by JM Guillen
I was about to slip into a known den of the Twilight Blades, even though I had some evidence that I was sitting high on their list of people to murder. I was going to do this despite my friend’s objections.
“Talk me through it again.” He furrowed his brow. “Perhaps there is another way.”
I sighed. The problem was… there wasn’t another way. I knew it as well as he did. “Maybe once we’re at Rustik’s.” I glanced at a man passing us and gave Wil a tight smile. “I’ve seen too many of Jack’s friends recently. Let’s take some care.”
For once, my friend agreed with me, and we walked in silence.
We had chosen Rustik’s for more than one reason. It was a quiet alehouse, the kind of place that had been owned by the same family for more than a while. There were two rooms for let on the top floor, and I knew that Charls Rustik was a man who could keep his mouth shut.
It was also straight across Riparian Plaza from the ruined hulk of the Coilwerks.
Wil rented a room, telling Charls’ daughter that we needed the space to meet with some guildmen.
“Um, w-well enough.” She stammered—the shy thing was so wide-eyed at the birds that I doubted she even heard what he said. She took his coin and handed him a brass key.
“It’s best we keep this one quiet, little sweet.” I gave her a wide smile. “Safety of the borough and all. You’ll keep mum for us, won’t you?”
“Yes.” Now she gave the barest hint of smile. “No worries. Not my business.”
“Excellent.” I gave her a nod as Wil took the stairs.
It took us almost a full bell to wrangle out all the details. At the end, Wil didn’t like the plan any better than I did, but we truly had few options. After several of his inane arguments and more of my clever ones, we made a few minor alterations, but we stuck with the main thrust of our original idea.
All we could do was play the tiles we held.
It only took a few moments to scrawl out the message and get it into the small cylinder on Scoundrel’s leg. Once it was secure, I scratched her head.
“Go, sweet girl.” I truly hated this part. Being without Scoundrel was like losing an eye.
“Sweet bird.” She shifted from one foot to the other. “Good, smart bird.”
“Yes.” I scratched her head, holding one of her rook-keys out. I only carried a few of the tools, but this one I always had. When she saw it, she knew she would be fed and brightened visibly.
“Good! Good, good, good!” She clucked happily, glancing over at Svester.
“Bad bird.” He grumbled at her, almost seeming haughty. “Trouble.”
“Now, that’s no way to be.” Wil gave Svester a small wafer, which he gobbled up. “You’ll get to play too, greedy boy.”
“I’ll see you soon.” Return. Here. I gestured and scratched behind her head one more time. Then, off she went, dark feathers into a darkening night.
“I can never decide if she’s your other half or your better half,” Wil mused softly. “At least there’s one woman who will always come back to you.”
I sighed, giving him a grousing look. “Can we just get back to work?”
“No problem, Susan.” He didn’t even try to hide his smirk. “I’d hate to interfere with you playing dress-up.”
I scowled at him but said nothing.
I had better things to focus on beside snarking with Wil.
The Coilwerks
Riddling, First Bell, Eventide
The Coilwerks was easily one of the oddest, most fantastical buildings in the Warrens—if not the city.
It was four-stories tall and constructed mostly of copper, gunmetal, and old, stout stone blocks. Most of the building was on Moor’d Avenue, but a good part of it hung over the Er’meander River, bolstered by tiers of iron and copper. Scattered all across the structure were open windows, shuttered only by iron bars. Local lore held that so much steam and gas had to vent from the original structure that the openings were required for fresh air.
The building had been dark and silent for many years. During the day, at least.
Once, it had been the heart of Teredon’s new dream. Men with more money than sense had worked tirelessly for years to build the structure, believing that the river could be harnessed to produce Gyro-resonant energy, something that madmen claimed could light Teredon for a thousand years. The dreamers had claimed that the Gyro-resonance would give us eternally lit streets, warm our homes, and be used for countless undreamt tasks.
Things hadn’t worked that way.
The accident was startling. One morning, an explosion shook the city’s foundations as far as South Teris. Sulfur and violet smoke plumed into the sky, and thousands of fish lay dead in the river. The city was in an uproar.
Of course, folk were quick to cry taint.
The inquisitors of Altheus had been called, of course, and soon were sweeping the streets with their crucibles—clockwork devices that sought the taint of the gloaming. For days, the streets had echoed with the soft, haunting cry of the devices, lit by the azure fire, which danced within them.
Much to the distress of zealots and fear mongers, no taint was found.
No, as the artificers, chemics, and cogglers were quick to say, it was a mistake in calibration, a simple maladjustment of the device’s meridian chambers. The pyrogen had become overly pressurized, and—
And would it ever happen again?
The crux of things was, yes. It could. Human error was always a possibility, and sooner than sin, the whole project had been shut down. The men who had planned so much and reached so far went on to other dreams, and the building went dark.
Tonight, of course, the building was far from dark. Soon after sundown, the upper windows shone with gaslight, and the doors opened as soon as the line started to form.
I wasn’t first, but I wasn’t last either.
“Oi, cully.” The ticketman waved me on. I shuffled forward in line, in the exact way that a person would who looked nothing like Thom Havenkin, das judicas, might shuffle.
That was the plan, after all. Between trousers that were a touch loose, a grey homespun shirt, and the tri-corner hat, I appeared as far from ‘judicar’ as I could get. It had only taken a dab of ashes in my scuff to change the color of my facial hair.
This was vital. No one would look closer at me than the ticketman. His entire job was to decide who came in. If he were aware that the Blades were on the hunt for one Thom Havenkin… if he knew what I looked like…
Well, this would get quite interesting, quite quickly.
“Fightin’ or bettin’?” The man gave me a grin half full of yellowed teeth and half-empty. I rustled around in the ratty satchel I had hanging over my shoulder, all the better to not look the man in the eyes.
I could not be recognized—not and get out alive.
“Bettin’.” I found a silver slip and pressed it into the man’s hand. He looked down at it, then tore me off a ticket. As he handed it to me, he squinted, just a touch, as if trying to remember something. He started to speak when the first part of my not-at-all jackwitted scheme came into play.
“Move aside.” Wil’s voice was gruff and authoritative. “I need to speak with the gentleman in charge.”
“Yeah?” Yellow-teeth immediately changed his focus. He looked toward Wil, distractedly handing me my ticket and shooing me along. “That’s me, at least for the front. Kråssus is the name.”
I didn’t give Kråssus or Wil the slightest attention. I stepped inside just in time to hear the beginning of Wil’s official sounding rant.
“I have a writ here, Kråssus, for a gentleman known to frequent this location. One…” I heard the rustling of papers. “Abrahm Wickett. Go ahead and suss me up whoever you need, but the long and the short of things is that me and my boy here are going to pay you folk a visit.”
I ducked inside, trying to lose myself in the shadows. I didn’t want to be anywhere near the front while “official judicar business” was afoot.
The betting pit of the Coilwerks was a large, open room, dimly lit with guttering gaslight and purposefully kept in the shadows. There were a few columns, which cast looming shadows of their own in the weak light. The room swam with various varieties of tabac, and I was fairly certain I could smell more exotic things being smoked. Up high, some of the windows were nothing more than grates to the open sky, probably once used to vent noxious gases.
“Need some luck?” The young woman had slipped up beside me, a shadow among shadows. In the faint light, I could make out eyes blue as a summer sky.
“I’d wager I’m not the only one who does.” I gave her a smile, forgetting for a moment that I was trying to keep my face hidden. “If yer selling luck, you must do a brisk trade.”
“I do.” Her voice was sultry, soft. She slipped closer, and I could smell lavender and vanilla. “For a couple of slips, I can make certain you get lucky.”
The smile faded from my face as I realized what she meant.
Doxies and pillow-girls were always running their luck in Teredon. Many night-women had been found guilty of heresy during the Reign of the Blasphemer—even though they weren’t actually the ones practicing sorcery. Still, their blood had run in the streets as the judicars and inquisitors were given free rein to publicly execute them for depraved and sorcerous acts.
It was exactly why seeing Ilsei in the streets had so horrified me. Superstitious men still were known to beat prostitutes to death, claiming that they did the will of the Radiant.
“I got me own luck.” I lent my voice just a touch of a Sindrian brogue. “I don’t be needin’ a toss, and I reckon’ none of these upstandin’ men do neither.”
The woman slipped back into the shadows without a word.
I let myself drift into the throng then, stepping up to the cedarwood bar that ran the length of the left hand side of the room. I eyed the betting cages, four gilded boxes on the far side of the room, each with a beautiful woman inside, laughing and teasing as she exchanged money for small ivory chits. They did a brisk business.
Does that make the men choose more recklessly? It made sense. Between the alcohol and the attention of a beautiful woman, I wagered that many poor decisions were made in the pits.
“Klêm?” The scrawny man at the bar was picking his teeth as he spoke. “Or maybe a shortbeer?”
“I was wondering about the fights.” I leaned in, conspiratorially. “Do you know when Cutter Greene’s brawling tonight?”
I realized my mistake the moment I spoke. What if Cutter wasn’t even fighting tonight? Tainted night, I had just assumed—
“Fan of the Knuckleduster, are you?” He grinned widely. “The man’s in the third, from what I understand. You’ll have to stand in line for your wager, however.”
The third. That meant I might have some time, if I could find him.
“My cully placed a bet on him already but couldn’t come. I’m supposed to watch the fight for him.” I paused. “What’s he like? The Knuckleduster?”
“Big man. Half Kab.” The barman reached for a small towel. “Bald as you like.”
“Sounds like a winner.” I glanced around the room, trying to take it all in, when I saw her. My blood ran cold. No. I took a calming breath, trying to seem as if my heart hadn’t just fallen to the floor.
“What bitters do you have?” I desperately tried to carry on, as if all was well.
“Mostly we stock the harder stuff, but we have some night-cherry. Bottled over in Teris Hill.”
“I’ll take one.” My tone was distant, distracted. I paid the man for the drink, trying to keep my hand from shaking.
Was it her?
Cautiously, I ghosted through the crowd, edging ever closer to the woman. It wasn’t just her honey-brown hair that gave her away; it was her poise. I had marked her from behind, which perhaps says more about me than it should.
It was.
Sefra.
I hadn’t seen the woman since the night she had come to my flat and honestly hadn’t expected to see her again. That seemed to be the nature of our relationship—we bumped into each other once in a great while, had a wonderful time together, and then set on our merry.
What was she doing here?
Her presence was dangerous in more ways than one. Of course, I wondered how Sefra was involved with the Blades, but just as importantly, what if she saw me?
I would be outed then, plain and simple.
I was edging around the side of one of the columns, hoping to get a good view of her face, but I had seen enough. She was sitting at a table, all alone, and had glanced about. A nonce of her profile was all I had needed.
Well. We needed to have a sit-and-chat, didn’t we?
I was less than five strides from her, ready to sit across from her. On all sides, we were surrounded by noisy, half-drunk people who were all having the time of their lives.
Then, that very seat that I had my eye on was taken by a large man.
I didn’t stare at him, knowing that staring was one of the most certain ways to be seen.
Instead, I sat at another table with my drink. I pulled the hat Wil hated low over my eyes.
I listened.
“Gonna need you again, sweet-bits.” The man’s voice was more of a growl, all grating stone and rumble. I tilted my head just a touch, trying to get a peek at the man’s face. When I did, my eyes widened, just a touch.
I knew the man.
Not directly, but more by reputation. Erviin Blythe was the thirdman in the Twilight Blades, only two steps removed from Sebaste himself.
It wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be.
“You had what you needed.” Her voice was sharp but also a bit too shrill. “I did what you asked. It’s done.”
Blythe was shaking his head. He reached across the table and traced his fingers along the side of her face.
“You don’t say when it’s done, little Sefra.” His voice was soft but held the iron edge of command. “You know what’s at stake.”
She said something else then, something I couldn’t quite hear. Still, my entire world was spinning on his words.
“Sebaste doesn’t know scut nor the dog that left it. Not yet.” He gave her a grim smile. “If you’re a good girl, it will stay that way.”
Frantically, my mind grasped at what this meant.
She had set me up.
I hadn’t met Sefra by accident that night. No, she had been set there for me to find, a pretty flower, made up just right. She had taken me to a revel, we had gotten stone drunk—
And then there had been men, Twilight Blades, waiting for us in my flat.
But that didn’t make any sense. She had been just as startled as I had been. I was certain of that. If she were friends with the Blades, why had she beaten one of them ragged?
What exactly was it that Sebaste didn’t know?
That was when Wil stepped into the room.
It was an odd effect, like a stone being cast into a still pool. None of these fine citizens wanted a judicar watching over their affairs. Many of the seated folk turned their backs to him, and there was a disquieted murmur that spread through the room.
“More later.” Blythe fixed his beady eyes on Wil, and he stood. “We aren’t through, not by a long throw.”
Then, he disappeared into the crowd.
“Firs’ match!” A young Kabian, no more than in his ‘prenticing, stepped up on one of the tables. “Firs’ match! Fowler ’gainst Redmon! Firs’ match!”
At this news, much of the crowd began filtering to the stairwells, off behind the betting cages. I cursed to myself, torn between choices.
I had told Wil I would head downstairs while he looked about for “Abrahm Wickett.” Of course, Abrahm Wickett wasn’t present. He was a man who had been exiled to take the Vigilant watch more than a year ago. Still, we had sent Scoundrel for the writ, so as to be all official. Wil had a reason to enter here, even if it had been sussed up from mist and spit.
Really though,
Wil was just here in case things got nasty. This way, I could slip around and handle business, and at the end of it all, I would probably still have my teeth.
One could hope.
But now, Sefra was sitting not ten strides from me and seemed to have an answer or two I might need. I felt that I could trust her, but then that’s what I wanted, wasn’t it? To trust her?
“She could have opened my throat.” I mused softly to myself. It was true, of course. I had been completely at her mercy. All she had to do was wait until I fell asleep…
Too much didn’t make sense.
I glanced back at Wil and noticed that he had marked me. With little more than his eyes, I could see his disdain for me, hear his mocking tone:
Lisa, I can’t help but notice you sitting there like a wart on a wino! Get moving!
I scowled at him, trying to nod toward Sefra, but apparently I wasn’t as skilled in nonverbal communication. He shook his head, the tiniest of movements, before pretending to scan the crowd again.
I sighed, wishing he had heard Blythe. Sefra could change the board, if I understood a thing or two about what was happening. Still—
Cutter Greene. I was here to see Cutter Greene.
I nodded once in Wil’s direction and then shuffled off for the stairwell. We had agreed that I needed to keep my distance from him; anyone marking the judicar might happen to recognize me as well.
Then, we’d just have to take our throw. If the die showed singles, we didn’t have another play.
I stepped to the stairs, casting about once more for Sefra. Maybe if she saw me—
No. She was gone.
I sighed and then stepped down the stairwell, into the bowels of the Coilwerks.
2
The room below was everything I had expected it would be, crammed with sweaty bodies, stinking with tabac smoke, and filled with the cries of onlookers, everyone waving their chits and yelling. What I had not expected was how large it was. The stairs went so deep that the room was easily two-stories tall, lined around one side with open ventilation windows.
I eyed the windows. I was certain they had once been important, probably ventilation for some variance of Gyro-resonance, but I wished they were a little lower down.
