She wasn’t breathing. The color of her lips, the stillness of her body—it all warned of death.
“No. Sandis.” He shook her. How long had she been under? Since the bridge? Then she was dead, she was—
A pulse. Her neck pulsed warm, weak.
He turned her over and beat his fist against her back. “Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.” He hit her harder, between bare shoulder blades. A little water spurted from her mouth, but she didn’t take in any air.
Cursing, Rone shifted her onto her back and, despite the possibility of passersby, jerked the amarinth out of his pocket and forced her cold fingers around its loops. Grabbed her limp hand and forced her to spin it.
For a second, he thought he was too late. Then water fountained out of her mouth as the magic squeezed her lungs.
The sound of her cough was wet, raw, and desperate. The sound of air entering her lungs was heavenly.
He pulled her upright, holding her against his chest, barely registering her nudity. She was dead weight. A doll. “Sandis?”
Her eyes fluttered open, dark and unfocused. “I knew . . . you’d come,” she whispered. Then her brown orbs rolled back, and she was gone.
Rone stubbed his finger grappling for the hidden latch under the brick wall of the alleyway. His undershirt clung to him, both from perspiration and canal water. Sandis wore his shirt and nothing else, though he was more concerned about concealing her script than her nudity.
The hidden door swung inward, and Rone pushed his way into the dark hallway, knocking something off a shelf as he did. He kicked the door shut behind him. He was certain no one had followed him, despite the bounteous stares he had collected on the way. His arms were numb clamps around Sandis’s shoulders and knees. His bad shoulder, which hadn’t ached the slightest since Helderschmidt’s, throbbed from carrying Sandis’s weight for so long.
It didn’t take long for Arnae Kurtz to come to the secret room in the back of his flat. Rone wasn’t exactly being quiet, and the man kept late hours.
The door to the rest of the flat opened on soundless hinges, and the light from Kurtz’s kerosene lamp spilled over them as Rone kicked a bedroll off a low shelf.
“Rone Comf.” His old master’s voice was stiff and low. “You cannot come back here.”
“I had no other choice. Help me.”
Kurtz frowned, but he set the lamp aside and knelt at the side of the bedroll, unfurling it. Rone carefully laid Sandis on the blankets. She was so still, her breaths small and deep like she lingered in the throes of a very long dream.
Kurtz looked her over, his brows tightening. “What happened?”
“She fell into the canal. The scarlets found her at the inn we were staying at and arrested her. She blew herself out.” The evidence said as much.
Kurtz looked at him with wide eyes. “The numen?”
Rone nodded without explaining.
Frowning, Kurtz pressed his fingers into Sandis’s neck, sides, legs. “Nothing broken. But if she’s been unconscious so long, there may be brain damage.”
Rone dropped to his knees by Sandis’s head. “No. This happens, when she summons. She’s always out for a while.”
“I see.”
The silence grew stiff between them.
Kurtz sat back on his heels. “You know I want to help you, Rone, but it’s too dangerous for you to stay here. Other people rely on me, on that door. If the grafters, or even the scarlets, find this place, I won’t be the only one in trouble.”
“I don’t think I was followed.” He knew better than to hope they weren’t being sought after by both grafters and the law, but there was a chance, however slim, the scarlets thought Sandis was dead.
“The fact still stands.”
Rone nodded. He was completely drained—he could barely hold up his head. “Just tonight. I didn’t know where else to take her.”
Kurtz let out a long breath through his nose. Nodded. “Tonight.”
“I have two places left to check for a job, then—”
“Be careful, Rone.” Kurtz’s dark eyes bored into his. For a moment Rone thought he would get a lecture, or a quoted verse from some book he’d never heard of, but Kurtz merely repeated, “Be careful.”
Rone nodded.
Kurtz pushed himself off the floor and stood, his knees popping when he did. He rolled his head before adding, “There’s wurst and potatoes on the stove.”
Kurtz left the kerosene lamp in the room and closed the door behind him. He always kept it closed. One never knew what visitors he might get at the front of the house. Rone could only hope none came on account of him and Sandis.
His body was too exhausted to eat. Even the thought of standing and walking into Kurtz’s kitchen filled him with dread. So he turned to the shelves and grabbed another bedroll. There were six altogether. He absently wondered who else had used these, and how recently.
A dull ache bent his elbows as he unfurled the bundle beside Sandis, then promptly collapsed atop it. They both smelled like canal water, undoubtedly. He should probably extinguish the lamp. Or he could let it burn out and refund the cost to Kurtz later. That sounded like the better option. He couldn’t keep an eye on Sandis in the dark.
Rone rolled over to face her. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, waiting for it to stop, to hitch, but it continued on in a steady rhythm. The relief he felt, watching it move so steadily, coiled in his belly, warm and with an unfamiliar weight. He listened to each intake of her breath and found himself matching it.
If he had come back right after Gerech, she wouldn’t have had to face this alone. He could have protected her.
God’s tower, she must have been terrified.
“I knew you’d come.”
Had she really?
Rone watched her face. The curve of her nose, the high set of her cheekbones. Her hair was mostly dry and fell around her face in a tangled, beautiful mess. He reached out a sore arm and smoothed some of it back. Her skin was warm, but not feverish. Soft. Smooth. Magnetic.
He rested his hand on her shoulder, then trailed it past the hem of her sleeve to her elbow. How could anyone take a brand to skin like that?
“Like every fiber of your body is being torn apart. Like it’s burning up, but the fuel never runs out. Like you’re twisting into something else.”
He should have been there. He wanted to have been there.
Pressing his lips together, Rone scooted onto the line where their two bedrolls met. Moved his hand beneath Sandis’s back and pulled her close. He rested his chin on top of her head. Closed his eyes.
He thought he felt Sandis’s fingers clutch the fabric of his undershirt just as sleep pulled him under.
Rone woke feeling gritty and impossibly sore. His eyes and mouth were dry, and his throat begged for water. His arm was stretched out in a weird way and half-numb, reminding him of the weight that had been there when he’d fallen asleep. But she was gone, her bedroll made. There was some clinking behind the door, voices—straining to listen, Rone recognized the higher voice as Sandis’s and let out a long breath.
She was fine. Still breathing. Still alive.
He groaned as he sat up, the muscles of his back, shoulders, and arms pulling in all the wrong ways. He managed to rub some kinks from his neck, at least. The fabric of his pants was stiff and rough, reminding him of his sewage days. His shirt was . . . not there.
Setting his jaw and thinking his usual string of morning obscenities, Rone got his feet under him and shuffled to the door that connected this secret space to the rest of Kurtz’s flat. He opened it, and the way the sunlight hit his eyes made him feel like he had a hangover.
“Rone!”
Her voice woke him from his daze. He blinked light from his eyes and found her sitting on a stool across an island countertop from Kurtz, who looked at him with a weirdly knowing smile.
Sandis hopped off the stool, peppy and healthy and very much alive. She wore a new dress, one that fit her better than the last. Simp
le and dark. Her umber hair was combed out and pinned behind her ears.
She was stunning.
“I’m so glad you’re awake. Here.” She grabbed a bowl at the end of the counter—some sort of porridge—and set it in front of the stool closest to him. She beamed like she was presenting him with the key to Gerech. Then she returned to her seat and grabbed a piece of parchment Rone hadn’t noticed before—a torn map of Dresberg, with pencil scribbles all over District Three.
Rone sat, grunting as he discovered sore muscles in his backside. The porridge smelled like cinnamon and was slightly overcooked, but two still-warm spoonfuls made it down his throat without complaint.
Sandis set the map next to his bowl. “I’ve been talking to Arnae about Talbur. I think we should cover the most ground in the mornings—Kazen always slept in the mornings. The others probably do, too, I think. And we’ll be far from the canal.”
Her words slowed for a moment. Why? Was she thinking about her close call with the scarlets? About Kazen and the numina? About nearly drowning? It was probably guilt over the scarlets.
He almost said, They’re not good people, either, but Sandis’s energy quickly returned, taking away any chance to speak. She pointed at the north border of the city. “I think we should start here. There’s a mortgage broker . . .” She searched the map, then replanted her finger down and to the east. “. . . here. Arnae said that might be a good place to start. If Talbur had or has a mortgage in one of the richer neighborhoods, they might have record of him there. Trick is getting the brokers to tell us—”
“Whoa, all right, slow down.” Rone let his spoon sink into his porridge. He gave his old master a pointed look. “You want her to steal brokerage records?” It wasn’t a bad place to start. Maybe they’d luck out. Rone could be pleading with this man for money by the end of the day. Or, if necessary, stealing it from him in the morning.
Kurtz lifted his hands in mock innocence. “I said nothing of the sort.”
“It can’t hurt to ask,” Sandis said.
Rone studied the map and nodded.
Sandis grinned wider than he’d ever seen her grin. “I can help with our funds, a little. Arnae said he would pay me to clean the flat—”
“She is not your maid.” Rone stared hard at Kurtz, who merely shrugged. Rone took a deep breath and wiped his hand down his face. “Yes, we can try. I need to check two more places for work today first.” Maybe he’d find the answer to his problems there and avoid a possible dead end with Talbur Gwenwig. “If I can get a job, we’ll be set for the immediate future.”
Sandis nodded. “I’ll pay you back for everything, Rone. I promise—”
He raised a hand to stop her. “You don’t have to pay me back. All this exercise has made me the fittest I’ve ever been.”
Kurtz snorted. Sandis glanced at his bare chest and looked away just as quickly, the slightest flush of pink dusting her cheeks.
Rone smirked and took another bite of porridge. “I want to check my drop-off points soon, which means going in daylight.” He hesitated. “It will be easier if I go alone.”
Something flashed in Sandis’s eyes, but it quickly vanished. She nodded and turned to Kurtz. “Do you mind if . . . ?”
The old man nodded. “You may stay here one more night, Sandis. But after that . . .” He frowned.
Sandis smiled like it was her profession. The gesture still carried her usual sincerity.
“I should go now.” Rone scooped the last of the porridge into his mouth, swallowed, and slipped off the stool. “If I don’t change, people will think I’m in hard times and sniffing around for coin.”
“Good plan.” His old master sounded more amused than anything.
Rone ignored the tone and nodded his thanks. “I won’t be long.” He glanced at Sandis once more before grabbing his magically laundered shirt off the edge of the counter, slipping it on, and stepping outside.
Rone didn’t bother with the rooftops today—he honestly didn’t think he was spry enough to safely navigate them, and the amarinth hadn’t reset, though it weighed down his right pocket as usual. He took a winding route through Kurtz’s neighborhood and stole a hooded jacket from a laundry basket on someone’s porch. He slipped it on—it smelled like vinegar and was a couple sizes too big—and pulled up the hood. The morning hour was cool; he didn’t look out of place.
Normally, with his funds nearly depleted, he wouldn’t hire a cab. But he had a long ways to go for drop-off point one, and though his morning walk had loosened his muscles, he’d said he wouldn’t be long. He didn’t want to keep Sandis waiting, again, even though she was in good hands.
So he hired a grubby-looking closed carriage pulled by two underweight horses and rode it north, into the very district Sandis had been mapping out earlier. He hopped off, wound around some tightly knit buildings and storage sheds to the checkpoint: another manhole cover. Lifted it, but there was nothing, not even a string to denote a message had been there and fallen away. He usually checked these things once a week; he was behind schedule.
Trying not to dwell on another failure, Rone walked in the wrong direction toward the nearest market, which was bustling with morning activity. He stuck to the outskirts of the booths and shops until he found a distributor heading east with a half-empty wagon. He jogged to catch up to it, then carefully hoisted himself onto the back so the drivers wouldn’t feel the wagon shake. Fortunately, they didn’t look back. Rone made it most of the way to his last location before a street rat tried to hitch a free ride next to him. The drivers felt that one, noticed them, and yelled at them to get off. Rone did so and hurried down the first offshoot road he found, letting himself get lost in the tangles of yet more low-income housing before winding his way back to a main street. Rone didn’t feel like he was being followed, and nothing looked suspicious when he glanced over his shoulder, but one could never be too careful.
His destination was a run-down restaurant that nevertheless managed to stay in business year after year, despite its fallen shutters and obvious rat problem. The poor couldn’t afford to care. Rone shook his head as he wrapped around to the back of the restaurant, toward some underway construction. What were they fitting into the tiny lot back here? More housing? More storage? Could this city really get any denser?
Chewing on the inside of his lip, Rone put his back to the restaurant, checked for watching eyes, then reached into a sagging eave. Dirt left by the rain smudged his fingers, and—
His breath hitched.
A note.
He pulled it free. Resisted the urge to read it then and there, and palmed the thing, walking too quickly to be casual through windy backroads. He passed a mother switching her whining son and turned the corner, where he sat on the porch of a tall but narrow apartment building. He unfolded the note. The paper was thick and white—someone with money to spare had left it.
Mr. Verlad,
I have a proposition for you that I think you’ll find intriguing. Meet me at your soonest possible convenience, day or night. It doesn’t matter to me.
Following the tight script was lettered nonsense, but Rone was familiar with the code. It couldn’t be too obvious, else a lucky passerby might turn the note in to the scarlets for a reward.
The address wasn’t close. Not as far as it could be in a city this size, but not close. Shoving the note into his pocket, next to the amarinth, Rone hunted for a decent drainpipe and climbed.
Miraculously, his body didn’t feel sore anymore.
The address did not take him to a residence, but a small office space that was a single story tall. It was wedged between a much larger building and a set of lavish flats. That gave him courage. He usually didn’t meet his clients in the light of day, and only sometimes did he dare to do so with his face uncovered.
He walked in. The place was simple and clean, though the architecture and style were outdated. There was actually a thriving plant in the back corner, near a narrow desk where a secretary sat, her hair pulled into a
wide bun and a pair of black spectacles balanced on her nose. Her clothing was fine, and she even wore rouge and lipstick. She was paid well, then.
She looked up and studied Rone. Possibly smelled him, though she didn’t make a face. “There are no appointments booked this week. Might I assume you found the note?”
Rone simply nodded.
The secretary stood and gestured to a door behind her. “Down this way, Mr. Verlad. Follow the scent of cigar smoke.”
Rone opened the door and found a dark, narrow set of stairs ahead of him. Thirteen in all. He reached the basement, which was cold and smelled like mildew. He had a feeling this place was a temporary holding for this client.
The cigar smoke wasn’t hard to detect; it was spicy and full, richer than what was usually smoked in taverns and bars. Rone followed its trail on silent feet, clutching the amarinth. One client who’d hired him had done so to ruin his life; he might need to fight his way out.
But he needed the money.
Two bright lamps lit the room. It had two simple chairs and a desk piled with ledgers and paperwork. An apple core sat on the corner.
The man behind the desk had thinning brown hair receding from his forehead, a large nose, and wide-set eyes. His clothes were simple but well tailored, his collar stiff. He wasn’t thin, which meant he ate well. The amount of wrinkles on his face—especially his forehead—put him in his sixties.
He puffed out a cloud of smoke and looked up from his work, completely unsurprised, despite Rone’s near-perfect silence. “You’re quick,” he said, a slight rasp to his baritone.
“Your location coincided with my schedule,” he lied. His hood was still up, and his hands weighed down his pockets, one still clasping the amarinth. Rone didn’t lean on the door frame, but stood tall and imposing.
The man gestured to a chair. “Do take a seat, Engel. I have something that might interest you.”
“I prefer to stand, Mr. . . . ?”
“My name is not important.”
Smoke and Summons (Numina Book 1) Page 22