Smoke & Summons

by Holmberg, Charlie N.

  “Don’t make me come looking for you,” she said.

  He nodded.

  Flicking the reins, Adalia Comf drove the cab forward, toward the passage that led to her freedom.

  The stable master looked between her and Rone, confounded.

  Rone marched up to him and waved a crisp bill under his nose. “You have five minutes to teach me how to ride a horse.”

  Horses were god-awful creatures. But a single horse was faster than a horse-pulled vehicle. Rone’s method of riding came down to strapping himself into a saddle, kicking the animal into a gallop, and hoping for the best. The horses stayed on the road, for the most part. He’d run the animals thin and gotten complaints from the exchangers along the way to Dresberg. Money silenced them well enough.

  But black ashes, his legs, crotch, and butt hurt. Walking helped ease the pain. Had he known the ride back would be so debilitating, he would have taken a cab.

  Maybe.

  He had a fair idea of where Sandis was being kept. Ish. He had the drop-off location from his last client. And Sandis had said they’d been close to Kazen’s lair when she first summoned Ireth.

  His skin pebbled and cooled at the thought. Ireth. He could see the horned fire horse in his vision as clearly as if the numen had branded his image there. God’s tower, there were more of those where he was going. A one-winged witch, a crab turtle, a nightmare-spun werewolf . . . thing.

  And the possibility of this Kolosos.

  But he had to go.

  He barely felt the ball in his gut when he approached a goldsmith on the southern end of Dresberg—one of the nice ones that didn’t try to pawn off polished brass as twenty karat. The salesman blathered something or other to him as he looked over his wares. Rone didn’t listen. The rings were too small. Chains would never be convincing. But that—that bracelet. That was perfect. Three bands of gold connected by a perpendicular band studded with pearls.

  “This,” he said. “But I only want the band and a pair of pliers. You don’t sell gold nails, do you? I need to make some loops that sort of circle around one another.”

  The goldsmith looked at him like he was mad.

  Rone smacked a stack of cash on the counter, and the goldsmith got to work.

  He felt like a fly in a spider’s nest. Not the tiny city spiders that wove their webs in the corners of windowpanes, but the nasty ones out in the dust, where no one had bothered to build in millennia. Big, craggy things with knobby joints and beady eyes. He thought he could feel one crawling up his neck. Shivering, he forced his hands to remain steady on his perch as he sat precariously on the end of a dilapidated apartment building, looking down onto the streets. For a city that craved space, you’d think someone would sign an order to have these suckers demolished. Then again, he imagined the grafters that hung around here pulled many a bloody string to have them left alone.

  The area filled with shadows as the sun lowered toward the horizon. The glowing behemoth sat halfway behind the hideous city wall, stretching the old buildings long and dark. Rone stayed away from its orange light and watched. He wasn’t perfect at spotting grafters, but he had developed a decent eye for them during his time with Sandis. When one was running for his life, it was a good idea to learn the look of his hunters.

  Rone’s back stiffened in complaint at his stillness, having had less than twelve hours to recover from its epic journey. He hadn’t slept much, either, but wakefulness glued his eyelids back and sucked moisture from his mouth and sinuses. He wasn’t worried about falling asleep, but he was concerned he was stalking the wrong place.

  He crept, like a fly, along the building’s edge until he reached a corner. Paused, listened. He wouldn’t make the jump to the building north of him. Not because it was too far, but because he didn’t think the edges of the collapsed roof would hold him. He veered east. Stood in a shadow, then leapt. He had a nearly silent landing. Not perfect, but good enough.

  A few buildings later, he found another decent perch above an old outdoor stairwell. The building to the west shadowed him perfectly. The polluted sky blushed between swaths of gray as the sun sank lower and lower. Would these guys make him wait until nightfall?

  Apparently not. The sound of footsteps caught his attention. Rone crept along the decking, homing in on two men coming down an alleyway. He hadn’t seen where they’d come from. Had they been walking for a while, or recently emerged? Apparently he’d have to do this the hard way.

  He rechecked his amarinth, then the knives in his boots. Trained his eyes on the men. Moved with them as they rounded a corner, coming closer. They strode with confidence, despite the late hour and questionable neighborhood. Wore dark clothes. Didn’t talk. Definitely armed. Definitely grafters.

  Maybe he was the spider after all.

  Rone slinked down to the stairs, creeping with bent knees and elbows until he was one story above, and they were below—

  He leapt.

  His aim was true—he landed right on the shoulders of the closer grafter, slamming him into the ground like a shoe to a beetle. The man’s head made a distinct, melon-like thump when it hit the dirt-packed road.

  The other grafter pulled out a pistol. No pistols. Too loud.

  Rone launched into the air and kicked the firearm out of the man’s hand. Landed a punch to his collar, but the grafter grabbed his wrist and tried to twist it. Rone bent with the movement and came around, swinging his leg behind him. His heel met the man’s temple. The grafter let go. Rone finished the rotation and smashed his elbow into the side of his opponent’s neck. The grafter fell to one knee.

  Rone rushed at him, pulling a knife from his boot as he did so. Whipped his arm around his neck and pressed the blade to the soft flesh beneath his chin.

  “Tell me how to get to Kazen,” he muttered.

  But the grafter didn’t say a word.

  Rone tightened his grip until the man’s face began to purple. “Tell me how to get to Kazen.”

  The man refused.

  Damn loyalty. Or perhaps it was fear. Rone certainly wasn’t as scary as the grafter ringleader.

  Rone held on until the grafter went limp. The man fell to the ground, a stuttering breath filling his lungs. The first grafter—the one Rone had jumped on—began to wearily pick himself up.

  Rone strode over and repeated the knife-and-choking routine.

  “Tell me where Kazen is.”

  The grafter wheezed, then nodded.

  This wasn’t Rone’s first time infiltrating a building. Granted, he’d never snuck into one this big with so few exits. He needed all the magical minutes he could get in a place like this, but he only had one, and he had to use it well.

  The key with any infiltration was not to draw attention to yourself, either with your appearance or your approach. Rone didn’t want a fight. He wanted to be invisible.

  The grafter who’d held out on him had been about Rone’s size, so after landing a blow that would keep him asleep for a good long while (if not kill him, but that wasn’t Rone’s problem right now), he stripped the guy, though kept his own dark pants. The more compliant grafter he kept close, like they were whispering to each other. Never mind that Rone’s hand was under the man’s swank jacket, holding the point of a knife between two vertebrae.

  The entrance wasn’t far, and it wasn’t special. Looked like nothing more than the door to a dilapidated building. Rone could feel eyes on him, watchmen, so he leaned close to his smoke-and-whiskey-smelling friend and told him to act natural or he’d never feel his legs again.

  The grafter complied. Which made him Rone’s favorite grafter ever.

  Unfortunately, their friendship could only go so far. They walked down a flight of stairs into a narrow corridor lit too dimly for any person who had aboveground preferences. Rone looked for a good place to dump his chap and found one in a laundry room not far from the entrance.

  He didn’t want to kill the man. Killing wasn’t Rone’s way, even if the bloke was a disgusting piece of Dresberg
underbelly. But he’d kill for Sandis if he had to. He would not leave this place without her.

  Closing the door to the rather large laundering space, Rone decided to give this grafter the same odds as the first—a blow that would keep him out and maybe kill him. Ultimately, it depended on the man’s will to live. Maybe. But heels to temples tended not to work out so well.

  At least the guy’s body fit snugly inside the drainpipe in the corner. Rone took the crook’s hat and set it on his own head, pulling it low as he’d seen Kazen do.

  Walk as though deep in thought, with a purpose. Something his old friend Kas had told him some ten years ago. It was the attitude least likely to attract interest from passersby. And how many would there be? If anyone came at him and Rone couldn’t quickly deal with it, he’d have to spin the amarinth and hustle out of there. Try again later. If he had a later.

  The look on Sandis’s face when she realized . . .

  It wasn’t the ball in his gut that got him this time, but a pulling from his throat to his chest. Like a taut elastic cord. Maybe he’d handled it all wrong. Maybe instead of giving her a final, pleasant day, he should have distanced himself from her. Been crueler to her. Made her grateful to be going back.

  God’s tower, she’d been so happy that day. So hopeful. And so concerned over him. Hadn’t that been the first thing she’d done when she sensed that wolf numen nearby? Try to save him?

  He shook his head and slipped back into the hallway. He couldn’t dwell on that now.

  As if he’d dwelled on anything else since leaving her screaming and kicking in that alleyway. Screaming his name.

  Focus. The pain in his chest made him anxious, which would make him sloppy. He had to remember the way out. Trace his steps. Note what and whom he saw. The place appeared pretty linear—it curved, mostly one long hallway with a few branches. He wondered if this had once been a Noscon mine or if the grafters had carved it out themselves . . . or with their numina. The farther Rone walked, the more the place sloped downward. Deeper into the earth. Farther from freedom.

  Just like Gerech.

  It was weirdly clean, and bland. Long beige tiles covered the floor, their shine worn except for where they met the off-white walls, which met an off-white ceiling. Paint had chipped in several locations, but none had been left hanging. There were bullet holes in the wall here and there. No ornamentation of any kind. The doors were narrow and short, either wood or metal. All had locks. Some locked from the outside.

  Another man came up the hall. Rone didn’t look at him. Kept focused. He passed without incident, but Rone’s heartbeat sped anyway. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he pinched his amarinth.

  He reached a fork. Tried not to hesitate, but another man came up it, startling him. He carried a stack of folded clothes. The ones he wore were gray and drab, like any poor citizen’s attire, but his hair was strawberry gold and long, his face spotted with freckles—obviously a Godobian. About Sandis’s age. No weapons. Not a grafter, but who?

  Rone froze when they made eye contact. Got ready to strike—

  The man stepped back, frightened, but looked Rone up and down. Seconds dragged long before he settled a finger against his lips. Then he ducked his head and continued walking, as if Rone were only a ghost.

  Rone glanced back at him, wondering. Just for a moment. He had to keep moving. If this guy was going to give him an in, for whatever reason, he’d take it.

  It didn’t feel like a trap.

  He pushed forward instead of following the steps of the ginger. Another grafter came up, apparently in a hurry. He bumped shoulders with Rone but kept going. Rone forced air into his lungs.

  A door to his left opened; he caught a glimpse of a bare room filled with cots. He recognized the girl who slipped out—small and round faced, blonde. A teenager. More so, he remembered the numen she turned into.

  Their eyes met. Recognition struck her features.

  Rone heard more grafters coming their way. He needed to hurry.

  “Anyone else in there?” he whispered.

  Alys—that was her name, wasn’t it?—shook her head, her eyes wide.

  “Good.” He pulled out his knife in a quick, fluid motion and grabbed her shoulder. “I’m sorry, but you’ll need to come with me. They won’t shoot you.”

  The girl’s eyes stared at the blade. She said nothing, but when Rone urged her forward, she complied.

  “Now”—his voice was so low it was barely audible—“tell me where to find Sandis.”

  Chapter 25

  Had this been her fate all along?

  Her punishment for what she’d become?

  Did the Celestial even hear her prayers anymore, or had it stopped listening the day the Noscon letters were branded into her back?

  Sandis was empty. Every bit of her. Empty and cold, and yet her limbs weighed her down. She’d eaten five times a day for the last five days, rich foods that stuck to the ribs, and yet she starved for . . . something. Her mind had deteriorated into sawdust. The thoughts that kept it running were too miserable to think anymore.

  She barely remembered being cleaned, but her skin was sore from scrubbing and dry from soap. She watched, as if from a distance, as Kazen’s steady hand drew down her arms. Symbols similar to the ones Heath had worn. Somewhere in that ink was the name Kolosos, she knew. What gave the ink its bronze color, she didn’t want to know. One of the letters looped around the red dot on the inside of her elbow—Kazen had drawn her blood again an hour ago. Maybe that lent to the gaping nothingness inside her.

  I should fight. Her mind stirred with the sentiment. Wouldn’t it be better to die fighting than to die when Kolosos rips me apart?

  “There we are.” Kazen blew gently on the last symbols to dry them. That ink would mingle with her blood once the summoning failed. And if, somehow, Kazen was successful . . . what then? What would it be like to have that monster inside her, the one she’d glimpsed in her nightmares? The one Ireth had tried so desperately to warn her about?

  Sandis hadn’t had a dream since her connection to Ireth had been severed. She couldn’t even cry.

  She was empty.

  Part of her was desperate to fight. To swat the ink vial away. Smear the letters and make him start over, with Galt and whoever was left of his followers holding her down. But she didn’t know seugrat beyond the trick Kurtz had taught her. She didn’t have a firearm. She wasn’t strong.

  Without Ireth, she was nothing.

  Kazen stood and crossed his office to the cupboard in the back corner, replacing his brush and vial on a shelf there. Run. But Galt guarded the door. Sandis had no idea what time of day it was, or who was on shift . . . yet she’d noticed there were far fewer grafters in these halls than when she’d left. So many had been hurt or killed in their endless pursuit of her and of—

  No. Her mind stirred back to life. Don’t even think his name.

  She couldn’t bear it. And yet, even with her looming death ahead of her, the trembling of her fingers did not stem from Kolosos.

  Closing her eyes, Sandis took a deep breath. Reached for Ireth, only to remember—

  Her eyes burned behind her eyelids.

  “Don’t sleep on me, my pet.” Kazen walked around her chair, perhaps studying her. Sandis slowly opened her eyes and blinked her vision clear. Her master’s spidery hand reached forward to the chain dangling from the metal collar around her neck. Had Heath been collared? She couldn’t remember.

  He gave it a gentle tug. Somehow Sandis found the strength to stand.

  Kazen stood erect, a look of pleasure crossing his face. “It’s time. Galt?”

  Galt opened the door and held it while Kazen led her out like a dog. Anon had always wanted a dog. They had never possessed the means to keep even the mangiest mutt.

  Kazen guided her down the hallway. The same path she had traced not long ago on silent feet, following the screams. Would it hurt more than the usual summoning? Was it possible for anything to hurt more than that?

>   Ireth—

  No, Ireth was gone. He wouldn’t hear her prayers. Nothing and no one would.

  She was going to die. Or maybe, become the vessel for the most fearsome monster she’d ever known.

  Her feet dragged. Her neck pulled back on the chain.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Kazen’s eyes narrowed. “After all our talks, Sandis, will you really resist me now?”

  Talks? When had they talked? Snippets of memories danced behind her forehead. She remembered . . . yet she couldn’t pinpoint a single thing he’d said. The words had merely swirled into her emptiness and passed out again just as quickly.

  He was waiting for her to move.

  She couldn’t move.

  Galt’s heavy hand between her shoulder blades pushed her forward. Her pulse quickened with each step, and when the door to the summoning room at the end of the hallway came into focus, her body couldn’t get enough air. She gasped for it, filled her lungs until they stretched to their brink, yet she wasn’t breathing at all.

  “I have the sedative,” Galt murmured as Kazen reached for the door.

  “No.” Kazen frowned at Sandis. “It will weaken her body. I want her alert.” His hand settled on Sandis’s shoulder. “You know how this works, dear Sandis. The more willing you are, the better the possession will be. Less pain.”

  What do you know of pain? You’ve likely only acted as vessel once. No. Kazen knew more of how to inflict pain than how to feel it.

  The door opened, and Galt shoved her through.

  The light was red. Or was it? Sandis saw only red. The lamps along the wall seemed to blaze with the color. And the smell. It smelled like chloride lime and feces and blood, all mixed together into a suffocating perfume. The wide space was empty, save for an ox chained to the wall. Little steel half circles lined the wall and one strip of the floor, connectors for chains to leash sacrifices. Sacrifices were necessary when a numen wasn’t bound, but usually Kazen bled a simple creature. A bird or a hare.

  Not enough for Kolosos. Not enough for her.