by Kirby Crow
“Cervo had the ear of certain Silks who liked to patronize the Colibri, the kind of men who drop enough gold in one night at the Corsair to buy a galleon.”
“A man of many secrets, then. His killers said Marion was still free. Not still alive. Their words point to capture rather than murder. They’ve already had ample opportunity to kill him and have not. That’s why the boys and your wardens were taken: to force the highwarden himself into the Zanzare, where he will be vulnerable.”
Jean could find no hole in that reasoning, much as he wanted to. “I’m with you so far,” he said warily.
“So we find Marion and we protect him. We get him back to the Citta Alta. The search will go faster if we split up.”
Jean snorted. “You’ll be buggered and knifed before a ganger talks to you down here. You may be a Sessane, boy, but you’re not the man your father is.”
Tris looked away and his cheeks colored with a pink flush. “I know,” he said quietly.
Guilt pricked at Jean. He didn’t have to say that, did he? “Brave, though,” he murmured grudgingly. “Marion will be looking for our people, too. Our best chance to find him is to find them.”
“What would you have me do?”
“Exactly what I tell you.” He tossed the cup into the bucket and drew himself up to his full height. “You're going to owe me for this one,” he stated.
Tris stood and bowed in acceptance. “Agreed, messere.”
Jean plucked a warden’s coat from its nail and shook it out. “This next bit will be unpleasant.”
***
Franny lounged with his shoulder to a wall, watching a game of dice. The players were crouched on their knees in a damp alley adjoining the Plaza Soldi, hooting and laughing as the dice were thrown.
Franny spied Jean and spit on the cobblestones running with filth from the fish market. “What d'you want, cocksucker?” His voice was slurred and he stank of sour beer. “And what's this?” He eyed Tris. “Zoccola. Bought yourself another pretty man? I don't got time for whores.”
Jean glanced at Tris. Tris’s lips were parted and his cheeks were red, as if he’d just been slapped.
Guess no one’s ever called him a whore before, Jean thought. It made him want to bash Franny in the teeth. “Shut your filthy mouth, Franny.”
Franny sneered. “They call me Granchio now.”
“We need to have a talk, Franny.”
“Fuck you.”
“Big talk for a little shit about to be bait.” Jean squared his shoulders and glared at the gamblers.
The men saw the black coats, Jean's bulk, and the penned violence in his stance. They hastily gathered their dice.
“Here now, you don’t gotta go because of these bastards!” Franny protested. He narrowed a look at Jean. “And I ain't fish food.” He fingered the flap of a pocket near his belt. “Jus' you try it.”
Knife or pins? Jean was more worried about a knife, but a well-thrown pin could blind an eye. He decided not to take any chances.
He turned, swept his leg, and took Franny’s ankles out from under him. Franny’s head smacked the mossy stones with a wet sound. He laid there and cursed with spittle flying from his mouth, just like when he was ten.
“Fuckin' shit-eaters!” Franny raged. “Think yer high and mighty, don't you? Just you wait! The Archer will put paid to all you rich maggots! He'll thread Casterline’s little balls on fishhooks!”
The gamblers fled.
Jean drew back his boot to kick Franny into silence, but Tris was there before him. Tris kicked Franny twice in the ribs, waited until Franny got his breath back, then set his heel squarely on Franny’s groin until the man keened like a dog.
Jean grinned at Tris. The Sessane brat was smiling like he stomped cojones every day of his life, eyes narrowed, no mercy at all. Jean decided he liked that look on Tris. “You might not want to say bad things about Marion just now, Franny.”
Franny tried to cup his groin under Tris’s boot and gagged.
Jean glanced around. The alley was not deserted. A small knot of onlookers peered in from the mouth of the avenue, but they saw wardens and came no further. He looked at Tris and nodded.
Tris pressed harder with his heel.
“Fuck you,” Franny whined.
“If you don't tell me what I want to know, your fucking days are shortly about to be over,” Jean said. “Why did you kill Cervo?”
“Who?” Franny gasped.
“The bookseller.”
Franny shook his head. “Can’t,” he got out, sounding like he was choking. “Fuck you. Won’t.”
Jean slipped a knife from his belt. “It wouldn’t make much difference to that ugly mug of yours if I cut off your nose, but I bet you’d miss an eye a lot more. Now tell me why you killed the old man.”
Franny’s eyes grew comically wide as Jean drew a thin red line across his cheek. “Big mouth!” Franny babbled. “He opened his big mouth to the jailer, told him what the iron was for.”
And Paris had promptly melted all those iron parts down. Jean didn’t even want to guess how much gold the Archer had lost on the shipment. Poor Cervo. What good was all his knowledge to him, in the end? It had only gotten him killed.
“Good, Franny. Now tell me where they are.” Jean pushed the very tip of the knife into Franny’s chin. “The children. My wardens.”
Spit ran from Franny’s lip. “Get fucked.”
Tris kicked Franny in the balls.
Franny rolled over and vomited.
Jean’s nose wrinkled at the smell. “You’ve pissed yourself, Franny. Be a good rat and tell me what I want to know, and maybe I won’t break your neck, next.”
“Fortezza,” Franny moaned, weeping. “He’s moved ‘em to the Fortezza. Owwooo,” he wailed. “You fuckers, you busted my—”
Jean punched him in the jaw, made sure he was out cold, and grabbed one of his legs. He nodded at Tris. “Get the other.”
They dragged Franny to a bench and propped him upright.
“Stupid prick. If only he was as smart as he is stubborn. Someone’s going to dump him over the wall one day. What a sad loss that will be.” Jean put his hands on his hips and took in Tris’s flushed face and the brightness of his eyes. “You enjoyed that,” he observed.
Tris looked guilty for an instant before shrugging eloquently.
Jean grinned. “I might just wind up liking you, puss.”
Tris beamed as if complimented by Paladin himself, and Jean could not help but see how lovely his smile was, how bright his eyes shone, and then all hell broke loose.
A buzzing whine sailed past Jean’s ear. Crossbow. He had no time to grab Tris and hurl him to safety. The men came at them from the back of the alley, seven of them. Not the pathetic ones who had assaulted Tris, but men with muscle who moved purposefully.
Jean put one down with a solid punch to the nose, broke the kneecap of another. A third came at him, swinging a crossbow like a club
“Run!” he shouted at Tris.
Tris was pinned against the wall, struggling with a ganger who towered over him.
Jean broke a man’s nose with his elbow, punched another in the eye, feeling the brow-bone give under the hammer of his fist. Close-quarters fighting, quick and dirty.
Five men down. The sixth was a green-eyed devil; auburn curls and pretty mouth, with the moves of a swordsman. He dodged Jean’s fists easily, slipping away and smiling, every muscle trained to cat-like precision.
Jean halted, head down, preparing to charge the slippery bastard like a bull, but froze when he felt the chill of steel at the back of his neck.
“Hold.”
The voice was colder than the steel, hardened and merciless.
Jean recognized that tone and stilled instantly. “Let the boy go.”
“I think not.”
The man holding Tris spun him so his face was pressed to the wall, folded Tris’s arm behind his back and jerked upward on it. Tris cried out once in pain, then bowed his head, silent
and trembling.
Jean gritted his teeth at the sound of that cry. Bastards! “What do you want?”
“I have what I want.”
Jean felt the blade at his spine move slightly as the man gestured. Tris was hauled roughly away from the wall and shoved down the alley.
Jean curled his hands into fists and watched helplessly as they took Tris away. He knew that voice. It was useless, but he had to try. “Don’t be stupid. That’s a city warden. You can’t—”
“Please.” The voice dripped with scorn. “I know exactly who the boy is.”
Two of the gangers remained, and the one holding the blade. A hard shove struck Jean between his shoulder blades. He stumbled, already turning, ready to fight.
Archer raised his hand. “Stop,” he said quietly. He was dressed in black from head to foot. “Please don’t. I'd rather keep you alive. If not, you're still too fine a man to bleed out in an alley. I intend to let you go.”
“Fuck you,” Jean snarled. “I’m not going anywhere without Tris. He’s done nothing to you. He’s just a boy.”
“Oh, he’s much more than that,” the green-eyed one said, grinning. His voice was young. “He's an instrument of justice, one that will be exacted on Kon Sessane.”
“Come closer and smirk, boy.” Jean clenched his hands and turned his wrists like wringing water from a towel. “I dare you.”
“Don’t let Thorn annoy you,” Archer said. “He delights in taunting his opponents, a vice I do not share.” One stern glance silenced Thorn and wiped the smile from his face.
“Whatever Kon has done, his son had no part in it,” Jean said.
“I know,” Archer said serenely. His men did not lower their weapons. “But he will serve as a powerful leverage when I have warden Casterline.”
Jean studied Archer, seeking for weakness, some human thing he could touch. The man seemed made of ice. “Please,” he said at last. “Not Marion.”
Archer cocked his head to the side, as if examining a peculiar puzzle. “Tell me, would it be a service to you if I made young Sessane disappear? You’d be there to comfort your bell'uomo, make him yours again. No more rivals.”
Jesu’s blood. The man was a demon, after all, offering things Jean’s darkest moods whispered to him in the night. “No.”
Archer smiled. “Why?”
“Maybe I just want his pretty ass for myself.”
Archer laughed and his gray eyes narrowed to slits. “How perfect.”
Something in the tone, the way he tilted his head ever so slightly, as if mocking even himself. Jean was struck again by the resemblance. It was much more than coincidence. It had to be. “What do you want from me?”
“Only your hands.” Archer chuckled when Jean snarled at him. “Calma, my friend. I don't mean to remove any parts of you. I merely wish for you to carry out a task.”
“There are men out of work on every street, and you don't look like you’re strapped for coin.”
“I'm not, but this is a very special job,” Archer replied easily. “My patrons have deep pockets, and they've made it plain that they chafe under Sessanei rule. They've made it plain with gold and silver, the very truest of pledges.
“Do they know they're supporting a Sessane still?”
“My chance resemblance will actually serve me in this case,” Archer said blandly, giving nothing away.
Jean shook his head. “I know the man, remember? You have his voice, his hands, his eyes. You're his blood.”
Archer frowned and looked at his hands, spreading his fingers. The knife glittered as his wrist turned. “I didn't think I had his hands,” he said thoughtfully. “I didn’t remember. That's a shame.”
Jean knew he had turned a dangerous corner. “This city barely survived the death of Aureo Marigny. We still bleed from the wounds left by the Teschio. Whatever hate you have for Kon, the rest of us don’t deserve your revenge.”
The smile the archer turned on Jean was glacial. “But I don’t want to destroy your city. Not at all. Only some of you.”
Tris. “Don’t do it.” Jean was astonished to hear himself pleading. “Not to an innocent.”
“I’ve heard about the Reed Gate, warden. When did you ever care about the murder of innocents?”
The wisest course was to kill Archer first. Unarmed, Jean guessed he could kill one before the rest took him. He fixed his gaze on Thorn, lowering his shoulders, ready to charge.
Archer divined his intent. “Stop,” he said quickly, raising the knife. “I said I needed your hands. Do something for me, and I will return the boy, for now.”
It was a slim chance, which was better than none. “Tell me.”
“Help me take Kon Sessane’s life apart piece by piece.”
Jean gritted his teeth. “If you hurt Tris, I'll take you apart.”
Archer inclined his head in a show of respect. “I believe you. I wondered if you were attached to the boy. I see you are, and so this leverage works both for and against me.” He hesitated, then shoved his knife into a sheath at his waist. “Let us pretend for a moment that we're honest men. If I were an honest man, I would admit to you that my months in the Zanzare have proved something to me: My time has not come. Not yet. The city is not ready. If I were foolishly honest, I might admit that I am not ready. Our numbers are too few, and they're not the kind of men I need to conquer a city. I wait now for my ship and the tide.”
Jean spread his arms in an empty gesture. “Just like that? You'll pack up and go?”
“Not as easy as that. I didn't say I had acquired no good men, just too few of them. Some of those will remain to continue my work while I marshal my forces at sea.”
“We beat the Starless Men once. What makes you think we can't do it again?”
“That was history, Jean. I am the present.” Archer shook his head. “When I return, it will be for the last time. I'll either win or I'll die, but I won't die alone. You can save the men you love, or you can perish with them.”
Get Tris back. Keep Marion safe. That was all that mattered. “What about my wardens, and the boys you stole?”
“They will be returned. Do as I ask, and I will spare them all.”
“And Tris.”
“Him, as well. But beware,” Archer held up his finger warningly, “my price is final. Play me false and the next time I strike it will be without mercy or warning.”
Jean thought of Lody and Kell, and of the way Tris had felt in his arms. Archer spoke of honesty. If he was being honest, he’d stopped feeling anything for Kon a long time ago. Everything but anger.
History, he thought.
He gave Archer a feral grin. “If you hurt Marion or the boy, I’ll hunt you down and sever your cock.”
Archer took the threat in stride. “Warden Casterline chooses his own path. If what I've learned of him is true, neither threats nor bribes will sway him from his loyalties.” He smiled. “But you might.”
“How?”
“Why, with the truth, il principe.” Archer pulled his black hood up and turned away. “Of course, with the truth.”
MARION
Marion waited with Silvere by a narrow canal that flowed past a ruined house with a red-tiled roof. The stink of the stagnant filth clogging the waterway made his head ache. He'd nearly forgotten how thick the stench could be.
The Archetto Bridge was their rallying point. Marion had sent twenty wardens west, another twenty east. Finding the boys had to be his priority. If he hadn’t succeeded before the Drake began her attack, he’d never find them in the mayhem.
Silvere glanced up and down the street. “Do we split up?”
Marion was about to suggest just that. “I'll take the Reed Gate, if it's all the same to you.” Graceful Silvere was at ease in the halls of the Consolari, but he could take care of himself and he was no stranger to slums.
Silvere spat into the street and adjusted his knives. His white hair was ghostly against his blue-tinged skin. “And if I find our men and the boys first?”
Marion pitied any ganger who marked Silvere for an easy mark. “Take them back. Don't look for me. Just go.” He would have welcomed the azure at his side, but dividing their efforts gave the best chance of success.
Silvere took five of the wardens with him. Marion and his remaining men moved north, ducking into alleyways, under awnings, staying close to the shadows that were growing shorter by the moment. The Zanzare was waking up. Young men were appearing in doorways holding strings of smoked fish for stewing, or carrying baskets of laundry. They glanced at him curiously, their eyes sliding over his black warden’s coat before looking away. Black turned curious eyes away. There was little respect for wardens in the Zanzare, only an abundance of distrust and resentment.
They navigated the complex maze of narrow brick streets between canals, hearing men stirring behind shutters of woven reeds. The sunrise glow flashed intermittently between narrow buildings stacked haphazardly one upon the other like an endless set of child's blocks. Snatches of conversation floated from open casements, along with laughter, flesh-slapping sounds of sex, and a shouting match between a jealous couple. They encountered many cats but few dogs. Dogs had too much flesh on them to survive long here.
They crossed the wooden footbridges of several canals leading to the Reed Gate, and before the last one, Marion sent the four wardens into opposite directions, with orders to return at once to the Archetto if they found anything.
He continued onward over the last bridge, the planks under his boots creaking so loudly that he was certain they would give way. Once across, he was slightly amazed to realize he’d taken a wrong turn and arrived at a dead end, a brick wall rising before him.
“Shit,” he muttered.
A hand gripped his shoulder and spun him around.
Marion turned with his right hand clenched into a ready fist. “Jean,” he said flatly.
Jean grinned. “You're getting slow. Time was, I'd be on my ass in the street missing a tooth by now.”
“I'm not amused, Jean. You're not funny, do you hear?” Marion considered hitting him anyway. “I used to think that roguish act of yours was fucking dazzling. Now it's just tedious.”
