Among Thieves: A Tale of the Kin

by Douglas Hulick

  “Well then,” she said, pushing open the door. “I suggest you . . . Fuck.”

  Even if it had been an invitation, I doubt I would have been able to take her up on it just then. Inspiring as she could be in bed, I just didn’t have it in me at the moment. But as it turned out, I didn’t have to worry about coming up with an answer. The catch in her voice and way she froze in the doorway told me more than I needed to know.

  I reached out without thinking, ready to pull her back and slam the door shut against whatever was waiting for us inside. Then I saw what she saw, and I froze as well.

  There was a woman in my bedroom—a dead woman; a dead floating woman, held a foot off the floor by nothing I could see.

  “We’ve got trouble,” said Fowler Jess. “Big trouble.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Who is she?” asked Jelem as he walked slowly around the floating corpse.

  “She’s a Blade named Task,” I said from the edge of my bed. “A good one. A very good one.”

  “So whoever did this did you a favor,” he observed.

  “Lucky me.”

  Jelem smiled and continued to circle the dead assassin. He was still wearing the cream-colored robe from last night, but the vest had been replaced by a long, lightweight coat of blue linen. A matching cloth was wrapped around his head. Even though I was sure he had not slept, Jelem looked fresher than half the people I had seen on the street while coming home.

  I had sent for Jelem immediately—this was his specialty, not mine. Besides, it had direct bearing on the matter of Tamas and his rope: Task had an identical rope hanging from her belt.

  “When can we get her down?” I asked. I wanted to see what else she had on her besides the rope—like maybe some bits of paper.

  “Soon,” said Jelem. “The glimmer holding her up isn’t impossible to unravel, but it’s no simple thing, either.” He pulled out a small calfskin pouch, drew an ahrami seed from it, and slipped the seed into his mouth. Jelem sucked thoughtfully as he moved. “This is well-done,” he said after a moment, gesturing at Task’s body. “The magic’s of a higher quality than I usually see on the street. The anchors are strong, tapped directly into the Nether. That’s a lot of work just to float a corpse in the air. A simple repulsion spell on the floor would have done the same thing, but it would have faded after a few days. Done this way, the body could stay here for years.” Jelem looked at me meaningfully. I stared back blankly.

  “I assume you’re making a point besides, ‘This isn’t small-time,’ ” I said, “because I figured that much out myself.”

  “What I’m saying is that there is glimmer, and there is glimmer.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “This isn’t going to be good news, is it?”

  “You can ask me that with a dead assassin floating in your bedroom?”

  He had a point. “Let’s hear it, then.”

  “How much do you know about magical theory?”

  “Probably as much as you know about picking a Kettlemaker lock.”

  “Indeed,” said Jelem. “I’ll keep it brief, then.

  “At its most basic,” he said, “magic gets its power from what we call the Nether. Most magicians agree on this basic premise—the differences come when we start to talk about what exactly the Nether is. I won’t bore you with all the various theories on the nature of the Nether—”

  “Oh, damn,” I said.

  “Although if you insist on interrupting me, I could.” Jelem paused to take a meaningful breath. “The main point is that while the Nether is a separate thing from our reality, some of its energy manages to cross over into our world. Whether it accumulates naturally, is drawn here by other powers, or is some sort of cosmic or religious ‘gift’ isn’t really important for our current discussion.

  “Most street magic, as you know it, is powered by energy that has already seeped into our world from the Nether of its own accord. This means the average Mouth doesn’t summon the energy for his spells so much as gather up a portion of what is already here and form it to his needs. Furthermore, how he collects, channels, and forms the energy ultimately decides not only what it does, but how long it lasts.”

  “You make Mouths sound almost like garbage pickers,” I said.

  Jelem looked down his nose at me. “I prefer to think of them as tailors, taking in raw fabric and fashioning something useful with a cut here and a stitch there.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “So, my good ‘tailor,’ what does this have to do with Task over there?”

  “Ninety-nine out of one hundred Mouths would have used a basic repulsion spell to suspend her in the air, as I said. It’s a straightforward enchantment that uses the available energy in a simple manner. Not to mention that it’s the only way most Mouths know how to power any kind of glimmer.” Jelem gestured at the dead Blade. “This caster, though, did something different: He opened up a small tap into the Nether and tied his spell to it. Instead of using the magical energy that has accumulated around us, he opened up a direct link to the Nether itself.”

  “How hard is that to do?”

  “Very.”

  “Could you do it?”

  “I’ve done it on a total of four occasions,” he said. “All back in Djan. And each of those times required days of preparation, in a controlled setting. Doing it here, in someone else’s home, on a tight schedule? No, I couldn’t. Nor would I want to.”

  “But you say you can undo it,” I said.

  “Yes, because whoever did this also made it so that another Mouth could unravel the glimmer.”

  “On purpose?”

  “Just so.”

  I looked at the Blade, and a thought occurred to me—a very bad thought. “Jelem,” I said slowly, “are you trying to tell me this is imperial glimmer?”

  “What?” said Jelem. He turned and looked at me. “By the Family, no! No. If it were, I’d be back home devising an alibi and considering the best route out of Ildrecca. This magic is very potent, but it’s still street magic. Imperial glimmer is far above this. Or at least, that’s what I hear—it’s all rumors when it comes to the empire’s magic, anyhow.”

  “Oh, well, as long as it’s just ‘very potent’ then,” I said sourly.

  Still, despite the magic, I felt strangely calm. It was as if I had gotten to a point where, with so many things piling up around me, one more brick didn’t matter anymore. The new assassin should have worried me; her presence in my rooms should have frightened me; and the unknown source of the magic used to deal with her should have scared me out of my wits. Instead, it all washed over and around me, leaving me untouched.

  I suspected that things would look much worse once I got a good night’s sleep.

  I heard hard, measured footfalls on the stairs. A moment later, Fowler Jess came stalking into the room, her every gesture a study in rage. “My people report all clear for the entire night,” she fumed. “No one saw a thing.”

  “Not surprising,” said Jelem. He had taken a small brush from his coat and begun sweeping it through the air around the body. “The yazani who did this can likely come and go as he pleases, at least where your efforts are concerned.” Jelem paused, wet his dark thumb, and rubbed at something on Task’s corpse. “You may want to consider some glimmered defenses, Drothe,” he said. “My rates are, well, let’s not say reasonable; affordable, perhaps?”

  “I can handle this just fine!” snapped Fowler. “I don’t need some cut-rate glimmer monger throwing magic all over the place—magic that’ll just end up getting in my people’s way.”

  “Yes,” said Jelem as he returned to his brushing. “You’ve obviously done a superb job so far. Tell me, do I need to make an appointment to try to kill Drothe, or is it simply on a first-come, first-served basis? I can never keep Kin etiquette straight.”

  I reached out and grabbed Fowler’s arm as her long knife cleared its scabbard. Fowler glared at me, yanked against my grip. I shook my head. Jelem didn’t even glance our way.

 
“Would your glimmer have stopped my visitor?” I asked.

  Jelem sucked on his seed. “Her?” he said, pointing at the assassin. “Most likely, although I wouldn’t be surprised if she was killed somewhere else and brought here afterward. It’s far easier to veil corpses than it is live bodies. As for whoever put her here in the first place? No, I don’t think my spells would have done anything other than annoy your anonymous benefactor.”

  “Like I said,” said Fowler, “we can handle this.” I let go of her arm. She put her knife away and moved over to one of the room’s two windows. With a shove, Fowler opened the shutters the rest of the way and seated herself on the sill.

  “You said ‘benefactor,’ ” I said to Jelem.

  He nodded, still circling Task. “What else? Believe me, if whoever did this wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

  We all grew silent after that. Jelem continued to work on the floating corpse, pausing occasionally to mutter softly to himself in singsong Djanese. Fowler sat in the window, brooding. Every now and then, I caught her making small gestures to the world outside: signaling her people and gathering reports. Doubling the guard, more likely than not.

  I turned this newest question over in my head. Why kill a Blade and go to all the trouble of suspending her in my room, when a well-thrust knife and a note under my door would have accomplished the same thing? It was, I decided, more than a warning; it was a statement. Not only was someone watching over me—they had access to the kinds of power I couldn’t come close to touching. And if they had access to this kind of power—and were willing to flaunt it—what were the odds of whoever was after me having the same level of resources? The glimmered rope had been bad enough, but what if that was only small-time for them?

  I looked back up at Task. Why even bother hiring Blades at all? If the person behind Tamas and Task was as potent as my benefactor, why wasn’t I dead already? And why, for that matter, was either of these people interested in me?

  I placed my forehead in the palm of one hand and drew a seed from my pouch with the other, then stopped myself. No. Ahrami wasn’t the answer now. No matter how many I ate, they would only make me alert, not awake. My mind was a jumble of questions and information, none of it fitting together well. Tackling that mess now would be like trying to find my way out of a maze wearing a blindfold. I needed sleep. Hell, I practically ached for it.

  “How much longer until you have her down?” I asked Jelem, already starting to lean back onto my bed.

  “Hard to say,” said Jelem. “Not soon, anyhow.”

  “I thought you said the glimmer on her was breakable.”

  “And every lock is pickable, but do I stand beside you in dark hallways and shake your elbow?”

  “Then where the hell am I supposed to sleep?”

  “I would suggest ‘not here,’ ” said Jelem, turning back to Task’s body. “I don’t want company, and you don’t want to be here for some of the things I’ll need to do to get her down. You find things for a living—surely you can find someplace to sleep.”

  Finding someplace wasn’t the problem; finding someplace safe, though, was another matter. Still, Jelem was right—I didn’t want to think about the kind of dreams I would have if I stayed here.

  I looked over at Fowler Jess.

  “Oh, hell no,” she said. “Hell no!”

  “Jess . . . ” I began.

  “You’re pulling in trouble like a crooked Rag rakes in hawks, Drothe. No way I’m letting you anywhere near my place.”

  “It’s just for one night,” I said. “And besides, in a way—”

  “Don’t!” she said, slipping down off the windowsill. “Don’t you dare tell me I owe you, or it’s my fault you don’t have a place to stay, or anything like that. Killing you would ruin my reputation, but, right now, I’d happily pay that price if you said something stupid.”

  Since that was exactly what I had been going to say, I shut my mouth. “I don’t suppose you can spare anyone to watch me if I go to an inn?” I said instead.

  Fowler leaned back against the wall. A look of pity crossed her face. Apparently, I was still being stupid.

  “I’m having enough trouble keeping the Kin out of your place,” she said. “I don’t need the headache of trying to secure a public inn against another Blade, let alone a Mouth who can walk through walls. Go someplace unexpected, where people won’t look for you. That’ll protect you better than an army of Oaks could right now.”

  I nodded. She was right. Go someplace unexpected. . . .

  I stood up.

  “I’m off, then,” I said, heading for the door.

  “That quickly? Where to?” asked Fowler.

  “To someplace even I can’t believe I’m considering,” I said, and closed the door behind me.

  The large wooden door swung open just as I was reaching for the knocker for the second time. If Josef felt any surprise at seeing me, he hid it well. My sister’s butler of the chamber merely inclined his head and stepped aside to let me in.

  “Good to see you again, sir,” said Josef as I crossed the threshold of my sister’s house. I grunted a reply.

  “Is the baroness expecting you?” he asked.

  “What do you think?”

  Josef smiled a bit. He closed the door. “Yes, well, I’ll announce you then, shall I?”

  “Yes, do,” I said. “I suppose it’s an occasion of sorts, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed,” said Josef as he turned away. “And, if I may, it’s a pleasure to see you entering the home this way again.”

  How many years had it been since I had actually used the front door to come calling? Not since before Nestor’s death. It hadn’t seemed right to come walking into his house after that, but it felt somehow wrong to come skulking over the garden wall tonight, too. Maybe I’d come knocking because, for the first time in a long time, I’d be asking my sister for a favor, rather than striking a bargain of necessity.

  I looked around the entry foyer. Little had changed—same polished tile floor, same mosaics on the wall, same view through the archway to the garden beyond. I almost expected my brother-in-law, Nestor, to come strolling through one of the side passages, a half-unrolled scroll dangling from his hands, ready to launch into a discussion on his latest interpretation of Regency history. I smiled briefly at the thought.

  Of all the men Christiana could have married, Nestor had been the most unexpected. Then again, maybe that was why they had come together. An eccentric nobleman, he hadn’t cared that his wife was a former courtesan, nor, when he found out, that his brother-in-law was a criminal. If anything, he had flown in the face of court propriety and declared it “quite charming” to have a “Gentleman of the Shadows” as a relative. It had taken Christiana nearly a week to persuade Nestor that introducing me at their wedding, let alone at court, would be a disaster for them both. He had agreed in the end, but I suspect part of him had wanted to see just how the scandal would have played out.

  I yawned and leaned my head back. Above me, on the wall, depicted in a mosaic of cut glass and stone and marble, stood Releskoi, Nestor’s family’s patron Angel.

  Releskoi was tall, with the traditional blue-white skin, golden eyes, and fair hair of his kind. This version had a scar on his left cheek, marking not only the Angel but also Nestor’s family as followers of the Achadean sect—those who saw the Angels as more supernatural than divine, more as the original servants of the dead gods than as the deities they had become. The traditional fox and desert lion crouched near Releskoi’s feet. The Angel’s symbol, a staff wrapped in a banner of holy inscriptions, floated before his chest.

  I yawned again. “Fat lot of good you did Nestor,” I said to the Angel.

  “Releskoi is one of the Angels of Judgment,” said Christiana. “I doubt he can do much when it comes to stopping poison and plots.”

  I sat up to find my sister framed by daylight in the garden’s archway. She was wearing a simple linen morning dress, undyed, that left her arms exposed. A
belt of fine silver links drew the otherwise shapeless dress in at her waist. Her hair was gathered up casually and held in place with a pair of silver pins.

  “How convenient for Nestor’s killer,” I said.

  Christiana sighed and walked into the shade of the foyer. “I hope you’ve haven’t come here to throw that old accusation around again. If so, you know where the door—or the wall—is.”

  I chewed on a particularly nasty response for a moment, then swallowed it. There was no point in arguing about Nestor’s death again; or at least, not right now.

  “Someone tried for me again,” I said. “Another Blade—I mean, assassin.”

  One of Christiana’s eyebrows arched upward. “And you’re not trying kill me as a result? How novel.”

  “It’s worse,” I said, and I told her.

  By the time I was finished, she was sitting next to me on the bench, staring hard into the middle of the room.

  “So whoever knows about us is a magician,” said Christiana. Her voice made the stone bench we sat on seem warm and soft by comparison.

  “ ‘Us’?” I said. “Angels, Ana, this isn’t about you—I’m the one they’re trying to kill!”

  “By using my livery and forging my name,” she said. She turned and glared at me. “You weren’t followed here, were you?”

  “Give me some credit.”

  She nodded and turned back to the foyer. “In case you’re wondering, yes, I do realize they’re trying to kill you. But they used our connection to try to set you up the first time, so I’m involved as well.”

  “Only peripherally,” I said.

  “That makes me feel so much better.”

  “What the hell do you want me to do, Ana? I came here to warn you—what else do you want?”

  “For a start? Bring me that magician’s head on a platter.”

  I laughed harshly. “Oh, by all means—we can’t have the Baroness Sephada inconvenienced. If I wasn’t motivated before, I am now.” I leapt to my feet. “Stay here and powder something while I gather up the Kin and scour the city!”