Among Thieves

by Hulick, Douglas

  A new suit of clothes had been the last, and easiest, of my demands. Even so, Solitude had been fed up with me by then—she had told her people to find something for me as quickly as possible before practically throwing me out the door. “Quickly” had translated into secondhand drapes: a pair of dark breeches; patched stockings that had once been either yellow or white but were neither now; a worn linen shirt; and a doublet and slashed overcoat, both in a faded burgundy. Nothing fit quite right, and there were a couple of inhabitants left in the coat, but it was still a damn sight better than Nestor’s hastily altered hand-me-downs.

  On the upside, I still had my own boots, as well as a couple of replacement daggers and a surprisingly nice rapier they had managed to scare up in the house itself.

  “Over here,” I said, pointing to a blue and white striped canopy off to my right. Smoke flowed out from beneath it, carrying the smell of fish and oil and peppers.

  “You hid the book there?” said Iron incredulously.

  “No,” I said. “I haven’t eaten since last night. I’m hungry.”

  We were on the edge of Stone Arch cordon, still a good way from Fifth Angel Square. Iron looked around, taking in the late-afternoon crowds with one sharp glance. We were in Nicco’s territory.

  “Could half use a bite myself,” said Iron, running his tongue over his lips. “Just stick close.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. Iron was acting as both my backup and my handler. Solitude didn’t want anything happening to me before I got the book, or me doing anything unexpected once I retrieved it.

  Solitude had given ground on my demands grudgingly. Protection for Christiana had been surprisingly easy to arrange, although Solitude had wondered why I was so worried about shielding a baroness. She had been careful to point out that no one could guarantee protection from a Gray Prince, especially Shadow. I had learned this firsthand, of course, compliments of Task, but I had appreciated the honesty nonetheless.

  My own protection from Shadow was a far dicier thing. Surrounding me with Arms wasn’t tenable and likely wouldn’t have done any good, anyhow. The best Solitude could do was let Shadow know I was under her wing now, and that any move against me would be a move against her. Since they were essentially on the verge of war already, I wasn’t sure this would help, but there weren’t a lot of other options.

  There was a small line in front of the street vendor’s stall, but we ignored it and moved to the front. A few Lighters muttered complaints, but a sharp look from Iron was enough to silence them.

  The man bent over the charcoal grill was small, with the sandy skin and dusty hair of the steppes tribes. He was a blur of activity, turning hand-sized fish over the fire, chopping onions, mincing herbs, and pouring young olive oil into a hot pan, all while singing softly under his breath.

  “Hello, Rall’ad,” I said. “What’s the catch today?”

  Rall’ad’s hands froze in midreach, one near the fire, the other over the cutting board on the table beside him. He looked up at me, his face pale.

  “Please leave,” he whispered in heavily accented Imperial.

  I grimaced. Nicco—had to be. Word of my disfavor was all over the street, making even former Ears like Rall’ad eager to forget they knew me. Not that I blamed him—he had a wife and eight children to worry about. But I was hungry.

  “Yellow salt skimmers today, eh?” I said, glancing into the bucket of gutted and cleaned fish. “Give us two. . . .” Iron tapped my shoulder and held up three fingers, pointing to himself. “Make that four of your best.”

  Rall’ad ducked his head in acknowledgment and dropped a small handful of red chilies into the oil in the pan. They immediately began to sizzle and spit.

  Solitude and I had done our own bit of dancing over Nicco. Not surprisingly, I wanted him dustmans, both for what he had done to Eppyris and to get him off my blinds once and for all. Solitude had flat out refused. He was her main leverage in Ten Ways. Losing him would throw the cordon, and her plans, into chaos—or so she said. She had offered to talk to him instead, to make it clear I was off-limits.

  I had laughed. Gray Prince or no, Nicco wasn’t about to let Solitude get between him and his vengeance. She thought otherwise, though, and it had ended there. I got the feeling that she didn’t much relish the idea of getting between Nicco and me, and that if there was going to be any resolution on the matter, it was up to me to find it—as long as it didn’t interfere with her plans, of course.

  Rall’ad tossed the pan a few times, then added a handful of chopped onions to the heated dance. The aroma burned my eyes and made my mouth water at the same time.

  “If I’m seen talking to you, it could mean my death,” Rall’ad hissed. He gave the pan two more quick tosses, then set it aside on the table. He picked up a bowl containing a mixture of chopped mint, parsley, garlic, and couscous. “Nicco has eyes everywhere.”

  “I know,” I said. “I used to be one, remember?” The cook blanched. “Don’t worry. If anything, Nicco will thank you for telling him I’m headed toward Five Pillars after this.”

  “And are you?” he said.

  I smiled. “Careful you don’t burn my fish.”

  “Never,” said the Ear.

  The worst sticking point between Solitude and me had been Kells. I wanted him left alone, or at least left alive, and his organization intact; Solitude, though, had rightly pointed out she was at war with him, thank you very much, and she couldn’t just walk away. Besides, he was in league with Shadow, and how was that supposed to work?

  Given how the war in Ten Ways was going, and given that Kells wasn’t going to be able to deliver the journal after all, I didn’t see his arrangement with Shadow lasting very long. I had said as much to Solitude, and also noted that Kells would be a wonderful counterbalance to the heavy-handed ally she had in Nicco. She had seemed intrigued by this notion, and while she hadn’t promised to take my former boss on immediately, she had agreed it was worth considering.

  It wasn’t the arrangement I had hoped for, but it held out some hope for Kells. Not that it would do me any good; in his eyes, I would now be a cross-cove. He wouldn’t know about the reasons or bargains or choices behind any of this—he would only know that instead of taking the journal to him, I had traded it for my life. He would only feel the stab in the back.

  I wished there was some way I could explain away that disappointment, to make him understand why I was doing this, but any explanation would end up coming after the fact. It would come off as an excuse—and in a way, it was. Kells was one of the few Kin I looked up to, and my work for him one of the things I could hold up with pride. I’d stayed true in the midst of the enemy, even when it would have been easier to let go and just work for Nicco. To have made it through all of that, to have gone back to him with my head up, only to give him the cross now, even for the best reasons—it was almost too hard to swallow.

  Almost.

  Rall’ad pulled a fish off the grill, turned it on its back, and squeezed its stomach cavity open, forming a small bowl within the fish. Two spoonfuls of peppers and onions went inside, along with a handful of the herbed couscous.

  Three more followed quickly. All were put on a trencher and handed over to us. No money changed hands, even though I tried to slip Rall’ad some hawks.

  “It will only make it worse,” he said. “Just eat and leave. Please.”

  I took my one, leaving Iron his three on the trencher, and we stood off to one side, scooping the fillings and flaky meat out with our fingers. The mint and the herbs cooled the bite of the peppers, letting the natural saltiness of the skimmer come through. Normally, I would have savored it; this time, I simply ate.

  Iron finished before me and handed the wooden plate back to Rall’ad. I ate a last bite, threw the remains in the gutter, and pushed back into the street.

  We were a handful of paces away from Rall’ad’s stall when Iron said, “He was one of yours?”

  “Used to be,” I said. “Now he’s too scared
to look at me.”

  “You expected any different?”

  I chewed on my mustache. “No, I suppose not,” I said after a bit. “Still, it’s hard seeing it end like this—watching myself being so hastily shoved aside.”

  “It never gets easier,” said Iron. “Take my word on that.”

  I nodded, remembering what Degan had told me about his order—how degans sometimes served for years until the debt was paid. Was it easier for them, knowing they’d be walking away on their own terms, their deal kept, or did that make it harder? And what if the Oath required them to turn on their friends and associates? There was no one to blame except themselves and their honor. Even with Kells, I at least had the knowledge that I was saving him through my betrayal; the degans had no such luxury.

  I shuddered at the thought. That was more weight than I would ever want to bear.

  By the time we reached Fifth Angel Square, the crowds were out in force. Iron kept up with me far better than I would have expected, smoothly sliding his solid frame around knots of people even as I ducked behind and through them. I expected him to leave a wake of disruption behind him; instead, he left barely a ripple of notice.

  As I walked, I looked up occasionally to catch a glimpse of Elirokos at the center of the square. The Pardoner’s weathered statue still looked like a one-armed beggar to me, but now I found I could sympathize with his predicament. Battered, broken, his glory literally falling off him in pieces, he still stood tall and pointed the way to redemption. The carved souls under his care had vanished with his missing arm, but that didn’t mean they were forgotten. I could see the weight of his burden reflected in the artfully carved lines of his face, the droop of his eyelids, the slight lean of one shoulder. If ever an Angel knew despair and failure, it was this one.

  I nodded at the statue with a new appreciation. When this was all over, I decided, I would have to pay my respects at his shrine.

  Mendross was in the middle of his closedown as I walked up. It was late enough in the day that most of the people who came to the bazaar to buy fruit had already been, so he was busy shifting bags, filling crates, and yelling at his son to do his share of the work. I could already see that the small handcart they used to sell their oldest produce on the street was nearly filled.

  “Damn it, boy,” groused Mendross, his tone grown casual from the nightly ritual. “If you don’t move your ass, we’ll never sell any of this. Anchaka’s cart is already packed and away. If I end up with a pile of rotting—Sweet Angels and emperors, what the hell are you doing here!”

  I smiled as the fruit seller caught sight of me and almost dropped the basket of dates in his hands.

  “Being very unpopular with my former Ears, it would seem,” I said drily.

  Mendross licked his lips and glanced at the crowds creeping through the bazaar around us. “You have to leave,” he hissed. “Now.”

  I crossed my arms and stared at the fruit seller. I was getting tired of everyone I’d known in Nicco’s territory giving me the flick. Nicco might be after me, but it didn’t mean I was poison to whomever I touched.

  “I’ll go,” I said, “when I get the package I left with you.”

  Mendross looked at Iron and hesitated. As much as I would have liked to step off with the Ear, I knew Iron wouldn’t stand for it. Instead, I nodded to let Mendross know it was all right to talk.

  “That’s just it,” said Mendross. “People have been coming around asking questions about you.” He set down the basket and stepped closer. “And about . . . it.”

  “About it?” I said. Who knew to ask Mendross about the journal? “Who’s been asking?”

  Mendross shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Tall cove, dark cloak.” He swallowed. “No face.”

  Shadow? Shit!

  “Did he ask you for it?” I said.

  “No, no—just if I had seen you with it. And if I had an idea where it might be.”

  I let out my breath. “Who else?”

  Mendross opened his mouth but didn’t get a chance to speak.

  “Well, there’s always me,” said Bronze Degan from behind me, “but I don’t know if I count.”

  I spun around, a smile breaking across my face.

  He was standing in the square, just outside the statue’s shadow, a wicked grin creasing his own face. “After all,” he added, “I’m not trying to kill you.”

  “Give it time,” I said, laughing. I noticed he was wearing a new hat—deep red, like his doublet and pants—touched with a peach plume. I also noticed he was carrying a canvas sack.

  “How the hell did you manage to get away from—” I said as I moved toward him, but a hand coming down on my shoulder interrupted me.

  “Not so quick,” said Iron, stopping me in my tracks. “We have an arrangement.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” I said. I tried to shake his hand off and failed.

  Iron nodded. “Aye. I just want to make sure he knows it,” he said, indicating Degan with his free hand.

  I looked from one degan to another. Neither was looking at me, and neither was smiling. My good mood, so fast in coming, died just as quickly.

  Behind us, I heard Mendross making a hasty retreat into the curtained back portion of his stall. Lucky bastard.

  “What arrangement?” said Degan.

  “He’s promised to give the journal to her,” said Iron, taking his hand off me. “And I’m here to make sure she gets it.”

  “You mean Solitude?” said Degan.

  “Aye.”

  Degan looked down at me, and then back up at Iron.

  “I can’t allow that,” said Degan.

  “What?!” I took a step forward. No one stopped me. I took three more, until I was right in front of Degan. “What the hell do you mean you can’t allow it?”

  “Do you know why Solitude wants that book, Drothe?” he said, almost patiently.

  “Yes,” I snapped. “Do you?”

  Degan raised an eyebrow and said, so quietly that it barely carried, “So she can kill the emperor.”

  I took an involuntary step back. “You knew?” I said. “All this time, and you knew? You son of a bitch!”

  Degan shook his head. “No. Not like that. I didn’t know what Solitude wanted to do. I didn’t know how the book fit into it. I had my suspicions, but I didn’t know for certain.” He looked up at Iron. “Not until now.”

  “You know it’s what needs to be done,” said Iron.

  “I know it’s what you think needs to be done,” said Degan. “I’m of a different mind on the matter.”

  “You’re in the minority,” said Iron darkly.

  “Numbers have nothing to do with right or wrong!” snapped Degan. “An Oath’s an Oath, whether you stand alone or you’re backed by a hundred others.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “An oath? As in, an Oath?” I scanned the bazaar, looking for large men with unique swords. Aside from the two near me, none were obvious. “Are you telling me there are more degans involved in this?”

  “We’re an old Order,” said Degan, watching Iron. “Two hundred and eleven years since our founding. You don’t think we’ve stuck around that long just to trade promises for service, do you? Believe me, there are better ways to make a living.”

  Iron moved a step closer. “That’s enough, Bronze. Let’s not talk out of school.”

  Degan chuckled drily. “No, let’s.” He dropped the canvas sack at his feet, leaving his own hands free. His gaze never left the other degan. “We degans have a ‘higher’ purpose—one we were founded to uphold. Except we can’t seem to agree on exactly what that purpose is anymore. It seems things have gotten muddied over time. It seems,” he said, his voice growing hard, “that some people have decided it’s easier to become cowards than keep their honor intact.”

  “Don’t confuse stubbornness with loyalty, Bronze,” said Iron. “There’s nothing cowardly in recognizing the truth.”

  “And there’s nothing noble in destroying what you’r
e sworn to protect!”

  I felt my stomach drop. “You’re talking about the emperor,” I said. “The degans are fucking sworn to protect the emperor?”

  “No,” said Iron. “Not the emperor—the empire. There’s a difference.”

  “Not in this case,” said Degan.

  “Especially in this case,” said Iron.

  “If you kill him, the empire will collapse,” said Degan.

  “And if we don’t,” said Iron, “it will eat itself alive.”

  Degan gritted his teeth and wrapped his hand around his sword’s grip. “You don’t know that.”

  I’d seen that look before. He wasn’t going to give.

  Crap.

  “It’s a moot point,” I said to Degan. “I’ve made a deal with Solitude. For good or ill, it’s going to her.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “You don’t understand,” I said. “I’ve—”

  “No, you don’t understand,” he said. He took a deep breath and met my eyes. “I’m not giving you a choice in the matter. You’re giving me the journal. Now.”

  I blinked. “Are you threatening me?” I said.

  “No,” said Degan. “I’m calling in your Oath.”

  And that was when Iron struck.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Iron surged past me, closing the distance between himself and Degan faster than I would have thought possible for such a large man. Degan caught the movement a fraction of a second later and began to draw his sword, but I could already see it was going to be too late. Damn, I had distracted him. Degan’s blade still wasn’t clear of its scabbard when Iron reached him.

  Iron had come on empty-handed, opting for speed over carnage. Now, his left hand clamped on to Degan’s right, stopping the draw in midmotion. At the same time, Iron’s right fist connected with Degan’s jaw, sending his head rocking back. Three more savage punches followed with smooth, precise rhythm—head, throat, stomach. Degan rolled with them as best he could, bending his body and shifting his shoulders and hips. This moved him enough to make the last two punches go wide, so that they skidded along his shoulder and ribs instead of crippling him.