The Imposters of Aventil

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “Did he hit it?” Colin asked. “Hmm? Did he kill one of ours? Rob the till? Make off with Vessrin’s shoes or something?”

  “He was on our roof!”

  “I heard you the first time, Giles. If the Thorn wanted to hit the Turnabout, then it would look like the Trusted Friend does. You can be sure about that.”

  “So,” Casey said quietly, “since you’re such a loyal Prince, Colin, I want to know what you’re going to do for us.”

  Colin’s thoughts raced. The best thing for him right now, the best thing for the Princes, would be to nail this Jester fraud. Find him, hit him hard and good, and once the Princes had gotten their cup of blood from him, drop his body off on the Constabulary Stationhouse steps. That would get the heat off the street and off of Veranix. The only question was how to draw the Jester out.

  “All right, all right, I got a blasted idea,” Colin said.

  “You blazing well better, because—”

  That tore it. “I swear to the saints, Giles, if you want to eat your teeth—”

  “Bring it down, Tyson,” Old Casey said. “Giles, enough of your guff, though.”

  Giles went off to the tap and filled his glass, grumbling the whole time.

  “He’s been giving me—”

  “I don’t blazing care! You know how often I’ve stepped up to the rail for you? To these tossers, and to Vessrin? Give me something, Colin.”

  “Yeah, and I think I’ve got something. Look, whoever is making noise, fake Thorn, real Thorn, I don’t know . . . but—”

  “I don’t care real or fake. I don’t care if there’s one or three. Tell me what you’re going to do.”

  “Right, so . . . the guy who hit us, whoever he really is, he wanted the Rabbits, right?”

  “Rabbits are all dead now,” Bottin said.

  “Yeah, but who knows that Sotch didn’t make it? Just a few of our people. We spread out the word that she’s all right, where she’s hiding, we dress up someone to play the part . . .”

  Old Casey’s face brightened. “Then you flush this bastard out.”

  “It’s not terrible,” Giles said.

  “How are you gonna do it, though?” Frenty asked.

  How was he going to do it? It was clear they were putting it all on him. Let him take the risk of fighting the Jester. Let him do all the work. And all the blame if it goes bad. There was only one way he could think of, though.

  “I’ll get word out that she’s going to go to the church, hide with the preacher. Put on a gripe act, like I’m talking out of turn.”

  “And people would buy that from you,” Giles said.

  Colin didn’t give that a response.

  “That should spread the word enough that it could filter to this guy,” Bottin said. “Then you bring a ringer over to the church, and you’re ready when he comes?”

  “Something like that,” Colin said. “I’m guessing Cabie isn’t on her feet.”

  “Might never be,” Casey said.

  “Bassa?” Frenty offered.

  “She’s a good foot taller than Sotch was,” Colin said. “Deena is the right height.”

  Giles scoffed. “Risky job, you’re suggesting the bird who rolled you over and took your crew?”

  “I’m just saying, she’s a match. Give me whoever you want. Give me a crew or don’t. If you want me all on my own, I can work in the wind. You want me to play second to someone, fine. Whatever you all need.”

  “A loyal Prince,” Giles said with a sneer.

  “Let it rutting be, Giles,” Casey said. He turned back to Colin. “Deena’s good. And her crew as backup. Work it out with them.”

  “Thanks, Casey,” Colin said. “We’ll get this tosser.”

  “Damn well better,” Casey said.

  “Sorry about the blood,” Colin said. “Just next time—”

  “That was a mistake,” Casey said, glaring over at Frenty. He came out from the table and led Colin to the door. He lowered his voice as they crossed over. “It ain’t just these guys here. Vessrin keeps muttering about how you’re just like your father. Show me, show him, that you’ve got a handle on things in the streets, for all of us. That’s what I need to keep these boys off your back.”

  “I hear, boss,” Colin said.

  “All right,” Casey said, clapping a friendly hand on Colin’s neck. For once, it really did feel like some form of filial affection from Casey. Colin had almost forgotten what that was like.

  “I’ll get it done, you can count on that,” Colin said.

  “You better count on it,” Casey said. “Now get out of here.”

  Colin didn’t waste any time getting back out into the night. As he left the basement, Iggs and the other boys were lurking in the alley. They kept their distance, but Colin could see that they were glowering at him. That was going to be a problem. Between them and the bosses under Casey, he had all sorts of problems brewing right in his house.

  Blazes.

  Of all the things he had to worry about, the last thing he needed was to feel like he couldn’t trust someone with a Rose on their arm.

  But that was exactly where he was right now.

  Almers Hall was quiet when he slipped in. At this hour, the doors probably should be locked, and he’d have to climb up to the second floor to jimmy his way into his room through the window. The interim prefects set up for the summer clearly had a lot to learn about keeping things secure. But that suited his needs well enough. No one was noting his comings or goings, nor did anyone give any mind when he slipped off campus. He made his way up the stairwell to the second floor, where it was only a few quick steps to his room.

  “Hey, Hence.”

  Depths, he didn’t want to deal with anyone right now.

  “Hence, hey.” There was insistence in the voice. No avoiding it.

  Enzin turned to see Poncher, the delving thick-skulled addle who captained the Pirrell tetchball squad, ambling over to his room. He was a half-witted addle, but he had plenty of coin in his pocket, so Enzin put on a smile.

  “Sorry, Ponch. Didn’t hear you just then.”

  “Yeah, didn’t want to be too loud,” Poncher said. “Folks are sleeping. Or out making revels. That where you were?”

  “Revels. Exactly.”

  “Were you invited to something fancy?” Poncher said.

  “Why do you—”

  “You got the cape of your dress uniform,” Poncher said, grabbing the crimson cloak with his meaty fingers.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Enzin said, pulling it free. “Special dinner.”

  “Guess that’s what happens when you win your event,” Poncher said with a dull laugh. Enzin had received plenty of praise and attention for claiming the top prize in Archery for Pirrell. Winning that had been utter simplicity compared to his own agenda. “I guess we’ll see what that’s like ourselves, huh?”

  “You seem to be on your way,” Enzin said. “You’re playing Central Academy tomorrow, yes?”

  “Yeah, which is why I wanted to catch you before you racked down. Those Academy boys, they’re, like, military cadets. Well trained, organized.”

  “Your squad should be fine.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” He glanced around the hallway, despite no one else being around. “We already finished all the Fist you sold us on that last game. We’re gonna need more.”

  Enzin hid his disgust. Selling Soldier’s Fist to these boys just so they could cheat their way to a tetchball victory was necessary to pay his way from Kyst to Maradaine. As much as he hated it—he only had so much Fist, and he needed it—he also was going to need to pay his tuition to finish his schooling, and pay for further travels if he didn’t finish his task in Maradaine.

  “It’s gonna cost,” Enzin said. “And I mean significantly.”

  “Yeah, sure, sure,” Pon
cher said. “We got it, whatever you need.”

  “Give me a second,” Enzin said. Waving Poncher off, he went into his room and shut the door behind him. He noticed his hand was starting to tremor as he latched it. His own dose of Fist was running out. The slice he had gotten on his cheek, the bruises on his neck—he was starting to feel them. He’d need a bit more Fist tonight. Just a few drops, he still needed to be able to sleep. But a few drops.

  He stripped off the cloak and the rest of his gear, putting the quiver under the bed. He had lost the bow, which was fine. He had two more, thanks to Pirrell University, but that bow had been special. That had been his father’s bow, and now this Thorn had it.

  Delving, meddling Thorn. What were the odds that Maradaine would have someone else with a bow, a crimson cloak, and a grudge with the Birds? Or something with the Birds. The Thorn had been far too chummy with Blackbird.

  Didn’t matter. Blackbird was dead. Bluejay was dead as well, now. He’d sleep well knowing that. Of all the Deadly Birds on his list, she was the one he had wanted most. She was the one who had killed his sister Anzi.

  But all the Deadly Birds were going to pay. They had taken Pop and Mama, Perri, Fermo, and most of all Anzi. They only didn’t get Enzin because of their strange rules about only hunting their targets for a set number of days. But they had left him with nothing.

  Nothing but his bow and a few casks of Fist. He had already sold some of it, used some to give him the edge he needed to fight those delving Birds. Now there were just two jugs left. He pulled that out from under the bed, and grabbed a handful of the glass vials he had bought from Pop’s old friend Benny. Those were a handy way to pass out doses of the stuff to the addles on the tetchball squad.

  Despite the tremor in his hand, he measured out a few dozen vials, nearly finishing the jug in the process. Those few remaining drops, he emptied into his own mouth.

  As soon as the drops hit his tongue, he felt that exquisite rush mixed with a numbing bliss. The pain in his face and neck, the rest of his body, all washed away.

  Just one jug left.

  That last jug was going to have to be enough for him. He was going to need it to finish his fight with the Birds.

  And if the Thorn got in his way again, saints and sinners help that poor soul.

  Veranix didn’t dare head to campus. Something about Inspector Welling’s hand could connect to him. Or to the napranium tools. It was strange, and beyond Veranix’s capability to understand. Delmin would have to figure it out. More likely Phadre and Jiarna. This was something on their level.

  But it meant that Welling might be able to track him, find him. How the blazes else was he able to be up on that roof?

  He jumped from roof to roof, pushing south all the way to Kemper and Low Bridge. Welling might be able to track him, but he couldn’t match his speed. Maybe with enough distance, changing directions, he’d leave a tangle of numina that Welling couldn’t possibly follow.

  He needed to get rid of the rope and cloak, somewhere safe. The flop over the laundry wasn’t an option, and not just because Phadre and Jiarna were staying there. He couldn’t risk leading the Constabulary there. He might as well turn himself in.

  He was on the roof of a cheap tenement, one covered in paint jobs marking it as Kemper Street Kickers territory. This whole block was like that—run-down and marked. Even the shops had a blue K painted on the door, and those that didn’t had broken windows.

  He could hear a few Kickers on the street below, mostly just laughing and carousing. This part of the neighborhood wasn’t crowded at all. Veranix wondered if anyone who came to town for the games even bothered renting rooms down here. He couldn’t imagine it would be worth it.

  There was no telling if Welling still was after him. Though if a cadre of Constabulary came rushing down in this part of town, the Kickers would give them trouble.

  Veranix didn’t care for that thought, even though it would help him.

  He needed to rest, hide his gear. He needed a safe sanctuary.

  As soon as he thought that, he almost wanted to kick himself for the obviousness of what he needed to do.

  He went west, across the Toothless Dogs’ territory, where he saw several groups of Dogs huddled around corners, also carousing and griping. Even up on the roofs, racing his way along, he could hear them snarl and shout about the Kickers. These two gangs were more trouble than the other four combined. He wasn’t sure if the carriage crash at the Tower Tenements was caused by their fight, or if their row came up due to the crash. Either way, they made the situation worse.

  Or had he done it?

  Did his war with Fenmere lead to the end of the Rabbits, which cracked the balance in Aventil? Was whatever was happening between the Dogs and Kickers his job to clean up?

  Kaiana would probably say it was. And she’d probably be right.

  One more thing for the list.

  Into the Hallaran’s Boys part of the neighborhood, by Drum and Bear, he turned back up north. Making his way to Saint Julian’s.

  There was no sign of a Constabulary action by the time he reached the church. At least, no more than could be expected. Each block closer to campus, he saw more constables on the street, but they seemed to be concerned with safety and patrol. None of them looked like they were on an active search. He definitely didn’t see—or sense—Inspector Welling.

  He went into the clock tower and stripped off his gear, forming a bundle of the cloak, rope, and weapons. As soon as he removed the cloak, exhaustion set in. He hadn’t paid attention to how hard he had been pushing himself.

  He must have been making noise as he stumbled out of the tower and down the stairs, and Reverend Pemmick was coming up, lamp in hand.

  “I wasn’t expecting you,” he said with a slight grin. “Well, when I heard someone clomping around, I expected it was you. I didn’t think you’d being coming here tonight, though.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it either, but trouble found its way to me.”

  “That seems to be your habit. You look a fright.”

  “I just need to sit down for a bit,” Veranix said. His legs buckled for a moment as he stepped down. “Maybe something to eat if you can spare it.”

  “We always spare what we can,” Pemmick said. “Come along.”

  They went down to the cells beneath the church, where Pemmick found some bread, cheese, and mustard in the larder. “It isn’t much . . .”

  “It’s fine, Reverend,” Veranix said. “I’m very grateful.”

  “Why did you come here tonight?”

  Veranix had to answer honestly. With the support and openness that Reverend Pemmick had given him, anything less would an insult.

  “There’s a constable inspector—he’s here investigating the attack on Benvin.”

  “And you’re suspected.”

  “Not exactly,” Veranix said. “I don’t know, I think this inspector, he—”

  He knew about the two imposters. Inspector Welling already knew.

  “Thorn?” Pemmick asked.

  Veranix realized he must have gone silent mid-sentence.

  “Sorry, Reverend,” Veranix said. “I just realized something. Anyhow, this inspector is also a mage—”

  “That’s allowed?”

  “My professor doesn’t seem to think so, but the inspector has a vest, so who is he to say? But he’s a mage who can also connect to my rope and cloak. And perhaps sense me as well. I’m not sure, exactly, but I need some place safe to recover.”

  Pemmick furrowed his brow. “I confess the areas of magic have been a shortfall in my studies, so I don’t fully understand the things you’re telling me, Thorn.”

  “It’s Vera—”

  “Do not tell me unless we are performing Absolution, son.” He sighed. “I do not understand about the magic involved, but I do understand your need for refuge.
You should rest here for the night.”

  Veranix considered what the reverend just said. There was so much on his shoulders, so much on his soul. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could carry it. “Maybe that is what I should do.”

  “I’ll prepare one of the sleeping cells for you—”

  “No, Reverend,” Veranix said. “Absolution.”

  Reverend Pemmick gave the barest of smiles. He went over to one of the cupboards and produced a bottle of wine and two cups. He quietly poured for them both and sat down. He took Veranix’s hand and closed his eyes.

  “May our voices be heard by only God and the saints, for our words are for no one else.”

  He opened his eyes and picked up his wine.

  “I’m going to tell you everything, Reverend,” Veranix said. “Absolutely everything.”

  “That was why I got the wine out,” Pemmick said. “I have a feeling we’ll be at this for a while. Go ahead. I am bound to silence.”

  Veranix took a sip of his own wine, and then a deep breath.

  “My name is Veranix Calbert. I’m a magic student at the University of Maradaine, and I am the son of Cal Tyson.”

  Chapter 18

  THE SCENT OF TEA and honeyed oats woke Veranix. He opened his eyes to Reverend Pemmick watching over him.

  “Is it morning?” he asked.

  “Only just,” the reverend said. “You do not sleep with a peaceful face.”

  “I never noticed,” Veranix said, sitting up from the cot in the basement cell. “Were you watching me long?”

  The reverend picked up a mug from the tray sitting next to him. “There’s a passage in the ‘Tale of Saint Irina’—”

  Veranix nodded, taking the offered tea. “‘Look upon my face while I rest, and you shall see if I hold any guile there.’ I know it.”

  “You’ve studied your Tales of the Saints. I’m pleasantly surprised.”

  “Well, you aren’t helping a complete heathen,” Veranix said. “I don’t have much to be peaceful about. I’m lucky to have made it through the past few nights. Saints, I’m lucky to be alive at all.”