It was a place where Kazen had found power. And where he still held it.
The rejects, the thieves, murderers, and addicts looked up at him as he walked a narrow path around grime that leaked from the sewers and puddles of groundwater. The wretches all knew who he was. He had lost much as of late, but he had not lost his reputation.
He followed the light of the lamps, the burning kerosene driving back the smell of rot and unwashed bodies. The cavern opened up, giving way to a high black roof where burning lights couldn’t reach. A narrow stream flowed down one side of it, and men with wares or services to offer occupied the other side. There weren’t many of them, but those who had set up blankets and tables boasted more weapons than they did limbs, daring anyone to cross them. He passed a man at a stone table topped with a tent cover selling legal documents for hefty prices. Forgeries, not the real thing—Kazen had a better contact for acquiring such papers. But documents were not his quarry today. Nor did he wish to do business with the Ysbeno slavers across the way. He had his own men for vessel collections, and they were already hard at work, finding him what he needed.
Today, he meant to make a profit.
His target stood behind a ritzy booth in the corner of the cavern, near the narrow stream that eventually let out into the Lime River. Four guards, well muscled and well armed, flanked his station. His rounded table showcased a variety of high-value goods, some of Noscon make, likely stolen from the wealthy or from museums around the country, if not fakes forged by modern hands. He had a small apothecary behind him as well as a chest of the brain dust Galt had so enjoyed.
Thoughts of his old assistant didn’t so much as bend the rhythm of his step as he approached the booth. The guards eyed him, eyed their master, and stayed right where they were.
Siegen always trained his boys well.
The merchant wore a turban on his head to keep off water that sporadically dripped from the ceiling; a drop hit the brim of Kazen’s hat as he set his bag on the table. The man was pale from spending so much time in the dark, but his rounded cheeks and stomach whispered business was doing well. Kazen expected no less from the likes of him.
“Selling today?” Siegen asked, gesturing toward the bag. “Or are you hoping I’ll make that parcel a little heavier?”
“I’ve no need of your trinkets today.” Kazen possessed a “trinket” far more valuable than anything Siegen could ever hope to lay eyes on, let alone sell. A trinket worth even more than what he had in his bag, thanks to the slip of a two-timing hire. That was what happened when one relied upon a broker instead of taking care of business himself. “I have something you’ll be interested in.”
“Surprise me.”
Kazen removed the strips of gold, backed by a special kind of leather, from his bag. As he set them down, Siegen’s eyes widened. “Is that what I think it is?”
Kazen did not smile at the huskiness of the merchant’s voice. Not where the man could see.
“It is.” He removed a few glass vials full of gold flakes flecked with brown and handed one of them to the shorter man, who held it up to the nearest lamp to study it. The merchant would take him at his word. Kazen was always honest in his dealings, where it mattered.
Siegen whistled. “I’m surprised, coming from you.”
Kazen shrugged. “She wasn’t useful to me anymore.”
Siegen reached forward and brought the gold closer, studied it, and weighed it on a scale by his apothecary shelves. “I’ll give you thirteen thousand kol.”
“Let’s not cheapen the merchandise, my friend,” Kazen said, raising an eyebrow.
But Siegen shook his head. “You’re not the only one dealing in remedial gold. I’ve had inquiries from above.”
That surprised Kazen, though he didn’t show it. Surely not Oz, the only other summoner who had clout in these parts. Then who? “Oh?”
Siegen shook his head and pulled out his money box. Two of his guards moved closer, as though waiting for Kazen to make a move. “Don’t ask for details,” the merchant said. “I can’t give them.”
“Don’t presume I care to know, my friend.” Kazen reached his hand forward. “The thirteen will do.”
Siegen counted out the amount twice before handing the bills to Kazen, who counted them again to be sure.
After slipping the money into his bag and slinging the bag over his shoulder, he tipped his hat. “Always a pleasure.”
Siegen nodded, and Kazen retraced his steps.
Even with so much money in his pack, no one dared intercept him.
Chapter 6
Rone’s old flat was still under his name and hadn’t yet been rented to anyone else. He’d paid for the entire month, and there was still over a week left. The apartment hadn’t been ransacked, like his mother’s had been, and as far as he knew, the grafters hadn’t touched it.
Just to be safe, he sought out his old landlord first thing the morning after Sandis’s breakdown in the street and asked to be switched to a different space. He had one available in the same building, but moving would mean forfeiting the rent he’d already paid on his old flat. Rone took the deal without question.
Sandis was . . . a ghost. Pale, except for the dark rings around her eyes. Fragile, like burnt paper. Mute as a cobblestone.
But she went without complaint into the new space. Sat on the floor despite the room’s furnishings. Stared off into another world.
Rone retrieved his provisions from his old flat and made some oatmeal for her. She didn’t touch it. Just sat and stared.
He, Kazen, Talbur . . . they’d done this. They’d broken her. The metallic ball in his stomach rolled back and forth, and Rone swore he tasted blood. As he sat in the silence of his new flat, he couldn’t help but think, Did Talbur let her go, or will he come back for her, like Kazen did?
He glanced Sandis’s way. Talbur was no summoner. Perhaps he wanted Sandis for his own reasons, but he couldn’t use her the way Kazen had. Maybe this would truly be a clean break.
When Sandis fell asleep in the afternoon, Rone hired a carriage to his basement apartment in District Three to gather the rest of his belongings. When he got back, Sandis was awake. At least she’d moved to the couch. The cold oatmeal was gone, the bowl set on the counter beside his.
Rone dumped his clothes in the bedroom, trying to sort out what he could possibly say to her. Sorry your great-uncle is burnt slag? Do you want to talk about it? Are you somehow hungry again?
He sighed. Fortunately, the moment he stepped back into the living space, Sandis broke the silence for him.
“I want my own flat.”
Her eyes weren’t as sunken, and the tear-induced swelling had lifted, but her skin had no color to it. Her posture was rigid and unnatural. She looked like a doll half-painted.
“You can stay here, Sandis. You can have the bedroom. There’s plenty of space.”
“I want my own flat.” Her voice had no inflection. “I can afford it.”
“For how long?”
Her mouth pressed into a line. Rone shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. Tried not to audibly sigh. “I’m not your enemy, Sandis. I want to help you. Just let—”
“Then help me find a new flat.” She stood and grabbed her pack.
“Now?”
She moved for the door.
Rone sidestepped and blocked her path. “We need to talk.”
She shot him a dark glare.
He matched it. “Let’s start with Kazen.”
She shrunk back from him. “Kazen’s dead.”
Doubt squeezed her voice, making it a trickle of what it should be.
Rone rubbed his eyes, thinking. “I’ve looked a couple times around the place where he holes up.”
Sandis took two retreating steps from him.
“The area is quiet,” he pressed on. “Too quiet. Like the locals still have a reason not to trespass there. But none of them will talk to me. They won’t even open their doors. I have to wait for them to come outside to hara
ss them.”
Hugging herself, Sandis said, “You should leave them alone.”
Rone sighed. “No amount of cheap rent would convince me to live there.”
“Not everyone can afford better,” she snapped.
This is going well. Rone chewed on the inside of his lip. She wasn’t ready to talk about it. At least she was talking to him. But the longer they waited, the stronger Kazen would get. The more likely he would succeed in raising Kolosos. Rone was invested in this now. Invested in Sandis.
He studied her. “Did you have . . . another nightmare while I was gone?”
She stiffened.
Silence grew between them. He shouldn’t have asked. After a long moment, he turned toward the door. “Let’s see if we can find you a decent space close by—”
“Do you know where the printing press is?”
He paused, hand on the doorknob. “Printing press?”
She focused on the window. “For the newspaper.”
“Which one?”
“Dresberg Daily.”
“Uh, yeah.” He shifted on his feet. “It’s not far. Why?”
Lifting her chin, she said, “I need to talk to someone named Vetto Dace.”
On the way to the printing press, Sandis gave him a brief explanation of the newspaper article she’d read about missing children; Rone tried not to be sick about it. There was no solid evidence linking it to Kazen, but if it meant something to Sandis, Rone would help her.
He didn’t have any of his own leads on the man, besides. When Sandis’s words ran short, his head began sorting through the contacts he’d made since obtaining the amarinth and taking on the persona of Engel Verlad. He generally avoided really dirty work, but he knew a few people . . .
Someone hit his shoulder as he passed, not even muttering an apology. The streets were crowded, as always, so it was nearly impossible to avoid everyone. Sandis shrunk from the strangers in a way she never used to, even if it meant moving closer to Rone. Her eyes darted left and right, left and right, and occasionally she looked over her shoulder. Rone couldn’t blame her. He often found himself searching for Kazen’s lackeys, too.
The scent of bread pierced through the city’s stench, drawing Rone’s attention to a bakery on the next corner. He smiled. “How about a cinnamon bun? You like those, right?”
She looked at him, then the bakery.
“I’ll get you one.”
She shook her head and trudged forward.
Rone almost had to run to keep up. “Sandis, I’m just offering to—”
“Where did you get the money for it, Rone?” The words were so soft he could barely hear them over the increasing press of bodies on the overcrowded street. “Tell me where you got the money.”
A draining sensation dragged at his bones. He walked alongside her for a long moment before answering. “What do you want me to say, Sandis? Yes, it’s left over from my mother’s bail.” Bribe was a more accurate description, but bail sounded more . . . legal. “Do you want it? Take it.”
He reached into his pocket, but Sandis scoffed and hurried her pace. They hit another throng, however, and it forced both of them to slow.
They took a side street to one of many tall buildings clustered together. A boy hawked day-old newspapers outside one of them. After some searching, Rone found the appropriate door and walked in. A tight foyer greeted him, as well as two men at two parallel desks.
The older one addressed Rone. “What’s your business?”
Rone wrung his hands together like he was nervous. “Uh, I’ve been summoned? By Mr. Dace? He wants a quote for a story . . .”
The man jerked his head toward an adjoining hall. “Up the stairs to the third floor, first right. Don’t touch anything.”
Rone nodded his thanks. Sandis shadowed him, ghostlike, as he followed the direction. Even her steps and breathing were quiet, like she was waiting for something unpleasant.
The first door they reached on the third floor was ajar, so Rone let himself in. Vetto Dace was a surprisingly young man who sat at a small desk in a small office with another journalist. He stood when Rone and Sandis entered, barely clearing five feet. Sandis had at least four inches on him.
“Are you Mr. and Mrs. Terrence?”
Rone blinked. He had been waiting to interview someone. “No,” he answered honestly, putting his back to the other journalist, but the guy seemed absorbed in his own work and paid no heed to them. “I’m here to ask you about an article you wrote.”
“From yesterday’s paper,” Sandis quietly added.
Vetto’s gaze shifted back and forth between the two. A line of confusion marred his brow for just an instant, but he shrugged and sat down. “Which one?”
Sandis answered, “‘Disturbing Increase of Missing Youth Has Police on Alert.’” She said it without hesitation, like it was a mantra she’d been repeating all day long.
Vetto nodded. “Not the kind of thing you’d forget.”
“We’re hoping you’d give us more information on it,” Rone said.
But Vetto shook his head. “There’s legislation about these things. Information the police don’t want published. Details I can’t print because they’re too”—he paused—“gruesome.”
“Because of the bodies?”
Both men turned toward Sandis. She shifted her bag on her shoulder. Swallowed. “That’s what I need to know. The bodies. The article said they were hard to identify. Were they”—she cringed—“Were they inside out?”
Vetto blanched. Stared at her. Nodded.
Rone cursed. He had wanted Sandis to be wrong. Though he suspected Kazen was alive, he’d hoped to face a weakened adversary. He’d wanted this to be easy.
“How do you know?” Vetto asked.
Rone said, “Let’s not get too personal.” He almost put a hand on Sandis’s shoulder, but he stopped himself halfway there. That wasn’t going to help things. Not now.
Vetto retrieved a pencil and tapped it against his desk. “I can’t tell you much. The names I was able to release were cleared by the kids’ families. The others I couldn’t get permission to include.”
“Others?” Sandis croaked.
God’s tower, there were more?
“Almost all the information is from interviews with the parents and a brief meeting I managed to get with Chief Esgar,” Vetto continued. “He doesn’t like journalists.”
“Did he tell you anything else?” Sandis leaned over the desk in a pleading way that made Rone shrink into himself. “Was anyone seen near the bodies or associated with the disappearances?”
The journalist pointed his index finger at a newspaper on the edge of his desk. “I promise you, everything else I was told is in that article. Secrets make for good stories—I include everything I can that won’t get me fired.” He shrugged. “Maybe the police know more, but why would they tell me, or any other citizen, for that matter?”
If only to reassure Sandis, Rone asked, “But they’re thoroughly investigating, right?”
Vetto laughed. “I doubt it. I had to remind Esgar about the case before he remembered what I was talking about.” The laughter snuffed almost as quickly as it had started. Averting his eyes, Vetto said, “One of the corpses that turned up—he was from a wealthy family. They investigated that one until the body was returned home. The rest . . . well, you get what you pay for around here.”
Sandis reeled as though he’d insulted her. She clasped her hands over her heart. The need to reach for her again nagged at Rone.
“Thanks.” Rone offered a departing nod before leading the way out of the press building.
The noise of the city assaulted them when they passed the front doors and took the handful of steps to the road. The enormous buildings around them felt like prison bars, so densely packed that Rone couldn’t see the wall, no matter what direction he looked.
Ten days left, if he were to escape this place.
Sandis walked away from him.
“Where are you going?
” he called after her. When she didn’t respond, he jogged to catch up. Her hands were curled into tight fists at her side.
“The Innerchord,” she said before he repeated the question. “This is Kazen. Someone has to do something.”
“We are doing something. Sandis, they won’t listen to you. They won’t even let you into the Degrata.”
She paused. Moved to the side of the street as a wagon passed. Turned suddenly, staring at the building behind them with wide, terrified eyes.
“Sandis?”
She shivered. Hugged herself. “It’s nothing.”
Rone leaned against the wall, thinking. “The triumvirate won’t—”
“I know.” She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. Shifted away from him and began walking down the road again. Her shoulders were taut, her stride long and shaky. Rone followed her, a pace behind. He didn’t say anything.
Who could help them? His mind searched for names.
Fran Errick had a decent network. Had once hired Rone to steal musket plans from Marald Steffen, a factory competitor. The same sorry lout who’d put Rone’s mother in prison. But would Fran know anything that would help him? He was a sly son of a whore, but he didn’t seem interested in the occult.
Thamus Dakis might know something. He was a scarlet, a policeman. Dirty, shady, and two-faced—the epitome of everything that was wrong in Kolingrad. The man had first tried to hire Rone to assassinate Chief Esgar, of all people, but Rone didn’t kill. He’d do a lot of things, but not that. Though he’d turned down the job and the money, Dakis had come to him again, hiring him to sabotage an apothecary cart and bring two of its chests—heavy chests—to him. Apparently someone had failed to pay a bribe on time, so Dakis had decided to help himself. Rone had spun the amarinth and stopped the cart with his body.
The scarlets let the underground get away with an awful lot, but Dakis would help him if he waved enough kol in front of his face. And money was the one thing Rone had in abundance right now.
Myths and Mortals (Numina Book 2) Page 5
