by Kirby Crow
Working as Kon’s spies, they'd dismantled the Teschio gangs from the inside, living every moment with the terror of discovery. The kind of death the Teschio would have given them still gave him nightmares. Traitors and informers lost their hands and feet, lost their tongues, ears, and eyes, and were nailed into a tarred barrel with a single breathing hole and a hundred crabs before being thrown over the seawall. If a man was lucky, he drowned before the crabs started on him.
In the end, Aureo Marigny’s captains were exterminated, loyalties wiped out, his warehouses and ships burned. He went into the Gaol expecting leniency from Marion, and why not? After all, Aureo had collected Marion as a child-orphan from the streets of the Zanzare, clothed him, sheltered him, taught him to read. He was father to Marion in all but name.
So were you, and you still let it happen.
They'd spent the years after Aureo’s arrest chasing down the remnants of the gangs, putting down the last of the violence. Now Marion had moved up to highwarden and it seemed like their shared dream of a unified city had finally come true, with one exception: he wasn't going to share it with Marion.
He meandered west, his boots close to the canal edge, and came within sight of the Gaol tower before he realized he was watching the water for a bright blue sandolo for hire, and why would he be thinking of hiring one just to get to the Gaol? The Canal Fiore that ran between the Colibri and Gaol led to the Canal Tignola, and thence to the Myrtles, of course. He was thinking of barging in on Marion during his party, or maybe later, when the guests had left. Jean tried to picture that scene, of kicking the fine door open, standing in Marion's parlor drunk on Falena beer, Tris Sessane in his underclothes, if he even wore any.
Jean stopped in his tracks, turned, and headed back. His rented loft in the Alley of Sparrows was warm, at least. Sleep it off, Jean. You had your chance. Out with the old, in with the new.
Alone in his room, the door locked behind him, he put his hands on his hips and took stock of his cramped surroundings. The plastered walls were freshly-painted and clean, not pock-marked or dingy with smoke like every other home he'd known. The handsome striped chair and the ornate wooden dresser were his, like the narrow bed pushed under the window. The colored glass in the casement gave him an unobstructed view of the Alley of Sparrows and its constant crowd below.
He hadn’t considered leaving the Colibri in years, and he didn’t like to be thinking of it now. Living anywhere else felt too tame, too boring. The Alley of Sparrows was the center of all the action: the fights, the fucking, the music, the best whores and the best wine, the aroma of frying meat and the lilt of singing day and evening.
To a barefoot, lice-infested Zanzare water-rat raised on fish-head stew and beatings, the Colibri was like heaven. He'd spent his life fighting to be here. Be damned if he’d leave just because Marion had abandoned him, because Marion thought he was too good for the Colibri these days. Too good for this room. Too good for him.
“Mister high and mighty Silk,” Jean muttered. Maybe Marion fancied a seat on the Consolari itself. Ten years ago, Jean would have laughed at that. Suddenly, he could see it happening. Marion could become the next magestros.
Jean hung his warden's coat over the chair, sat on the rumpled bed and pulled off his boots, letting them thump to the floor. He stretched out on the deep mattress and flung his arm over his eyes, drifting with the familiar chorus of alley-sounds.
He resumed his mental inventory of possessions: four changes of clothes, a fuller who collected his laundry every seven days, heavy woolen socks, underclothes, two good cups, three plates and a silver fork and spoon. A bottle of gas that wanted filling every few days in winter, and the very expensive ceramic heater shaped like an urn. He had meant to give that as a gift to Marion, right before Kon promoted him.
Right before I lost him.
Jean sighed heavily and thanked Paladin for the beer that made him sleepy while his aching heart was determined to keep him awake.
***
The sound of cheers woke Jean. He yawned hugely and rolled over, shoving the window open to see. The sun was setting orange in a sky streaked with red, and in the alley a string of naked men performed the Scylla; the serpentine monster said to haunt the deep waters off the coast of Cwen. The first man was bent over a table and every successive man was bent over him in a line, each busy rutting with the partner in front of him. Jean counted drolly and reckoned they formed a chain seven strong, ringed by a rowdy, hooting audience. The longest chain he'd seen was fifteen, and that about a year ago. The game was over when any man finished, so the sport tended to be a brief one.
He yawned again and groped for his boots, shaking them for scorpions.
Night moths flitted around the gaslights as his heels slapped up the marble steps of the Gaol. The tower was one of Malachite's oldest, older even than the Black Keep. It was a tapering obelisk stabbing three hundred feet into the sky. A pyramid bell tower squatted at the very top, accessible by an iron ladder that ran through the center of the obelisk. The malefico bell hadn't been rung in eight years, the day that Aureo Marigny departed the tower.
A mere handful of uniformed guardiers roamed the tower. The men wore halved surcoats—one side black, the other red—with the bronze badge of a double-winged eye representing Paladin's eternal scrutiny of the city. The guardiers were strictly Citta Alta men. They protected the men of the Consolari, and guarded their riches and warehouses. They also maintained prisoners at the Gaol, and patrolled the Bailey. Guardiers were not wardens, and they were never expected to leave the noble Citta Alta. Unlike guardiers, wardens were not above bashing heads to keep order and were routinely commanded to patrol the lowest alleys of the city slums.
In Jean's estimation, guardiers were the glorified lapdogs of the Silk, too delicate to scrape their knuckles in a street brawl. The sentiments of the Black Keep and the Gaol tower were known to both sides, and while the wardens sneered at the daintiness of the guardiers, the guardiers disdained the wardens for dirtying their hands in the muck.
Clerical offices were contained on the first floor, but holding cells were peppered throughout the tower, along with the guard posts, map rooms, record rooms, storage, larders, and barracks. Any unacceptable men reaped from tonight’s Aequora would wind up here, where they'd enjoy a cordial stay before being deported to Solari. After that, they’d likely end up conscripted into one of the Solari's endless border wars, or as slaves to a silver mine.
Jean could summon little pity for the rejects. If they couldn't see what lucky bastards they were to land here, they could sink, swim, or bugger off.
It took several turns and climbs inside the tower to find the carcelero's office tucked away on the fifth floor overlooking the Bailey, but he was familiar with the building. He could have found it in his sleep.
He opened the door without knocking.
“I've asked you not to do that.” Paris Dell'Acqua's back was to the door, his hands braced on the windowsill, blocking a fine view of the green courts of the Bailey spreading out below the tower.
“And I've asked you to share information when you get it. Looks like neither of us keeps his word.” Jean glanced around the wide room. “You change scenery in here like a whore changes gowns.” The last time he'd visited, the walls had been draped in embroidered silk, elegant curtains framing the window.
The curtains were gone. Wooden panels gleamed with polish and tall lamps with eggshell shades illuminated several dark, masterful paintings of the city at sunset. In the corner was a squat, ornate pillar with a copper plate screwed into the top. A straightkey mechanism was attached to the plate, and telegraph wires rambled over the floor.
“Change is healthy, warden. A man adapts or he gets left behind.”
Jean ignored the taunt and shut the door with his boot. “How'd you know it was me?”
The carcelero huffed and turned. “I can smell you from here. You stink like the floor of a brothel.”
Paris's adopted surname was common, one
he shared with a thousand other Malakhans. Dell'Acqua: from the water. Almost as many were named Marino or Corso. As a boy, Aureo Marigny had repeatedly informed Jean that Rivard meant river.
“Big and fast, just like you,” Aureo would say, and clap Jean’s shoulder with a bellowing laugh.
Paris was as tall as Marion, but while Marion was beautiful enough to make strange men follow him home, Paris was from plainer stock. His eyes and hair were a light brown, his nose unremarkable, his mouth colorless and not full, but he did have the most endearing curls at the corner of his lips, and he paid a talented barber to keep his hair neat. The square block of Paris's jaw argued with his finer features and won, so he was handsome but not overly so: a man who made other men wonder what hidden qualities justified that curling lip and haughty manner.
Jean shrugged at the accusation of stinking. “No baths at the Colibri.”
“There are six baths at the Colibri, none of which you're a stranger to.”
“No one goes there to get clean. Kind of the opposite, really.”
Paris gestured to the door “You're welcome to use ours. You know where it is.”
“Appreciated,” Jean nodded. “When I'm finished here.”
Paris raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I thought we were. Unless it was something else you came for?” His mouth curled even tighter with a brittle smile. “I didn't think I matched your tastes for blond and beautiful.”
Paris mocked everything, which was odd for a man who had no sense of humor at all. On duller days, Jean relished an enigma. At the moment, he could have happily slapped the smile off Paris's face. “You're not highwarden, either,” he retorted, and watched that arrow sink home.
Paris had attained the post of carcelero nine years ago, a position ranking well below highwarden in the hierarchy of city government. Paris ran the Gaol and the raucous Bailey, but the real power was held by the Consolari and the Black Keep.
Paris had yearned to be Highwarden for years, and Kon had gift-wrapped that prize to Marion.
Paris took a pen up from his desk and toyed with the nib. “Yes. Well. We can't have everything.”
Jean strolled to the wall to inspect a painting. The painter’s subject was a dark-haired boy in a loose robe, resting idly at the base of a pillar as he plucked the strings of a lute. Behind the boy rose a pair of stubby black wings.
“Is this Paladin?” Jean’s finger skated over the glossy, cracked surface of the rich oils.
“Don't touch that,” Paris warned. “And no, it's not him. Paladin always has white wings.”
“Who is it?”
“I have no idea. I only know it's very old and very delicate, so put your big paws down.”
He put his big paw down. “Unlike spies, who are young and tough.”
“And quiet, if they happen to be mine.”
“When was the last time your Zanzare spies reported back to you?”
“Who says I have spies down there?”
“Stop fucking with me before I break your nose.” Jean watched to see if his words affected Paris. They didn't. “Men die, Paris. If they live in the Zanzare, they die more often. Do you want to tell me where you've been and what happened to your boys?”
Paris brushed a speck of non-existent dust off his desk. “Not really.”
Finicky as a cortigiano. But Paris hadn't held his rank as master of the Gaol for years by being weak.
Jean narrowed his eyes and scanned the lines of Paris's body. A knife in the boot, definitely. A bastone stowed in his vest under the arm, going with the line of the seam to hide it. Lancets or shiv-pins in sleeves. What else?
Jean approached the desk with his hands behind his back. “I took three dead men to Cenere yesterday. That's not that surprising, since they were all drunken sots who wouldn’t know an apple from an asshole. They all seemed to have drowned or otherwise gotten themselves killed in stupidly ordinary ways, but they all worked for you. That makes me unhappy, carcelero.”
Paris was unimpressed. “Sorry for your troubles.”
In spite of his annoyance, Jean was amused. Paris never failed to entertain him. “Did you kill your own spies, messere?”
“Me?”
“Oh, look, he's shocked.” Jean brought his hands from behind his back, aware that Paris watched his every move. He put them flat on the desk and leaned over it. “Did you?”
Paris's tone could have frozen seawater. “You're living in the past, warden. We don't use those methods anymore. There hasn't been a murder in my district for years.”
“You mean the Silks haven’t had a murder in the Citta Alta for years. No one counts what happens in the slums because no one cares, but I'll tell you this: go for a stroll in the Zanzare in those lovely clothes and you'll find out. The graycloaks are still paying the Teschio’s bounty on guardiers.”
“The crossbones are gone. They’re all drowned or burned alive or sucked into the Mire.”
“Funny. I used to be one, and I'm still around. So are the graycloaks.”
Paris turned his hands up in the passive gesture, a Malakhan signal that meant no fight was desired. It was submission of a sort, though one that carried no shame.
“As enjoyable as I find your little visits,” Paris said, “you know very well that there are some matters I can't discuss. I work for the Consolari, not the Black Keep. Those three men are dead and that's an end to it.”
Which meant the three sucking mud in the Cenere were turncoats, informers working both sides to the middle. The Consolari terminated double agents without mercy, and who else would they dump that ugly chore on but the carcelero? Paris knew how to get it done without lifting a glove himself. The matter was closed.
Jean sighed. “I see. Tell me about the new bastard in the Zanzare, then.”
“The Archer?” Paris purred. “A man after the graycloak's very hearts. How they love him, and how they hate you for betraying them.” He tilted his head. “It must gall you, having to come to me and beg for information about your own territory.”
Jean felt his hands curling into fists.” I don't fucking beg anyone.”
Paris only smiled.
“Paris...” Jean growled.
“Calm down before you burst something.” Paris smoothed his shirt. “Whoever the Archer is, he didn't enter the city with Aequora.”
Jean flexed his fingers and pictured slapping Paris so hard his nose spurted blood. “You're sure?”
“Positive. I wouldn't say so, else. All the Zanzare is abuzz with news of him, what he says, where he goes. The graycloaks are hiding him, of course, but what they want with him is a mystery. Leadership, god forbid? I suspect he's a talented troublemaker who breached the city, maybe on a trade ship or by the Spindle. Some acqua di mare sneak.”
A seawater rat: one of the frequent border-jumpers who entered Malachite illegally, avoiding Aequora, the oath, and Marion's judgement. Such refugees often landed on the Spindle; a slice of dangerous land jutting out from the Island of Thieves like a finger into the sea. The Spindle had long been a favorite entry point for unlawful exiles, due to the difficulty of patrolling it. The peninsula was riddled with quicksand.
“Why is the rat sniffing around the Zanzare? There's fatter pickings up here.”
“Ordinarily, I'd say just to be a rat and take what he can, but...” Paris gave him a measuring look. “There are tales of recruiting able-bodied men from the taverns and brothels with the promise of silver. And not just muscle-brained bulls, either. Men who can read and count.”
Jean’s eyebrows went up. “From the Zanzare? You’d have more luck looking for a two-headed cat. That doesn't sound like a rebel, more like a privateer looking to steal away a crew.”
“Bedtime stories,” Paris scoffed. “Did they frighten you when you were a little boy? Be a good lad and go to sleep,” he mocked, “or Lord Nera will carry you off.”
“No one told me bedtime stories. I grew up in a tavern.”
“I thought it was a brothel?”
“It was
.” Jean grinned. “When I got old enough.”
“I do enjoy our chats,” Paris smirked. “You should come and work for me. The Gaol is duller than the Keep, but I can promise you the use of a bath whenever you need it.” He held up a finger. “There was one incident. It’s a matter I’ll have to include in my report to the Consolari, though I'm not looking forward to it.”
Here it is. Paris always took the long way around the table to get to the wine, making Jean work for every word. He wondered if Paris used the same trait in bed. “Anything I can help with?”
“Maybe. There's been no trouble. Well,” Paris glanced at him cagily, “beyond a few dead men who may have gotten that way entirely through their own stupidity. This is something else. Consulente Julian had a shipment of low-quality grain meant for the Fortezza robbed from him last month.”
Jean pursed his mouth in distaste. All the worst grain went to the slums, for prices higher than poor men could easily pay. The Fortezza was an old fort in the Zanzare, too neglected to serve as a real fortress, but large enough to use as a supply depot from which to gouge the populace. “So what?”
“So he commanded me to find it. I thought I had. We raided a warehouse on the Rio Fulvo ten days ago, expecting to find the grain there.”
The Rio Fulvo divided the Zanzare from the Mire. It was far away from Paris's jurisdiction and solidly in Jean's own backyard, as it were, and yet Jean had heard nothing.
“We?” Paris hadn't been to the Zanzare a handful of times in his life. Like a spider, he listened to the strings plucked on his web from a distance.
“My men,” Paris amended.
“Your men are dogs minding their master's property. They're not fighters.” When Paris only hummed, Jean gritted his teeth. “What did you find?”
“Not thieves. Not a speck of grain, either. A shipment of iron parts.”
“Parts for what?”
Paris watched him intently, as if trying to see behind his eyes. “They were crates of chambered cylinders, forged from black steel. Small mechanisms, but heavy and well-made. I had to summon that ancient bookseller to tell me what they were for.”