The Alchemy of Chaos: A Novel of Maradaine (Maradaine Novels)

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  The Thorn had pinned the tosser with a foot on his neck, but now the bird was coming back at him.

  This wasn’t just a bird—this was a Deadly Bird, like the one Thorn must have fought last night. The Thorn must be doing something right, if someone paid that kind of coin to kill him.

  Jutie glanced back at the Uni brats, frozen in place.

  “Run!” he snarled at them. They were gone in a trice.

  He didn’t have a scrap against this bird, but he could still help the Thorn. One of the corner shops had a bit of awning tented up with a pole. That would work. He darted over to it, grabbing the pole despite the protests of the shop owners.

  The bird had gotten the Thorn’s arm wrapped in her rope, and was launching a series of furious acrobatic attacks on him. He blocked and dodged, but he kept himself pinned in place, trying to keep the tosser from getting away.

  “Thorn!” Jutie ran over and threw the staff to the Thorn. As the Thorn caught it, Jutie tackled the tosser and pressed his face to the ground. “Get the Deadly Bird! I got this!”

  “Obliged,” the Thorn said, stepping off the tosser and spinning the staff around. Now armed and unburdened, he launched at the bird with a flurry of attacks.

  The tosser struggled, but he didn’t have much strength in him to get Jutie off.

  She met the Thorn’s attacks, dodging the staff and further entangling him with her rope. Despite getting his left arm and leg tied up, he managed to land a hit, knocking her to the ground near Jutie.

  Still keeping his weight on the tosser, Jutie grabbed at her wrist. Maybe he could buy the Thorn a moment to get untangled.

  “You’re quite the nuisance,” the masked bird said, and swung her legs around, wrapping them around Jutie’s neck.

  Before he knew what had happened, he was yanked off the tosser and dropped onto the cobblestone headfirst.

  Jutie’s whole world went gray and spinning. The last thing to go before he went black were his ears; a Constab whistle shrill blasted through the air.

  Chapter 14

  NO MORE GAMES. This Deadly Bird had made short work of two Princes, including Colin’s boy Jutie. She was going to have to be dealt with, but he wasn’t going to let the Prankster get away. He couldn’t afford to underestimate either one. The woman was clearly as skilled as Bluejay, in her own way, and the Prankster had more than one magic-but-not-magic trick up his sleeve. Or in his vest, as it were.

  Free of the bird’s rope, and seeing that the Prankster was about to get back to his feet, Veranix needed to deal with the both of them quick.

  He charged at the bird, planting the makeshift staff—again thanks to Jutie, bless that kid—on the Prankster’s back to launch a kick at her. She dodged, which he expected her to do. She could move, that was certain. Like Bluejay, much about her reminded him of his circus days.

  He had planned to swing up the staff after she dodged his kick, knock her down so he could dispatch her quickly, and give his full attention to the Prankster. But she adroitly flipped over his staff, landing between him and the Prankster.

  She moved . . . she moved like his mother. She even had his mother’s coloring.

  Veranix only knew a smattering of Sechiall, the Kellirac dialect that elder Racquin used liberally around each other yet rarely passed on, but it was worth trying.

  “Vek se sheel.” Your feet work well.

  She winked at him.

  “Khe ni ra.” They keep moving.

  That confirmed it. Racquin and, with her moves, probably a circus girl at that. Not his circus, he would hope. That would have been impossible, unless she joined in the past three years

  She laughed and shot out her rope again. Veranix ducked to avoid it, only to earn a well-placed kick in the chest. He still managed to sweep the staff at her legs, which she ably jumped over. That didn’t matter, because he struck true on his real target: clocking the Prankster across the head as he tried to stand back up.

  That should keep him from running away for another minute or so.

  The bird launched a full series of flips and kicks, and Veranix matched her moves to stay away. “So who are you? Thrush? Kingfisher? Crane?”

  A fist landed dead center in his sternum, knocking him back and off his rhythm. Veranix stumbled and fell.

  “Blackbird,” she said, and pulled back on her rope. Veranix hadn’t even noticed that she had gotten it around his staff and his body, wrenching it and his right arm behind him before he was able to spin around and right himself.

  She hadn’t been able to get the staff out of his hands, though.

  Constabulary whistles filled the air. They had been going for some time, but Veranix wasn’t letting himself hear them.

  She still pulled on the staff, and Veranix used her strength to augment his own, using a hint of magic to push himself even faster. That was more than she could successfully dodge, and he struck her clean in the chest.

  Blackbird on the ground, at least for the moment, Veranix untangled himself from her rope and turned back to the Prankster. He was already on his feet and starting to run down Hedge Lane, toward Cantarell Square. Veranix gave a quick glance at Jutie and the girl Prince. Both were still breathing, and Veranix didn’t have time to give them further aid. He only hoped when Blackbird got to her feet, she didn’t take any revenge out on them.

  Hedge was crowded, far too crowded for this hour, and there were now Constabulary whistles coming from all directions. Something was happening, screams and shouts ahead. Veranix tried to pay it no mind and focus on the Prankster, but the next block was filled with stopped carts and pedalcarts, and teeming with Constabulary trying to force their way through.

  Whatever was going on, it meant the Prankster had nowhere to run. He scrambled up on a carriage, giving Veranix the chance to jump up after him. Both of them stopped in their tracks as soon as they saw the commotion: a full on brawl in the square of every damn Aventil gang, and a handful of Constabulary desperate to pull them apart.

  “Blazes,” he muttered.

  He saw the Prankster, though, clear as anything. The man was chuckling.

  Veranix jumped on him, wrapping the Prankster’s arms behind him in a hold. He couldn’t let him reach into his vest again. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  A moment later, a rope found its way around Veranix’s neck. “I was thinking the same thing,” Blackbird cooed.

  “Ah-ah,” the Prankster said, showing off a vial of some liquid in his hands. He must have grabbed it from his vest before Veranix had him. “Best let me go, or this hits the ground.”

  Veranix tried to get a hand under the rope, while not letting the Prankster go. Especially challenging once Blackbird pummeled him in the back. He spun around, knocking her with the Prankster’s body. Free to breathe, he said, “You’d kill yourself?”

  The Prankster, in a strange moment of solidarity, delivered his own kick to Blackbird, knocking her down into the carriage bed. “This wouldn’t affect you or me, boy. But it has a unique effect on horses.”

  And with that, he threw it into the square.

  No fog or smoke came from the glass, but a fine mist. And as soon as it hit the air, every horse on every cart or carriage in the vicinity of the square looked up and made a very unhorse-like scream.

  And then they all started to run. Including the ones hitched to the carriage Veranix stood on.

  Colin didn’t dare leave the alley. If there was another Rose Street Prince in this scrum, he didn’t have an eye of them. He took out his last two knives. He might not be in the brawl yet, but the brawl was gonna come to him soon enough.

  Constab whistles were blowing like crazy. The Riot Call. This certainly warranted that, but it meant sticks from every part of Aventil—maybe even Dentonhill and farther—would come running here.

  Cantarell Square was a dangerous place to be, especially with ink on his a
rm.

  The front of the fight was mostly Knights of Saint Julian, having gone full force at the Rabbit heavies at the door. The street right there was the bloodiest, but everyone else was having a go. Dogs and Kickers were clearly using the whole thing as an excuse to be as brutal to each other as possible.

  Colin glanced up at the alley wall. The back was blocked off, so up and over was his only way out. He didn’t know the rooftop tricks of this part of the neighborhood, and he didn’t see a good climb yet.

  A hand grabbed his shoulder, and he almost put a knife in the throat of its owner, until he saw it was the reverend.

  “My boy, is the lieutenant all right?”

  “He’s alive, at least he was until he went into all that,” Colin said. The reverend’s head was cracked open, blood running liberally down his face. “Let’s get you someplace safe, Rev.”

  “Very little is safe right now,” the reverend said. “And what about those people there?” He pointed to the square, where several neighborhood folk—not gang or Constabulary—were cowering near carts and the stage in the fountain.

  “Blazes,” Colin muttered. “You’ll probably want something done about that.”

  “It would be the right thing to do.”

  The blazing right thing. He might as well be the Thorn.

  “Fine. But I can’t do it alone.”

  “None of us are alone, son.”

  “Do what I do,” Colin said, hiding his knives again. They had to be gone for this plan. Not that he was sure what he was about to do would work. It depended on everyone brawling out there not only recognizing what he was about to do, but respecting it. He wasn’t convinced anyone would do either.

  He raised his arms above his head, crossing them at the wrists. An old sign, going back to the street wars in ’94, and later a sign of the Pact itself. Hopefully these folks would know what it meant, that he was unarmed and not fighting.

  He stepped out of the alley, the preacher by his side. He hoped that would make difference. One guy doing the Pact Sign was a loon. Two folk doing it, though . . . that might just get noticed enough to keep them safe.

  Five steps in, no one had attacked them yet. In fact, a couple of Orphans gave them some berth to move.

  “Shouldn’t we tell them to cease their brawling?” Reverend Pemmick asked.

  “Let’s not push our luck here.”

  They were about halfway to the stage when Colin glanced behind him. A handful of other folk had joined in with the action. Mostly Knights—bless them and their strange loyalty to the church and Reverend Pemmick—and a few others who probably just wanted to get the blazes out of there. Not that Colin blamed them.

  Pemmick moved out ahead to the first group of folk, helping them to their feet and encouraging them to take the same pose. Now they were a small island of calm in the crowd.

  “Take them out down Bush,” Colin said. It wasn’t the clearest route out of the square, but it was the closest. He reached the stage, and keeping his arms locked in position, climbed up on it.

  “Princes!” he shouted. “Pull out!”

  Only a few people noticed him, and most who did were Orphans or Rabbits who used the moment to get a cheap punch in.

  Someone else jumped up on the stage. A young guy, like Jutie or Veranix, except he was wearing Constabulary green and red. Armed with nothing but a whistle, he pointed a finger firmly at Colin.

  “Stand and be held!”

  “I ain’t fighting, kid!” Colin shouted.

  Whatever argument the Constabulary cadet was going to counter with was interrupted by a sound; a horrible cry piercing the air that no human throat could make. The noise was so strident, so disturbing, all the brawling just stopped. After a moment, Colin saw the source. Every horse in the area—attached to carts, carriages, and cabs—held their heads straight up in the air as they howled.

  Howled like wolves.

  Then they all ran, a stampede through the square, smashing everything and everyone in their path.

  A path that led straight to the stage.

  Horses, carriages, and carts surged forward. Veranix lurched back, and his grip on the Prankster slipped before he righted himself. As he tried to grab hold of the bastard again, the rope around his neck tightened. Blackbird was back on him, and the Prankster leaped from the moving carriage. Veranix could have sworn he was laughing when he went.

  Veranix ducked and rolled back, forcing the rope to slacken and knocking into Blackbird. She hit him with a knee in the back, then two hard strikes in the shoulder that left his arm suddenly numb and useless. He tried to strike back at her, but all he managed to do was flail his arm in her general direction. She grabbed it and twisted him around.

  The carts thundered through Cantarell Square, and people screamed as wood and metal and flesh crashed together. They plowed through the wooden stage in the center of the square, and for a brief moment Veranix saw Colin up on the stage, leaping out of the way of the onslaught of horses.

  Someone else on the stage—Constabulary green and red—jumped onto a horse. Veranix didn’t have a chance to see much more before Blackbird shoved him down to smash his head onto the seat rail. He brought up his good arm to stop himself, jarring his wrist. Blackbird switched her hold to get an arm around his neck, and pulled him into a tight choke.

  Head spinning, barely able to breathe, Veranix drew in numina and burst it back out of his whole body, hard and fast. Ugly, sloppy magic, but it knocked her off him. Before she could recover, he turned over and hit her again with a focused blast, knocking her over the tailboard.

  He pulled himself up, finally taking her rope off his neck. His right arm still wasn’t any good, but he was starting to get feeling back, even if that feeling was pain. But he finally had a chance to get his bearings.

  The cart he stood on was one of nearly two dozen, all thundering together in a stampede of mad horses that had already reached Waterpath. He glanced around and saw he was not the only one in this predicament. Three other carts were occupied. No—four, as Blackbird was hanging on to the shaft of the cart behind him. She seemed to be too concerned with staying alive to give him any trouble for the immediate future.

  A young tradesman’s family was on a shopcart close up ahead in the stampede, with the father desperately trying to get control of his beast, while the mother held on to their child with one arm and the cart’s rail with the other. Another had an old cabbie and a young woman, screaming like crazy. And up near the front of the mess, the kid in the Constabulary coat—probably a page or a cadet—holding on to the horse he had jumped onto, trying to force it to stop.

  Then there were the horses themselves. Veranix had spent enough of his youth around them to know that he had never seen anything of this sort. Whatever the Prankster did, it drove them mad. Wild frothing mad, and running together at a pace no horse would ever maintain without a rider giving them every bit of spur and whip they could muster. And yet they ran, ran like every sinner was at their heels.

  Veranix’s own cart was shuddering, the wheels about to fly off their axles. The thing wasn’t built to handle this kind of abuse, nor were the rest of the carts and carriages in this mess. It wasn’t long before all of them would be mangled in a mess of wood, metal, and horseflesh.

  He picked up Blackbird’s rope and willed it to coil at his hip, forgetting for a moment it was just a regular rope. It took more magical effort to control it than he was used to. No napranium rope or cloak, that meant no extra magic to pull from. Just his own strength, which he had already been pushing hard. The smartest thing he could do right now was jump clear and get out of this mess.

  The wheels of two carts knocked, and in a moment they tore each other into shards. The wheels gone, both carts dropped and crashed, their horses slowed slightly by the drag. The horses behind them plowed into the smashed carts, one of them getting slaughtered by the woode
n debris.

  The woman in the cab screamed in terror.

  No chance for the smartest thing.

  A breath of magic to aid him—he had to use each ounce sparingly—he jumped to the next carriage. He slipped, and his instinct to catch himself went to the wrong arm. He recovered with the good one, grabbing the side handle before his legs went under the wheels. A scramble to get up on the running board kept him from getting himself killed.

  He went through the carriage to the other side, glancing back at the cart he just came from. No sign of Blackbird. She probably got off this stampede deathtrap while she still could.

  While he was getting up on the dashboard, suddenly the carriage jerked to the left. He caught himself before tumbling off—something the cabdriver wasn’t quite as lucky with. He went flying off, colliding with a lamppost.

  The whole stampede had turned, now sweeping down Lowbridge. They crashed through shop stands and pedalcarts and anything else that got in their path, but fortunately people in the street had the sense to clear out. At this speed, they had about two minutes before they hit the bridge itself. That is, if they didn’t go into the water.

  No more time to waste. Veranix shook his bad arm, forcing feeling into it. His shoulder made a loud pop—audible even over the roar of the stampede—which hurt like blazes. Whatever he did, though, got his arm moving again. He got back up on the dash, ran two steps, and leaped to the occupied cab.

  “Ma’am,” he said as he landed. The young woman screamed, which he expected her to do, followed by senseless gibbering. She was clearly frightened beyond any capacity for speech, which he could hardly blame her for.

  “Let’s get you safe, hmm?” There wasn’t much else to say. Not that he was sure how he was going to be able to do that.

  He had a flash of an idea, which might do the job. At least part of it. Bracing himself on the cab, he gathered numina as carefully as he could. He couldn’t risk burning himself out, but there wasn’t time to waste. At least he was going to do something he was familiar with, which helped. Energy built up, he shaped it and filled the road behind them with the same sticky substance he had trapped the Rabbits in the night before.