“Just trust me,” Veranix said. “I’ve got to go to work.” He dashed off before Delmin could say anything else.
He slipped into the carriage house, and was down in the Spinner Run in a matter of seconds. He changed clothes and put on his gear. Tonight wasn’t going to be about sneaking or stealing. No bloody noses or banter. He was going to find effitte and break anyone selling it.
He was about to dash off when he remembered the rope and the cloak. Whatever they were, whatever Fenmere had intended them for, they were his now. He could take them, master their power, and use that against Fenmere’s men. That would be fitting. That would be just. He put the cloak on and hung the rope at his belt. Again he felt that charge of numinic energy flooding into him. He was prepared for it this time, not losing himself in the rush.
He scrambled back out of the Spinner Run. As he went out the door, he heard a scrape behind him. Kaiana had opened the door of her bedchamber. She said nothing, only shook her head and closed the door again.
He knew he could tell her what just happened to Parsons, and she’d be behind him, pushing him over the wall herself. He was about to go to her door and do just that, but stopped himself. He was too angry to bother explaining himself, even to her. For Parsons, for his mother . . . for every mind ruined by effitte . . . he wasn’t going to play games with Fenmere’s boys anymore.
He left the carriage house and went to the wall. Tonight he would hit them as hard as he could.
A light rain was falling as Veranix perched himself across the street from the Dogs’ Teeth Pub, a shabby place where light crept out of the holes between mismatched wooden slats. The whole place looked like it was shoved into the empty space between the tight angles of the brick row houses along the two streets of Cole and Helter.
The people at the Dogs’ Teeth were as ugly as it was, and smelled worse. It was the kind of place where the poxy whores were so sick, they would vomit after each client, and the men who used them wouldn’t care. Most of them were hooked on effitte as well.
The rain fell on Veranix, but he couldn’t feel it. The water just rolled off his cloak. After a few moments of watching the door of the Dogs’ Teeth, he realized the cloak wasn’t getting wet. He looked down at it. In the rain and dim moonlight, it shimmered. The thought passed through his mind that it might make him easily seen from the street below.
With that thought, the cloak vanished. No, not vanished. It suddenly blended into the background, looking just like the roof he was sitting on. He moved his leg under the cloak, and the blended image moved with it, nearly imperceptible. Veranix almost laughed out loud with giddiness.
Was it possible the cloak was actually enchanted with its own magic? He wracked his brain, trying to remember Alimen’s lectures on the subject. It was a lost art, no one in Druthal knew how to do it. There had been solitary mages, centuries ago, who did it, but their secrets had long since been lost. It was possible that in other parts of the world there were mages who knew how to make such things.
He decided to try something else. He let the thought cross his mind that the cloak should be red. As soon as he did, the cloak changed, to exactly the shade of red he imagined.
This time, he could feel it. The magic came from him, but the cloak did the work of pulling in the numina. It, as well as the rope, accepted the magic, made it effortless. What were these things? He had never heard of anything like these items. Forty thousand was selling them short. These items were priceless.
He changed the cloak again to blending into the background, concentrating on extending the field of it to surround his entire body. He stood up tall. Anyone who looked up would have seen only a shadow in the rain.
Someone was coming out of the Dogs’ Teeth. Veranix needed to get down to the street quickly to catch them. Odds were strong anyone coming out that place knew someone who sold effitte, and anyone who sold it would be tied, eventually, to Fenmere. He just needed to work his way up the chain, and break every man he found along the way.
The man who walked out of the pub was a dirty mess of tangled hair and beard, wearing a torn-up, mud-covered cloak. He stumbled as he exited, his boots slipping on the wet road, and he took a moment to right himself and get his bearings. The man whistled a drinking song as he went off down Cole Street.
Veranix leaped off the roof. In the seconds it took to drop down to street level, a strange instinct took hold of him. The rope at his belt quivered, and his hand went to it. As soon as he touched it, the rope became like an extension of his arm. He threw the coil, and it shot out like an arrow. It found its mark, a stone gutter protruding from the roof of one of the row houses, and wrapped itself around it tight and strong. Holding on to the rope, Veranix swung up and flew forward. The moment Veranix wanted it to, the rope unwound itself from the gutter, returning to his hand as he hurtled through the air toward the man. His feet crashed into the man’s back, flattening him. Veranix rolled with the blow and landed a few yards away, crouched and ready.
“What . . . what . . .” was all the man was able to stammer out.
“Effitte!” Veranix roared, his own voice surprising him.
“I . . . I don’t have any,” the man said, trying to stand up.
“Who sells it? Where?”
“I know a bunch of guys!” the man said. He looked around him. “Where are you?”
“Right here!” Veranix grabbed the man by his dirty shirt and pushed him against a brick wall. The man screamed in terror. Veranix realized why. With the cloak masking him, he looked like the rain itself had become man-shaped.
“What guys?” Veranix said. “Where?”
“B-back at the Dogs’ Teeth. There’s Lemt and Jendle.”
“Is that it?”
“That’s all I know!” the man cried. He was a blubbering mess. “Please don’t kill me!”
“Not today,” Veranix said. He threw the man to the ground. “Go home and sleep it off.”
“Yes! Yes!” The man scrambled away, running before he even got on his feet.
Veranix coiled the rope back at his belt. As he walked back to the Dogs’ Teeth, he grinned savagely. The more he used the rope and cloak, the more natural they felt. With these items, this power, he could really damage Fenmere and his effitte operation.
Veranix decided to be bold. Lemt and Jendle were in a pub full of people, and more than a few of them probably worked for Fenmere in some capacity. He could hardly sit around and wait for them to come to him. Even with the cloak and the rope, with magic and his staff, he couldn’t fight every man in the place.
Not without using a little of that old circus showmanship.
He went up to the door of the Dogs’ Teeth, and drew numina into himself. With the cloak, it was as easy as breathing. He released a focused burst and blew the door off the hinges. With a thought, the cloak appeared to be engulfed in black flames, obscuring his features.
“I’m here for Lemt and Jendle!” he shouted, his voice magically augmented to a shattering boom. “All others can save themselves!”
Lemt and Jendle were not card players, nor were they gifted liars or tricksters. When he called them out their faces gave them away in an instant. The room was filled with panic and screams, but the two men near the back of the pub froze with fear.
Veranix jumped up to a crossbeam, making way for the screaming crowd racing out the door. Not taking his eyes off Lemt and Jendle, he swung over and landed on the bar. A few people stood their ground; lackeys for the sellers, or addicts whose taste for effitte bought their loyalty. Still, there were fewer than a dozen people left in the pub.
Veranix grabbed the rope and threw it out at one of the two, the older man with a pointed gray beard. The rope wrapped tightly around him, and Veranix yanked him from his seat. He knocked over the table and three of the men standing in the way, like so many bowlpins. Veranix was surprised at how effortless it was. If he had tried
that with an ordinary rope, he probably would have passed out from the strain.
“What? What?” the man shouted. He struggled to get free of the rope. In Veranix’s hand, the rope was now hard as steel, but light as air.
“Are you selling effitte?” Veranix growled. “Are you just a seller, or a source?”
“Seller! I just sell it, me and Jendle, we just sell it!”
“Shut it, Lemt!” Jendle said. He turned to the men still standing, “Will one of you get this guy?”
“I’m asking the questions!” Veranix said, and with a flick of his wrist he swung Lemt into the table in front of Jendle, and then yanked him back. Jendle smashed into the back wall, covered in the splintered remains of the table.
The rest of the lackeys didn’t move an inch, standing agape in frozen horror.
“Are any of you crossing Waterpath?”
“If we go into Aventil—” Lemt began.
“On campus!” Veranix shouted. “Who is selling at the University?”
“I don’t know! It wasn’t me!” Lemt blubbered.
“You spineless toad,” Jendle muttered, getting to his feet. Veranix swung Lemt over to Jendle again, this time making the rope bind Jendle with him. They both squirmed and struggled in the constricting rope.
“Where’s your stash?” Veranix asked. “Where are your vials?”
“Can’t . . . breathe . . .” Lemt wheezed.
“Tell me!”
The rope tightened. One of the lackeys pulled a bag out from under the broken table.
“Here! Here! This is their stuff!” He threw the bag to the floor below Veranix. Veranix snapped his fingers, and the bag was engulfed in blue flames. In moments, it destroyed all the effitte.
“You . . . idiot!” Jendle managed to get out. “That was over fifty crowns’ worth—”
“Only fifty?” Veranix sneered. “A drop in the bucket when I’m done. Who is your source? Where is he?”
“Don’t tell him anything!” Jendle shouted. Veranix flexed the rope tighter around them. There were several sickening crunches, ribs cracking. Both men screamed.
“Name and street!”
“He’ll kill us,” Lemt whimpered. “Fenmere will kill us.”
“Source!” The rope coiled tighter still.
“Nevin!” Jendle shouted. “Third floor apartments above the dressmaker on Lolly!”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Veranix said, bowing with a flourish. “You all should consider a new trade.” He bowled Lemt and Jendle into the group as he released them. He leaped out the door, and hurled the rope up. It coiled around another gutter outcropping, and holding tight, he pulled himself up to the roof of the row house.
Once there, he collapsed, barely able to catch his breath. Even with whatever numina-drawing abilities the rope and the cloak had, that took a lot out of him. They also gave him a heady, giddy feeling, like being drunk. He was lucky that he was able to get out of the pub when he did, without having to fight any of them, because he knew he wouldn’t have been able to maintain the illusion any longer.
He ran his hands over the cloak and rope, feeling the distinctive charge of numina running into his body from them. These are good tools, he thought, but they are no substitute for skill. I can’t let them make me careless or lazy.
Bells rang midnight. There wouldn’t be much time before Lemt or Jendle or someone else warned Nevin. He caught his breath, pulled himself back to his feet, and headed north to Lolly.
Chapter 9
CHARL NEVIN HAD spent most of his fifty years in street trade, and survived it by knowing when to push and when to keep his head down. His body was lean and hard; he knew how to scrap. He had spent three years serving in the war, and more than twice that living in alleys and gutters. He could sell, he could hide from the constabulary, and he could run a crew. He had done well with it, giving him a good piece of Boss Fenmere’s effitte trade. He had a good flop with a solid bunk. Simple comforts.
Nevin pulled himself out of his bunk, leaving the blonde doxy dozing there. She was one of those effitte-hooked sacks who was always good for a roll in exchange for a dose. She hadn’t fallen apart much yet, so she was still worth taking to his bunk. He’d let her doze for a bit before tossing her out. In an hour or so, she’d be in a low, woozy state, with the effitte wearing off, and it would be easier then.
Any roll with a doxy always left Nevin with a powerful thirst, and tonight was no exception. He lit a candle and went to his kitchen. His larder was not very well stocked, but he had a half-empty jug of cider sitting on the table. He poured himself a cup and gulped it down. He winced as it hit his throat. The cider was turning. Still drinkable, but not very good.
He was still thirsty. He considered going to the pump out behind the shop to get some water. It was raining and cold out there. He’d have to put his boots and trousers on. It didn’t quite seem worth the trouble. He decided to wake the girl up and make her go get him water. That would be good.
He didn’t get the chance to do it, as someone crashed through his window.
Whoever it was came in with intention, flying feet first at Nevin’s head. Nevin’s reflexes were sharp, and he jumped out of the way as the intruder smashed into the chair and table.
Nevin was never far from a weapon in his own flop. At this point, he pretty much expected that people would try to kill him where he lived. Two knives on a belt hung on a peg right by him. Nevin grabbed them and charged at the intruder.
The intruder was already on him, swinging his staff. He was fast, not having lost a moment regaining his footing. Nevin pulled back, barely getting out of the way. He darted around, moving inside to get a good swipe with one knife. The intruder was fast enough to block him. Nevin needed to parry with both knives to hold him off.
Nevin had been in plenty of scraps, and he knew how to size up a fighter. This guy was quick, but he wasn’t very strong, at least not as strong as Nevin. He was a scrawny tosser, as much bone as muscle. Nevin pushed the staff away hard, and took a quick swipe. He only grazed the guy. The intruder grunted in pain.
“That’s for my chair, tosser!” Nevin said.
“Sorry about that,” the intruder returned. “Furniture always ends up a casualty.” He took several quick thrusts, pushing Nevin back, keeping him from using his knives.
Nevin knew this tosser wouldn’t have the space to use his weapon well, not in a cramped flop. Nevin charged in to tackle him. The guy tried to knock him down, but he wasn’t able to get a strong swing in. Nevin got cracked across the shoulder, but he’d been hit worse plenty of times. He was close enough to drive his knives in deep.
The intruder dropped the staff and got his arms up, taking the cuts there instead of his body. He grunted, and pushed out. The guy must have been stronger than he looked, because Nevin felt like he had been hit by a horsecart. It surprised him enough to make him lose grip of the knives, but not lose his close ground. They were both unarmed now, making this an honest knuckle scrap.
Nevin always liked an honest knuckle scrap.
He took a hit in the jaw, and returned it with two jabs to the tosser’s stomach. That winded the guy, giving him the opening to throw a good solid hook. Nevin had pushed him back toward the wall. The tosser tried to kick him, but he was too dazed to land it. Nevin was able to get a hand around the guy’s neck and slam him up to the wall.
“Got a lot of nerve, pal, coming at me in my flop.” Nevin tried to get a good look at his face, but the shadow of his hood was impossibly dark. Damnedest thing.
“Next . . . time . . . I’ll invite you . . . out . . .” the tosser squeaked out. The guy was trying to pull off Nevin’s grip with one hand, and reach out toward the window with the other. Nevin thought that was odd, but he didn’t really care. This was going to be over now.
“No next time,” Nevin said. He drew back his arm to smash the guy’s f
ace.
Shouldn’t have let go of the rope, Veranix thought. Stupid mistake. He had gotten too excited, thought he could crash through the window and take out Nevin in a moment. Whatever control he could exert over the rope, it didn’t work well when he wasn’t touching it. Taking a few punches made it that much harder to focus his own energy on calling it over to him.
Nevin had him half choked, lifted off the floor, and was about to hit him again. Veranix braced himself against the wall with one foot, and kicked Nevin in the side. He couldn’t kick very hard, but he could do it fast. He got in four shots before Nevin’s punch landed. Veranix’s head smashed into the wall, the cheap wood cracking from the force of the blow. Pain shot through his skull, firing down through his gut. Despite being dazed and nauseous, Veranix didn’t let up with his fast kicks. He clawed at Nevin’s grip around his neck. It took all he had to keep himself from being choked tighter, from blacking out. He couldn’t draw any numina, even with the cloak.
Nevin pulled back to deliver a finishing punch. Veranix used that space to bring up his knees, forcing Nevin to take all his weight with just the one hand. It was more than Nevin could take, and his arm buckled, dropping Veranix. He had already committed to the punch, smashing his hand against the plaster. From his crouched position, Veranix sprang up and punched Nevin in the jaw, augmenting the blow with as much magic as he could draw in.
“Twisty tosser, you are,” Nevin coughed, blood oozing from of his mouth. “You’re full of surprises.”
“You have no idea,” Veranix said. He threw several fast punches, sweetening them with hints of magic, but Nevin was too quick, too ready to block. Nothing got through. His own blows were fast and strong, a practiced brawler. Veranix dodged, but knew he couldn’t last much longer pinned in the corner.
He focused magic hard and fast, putting it all into his next punch. Nevin blocked it, but he couldn’t have been prepared for the raw power Veranix had channeled into his fist. The punch landed square in Nevin’s chest, knocking him back. Veranix used the space to roll away from the wall, springing over to the window, desperate to catch his breath.
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