The Imposters of Aventil

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “I’ve got a master key,” Dannick said, fumbling at his pockets. “Let me—”

  Kaiana took the key from him. “We’ve got this.”

  “But—look, that room is Enzin Hence.”

  “So?” Kaiana asked. “Should that mean something to me?”

  “He won Archery for Pirrell,” Phadre said.

  “All the more reason to do this quiet,” Kaiana said. “We don’t want this to be any more of an embarrassment for Pirrell than it is for U of M.” She went to unlock the door when it flew open.

  “You talking about me?” A shirtless young man, heavily muscled, was in the doorframe. His impressive build wasn’t the most noticeable thing about him. His body and arms were covered with bruises—horrifying purple and yellow welts almost anywhere he had exposed skin.

  “Mister Hence,” Delmin said, stepping forward. “We’re the summer prefects of this hall.”

  “Yeah, so what the depths is that to me?” His Kystian accent was thick and coarse.

  “We are given to understand—” Delmin took a deep breath, like he was puffing up his courage. “You have some illicit material in your room.”

  Hence blinked, glancing back in his room. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said unconvincingly.

  “We mean the drugs, Hence,” Kaiana said. “We know you’re the source.”

  “How do you know that?” He blinked more. “You . . . you should step away from here.”

  “Let’s do this quiet and easy,” Delmin said. “We don’t need any—”

  Hence’s hand shot out and grabbed Delmin at the throat. “Don’t you tell me what I need. I’ve had to—”

  Kaiana didn’t waste time, swinging the hoe into Hence’s back, and then again on his leg. Both blows were like hitting stone.

  He didn’t flinch or budge, squeezing at Delmin’s throat while turning to Kaiana. “Who the depths do you think you are?” With his free hand he ripped the hoe from her hand and threw it down the hall.

  The rope flew out from Phadre and wrapped around Hence’s arms. Hence dropped Delmin to the floor.

  “You?” Hence said. “Here I thought the Birds or the sticks got you.”

  “I—what—” Phadre stammered out, struggling to hold on to the rope as it twisted around Hence.

  “You aren’t going to stop me now, either,” Hence said. He twisted his arm to get a grip on the rope, and pulled, bringing Phadre to him. Phadre was drawn in close, and then knocked down with Hence’s fist. The rope fell to the ground, limp.

  “That was too easy,” Hence said, pointing at Phadre. “You ain’t him.”

  Kaiana dove to get to Delmin, pulling him away from Hence.

  “He recognizes the rope,” Delmin whispered.

  “I get it,” Kaiana said. “He’s the Hunter.”

  Hence focused on her. “That’s what you call me? Cute. But none of you are the Thorn, are you?”

  “Hunter? Thorn? The blazes is this?” Dannick shouted.

  “This is me getting rid of—” was all Hence got out before the rope, coiled into a ball around Phadre’s fist, smashed into his face.

  “Run, all of you,” Phadre said, holding up his hands like he was in a collegiate fighting sport ring. Blood gushed from his nose onto his shirt and vest. “I will keep him at bay.”

  “Keep me at bay?” Hence chuckled. “Oh, you are rich, Mary. You’re no Thorn.”

  “No,” Phadre said, pulling his rope-laden fist back. “But I am a scholar.”

  He whipped his arm out wide, and the rope flew out down the hall. It grabbed Kaiana’s hoe from the floor and hurled it back. The hoe smashed into Hence’s face before it was gently deposited into Kaiana’s hand.

  “And a gentleman,” Phadre said. “Now yield to your betters.”

  Despite the blood and bruises, Hence didn’t look even slightly fazed. “My betters? You polished Marys really think that’s what you are?”

  Delmin had gotten to his feet. Dannick was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had taken the advice to run. His voice was hoarse when he rasped out, “Better than a salt-scrubbing, clam-eating caker who thinks he can be the Thorn.”

  “Oh, you’re going to eat it, Mary.” He swung at Delmin, who ducked out of the way, while Kaiana took her moment. She hammered the hoe into Hence’s knee, hoping it would drop him.

  No such luck. He wound up another punch, knocking Kaiana across the skull.

  That hit like a horse.

  Another punch was coming, Kaiana too dazed from the first to get out of the way. Green and purple magical energy suddenly danced in front of her, and Hence’s blow smashed into it instead of her face.

  “That’s how you want it, Marys?” Hence said, grabbing Delmin by the front of his shirt, his hands shaking visibly. Purple energy still flowed from Delmin’s hands, which sputtered and sparked. “You want a real fight, let’s have it.” He threw Delmin into Phadre, and then went back in his room.

  The stars cleared from Kaiana’s vision, and she helped Delmin and Phadre to their feet. “Go, go get the Thorn. We need him—”

  Hence emerged from his room, quiver strapped over his bare chest, bow in his hand. In his other hand, he carried a clay jug.

  “That’s it,” Delmin said. “It’s in the jug.”

  “You want a fight, Marys, then let’s do it,” Hence said. He pulled the cork out of the jug with his teeth, spitting it at Kaiana. Then he brought the jug to his lips, pouring into his mouth while green liquid oozed over his face.

  “Oh, sweet saints,” Phadre said. “If he’s anything like the mouse—”

  Hence howled, and dropped the jug. The veins in his neck and arms bulged, and the yellowing bruises turned darker. His eyes went all black, and Kaiana would swear the seams of his pants tore.

  “Now, let’s fight,” his voice boomed.

  Chapter 26

  NO WHISTLES FROM the Watcher had quelled the charge of the Pirrell squad, nor had the rules of the game or boundaries of the field halted their actions. In moments, they were on the Maradaine squad, showing no interest in points or scoring, simply doling out violence.

  “I need to—” Veranix started, before he realized one of the Pirrell players, having slammed Catfish into the dirt, was coming straight at him and Jiarna.

  Jiarna yelped, as Veranix kicked up a tetchbat from the ground into his hand. Despite the massive presence of the player, Veranix put himself between the man and Jiarna, poised to crack him over the head if he kept coming.

  The implied threat did nothing to stop the player. As he charged in, his eyes vacant, drool dripping from his mouth, Veranix leaped up and smashed the tetchbat across his skull, sweetening the blow with magic.

  The bat shattered, but it barely slowed the player down.

  Jiarna scrambled out of the way, and Veranix flipped over the player, adroitly dodging the massive arms that threatened to crush him.

  At this point, the spectators were in a frenzy, and they charged from the stands into the field. Veranix grabbed hold of Jiarna and magically fueled a jump to the only place he could see that was remotely safe—the announcer’s perch. The young woman—magic student—was still up there, away from the madness.

  Veranix shed his illusions while he and Jiarna sailed through the air, fully in Thorn persona when he landed. He had to hope no one had been paying much mind in the chaos.

  The magic student cried out when they landed in her box.

  “Sorry,” Veranix said. “We need a plan.”

  “A what?” the magic student shouted. “Who—what—why—”

  “There’s no plan,” Jiarna said. “They’re in a mad rage.”

  “You have a bow!” the magic student said frantically. “Shoot them!”

  Veranix hesitated for a moment. Even in this state, none of the Pirrell players deserved to be killed. Also, while
they were the most dangerous on the field, it was now a mess of players, spectators, and other folk. Simply taking out the Pirrell squad would hardly quash the full riot.

  He looked to Jiarna. “You’re brilliant, she’s magical, come up with something. I’ll do my best.” He leaped up on the railing of the perch and drew out the bow. Behind him, he could hear Jiarna rattling off ideas to the terrified girl.

  Amid the madness, one of the Pirrell squad had Marmot pinned to the ground, and was smashing his face into bloody meat. Veranix took aim and fired. The arrow landed square in the Pirrell player’s thigh.

  That got the Pirrell player’s attention. He spun around and howled at Veranix.

  “Come on, clam-eaters!” he boomed out, magically augmenting his voice to echo throughout the field. “Why don’t you try a real fight!”

  The rioting stopped for a moment, all eyes on him. Most of the brawlers went right back to the fight they were in. Some of the Pirrell squad kept their attention on him.

  He took another shot, nailing a Pirrell player in the leg.

  “What are you doing?” Jiarna hissed.

  “I’m drawing the real danger out of here. Figure out a way to cool the rest of the crowd.”

  “I’m thinking,” she said.

  The Pirrell players were coming toward him now, just about all of them.

  “You salt-scrubbers couldn’t stop a real runner!” he shouted out. Firing another shot, he jumped down to the ground below. “Thorn for the Triple Jack!”

  With that, he ran away from the field. Hopefully the Pirrell boys were in such a state they wouldn’t realize he was running in the opposite direction of the Triple Jack line.

  They came. All eleven Pirrell boys, heaving rage-filled masses of muscle and bone in crimson and white, came pounding after him as he cleared the field and went to the south lawn.

  “Saint Senea, Saint Justin, anyone else who’s listening,” he muttered as he ran. “This may or may not be the stupidest thing I’ve done, but if you have any grace left for me, I could use it right now.”

  In the middle of the lawn, far enough from the field that they were no longer embroiled in the riot, Veranix spun on his heel and drew another arrow. He fired, then another, then another, aiming for the legs and knees.

  Four of the players stumbled and fell.

  Four.

  He had fired three arrows.

  Before he could register the meaning of that, before he could bring up his guard to defend himself from the first of the Pirrell bruisers to collide into him, a pedalcart came flying through the air, smashing into the lot of them.

  Inspector Minox Welling dropped down on the ground next to Veranix, loading his crossbow as he regained his footing.

  “Don’t stand there gawping, Mister Thorn,” he said. “Let us dispatch these madmen with due haste.”

  “As you wish, Inspector.” Veranix put up the bow and brought out his staff. With magically assisted leaps, he flipped over the Pirrell squad, cracking one in the skull as he went.

  “This is off your usual beat,” Welling said, blocking a punch with his handstick in his left hand.

  “And yours. But I won’t complain about the assistance.” Cries and screams came from every direction. “We shouldn’t waste time on these fools.”

  “No,” Welling said. A pulse of numina blasted from his hand, sending more of the Pirrell squad to the ground.

  More screams. Veranix saw Kaiana running, half carrying Delmin, with Phadre right on their heels. They didn’t stop as they passed him, which meant something worse was happening. Veranix turned to see what they were running from.

  What he saw could only be described as grotesque. A young man, wearing a crimson cloak and carrying a bow—but misshapen and monstrous. The muscles on his arms, legs, and chest were bulging with terrifying yellow and purple veins. His muscles appeared to be still growing, all at different rates. He roared as he chased after Veranix’s friends.

  Veranix didn’t blink. Arrow drawn, fired right for the monster’s eye.

  The arrow hit him in the face, sticking in the engorged muscle of his cheek. He turned his attention toward Veranix.

  “The Thorn,” he boomed. He then glanced at Inspector Welling. “And the constable. I’ll enjoy tearing you apart.”

  Welling flashed another wave of numina from his hand, and suddenly the fallen Pirrell players were coated in a layer of ice. Then he looked to Veranix with hard, determined eyes.

  “It appears we have a new priority.”

  Satrine’s head was fully clear of the doph by the time she found the rest of her clothing, and her leg was hurting like blazes. Twice this year she had taken a hit to the same spot. She had reached the point where it had nearly healed completely, now she had to start all over again.

  That seemed like a message in her life.

  The stationhouse was quiet once she had dressed, certainly no sign of Benvin or his squad. Which meant Welling’s theory was probably right on target. No time to waste getting to the Turnabout.

  Given her leg, she pulled rank on a horsepatrolman and took his ride.

  When she made it to Rose Street, it was clear that Benvin was already about to work his not-so-quiet Quiet Call. Three lockwagons were staged a few blocks away, and clusters of Constabulary were milling about, looking like they were trying to make the pretense of just doing a regular patrol. But any fool could see that two dozen of them were about to converge on the Turnabout. Benvin, Tripper, Wheth, and Pollit were strolling up Rose Street on the opposite side from the Turnabout, making like they were about to race up to the door at any moment.

  Rainey brought her horse in front of the lot of them, making a racket right in front of the Turnabout’s doors.

  “What’s your action, Lieutenant?” she said loudly. If the Princes inside hadn’t noticed her yet, they certainly would now.

  “I don’t answer to you,” Benvin said, starting to move around the horse.

  “Like blazes you don’t.” Satrine dismounted with a hard drop. Her leg screamed out—it was not going to forgive her for that—but she didn’t let it show on her face. “I am an inspector—an inspector with the city’s Grand Inspectors’ Unit—and you are interfering with my case, Lieutenant.”

  “Don’t you—”

  “Do not underestimate what I am empowered to do here. The rules about investigating an attack on a constable exist for a reason. You are not allowed to take action on your own attack—or someone in your squad or your house—for a reason. So you don’t pull half-cocked sewage like this.”

  “I have a writ—” He held up the paper, ink on the stamp barely dry.

  She took it from him, reading aloud. “Any and all self-proclaimed members of the organization Rose Street Princes for collusion and coordination of the assault and murder of—” She stopped reading. “Are you an idiot, Benvin? The wettest, freshest lawyer in the Justice Advocate Office could get this thrown out, and no magistrate would accept it as just cause.”

  “These bastards—”

  “I don’t care, Lieutenant. I do not care what you think. You want to crack skulls and make arrests on this writ, you know they’ll be set free in hours. You’ll end up with a street full of angry Princes in a day.” She tore the paper up. “It won’t hold, and does nothing but soothe your pride.”

  “Don’t you—” Benvin’s hand went up, coming at her face.

  “Boss!” Tripper said, but it was too late. Satrine grabbed Benvin’s arm mid-strike and twisted it behind his back. She considered shoving him to the ground as well, but that seemed a step too far. His dignity was already injured.

  “If you had struck me, you’d be eating your hand,” she hissed in his ear. “And then be busted down to shoveling out the horsepatrol stables.”

  “You can’t—”

  “Now walk with me,” she said, pulling hi
m along toward the alley.

  “I am going to file . . .” Benvin said once they got in there.

  “No you aren’t, Benvin,” she said. She tossed him over to the wall, now that they were out of view. “Don’t give me your sewage right now, hear?”

  “How do you even dare—”

  “Because I actually like you,” she said honestly. “I read your jacket, and it’s an impressive list of pissing people up and down. You don’t give a blazes what anyone thinks about you, and that’s bounced you through two cities and three houses.”

  For once he didn’t sputter something for her to interrupt.

  “Also you’ve got a squad who are damn fine constables, who’ll walk through fire and damnation for you. You’ve earned that.”

  “So why are you giving me the rutting, Inspector?”

  “Precisely why I told you. That writ was sewage and it would have caused you nothing but grief. I’m shocked your Protector even wrote it up.”

  He looked guiltily at the ground. “Protector Ossick never really looks at what he’s signing.”

  “Goddamn it, Benvin,” she said despite herself. “In this house, in this neighborhood, you’re the one who’s supposed to be better than that.”

  “Who the blazes are you to say?”

  “I’m the one who’s been listening to Jace Welling. He’ll go on and on about how rutting amazing you are. I’m the one who took an arrow in the leg chasing your obsession with the Thorn.”

  “I didn’t ask you to.”

  “Yeah, well, you got it anyway. So cool your head.”

  He sighed. “Being the better man got my people killed, my skull cracked open. I got to end this before we lose anyone else.”

  “This isn’t the right way.”

  He scowled at her. “I know your story, Tricky. You’ve got no place talking about the right way.”

  “You’re probably right,” she said. “But this could have trashed your career, and that of your squad. They deserve better. You are better.”

  “You can’t tell me—”

  “You got right now to walk away from it. Or I walk you in front of them all.”