The Imposters of Aventil

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “You should take me seriously,” Colin said. A punch came at him, but now the smoke was working against the Jester. Thin enough that Colin could see him, thick enough that it gave away his attacks. Colin saw it coming and ducked. He jabbed the Jester in the stomach, then raked his knife across the man’s gut.

  The Jester screamed, and then slammed his hands down on Colin’s back.

  Colin dropped to his knees. Not willing to give an inch, not to this tosser, not again, Colin lurched forward, grabbing him by the waist. As they went down together, Colin stabbed wildly in the Jester’s leg.

  The Jester cried out, clawing at the top of Colin’s head, trying to get his thumbs into his eyes. Colin stabbed his leg again and left the knife there. Then he grabbed the Jester by the wrists and twisted the man’s hands off his face.

  “You take me seriously,” Colin said, crawling on top of him. “You take Rose Street seriously.” Now kneeling on the Jester’s chest, Colin knocked him in the jaw. “And you take the Princes seriously.”

  With that, he grabbed the Jester’s head and pounded it onto the cobblestone.

  The Jester moaned, but didn’t move.

  “Is he dead?” Deena asked. She looked a bit off balance, like her head was still reeling, and she was holding her chest.

  “He’ll live. Theanne’s trick worked, I see.”

  “Still hurt like blazes,” Deena said.

  “Come on,” Colin said, pulling this fake Thorn’s cloak off of him. “Let’s get him back to the safehouse but quick. That had to be a spectacle.” He started to tie the Jester’s hands behind him with the cloak.

  “Blazes, but there’s a real spectacle,” Deena said. Colin looked up. A huge brawl was going on right by the church. Colin couldn’t make out the details, but it seemed to be Knights fighting Orphans.

  “All the more reason to clear out,” Colin said. “Can you walk all right?”

  “I’ll manage,” Deena said. “But why are you messing with him? Kill him here, let the sticks find him.”

  “Oh, no,” Colin said. “We’re not done with this fellow. We’ve got some questions for him.”

  Deena sighed, grabbing one arm of the senseless Jester and hauling him to his feet. “Let’s do it.”

  The Hunter had the bow raised and before Veranix could even blink, three arrows were nocked and released in rapid succession.

  Veranix jumped off the podium, drawing on his magic to slow the world around him. He couldn’t do that and hold on to his shrouding, but that didn’t matter. The arrows were creeping toward Inspector Rainey and the other fake Birds.

  Staff out, Veranix closed the distance to the first arrow, smashing it out of the air as it flew through the molasses of time.

  He crossed the aisle to knock the second out of the way. In the slowed world, Inspector Rainey was throwing herself into the pews, but she would have been too slow. The arrow was just a couple feet from her when Veranix smashed it, shredding it into splinters.

  He pushed, physically and magically, to hold the world slowed until he reached that third arrow, inching its way at Crow. The point was literally touching her chest when Veranix snatched it out of the air, slamming back into normal speed as soon as he did.

  Rainey and Cormorant both dropped down to the ground, both seemingly equally surprised that they didn’t have an arrow in their chest.

  “What happened?” the Hunter asked.

  “I did!” Veranix shouted. “And next I’m going to rip that cloak off of you.”

  Suddenly his left arm was grabbed, and something cold and harsh wrapped around his wrist. It didn’t just hit his wrist, it jarred his whole body, an anchor on his heart.

  “Stand and be held,” Crow said. “You have been ironed—”

  Veranix yanked his arm out of her grip, but one shackle was on his wrist. The other end of the shackle ripped from Crow’s hand and clocked her in the teeth. She reeled, and he was able to pull away.

  But his connection to the numina, even through the rope and cloak, was numb. Mage shackles, steel blended with dalmatium. He was barely able to keep his face darkened.

  Crow hadn’t recovered, and he took the moment to get out of her reach. The last thing he needed was to have both wrists shackled. Or to have to actively fight a constable to stop it.

  “You,” the Hunter said, malice in his voice. “You should be helping me kill them.”

  “Idiot,” Veranix said, jumping over to the aisle, staff twirling. “I don’t have time to explain how stupid you are.”

  The Hunter drew and fired an arrow at Veranix, but he was able to dodge and close the distance. No magic, just muscle, bone, and wit.

  A cry ripped through the air behind them. Veranix let it distract him, turned his head to see the arrow he dodged had found a target. Inspector Rainey was hit in the leg.

  “Specs!” Cormorant called out. “Rutting bastards!”

  The Hunter nocked another arrow, but before he could draw it back, the reverend was on him, grabbing his arm.

  “Shed no more blood in this house!”

  The Hunter swung out his fist, connecting with the reverend’s face. Pemmick crumpled, blood gushing from his nose.

  “This isn’t a house that’s helped me,” the Hunter said. “Stay down, preacher.”

  That was enough to set Veranix off. He launched at the Hunter, twirling the staff savagely. The Hunter was ready—fast, skilled. He blocked those attacks, parrying with his arms. Veranix was astonished that anyone could do that—he was hitting hard enough to break bones, but the Hunter just took the hits. It surprised Veranix enough that he didn’t have his own guard up when the Hunter punched him in the face.

  That punch hit like a speeding carriage.

  Then another blow hit Veranix in the back. Cormorant ran past him, clocking him with one of her handsticks while diving into it with the Hunter.

  Veranix was dazed, but his vision cleared enough to see Cormorant battering the Hunter with her sticks, all the while letting lose a stream of profanity unlike anything Veranix had ever heard.

  Rage welled up inside Veranix. He had to get this fight out of the church, get the Hunter down before he killed one of these constables. He channeled that anger, pushed it through the deadening cold of the mage shackle. He still couldn’t pull enough numina through it.

  Cormorant put up a hard fight, but then the Hunter caught her handstick. He ripped the weapon out of her hand, and then brought it down on her head.

  Veranix could only think of one more play. He pulled off the cloak and wrapped it around the shackle and his wrist. Maybe direct contact would cancel out somehow. Holding the rope in his other hand, stretched as far away from his shackled hand as possible, he forced himself to draw numina through the swirling fire of the napranium and the icy deadness of the dalmatium. He charged past the Hunter while putting all the power he could channel into the rope, wrapping it around the man before he could deliver a devastating blow onto Cormorant’s head.

  And with every ounce he had in him, he pulled the Hunter out the door and hurled him onto the street.

  The street was madness. A haze of smoke filled the night air, and all around Waterpath Orphans and Knights of Saint Julian were brawling. A few constables and pages were trying to bring order, but there was too much chaos to get control over it. It would take an army of sticks.

  Veranix didn’t care. The Hunter was on the ground now, and Veranix had no intention of letting him back up.

  “Well, well,” a soft voice cooed. “We heard the Thorn was throwing a party for us. We didn’t know it would be double.”

  Four women stood in the street, all armed with blades, staves, and chains.

  Veranix’s gut told him that these were the real Deadly Birds.

  Five minutes after Inspector Rainey and the others went into the church, everything turned into chaos. Minox
wasn’t sure what happened at first. He was keeping his distance from the church, when there was a disturbance up Vine Street. He moved to investigate, but only saw the street filling with smoke.

  At the same time, a group of Waterpath Orphans came marching up Tulip. They must have been following after Yessa just as he had followed after Rainey. He should have noticed them. Failure on his part.

  That had an immediate response from the group of Knights of Saint Julian hanging outside a bar, who whistled for more Knights to come to them. The Knights and Orphans then charged at each other, pushing past him. They didn’t seem to notice or care that he was a constable.

  Someone was fighting in the smoke.

  Smoke, like the false Thorn used. Minox drew out his crossbow, about to move in, when there was another horrible sound. Wood cracking, from the direction of the church. Like the door breaking.

  Inspector Rainey might be in peril, and that was a higher priority in this moment.

  Whistle calls pierced the air. Minox turned back to the square, now a full brannigan between the Orphans and Knights. Sergeant Tripper had left his post to charge in, pull them apart. Whistle in mouth, handstick high, he blasted shrills and did his best to get between them. None of them paid him any notice.

  Minox drew magic into his body, with the intent of creating a blast of light or fire. Nothing that would hurt the fighting gangs, but dazzle them enough that they might disperse.

  A wave of energy hit him from the church, vibrating through his hand. The Thorn. He was inside, and the door was hanging open.

  Minox reeled, the magical energy from the Thorn drawing him—and then suddenly it stopped. Like a window slamming shut.

  “Specs!” Wheth up on the roof across the street. He was pointing to something down the street. The haze of the smoke had drifted into the square, and Minox couldn’t make out what Wheth was pointing to. Saitle was down that way.

  “Saitle!” Minox called. “Report!”

  “Welling!” Tripper shouted. He was barely holding his own in the brawl. Minox had to help the officer, and trust Inspector Rainey’s competence. He could hear a fight going on inside the church, and strange waves of magic vibrated in his hand. As Minox went to pry an Orphan’s hands off Tripper’s throat, he realized that the Thorn must have been put in mage shackles. That would explain the change in energy.

  Then another wave of magic rattled Minox, just as he grabbed the Orphan. The Orphan screamed in agony just at the touch of his left hand.

  “What the blazes?” another Orphan said. “What did you do?”

  Minox grabbed at the Orphan in answer, mostly as an experiment. The wave of energy had passed, and the effect was not repeated.

  Tripper clubbed that Orphan, and grabbed Minox and pulled him out.

  “We need a Riot Call!” Minox said.

  “Wouldn’t hurt, but I don’t think it’ll get much response,” Tripper said. “The blazes is that?”

  At the bottom of the church’s front steps, one Thorn—the real one, by Minox’s senses—had another wrapped in his rope. But there were four women—Deadly Birds, actual Deadly Birds, Minox was certain—standing in a half circle around the both of them.

  This could not end well without intervention.

  “Get the street clear, Sergeant Tripper,” Minox said. “I will handle this.”

  “How the blazes you gonna—”

  Minox was already moving away. He remembered what the Thorn had done to him before, and he knew what that felt like. Taking up his crossbow in his right hand—still loaded with the blunt tip—he grabbed his irons in the left hand.

  And primed his hand with magic, so it and the chains burst into blue flame.

  “All of you,” he announced to the Thorns and Birds, “Stand and be held, for you are bound by law.”

  Veranix thought he might have convinced these Birds that he wasn’t their enemy, that the Hunter was who had been killing their numbers. He didn’t even get a chance to speak before Inspector Welling dove into the situation.

  And it went exactly as well as could be expected.

  Three of the Birds turned onto Welling. One of them, wielding something that looked like a double-headed oar—or a tetchbat—laid into the constable with a series of furious attacks. “None of yours, stick!”

  “Wait, wait!” Veranix said. “You don’t have—”

  An arrow struck another Bird—the one who seemed to be the leader. She cried out as blood burst out from her shoulder.

  “Yellowtail!” the Hunter shouted. “You’re the only one on my list!” He bolted off.

  “I’ll get him,” Yellowtail said to the other two. “Take care of the other Thorn and the stick.”

  “Not today,” Veranix said, seeing that a pair of Orphans and Knights were about to collide into the tall blonde one. He rolled away from her first strike, knowing that she was about to be bowled down by the brawl. He popped back onto his feet, chasing behind Yellowtail, who went into an alley after the Hunter. He reached the alley to find Yellowtail on the ground, two more arrows in her chest. The Hunter was climbing up a back alley iron stairway to the roof.

  Veranix leaped up. No magic, not this time. He didn’t need it. Three bounds, and he was at the top of the steps, staff spinning. Three cracks—knee, back, head—he sent the Hunter reeling. The Hunter tried to turn around, bow raised but Veranix wasn’t about to let him. Staff dropped, rope in hand, he willed it to wrap around the Hunter and hold him as tight as steel. The Hunter strained—stronger than Veranix imagined he could, but Veranix held him fast.

  “You aren’t going anywhere,” Veranix said.

  “What the depths is your problem?” the Hunter snarled. “I thought you—”

  “I will not bear the debt of the deaths you caused,” Veranix said. “How dare you assume my mantle—”

  “Your mantle? I killed killers. Who deserved it. You’ve done the same, I know—”

  “And I’ll answer to the saints for it, but you’ll answer to me. And since the constables want a Thorn—”

  The Hunter grinned—an ugly grin with gray stained teeth. “The constable? Provided he survives against that pack of killers.”

  “You are bound—” Veranix heard in the alley below, followed by a bone-crunching blow. “You are bound—”

  “One of ours dead, stick, and you’ll answer for it.”

  Veranix dared a glance down. Inspector Welling was in the alley—he must have pursued behind them all—and the other three Birds had him pinned. He still held up his flaming hand and shackles, but his crossbow was gone.

  Another Bird hit him across the face. “Tell us again.”

  “You are bound by law—” he got out before another strike across the jaw.

  They were toying with him, making him suffer.

  “Blazes,” Veranix muttered. He didn’t have any choice.

  Chapter 22

  “YOU ARE BOUND—” Minox began again. He would say the words. He would make them respect the words. He grabbed the arm of the short woman with the bladed oar-weapon—Seagull, if his research was correct. She cried out in pain—his hand was still burning bright blue—and hit him with the flat of her weapon.

  Dazed, Minox let go of her. The flame around his hand burned out.

  “We are the last thing you’ll see, stick,” she said.

  “You are bound by law,” he said. “Stand and be held—”

  “Shut it,” the tall Bardinic blonde said. Albatross. She smashed him in the jaw with a mighty fist, loosening a tooth. Under these repeated blows, he could not maintain focus, keep any magic flowing. She raised up her arm again.

  And then was smashed across the skull by a fighting staff.

  Suddenly the Thorn dropped down in front of him, staff in one hand, his strange rope wrapped around the other, magic and energy swirling and diving all around him. The
Thorn, with his back to Minox. There to protect him.

  “Back off,” the Thorn said to the Birds. “Only warning.”

  “Warning us?” Seagull mocked. “Aren’t you as sweet as a pie?”

  Minox took the chance to draw his handstick. “You are resisting a lawful arrest,” he said. “That will be added to your charges.”

  “Let’s kill them slowly.” The third one spoke with a heavy accent, raising up her wicked curved weapon. Jackdaw, a Ch’omik woman with traditional bare arms, covered in tattoos and scars. “For Yellowtail.”

  The Thorn spun his weapon, feinting at Seagull, but hitting a true strike at Albatross. “A little help, Inspector.”

  “Do not think that—” Minox said, dodging a swipe from Jackdaw, “this absolves—”

  “Let’s live first,” the Thorn said, blocking Seagull’s weapon from coming down on Minox’s skull. “Unless you ladies would like to stop.”

  “You’ve got some stones, Thorn,” Seagull said, launching on him. “Killing ours and calling us out.”

  “Wasn’t me,” Thorn said, blocking her with his roped hand. A blast of blue glow came from it. “I don’t want a fight with you.”

  “Strange way to show it,” Albatross said, her mighty fist coming at the Thorn.

  “I don’t suppose you have backup coming,” the Thorn said, swinging in a wide arc to force all the Birds back.

  “I’m afraid their hands are full,” Minox said, using the opening to slam his handstick into Albatross’s gut. Her strength made her the greatest threat. Jackdaw and Seagull were effectively equal. He dodged another swipe from Jackdaw, noting that the blow did little but anger Albatross.

  The Thorn sighed, sending a backhanded thrust at Jackdaw. “That was your cue to lie, Inspector.”

  “Apologies,” Minox said. The Thorn was a formidable fighter, but all he was going to be able to do was hold off the Birds for a brief time. It was likely they would both die without additional intervention or a succinct change in strategy.