Feigning uncoordinated panic, she bumped a stack of crates with her hip as she fled the alley, sprawling the wood to the ground with a heavy crash. A neat little trail for them to follow. She couldn’t risk staying too close, lest he suspect her intentions, but by now he must have lost sight of the others. In his position, she’d consider the panicked woman fleeing down random streets a likely target for questioning. Panicky people were quick to talk.
The alley opened up into another narrow lane, and she glanced at the stars. The theater had been to the north, and the sky was clear. She might not know the streets by name or number, but any Scorched girl worth their stones could navigate by starlight. Becoming lost in the Scorched meant death. No exceptions.
She jogged, saving her breath for the moment the watchers would catch sight of her again. No sense in sprinting until she had to, there was a lot of ground yet to cover.
Watcher whistles sounded behind her and to her right, echoing off the crowded buildings. Ripka picked up the pace. A shadow fell across the road, looming from a side-lane. She ducked at the last moment, skittered sideways and just barely avoided the swipe of a baton. The watcher swore, but she was already adjusting course, peeling away, the fear of nearly being caught adding fire to her veins.
Footsteps thundered behind her, closer now, and she risked a more circuitous route, ducking and diving between homes, kicking over the occasional planter to string them forward, but not too much. Ache grew in her legs, her breath came hot in her throat. Her body was slowing down.
They lost sight of her. She heard it in their strained shouts, and though she couldn’t quite hear their words she could intuit their meaning: she went that way, no that way.
Ripka swung closer to the theater. The rock wall they’d escaped through earlier loomed just across the lane, the watcher’s calls tantalizingly close. She pushed to her toes, risked a peek in both directions, then darted across to the wall. The stones were rough beneath her hands, scraping her palms, but she heaved herself over all the same and landed stumbling.
“Who in the pits are you?” a woman demanded.
Ripka froze, jerked her head up to find the voice. The theater’s backdoor stood half open. A woman in a snug robe with a long mass of curls squinted out at her, a smoldering cigarillo between her lips.
The singer. But there was something familiar about that sharp, dark face.
“Laella?”
The woman squinted through a plume of smoke. “Ripka?”
They stared, open-mouthed, for an embarrassing moment, then recovered in synch and pulled themselves up and shut their slack jaws.
“What are you doing here?” Laella asked, a little breathless.
“Quick,” Ripka said as she dashed forward. “Give me your wig.”
“What in the pits for?”
“Just do it.”
Laella rolled her eyes and plucked the long wig from her head, revealing the tight braids that were her usual style. Ripka tugged the mass of curls over her own hair, tucked her natural strands behind her ear, and faced Laella.
“How’s it look?”
“Ridiculous. What is this all about, Ripka? Did Pelkaia send you?”
“Haven’t seen her since we arrived.”
The whistles started up again. Ripka winced, and Laella’s brows shot straight up as she caught the motion. Before Ripka could explain, a panting, red-faced watcher stuck his head over the break in the wall and scowled at them both.
“You seen anyone come through?” he demanded. “Woman, about her height.” He jerked his chin to Ripka.
Laella put on her impervious, Valathean aristocracy act and scoffed as she tossed her head. “Haven’t seen a soul, save those already in the theater.”
“Call out if you see her. Could be dangerous.”
“I’m quaking,” Laella drawled as the watcher snorted in disgust and dove away to pick up Ripka’s false trail.
Ripka breathed out, limp with relief, and almost laughed. “Thanks for the loan, and the cover.”
“Don’t mention it. Mind telling me what’s going on?”
“Rather not,” she admitted. Ripka plucked the wig from her head, made a cursory attempt at arranging it, then handed it back to Laella. She stuffed it under her arm without another glance.
“Didn’t think so.”
“Mind telling me what you’re doing singing on stage? Can’t be part of your, ah, training with Pelkaia.”
Laella’s eyes narrowed. “Rather not.”
“Fair enough.”
They gave each other a good, long side-eye, and Ripka had no reason to doubt that Laella was brimming with just as many questions as she was. It was probably more than fair that Laella had questions – she hadn’t been the one seen running from the watch, after all. Ripka shuffled her feet awkwardly, edging toward the alley that led around to the front of the theater. And to escape.
Laella sent her along with a flick of the wrist. Ripka ducked her head to hide a smirk and turned down the alley, toward the throng of voices gathered just outside the theater. When she was halfway down the alley, on a whim, she glanced over her shoulder and caught Laella’s eye. The girl flicked ash from her cigarillo, frowning.
“You’ve a lovely voice,” Ripka called.
Laella scowled, snatched a pebble from the dusty ground, and hucked it at Ripka all in one smooth movement. Stifling a laugh, Ripka dodged to the side and sped her steps, preparing to lose herself in the crowd gathered out front.
Which was, apparently, a poor plan.
At the mouth of the alley two obvious bruisers gave her a good long once-over, not bothering to obscure their glance Laella’s way. Ripka didn’t dare follow their gazes, but whatever assurance Laella gave them must have been enough. They turned up their noses at her dusty clothes and wind-blown hair, but they eased aside to let her sidle past.
Into a clamor of chaos.
Ripka winced as half of those gathered near the alley spun the second she was through the brutes, eyes avid with interest. They closed on her, all speaking at once. Ripka took an instinctive step backward, brushed up against the solid wall of the bodyguards and sighed. Might as well try to move stone with her mind than to convince those two to let her back to the patio.
She forced a smile, knowing it was more of a grimace, and tried to convince herself this wasn’t any different than leaving the station house after a particularly public, and nasty, crime. Except then, usually, her blue coat and belted weapons were enough to part the crowds like a ship’s prow through a wisp of cloud. It seemed every time she took a step, the theater patrons tightened up.
“Who are you?” the indistinct voices demanded. “How did you get back there?” “Where did you come from?” “Did you break in?” “What’s your name?” “Do you know the songstress?”
Ripka set her posture firm and shouldered her way past a woman with far too much alcohol on her breath.
Of course. Latia had claimed the singer – Laella – was a complete mystery to the local art scene. She’d shown up just a few days ago – no doubt shortly after Pelkaia’s ship took harbor in the north – and allowed no one but her guards and musician to see her outside of the obscuring stretch of the theater curtain. She was a growing local legend, a puzzle to be unraveled. Whatever her motives, Ripka had no desire to out the girl. She’d seen how Laella was treated on Pelkaia’s ship: a second-class citizen, barely tolerated and trusted, all because her family had branched from wealthy Valathean stock.
Couldn’t be much harm in singing a few songs. Ripka schooled her expression to cold neutrality and weaved through the crowd with force. Once they realized she wasn’t going to feed their gossip, the crowd broke up around her, going back to their drinks and snacks and petty rumors. Ripka let the conversations wash over her, trying to pick up any hint that might be useful.