by Jeff Ayers
Skate had stopped her nervous tapping. Instead, she was clutching her white cup. The warmth of it gave her something to focus on instead of Haman’s words. “He’s a kind man.” It was a sentimental triviality, she knew, but she also knew it was right. He is kind. And that matters.
“I’m sure.” Haman’s voice was dry and had a lilting humor to it, giving the impression that he seemed to find her answer both funny and sad. “But is that really worth throwing the Ink away, the only family you’ve had for most of your life?”
“Yes.”
The lack of hesitation in her answer surprised him, and he chuckled. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing you’re so sure. If it had only been Kite, you’d probably be able to get away with telling people he’s just a liar. No one would’ve doubted that. But with witnesses and others attacked…there’s no going back. The choice has been made. The ink’s on the page.”
Skate tightened up, her stomach twisting into a knot of apprehension. She had just admitted to a lieutenant that she was breaking from the Ink, and that she had done so violently. She had no protection anymore, and Haman probably had orders from the Bosses to eradicate deserters in some violent way or other. Whatever he did, she needed to be ready.
What he did was to take another drink from his cup. He set it down, linked his fingers as he leaned on the counter, and turned his attention to the conversation of the other patrons. They had moved on to discussing some writer she’d never heard of, and how his work proved some crucial point or other.
Skate scooted her cup away. As it was scooped up by the servant boy, she decided to push her luck. “You’re not gonna blow me away with wind or burn me up with magic fire?”
Haman chuckled again. “Not in here,” he said with heavy irony. “It would upset the other guests, and I’d never forgive myself for breaking up such a meeting of minds.” The ghost of a smile remained on his face as he continued, “No, Skate, I’m not going to hurt you. No one else in here knows who you are or that you’re now a former member of the Ink. There may be two other people in here who know what the Ink is, but only from the customer side. I know no one who matters saw you come in, and I know you’ve got the good sense to make sure they don’t see you go out. I’ve got no reason to hurt you, other than a slavish devotion to the rules of the organization—and try as I might, I simply haven’t internalized those well enough to follow them when no one’s looking.”
“You really think he’ll show up here?” Skate asked, turning in her own seat to watch the endless coffee-fueled argument.
“One of them probably will, either Belamy or Tillby. If it’s the former, then we’re supposed to approach him and apprise him of his situation—or rather, now, to apprise him of a false situation that is, for all he knows, true. If the latter, we’re to simply have him followed until he makes whatever move he and his band of free agents are planning to make today. I hope if Belamy does show up,” Haman added, throwing a glance her way as he reached for his cup, “you’ll have the good sense to realize all that stuff I said about not needing to follow any rules goes out the window. You interfere in that conversation, and I’ll start a fire inside your gut.”
Skate smiled her own sarcastic grin, and nodded at the door. “Looks like I live to lie another day.”
Carsen Tillby let the door shut behind him with a satisfied air and swept his hat off with a flourish.
Chapter 27
In which a thief is followed, a heist is thwarted, and a trap is sprung.
Tillby was still kicking the ice off his boots when Skate slid from the seat. “See you around,” she said to Haman as she melted into the general hubbub of the shop. She found an elevated bench along the opposite wall, where she could keep a weather eye on the room as a whole—and on Tillby particularly.
Skate crossed her arms and scanned the crowd. On the bench with her was a young, aristocratic-looking couple gossiping away about those in the room, especially the old man and his “niece.” Skate ignored the prattle and followed Tillby’s progress to the bar.
He began by leaning on the counter and flashing his smile at the proprietress, who seemed to have no difficulty now with a genuine smile of her own. Tillby said something and brushed the back of her hand, which she promptly retracted to her mouth in a gasp that may or may not have been honest. The slight red that flushed her face indicated it was. A bit more conversation followed, during which the proprietress kept on smiling but avoided Tillby’s eyes. Tillby then left the bar with a wink and sauntered out the door.
Haman, who had continued sipping his coffee as if he were utterly uninterested in anything but the arguments playing out in the center of the room, set his cup down and followed the man. Skate waited a few seconds before following suit.
Tillby’s hat made for a conspicuous marker as he sauntered through the streets. Though Skate was several dozen feet behind him, it was almost impossible to lose track of the man.
Haman was nowhere to be seen. Whether he was simply following alongside Tillby through back alleys and staying out of sight or had made himself unseen through some trick of magic, his pursuit went undetected.
Other members of the Ink were not so stealthy. Skate recognized some members of Boss Marshall’s crew moving through the crowds and backstreets, dressed in borrowed or stolen clothing to better blend in. However, no amount of fine haberdashery would hide years of desperate, hard living etched into the eyes of those afflicted, and even the least-practiced observer could have found them out if they had brought any attention to themselves as they made their way around carriages and crowds.
Tillby’s hat disappeared through a side street, and Skate waited a moment to let his other pursuers follow suit before taking the same path he had. Once there, it was a simple matter of following the other thieves’ course. Now that they were out of sight of the main host of the district’s residents, they made no secret of their haste or intent; steps quickened and voices grunted with the effort of stomping over undisturbed piles of snow and ice that got in the way.
Skate turned a corner to find herself in a sort of makeshift courtyard, an open space behind the backs of several buildings. She did not see Tillby. Nor, apparently, did anyone else. The gang of thieves were looking around and arguing with one another.
“You lost him, you idiot.”
“I did not; I was following you—”
“My foot, you were. I followed you down the path—”
There were numerous such squabbles among the gang, while others were conferring in more subdued tones, trying to find out where the man had gone. A voice rang out among them, and she recognized it as the voice of Tillby.
“Good afternoon,” he said in false joviality. “I trust your travels through the city have been pleasant.” A stack of junk against one wall disappeared within a wisp of smoke to reveal three figures close to the wall: Miss Amanda and Kibo the Magnificent were on either side of Tillby and immediately put their hands to work.
Acting on instinct, Skate covered her ears, turning away and ducking around the corner. She began humming a random note to drown out any sound that might get through.
Skate sat for what felt like a few minutes before she chanced a removal of her hand from one ear. She heard nothing. Feeling emboldened, she peeked around the corner. The Ink members were standing in a crowd facing away from her and toward where Tillby’s troupe had been. The performers, however, were now at the back of the crowd, talking amongst themselves in animated gestures and excited tones. They were not hiding their voices at all.
“—went as well as could be expected.”
“Yes, and that’s great, but what are we to do with them now that we’ve got them?”
Tillby stroked his beard and thought about Amanda’s question. “We’ve got them for several hours. Why not just leave them here and have them join in with the main group when we get started?”
“I have a better idea: distraction.”
Tillby arched an eyebrow and motioned for her to continue.
“Send them to the other side of the district and have them cause havoc of their own a few minutes before we begin; that will mean fewer Guards springing up to stop the next crowd.”
Tillby laughed and clapped Amanda on the shoulder. “An excellent idea! Kibo, will there be any difficulties in keeping these under thrall and moving forward with her plan?”
Underneath his wrappings, Kibo shook his head. He brought his arms out in a self-enveloping hug to warm himself. “No problem.”
“Good! That’s settled then. Give them their order and send them on their way. Then we’ll go set up.”
Kibo nodded and turned toward the crowd. Without a word, the whole gaggle turned to meet his gaze. There they all stood, looking dazed and stupid. Again, without a word spoken, they all moved at once in various directions, their slack jaws tightening up in a slightly unnatural grimness.
Kibo nodded, satisfied, and turned around. “We’ve got about twenty minutes.”
“Then let’s put on a show,” Tillby said.
The other two nodded in turn and strode out of the makeshift courtyard. Skate followed at a safe distance to watch their progress. They exited out into the street near a set of shops not unlike the area the Plume had been built in. In the middle of the white-covered lawn, presumably a garden in the warmer months, the three of them got ready. Skate watched from behind the low fence that separated the shops from the main road. Amanda got out her instrument, and Kibo began to stretch his fingers while Tillby called to passersby and patrons. “Come one, come all, my fair ladies and dashing gentlemen! We bring to you a show the likes of which you have never had opportunity to witness, a greater experience than all the wealth you could buy. We charge nothing for it, but only pray that you will give whatever pittance you can be moved to part with in appreciation. If it displeases you in any way, you may keep your coins. We hope only to move your hearts, not your purses. Come one, come all!”
The lines were followed by similar calls, and a crowd began to gather. Most buskers were thrown out of the Baron’s district in short order, but most buskers did not look like Tillby’s troupe. Some Guards approached at the sound of shouting, but they made no move to restrain the performers. In fact, they lingered at the edge of the crowd, though whether that was out of a desire to maintain order or to get a better view, Skate didn’t know.
Tillby was introducing The Tales of Beuford Hall in a much more prolonged manner than he had in the slums—probably, Skate guessed, in order to let the crowd continue to grow—when a hand touched her gently on the shoulder.
The jeweled red sleeve trimmed in blue told her who it was before she turned all the way. Belamy was not looking at her, but at the crowd and its centerpiece. “You ought not to have come, Skate.”
“They’re going to hypnotize everyone in the crowd.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I’m not sure why, but they’ve already caught a bunch of thieves and sent them off to cause trouble.”
“Very shrewd of them.”
“I’m not sure what they’re planning.”
“Look where they are. Take a guess. Think of what you know.”
Skate turned back to the crowd full of people chattering excitedly, some almost giddy with anticipation, others only slightly above boredom. They’ve been planning this for a while. People who watch and listen will do what they’re told.
“The shops,” Skate realized. “They’re going to rob the shops.”
Belamy dropped his hand from her shoulder and walked toward the crowd.
“You’re gonna stop them?”
“I need to talk to the inestimable Mr. Tillby about his contact with the thieves. I think that would be harder to do once he has everyone under his thrall.” Belamy did not slow down as he spoke, but he had raised his voice accordingly in order to be heard. “If the show starts, stay away. You don’t want to get caught up in it.”
“Wait.” Skate knew what she was going to say, but her self-preservation was screaming at her not to. He turned to face her, brow pinched in concern. “I’m one of them. One of the thieves. They’re called the Ink, and they’re taking money from Gherun each month now. Whether you give his books back soon or not won’t matter. Do you need to do any talking to Tillby now?”
Belamy’s expression did not change for what felt like minutes.
Then, as Tillby continued working the crowd up into excitement over the promise of a coming story, Belamy went from a slight frown to a smile—a full-faced, gleeful smile she had never seen on his face before. “Thank you for being honest with me, Skate. No, there’s no need to talk anymore.”
Belamy turned toward the crowd and launched himself from the ground, seeming to lunge an impossible distance. The wind whipped his robes while he flew, and he looked like a streak of flame over the white snow. He slammed into Tillby, who shrieked in fear as they flew into the air. Belamy held him there by the front of his shirt. He was saying something while the crowd gasped and pointed. Amanda stood in shock, and Kibo began to wave his arms and mutter. The magician’s lower half became a whirlwind of smoke, and he flew up to meet the airborne pair.
The Guards had begun trying to disperse the crowd in order to get a handle on the situation. The spectators, however, were not budging; most assumed this to be part of the show. Only when the Guards began yelling and shoving did members of the crowd begin to scatter. Kibo, Belamy, and Tillby were talking in tones too low to be heard this far down, but Kibo looked ready to lash out at Belamy, who, for his part, held Tillby with both hands and was chatting with a pleasant air. As they spoke, Kibo’s posture became more relaxed, until he was eventually “standing” with arms crossed, as if listening to a conversation about the weather. A member of the Guard saw Skate and walked her way.
“Young miss, you need to stay back.” Even in the midst of potential catastrophe, the Guard treated people in this district with a level of respect Skate had never received from the armored men and women. “We don’t know what’s going on here. It could be—”
Screams rang out from some of those still refusing to move from the spectacle. A blast of fire enveloped the airborne trio, and sparks from the fire landed on those below. Panic sent the crowd running. Loudest of all was the full-throated roar of Miss Amanda, who saw her friends swallowed by the flame.
As the fire cleared, two forms plummeted the thirty-or-so feet to the ground, though the path was not straight down; it looked like Kibo was trying to keep them aloft, but failing. Tillby’s fine hat was aflame, and he was swatting at the fire coming for his face. Both men’s flesh was red and angry-looking in patches.
Skate looked up to see Belamy, unperturbed by the fire, scanning the windows and rooftops for its source. He reached into the folds of the war robes and took out one of his bottles. Another gout of flame surrounded him, and this time Skate caught a glimpse of something blue and green swirling around the old man as the fires passed over him; his magical protections were still hard at work.
Belamy shot off toward a nearby roof, where someone shouted in alarm. He tossed his bottle down. The tinkling of glass could be heard over the general tumult of the fast-dispersing crowd, followed by a ghastly sound of coughing and retching.
Belamy returned to his position in roughly the center of the courtyard, only to be blasted out of the sky altogether, this time by a fork of lightning from the window of the top floor of one of the inns in the circle.
The snow cushioned Belamy as he fell, but not by much. The thud was strong enough that Skate felt the tremor from roughly fifteen feet away. “Mr. Belamy!” she shouted, running toward where he’d fallen. She could not see him for all the snow he’d ploughed into, but the mound of the mini-crater he’d made stirred slightly.
Skate pulled up short as another blast of lightning fired directly at him from still another location, this time much lower and from the milliner’s boutique. Skate fell over as she tried to back away and looked on in horror as two more forks of lightning assaulted the pile of
snow, blasting gouts of the stuff away as powder and water.
A member of the Guard stood nearby, dumbstruck. Skate scrambled to her feet and pulled on his arm. “Do something!”
The Guard just shook his head, mouth agape. “No reinforcements,” he muttered dully. “All busy on the other side.” His voice trailed off into silence again as the spectacle continued and Belamy was struck by yet another two, three, four bolts of lightning. Skate tugged on the arm again before giving up and running toward the old lich again, ready to sustain whatever pain she needed to in order to help him get up.
Wait. Petre’s voice came to her as a whisper carried by wind, but it froze her in place. One more bolt of lightning struck Belamy’s location, and then everything stopped.
The crowds were gone. The attacks had ceased. Some faces appeared in windows, looking down at their handiwork, smirking that they had been successful in bringing down a mighty foe. Skate recognized none of them but assumed they were either members of the Ink or had been contracted by the Ink for the special danger of bringing in a powerful spellcasting undead man.
The silence was broken only by the stuttering sound of sparks and a few hesitant cries of victory.
A tremendous flash seared Skate’s eyes as Belamy shot out terrible lines of lightning. They tore into the shops around the square. The tentative victory cry gurgled into a low groan and then fell silent altogether.
Skate blinked several times to clear her vision. Belamy stood in front of his crater, half of his face a horrific, charred black, though he did not seem bothered by his injuries. The windows around the courtyard were all aflame, and no more lightning shot forth to beat Belamy down.