by JM Guillen
It wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be.
“You had what you needed.” Her voice was sharp but also a bit too shrill. “I did what you asked. It’s done.”
Blythe was shaking his head. He reached across the table and traced his fingers along the side of her face.
“You don’t say when it’s done, little Sefra.” His voice was soft but held the iron edge of command. “You know what’s at stake.”
She said something else then, something I couldn’t quite hear. Still, my entire world was spinning on his words.
“Sebaste doesn’t know scut nor the dog that left it. Not yet.” He gave her a grim smile. “If you’re a good girl, it will stay that way.”
Frantically, my mind grasped at what this meant.
She had set me up.
I hadn’t met Sefra by accident that night. No, she had been set there for me to find, a pretty flower, made up just right. She had taken me to a revel, we had gotten stone drunk—
And then there had been men, Twilight Blades, waiting for us in my flat.
But that didn’t make any sense. She had been just as startled as I had been. I was certain of that. If she were friends with the Blades, why had she beaten one of them ragged?
What exactly was it that Sebaste didn’t know?
That was when Wil stepped into the room.
It was an odd effect, like a stone being cast into a still pool. None of these fine citizens wanted a judicar watching over their affairs. Many of the seated folke turned their backs to him, and there was a disquieted murmur that spread through the room.
“More later.” Blythe’s beady eyes were affixed on Wil, and he stood. “We aren’t through, not by a long throw.”
Then, he disappeared into the crowd.
“Firs’ match!” A young Kabian, no more than in his ‘prenticing, stepped up on one of the tables. “Firs’ match! Fowler ’gainst Redmon! Firs’ match!”
At this news, much of the crowd began filtering to the stairwells, off behind the betting cages. I cursed to myself, torn between choices.
I had told Wil I would head downstairs while he looked about for “Abrahm Wickett.” Of course, Abrahm Wickett wasn’t present. He was a man who had been exiled to take the Vigilant watch more than a year ago. Still, we had sent Scoundrel for the writ, so as to be all official. Wil had a reason to enter here, even if it had been sussed up from mist and spit.
Really though, Wil was just here in case things got nasty. This way, I could slip around and handle business, and at the end of it all, I would probably still have my teeth.
One could hope.
But now, Sefra was sitting not ten strides from me and seemed to have an answer or two I might need. I felt that I could trust her, but then that’s what I wanted, wasn’t it? To trust her?
“She could have opened my throat.” I mused softly to myself. It was true, of course. I had been completely at her mercy. All she had to do was wait until I fell asleep…
Too much didn’t make sense.
I glanced back at Wil and noticed that he had marked me. With little more than his eyes, I could see his disdain for me, hear his mocking tone:
Lisa, I can’t help but notice you sitting there like a wart on a wino! Get moving!
I scowled at him, trying to nod toward Sefra, but apparently I wasn’t as skilled in nonverbal communication. He shook his head, the tiniest of movements, before pretending to scan the crowd again.
I sighed, wishing he had heard Blythe. Sefra could change the board, if I understood a thing or two about what was happening. Still—
Cutter Greene. I was here to see Cutter Greene.
I nodded once in Wil’s direction and then shuffled off for the stairwell. We had agreed that I needed to keep my distance from him; anyone marking the judicar might happen to recognize me as well.
Then, we’d just have to take our throw. If the die showed singles, we didn’t have another play.
I stepped to the stairs, casting about once more for Sefra. Maybe if she saw me—
No. She was gone.
I sighed and then stepped down the stairwell, into the bowels of the Coilwerks.
2
The room below was everything I had expected it would be, crammed with sweaty bodies, stinking with tabac smoke, and filled with the cries of onlookers, everyone waving their chits and yelling. What I had not expected was how large it was. The stairs went so deep that the room was easily two-stories tall, lined around one side with open ventilation windows.
I eyed the windows. I was certain they had once been important, probably ventilation for some variance of Gyro-resonance, but I wished they were a little lower down.
It would have been nice to have another way out.
As I walked down the last few stairs, I could see the men in the center of it all, on a raised platform, beating nine colors of taint out of each other. The room wasn’t pretty. It smelled atrocious, stinking of human sweat and blood and the lust for violence. The few lights were overhead gas lamps, swinging slowly on long chains. They cast bent shadows over the crowd, twisting faces into something less than human.
As I stepped forward, I could see the fight. I got a clear view of a red-mustachioed man getting wrenched in the face by the other man’s bare fist. The crowd bellowed its approval, many cheering Redmon’s name as the man swung again.
Technically, brutality of this type was unlicensed and actionable in the Legate Courts. Oh, there were no illegal offenses happening here, nothing any judicar would go out of their way to step into, but guild protocols were definitely being snubbed. There was an established Guild of Competitive Pugilists, run mostly by Kabian families over in Fifth Quarter. They kept a tight stranglehold over the sport and made a stout living by sponsoring fighters.
This fight, where one Mister Redmon was bloodily and savagely caving in the face of one Mister Fowler, was absolutely not guild sponsored. The guilded matches were run in common houses and small arenas, the most popular of which was two, quite large boroughs away. They drew the gentry and the various city ministers to locations far more dignified than this one.
The problem wasn’t simple legality; it was that no one seemed to care. This was the business of the Twilight Blades, and they kept things pretty quiet. The fighters knew exactly what they were in for, and the winners got quite a purse for their bruises.
The losers, the lucky ones at least, got the services of a docieren. The more unfortunate brawlers were hauled away by the Cryptmen, but I doubted that happened all too often.
“Another!” A young woman across the way, sat on the shoulders of some strapping man, presumably her beau. I found it odd that he didn’t seem to mind that her blouse hung open. “Hit him again!” She arched her back, as if taunting the men.
I doubted either one could even see her through the blood, much less be inspired by her ample assets.
If, just once, the Pugilist Guild had filed a complaint or a notice of unsanctioned conflict, Wil and I would have been down here to close the place in a nonce. It would have been a pleasure, honestly. The Blades weren’t doing the Warrens a service by keeping this place open.
Yet the guild did not.
I didn’t know if they simply didn’t care about some street-rat fights in a ruined building in the Warrens or maybe if they had been paid to look the other way. No matter what the reason, five nights out of nine, the Coilwerks did a brisk business, and as long as no fighting spilled into the streets, it really wasn’t my concern.
“Win!” A portly man in a vest and tallhat stepped onto the stained, wooden platform where the men were fighting. Redmon was straddling Fowler’s chest, pounding his face with bloodied fists. Each strike thudded wetly into Fowler’s face, and the man was not moving.
The crowd roared.
As I watched, I tried to scan the crowd. If Cutter was half Kab, he’d at least share some of their dark coloration. Add to that a large, bald man and I thought I might be able to recognize him.
Exc
ept no. No one like that was anywhere to be seen.
“Redmon! Redmon!” The crowd was chanting the man’s name as the portly gentleman held his hand aloft. Even though he was screaming jubilantly into the crowd, Redmon didn’t honestly look as if he were much better off than poor Fowler; he was just the one who could walk. As he stepped toward the edge of the platform, the crowd surged forward, looking as if they were going to carry him away.
“Match two!” It was the same small Kabian boy, his skin midnight black. Up on that platform, he stood on a small wooden box he had dragged out. “Match two, Morgan and Harland! Match Two!”
The crowd shifted as those without any wagers on the second match shifted backward, while those who had an interest came forward. I pushed through the crowd, trying to seem as inconspicuous as possible.
I never knew who might be on the Blades’ pay roster.
I kept moving around as the fight progressed, and Harland began to pummel the smaller man’s face into the wood of the platform. Morgan’s blood had been drawn in one quick nonce, and I was pretty sure that the man had lost a tooth or three to the hard wood of the platform.
It was looking bad for the shorter fellow.
Therefore, when Morgan reached up and smashed one giant fist between Harland’s legs, grabbing his sweet bits and twisting, the crowd went absolutely mad, howling with delight. The portly tallhat rushed back out and pushed the two apart with some difficulty. Harland looked as if he might retch up his supper right there and staggered forward.
Apparently there were some rules.
Hartland stumbled to one side, where a supporter stopped him from falling to the ground. I caught myself wondering if that might be it for the man when my gaze settled on the far side of the room, on a large, bald man sitting against the wall, smoking a small pipe.
Cutter Greene. It had to be.
Not only was he quite large, and not only was his skin a touch deep, but he just had the look of a man who fought in the ring. He was dispassionate about the entire affair, watching Hartland get his tenders crushed with no more concern than another man might mark the time.
I slipped through the crowd, keeping my eyes on Cutter. It would be just my throw to see him and then lose him in the crowd. When I got close, I leaned up against the wall next to him.
I didn’t know how to begin.
I couldn’t let him know who I was, of course. For all I knew, Cutter was Sebaste’s half-brother or something equally ridiculous, and knew that the guild had a mark out on me. I ran my fingers through my hair, cursing before I replaced the three-corner hat.
I had spent so much time wondering how to find the man that now that I thought I’d found him, I wasn’t certain what to say.
I was just going to have to take my throw.
“Cutter?” I leaned close, hoping he could hear my brilliant eloquence.
“Yup.” His tone was distracted. He didn’t even look toward me, keeping his eyes focused on the match. Tainted night, he gave his pipe more attention than he did me.
“Wondered if you could lend me a nonce.” I cleared my throat. “I’ve wanted to chat with you for a bit now.”
“I won’t take a fall, and I don’t care about the odds.” He still sounded bored. “You can take your wager like any man.” He took a drag on the pipe and exhaled sweet smoke.
“No. It’s not the fight.” I spoke a touch softer, hoping he could hear me. “It’s about Rebeka.”
In that moment, everything about the man’s demeanor changed. In mid-draw from his pipe, he froze. Then, he turned his head toward me, slowly, deliberately.
“I’m looking for her.” I could already see the beginnings of anger smoldering in his eyes. From seemingly nowhere, a complete falsehood sprang to my mind, fully formed. “She brought food to my mum, did right by the family.”
“Oh.” He seemed to relax. “I thought…” He paused, as if he felt he needed to explain his momentary frustration. “There have been others, feckless Red Hands poking around for her.” He shook his head. “I didn’t expect you were one of Elsador’s.”
What? The last sentence might as well have been his fist. For a moment, my pulse pounded in my ears, and I understood exactly how poor Hartland’s tenders must be feeling.
My mind scrambled.
Because, of course, I was one of Elsador’s. Elsador was the Devout who we associated with story and song, obviously. But her faith also saw to the needs of the poor in the Warrens, including the Havens, the largest orphanage in the city.
It happened to be the orphanage where I had grown up. I had even kept the name “Havenkin” instead of taking a trade name, mostly as a means of honoring the work that Elsador’s Cantorès did.
Did he know who I was?
“I warned her, you know.” His voice was distant and more than a little hard. “Rebeka had a good heart, and I was well pleased that she chose to care for the poor. But she took on dangerous routes, almost as if she didn’t even have any care for the rough folke who lived there.” He took another draw. “No reason for it, either. Always said she knew she’d be safe.”
He doesn’t know. The thought was like thunder in my mind. It was why he seemed off his stride about the Red Hands hunting after her. He had no idea who Rebeka’s brother was. If he did, he wouldn’t even question why she wasn’t afraid of the streets.
“I wasn’t too surprised when she went missing.” He gave me a sideward glance. “Tragedy, however it happened. She gave her life to Elsador. I hope the judicars find who took her and cast them beyond the bounds.”
I nodded, but my mind had caught on a few choice words. She gave her life to Elsador. If that were true…
My heart leapt as I realized that I might already know Rebeka. I was extremely familiar with Elsador’s faithful, even today. She would be a young Esperan woman, would be about—
Oh. Oh, lost gods.
It was Rebeka Ortiz.
She was a wonderful young woman, with long, curling hair and a smile that could make the sun shine. I had seen her at services or making her rounds for the poor. I had never connected it.
I knew her. She always teased with me, made me laugh.
Like a torrent of molten gold, the serum smoldered in my blood, and my eyes opened wide.
“The Smiling Lady.” He played a card with a beautiful, dark-haired woman on it. She seems familiar somehow.
“She’s one of my favorites.” He caresses the card, smiling as he plays it.
Seemed familiar. Forgotten and forsaken gods, but I had known her all along! I had simply assumed she tended to the poor at her brother’s word, but that wasn’t true at all. As I silently swore to myself, the words of the Warren’s Spider came back to me, mocking me.
“Santiago’s sister?” Her eyebrow arched again. “I know who you are looking for, Judicar. My concern is that you do not.”
I had to get to the Havens. I took the ridiculous hat off and ran my fingers through my hair, my mind scrambling. This was what I had missed. I could have gone to the Havens at any time, I just hadn’t thought—
“Win!” The tallhat held up Hartland’s bloody hand. I hadn’t even noticed his comeback, but I couldn’t help but wonder how he had stood so strong.
“That’s my cue.” Cutter gave me a tight smile. “Let’s see if the odds are right.” He stuck out a hand, and I shook it, almost by reflex. I hadn’t expected the sudden end to the conversation.
“Third match!” It was the same dark-skinned boy, standing on his box. “Greene ‘gainst Cogman! Third match!”
“Knuckleduster!” A group cried the name from one side of the room, and there were raucous cheers. I watched the crowd, completely oblivious to it all as my mind tumbled my thoughts, and I felt the golden sheen fade from my veins.
I needed to get to the Havens as soon as I could. They would have information that I could get nowhere else on Rebeka and be happy to give it.
I watched as one Mister Cogman stepped up against my new friend Cutter Greene. If I
had to lay my own odds, then Mister Cogman had none. He was almost a third the size of Cutter, and this was a sport where reach and weight mattered. I leaned against the wall, wishing I had laid a wager of my own.
As I watched, I realized I still had questions unanswered. Where had Cutter taken Rebeka the night that the Warren’s Spider watched them? My mysterious assassin-y associate had reason to suspect him, but I didn’t know what it was. Of course, she had no contacts at the Havens that I was aware of, so that must not be the piece of evidence she was after.
Had Cutter told me anything at all, really? Obviously, it served him well to be grieving and angry about the disappearance, but he hadn’t actually told me much of import—only accidentally informed me of Rebeka’s Havens’ affiliation.
“Knuckleduster! Knuckleduster!” The crowd cheered as Greene swung wide, catching Cogman on the side of the head. It looked as if I was right; this wouldn’t take long at all.
As I watched, thinking about the path ahead, my brow slowly furrowed.
Perhaps I should hang about and speak with Greene again after. I had more questions than answers, after all. Could it be that he had in fact discovered who Rebeka was? He did seem to be a fixed personage in a location known to support the Twilight Blades. Making Rebeka vanish could, after all, be the first volley in a very nasty guild war.
Bryanna Gould could attest to how nasty, how underhanded Warrens’ politics could be.
As I mused, I realized that my conversation with Greene was far from over. Perhaps I needed to follow him when he left; it would be far easier if I could play the judicar when we spoke. Here, that was impossible, but—
My train of thought was interrupted as the crowd surged forward, screaming bloody madness. I jerked my head back to the fight, only to see the smaller Cogman delivering a stunning series of punches and kicks, all in a blindingly fast array. My heart stopped in my chest, and my eyes grew wide.
Is kicking even legal? I had to guess that it wasn’t, as the portly man was frantically rushing onto the wooden platform. The damage was done, however, as Cogman leveled an odd, leaping kick, straight to the side of Greene’s face.
