Smoke and Summons (Numina Book 1)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  Did he think she was pretty?

  Her cheeks warmed. “Um. This is where we found space to live, I guess.” Not “I guess.” Sound sure.

  “We?”

  She swallowed. “My brother and I.”

  The brother she had been desperately searching for when the slavers picked her up. At the time, she hadn’t yet accepted she was looking for a dead boy. The heat in her face instantly iced over.

  She cleared her throat. That must have been the way to summon service, for a girl no older than twelve hurried over and asked what she’d like. Guilt ate at Sandis nearly as much as the hunger did. She was stealing from a child.

  She asked for chicken and cider. The girl bobbed her head and retreated.

  The man across from her was fairly handsome—dark eyes and dark hair with a bit of a curl to it. He needed a shave, but his collar was nice.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Sandis.” She winced internally. Should she have used a fake name?

  “Rone.”

  “Hm?”

  He pointed at his nose. “Rone. My name. There. We can be friendly now.”

  Was she not being friendly? Maybe she was focusing so much on his expressions she’d forgotten to check her own. She cleared her throat a second time.

  Rone slid his cider toward her.

  Thanking him with a nod, Sandis took it, forcing herself to drink slowly. The cider was spicy and sweet, with a hint of cinnamon.

  Rone shifted in his seat so the side of his foot touched the side of hers. He was flirting with her, she was certain, but she didn’t know how to respond. She’d never flirted before. Kazen didn’t let anyone touch his vessels, and he didn’t let them touch each other, either. That was why Rist and Kaili exchanged looks and nothing more.

  “So, firearms. That’s exciting.” His eyes searched her face.

  Sandis forced herself not to turn away. He’s not suspicious. Act . . . pretty. She managed a smile, which apparently was the right thing to do, for Rone matched it and leaned in closer. She said, “I suppose it’s better than cotton.”

  “Why? Cotton is so . . . soft.” His toe rubbed against her ankle.

  Sandis shook her head. “In the factories, little bits of it flutter everywhere. People breathe them in. It collects in their lungs, makes them sick.” Her father had always had a nasty cough from working at the cotton mill.

  “Oh. Um, sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

  She shrugged. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Figure of speech.”

  Sandis turned the empty mug over in her hands. “So . . . do you work at a factory?”

  He grinned again. “Not exactly. I’m more of a—”

  The door to the tavern flung open and smashed into the wall behind it. Without turning around, Sandis knew. Somehow, she knew.

  That pressure began building in her skull again. Spinning around, she saw Galt and four other grafter lackeys push their way into the quiet establishment: Marek, the heavy door guard. Ravis, whose coat she wore. Another two she couldn’t name. Her heart sped until her vision swam. She desperately looked around—window, kitchen?—for somewhere to run.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” The bald man from behind the bar marched out, hands on his hips.

  Sandis’s breathing accelerated. Could she hide under the table? They must have followed her from the bank and seen her come in here—

  Rone’s fingers touched her wrist, and she jumped. His brows knit together. “You all right?”

  She swallowed. Searched for words. Shook her head.

  Rone glanced at the men, who were already shoving the barkeeper aside. “They’re after you?”

  She nodded.

  He grinned. Grinned. Sandis pulled her wrist back.

  “Don’t worry.” He cracked his knuckles. “I’ll take care of them. We’ll discuss payment later.”

  Did he glance at her lips? He definitely winked.

  Sandis was incredibly confused. Then Galt saw her and pulled out a knife, and confusion turned to cold stone.

  Rone’s hands disappeared under the table for a moment, and Sandis thought she heard a brief whir. Then he stood and launched himself at all five men.

  That dreamlike sensation came back to her for a moment as she stared, still frozen in place, her blood pounding through her veins. Rone soared toward Galt and moved like water away from his knife. Grabbed his wrist and brought it up and over his head, disarming him—

  One of the unnamed charged at him, throwing a fist. Rone easily ducked it and dragged Galt down with him—

  But there were three more. Marek pulled a knife. Sandis screamed when it thrust under Rone’s arm and deep into his ribs.

  Rone barely flinched.

  He barely flinched . . . and turned around to slam his knuckles into Marek’s cheek. The man fell back, ripping the knife out as he did.

  No blood.

  There was no blood. No wound. Nothing but a hole in Rone’s shirt.

  Sandis’s mouth fell open. But . . . how?

  The grafters were skilled—they moved quickly, and Sandis had a hard time keeping track of them. But Rone moved quicker. He twisted limbs. Slammed elbows into noses, feet into guts. Another knife stabbed into his collar, but it left no more of a wound than the first one had. Marek went down, followed by Ravis. Rone was fighting the two unknown grafters when that faint whirring attracted Sandis’s attention again.

  Daring to take her eyes off the scene, she lay down on the bench and looked under the table.

  She gasped.

  There, spinning in the air as though held up by invisible string, was a golden ornament about the size of her fist. It was made entirely of gold bent to form a loopy kind of star around a spinning center—the source of the whirring sound.

  An amarinth. Kazen had sketches of similar objects. He’d talked about them before at length. They were incredibly rare artifacts of Noscon make that granted their owners immortality. Brief immortality. What were the rules again? A minute of life for every twenty-four hours of the day?

  Sandis had thought it a legend—perhaps a test of her gullibility—but there was no denying what she’d seen. The grafters’ knives had come out clean, and this golden thing hung in the air before her. How long had it been spinning? Thirty seconds? Forty?

  She dared not touch it, lest she stop its spinning and get Rone killed.

  She looked up as Galt hit the floor, cradling a bloody mouth.

  Rone had an amarinth. The grafters couldn’t hurt him.

  If she took it, they wouldn’t be able to hurt her . . .

  Sandis’s gaze flicked between the amarinth, Rone, and the grafters. Time was nearly up. The grafters were almost incapacitated. She had to choose.

  For the second time that morning, her mind made itself up like a firing pin depressed.

  The second the last grafter fell, Sandis grabbed the amarinth and bolted for the door, losing herself in the crowd before Rone could catch his breath.

  Chapter 5

  Introduce yourself to the pretty girl, he’d thought. Impress her with your protective abilities, he’d thought.

  Now he was chasing her through Dresberg at the busiest hour of the day, and she had his amarinth.

  Idiot. He ran, bulldozing through two children holding hands. They’d get over any scraped knees, but he had to get that amarinth back, or life as he knew it was over.

  That relic was his, damn it!

  “Thief!” he tried, turning heads even as he pushed through them.

  Men, women, and children alike packed the streets and sidewalks. Lunch hour at the factory was the absolute worst time to chase someone. Those who heard him turned about, looking for the accused, but they didn’t know whom to look at, let alone apprehend. Rone was moving as fast as he could, yet barely covering any ground.

  This was exactly why he preferred rooftops.

  He struggled to keep track of the woman who’d shared his cider and then stolen his most t
reasured possession. He stepped on a lot of feet and was battered by a lot of curses, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She pulled up the hood of her coat, which helped her blend in. She wasn’t short, but there were plenty of tall workers in the crowd, and every time she ducked around one, Rone panicked a little more.

  “Thief!” he yelled again. He didn’t have time to contemplate the irony of the accusation.

  Rone growled and crossed his arms in front of his chest as a shield, picking up speed and plowing through the crowd. He burst out onto a new street, where there was an extra finger’s breadth or two between people. He pushed through. Got cussed at. A woman hit him with her bag as he passed. He didn’t care. He had to reach Sandis. He had to reach her.

  How the hell was she moving so much faster than he was?

  Someone shouted a protest far to Rone’s right—he dared to glance over, only to see two of the men from the tavern shoving their way through the crowd just as he had. The stocky man he’d punched in the mouth, the ringleader, and another one of the thugs.

  Good. Whatever trouble she’s in, I hope they catch her! He shook his head and gritted his teeth, barking at two chatting men to move. No, I don’t. If they get her, they’ll get the amarinth.

  He was the stupidest person he knew. Stupid, stupid. Thinking with his pants instead of his head. Idiot, idiot, idiot—

  He blew through the crowd, stumbling onto a bit of street not completely overflowing with people. He was near the end of the exodus. He sprinted as fast as he could. A little farther, and—

  No. Rone stopped. Spun around. Rushed back to the crowd. Weaved through the street. Slipped into one alleyway, then another. No, no, no, no, no!

  She was gone.

  Sandis ran until she couldn’t run anymore. Until her lungs were fraying sacks, her legs rubber bands with no more give, her skin a sweaty mess beneath the coat she dared not take off. She limped down a narrow road packed with narrow flats, not unlike the one she’d grown up in. The smell of the overflowing garbage bin in her path burned her nostrils, but she leaned on the brick wall beside it, out of sight. She closed her eyes, ignoring the looping pieces of hair glued to her forehead with perspiration, and wheezed, trying to catch her breath. After a moment, she slid down the bricks to sit on the road. This one was packed dirt and gravel, no cobblestones.

  Her stomach growled. Leaning forward, Sandis pulled off one of her shoes. The thin sole was filthy, and the fabric stitched to it had started to tear. Her foot was covered in red spots, some raised and filling with fluid. Everything else was bruises. She pulled off her other shoe and gave her aching feet a moment to rest. All she could do now was breathe.

  And pry her fingers off the gold trinket clutched in them. She had to use her other hand to do it—she’d been gripping the amarinth so hard, and for so long, her joints had stiffened and locked. Sandis made a protective wall with her knees and massaged her hand until the artifact dropped out of it.

  She studied its thin, looping bands of gold and the pale, glimmering orb suspended in the center without anything to hold it up. The gold alone would fetch a good price, keep her fed for a month at least, surely. But the actual amarinth . . . it was priceless. Of course, if anyone found out she had it, they’d probably take it from her without a penny passing between them. That, she didn’t doubt.

  She turned the amarinth over, trying to figure it out. Taking hold of one of the gold loops, she spun it. The device made that gentle whirring sound as the loops rotated around each other. Sandis released it, and it fell against her stomach, lifeless. It had suspended itself midair at the tavern. Its magic must have been spent. Yes, that was what Kazen had said. One minute, once a day.

  She grasped the treasure and shoved it into an interior pocket in her coat. She had to stay out of Kazen’s grasp for another twenty-four hours before the amarinth would work for her. And then what? What could she accomplish in a single minute? She couldn’t move the way Rone had. She had no training in martial arts.

  Frowning, Sandis slouched against the wall, stomach grumbling once more. Rone had been nice to her. Helped her. She’d be back in Kazen’s grasp by now if he hadn’t risked himself to protect her. And what had she done? Taken his amarinth. She pressed her palms against her eyes and took a deep breath, then another. She didn’t have the energy—or the water—to cry.

  She was terrible, wasn’t she? But she needed some way to protect herself until she found her relative. Talbur Gwenwig had gold, if he was doing the gold exchange. Sandis would bet he’d have the resources to find Rone again. And Sandis would apologize and give the amarinth back. Get a job at a factory and pay some interest, if she could. But for now, she needed the relic more than he did. He was so confident and so strong . . . She was sure she needed it more.

  Someone tapped her shoulder.

  Sandis jumped, ready to run, but it was only a boy. Seven or eight years of age, she guessed, and in need of a bath. His clothes were thin, and his pants had holes over both knees. He didn’t wear shoes.

  He held out a heel of bread to her.

  Sandis stared at it, then at the boy.

  “My mom says you look like you’re in trouble.” He glanced behind him, to where a woman of about forty years scrubbed clothes in an old washbasin in front of one of the narrow flats. The woman nodded at the boy—or, perhaps, at Sandis—and the boy turned back and continued, “She said she used to be in trouble, too, and we need to support each other.”

  He offered the heel of bread again. With shaky fingers, Sandis took it. A tear burned her eye. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  The boy smiled—he was missing several teeth—and ran back to his mother’s side. Sandis waited for the woman to look up once more; then she nodded her thanks and dug into the heel. It was delicious. It became hard to chew after a few bites—her mouth was too dry and the bread was old—but Sandis kept working on it until the entire thing lumped in her stomach. Then, gathering her courage, Sandis put her shoes back on and limped over to the woman and her son.

  Without speaking, she knelt down and got the next piece of dirty laundry and dunked it into the basin, working out the stains one by one.

  Sandis spent the night on the small family’s porch—it was warm enough to do so. The step was hard and uncomfortable, but Sandis was so tired that for the majority of the night, she honestly didn’t mind. She hadn’t dared accept their invitation to sleep inside. She knew how Kazen’s men worked. When they wanted someone, they hunted down their entire network. It narrowed where the quarry could hide . . . and usually motivated the person to stop running.

  Perhaps it would be better, then, for her to wait for Kazen to give up before trying to find Talbur Gwenwig. To protect him. But if he was rich—and the presence of his name in the gold-exchange record whispered that he would be—maybe he could protect her. Celestial bless it to be so.

  Until she found the man who shared her surname, Sandis fortunately didn’t have a network. It didn’t feel fortunate, but she reminded herself that it was better to keep these kind people—any people—at a distance. They would be safer, and she would be harder to find. Kazen would never want to give up, but even he had to run out of resources eventually, right?

  It would be different if Alys had been the one to run. She had a low summoning level. Sandis didn’t. For one reason or another, her body could tolerate the possession of a strong numen. Though she had never tried, she suspected she could probably go up to an eight on the scale. That made her nearly irreplaceable.

  Of the six vessels Kazen had owned yesterday, three had been capable of hosting a level seven—she, Heath, and Dar. Now he only had one. Heath had died beneath the weight of this Kolosos, and Sandis had run away. Alys and Kaili never hosted anything stronger than a five, whereas Rist had peaked at level six. There was a chance Kazen would never allow her to get away, regardless of the resources it cost him. If that was the case, she may have made a terrible mistake.

  Sandis pondered this as she moved through the c
ity at dawn, the first bells for factory shifts ringing. She crossed through the smoke ring, where most of the factories lay, and coughed her way toward the library.

  The answer was to try to leave Kolingrad. She’d likely starve to death before she got to the coast, and even if she did survive the journey, she’d have to find a way of crossing without alerting the border guard. The ocean in the north was frigid, and no one would dare smuggle a vessel. She could steal a boat, but she didn’t know how to sail. To the south, the mountains were nearly as high as the heavens, and the passes were guarded. From what Sandis had heard, a person needed expensive and rare documents to get past the guards, and a lot of bribe money on top of that.

  Not to mention that by leaving Kolingrad, she’d be leaving the others for good. Alys, Kaili, Rist, Dar. But how would she ever rescue them? She was struggling to rescue herself.

  The triumvirate did not like people leaving the country any more than Kazen liked his vessels leaving the lair.

  She fingered the amarinth as she approached the library. When did it open? Would they let her in? Her clothes were decently clean. She combed her fingers through her hair. She’d only been to the library twice before, both times when her parents and Anon were still alive. Her father had been eager for her and her brother to learn how to read.

  Sandis missed him dearly.

  The library was closed, and so Sandis, hood up, snooped until she found a garbage bin with half an apple in it. She forced herself to eat it, for she had to keep up her energy. She walked the perimeter of the library, searching the road for dropped coins. She did find a penny, but nothing cost so little in Dresberg. She pocketed it anyway and thought of Rone’s amarinth. If things got desperate enough, would she sell it? Surviving Kazen’s men would do her little good if she starved to death . . .

  When the doors opened, Sandis entered without issue. She was unaccustomed to approaching people—Kazen had always kept her in a passive role—but she found a custodian who looked friendly enough and asked if there was a catalog of names.