Folding the Sky

-15-

The Artisan's Union wasn't a particularly high security building; it was located just across from the bridge, almost precisely at Sinje's well-populated center. Then again, no building was high security for Sorin.

    The only challenge was that the Union was one of the few Sinjesi structures fitted with one of those fancy new air conditioning systems, which, somehow, was a box that claimed to remove humidity from the air. Sorin didn't care about the convoluted mechanics of it; he just cared that it meant most of the windows were jammed shut against the sticky late spring heat.

    He could wait for someone to enter and slip in through the crack in the front door, but doors were such large, unpredictable objects, and they filled him with unshakeable dread. So he came through the chimney.

    The fall wasn't substantial, but the pipe was thick with soot and ash, which caught in Sorin's lungs and sprung hot tears in his eyes. He fought the urge to cough, however, crouching at the chimney's base in perfect stillness, listening, waiting, watching.

    The air was still. No subtle vibrations as the breath left someone's mouth, no footsteps shaking the floor. When he was positive he was alone, he crawled from his hiding place.

    He'd been to the Union before, with Liesel. He'd been much younger, and Liesel didn't quite trust him by himself yet (not that she did now, really, despite the fact he was twenty years old), so she'd brought him along with her to one of the Union's meetings. Though that night had been years ago, he'd committed the building's floor plan to memory, more out of habit than need. And now he was glad he had.

    He stretched to his full height, nearly six feet, and finally cleared the muck from his lungs, mopping soot from his face with the back of his hand. The room he stood in now was an office; the fireplace out of which he'd just clambered rested in between a bookshelf and an immense antique desk.

    Careful to keep his steps light, Sorin went to the desk. It was dark, likely mahogany, a decorative design of twining ivy plants carved into its sides. He noted the brass name plate sitting at the desk's edge: Bem Shabani, the president of the Artisan's Union and the market's organizer.

    Sorin allowed himself a small grin. His grudge against doors wasn't the only reason he'd chosen the chimney—he'd known where the one fireplace in the Union was located, after all.

    From there it was smooth sailing. He rifled through Bem's cabinets until he found a file marked Market Invitations, and pulled one of the slips of paper free. After ensuring it was blank, he etched Liesel's name onto the line and stamped it with Bem's own stamp of approval. Pleased, he folded it in half, resting it between his teeth.

    The air shook with a sudden flurry of footsteps, the hairs on the back of Sorin's neck standing straight up.

    By the time the door squeaked open and Bem stepped back inside, the office was empty.

Sorin returned to the rug shop right as it hit its usual afternoon lull. Liesel was sitting at the back counter, studying a piece of paper intently, glasses perched on the very edge of her nose.

    She jolted with surprise as she saw Sorin come in, shoving aside whatever she'd been looking at. "And where have you been?"

    "Out," Sorin said, and Liesel scrunched her nose at him. He rested one hip against the desk, his eyebrows—one dark, the other a dash of blond—quirking with interest as he studied Liesel's hasty folding job. "What is that?"

    "A letter."

    "From?"

    "An old friend of mine."