Brimstone Angels

the sill.

“Fari!” Havilar hissed from beyond. “Come help before someone hears!”

“Gods,” Farideh muttered, but she went to the window.

The boy from the caravan clung to the window frame, looking up at her as if seriously reconsidering whatever her sister had said to convince him to scramble halfway up the slippery shakes of the roof, braced only by Havilar, who in turn braced herself against the gutter by one heel.

“What happened to ‘no one will see me’?” Farideh hissed, taking hold of the boy’s arm and hauling him in. Havilar scrambled up after him and grabbed ahold of her sister’s hand.

“Nobody did see,” she said. She clambered over the sill and glanced back into the darkness. “But maybe he should leave by the door. I nearly broke my neck on the way out.” She grinned at Farideh. “Did you see my landing? It … was …”

She trailed off, sniffing. The hot and bitter scent of the portal opening still laced the air, faint but unavoidable. Havilar’s expression grew concerned. Farideh glared at her. After all of Havilar’s complaints, Lorcan had come because she had left.

Havilar rolled her eyes, as if to say to the Hells with Lorcan anyway. Farideh glanced over at the boy. If he smelled the traces of Lorcan’s portal …

He was looking around the room, as if he didn’t want to let his eyes settle. He looked at the walls, the locked door, the bed, the floor, the cold fireplace, and finally, to Farideh.

“Is everything all right?” he said. “You … Did you not want me to come? Havilar said-”

“No,” Farideh said, “it’s not that. I just didn’t want Havilar to go out.”

“Well now we’re in!” Havilar said.

“And Mehen is going to come back eventually. What do you think he’s going to say when he finds out you snuck a boy in here?”

“Brin,” the boy said. “And Mehen didn’t see.” He looked at Havilar. “Should I call him Mehen? Or is it Goodman Something?”

Havilar giggled. “Just Mehen. He doesn’t have a clan name.”

“It’s not funny,” Farideh said, more sternly than she meant to. “It’s better if no one knows there’s a pair of tieflings rooming here.”

“Just everyone who saw us in the taproom,” Havilar said sarcastically. She sat down on the floor and pulled Farideh down beside her. “Brin, give her some whiskey before she has a fit.”

Brin sat down beside them, drawing a half-empty bottle of brown liquor out of his pack. Farideh frowned.

“Where did you get that?”

“Downstairs.”

“The tavernmaster sold you a half-bottle of whiskey?”

“No,” Brin said. “He tried to charge me an arm and a leg for space on the tavern floor. I thought it was fair to even things out a bit.”

“You stole it?”

“It was mutual stealing,” Havilar explained. “Like how you can kill someone if they’re trying to kill you.”

“All right, it sounds stupid,” Brin said hotly. “But it was the only thing I could reach.” He looked at Farideh, puzzled. “Are you feeling all right? Your cheeks are all red.”

“I’m fine,” she said automatically. She pressed a hand to her face. “Just … harder to pull you in than I thought.”

At least having some refugee boy in the room was better than Mehen finding her with Lorcan. If he came in now, it would be Havilar’s fault too.

Havilar grinned madly at Brin, as if she’d caught a particularly tricky beast in one of her traps. “You didn’t think I’d manage, did you?” she said to Farideh.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

Havilar looked past her and frowned. “Why did you bolt the door?”

To herself, Farideh cursed. “Safety.” She hurried to the door and undid the bolt, without meeting Havilar’s eyes.

You’re still just frustrated at Lorcan, she thought. You can’t take that out on Havi. Or Brin.

Brin yanked the cork free and paused, staring at the open bottle. “I never said thank you.” He looked up at Farideh. “For saving me. And … I should apologize too. To both of you. I wasn’t in my right mind, I suppose. But it still was terribly rude to assume you were devils. Even if you had been … you did me a good turn.”

Farideh relaxed a little. Maybe Havilar was right. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it would be normal.

“I don’t have any glasses,” Brin said apologetically. “I hope that’s all right.”

“Brin, we live on the road,” Havilar said. “We’re used to not drinking out of glasses.”

“Oh. Right,” he said, taking out a handkerchief to wipe the mouth of the bottle. “And I suppose Mehen doesn’t stand on etiquette.”

Havilar snorted. “Gods, can you imagine Mehen teaching us how to curtsey and take tea? ‘Put your damn back straight,’ ” she bellowed. “ ‘You curtsey from the hip not the knee! You’re leaving yourself wide open for a snub from the queen of Tethyr.’ ”

Farideh giggled. “ ‘No, no, no!’ ” she growled back. “ ‘M’henish, how many times do I have to tell you, pass the biscuits with your off-hand so you can parry the zzar with your stronger arm!’ ” Havilar laughed so hard she pounded the floor.

Brin took a sip from the whiskey bottle. “How long have you been traveling with him?”

“Forever,” Havilar took the whiskey bottle from him. “He adopted us. He’s our father.”

That took Brin a moment to absorb. “But,” he finally said, “you call him ‘Mehen.’ Not ‘Father’?”

“Dragonborn call their parents by name,” Farideh said.

“What happened to your real parents?” Brin said, and Farideh felt a surge of irritation. Mehen was a real parent, more so than whoever had left them behind, but she bit her tongue. She knew what he meant even if she didn’t like the way he said it.

Havilar shrugged. “Someone left us at the village gates.”

“And there wasn’t … a note? Or a clue in the blankets?”

Farideh and Havilar glanced at each other. Arush Vayem was the sort of place people went to hide from their pasts, to start over right when that wasn’t possible in other lands. They both knew if someone had left a pair of babies at the gates of Arush Vayem, there was no need of a message to say that they didn’t want the twins back.

“It’s not a story, Brin,” Farideh said. She sipped the whiskey. It tasted sharp and woody and the burn of the alcohol tickled her throat. “We’re not the secret princesses of Abeir or something.”

“Where are your parents?” Havilar asked.

“Oh,” Brin said vaguely. “Off somewhere. They’re … adventurers, you know?” He glanced up at them a moment, as if he were weighing something against their expressions, and Farideh wondered what it was. “They go away for years and so I ended up in a strict Tormish school.” He took a careful sip of whiskey. “I … I left. I’m not cut out to be Tormish.”

Havilar snorted. “I’ll say. Tormites don’t steal whiskey.”

“They do buy it,” Brin said. “A look of discomfort passed over his features and was gone. “Where’s your village?”

“Near Tymanther,” Farideh said. “In the Smoking Mountains.”

“You won’t have heard of it,” Havilar said. “It’s a secret village.”

Farideh sighed. “Havi.”

“What?” Havilar said. She took a sip of the whiskey. “Who is he going to tell?” She turned back to Brin. “It’s just a village of people who don’t want to be found.” Farideh stopped herself from sighing again.

“You mean criminals?” Brin asked, excitement creeping into his voice.

“She means outcasts,” Farideh said, passing the bottle back to him. “It’s just a village of people who … didn’t belong somewhere else.”