Smoke and Summons (Numina Book 1)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  “I think we can all think of worse places.”

  Sandis hugged herself. All three of them sat in heavy silence for several seconds. Celesia was the prominent religion in Kolingrad. Technically, Sandis was Celesian, though she’d rarely worshipped at the cathedral. She prayed to the Celestial from time to time, despite being a horror in its sight.

  “You have a responsibility.” Arnae’s finger pointed at Rone. “The Celesians denounce the occult, but they understand it, and you have a better chance than anyone of getting their help.”

  Rone growled. “Don’t just assume—”

  “If nothing else, Rone, he can help your mother.”

  Rone’s face blanked. Sandis’s gaze switched between him and Arnae so quickly she made herself dizzy. He? Who was he? It occurred to her belatedly that she’d forgotten to mention that she’d told Arnae about Rone’s mother.

  She longed to ask them to explain, but it would have felt . . . irreverent.

  Rone glanced at Sandis before pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “You’re a son of a whore, Kurtz.”

  “Do you find power in stating the obvious, Engel?”

  Rone groaned. “Of course you know.”

  “I know a lot of things.” Arnae turned back for the door. “Sandis, clean up, and you can help me with lunch. Rone can lie here until his little secret resets.”

  Sandis’s mouth formed an O, but she nodded and hurried after Arnae, eager to take advantage of his kindness.

  Rone cursed the both of them.

  Chapter 11

  Rone didn’t sleep well. Could have been because he’d been shot. Could have been because he’d been lying on his back all day in the hidden room in the rear of Kurtz’s flat, staring at the same wood slatting of the ceiling for hour after damnable hour. Could have been the pain in his hip and the weird drugs his old master kept forcing down his throat, or the worry that he had a rather large number of enemies roaming the streets of Dresberg.

  The insomnia also could have been due to Sandis’s revelations and the knowledge that his mother was sitting in a dark, rank cell, alone.

  His inability to move gave him far too much time to think, and his thoughts flopped back and forth like a dying fish. The vision of Sandis’s bare back lingered behind his eyelids. Her . . . God’s tower, those were brands. Very large, deep brands, with gold melted into them. She’d been, what, fourteen? What had they used to draw them? Iron? Forged gold? A hot poker? How did a person, let alone a child, survive something like that?

  He cringed and spun the amarinth, which teetered depressingly in his fingers. Rone knew the history of the occult; it’d been drilled into him as part of his religious education, along with all the other jokes about God and faith and what have you. His roving ancestors had sailed the Arctic Ribbon and stumbled upon what was now Kolingrad, a vast and relatively fertile land previously inhabited by the Noscons, who, for some unknown reason, had abandoned all of their colonies and cities. No one knew what had become of them, but bounteous lore and tall tales revolved around their fate. Many thought they’d taken to the ocean, just as the Kolins once had.

  The Noscons had left behind evidence of one aspect of their culture: they were heathens. There were few surviving texts, but scholars had uncovered tablets that focused on the ethereal plane and numina and what was now considered the “occult.” Historians had continued to study the Noscons until one of their self-righteous contemporaries went off about how there was one true god and the worship or study of anything else was blasphemy. That scholar talked his way into all the fancy religious power he wanted and became the first Angelic. The Kolins then plowed over the Noscon ruins to build their cities, and anyone who still cared an ounce about the twisted Noscon magic was declared a heathen, subject to imprisonment and execution, thanks to the sway the Angelic had over the government. That sway had lessened over time, but old habits died hard.

  For most of his life, Rone had thought vessels and numina and summoning were all fairy stories. After he found the amarinth and began working his way through the darker layers of the city, he’d heard a rumor here or a story there. That was it. Now a vessel to some powerful, otherworldly equine demon was sleeping ten feet away from him.

  He spun the amarinth. It continued to resist him. He watched candle shadows dance across the monotonous ceiling. Did his mother have enough light to see shadows, or was her world entirely dark?

  If they hurt her, Rone would . . . what? What on this damnable earth could he do? Gerech was an impenetrable fortress. Even caring nothing for his own life and armed with the amarinth, he’d never get past the first wall. He’d used his one visit. He’d need to bribe his way past the guards, bribe the warden . . . Money, money, money. Where would he find a buyer who understood the worth of the amarinth but would be honest enough to offer a fair trade? Grafters would covet it, certainly, but they’d sooner shank Rone’s kidney than fork over their life savings with a smile.

  His thoughts turned darker yet. Did Gerech torture its prisoners? Starvation? Whips? Boiling water? Molten iron?

  Brands. The loops of ancient golden writing on Sandis’s back seemed to draw themselves on the rafters overhead. What was it like, to be possessed? Sandis said she didn’t remember details, that it was all pain and then waking up. But she also claimed there was some kind of communication between her and this Ireth. Rone closed his eyes, trying to imagine another being taking over his body. Becoming his body.

  There was no way that didn’t hurt.

  Did those brands hurt even when she wasn’t possessed?

  He turned his head toward her. She wore a simple dress—why Kurtz owned a dress Rone didn’t know and didn’t want to know—and lay facing away from him, her single blanket pooling at the dip of her waist, highlighting the curve of her hip.

  If she’d been ugly, he never would have gotten involved in this. And now Kurtz was rooting for her and wanted him to bring her to the Lily Tower, of all places. God’s tower. He hadn’t been there since he was thirteen, and he’d vowed never to go back.

  He thought of his mother. Guilt squirmed through his gut like hunger. Any moment now, the amarinth would reset, and he’d be able to get up and leave this place, even if there were grafters hunting him. Meanwhile she was locked in a cell, persecuted for a crime he had committed.

  Leave this place. And go where? Check his other drop-off spots, he supposed. See if he’d found work. He needed money to make this right.

  A thought surfaced. Why wait for someone to hire him?

  Chewing on the inside of his lip, Rone let his mind pursue the idea. He did odd jobs for the city’s elite, whatever it was they wanted. He didn’t care who hired him, so long as they had enough money.

  How much sweeter would it be if the cash came with a side of revenge?

  Ernst Renad obviously had plenty of money . . .

  Rone’s body began to tingle with alertness, eagerness, the need to get up and get moving. He had never stolen for himself before. Theft could be such a gray area that way. But this was his mother.

  He spun the amarinth; it twirled lazily, useless.

  He knew exactly where the guy lived. Not terribly far—Rone could get there while it was still dark. He also knew the layout of his house. Knew where he kept valuables that could be sold for enough cash to appease the twisted warden.

  He’d be able to save his mother.

  He’d be able to keep his vow to never return to the Lily Tower.

  Rone spun the amarinth again. It responded with its blessed whirl and floated a few inches above his navel. Rone let out a sigh as pain receded from his side and the heat in his hip cooled. His muscles relaxed, then tensed again as his intentions—get up, get moving, and get the money—pulsed through his veins. Pushing the still-spinning amarinth aside, Rone sat up and cracked his neck. Stretched his arms. Rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar tug in his left shoulder. The amarinth was a miracle, but it only healed life-threatening injuries, not the purely annoying ones
.

  Standing, careful not to wake Sandis, Rone grabbed his things and readied himself to leave. The amarinth was spent, but he hadn’t needed it last time, had he? This was a simple burglary, no magic required.

  The amarinth’s loops slowed and stopped, and the artifact fell. Rone caught it before it hit the ground. Pocketed it.

  Now or never, he thought, picking his way through the darkness to the alley-facing door.

  He inched it open and slipped into the night.

  Kas Kirstin had taught him how to pick locks.

  Rone was fifteen years old when he met Kas. The older boy had apparently worked some unsavory jobs before getting caught and fined, so when a job opened up in Rone’s sector for sewage, he had been shoved there without a second thought. By that time, Rone had already picked up an enthusiastic street dialect and disregard for adults in general. He’d worked really hard to be all the things his father hated.

  His father would have hated Kas.

  Rone didn’t pick the lock on the gate that sectioned off Ernst Renad’s neighborhood; he scaled it in the same place he’d used five days ago, where the road naturally bumped to give him a lift. The route had been proven once before; why change it now?

  Rone tried to remember everything he’d seen in the sitting room where he’d lifted the Noscon headpiece. Armor, but that was too heavy to carry. He wanted small, light, valuable pieces. There had been some egg things on the mantle. If the jewels in them were real, a couple in his pockets might be enough to persuade the warden to actually listen to the law.

  He’d snap the strings on the harp while he was at it.

  As he reached the intersection for Renad’s road, a light crossed his path, forcing him to backpedal or be spotted. The warden’s claim about the scarlets keeping Gerech’s cells full so they themselves wouldn’t occupy them ran through his mind.

  They were corrupt, all of them. The police, the triumvirate, even the Celesians with their precious Angelic. They were no better than the mobs and grafters.

  Black ashes and slag, he hated this place.

  Retracing his steps, Rone hugged the edge of the narrow road between fancy three-story houses and stuck his hands in his pockets. He fiddled absently with his amarinth. Cut through someone’s backyard to circumvent the scarlets. His pulse was starting to pick up in anticipation of meeting the bastard responsible for his mother’s suffering. He ought to throw Renad out the window.

  A moving chain to his right. Rone turned in time to see two glowing eyes charging toward him. The dog barked, and Rone backed up two steps. The dog’s chain yanked the animal back a foot from where Rone stood.

  The moment the light hit the back of his head, he realized he wasn’t wearing his fancy collar. That, in fact, he still smelled alarmingly of sewage.

  Groaning inwardly, Rone turned and held his hand up to block the light from his face. Not tonight, Renad. But soon. He’d have to blandish his way out of this one and hope the bloodstains on his shirt from his now-healed gunshot wound weren’t terribly noticeable.

  “Can I help you, sir?” asked a large man in his fifties. He wore a gray mustache and a tightly buttoned scarlet uniform. “This your home?” He appraised Rone’s clothing skeptically.

  “No, I’m down that way.” He randomly gestured to his left. “Thought I saw someone creeping around over here, but turned out the Fensteins moved their dog’s post. After what happened to Ernst, you can’t be too careful.”

  A second officer came up beside the first, holding a lamp of his own. “That’s why we told everyone to stay inside after dusk.”

  Whoops. “Like I said, I thought I saw—”

  The first scarlet elbowed the second and gestured toward Rone with a tilt of his head. Rone didn’t like that tilt. He backed up, only to have the mutt behind him try to take a bite out of his thigh.

  The second officer asked, “What’s your name, sir?”

  Stay calm. You’ve done nothing wrong. Yet. “Peter Aves. I’m sorry for the trouble. I can head back home.” He stepped away from the dog.

  Officer number one held up a hand. “I’d like you to come with us for a moment.”

  Rone took another step away. “Why’s that?”

  Both scarlets stared at his face like they’d never seen another human before. The second held up his light. He muttered something to the first that sounded alarmingly like “That’s him.”

  The pieces clicked together.

  They knew who he was. They knew what he looked like.

  “They’ll do whatever they can to bring you down,” Sandis had said.

  Wanted sketches. Had to be. Nothing swayed the Kolin justice system like money, and Kazen was no doubt loaded.

  Rone ran.

  “Stop!” the first officer bellowed after him, but Rone bolted down the street, cutting through the first property without a high fence. Keeping anything—houses, brush, trees—between himself and the scarlets. He needed to gain as much distance as he could before they called their friends.

  Their whistles tore through the night as he leapt a fence, landing hard in the darkness on the other side.

  “Put this on.”

  Rone handed Sandis a strip of cloth he’d procured from the gray shirt he’d worn into the sewer—the one that had been festering inside his canvas bag while he lay on the floor with a gunshot wound. After losing the scarlets and making it back to Kurtz’s home, he’d scrubbed the shirt until the woven fibers threatened to pull apart, then cut it into two wide strips. His old master had kindly painted a four-petaled lily on the center of each one. Though Kurtz had not commented on Rone’s absence, he seemed to know about it nevertheless. The man always knew everything.

  Sandis turned it over. “What is it?”

  Rone rubbed wakefulness into his eyes. “A pilgrimage band for your left arm. How is it you’ve lived in Dresberg your whole life and you haven’t worn one of these, or at least seen someone else . . .”

  He swallowed his words. Oh yeah, because you were poor. Also a slave. Good one, Rone.

  Sandis merely blinked at him. He covered for himself by helping her tie the sash around her arm. There was a certain way to do the knot.

  She smelled good. Like lavender and sugar. Had she always smelled like that? Rone fumbled his knot and started over. Sandis reached her hand around and pressed it into the center of his work to hold it in place.

  “It’s a joke, really.” He stepped back and scrubbed weariness from his face, though the sweet scents of lavender and sugar lingered. He tied his own with the use of his teeth as his master entered the room and fiddled with some dishes. “From here it’s, what, a six-mile pilgrimage? Some show of faith that is.”

  Rone thought he saw the slightest smile on his old master’s mouth before the man slopped overnight porridge into two bowls and set them down on the table. He gestured for them to sit. This morning, Rone was more than happy to oblige.

  “Go out the front door”—Kurtz handed out spoons—“but not until the clock tower strikes and the shift changes. I don’t want any lurking grafters to spy you coming out of my house.” He focused on Sandis. “I don’t mean offense, young lady, but they are not the kind of folk I want to be associated with.”

  Sandis nodded, but Rone didn’t miss the glimmer of light that died in her eyes. First Rone’s flat, now Kurtz’s. One safe house after another was turning them out. The Lily Tower would be next . . . he knew it. For all their preaching for righteousness and charity, the Celesian priests were some of the coldest people he knew.

  After last night, he didn’t know if he had any other options left. How widely was his picture being circulated? Maybe there wasn’t a sketch at all. Maybe he was overthinking this.

  Sandis stirred her porridge with her spoon. She looked toward the shuttered window near the flat’s door. She’d been doing that a lot this morning. “Are we sure they won’t see us?”

  “No,” Rone said, “but it’s dawn, and there’s already a crowd outside—”

  �
��That won’t stop them.” Sandis paused. “Not necessarily.”

  “As good a deterrent as any,” Kurtz chimed in. “I’d cut through Grim Rig’s territory and loop around the courthouse. Both of those places should be safe enough from the grafters.”

  Sandis shook her head. “Grim Rig has eight fingers because Kazen took two of them.”

  Both men turned to her. “What?” asked Rone.

  Sandis swallowed a mouse-sized bite of porridge. “I don’t know what happened. That was one of Heath’s missions . . .” She glanced at the window again. Blinked. “Isn’t the courthouse west of here?”

  “The daily pilgrimage meets at the cathedral at noon, then they walk to the tower together.” Rone took a bite of porridge. It was surprisingly well seasoned.

  “They walk all that way?”

  “It’s a requirement, to show humility.” Satire laced his words. “They literally check your hems at the door. If they’re too clean, you have to walk around the city wall as penance.”

  “That’s not true.” Kurtz hesitated and rubbed his chin. “Is it?”

  Rone gave him a blank stare.

  His old master shrugged. “Hurry up.” He tossed a razor Rone’s way. “If you have time, clean up.”

  Rone frowned but pocketed the razor regardless. He glanced at Sandis, but she was timidly asking Kurtz about his guns.

  He had a feeling today was going to be a bad day.

  Rone nicked his chin when the clock tower chimed, dropped the razor into Kurtz’s old sink, and grabbed his washed clothes and canvas bag before pushing his way outside. He’d forgotten how dim Kurtz kept his flat—the sunlight blinded him. The smell was pretty terrible, too. Whoever had taken Rone’s old job had not been tempted to excellency by Kurtz’s stories.

  Sandis was silent as a rock as they took the path through the Riggers’ territory and pushed their way into the crowded streets of the smoke ring. Nobody looked at their pilgrimage ties twice, if they noticed them at all. Most shuffled forward with their eyes on the cobblestones or the back of the person in front of them. A glum bunch, but Rone couldn’t blame them. There was little to be happy about in this part of Dresberg.