Sworn in Steel

by Douglas Hulick

  I’d spent the remainder of the morning and most of the afternoon making my way across Ildrecca. Normally, it wouldn’t have taken this long, but it was a minor festival day—the Celebration of the Muster of the Lesser Host had fallen on the same day as the Feast of Tzemicles, angelic patron of alchemists—and the streets of the central cordons were filled with revelers and guild parades and those legionnaires lucky enough to draw a black bean and get the day off. Even the alleys had been busy. Between the Morts doing their trade up against the walls, the drunks spewing their festivities back out onto the cobbles, and the Tapsmen ambushing and robbing the lost and unwary, it had sometimes seemed there was hardly room to move.

  That had also made it harder to nose for information, which was the other thing I’d been doing—or, at least, trying to do—on my way home. News of Fowler? None. Had anyone heard where the news about Crook Eye had surfaced? Not a soul. Nothing but quick shrugs, ducked heads, and vague mumblings that sounded like answers but told me nothing. The street, it seemed, had little to share.

  Not that it was eager in any case. I was a Gray Prince now, and the Kin preferred to talk about their princes rather than to them. Street wisdom held that Princes were everywhere, that they had their hands in everything: To attract their attention was to become their unwitting tool. As reputations went, it had its appeal: No one would bother you, and few would cross you. But in practice? It made street life damn annoying, especially if you were used to working on it.

  Part of me had been hoping I might prove to be the exception, that my recent pre-Prince status would let me bridge the gap between cove and crime lord. But it didn’t work that way, and most Kin weren’t willing to take the chance. I might have been of the street a few months ago, but that history counted for naught after my rise. There were no easy mumbles or loose whispers to be had—not by me. Not anymore.

  None of which was helping me find Fowler, dammit.

  I took the next turn and headed down Scrivener’s Way. Secondhand booksellers and binders’ shops ran in uneven rows on either side of me, jumbled and jostled together like an ill-kept bookshelf. Here was Facheltrager’s, known for his collection, variously, of Second Regency erotica and Fourth Reform philosophy; there Falconetto’s, the best closet in town for ancient fighting manuals; off to my left, Lazarus’s Bindery, specializing in false gildings and tooled covers. They, and the rest, were the main reason I’d moved here: to be close to the purveyors of secondhand knowledge and their musty wares. That I didn’t get to frequent them as much as I liked didn’t detract from the allure. Their mere presence made the climb home worth it. Most days.

  I ran a finger under my rope-cum-baldric and winced. The weight of Degan’s sword had been digging the cord into my shoulder all day, and now it was beginning to chafe. I swung the canvas-wrapped blade off my shoulder and sighed. Even with the rope tied north of the guard and down near the tip, it still looked more like a long bundle of cloth than a sword.

  I weighed the weapon in my hands as I walked. Now what?

  It wasn’t as if I was going to be giving it back to Degan. He’d made his feelings clear when he tossed his sword to the floor and walked out of the burning warehouse three months ago. Nor could I ask him if he’d reconsider. In true Degan fashion, he’d vanished from the streets—disappearing like so many times in the past, only this time it wasn’t for a dodge or a contract he’d taken on. This time, I knew, it was forever.

  I’d wanted to go looking, of course—to track him down and find him, if only for my own peace of mind. But I hadn’t. Instead, I’d respected his wishes and kept my nose to myself. Given everything I’d cost him, it seemed the least I could do.

  And it had seemed to be working—right up until Crook Eye had pulled out Degan’s sword and waved it under my nose, that is.

  Damn that lazy-eyed bastard, anyhow.

  I moved Degan’s legacy to my left hand and picked up the pace. Five more blocks to home. Five more blocks until I could catch my breath and sleep and, maybe, think.

  I’d gone all of two of those blocks when I felt a hand land on the back of my neck, take hold, and steer me into a doorway. It wouldn’t have been so bad, except the door was closed.

  “Wha—?” I said, but was interrupted by my head rebounding off the wood before me. I staggered back, then was shoved up against the door again. This time, the hand on my neck held me in place while its partner grabbed my right arm and pinned it behind my back. My shoulder turned to fire. Degan’s sword fell to the ground with a thump.

  “Who is it?” yelled someone on the other side of the door.

  “Hello, Drothe,” said a voice close to my ear. A woman’s voice. “Not as hard to find as you thought you were, eh, Nose?”

  I was still trying to figure out what the hell was going on when the hands yanked me back and spun me around. I half expected a blade at my throat, but felt myself pushed up against the stone wall beside the door.

  I had my wrist knife in my hand in an instant.

  It got slapped out just as quickly.

  “Ah, ah,” said the woman as she took a step back. “No steel.”

  From the other side of the door, the sounds of movement and cursing. “Dammit, Cyril,” called the voice, “is that you?” Neither the woman nor I answered.

  I blinked, my vision still recovering from my encounter with the door. The figure before me was an uneven shadow, silhouetted against the daylit street behind her. One of Crook Eye’s people? A cove from Shadow’s old organization who hadn’t heard the vendetta was over? Someone else entirely?

  Did it really matter?

  I lunged forward.

  The woman before me shifted, causing the light to glint off the copper-chased sword guard at her side.

  I knew that sword—had one of its sisters lying on the ground, wrapped in canvas, not four feet away. A degan’s sword.

  Crap. This was going to hurt.

  Copper Degan slipped my attack with almost casual ease, stepping aside as the flat of her dark hand connected with the side of my head. I staggered, flailed my arms, and went down.

  Behind me, I heard the door open.

  “By the reborn Emperor, Cyril, I told you to . . . oh.”

  “Go away,” said Copper Degan. “Now.”

  The door slammed shut, followed almost immediately by the sound of a bolt being thrown. I wished I was on the other side of that bolt.

  I climbed to my feet and turned around. Copper Degan was standing above me, arms folded, a look of mild disdain on her face. Or maybe it was boredom. I didn’t know her well enough to distinguish between the two.

  Street traffic was already rerouting itself, giving us a wide, cautious berth.

  “Not a social call, then?” I said as I wiped my nose. No blood. I ran the back of my hand across my forehead. Blood, but not much. Still.

  “Come with me.”

  Copper turned and headed down the street, not bothering to see if I followed, not worrying about showing me her back. And why should she? She was a member of one of the best mercenary Orders in the empire: My trying for her would only result in more blood being spilled—all of it mine. As for running, well, it would end the same way, only with more sweat thrown into the mix.

  I retrieved my knife, made sure Degan’s sword was still hidden within its wrapping, and hurried after her.

  Copper turned down a nearby side street. Five doors along, she stepped into a gap between an ink seller’s shop and a salve maker. I joined her.

  “Just so you know,” I said, wiping at my forehead again and holding out the bloody palm for her to see. “This doesn’t come free. Not even for a degan.”

  “If you think you can collect, you’re welcome to try.”

  I ran my gaze up and down her, more for show than anything else. I knew I couldn’t take her. Taller than me but not tall, with a narrower build than you might expect and dark, tightly braided hair, Copper didn’t look like a swords-woman. Aside from the heavily basketed sword at her side—chase
d in copper, of course, with the guard looking like a cascade of carved fish scales protecting the handle—the only thing that hinted at her skill was the slight broadening at her shoulders. That, and her eyes. They were good eyes for someone in her trade: cold and hard and distant—the kind of eyes you needed if your business was swinging steel for other people’s causes. The kind that said their owner didn’t give a damn about much, especially not you.

  I met those eyes, then looked away. Damn degans.

  “Another time,” I said.

  “Mm-hmm.” She didn’t sound worried. “We need to talk.”

  “About?”

  “What do you think?”

  I sighed. “Look, I already told your Order—”

  “I’m not here on behalf of the Order. I’m here on my own.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “Because you lied.”

  I snapped my gaze back to her and held my ground. “Lied?” I said. “I was the only non-degan in a room filled with degans, answering questions about a dead degan and a missing degan. I can’t think of many worse places to lie than that. How stupid do you think I am?”

  “Just as much as you need to be.” Her finger found my chest and poked it. Hard. “We both know the tale you spun to the Order was garbage. A member of the Kin killing a degan?” She shook her head. “How stupid do you think I am?”

  “I don’t know you well enough to say. Care to give me a hint?”

  Her finger thrust again, with less give than if she’d used her sword. I winced and took a step back.

  “What happened to Iron, Kin?”

  “I told you,” I said, shoving her hand away. “Shadow killed Iron Degan. How else do you explain finding Iron’s sword on Shadow’s body down in Ten Ways? He dusted Iron and then he came after me. I saw the damn sword in his hands.”

  “And you managed to kill the man you say killed my sword brother?” She ran her eyes over me again. “You?”

  I shrugged. “I got lucky.”

  “No one’s that lucky.”

  She was right, of course: I’d lied. Through my teeth. The only reason I’d survived my encounter with Shadow was that Degan had distracted the Gray Prince at the last minute, allowing me to kill him. Except I wasn’t about to tell her that story because I needed to keep Bronze Degan out of it; needed to keep the rest of the degans from knowing that Degan had run Iron through with a single, precise thrust; needed to shore up the lie so they wouldn’t know I was the one who’d planted Iron’s sword on Shadow’s remains. Degan had saved my life more times than I could count: I’d be damned if I was going to give him up to Copper and the rest by telling the truth—not when I knew it meant they’d hunt him down for Iron’s death.

  “Look,” I said, “believe me or don’t believe me, I don’t care. The story isn’t changing no matter how many times you shove me into a door. I would have thought you figured that one out already.”

  Copper took a step back and folded her arms, the picture of a dangerous woman having a dangerous debate with herself.

  She was the one who’d come to ask me about Degan the first time around, and later the one who had dragged me to meet with five other members of the Order of the Degans. They hadn’t liked what I told them, hadn’t liked not having anyone alive to pin Degan’s disappearance on, let alone Iron’s death. Hadn’t liked it enough that I’d spent the next week pissing blood after they were done “talking” to me. But while Copper had never laid a hand on me during that entire time, she’d also clearly not reached the same conclusion as her fellows.

  And that was what had me worried. It’s the calm ones you have to watch out for. Always.

  Finally, she let out a sigh and dropped her arms. “All right, Kin,” she said, sounding tired. “We’ve gone over this as much as we’re going to here.”

  I let myself relax. “Good, because I—”

  “But,” she added, placing her hand on my shoulder—the shoulder that had the rope riding across it. I winced. “That doesn’t change the fact that Bronze is still missing, and that I still don’t believe you. And that means we’re going to spend some more time together.” She squeezed. I grunted. “So what we’re going to do is—”

  “What you’re going to do,” said a voice behind Copper as the degan froze, her eyes going wide, “is let go of my boss and keep your hands out in front of you.”

  I knew that voice. I smiled.

  I shook off Copper’s hand and peered around the degan. Behind her, long knife prodding the space just to the left of the degan’s spine, stood Fowler. The Oak Mistress’s hair was a near tangle, her clothing wrinkled and stiff from having dried on her body, her eyes ringed by dark smudges of fatigue. But none of that mattered. What mattered was the spark that shone within the hollows of her eyes and the thrust of her lower lip above her dirty chin. What mattered was she was breathing. That, and the fact that she had a pair of her Oaks behind her.

  If Copper hadn’t been standing between us, I would have kissed Fowler then and there, consequences be damned.

  Copper looked over her shoulder. I saw her grin in profile.

  “Three?” she said. “You think I can’t handle three of you, little bird?”

  Fowler tilted her head and met the degan grin for grin. “I know you can. Which is why I made sure to send word to Blue Cloak Rhys and his boys before I came to interrupt.” She looked past Copper to me for the first time. “Sorry for the delay.”

  I shrugged. “These things happen.”

  It might seem strange, but I didn’t control Blackpot Street or any of the surrounding cordon, collectively known as Paper Hill. Gray Princes didn’t operate that way. We didn’t control territory; we controlled people. We influenced them, manipulated them, bought and sold them, steered and guided them—all without most of them being any the wiser. The threat of the Gray Prince was not that he would send his people after you—it was that he would get your people to do his bidding for him. With a Gray Prince, you didn’t have to watch out for enemies—you had to watch out for everyone.

  Or, at least, that was the theory. I hadn’t quite figured out the finer points of pulling all of the marionette strings yet, and so had to rely on other tools, one of which was Blue Cloak Rhys. Fortunately for me, Rhys was the local Upright Man. He was also mine. And while I might not have controlled the surrounding streets, he most certainly did.

  Copper knew all this, of course, just as she knew that when Rhys showed up, it wouldn’t be alone. A degan she might be, but I suspected an alley full of heavily armed muscle could ruin even her day.

  If the degan spent any time weighing her options, she didn’t show it. She merely nodded once, put both of her hands in plain sight, and stepped slowly aside. She showed me a cool smile.

  “Another time, then,” she said.

  I smiled back. “Mm-hmm.”

  Copper turned and, without sparing even a glance for Fowler or her men, strolled off down the street.

  Fowler watched the degan go. When Copper was half a block away, she nodded to her Oaks. They headed out after her, one melting into the crowd so expertly that I had trouble picking him out after ten paces, the other moving toward a side street where he could parallel Copper either from roof or alley. Neither of them, I knew, would stop following the degan until she was well out of Paper Hill.

  “Is Blue Cloak Rhys really coming?” I said to Fowler as I watched them go.

  “Are you joking?” said Fowler. She slid her long blade home. “When’s the last time you saw Rhys before sunset? That bastard’s eyes would shrivel up if he ever looked on daylight.”

  I nodded after the retreating degan. “Thanks for tha—”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Fowler turned, slapped both of her hands against my chest, and shoved. “I said, fuck you!” she shouted as I stumbled back. “What the hell were you thinking back there at the landing?”

  “I—”

  “Shut up. I’ll tell you what you were thinking. You were thinking you
knew better. You were thinking you needed to do something so you could save my ass. You were thinking you were going to be clever and fast and play the hero.” She stepped forward and shoved again. This time I stayed put. “You were thinking like a fucking Nose.”

  “I was thinking,” I said, stepping forward, “that we were overmatched and needed to get the hell out of there. Or would you have rather waited for more of Soggy Petyr’s people to arrive before we ran?”

  “I would have rather you left it to me in the first place. If anyone’s supposed to draw Cutters away from someone else, it’s me. You don’t get to take those kinds of risks anymore.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “It’s precisely the point. If I’d stayed we might all be dead. You were busy killing one cove and holding off another, and Scratch was pinned in; I was the only one who could play the hare. So I did.”

  “And ended up with three Cutters on your blinders.”

  “Better on my blinders than in your face.”

  Fowler’s hand flew faster than I could catch it. The crack of it connecting with my cheek practically echoed off the surrounding buildings.

  “Don’t you dare,” she said. “Don’t you dare pretend that my life is more valuable than yours, that I don’t get to make that choice. I’m your Oak Mistress, dammit—it’s my job to watch out for you.”

  “Watching over me doesn’t mean—”

  “Doesn’t mean what? Doesn’t mean I get to put my ass on the line? Doesn’t mean I get to care? To hell with that. I get to decide what my life is worth, not you.”

  “Not when it comes to trading it for mine, you don’t.”