“So it makes you angry?” Kaiana asked.
“Not just that. I did another test during the night. Darling, that bucket, please.”
Phadre fetched the bucket. “Oh, there’s a mouse in here!”
“Yes, I caught it and put it in the bucket, dear, that was the point. Bring it here.” Phadre did as he was instructed. Jiarna put on a leather glove and grabbed the mouse. She then took a small sample of the green drug in a dropper, and put a few drops in the mouse’s mouth.
“That’s horrible,” Delmin said. “You don’t know what—”
“Which is the point of using a mouse instead of a person, Delmin,” Jiarna said sharply. “The latter would be irresponsible.” She dropped the mouse back into the bucket.
“Are we supposed to be—” Kaiana began.
The mouse began running against the side of the bucket. Again and again, harder and harder, until one of the slats cracked open. It smashed again, pushing through the hole it had made, and then bolted across the table. It snarled as it went, leaping at Delmin with bared teeth.
“Ah!” Delmin screeched, before Jiarna grabbed it out of the air with her gloved hand.
“No, you don’t get to bite me,” she said to the mouse. She held it tight. “It is, as you can see, not merely aggressive, but demonstrating impressive strength and resistance to pain. For a mouse.”
“How—” Veranix started.
“The how is outside of my expertise,” Jiarna said. “But it explains why that player didn’t even seem to notice he was drowning.”
“He was so intent on beating me, he didn’t care what happened,” Kaiana said.
“Now, with a properly regulated dosage, the recipient might not be so maniacal. But I can’t be sure. I would have to—”
“This isn’t really what we need to know, Jiarna,” Veranix said. “What about tracking it? Finding it?”
“Right, of course. I was excited for the possible—”
“Another time, perhaps,” Delmin said.
She took a deep breath. “So, I may not understand the physiological properties of Substance Green One, but I have isolated one of its key magiochemical properties. It has a unique aspect that can be excited, for lack of a better word, which will cause numinic vibrations at a specific resonance. Which I can detect with my devices, and likely Delmin can recognize it as well.”
Delmin gave a weary nod. “I imagine so.”
“Now, for exciting it.” She slid a small monstrosity of bronze and glass closer to Veranix.
“I presume you have a plan, and it involves this?” Veranix asked.
“Indeed,” she said. “I’ve taken one of Phadre’s calibration instruments, and made some adjustments to make it into a numinic emitter. I had to shave a tiny bit of napranium from the rope—it shouldn’t adversely affect its effectiveness.”
“If you say so,” Veranix said.
“Now, all it needs is application of power. That’s you.”
“I presumed,” Veranix said.
“What you’ll need to do is apply about six barins of numina—that’s a lot, but with the cloak on, you should be able to do it—at the crystal lens here.”
“Which will create a wide blanket pulse of numinic resonance over the whole campus—” Phadre added.
“Won’t, say, Professor Alimen and the other magic faculty notice that?” Delmin asked.
“Probably,” Phadre admitted. “But there’s minimal risk they’d be able to pinpoint who or where it came from. So powerful, so wide—”
“It’d be deafening,” Delmin said. “And for someone as sensitive as me . . .”
“I thought of that, yes,” Jiarna said. She picked up the mage shackle, dropping it into his hands. “Hold that.”
His knees buckled. “All right, that . . . might work.”
“And this numinic resonance—” Veranix started. All of this made his head spin.
“Ought to latch on to anything with these magiochemical properties—which, I believe, are unique to this drug—making all sources of it emit a vibration that this instrument here should be able to track.” She held up one of the devices Phadre had built.
“There’s a lot of ought to and should in this plan,” Kaiana said.
“But it’s not like we have anything better,” Veranix said. “It’s almost eight bells. Campus is going to get active. The tetch match between us and Pirrell will be starting in an hour.”
“So,” Jiarna said, picking up the cloak and putting it on Veranix’s shoulders. “Six barins, at the lens.”
“I really don’t know what six barins feels like.”
“Easily solved!” Phadre said, pulling another device out of a crate. “A barinometer!” He pointed to the glass dial on the front. “It reads in centibarins, so you’ll want to get it up to . . . how many? Six hundred.”
“Obviously,” Veranix said, even though he wasn’t sure what Phadre was talking about. “Then let’s do it.”
He pulled numina into himself, gauging what would be a very strong flow, and sent it into the crystal.
The dial on the barinometer went up to three hundred fifty.
“Not good enough,” Jiarna said. “Sorry. It’s going to take six hundred to trigger the reaction.”
“All right, then,” Veranix said. He pulled in even more, letting the cloak feed him as strongly as possible. He let it build, filling him through every fiber and vessel. It crackled in his ears and eyes.
“Saints,” Phadre whispered.
He sent it out through his hands, raw and untempered, into the crystal.
The meter hit seven fifty.
“How did you—” Phadre whispered.
“Cover your eyes!” Jiarna shouted.
The device glowed bright white, and the light burst and filled the whole room.
The damned doctors wanted to keep him in bed. To blazes with that. Lieutenant Benvin got on his feet as soon as he could keep them under him. He was weak, hungry, thirsty . . . and too angry to care about any of that.
“What time is it?” he shouted as he got up. “What blasted time is it?”
“Left?” Tripper came running over from some far corner. “You got to take it easy.”
“Easy, Tripper?” Benvin shook his head. Where were his clothes? “Ain’t no easy to take. The blasted Thorn came at us, we got to—”
“I know, Left,” Tripper said, holding Benvin’s arm. “That was—it’s the sixteenth, boss. You’ve been down for four days.”
“Four days?” Benvin shook that off. “Saints, no wonder I’m hungry. Don’t matter. We’ve got work to do. Get everyone in here. We need—”
Mal. The image of Mal, arrows in his chest, flooded his memory.
“Mal. He’s—”
“Yeah, boss. He’s gone.”
“We need to—his sister—”
“I already took care of it, boss. We didn’t—we weren’t sure when you’d wake up. Or if.”
Benvin held Tripper by the side of his head. It was good to have men like this, men he could count on. He had already lost too many. “Thanks. And Saitle? He was there, did he—I couldn’t bear—”
Tripper nodded. “He got his skull addled pretty good, but he’s all right.”
Benvin chuckled wryly. “I don’t how much addling that boy’s skull can take. You’ve been holding it together, Tripper?”
“Doing what I could, especially with the specs right on top of us.”
“What specs?” He looked around the wardroom. “Do I have some damn clothes in here, Tripper?”
“Sent Saitle for them when I heard you were awake, left.”
“So, the specs?”
“Sent here to investigate your attack. Officially, we weren’t supposed to touch it.”
Benvin lowered his voice. “Sent. So none of the ch
airwarmers from our house?”
“No. These folk—they’re pains, but in a good way.”
Benvin wasn’t sure what that meant. “How?”
“They don’t like easy answers. Even though we knew what was going on here, they wanted to go deeper.”
“Deeper than what?” Benvin shook it off. “I’m up, so we don’t need to worry about them.”
“Worry about what?” A Waishen-haired woman in shirtsleeves and skivs, with a bandaged leg, came limping in.
“The blazes are you?”
“I was saying . . .” Tripper whispered.
“Inspector Satrine Rainey,” she said, extending her hand. “You’ll have to forgive my appearance, we had a bit of a night. And, frankly, I’m still a bit fuzzy from the doph.”
“You’re the spec assigned to my case?” He’d heard stories about this woman. She was a fraud who tricked her way into an inspectorship, but the Inemar house kept her on when she was found out. They even called her “Tricky.” No one he had heard about her from was clear on why she hadn’t been sent to Quarrygate, but that was the story.
“My partner and I,” she said. She had clearly picked up on his enmity. Her eyes narrowed, her voice tensed.
“Her partner,” Tripper said. “Inspector Welling.”
“Welling?” Jace’s family name. His brother, he was an inspector somewhere in town.
“Pollit went to go find him,” Tripper said. “Should be here in a minute.”
“Now that you’re up—” Rainey said, obviously about to start a line of questions.
“Now that I’m up, I’ve got work to do. Four days on my back is enough.”
“Yes, I know you’re anxious.”
“I’m not anxious, Inspector. I’m ready. Ready to put an end to the sewage in the neighborhood, starting with the ones who put me on my back.”
“And who are those?”
This came from a newcomer, who had walked in with Pollit. This was clearly Inspector Welling, even if Benvin hadn’t been expecting him. The man looked like an older, skinnier version of Jace. Stick-bones skinny.
“Aventil streets are full of the bastards,” Benvin said. “And I’m gonna start rounding them up. Now I’ve got cause.”
“What cause is that?” Welling asked. “We’ve been deeply investigating the attack on you, your case work, the situation here—”
“Four days here, you’ve deeply investigated it? That’s the sewage you’re selling me, specs?” He shook his head in disgust. “Really, Tripper. Pollit? You’ve put up with this?”
“If you have some new information that could result in arrest—”
“Or closing the case,” Rainey said. “Frankly, we would love to sign off this case as done and go back to Inemar.”
“Then consider it done,” Benvin said. “I can handle it with my people.”
“That isn’t how it works, Lieutenant,” Rainey said. “You damn well know an attack on an officer—”
“Attack and murder,” Benvin said hotly. He still couldn’t believe that Mal was gone. He had probably died protecting Benvin. Loyal to the end.
“All the more reason,” Rainey said.
“I’m not here to argue it with you,” Benvin said. “I’ll get Captain Holcomb to throw you out of this house if I have to. I don’t need to deal with your nonsense. I have work to do.”
“Part of that work—” Welling started to say, and then his face changed. It was like he was hearing something in the distance, something no one else noticed. Benvin had no clue what that might be; he certainly didn’t hear anything. “Excuse me,” Welling said suddenly, and ran off.
“Welling! Welling!” Rainey limped off after her partner.
“Well, that solves that problem,” Benvin said.
“They’ve really been a good sort this whole time,” Pollit said. “They ain’t like this house’s specs at all.”
“I couldn’t care any less about that,” Benvin said. “I want a uniform, top quick. Then Quiet Call whoever you think you can bring in and will keep it dark. Gather everyone down in the stables in half an hour, ready to roll.”
“Quiet Call?” Tripper asked. “Why is that?”
“Because I don’t want those specs—or anyone else—giving warning. Don’t even tell the folks you bring in what we’re doing, just promise them the action. We’re going to hit high and hard.”
“Plenty who will come for that,” Pollit said. “You at least telling us the plan?”
“Saints, yes,” Benvin said. “We’re going to clean up this neighborhood for good. Starting with the ones who’ve been working with the Thorn. The rutting Rose Street Princes. We’ll crack through there and drag the lot of them in.”
“Without a writ?” Tripper looked nervous.
“Blazes, no,” Benvin said. Last thing he needed was the Justice Advocate Office crashing the whole thing over something so basic. “You get that moving. I’m going to find the City Protector, and by saints, he will write me a writ for whatever place I rutting want.”
It was time to put an end to all this nonsense. No more Princes. No more Orphans, Knights, or anything else in Aventil when he was done.
Colin had made his way through Dentonhill in the early morning, weaving through the usual trudge of folks heading to the poultry slaughterhouse and the tannery and other wretched jobs they worked. He just needed to get to the right tenement without getting noticed. Head down, coat on, arms covered.
The place was just another gray brick building, no different than any other dreary tenement in Dentonhill. Perfect place for an effitte den or a dealer to hide out in. No one would notice or care about anything. Which is what Colin counted on. He went in with no trouble—the latch on the door had been broken so many times it couldn’t even stay closed—and went up to the top floor.
He stood outside the flop door. He could hear voices on the other side—at least three, probably more. Jovial talk—eating or playing cards, most likely.
No more waiting. He dropped the coat on the floor—that thing had been so damn hot to wear. Anyone who noticed him on his way over knew he was up to no good, and they didn’t give a damn. That’s how corrupt Dentonhill was, of course. Plain folk, sticks, whoever—they could see trouble coming, and more often than not, they’d watch it happen.
That suited Colin just fine.
He rolled up his shirtsleeves. Prince tattoo showing. He wanted this bastard to know exactly who had come for him. He slid knucklestuffers on both hands, real nasty pieces of work with spikes at each finger. He drew out the two knives at his belt, checked his grip on them with the knucklestuffers on. Made sure they felt right in his hands. He didn’t want to screw this up by having a knife slip out of his grip.
Ready. Committed. Taking a deep breath, he kicked in the door.
“The blazes—” was all one bruiser right by the doorframe said before earning a knife in the throat. He collapsed, choking in his own blood, while three other thugs got up from the table. They were all in skivs and linens, which was no dignified way for any of them to die.
But that was how it was going to go.
Colin leaped in at the closest one, slicing open his belly and kicking him in the knee. That one dropped like a heavy sack. The second Colin popped in the face with his left hand, then slashed with that knife. The bruiser reeled for a moment, and, before he recovered, Colin’s right-hand knife was in his chest.
The knife stuck, so Colin let it go, kicking that bruiser into his friend. That one dodged out of the way, and was able to close in on Colin before he could get his left-hand blade back up. The bruiser got hold of Colin’s left wrist, tried to twist the knife out of it. The other hand shot out, finding Colin’s throat. This guy was a good six inches taller than Colin, all muscle, and he lifted Colin up off the ground by his neck.
“What you playing at, Prince?”
he snarled, squeezing his neck.
Colin couldn’t answer, but he could land a knucklestuffed punch at the guy’s ribs. Then another, as hard as he could, and a third. That was the one that forced the bruiser to let go of his wrist.
That mistake earned the bruiser a knife in the ribs.
He let go of Colin’s neck and dropped to the ground.
“Blazes is going on?” came a call from the back room. A lean, bushy-haired man came out, just the one Colin was looking for.
“You’re Bell, aren’t you?” Colin asked.
Bell dove for one of the knives on the table, but Colin jumped on him, pounding him in the face with the knucklestuffer. Bell collapsed, and Colin let himself go to the floor with him, knocking him again and again.
Colin got on Bell’s arms, pinning him down.
“You know who I am, Bell?”
“You’re a Prince,” Bell said through bloodied teeth. “Rose Street is going to burn for this.”
“I don’t think so,” Colin said, smashing his fist into Bell’s eye. “But do you know who I am?”
“One Prince or another, all the same.” Colin was impressed that Bell still could speak despite the beating.
“Oh no, Bell,” Colin said. “I’m Colin Tyson. Den Tyson was my father. Cal Tyson was my uncle. Your boss killed my uncle and turned his wife into a thoughtless blank, and there will be a reckoning for that.”
Colin punched three more times. Bell was in a fog now, his face so much bloody meat. Colin got on his feet, kicking Bell in the ribs for good measure.
“But that isn’t why I’m here, Bell. You crossed into Aventil, you had your boy pretend to be the Thorn, and you had him kill Rabbits and sticks.”
Bell just moaned.
“The Thorn would probably want to have his own words with you, but I thought you should hear it from a Prince.” Colin leaned down. “You do not cross Waterpath. Not in any way. You let Fenmere know that if I even hear a whisper of his people putting a toe over that line, I will find whatever place he lays his head down and I will burn it to the ground. Do you understand?”
Bell only gurgled blood in response.
The Imposters of Aventil Page 33
