Aaron joined them at the top, “It’s a good question. How do you stop the royal guard from simply walking into this place?”

“We’ve a saying,” Aaron said. “There’s two ways into Twokins.”

“You can be born here, or you can be made a doppel,” Pieran dutifully quoted.

“You weren’t born here,” Aaron prompted, making no move to lead them on. The other Kindly Souls waited with him, at ease in the near darkness, their stances so casual it was easy to miss how completely they’d ringed in the newcomers. Except for the side with the fall; they were welcome to that, if they wanted it.

It took Pieran only a moment to get it. “Oh,” he said. “So… here? Right here?”

“If you please.”

“Cormac can’t keep his clothes yet,” Kieran said, his hands tightening over the younger boy’s shoulders.

“Then he’ll have to put them on again when he’s done.” If they were looking for a safe place, they were in it. If they were looking for sympathy, they’d soon learn that the two didn’t often live side by side below Third Down.

The three brothers exchanged glances.

“This is why you only take us in small groups, isn’t it?” Pieran asked. Aaron and the others simply waited. Another glance. Then the younger boy squirmed free of his elder brother’s grip, and took a step forward.

“I think I’ve got this,” he said, with a frown of utmost concentration. Several moments passed. Then, with a suddenness that always sent a jolt through Aaron, the boy ceased to exist. In a slow poof, his clothes settled on the dusty floor. Something squirmed inside of them: a nose appeared first, then whiskers popped free, then a little black head. A young rat crawled out of the neck of the boy’s shirt, and looked up towards its brothers expectantly.

“I’m beginning to see a family resemblance,” one of the other Kindly Souls remarked.

The elder brothers again looked at each other.

“What would happen if one of us were not a doppel?” Pieran asked.

“Why don’t you try it,” Aaron suggested. “See how that goes for you.”

Kieran was the first to change. A moment behind him, Pieran did as well. He was a gray rat with a white star on his forehead. As was his brother, down to the last stroke of fur.

Close enough to be doppels, indeed.

Aaron hesitated. “If I may ask… which of you is the real one?”

One of the rats sat back on its hunches. Its eyes were small and black and far too human. “Do you know what you mean by that?”

No. Under the quiet stare from those eyes, he suddenly didn’t.

“Ask again when you do.”

The star-marked rats changed back to their human forms. They were new doppels, the entire family of them—they’d only a handful of darker hairs between them when they were human, mixed in with their fiery red. The Rafferty clan. They’d been armored merchants. One of their kinsman sat the Wasting King’s council, just as one had sat the Steadfast King’s, and the Regent Queen’s before that. There’d been talk that a new line of blood nobles was about to be born.

Someone must have taken offense to that, given how literally they’d been ratted out.

Kieran scooped up their younger brother in his palms. Pieran gathered up the boy’s clothes, flashing a tight smile.

Aaron led them into his home.

* * *

Niall Sung carried a lantern in one hand. It was an ornate thing, and no doubt heavy. Wrought in steel, with gold dragons inlaid on its sides, it was meant to be a table centerpiece. It had never been intended for carrying. But then, Aaron couldn’t remember any in the king’s rooms that had been: most were bolted straight to the walls. How silly of the man—didn’t he remember to bring his own light to the murder? Really, the things some people overlooked.

Aaron’s foot scuffed along the floor more loudly than he’d intended. Either that, or he’d wanted to be noticed. He wasn’t sure himself. The result was the same: the duke spun to face him, drawing his sword on the instant and raising that ridiculous lantern higher as if it would make the light carry farther.

Aaron stepped fully into the passageway. “Good evening, father. You’re looking better than some.”

“Markus,” the man scowled.

Aaron didn’t correct him. There was no need to complicate things. The duke knew his son had come for him, and why. Which son was trivial at this point.

* * *

Aaron didn’t need to stop and soliloquy about his reasons; he didn’t need to hold off the final blow until comprehension dawned on the man’s face. Justification was something tight and coiled that crouched ready in a shut-in corner of the mind, not something that needed to be said. Ever.

The man was dead. He had died without any final words: no threats, no pleading, no half-choked why? He had not seen it coming; had not felt betrayed. He’d taught Aaron better than that. Kindly Souls did what needed doing, and that was the end.

His golden hair was strangely soft under Aaron’s hand, like he was still alive. How long was it before a corpse’s hair lost that feel? Aaron cleaned his blade off, and cinched his belt around his waist. Slipped back on his shirt. Buttoned up his coat. He took a deep breath, and let it out. When he left the room, he did so ready.

“He’s dead.” Aaron told the guard outside. The man sat on an outcropping of stone, placing down faded old cards in a game made for one. He looked up when Aaron spoke, and there was never any doubt between them: this was no joke.

“Must you always pick my shift?” the man asked. They both knew the answer to that. “Feel better?”

“A little numb, actually.” Aaron sat down on the cavern floor. He hadn’t really planned to. He just… did. He drew in his knees, folded his arms on top of them, and waited for the world to feel different.

The guard played another card from his deck. Apparently that let him move around a few stacks, and shuffle some things. Aaron knew the rules of the game; this was the man who’d taught him, in fact. He just… couldn’t remember them, at the moment.

“You’re running, aren’t you,” the guard said. Aaron nodded. The man played another card. “There’s another way. You just assassinated an assassin king, Aaron. That gives you a right. There’s certain of us that wouldn’t mind you claiming it.”

“The Raffertys are coming.”

The man’s hand stilled. “Tonight?”

Aaron nodded. The guard tossed down the rest of the deck. With sweeps of his large hands, he gathered them back up. Their box was wood: a dark, rich wood inlaid with white bone. His coats always had a hidden pocket just to fit that box.

“Where will you go?”

Aaron didn’t answer. Didn’t have an answer to give. “It would go best if everyone surrendered. Just swear to them.”

“Why did you do it?” he asked. “If you didn’t want… then why?”

The crouching, caged thing in the back of his head let him say just one thing. He didn’t need to justify himself. He didn’t. But he could.

“I don’t listen to dead men.”

* * *

Aaron drew his blade while the duke was still speaking.