On the Matter of the Red Hand

by JM Guillen

  “I don’t know.” I gave Wil a sideward grin. “I feel like a fool every time I do listen to this jack-wagon.”

  My best friend made a half-assed swipe at me, and I laughed. Scoundrel took two quick hops and landed on my shoulder.

  “He’s an ingrate, this one.” Wil glanced from Culpepper to me. “It’s his business that we’re on tonight. We need to discuss keeping peace in the Warrens because I’m going to be tied up helping this idiot get his work done.”

  “I don’t need the whole story on where you two shared your first kiss.” Culpepper chuckled at his own cleverness. “Let’s just talk more about you buying me a beer and less about whatever judicar romance you two find yourselves tied up in.”

  Of course, not even Culpepper’s wit could shut us up. He followed us to the small pub, shaking his head as Wil launched on a diatribe about the values of friendship, and about how he needed to find one someday.

  Once at Allison’s, we made our arrangements. They were quite clever arrangements, if I did think so myself.

  2

  “You’ve worked with him before.” I scratched Scoundrel’s head as we walked. Wil and I were strolling along Moor’d Avenue, and the mist was starting to wash over the city.

  “Culpepper is good people.” Wll cleared his throat. “He really looks out for his guildmen, and I realized a while back that I can help him out.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Most Warrenlights leave their guild, usually before twenty. Where do they go from there?”

  “Um…” I realized that I didn’t know. “They find a good and proper place in Teredi society?”

  Wil scoffed. “They don’t often have a formal education.” Wil spat. “Unless you count scavenging and busking. I’ve been working with Culpepper to help ease his guildmen into proper society.”

  “Is that so?” I had no idea that Wil had taken a personal interest in the guild. “How is that?”

  “He had a young man who was ‘growing out’ of his Guild position this last summer. I pulled on the right ears and got him a ‘prentiship with the smits.” Wil glanced at me, his blue eyes smiling. “I figure that, with just a little help, I can keep the Warrenlights off of the payroll of men like Santiago Il Ladren.”

  “That…” I raised my eyebrows. “That is a particularly brilliant idea.” I never would have considered placing youngsters with the smits, but I could see their need for small, dexterous hands that might grow into larger ones used to handling cogs and gears and hot glowing iron. Just look at all Ely could do. And she was bitty.

  “Well, Sara, big Mister Judicar has to take care of his borough doesn’t he?” He chuckled and then went on. “I’ve been talking with several official guilds and trying to rouse up an interest in our little Warrenlighters. I got the Dockworkers, the Cobblemen, even the Runner’s Guild expressing an interest.”

  “The Runner’s Guild. That’s brilliant.” I knew they often employed younger citizens, mostly for their speed and agility.

  “That’s why Culpepper was so keen on helping us. I’ve been a big help for his folke. He knows what side to salt his fish on.”

  Because of Wil, we knew that the streets would be looked after—at least for a time. It had taken one of Wil’s judicar tokens, but Culpepper had assured us that small packs of his older guildsmen would keep watch for us this evening.

  They might be young, but having a few roving gangs of officially sanctioned eyes would be helpful—particularly if Wil and I both were otherwise engaged. Even if they couldn’t stop a mugging or some other unsavoriness, they could follow a target or identify a Jack.

  Just that would be enough, for a time.

  “We still need to get a permit.” Wil drew an arm back and threw the raven’s ring as far as he could, and both birds took off after it, squawking.

  I canted my head at him. “Permit?” For the moment, he had completely lost me.

  “Permit.” He gave me a grim smile. “I’m certain the city requires one for this level of idiocy. Honestly, Thom, I think we need another plan.”

  “There isn’t another plan.” I scowled as I spoke. “If there is, then pipe up. I’d love to hear your suggestions.”

  Wil had nothing for that.

  The key issue was secrecy. I had sworn to Santiago that I would keep his business quiet, and so far I had—except for Wil. However, this assignment had proven quite… fluid, and it seemed things were about to get tight. No matter how we sussed things out, the particulars were always the same:

  I was about to slip into a known den of the Twilight Blades, even though I had some evidence that I was sitting high on their list of people to murder. I was going to do this despite my friend’s objections.

  “Talk me through it again.” He furrowed his brow. “Perhaps there is another way.”

  I sighed. The problem was… there wasn’t another way. I knew it as well as he did. “Maybe once we’re at Rustik’s.” I glanced at a man passing us and gave Wil a tight smile. “I’ve seen too many of Jack’s friends recently. Let’s take some care.”

  For once, my friend agreed with me, and we walked in silence.

  We had chosen Rustik’s for more than one reason. It was a quiet alehouse, the kind of place that had been owned by the same family for more than a while. There were two rooms for let on the top floor, and I knew that Charls Rustik was a man who could keep his mouth shut.

  It was also straight across Riparian Plaza from the ruined hulk of the Coilwerks.

  Wil rented a room, telling Charls’ daughter that we needed the space to meet with some guildmen.

  “Um, w-well enough.” She almost stammered—the shy thing was so wide-eyed at the birds that I doubted she even heard what he said. She took his coin and handed him a brass key.

  “It’s best we keep this one quiet, little sweet.” I gave her a wide smile. “Safety of the borough and all. You’ll keep mum for us, won’t you?”

  “Yes.” Now she gave the barest hint of smile. “No worries. Not my business.”

  “Excellent.” I gave her a nod as Wil took the stairs.

  It took us almost a full bell to wrangle out all the details. At the end, Wil didn’t like the plan any better than I did, but we truly had few options. After several of his inane arguments and more of my clever ones, we made a few minor alterations, but we stuck with the main thrust of our original idea.

  All we could do was play the tiles we held.

  It only took a few moments to scrawl out the message and get it into the small cylinder on Scoundrel’s leg. Once it was secure, I scratched her head.

  “Go, sweet girl.” I truly hated this part. Being without Scoundrel was like losing an eye.

  “Sweet bird.” She shifted from one foot to the other. “Good, smart bird.”

  “Yes.” I scratched her head, holding one of her rook-keys out. I only carried a few of the tools, but this one I always had. When she saw it, she knew she would be fed and brightened visibly.

  “Good! Good, good, good!” She clucked happily, glancing over at Svester.

  “Bad bird.” He grumbled at her, almost seeming haughty. “Trouble.”

  “Now, that’s no way to be.” Wil gave Svester a small wafer, which he gobbled up. “You’ll get to play too, greedy boy.”

  “I’ll see you soon.” Return. Here. I gestured and scratched behind her head one more time. Then, off she went, dark feathers into a darkening night.

  “I can never decide if she’s your other half or your better half,” Wil mused softly. “At least there’s one woman who will always come back to you.”

  I sighed, giving him a grousing look. “Can we just get back to work?”

  “No problem, Susan.” He didn’t even try to hide his smirk. “I’d hate to interfere with you playing dress-up.”

  I scowled at him but said nothing.

  I had better things to focus on beside snarking with Wil.

  The Coilwerks

  Riddling, First Bell Eventide

  The Coilwer
ks was easily one of the oddest, most fantastical buildings in the Warrens—if not the city.

  It was four-stories tall and constructed mostly of copper, gunmetal, and old, stout stone blocks. Most of the building was on Moor’d Avenue, but a good part of it hung over the Er’meander River, bolstered by tiers of iron and copper. Scattered all across the structures were open windows, shuttered only by iron bars. Local lore held that so much steam and gasses had to vent from the original structure that the openings were required for fresh air.

  The building had been dark and silent for many years. During the day, at least.

  Once, it had been the heart of Teredon’s new dream. Men with more money than sense had worked tirelessly for years to build the structure, believing that the river could be harnessed to produce Gyro-resonant energy, something that madmen claimed could light Teredon for a thousand years. The dreamers had claimed that the Gyro-resonance would give us eternally lit streets, warm our homes, and be used for countless undreamt tasks.

  Things hadn’t worked that way.

  The accident was startling. One morning, an explosion shook the city’s foundations as far as South Teris. Sulfur and violet smoke plumed into the sky, and thousands of fish lay dead in the river. The city was in an uproar.

  Of course, folke were quick to cry taint.

  The inquisitors of Altheus had been called, of course, and soon were sweeping the streets with their crucibles—clockwork devices that sought the taint of the gloaming. For days, the streets had echoed with the soft, haunting cry of the devices, and lit by the azure fire, which danced within them.

  Much to the distress of zealots and fear mongers, no taint was found.

  No, as the artificers, chemics, and cogglers were quick to say, it was a mistake in calibration, a simple maladjustment of the device’s meridian chambers. The pyrogen had become overly pressurized, and—

  And would it ever happen again?

  The crux of things was, yes. It could. Human error was always a possibility, and sooner than sin, the whole project had been shut down. The men who had planned so much and reached so far went on to other dreams, and the building went dark.

  Tonight, of course, the building was far from dark. Soon after sundown, the upper windows shone with gaslight, and the doors opened as soon as the line started to form.

  I wasn’t first, but I wasn’t last either.

  “Oi, cully.” The ticketman waved me on. I shuffled forward in line, in the exact way that a person would who looked nothing like Thom Havenkin, das judicas, might shuffle.

  That was the plan, after all. Between trousers that were a touch loose, a grey homespun shirt, and the tri-corner hat, I appeared as far from ‘judicar’ as I could get. It had only taken a dab of ashes in my scuff to change the color of my facial hair.

  This was vital. No one would look closer at me than the ticketman. His entire job was to decide who came in. If he were aware that the Blades were on the hunt for one Thom Havenkin… if he knew what I looked like…

  Well, this would get quite interesting, quite quickly.

  “Fightin’ or bettin’?” The man gave me a grin half full of yellowed teeth and half-empty. I rustled around in the ratty satchel I had hanging over my shoulder, all the better to not look the man in the eyes.

  I could not be recognized—not and get out alive.

  “Bettin’.” I found a silver slip and pressed it into the man’s hand. He looked down at it, then tore me off a ticket. As he handed it to me, he squinted, just a touch, as if trying to remember something. He started to speak when the first part of my not-at-all jackwitted scheme came into play.

  “Move aside.” Wil’s voice was gruff and authoritative. “I need to speak with the gentleman in charge.”

  “Yeah?” Yellow-teeth immediately changed his focus. He looked toward Wil, distractedly handing me my ticket and shooing me along. “That’s me, at least for the front. Kråssus is the name.”

  I didn’t give Kråssus or Wil the slightest attention. I stepped inside just in time to hear the beginning of Wil’s official sounding rant.

  “I have a writ here, Kråssus, for a gentleman known to frequent this location. One…” I heard the rustling of papers. “Abrahm Wickett. Go ahead and suss me up whoever you need, but the long and the short of things is that me and my boy here are going to pay you folke a visit.”

  I ducked inside, trying to lose myself in the shadows. I didn’t want to be anywhere near the front while “official judicar business” was afoot.

  The betting pit of the Coilwerks was a large, open room, dimly lit with guttering gaslight and purposefully kept in the shadows. There were a few columns, which cast looming shadows of their own in the weak light. The room swam with various varieties of tabac, and I was fairly certain I could smell more exotic things being smoked. Up high, some of the windows were nothing more than grates to the open sky, probably once used to vent noxious gases.

  “Need some luck?” The young woman had slipped up beside me, a shadow among shadows. In the faint light, I could make out eyes blue as a summer sky.

  “I’d wager I’m not the only one who does.” I gave her a smile, forgetting for a moment that I was trying to keep my face hidden. “If yer selling luck, you must do a brisk trade.”

  “I do.” Her voice was sultry, soft. She slipped closer, and I could smell lavender and vanilla. “For a couple of slips, I can make certain you get lucky.”

  The smile faded from my face as I realized what she meant.

  Doxies and pillow-girls were always running their luck in Teredon. Many night-women had been found guilty of heresy during the Reign of the Blasphemer—even though they weren’t actually the ones practicing sorcery. Still, their blood had run in the streets as the judicars and inquisitors were given free rein to publicly execute them for depraved and sorcerous acts.

  It was exactly why seeing Ilsei in the streets had so horrified me. Superstitious men still were known to beat prostitutes to death, claiming that they did the will of the Radiant.

  “I got me own luck.” I lent my voice just a touch of a Sindrian brogue. “I don’t be needin’ a toss, and I reckon’ none of these upstandin’ men do neither.”

  The woman slipped back into the shadows without a word.

  I let myself drift into the throng then, stepping up to the cedarwood bar that ran the length of the left hand side of the room. I eyed the betting cages, four gilded boxes on the far side of the room, each with a beautiful woman inside, laughing and teasing as she exchanged money for small ivory chits. They did a brisk business.

  Does that make the men choose more recklessly? It made sense. Between the alcohol and the attention of a beautiful woman, I wagered that many poor decisions were made in the pits.

  “Klêm?” The scrawny man at the bar was picking his teeth as he spoke. “Or maybe a shortbeer?”

  “I was wondering about the fights.” I leaned in, conspiratorially. “Do you know when Cutter Greene’s brawling tonight?”

  I realized my mistake the moment I spoke. What if Cutter wasn’t even fighting tonight? Tainted night, I had just assumed—

  “Fan of the Knuckleduster, are you?” He grinned widely. “The man’s in the third, from what I understand. You’ll have to stand in line for your wager, however.”

  The third. That meant I might have some time, if I could find him.

  “My cully placed a bet on him already but couldn’t come. I’m supposed to watch the fight for him.” I paused. “What’s he like? The Knuckleduster?”

  “Big man. Half Kab.” The barman reached for a small towel. “Bald as you like.”

  “Sounds like a winner.” I glanced around the room, trying to take it all in, when I saw her. My blood ran cold. No. I took a calming breath, trying to seem as if my heart hadn’t just fallen to the floor.

  “What bitters do you have?” I desperately tried to carry on, as if all was well.

  “Mostly we stock the harder stuff, but we have some night-cherry. Bottled over in
Teris Hill.”

  “I’ll take one.” My tone was distant, distracted. I paid the man for the drink, trying to keep my hand from shaking.

  Was it her?

  Cautiously, I ghosted through the crowd, edging ever closer to the woman. It wasn’t just her honey-brown hair that gave her away; it was her poise. I had marked her from behind, which perhaps says more about me than it should.

  It was.

  Sefra.

  I hadn’t seen the woman since the night she had come to my flat and honestly hadn’t expected to see her again. That seemed to be the nature of our relationship—we bumped into each other once in a great while, had a wonderful time together, and then set on our merry.

  What was she doing here?

  Her presence was dangerous in more ways than one. Of course, I wondered how Sefra was involved with the Blades, but just as importantly, what if she saw me?

  I was outted then, plain and simple.

  I was edging around the side of one of the columns, hoping to get a good view of her face, but I had seen enough. She was sitting at a table, all alone, and had glanced about. A nonce of her profile was all I had needed.

  Well. We needed to have a sit-and-chat, didn’t we?

  I was less than five strides from her, ready to sit across from her. On all sides, we were surrounded by noisy, half-drunk people who were all having the time of their lives.

  Then, that very seat that I had my eye on was taken by a large man.

  I didn’t stare at him, knowing that staring was one of the most certain ways to be seen.

  Instead, I sat at another table with my drink. I pulled the hat Wil hated low over my eyes.

  I listened.

  “Gonna need you again, sweet-bits.” The man’s voice was more of a growl, all grating stone and rumble. I tilted my head just a touch, trying to get a peek at the man’s face. When I did, my eyes widened, just a touch.

  I knew the man.

  Not directly, but more by reputation. Erviin Blythe was the thirdman in the Twilight Blades, only two steps removed from Sebaste himself.