“You’re going to leave?”
There was a subtle note of fear in her question. Rone glanced over at Sandis, who had wedged herself into one corner of the sofa, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. She’d cleaned her pants and paired them with his shirt. He couldn’t blame her—hers was odd. Good material, but heavy and with a wide-open back. He’d never before seen that fashion in Dresberg, and most would consider it scandalous.
He wouldn’t complain if she donned it again.
“I told you, I have to find someone.”
She glanced toward the single window. “But it’s still dark.”
“I know my way around.”
“The grafters will still be looking.” Her voice was quieter.
Rone let a half smile pull at his lips. “Not where we’re going.”
“We?”
“I take it you don’t want to sit here twiddling your thumbs. Besides, I don’t trust you with my stuff.”
She studied him a moment, then stood without further comment. At least she wasn’t overly chatty. And she looked slightly less pathetic this morning.
He tried not to shudder at the thought of what he’d gotten himself into.
They slipped out the door, leaving the flat dark. Rone massaged his shoulder as he walked toward the back of the three-story building. He lived on the second floor. Dawn would be breaking soon—blue already edged some of the clouds. From his experience, most people were home at this hour.
Sandis followed, up the ladder and onto the roof, without complaint. Once Rone got his higher vantage point, he studied the city. There were always people out, but the streets were fairly empty. In another hour, the first-shift workers would pool onto the cobblestones. His gaze lingered on the shifting shadows. Had the grafters already found them? God’s tower, he’d rather deal with one of the mobs. At least they were honest, when threatened. Threats didn’t work on grafters. He knew—he’d forfeited half his pay for a delivery he’d made to them two years ago. The creepy grafter who’d swindled him had worn an eye patch and two gold teeth. Rone had threatened plenty to no avail, and he’d left as the scared one.
“You’re going to jump the roofs?”
Smart one. “Yeah. Hope you’re athletic.”
Sandis clasped her hands under her chin and crept to the edge of the building. Searched. Pointed west. “That one isn’t too far.”
Rone nodded. “Should keep us out of the grafters’ line of sight. I doubt they look up much.”
He’d meant it as a religious pun. Sandis simply nodded.
He jumped to the next roof, another building of flats, trying to be light on his feet so as not to disturb the tenants. While he didn’t particularly care if he roused them from sleep, he didn’t want anyone investigating. He turned right and rushed for the next edge, this one no more than a three-foot jump. Another residential building. Engineers knew how to wedge them in.
Sandis landed softly behind him, impressing him with her silence. His old teacher, Arnae Kurtz, would have liked her.
He wanted speed, but slowed down to keep Sandis behind him. She stumbled a few times in those worthless shoes of hers. He took a more looping path southwest, trying to make the jumps easier, and, whenever possible, led Sandis to the roofs where he’d previously stowed boards to ease his journey. So far only the storms had tried to stall their journey. The one nice thing about the wall surrounding the city was it choked out most of the wind.
Black ashes, he hated this place. He and his mother would have left the country a long time ago if the emigration papers didn’t cost a man’s lifetime salary.
They touched down to the street once, then climbed back up a four-story building that obviously made Sandis nervous. Why, Rone didn’t know. Was a grafter, of all people, afraid of heights? The things their kind did . . . But then again, Sandis had been a slave, right? He wondered what sort of slave, then snuffed the line of thought when it got too miserable. Regardless, she was at the bottom of the food chain. He had to remember that.
Ugh. He hated feeling pity. It made him nice.
The tip of the sun inched over the horizon by the time Rone got to where he was going—a large apartment building just inside the smoke ring. Large, because the people who lived here had some money, not because the landlord shoved in as many tenants as the space would allow, as was common with most residential buildings in the area.
Marald Helg’s flat was on the top floor. If he hadn’t moved.
“Stay here.” He pointed at Sandis like she was a dog in training. She glanced around. Sat near the part of the roof that sloped. She’d have to wash those pants again.
Rone withheld a sigh. He checked for his amarinth, despite knowing its magic had not yet refreshed, then lowered himself off the lip of the roof and swung around its eaves to a large window. Kicked in the glass. He didn’t care to be quiet. He was here to make an impression.
“Helg!” he barked, striding through the guest room and into the sitting room, which was empty save for a tweed chair. He marched down the stairs, heading toward the office where he’d made his disastrous deal with Helg. “Wake up, you filthy bastard!”
He heard a low chuckle that made his skin light up like coals. He whirled toward the bedroom and kicked open the door.
Marald Helg sat up in bed, his thinning hair mussed from sleep. Dreary dawn light poured in through a window masked by sheer curtains. The sole other piece of furniture in the room was a three-legged side table. Cheap. There were marks on the wall from where furniture used to be.
Marald Helg coughed, covering his mouth with one hand. When he finished, he licked spittle from his bottom lip.
Rone marched toward him, entertaining a million thoughts about how he’d like to kill him. He’d never killed a man, not directly, but that was a record worth tarnishing.
He raised his hand—
“I’ve been waiting for you, boy.”
The words caught him off guard for a moment. Recovering quickly, Rone grabbed Helg by the collar of his night-robe and lifted the smaller man from his sheets. He threw him onto the floor. Helg had a gauntness to his face that hadn’t been there before. He looked older. His hair was whiter. Rone didn’t care.
“I don’t know how you know her,” Rone spat, stepping toward him like a wolf stalking its prey, “but I’m going to make Gerech look like a resort by the time I’m finished with you.”
Helg laughed. Laughed. Rone bristled and grabbed Helg’s collar again, slamming the man against the wall.
Helg winced, coughed. That made Rone feel minutely better.
“You . . . deserve it,” he choked.
“You deserve this,” Rone countered, and pulled back his fist—
“You want the story, don’t you?”
Rone hesitated.
Helg smiled, which was all the invitation Rone needed to slam his fist into Helg’s mouth. The feeling of teeth ripping from their gums made the sting across his knuckles pleasant. He let Helg fall to the ground and took a step back.
“Why, yes,” Rone sneered. “I’d love a story.”
Helg cradled his mouth. Pushed off the floor so he could sit upright. There was a slight hump in his back. “Do you know . . . who I am?” The man spat out a tooth.
“A backstabber?”
“Marald Steffen.” He moved his hand from his mouth. Blood smeared across his cheek. He waited. For what, Rone didn’t know.
Helg—Steffen—scowled. “You don’t remember me.”
“Obviously.”
Steffen took a deep breath. “Do you recall Fran Errick, then?”
That name rang a bell. Rone mulled for a moment, never changing his stance or his expression. A previous client, he was sure.
“Let me jog your memory, foolish boy.” Steffen licked his lip, which only spread the blood farther. “Fran Errick owns the Errick, Fritz, and Helderschmidt firearm factories. I owned the Graybrick. He hired you to steal plans for a new musket from my property.”
Ro
ne’s eyes narrowed. He remembered this. It had happened about eight months ago.
“You,” Steffen grunted as he clasped at the wall to stand. “You ruined me.”
The words dripped from him like venom.
“I spent every last penny I had to hire you, Engel.” He turned, looking even frailer and older than before, and glared at Rone. The rising sun highlighted his dark eyes. That hard ball of guilt began to churn in Rone’s belly again. “Sent you to the most privileged man in Dresberg. I had you followed, you son of a whore.”
Rone launched forward without thinking to. His hand clasped around Steffen’s neck. Pinned him again to the wall.
Steffen didn’t seem to notice. “I found out who you were. But you’re a sly cur, Rone Comf. Oh, wouldn’t Daddy be proud to learn about you . . . Or does he even care?”
Rone growled. His hand tightened around Steffen’s throat.
The older man wheezed as he spoke. “A sly cur. You’d get away too easily. So I went for her. So simple. I hope”—he tried to swallow—“they kill her.”
Rone slammed his fist into the old man’s eye. He released his throat and then delivered a second punch to his cheekbone. Another to his nose, breaking it. Then his mouth again. Marald Steffen fell to his knees, and Rone spun and landed a hard kick to the side of the man’s head, knocking him over.
Steffen groaned, his eyes closed. His chest still rose and fell.
Rone moved toward him. Pressed the toe of his shoe to Steffen’s throat. A little pressure was all it would take. The bastard deserved it for making business personal. For attacking an innocent rather than Rone himself.
Anger made his arms tremble. Ignited new pain in his bad shoulder. Pain that radiated up his neck and into his skull.
Rone’s sore hands formed fists, which he slammed into the wall after pulling his foot back from the unconscious factory owner.
Damn it. Damn him and all of them to hell.
And yet . . . he couldn’t escape the thought that he was the one who’d done this.
It was his fault. He should have kept records. Should have watched his back. Should have hidden his identity better. Should have, should have, should have.
He needed to get his mother out of Gerech, and this bankrupt bastard wasn’t the way to do it.
Rone dragged himself back up the stairs. Punched another wall and winced at the shock of it. He massaged his knuckles. Pressed his forehead against the same wall.
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.
“I’m sorry.”
He jumped and turned. Sandis stood at the edge of the hallway. The window behind her was open, and a soft breeze stirred her hair.
Rone let out a single dry chuckle. “You heard that, huh?”
“Part of it.”
Rone rubbed his face. Shook out his raw hands. “Whatever. Let’s figure out your mess.”
“I’m sorry.”
He glared at her. “So you said.”
He climbed his way back to the roof. Hopped to the next one. Started for the third, then forced himself to stop so Sandis could catch up.
He’d said he’d assist her. For now. This side of his problems wasn’t her fault. Just the other side.
He fingered the amarinth. He’d figure this out.
Somehow.
Chapter 8
Rone tossed her an apple and a stale oat bar. She felt guilty, taking so much without giving back. She had nothing to give now, but she’d find a way to repay him after she found Talbur.
The air inside his flat felt like the air before a winter storm. Cold, stiff, impending. It all emanated from Rone, who leaned in the corner closest to the door, eating an apple of his own. He stared at nothing, his eyes unfocused. Sandis worried her lip, watching him from her perch on the couch.
She took a deep breath. “Who?”
Rone’s dark gaze moved to her.
She swallowed. “Who was he talking about? The man we . . . visited.”
Had Rone been Kazen, that man would not be alive. Kazen would have used one of the numina to kill him, probably Ireth, his weapon of choice.
A memory—one of Ireth’s—surfaced in her mind. Black walls still burning, the shadows of corpses on the ground, and Kazen, so much shorter than he was to Sandis’s eyes, lovingly scratching under a charcoal muzzle—
Rone took a loud bite of his apple, snapping Sandis away from the image. He took his time chewing and swallowing. “My mother.”
“What happened?”
A shake of his head dismissed her. “If you want to find this guy of yours, we need to track him down. Banks, libraries—”
“I’ve checked banks and libraries.”
“—and citizen records.”
Sandis perked up in her seat on the couch. “Citizen records?”
Rone nodded. “Citizen and historical records are kept in a building in the Innerchord. Everyone ever born in Kolingrad has records there. Immigrants, too.” He laughed like that was a joke. Then again, Sandis supposed not many immigrated to Kolingrad, since so few people were allowed to leave its borders.
The Innerchord, where the triumvirate and other government officials congregated. Sandis had never been to the center of the city, but its looming buildings could be seen from any roof in Dresberg, so long as another building didn’t block the view. The Degrata looked similar to the Lily Tower, but the Lily Tower’s tiers were narrower and more cake-like, and its stone had the color of water-diluted rust.
She nodded. “All right. Let’s—”
“That will be the first place they look for you.” Rone took another bite of apple.
She shook her head. “But they don’t know I’m looking for . . .” She paused. Do they? She couldn’t be sure the grafters had stolen that page from the bank record, but they’d found her so soon afterward.
Did that mean Kazen knew she could read? Her hands tightened to fists, fingernails digging into her palms. She hated not knowing. She couldn’t plan ahead if she didn’t know.
The thump of Rone tossing his apple core into the garbage bin drew her attention away from her thoughts. He scratched his stubble-coated chin. “I’ll think about it. I need to go somewhere first. Alone.”
Sandis glanced at the window. Were the grafters good and gone? Would Rone take to the rooftops, even in the light of day? “Where?”
He paused, searching her face. “Gerech Prison. Alone. I’ll be quick.”
He said nothing more, merely opened the door and let himself back into the city.
Gerech Prison was west of the Innerchord, right outside the giant moat that surrounded it, in District Two. It was a huge building, comparable in size to the Degrata—if someone were to slice the enormous tower into stories and lay them out. Gerech was a single story, aboveground, anyway, though its massive front gate reached two. If one could call it a gate. It was a gargantuan construction made of two cylinders bound together by a massive black door. Every window, vertical and horizontal alike, was barred with iron. The lamps were always lit, even on days when the sky was clear and the sun beamed through the city’s haze. Rone imagined it was because everything was dark inside, so the warden always wanted a ready source of light.
The walls were an odd color, like moldy cheese. Rone didn’t know what stone they were made from—something pebbly, textured, and impossible to scale. Armed guards were everywhere, boasting heavy-looking breastplates adorned with symbols of a sail-less boat, an homage to their ancestors and to the triumvirate. At least it wasn’t a lily.
Every guard’s gaze followed Rone as he walked toward the prison, to the barred window where the clerk sat. Every eye. He felt them like jagged icicles pressing against his skin. He acted like he didn’t notice. Stood in line. Gerech held thousands of people, so there was always a line of visitors. Rone saw someone get turned away, and the ball in his gut doubled in size. But he’d gotten the paperwork and filled it out; legally, he couldn’t be rejected. Legally, he got one visit.
Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be to his
mother.
Hands shoved into his pockets, Rone fiddled with the amarinth with his right and a wad of cash with his left. Just about everything he had left. He needed work, but this was higher priority.
The clerk, an overweight, middle-aged man with saggy bags under his eyes, sat in an old booth surrounded by twisted cast-iron bars. He looked exhausted. Rone didn’t care.
Rone approached, retrieved his papers, and slammed them down on the desk.
“I want to see the warden.”
The clerk didn’t even look at him, merely brought the paperwork up close to his eyes and sighed, ignoring the spectacles pushed to the top of his balding head. He flipped to the second paper and read. “You can’t see the warden and the prisoner.”
“I’m aware.”
Frowning, the clerk shuffled the papers back into order and fumbled for a stamp beneath his little desk. He dipped it in blue ink and stamped the bottom of the first page, then signed below it. He then signaled for one of the guards near the booth. The large man walked up, the sword at his hip clanking against his polished greaves. The clerk handed him the papers.
“Warden. Fifteen minutes,” the clerk mumbled. “Next!”
The guard said nothing, merely jerked his head in the direction he wanted Rone to go. Rone fell in step behind him, trying not to listen to the crying of the woman who approached the clerk next.
If the triumvirate employed as many policemen in the city as they did guards at Gerech, crime would disappear. There were so many of them. Every five feet of wall had its own guard, ranging from Sandis’s age to his mother’s. Many were broad-shouldered, bulky men. Well fed. How much were they paid? What percentage of citizens’ taxes went toward the food in their bellies and the metal on their persons?
Every single one had a sword and a gun. Every. Single. One. Rone could stuff his pockets and pants full of amarinths and still not have enough immortality to make it past these walls, let alone back out of them.
The guard led him to a smaller door at the end of a long alcove crammed with more guards, all of whom were wide awake and focused. It was eerily silent in that alcove. No talking, no shifting. These men didn’t even seem to breathe.
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