The Sewer Rats were aptly named for their fondness of the city’s rocky undercrofts, hidden paths, and sunken roads. They had a lair somewhere down there that was absolutely secret from the rest of the guild, a place no one outside of their gang was allowed to tread.
Rosalia didn’t believe much in the power of prayer, but she prayed now for the thieves who made their home in the darkest, dankest tunnels of the city’s underground waste system. Most of them were merely children, their leader a few years shy of reaching his teens.
Please, Lady Fortune. Please spare them. If you spare any of us, spare the little ones.
By the time the pain finally lessened enough for Rosalia to move again, the guards had extinguished the flames. She made her way toward the smoldering remnants of the Pearl where a few embers still shone bright against the sand. There was so little left of the tavern, scarcely more than a burnt husk, gutted by fire.
Inside, she found a single unrecognizable body behind the counter with a metal crossbow bolt in her throat, another corpse near the door.
But she knew it was Hadrian. It could be no one else, his favorite watch reduced to a lump of hot metal around one wrist.
There had to be someone left. Had to be someone who had survived the purge of the city’s thief network. Desperate to meet a single burglar or bandit, she hurried into the warehouse district again and melted into the shadows. There were paths and alleys the common folk didn’t take for fear of attracting Enimura’s criminal element, or worse—corrupt watchmen.
DESPERATE TO FIND ALLIES, Rosalia hurried into Vermeil Hill for the residence of the notorious loan shark Marcolo Aleppo, a man with so much power he’d dragged even the captain of the city watch into his debt. When the legitimate counting houses declined to give a loan, Aleppo’s agents acquired the information and offered sweet deals in his name. And when they failed to meet the terms of the loan, his people gleefully extracted payment in alternate ways—all within the rules of the Thieves Guild, of course. Aleppo liked to have people in his debt, viewing favors as more valuable currency than actual gold.
The four-story building occupied a posh section of Vermeil Hill opposite the district’s main fountain square, flanked by a handful of accountants and finance brokers bribed to turn down key figures throughout the city for loans. There was a carriage outside the narrow alley and several of Aleppo’s men were loading trunks inside. Then she saw the man himself, a figure with broad shoulders and chiseled features, neatly trimmed dark hair, and cool eyes.
Desperate to learn anything about the raids, she rushed from the shadows toward their vehicle, only for the thundering of horse hooves to come bustling from the north end of the street. Watchmen. They arrived in groups of four, filling the streets and wielding crossbows. Each small group appeared to be led by a member of the Royal Guard, identified by their flamboyant red capes.
Aleppo’s men moved into action with their own ranged weapons. As bolts flew back and forth, a swordsman leapt into the fray spinning curved blades as long as Rosalia’s arms in an acrobatic display of martial prowess. All of his bodyguards, save for the one with the swords, resembled desert sand giants. They formed a wall between their boss and his attackers.
Rosalia ducked behind the stone fountain as the battle wore on. There was nothing she could do to help them—the loan shark and his people had been outnumbered three to one by a combination of skilled city watchmen and royal guards. A bolt struck the carriage driver in the chest, and then the doors were torn open. Marco Aleppo fired a round from his pistol. The ball struck one watchmen in the face, getting lost in his eye socket in a spray of blood. He collapsed and fell back, but two more took his place.
She sucked the breath between her teeth. Those things were outlawed in Enimura, possessed only by military officers and viewed as unstable, unnecessary craft by anyone else. Only a few private collectors were willing to take the risk to purchase them on the black market. It didn’t matter. The weapon didn’t help him at all since the ever-increasing squad of watchmen swarmed over the carriage. Guards with truncheons overcame the swiftest bodyguard and beat him into the ground. Soon, the swordsman was a motionless shape on the alley floor.
A pair of royal guards neared the fountain, chuckling from astride their horses. “Shall we burn this building?”
“No. We don’t want to risk spreading the damage to the rest of Vermeil.”
Hoping to find them distracted with their fresh catch, Rosalia searched for an escape route and saw only a narrow path between the jeweler and a tailor. There wasn’t a single shadow, lanterns and city lights illuminating the district square. She froze, petrified by the likelihood of joining Aleppo’s gang and sharing their fate. The moment she moved, they’d see her, but the alternative of lying in the fetal position beside the fountain until they stumbled over her wasn’t any better.
She forced her paralyzed limbs to cooperate and darted out.
“One is getting away!”
“No one escapes! Get them!”
Rosalia ducked to the side, narrowly missing a bolt. It tore through her cloak and pinned it to a wooden post until she ripped it free.
Horse hooves thundered behind her against the cobbled street, and then a tingle of intuition danced across her shoulder blades like the skeletal fingers of death. When she ducked, another bolt missed her by mere inches. It was so close, she heard the whistle of it slicing through the air. It stirred her hood and kissed the edge of the fabric in passing without piercing it.
A desperate running leap threw her onto a short ladder leading to the rooftop.
“Let no one escape!” The royal guard captain’s voice bellowed across the dark skies. “I want every last thief dead or in our custody.”
His declaration filled her body with dread and dropped a lump of ice in the pit of her stomach she couldn’t ignore. While she took the Ghostwalks across the rooftops, a few watchmen broke away and followed her on horseback.
She had to shake them, had to lose them from her trail somehow and take cover at Frederico’s place. She feinted left and whipped a sachet of shade’s dust from her cloak. It exploded against the street below and created a cloud of black, swirling sands enchanted with the essence of shadow. Rosalia darted right, but she stumbled on the ledge and lost her balance. One moment, there was solid roof beneath her and stone molding. In the next, open air and wind rushed up toward her. She was falling.
As she plunged through the city streets below, her final thoughts were of how much she’d never accomplished, the dances she’d looked forward to performing for Frederico, and the promises she’d never keep to teach Jabari the art of legerdemain.
And how much she regretted failing to leave a certain mage’s jeweled mirror alone.
XAVIER BARGED into Frederico’s apartment. The smell of her was everywhere, flooding his nose and his senses with both the smoky scent of her aura and the blasted coverup she’d used to disguise her smell. Whale’s oil and something else, something he couldn’t quite place. While it was a good trick, it was also a cheap one, and he wouldn’t fall for it again. It neutralized everything about her but that subtle hint of djinni spirit that clung like a tenacious note of jasmine smoke at the end of every deep inhalation.
“I’m finished playing with you both. I need to see the girl at once. Right this moment.”
Frederico’s personal suite wasn’t large, and the open kitchen lay adjacent to the sitting parlor where he entertained guests. The man was wrapped in his dressing gown, standing beside the stove with a coffee mug raised toward his mouth.
To his credit, he didn’t spill it. “Many thanks for not shattering the entire door, but she isn’t here.”
“You may think you’re protecting her, or even helping her, but you aren’t. She’s in danger.”
“Funny, but the girl and her associates seem to think you’re the true danger, Xavier. Tell me, why should I turn her over to you?”
Xavier strode up to him and set both hands down on the counter. He leane
d forward, jaw set and ire rising because he’d had enough of idiots for one night. “Yes, she did take something from me, but at the moment, I’m more concerned with her safety. You know me. I don’t care what foolish notions she and that elf have in their heads about mages or revenge. I only want to see her safe, mate. That’s it.”
“Safe from what? If not you, what danger is there?”
“At the moment? Everyone who receives a wage from the crown. I tried to tell that fool elf, but he didn’t heed my warning, and now he’s dead.”
“You killed Hadrian?”
“No!” Xavier raked a hand through his dark hair and growled. “At this very moment, teams of city watchmen and royal guards are combing the city, under orders from the spymaster general to capture all thieves. Those who won’t go peacefully are being murdered where they stand.”
The color leached from Frederico’s face, turning his ruddy skin chalky and pale. “You can’t be serious. That’s... not merely preposterous, it’s impossible! How could they find so many thieves at once?”
“I don’t know, but I witnessed enough out there while searching for her to believe they’ll have the matter all sewn up before sunrise. The streets are running red with thieves’ blood, and she’ll be among them.”
Frederico sagged against the counter. “She went to the beachside to find Hadrian and Mira. Her gang is located out of the Salted Pearl. That’s all I know.”
“The city watch razed the Salted Pearl three hours ago, Frederico. There’s nothing left.”
Grief twisted Frederico’s expression into such earnest despair, Xavier had no doubt the man had spoken the truth as he knew it. “Then she’s dead. She’s gone, isn’t she?”
“No. I don’t think so... not yet anyway. That girl has the luck of the divines on her side, but everyone’s luck runs dry eventually. Where else would she be? You know her better than I do. Where else would she go?”
“She lives in a boarding manor in the Rosewater District. She may have wanted to see if Mira was there. When neither Hadrian nor Mira arrived as promised, she grew worried and ventured out on her own to seek them.”
“I see.”
“You must find her, Xavier. Please. I’d consider myself forever in your debt if you can bring her home to me. Bring my girl home safe.”
“I will.”
With Frederico’s directions to Rosalia’s residence, he broke curfew again and sped down the street under the cover of a minor invisibility charm while watch whistles echoed through the night. He arrived to find the manor in flames and neighborhood residents standing in the streets in varying degrees of undress, most of them clothed in dressing gowns and nightwear, some barefoot and clutching small luggage with what they must have taken before the flames spread throughout the building.
A breathless fellow in only his linen pajama bottoms dashed toward them, out of breath. “I tried... tried to flag down a watchman, but he wouldn’t... wouldn’t hear it.” He gasped in a few thirsty breaths while the eager crowd gathered around him. “They’re on the move toward Silver Hollow. Something about thieves.”
The oldest woman wailed, her keening cry of despair sharper than a knife. “Thieves? That is what occupies the watch? What of the Mages Guild?”
“A sorcerer at their office in the Twilight Gardens said they’ll send a representative soon. I’m sorry, Madam LaVerci. I tried my best.”
A middle-aged man paced the cobbled street and wrung his hands together. He wore the season’s finest style of tailored linen and squinted through the rising shroud of black smoke, gaze darting from the burning home to the adjacent manor. “They had better arrive soon or we’ll all be homeless.”
These people don’t have time to wait for the damned guild, Xavier thought. He hurried up to them as a growing crowd formed behind them, other inhabitants of the neighborhood gathering to watch the flames. “Excuse me. Excuse me, madam. What happened here?”
The presumed homeowner spun to face him, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. “There was a commotion outside of my home, and then suddenly there was an explosion.”
“It rocked the entire manor,” the half-dressed runner agreed. “I was having a smoke on the terrace when it happened.” He nodded to a home across the street facing the boarding house.
“Did you see anything?” Xavier asked.
“Nothing. It sounded like a scuffle though. I heard a woman scream, and then flames started crawling up the building.”
“Do you know if all of your tenants are accounted for?”
“They’re not. There are two young ladies, two girls who live on the second floor. I heard someone calling for help from that direction.” The woman wiped her face with the heels of her palms. “Why hasn’t someone arrived from the Mages Guild yet?”
A young woman stared at the burning home with tears streaming down her cheeks. “There are fires across the city. Those must be more important than our home.”
“Fires the city watch has caused!” shouted another man. “A friend of mine in Gold Valley says he watched them set flame to a shop in the middle veranda.”
“Setting fires?” Madam LaVerci clutched a liver-spotted hand to her heart. “What in the name of the gods could be more important than our lives to the city watch?”
“Something awful,” Xavier murmured. He stared at the building, and then he did the only thing he could do under the circumstances. He shoved up his shirtsleeves and prepared to enter. “Second floor you said? I’ll go in after them.”
Madam LaVerci reached for his arm, a frantic swipe skimming past his rolled cuff. “You can’t, sir. We were lucky to get out with what we were able to grab. It’s death for anyone to go in there now.”
Another member of the crowd muttered, “Look, he’s an elf. Maybe he’s a mage. Mages can do all kinds of things with fire, Madame LaVerci.”
No. Not a mage. Better than that. He was a dragon, and his natural resistance to fire provided all the encouragement needed.
“Rosalia and Mira live in the west wing of the second floor. Please, young man. Save them if you can.”
Xavier raised both hands before him and positioned his fingers in the arcane gestures of a storm summoning. Thunder rolled and a flash of lightning lit behind the dismal, gray clouds that had haunted Enimura for the past two days, and then a light mist shimmered from the sky. He waited a few seconds—precious seconds for the intensifying cool rain to seep through his clothes and slick down his hair—then he charged into the burning building.
The smoke rushed up his nostrils and into his lungs, a mere irritant instead of a lethal hazard. He raised the damp neckline of his tunic above his nose and rushed forward with his left hand before him, channeling energy and forcing the fire to part until he was granted an open path through a home reduced to chaos and ruin. Flames danced across the silk damask walls and spread over the ceiling, great waves of black smoke rising. Heirloom portraits crinkled and blackened. So much beauty gone in seconds.
Please don’t be here. Would a half-djinn have the same immunity to fire as her pureblood parent? He hoped so—no, he prayed so. The stairs creaked dangerously beneath his weight, and the flames racing down the bannister length licked his bare arm. Instead of blistering the skin and searing through him, they left a mild, reddened mark. In a few minutes, that would fade as if nothing ever happened. Being a weredragon had its benefits from time to time.
A few yards from the landing, Xavier found the door to the flat shared by the two ladies. Prepared for the worst and armed with a magical shield, he thrust with his power and blew through it. The door splintered into a hundred scorching pieces, and the expected backdraft washed over him, roaring against the defensive spell. His magic held up against the onslaught, though a hairline fissure formed in the semi-translucent barrier.
“Rosalia! Mira!” He called for either woman, and when no one answered, he entered the plane of fire that had become their suite.
The area was open and spacious but filled with flammable ob
jects, everything from the designer rug on the floor to the bookcases teeming with novels ablaze. Flames engulfed the curtains of a closed window. He found a body in the threshold of a bedchamber, burned beyond recognition but too tall to be Rosalia. Had to be Mira. She’d been wearing black leather.
“Rosalia!”
The rear bedroom was inaccessible, but he didn’t smell charred flesh arising from what he presumed was Rosalia’s living quarters.
If she wasn’t there, it meant she was still on the streets.
He just had to find her before the watch did.
11
ALONE
ROSALIA LAY SURROUNDED by rotten food and filth on an open heap contained in one of the city’s many trash wagons. Someone had tossed horse dung inside of it recently to add insult to injury, but since it had broken her fall, she didn’t have too many complaints.
Shit could wash off. Broken bones weren’t so easily fixed.
While she recovered from the terror of tumbling off a two-story building, she listened to boots rushing past the trash pile and shouts echoing through the night. A pair of them stopped, the watchman winded from the exertion of chasing her on foot.
“Where’d she fucking go?”
“No clue. Blast it all. Could have sworn she’d run this way after trying to trick us.”
They’d caught on to that?
She held her breath and waited until there was silence before she dared to crawl off the wagon. She knocked what she could off her, dropping a few rotten apple cores, banana peels, and equine excrement off her cloak before deciding to ditch the garment altogether. She’d buy another. Eventually.
Was it worth heading to the Rosewater District to search for Mira there?
All That Glitters: a Fantasy Romance (Daughter of Fortune Book 1) Page 9
