Lies of Murk by Eva Chase

18

Talia

Few of the Murk were around to witness Orion’s assault on my mind, but I suspect word about it has gotten around. When I approach the ones stocking the food table the next morning, they accept my help but shoot me quick glances with what feels like a mix of wariness and pity. My skin tightens at the thought of what they might be wondering about me, but I’m not going to bring up the subject if they don’t.

Instead, I pay close attention to the food they’ve brought. Most of it looks like it was nabbed from restaurant kitchens or even dumpsters, leftover catering trays maybe, nothing labeled. Some of the fruit has stickers on it, but knowing they originally came from Mexico or Ecuador doesn’t tell me much when I know those countries export produce all over the world.

I’m not even sure I can draw any conclusions from the fact that there’s quite a bit of breakfast food in the mix. My view from Madoc’s telescope suggested that the world above the Refuge is on the opposite day-night schedule from how the Murk operate down here, but I don’t know how close its source really is to our actual location.

Or this could be food that was prepared hours ago that the thieves have simply reheated after waiting until it’s the appropriate mealtime. Hell, they could even be slipping through a couple of portals to some other part of the world completely, someplace where it is breakfast time even if it’s not directly above us.

Even the boxes they’re using are unlabeled, not giving anything away. Are they normally this cautious, or has Orion specifically ordered everyone to avoid bringing in anything that could give me a clue about where I am? The types of food don’t give much away—there’s always a mix of more familiar North American type items alongside dishes with Mediterranean or Asian or other influences I can’t place with my limited human-world experience.

“It must be tiring, carrying so much stuff all the way here,” I say in a casual tone as I rearrange a few apples on the table, just trying to look like I’m still pitching in.

The fae woman across from me shrugs. “Between all of us who work together, it’s a pretty simple job. We all need to eat.”

Which neither confirms nor denies that they’re traveling a long way. I search for another tactic and then sigh. “I understand why I need to stay down here, but I do miss going outside. What’s the weather like today? Maybe if I could picture it, it’d be easier not to be able to see it myself.”

One of the other fae lets out a sound like a muffled snicker. The woman gives me a look that I suspect is all pity now. Not that her pity does me any good.

“I didn’t pay that much attention,” she says. “We have to be focused on steering clear of the humans and getting around locked doors and all the rest rather than what’s going on in the sky.”

And she’s probably been warned not to tell me anything about the outside world anyway. “That’s okay,” I say with forced brightness, as if it doesn’t matter that much to me anyway.

Just then, Bren saunters up to the table. He nudges aside a couple of other Murk who were picking out their breakfast and heaps several choice items on his plate, including the last four of the very popular sesame seed-dusted rice balls. The fae he displaced hang back until he’s gone, glance mournfully at the now-empty plate, and take what they want from the rest of the offerings.

“Nearly disgraced and now he’s rising in the ranks fast,” one of the men mutters to the woman near me when Bren is gone.

“Because of the fight,” I say.

He shoots me a cautious glance but nods. “He proved how far he’ll go for the king. Orion rewards loyalty.”

The woman shrugs. “I don’t mind sticking to food duty if it means there’s no risk of getting my guts clawed out.”

“True. But once you’ve survived that, no one can touch you outside the king’s circle.”

“Do those kind of fights happen a lot?” I ask, not because it helps my escape but just out of queasy curiosity.

“Now and then,” the woman says, not sounding at all disturbed by the fact. “Orion has plenty of ways of testing the ones who want to stand close to him. And some he trusts more than others to begin with. Or less. That Madoc.” She shakes her head and then seems to decide not to say whatever she was going to follow up with.

My curiosity is immediately caught. “What happened with Madoc?”

“Better not to tell tales about anyone who stands with the king,” the man mutters, and starts filling the now emptied plates with different food.

“It isn’t ‘tales’ if it’s true,” the woman says, and turns back to me. “He was really just a boy when he made it here, and no one knew who his family had been. Orion and his close circle didn’t make it easy for him. But Madoc was determined to show what he was made of, and he did. One of the fiercest battles I’ve ever seen, in the end. At one point I thought he was lost. He earned the spot he’s got now more than some of them did, that’s all I’ll say about it.”

She bustles off, leaving me wondering just what not making it “easy” for someone looks like around here, when fights to the death are a common event. What more has Madoc gone through to earn his spot?

I don’t have to ask why he’d have put himself through anything. I heard how committed he is to helping the rest of the Murk have better lives. Every word he said to me in the vault of memories has stuck with me, adding to the uneasiness twined through my chest.

I linger by the food table for a while longer, nibbling on one thing or another even though I don’t feel remotely hungry, listening to the pieces of conversation I catch as the Murk pass by and grab their own meals. Then I watch where they go. There’s a doorway at the far end of this station that has a few fae coming and going fairly regularly. I see them each press their hands to a specific spot on the door before it opens though, so presumably it’s tied to some kind of magic.

I don’t think I’m going to convince the door that I’m Murk too. Talking any of the Murk into opening it for me seems even farther out of reach.

Orion hasn’t called on me yet today. How much of a reprieve is he going to give me before he rakes through my mind again? I haven’t gotten anywhere with the close-lipped Murk. I have to go back to the one sort-of solid plan I have.

I amble through the tunnels toward the maintenance room, pretending I’m just stretching my legs and looking around. Like in the past, no Murk are hanging around all the way down that final tunnel. I hesitate for several minutes, wondering if Orion will be able to pick this plan out of my head too. But I’ve already started it, so it isn’t as if not continuing would stop him from finding out if that’s the case.

I told myself I’d keep going, keep trying, so now I have to do that, or I might as well have slit my throat yesterday.

My muscles seem to be adjusting to the routine, at least. Clambering onto the machine below the vent isn’t as much of a strain. I even manage to shape my bracelet into the right size of wrench on my first attempt.

I get to work on the bolt I started last time, heaving with all the strength in my arms. Imagining every twist is locking Orion and his hateful methods away as well as freeing me.

My shoulders start to throb, but I get a good enough rhythm going that I don’t mind. Reposition and yank, reposition and yank, over and over until the bolt finally loosens enough to slip out.

A grin spreads across my face. I swipe at the sweat on my brow, poke the bolt back into its hole for appearances, and move on to the next one. Maybe I’ll even get another fully out today.

I’m so caught up in that hope and the work that I don’t register voices approaching until they’re close enough that I make out actual words.

“—always so grimy out this way.”

I jolt to a halt, my fingers freezing around the handle of the wrench. The chuckle that answers the remark sounds distant, but the rasp of footsteps is coming closer. Have they already heard my efforts?

My heart thudding, I mumble the true name for bronze as quickly as I can. With my focus scattered, the wrench doesn’t bulge. I gulp a few breaths to steady myself and try again, keeping my voice as low as I can.

The tool wavers and curves around my wrist. I need to repeat the true name once more to fully smooth it out, my pulse hammering away the whole time. The voices sound like they’re nearly at the entrance now.

I slide down the side of the machine, landing a little too hard on my warped foot. I have to clap my hand over my mouth to hold back a hiss of pain. With my limp more pronounced than usual and fighting a wince, I make my way through the machines toward the tunnel.

I’m about halfway through the maze of old equipment when the voices stop. Then one calls out, “Is someone there?”

“It’s just me,” I say quickly, hurrying into view as quickly as I can. “I was taking a look at all the machines here, wondering if there’s something we can use for taking back the Mists. No such luck.”

The two Murk who’ve wandered this way eye me, but neither questions my story. “It’s all a bunch of junk,” one says. “Orion’s already had us scavenge what we can from here.”

“I guess that makes sense,” I say with a weak laugh. “I’ll see how else I can help out. Did you need anything?”

“We’re fine,” the other fae replies, a little sharply.

I limp on toward the nearest station, but after several steps my foot hurts badly enough that I need to stop and give it a rest. I perk my ears, hoping I might catch a little more conversation from back down the tunnel.

The two fae who passed me have gone silent. That’s odd. I stand there for a while, slipping my foot out of my braced boot to massage it, and I don’t hear another peep from them, not so much as a rustle.

Then it occurs to me—that’s because they aren’t in the tunnel anymore. There must be another exit down there, one they’ve used to leave the Refuge.

Maybe it’ll be just as locked to me as the others, but the next chance I get, I need to find out.