“Does it?”
“Well, cleaning it usually eats up most of the time you save on chopping.”
“So you’re telling me that I’m useless.”
“It’s a neat gadget!”
“And I’m hard to clean, apparently.”
She checked his face. Tiny sparks danced in his eyes. He was pulling her leg. Well. If that’s how it is . . . “Considering last night’s argument, I think that you’re remarkably difficult to clean.”
“There probably is a retort to this that’s not off-color,” he said. “But I can’t think of one.”
They reached the middle of the alley. A street person sat on the filthy pavement, a sad, hunched-over figure swaddled in rags. His hair hung over his face in an oily gray tangle. A bitter stench of rotting fish rose from his clothes. He looked old and tired, his face a mess of grime. The dirt was caked so thick she could barely see his eyes, his pupils milky white. He was suffering from cataracts.
The beggar raised his cup and shook it at Richard.
Richard glanced at the beggar. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes turned darker. Richard bent down and dropped a coin into the cup. “Third tooth,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Two hours. Bring your brother.”
The beggar pulled back his cup, his head drooping lower.
Richard straightened and took her firmly by the elbow. His touch was light, but Charlotte realized she wouldn’t be able to get away. Richard drew her away from the beggar, down the alley.
“Don’t look back,” he murmured. “That was George.”
The urge to turn around was overwhelming. “George Drayton? Éléonore’s George?”
He nodded.
Her heart beat faster. The boys would have to be told what happened to Éléonore. She was their grandmother. They deserved to know. Her throat closed up. What would she say? There was no way to soften the blow. It would be devastating. She was a grown woman, and seeing Éléonore’s body burning had torn a hole in her life that filled with grief, guilt, and anger. They were children who had known Éléonore all of their lives. She was the safe haven of their childhood, the one person besides their sister who loved them no matter what and would never abandon them. She made their world safer, and now that illusion of safety would be ripped away. Charlotte swallowed. She had to find the right words somehow.
It occurred to her that George sat in filth on a street. “Why is George dressed as a beggar? I thought the Camarine family had adopted the boys?”
“He and his brother work for the Mirror.”
They’re spies? Wait a minute. “Richard, George’s only sixteen. Jack should be fourteen.”
He took a second to glance at her. “Yes?”
“Aren’t they too young? They’re barely in their teens.”
“Some children are less childlike than we like to pretend,” he said. “At George’s age, I had killed two people and watched my father’s head explode as he was shot dead in a market. What were you doing at sixteen, Charlotte?”
The long field filled with moaning people surfaced from her memory. The coppery scent of blood, mixed with the toxic stench of warped magic, and the smell of smoke rising from the town a few fields away.
“At sixteen I was healing the victims of the Green Valley Massacre.”
“And George is being inconspicuous to—”
A boy shot into the alley ahead, slid on garbage, caught himself, and dashed toward them. Reddish brown hair, cropped short, handsome face, dark eyes, completely wild with excitement. She’d seen this boy before in a photograph . . . Jack!
“Run!” Jack yelled. “Run! Go, George!”
Behind him a mob of enraged people spilled into the alley, brandishing knives and clubs.
The beggar-George jumped to his feet. “What did you do?”
“There he is!” the man at the head of the mob roared. A rock whistled past their heads, ricocheting from the side of the building.
“Run!” Jack yelled.
Blue lightning shot out of the crowd—someone had flashed. Oh no.
Jack jumped six feet in the air, avoiding the glowing ribbon of magic by a hair, bounced off the wall, and sprinted straight at them.
“Hi, Richard, hi, pretty lady!” Jack dashed past them.
Richard grabbed her hand. ‘We have to go!”
They broke into run and chased after Jack, running fast on the cobbled stones. George swore and tossed something over their heads at the crowd. A dry pop burst behind them. Charlotte glanced over her shoulder. A plume of dense white smoke filled the alley. People coughed.
The blue-glowing whip of someone’s flash struck out of the smoke, licking the cobbles. Someone in this mob was throwing magic around blind. This city was insane.
They cleared the courtyard and the narrow alley, burst out onto the boardwalk, and pounded down the street. The entrance to Jason’s hideout flew by. The air grew hot in Charlotte’s lungs.
A small wooden dock rose on their left. “Go right!” Richard yelled, too loud, and leaped off the boardwalk into the dark water, pulling her in with him. The tepid water swallowed her. Charlotte gulped a mouthful of salty liquid and nearly choked. Gods alone knew what sort of contamination was in that water.
Charlotte kicked her feet and surfaced, spitting the water out. Richard pulled her under the dock, just as two other bodies hit the water a foot away. A moment, and George and Jack broke the surface next to them. The four of them huddled under the dock, their backs against the canal wall, among dirty foam and garbage.
The mob spilled onto the boardwalk. Charlotte held her breath.
“They went right!” someone yelled. “To the Reed Alley!”
Boots pounded above them, shaking drops of water from the dock’s boards onto them.
The filthy wet creature that was George raised his hand, gave his brother a death stare, and drew his thumb across his neck. Jack grinned.
A dead fish floated up from the depths right next to Charlotte. Ew. She pushed it gently aside with her fingers.
The last of the stragglers ran past, the noise of the mob retreating. Richard waded to the left, walking along the canal wall at a brisk pace. She waited to make sure the kids followed and went after him.
Fifteen minutes and two canals later, they climbed out onto the boardwalk. Jack shook himself. Filthy water ran from George’s rags in dirty streams. His hair dripped. He stared at his brother, his face grim. If stares had temperature, Jack would’ve turned into a burned-out match.
Charlotte gulped a breath, hoping for some fresh air and finding none. Her own soaked clothes smelled like rancid seaweed. Water filled her shoes, and something slimy had wedged itself under the toes of her left foot.
Richard ducked into another alley, and she followed, limping and making squishy noises on the cobbles. The boys brought up the rear.
Nobody said anything for the next ten minutes until Richard stopped before a warehouse. The small wooden door swung open. A woman stepped out in front of them, carrying a metal bucket filled with bloody water. She hurled the contents into the canal.
Great. Fantastic. Once they were somewhere safe, she would sit everyone down and check them for infection.
Richard held the door open, his eyes scanning the boardwalk.
Charlotte ducked inside and stepped into a large gymnasium. Men and women, stripped down and sweaty, punched and kicked heavy sandbags. A man and a woman, both muscled with crisp definition, sparred on the reed mats; another pair of fighters squared off, their hands raised, in the roped-off ring raised on a wooden platform. A din hung above the muscular bodies: the rapid staccato of smaller bags being hit, the thuds of kicks hammering at the heavier bags, guttural cries, and rhythmic breathing.
Charlotte took a step forward. Everything stopped. The gymnasium went completely silent. As one, the fighters looked at her. None of the faces were friendly.
Not good. She straightened her shoulders, raising her head. Behind her, Jack took a deep breath.
Richard stepped through the doorway and strode ahead of her, oblivious to the hostility in the room.
A middle-aged, overweight man stepped away from the ring and walked toward Richard, his steps unhurried. A scar cut across his tan face, just a hair shy of his left eye. Half of his right earlobe was gone, the edge of the old wound ragged and uneven. Bitten off, Charlotte realized.
If there was a problem, she’d push the teens outside and block the door. At least she’d buy them a few minutes.
Richard and the overweight man met in the middle of the floor. The man’s eyes were grim.
Here we go.
The overweight man hugged Richard, turned, and went back to the ring. The punches and grunts resumed. Richard nodded at them. “Back room.”
As soon as they were alone, she would punch him, Charlotte promised herself. No, no she wouldn’t, because resorting to physical violence wasn’t proper. Then again, it might be considered self-defense. If she died as a result of this journey, it wouldn’t be because of slavers. It would be because Richard’s inability to communicate would give her a heart attack.
* * *
RICHARD closed the door of Barlo’s back room and glanced about: a long table, two benches, a sink with a freezing unit next to it, and a scale . . . empty. Barlo had used this chamber as one of the two rooms where fighters warmed up before bouts.
His heartbeat slowed. So much of his life in these past months had been spent waiting, calculating, watching. Moments like this, born from excitement and danger, when he ran along the steel edge of his sword, matching his wits against opponents, were when he felt truly alive. His heart pumped, the world seemed brighter, the experiences sharper, and he loved every bit of it.
“Richard!”
He turned.
Charlotte faced him. Her wet tunic molded to her figure, and her hair, which she’d put up into a neat knot, had come undone and hung over her face. That air of detachment and civility had been washed away, as if someone had taken an elegant cat, groomed to within an inch of its life, and dumped a bucket of water on it. Her expression had the same shock, outrage, and promise of violence.
If he laughed, she’d probably kill him. Quite literally.
Charlotte opened her mouth, clamped it shut, opened it again . . .
He strained to keep his face solemn. “My lady?”
“Words.”
She seemed on the verge of breaking down or screaming. It was best to tread carefully. “Words are good,” he agreed.
She raised her hands. “I want to punch you.”
Richard almost doubled over. He’d driven the quintessential aristocrat to crude violence. It had to be about the canal. Oh, the indignity. “I know the water isn’t the cleanest, but we had no alternative.” He let the mask drop a little and smiled. “I promise you, it will be okay. Before you know it, we’ll be warm and dry.”
“I don’t care about the bloody canal! Simple words, Richard! Like ‘We’re safe’ or ‘They won’t harm us!’ Or ‘He’s an old friend.’” She made a short cutting motion with her hands. “Something! I thought we were about to get pummeled.”
Pummeled here? At Barlo’s? Did she think he would bring her to somewhere where she would be unsafe? “Of course you were safe. I took you in here.”
“You also took me to Jason’s, where you then slept holding your sword.”
Oh, really now. He took a step toward her. “I assure you, my lady, that you were perfectly safe. If anyone put a hand on you, they’d lose it, and everyone inside that place knew it.”
Charlotte clenched her hands. “Aargh!”
“I’m just trying to clarify.” He knew he should’ve let it go, but the idea that he would stupidly put her in danger irritated him beyond belief. “So you want me to tell you if we’re in danger or if we’re safe. You do realize that there may not be an opportunity to warn you every single time?”
Charlotte dropped onto the bench. “I would settle for some of the time at this point.”
Richard couldn’t stop himself. “As shocking as it seems, occasionally you may have to rely on your own judgment. For example, if we’re running from a mob, we’re probably not safe.”
Charlotte’s gaze was sharper than a knife. “One more word of mocking, and I’ll infect you with papillomavirus.”
She had graduated to actual threats. What was it with this woman? “Pray tell, what would that be?”
“Warts,” George said.
Laughing was out of the question, he reminded himself. “My apologies. Please allow me to remedy the situation by using words: we’re safe here. Barlo’s an old friend. His fighters know me. We can speak openly here.”
She hung her head.
George yanked the sodden mass of hair off his hand and hurled it across the room at his brother. Jack dodged, and the wig splattered against the wall.
“You moron!”
“Me?” Jack blinked, an expression of angelic innocence on his face.
“You!” A white glow sheathed George’s eyes. “Two weeks! I spent two weeks watching Parris, and you screwed it up for me. All you had to do was stay out of the way and watch for his people coming out. What the hell did you do?”
Jack shrugged. “I stole a fish.”
Richard hid a laugh. If he had a doubloon for each time he and Kaldar had had this precise conversation . . .
George’s blue eyes went wide. “Why?”
“I was hungry. And bored. But mostly hungry.” Jack spread his arms. “Look, I took one small fish, then the guy started screaming, so I slapped him with it. It wasn’t my fault he tripped and fell into a stall of fruit. So I laughed, and they all started chasing me.”
The rage written on George’s face imploded into icy determination. His voice was suddenly calm. “And so you had this pissed-off mob chasing you. Why did you lead them my way?”
Jack widened his eyes in mocking sincerity. “Because you needed a bath.”
George pulled his rags over his head and dumped them on the floor. He wore a gray-and-black tunic and pants. Good choice, Richard decided. The clothes hugged his body, while allowing ample freedom of movement. In the few years he had known him, the boy had filled out. George would never be a large man, but he had that devastating combination of lean muscle, quickness, and discipline that made one a lethal swordsman.
“Two weeks in that alley. Rain, heat, people kicking me as they passed by. And you decided I needed a bath.”
“Water is good for you. Really. You were filthy.”
“Mhm,” George said.
“Do you have any idea how badly you smelled?” Jack wrinkled his nose.
“I was supposed to smell. I was pretending to be a beggar. You blew my cover.”
“Your cover was already blown,” Richard said. “Parris knows the Mirror has been watching him.”
“See?” Jack said.
“That’s beside the point. You ruined two weeks of work because you were bored. Now I’ll be pulled off this assignment, and someone else will have to take my place.”
Jack shrugged, slightly less sure of himself. “Good. It’s summer. All you do is work. Maybe we can finally have some fun.”
“I’m going to kill you,” George said calmly.
Another familiar emotion. This had to run its course, or it would fester.
“Boys,” Charlotte began. “I really don’t think—”
A glowing yellow sheen rolled over Jack’s irises. He was two years younger but already the same height as George and wider in the shoulder, with the beginnings of a powerful musculature. Benefits of his changeling blood. Of course, it came with many drawbacks.
Jack motioned at George. “Bring it.”
George lunged forward, swinging his arm. Jack moved to block. Midway through the punch, George twisted, picking up speed, jumped, and kicked his brother in the chest. Jack flew out the door and into the gym.
Nicely done!
Charlotte gasped.
George strode to the door w
ith a determined look on his face.
“George!” Charlotte called.
He turned on his toes, produced an elegant bow, said, “Excuse me, my lady. This won’t take long,” and walked out.
Charlotte looked at Richard. “Why are you just standing there?”
“They’re young men. It’s quite normal,” he told her, and held the door open for her. “It’s better they resolve it now and be done with it.”
She sighed, stood up, and went out into the gym.
The two boys danced across the floor, launching a flurry of kicks and punches, blocking, spinning, jumping. The other activity stopped, and the fighters watched them. Jack clearly had superior strength and speed, but George had studied harder. His movements had the surety born from many hours spent training, while Jack fought on instinct. His instinct was rarely wrong, Richard reflected, as George slid across the floor after taking a powerful kick. But it was no substitute for practice. Still, since William, his cousin’s changeling husband, had taken over Jack’s hand-to-hand education, the boy showed a marked improvement.
George rolled to his feet, lunged, getting inside his brother’s guard, and locked his hands on Jack’s arm. Northern three-point flip, Richard diagnosed. Jack tried to counter with the Lower Sud drop—William’s influence—but the three-point was nearly impossible to stop, and George had gotten a good hold. Trip, turn, flip. Jack flew through the air, and George slammed him onto the ground. Jack’s back slapped the floor.
Ugh. Richard grimaced in sympathy. That had to hurt.
George landed on him and locked his arm into a bar. The fighters cheered.
Next to him, Charlotte winced again. Watching it from the healer’s point of view was probably more trying. He decided to reassure her. “They’re actually quite careful with each other. For example, this takedown was designed to incapacitate the opponent. A quarter turn to the right, and Jack would’ve landed on his neck.”
She gave him an unreadable look.
He felt compelled to explain. “George could’ve broken Jack’s spine . . .”
She raised her hand. “Richard, stop trying to make me feel better. You’re making it worse.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” George said, putting pressure on Jack’s arm. “You’re done.”
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