I tugged yet again at the refitted doublet I was wearing. Jelem’s wife had folded, cut, pinned, and stitched with amazing skill, but the clothes still felt like someone else’s. As Degan had pointed out, though, no one would be expecting me to walk around dressed like
this
, so I was better off in them than in my own togs right now.
At least my boots had survived; otherwise, I would be scuffing about in too-big slippers, their toes stuffed with rags.
I had Ioclaudia’s book with me, hidden beneath the doublet and my cloak. By all rights, I should have been taking it straight to Kells—after all, he was the one who’d tasked me with finding it in the first place, and I
did
work for the man. But the fight with the White Sashes, not to mention the Gray Prince’s dream, was still too fresh in my head to ignore. Until I better understood how Ioclaudia’s journal fit into the war in Ten Ways, I wasn’t going to give it to anyone. This wasn’t something I could just set on the table in front of Kells, boss or no, friend or no. I respected the man, but that didn’t mean I trusted him with a book on imperial glimmer—not when he was fighting for his organization’s survival.
I kept my head down and my eyes to myself as I maneuvered through the morning crowds. The crush of Lighters slowed me down, but it also helped me blend in with the mob more easily.
I reached the edge of Fifth Angel Square and paused to buy a steaming cup of butter tea. I let my eyes roam over the crowd, looking for faces or forms that seemed a bit too busy being disinterested in me. The tea was good, full of butter and salt and mint. Warming. It would sit well with the five ahrami and small breakfast I had had earlier. I finished it quickly and moved back into the crowd.
I circled the base of Elirokos’s statue three times, stopping to price carpets, haggle over a small bracelet, argue with a blind soothsayer, and admire a talented dancing girl with an unorthodox interpretation of the
a’Sakar.
No one—there were no Tails, no Squinters, no Six-Foot-Gangs in sight. If anyone was following me, they were too good for me to see, let alone lose.
I went over to Mendross’s stall.
“I’ll be with you in a moment, sir,” he said as he rushed by, a basket of lemons in his hand. He was just about to give the basket to a well-dressed woman when he stopped in midstride, turned, and stared at me. His eyes were still moving up and down my outfit when the woman behind him cleared her throat.
“My fruit?” she said pointedly.
“Eh?” said Mendross. Then he blinked and nodded. “Oh! Yes, my lady, of course.” He spun around and handed her the basket, took her coin, and bowed his apologies, all the while still watching me out of the corner of his eye.
After she had moved away, Mendross turned and made an expansive gesture in my direction. “My lord!” he cried, loud enough to be heard three stalls over. “How good to see you! You must be here for those mangos you asked about last week, yes? Good news—they’re in, just as I promised! I have them around back. Please, come see for yourself and tell me they are not the most succulent fruits you have ever tasted!”
I smiled and nodded and tried to play the part. Mendross bowed and scraped and ushered me toward the bright curtain that separated his inventory space from the front of his stall.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” he whispered as he pushed the curtain aside.
“Glad to hear it,” I said.
Mendross’s second son was lying stretched out across three sacks in the back, asleep, a wax inventory tablet on the floor by his arm.
“Spyro!” Mendross snapped. Spyro snapped upright and began scrambling for the tablet. “Forget that and mind the stall,” said Mendross. “And remember to push the plums—they’re going soft.”
The boy nodded and ducked out, barely sparing me a glance in his haste.
Mendross took one of the redder mangos, produced a small knife, and deftly carved out a long, wide wedge for each of us. He was right—they were delicious.
“So,” said Mendross as he wiped a dribble of thick juice from his chin, “do I get to hear the story behind the outfit?”
“No.”
“That embarrassing, hmm?”
“That unimportant,” I said. “I need to know what you’ve heard lately.”
Mendross settled himself on a small stool. “A lot. How much do you want?”
As tempting as it was to say, “All of it,” I knew I didn’t have that kind of time. I had been out of the game for more than two days—I needed the big picture first; the details could be sorted out later.
“Stick to Ten Ways,” I said. “Plus anything you’ve gathered on Nicco. Or Kells.” I paused to consider. “Or a scribe named Baldezar, for that matter.”
“Haven’t heard anything about any scribe, but where’ve you been that you need me to fill you in on the rest? It’s all over the street.”
“Just tell me,” I said.
Mendross carved off another slice of mango. “Get comfortable, then,” he said, and launched into his report.
It was ugly. Kin wars are always bloody, violent affairs, replete with ambushes in the street and bodies in the alleys, but this had gone well past that. Where past wars had usually been confined to byways and the dark of the night, Nicco’s men were openly attacking Kells’s in streets, markets, and squares, day or night, no matter whether the places were empty or full. No effort was being made to hide things from the empire, let alone give them a chance to turn a blind eye. Even worse, Rambles had supposedly told his people that any Red Sashes trying to interfere with the war were fair game. If Rags started going down to Kin gangs, it wouldn’t be a question of if the empire stepped in, but, rather, when and how hard.
Iron Degan’s and the Gray Prince’s hands were all over this. It was turning out exactly as Degan and I had feared: Start a war, then draw in the empire. But what after that?
“What about the rest of the cordon?” I said.
“The Kin in Ten Ways are falling into three camps—for Nicco, for Kells, and for themselves. The last group is the largest. They’ve mainly been staying out of it, but some are starting to hire out.”
“To?”
“Both sides, but Nicco’s been picking up more.”
“And Kells?” I said. “How’s he faring?”
“That’s the interesting bit,” said Mendross as he reached above his head and stretched. A small cascade of cracks and pops erupted from his back. “Kells
should
be in the best position—he has Blue Cloak Rhys and Shy Meg at his back, along with a Ruffler called Mateo—but the street says he’s barely holding on. Nicco’s pouring Cutters into the cordon like crazy, but they aren’t enough to explain why Kells’s men are being rolled back night after night.” Mendross leaned forward. “People are staring to talk about glimmer. Not just the stuff you can hire out on the street, but dangerous glimmer—things that take down men with a word, or shatters steel midswing.”
“Has anyone seen anything?”
Mendross shook his head. “No, but there are whispers.”
“I’ll just bet there are,” I said, remembering the body floating in my bedroom and the woman walking through my dreams.
I rubbed at my arm, trying to make the hairs on it lie down. The book beneath my doublet shifted at the motion.
“I need a favor,” I said.
Mendross’s eyes immediately became hooded. “Such as?”
I pulled out Ioclaudia’s book. “I need you to hold this for me.”
Mendross eyed the book but didn’t touch it. “What is it?” he asked.
“Something I can’t keep at my place,” I said.
“Because someone may come looking for it there?”
“More or less.”
“And what makes you think they won’t come looking here instead?”
“Would you come looking for a book in a fruit peddler’s stall?” I said. Especially, I thought, a book on illegal magic.
Mendross grunted and stared at the journal, thinking. “Who’s after it?” he finally said.
I’d been trying to figure out how to answer that question since I’d walked up to the stall. Too much truth, and I’d walk out of here with the book still under my doublet; too little, and I’d be setting Mendross up for even worse trouble if someone came looking.
Halfway, then.
“Kells,” I said. “Maybe another Upright as well.”
Mendross’s eyes didn’t even flicker. “Two golden falcons now,” he said. “And another two when you pick it up.”
It was steep for what I had told him; not nearly enough for what I hadn’t. I pretended to consider, haggled a bit to allay any suspicions, and finally gave in.
I handed Mendross the journal. He took it, turned around, and placed it in the middle of a pile of ledgers on his counting table.
“That’s
it
?” I said.
“Which is more suspicious: seeing a book with other books, or finding one at the bottom of a barrel of figs?”
“But . . .”
Mendross held up a hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll find something better. This is just for now.”
I left Mendross’s stall with a basket of mangos—he insisted—and made another half circuit of the bazaar just to be safe. Satisfied, I gave the basket of fruit to a blind beggar at the edge of the square and headed for home.
My step felt lighter, and not just from a lack of coin after paying Mendross. For the first time in a long time, I had a handle on something. Yes, there were still any number of unanswered questions, but now
I
had one of the pieces of the puzzle. Hell, I likely had a key piece. And while that put me at risk, it also made me valuable. I might be captured, questioned, and tortured for the journal, but the odds of my being dusted out of hand had just gone down.
It was a strange kind of security, considering what having Ioclaudia’s book likely meant for my long-term health, but in the short term, I’d take whatever I could get.
My good mood lasted until I turned onto Echelon Way and got within sight of my building. Then I noticed two things: First, that despite its being well into morning, Eppyris’s doors were still closed; and second, Nicco had stationed two of his Arms—Salt Eye and Matthias the Brick—on either side of the shop.
I swore to myself and quickened my pace, pushing through the crowd. I hoped Eppyris’s doors were closed because he’d followed after his family, and not because Nicco had forced him to shut down. It would be just like that ham-fisted Upright to punish me through the people under my protection.
I was ten yards away when Salt Eye did a double take and recognized me in Nestor’s clothing. He stood up a little straighter, looked around for Matthias, failed to get his attention, and, with a shrug, began ambling toward me.
I threw the hood of my cloak back and gestured at Eppyris’s shop. “This had better not be what I think it is,” I said, pitching my voice to carry past the few people who still separated us.
“It’s not,” said Salt Eye. A smile formed across his jagged face as he came closer.
He was three paces away when the smile twitched and faltered. Then Salt Eye fell over. Behind him stood Fowler Jess, a long knife in her hand, the blade red and wet and shining in the morning light. Unlike Salt Eye, she wasn’t smiling. In fact, she looked downright pissed.
Chapter Twenty
O
ur eyes met over the dying Arm. There were anger and murder and dark resolve in Fowler’s face, but none of those inclinations seemed directed at me. Seeing her like that, knife in hand, standing over another man’s body, reminded me of why I’d found her so damn alluring in the first place. Nevertheless, I let my right hand begin drifting toward my dagger.
Someone saw the body, saw the knife, and screamed. Someone else joined in. People began running and shoving and pointing.
Damn Lighters—just like them to ruin the moment.
I glanced away from Fowler in time to see Matthias get his throat slit from behind by one of Fowler’s people. The woman winked at me and then slipped back into the crowd without a ripple.
Someone grabbed my arm. It was Fowler.
“Come on!” she said, pulling. I didn’t move. She swore. “Nicco’s got at least two more Arms farther up the street, and I don’t like our chances against them in a fair fight.” I stopped resisting and fell in behind her.
Fowler led me down Echelon Way to an alley called Chipper’s Gap. Scratch was loitering at the entrance. He knocked over a stack of barrels as we passed, blocking off the alley mouth.
We turned into a doorway before the alley ended and followed a short flight of stairs down, cut back along a hallway, then ran up another set of steps. We came out among the leather hides and laces of Petrus the cobbler’s back room. Then through another door, down more steps, and so on, weaving through a maze of connected cellars, gardens, and closely constructed upper stories until we paused inside a recessed archway at street level, four blocks away.
“I take it,” I said, my hands on my knees, my thigh aching, and my breath coming in gasps, “that I’m no longer one of Nicco’s favorite people.”