Chapter 17
THE OPERA HOUSE HAD BEEN a marvel of eleventh-century architecture, one of the many grand buildings in North Maradaine of white stone with tall columns and windows of colored glass that had been built during the Renewal after the Reunification. The Renewal had brought a resurgence of art in all forms, and while the plays of Darren Whit and his contemporaries had remained popular since then, opera had fallen out of favor in Maradaine for the past sixty years or so. The opera house had been shuttered, abandoned, and boarded up for decades.
Amaya shouldn’t have come alone. She knew she shouldn’t have, but with Dayne and Jerinne both out, she wasn’t sure who else to trust.
Amaya had been vaguely aware of the news surrounding Duchess Erisia Leighton of Fencal buying the building, and starting the work to reopen it fully restored in all its original glory. She had the goal of reestablishing opera as the pinnacle of art and culture in the city. She would mount the classics, she would commission new works.
That had been four or five years ago, and the outside of the opera house had shown many signs of the restoration moving along: painting, scaffolding, laborers going in and out for months on end. But then the news slowed, and when asked about the status of the opera house and its expected opening, Duchess Leighton would just answer there had been “unexpected delays.”
The rumors were that she had run out of money.
But now that Amaya was here outside the dark building, she wondered if the real reasons were far more nefarious. The place was spectacular, a testament to the hard work and dedication that had been put into the restoration. Posters had been pasted to the walls touting the productions of Demea and Canus and Inama and The Kingship Cycle. Amaya had no idea what those last two were, but the posters were dynamic and dramatic.
She circled around the building twice, trying to decide just what she was looking for. She had her suspicions, fueled entirely by Kemmer’s notes. He thought the Grand Ten were meeting here, that was why the opera house had stayed closed for so long. She wanted to get inside, but to what end? It wasn’t as if they would be meeting right now. What was she here for? Proof?
Proof of what? And reportable to whom?
This might have been a waste of time. The certainty that brought her here at this hour bled away.
Just as she thought that, she noticed a back door that was slightly ajar. She was nearly certain it hadn’t been that way when she first circled around the building. Was someone else here?
Maybe this was a chance for answers.
She slipped into the open door, moving as quietly as she could while carrying a shield. She drew her sword, knowing that she couldn’t rely on stealth at all right now, so she might as well be ready for a fight.
There were voices in the distance. Someone else was here. At least a few people. Down the steps. She followed cautiously.
“Why aren’t we just killing him?”
“Those aren’t the orders.”
“That’s absurd, you know.”
“I do know, but still, those are the orders.”
Amaya crept to the bottom of the stairs, to a hallway that stretched the length beneath the stage. Dressing rooms, storage, props and sets, by the look of things. Voices were coming out of one of the dressing rooms. Two men came out, and Amaya slipped into a costume room before they saw her.
“Just leave him there?”
“He’s not going anywhere, and it’s what the boss wants.”
“Fine by me. Let’s go get some crisp and crankers, I know a place.”
Their voices receded down the hallway, and Amaya went over to the door they had come from. Unlocked. She went in, ready for anything.
A man, bloody, bandaged, and blindfolded, tied up in a chair.
She went over and knelt by him. “Sir, are you all right?”
“Who . . . who’s there?” he muttered.
“Let’s get you out of here,” she said, working at the knots binding him. “My name is Amaya, who are you?”
“Kemmer,” he mumbled. “Amaya who?”
Blazes, she had found him.
“Did the Grand Ten attack you?” she asked. “Is that why you’re here?”
“What—” He tried to pull his hand out of the binds, but couldn’t. “How did you know—”
“I’ve been looking for them. Looking for you. Trying to—”
Before she got any further, the door slammed shut, and then she heard the sound of it being barred. Trapping her in this small room with Kemmer.
“The blazes?” she said.
“Thank you, Miss Tyrell,” she heard someone on the other side of the door say. “You’ve made things so much easier for us.”
Verci woke to the bells ringing.
Someone had tripped the spiderwires down in the shop.
Intruders.
“Raych,” he whispered, touching his wife on the shoulder. “Wake up.”
“What is it?” she asked blearily.
“Someone’s in the shop.” He got to his feet, quickly pulling on pants and boots. He pulled a box out from under the bed, taking a crossbow out. He quickly checked it, cranking and loading it before putting it on the bed.
“What?” Raych asked, getting out of the bed. “What do you think—”
“I’m going to go out there to check,” he said. “You take that.”
“What am I going to do with that?” she asked.
“Hopefully nothing. But I want you to have it anyway.”
She pulled on her nightcoat and picked up the crossbow. He grabbed a shirt and his bandolier of darts. The gauntlet was down in the workshop. Damn and blazes. Drawing two darts, he went out to the kitchen. More bells were ringing. He heard a twang and a snap from downstairs, and a man screamed. One of the security traps.
Maybe that was it.
Feet up the stairs. A lot of feet. At least ten pairs.
“That door is double-latched, right?” Raych asked.
“It’s still just wood on brass hinges,” Verci said.
A crunch of wood. Door kicked open. Things being knocked over. A search.
Asti’s apartment.
Another crack. The door to the spare apartment.
Essin was in there.
“Hey, what—” Essin shouted. “You . . . you . . . how?”
Then a scream.
Raych grabbed Verci’s shoulder so tight, he thought her fingers would dig into his bones.
“Rynax has it!” Essin screamed. “He’s got it!”
Then another scream. Then silence.
“My love,” he whispered, taking the crossbow from her. “Go back into the bedroom, push the bed in front of the door.”
“But—”
Pounding started on the door. The wood cracked, but the double-latch held.
“Gather Corsi and go out the window. Just like I showed you.”
“I can’t—”
Another smash on the door. Again and again. It wouldn’t hold much longer.
“I’m going to buy you time,” he said. “Just go.”
She went into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
One of the hinges broke free.
Verci brought up the crossbow. He wished he had prepared better. More traps, more defenses. There hadn’t been the time. He should have made that a priority. He had been hopeful that it wasn’t going to be necessary, that here they would be safe.
The door smashed again, the top half of it coming free, revealing the hallway. Several men out there, pounding and smashing on the door. He took the shot, hitting one of them. That man dropped, but the others were not deterred in the slightest. Verci quickly reloaded, but as soon as he was ready, the door came completely open.
He fired again, putting down another one of the bastards before they poured into his home.
&
nbsp; They came in, most of them toughs, just the sort of bruiser any gang or boss would use to break legs and smash skulls. Except the eyes. They were dead in the eyes.
And then one more stepped through, making Verci’s blood curdle.
Ren Poller. Ren Poller, his head smashed in, blood caked to the side of his face. He raised a finger and hoarsely rasped, “Rynax!”
“The blazes you want?” Verci yelled, palming his darts.
“Where is it?” Poller asked. “The Brotherhood wants it.”
The statue. Verci would be blazed if they would get that. Every instinct he had screamed that their getting hold of it would be the worst thing ever.
But his eyes had gone to it in the corner of the room, and the bruisers all noticed. Two of them dashed for it.
Verci flashed two darts, as he went for the statue himself. He put one of them down, only wounded the other. He grabbed that one as more of them came for him, pushing the bruiser onto his companions.
“Kill him,” Poller hissed.
Verci scooped up the statue with one arm, drawing and throwing two more darts with his free hand. Two more of the bastards wounded, at least.
“Nowhere to go,” one of them said.
“Never,” Verci said.
This he had been prepared for, reaching up to the knob above the window. With a hard yank, the window opened and Verci jumped back. He dropped down to the street, holding on to the knob and the rope attached to it that uncoiled from its wheeled housing in the apartment. It jarred his shoulder when the wheel locked, but that was better than cracking onto the pavement.
Perfect length, he was just a foot above the ground. He let go of the knob, and the spring-powered wheel retracted the rope as he landed.
He had a powerful urge to wave back at the bruisers up in the apartment before running, but as he looked up, they were all jumping out the window. As if none of them gave one damned blazes about breaking their legs.
At least two of them did break their legs on the landing, as Verci heard horrible snaps. But not one of them stopped. They came at him, stumbling and lurching, but relentless.
He turned to run, but two more of them were there behind him. He jumped back, avoiding a knife coming for his belly, but lost his grip on the statue. It tumbled out of his hands, and one of the bruisers caught it. Those two ran off with it as fast as they could.
Verci was about to give chase when several hands grabbed hold of him. He turned around, swinging punches and driving darts into each of these fools. Two of them down, more coming. Another knife came for him, but Verci twisted out of the way. Verci kicked at that one in his bad leg, but only caused the man to fall on top of him, forcing Verci to the ground. Still he was able to drive that knife into the man’s neck.
Two more came on him, and Verci tried to hold them both off with each hand while they choked him.
Ren Poller came down to the ground and ghoulishly stumbled toward him, a nightmare given form. Verci struggled to hold off the other two while Ren drew out his knife.
A crossbow bolt exploded through his crushed head, and he dropped to the ground. One of the two on Verci looked up, and got another bolt in his eye for his trouble. That gave Verci the chance to grab a dart and slam it into the neck of the one on top of him. The man died, but his dead weight fell hard on Verci’s chest.
Verci struggled for breath as he tried to push the dead man off of him. Someone walked over and pushed the man off, and then offered a hand to pull Verci to his feet.
“Looked like you could use a constable,” Inspector Rainey said. “Good thing I was around.”
“Asti, you’ve got to fight it, whatever it is, you can’t let it beat you.”
Bound in the mage shackles, all Veranix could do was scramble back to the wall as Rynax approached, wicked blade in hand, with a grin to match, as Dayne left the room with Crenaxin.
Whatever Crenaxin had done, it had burned at his brain, but couldn’t find a way in. The same couldn’t be said for Asti and Dayne.
Asti pounced on him, knife high. He leaned in and whispered.
“Scream, kid, they didn’t shut the door.” Veranix looked up at Asti, and he winked at him.
Saints almighty, the bastard winked.
“You’re all right?”
“Scream!” Asti shouted.
Veranix obliged, giving his best bloodcurdling, knife-in-his-belly scream, better than any of the Cantarell Square Players.
“Nice,” Asti whispered. “Let’s get this damn thing off you.” He started to work the knife into the lock of the mage shackles.
“How?” Veranix asked.
“Keep screaming.”
Veranix did as instructed while Asti worked.
“I don’t know. He did that business, and part of my head, it was all in. Ready to follow him and praise the Brotherhood. But that part . . . it was already broken off. Everything in my head is broken.”
Veranix nodded. “Whatever the blazes he did, it couldn’t make purchase on my mage brain, or your broken one.”
“But that Tarian friend of yours is another story.”
“Unless he’s faking, like you were.”
“Doubt it,” Asti said. He twisted a catch in the shackles, and they popped open. Veranix was more than happy to get them off. He felt completely drained. He needed to eat, rest, anything. But it didn’t look like there would be much chance for either. Asti hung the shackles on his belt and checked the rest of the room. “Look, we know these people have kidnapped children, using them in that machine. Delmin said it was swirling with magic.”
“Where is he?” Veranix asked.
“Hopefully he got out. Though he was . . .” Asti trailed off as he went to peek out the door.
“Was what?”
“Extremely tiny?” He held his fingers an inch apart.
That was surprising. “How?”
“I think he was trying to fly and something went wrong. Anyway, with any luck, he’s going to bring Verci and whatever help Verci can muster. I say we find our gear, get ourselves in position, and wait for that.”
“We may not have much time,” Veranix said. He was running over all the things Crenaxin had said. “They were talking about only a few hours. The day wakes in the sword, all that.”
“What was that nonsense about?” Asti asked.
“Astronomy, I think. Taking a course on it right now. Today the white moon—which is a crescent—and three of the planets are visible just before sunrise. I was supposed to be at class, actually, to observe that. And the constellation those, and the sun, are all in is—”
“Lexin, the Sword,” Asti said. “Is that real magic stuff, or just bunk?”
Veranix shrugged. “I can tell you that the position of the moons definitely can have an effect on the power of magic. I wouldn’t discount it.”
“So waiting for a rescue plan from Verci is not going to work.” He swore under his breath. “All right, those kids are part of their plan, so let’s make it ours. We find our gear, get those kids, and get them the blazes out of here?”
“And Welling and Dayne? And those two prisoners in the machine?”
“I don’t know if we can do anything for them.”
Veranix didn’t like that answer at all, but he understood it. “First step is our gear?” He wasn’t very good at sensing magic, but his connection to the rope and the cloak was far more attuned than most other forms of numinic activity. “I think I can get us to it.”
“First step is blending in,” Asti said. “Two zealots in robes down the hallway. Give me a really good scream.”
Veranix let out a gut-wrenching scream of horror and terror.
Asti winked and poked his head out of the door. “Brothers, could you assist me? My task would be easier with you holding him down.”
Asti gave Veranix the nod, and Ver
anix moved to the side of the doorway, building up a charge of numina in his body. The two zealots came into the room.
“So where—” was all one got out before Asti pounced on him, hand over his mouth. In a flash, he sliced open his throat with that wicked knife.
Veranix channeled the magic into speed, and dashed at the other zealot, landing three punches before the man had even turned around. The zealot managed to draw his knife, but at Veranix’s speed, he was able to grab his wrist and disarm him.
Then Asti was there, jamming his knife into the man’s neck.
“Saints, Thorn, kill them, don’t dance with them.”
“Sorry,” Veranix said. “I thought I was doing fine.”
“If by fine, you mean taking too long, sure.” He stripped the bodies of their robes and threw one to Veranix.
“This is the bloodier one, isn’t it?” Veranix asked.
“Probably,” Asti said, putting on the other one. “Take his knife in case we have another fight before we get to our stuff.”
“I’m not much of a knife fighter,” Veranix said, taking the weapon.
“It’s the most basic weapon there is,” Asti said, glancing out the door again. “I mean, you’ve got a bow, and the staff, and that rope . . . honestly, it’s like you’re trying too hard.”
Before Veranix could respond, Asti went out in the hallway. Veranix followed after him, swearing to himself that he would stop falling into these sorts of partnerships.
“That rope is why we’re going to find our stuff,” Veranix said as he caught up. “It’s that way.”
He followed the sense of the rope out of the hallway to a huge, open, underground encampment. Obviously where the zealots and beasts lived. It was mostly tents and ramshackle buildings, but at the center was a large twisted tower of thorny black.
“Tell me it’s not there.”
“Don’t think so,” Veranix said. “That group of large huts, I think.”
“Good,” Asti said as they crossed over to it. “Because the broken part of my brain, it . . . it wants to go over there.”
“That’s not disturbing at all,” Veranix said. “Tell me you have a handle on that.”
People of the City Page 25
