The Holver Alley Crew
Page 1
Raves for the novels of Marshall Ryan Maresca:
“Superb characters living in a phenomenal fantasy world, with a detective story that just sucks you right into the storyline. Marshall Ryan Maresca impressed me with The Thorn of Dentonhill, but A Murder of Mages has secured me as a fan.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A Murder of Mages was another hit for me, a fantastic read from a new talent whose star continues to be on the rise.”
—Bibliosanctum
“Books like this are just fun to read.”
—The Tenacious Reader
“[A Murder of Mages] is the perfect combination of urban fantasy, magic, and mystery.”
—Kings River Life Magazine
“Marshall Ryan Maresca has done it again. After introducing readers to Maradaine through the eyes of criminals in The Thorn of Dentonhill, he focuses now on the constabulary, the ones catching the criminals, in A Murder of Mages. . . . Another rollicking adventure of magic and mayhem.”
—The Qwillery
“Maresca’s debut is smart, fast, and engaging fantasy crime in the mold of Brent Weeks and Harry Harrison. Just perfect.”
—Kat Richardson, national bestselling author of Revenant
“Fantasy adventure readers, especially fans of spell-wielding students, will enjoy these lively characters and their high-energy story.”
—Publishers Weekly
DAW Books presents the novels of Marshall Ryan Maresca:
THE THORN OF DENTONHILL
THE ALCHEMY OF CHAOS
THE IMPOSTERS OF AVENTIL*
*
A MURDER OF MAGES
AN IMPORT OF INTRIGUE
*
THE HOLVER ALLEY CREW
*Coming soon from DAW
Copyright © 2017 by Marshall Ryan Maresca.
All Rights Reserved.
Cover art by Paul Young.
Cover design by G-Force Design.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1753.
Published by DAW Books, Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Ebook ISBN: 9780756412616
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
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Contents
Praise for Marshall Ryan Maresca
Also by Marshall Ryan Maresca
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Maps
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Acknowledgments
A few acknowledgments of the people who helped make this book possible:
This time I’m going to begin with Daniel J. Fawcett, who has been a sounding board for my crazy creative ideas for as long as I’ve known him, which is a rather long time. The city of Maradaine, and the world that surrounds it, has been enriched by his influence. But specifically in the case of The Holver Alley Crew, the characters of Asti and Verci Rynax were very much midwifed by him. I very much doubt I would have created them, as they are here, without his help.
Early drafts of the manuscript were read and torn apart by Kevin Jewell (always a rock), Abby Goldsmith, Ellen van Hensbergen, Kelli Meyer, Katy Stauber, and Miriam Robinson Gould. They all did their part in making it stronger.
Stina Leicht and Melissa Tyler were running the ArmadilloCon Writers Workshop back when I wrote the earliest draft of this novel, and it was this rough draft of the first chapter of this book that first got their attention. Melissa, in particular, has been a fan of this story, so she’ll be especially happy to see it in print. And in every previous acknowledgments, I’ve gushed about Stina Leicht, and I could continue to do so here. I’m very lucky to have her as a friend.
My agent, Mike Kabongo, has been an advocate of my work as well as a fan. I love that he doesn’t like to read my outlines of future novels because he doesn’t want spoilers.
The entire team at DAW and Penguin has been a godsend, and I am immensely grateful to be working with them: Katie Hoffman, Sarah Guan, Joshua Starr, Briar Herrera-Ludwig, Alexis Nixon, Nita Basu, Betsy Wollheim, and, of course, my editor Sheila Gilbert.
Finally, there’s my family. This is a wide circle that includes my son Nicholas, my parents Louis and Nancy, and my mother-in-law Kateri. The most important is my wife, Deidre Kateri Aragon. Deidre has been a beacon of strength and support who has always believed that I could be successful as a writer. That, given my early work, was quite an act of faith.
Chapter 1
ASTI RYNAX COULDN’T SLEEP. The bedroll wasn’t the problem. He’d slept plenty of nights in jail cells, road ditches, even trapped inside a wooden crate. The problem was sleeping on a hot wooden floor in the single-room flop, his younger brother, brother’s wife, and crying baby just ten feet away behind a thin cloth. He craved his own flop, his own space, without families, babies, or smoke.
Smoke.
Asti sat up, smelling the air.
Definitely smoke. And not from the oil lamps.
Asti sprang to his feet. “Verci. Wake up.”
“What, what is it?”
“Smoke.”
Verci was out of the bed, crossing over to Asti in a flash, despite being naked. Asti’s eyes went to the slight paunch his brother was getting. Married life was taking its toll on his normally lean body. “You’re right.”
“It’s just the Greenfields’ kitchen,” Raych mumbled from the bed.
“No, it’s too strong,” Asti said. He glanced back at Verci. “Put something on.”
Verci waved him off, taking another smell. “Much too strong.”
Asti touched the door. It was warm. Cautiously he cracked it open. The hallway glowed with crackling flames. He dashed back over to the kitchen and grabbed the bedroll and
blanket.
“Blasted saints,” Verci muttered. “Raych, wake up.”
“Wha—”
“Get up. Get the baby.” Each word was like an arrow. Verci grabbed his pants off the back of a chair and pulled them on.
Asti held the blanket over his face. In the hallway the flames were licking up the walls and ceiling, wooden support beams already cracking. Asti swung the bedroll at the fire, beating it down. Useless. The smoke was getting thicker, the fire hotter, despite his efforts.
“Can you get to the stairs?” Verci called.
Asti pushed forward. The stairs leading outside were only eight steps away. Eight impossible steps. He could race past the fire to reach them, if he went right this moment. The stairway was engulfed, but he could leap down the flight. He would reach the bottom with a few singes and roll on the ground when he landed, snuffing out his clothes if they caught flame on the way down. He could do it, and be outside and safe in seven seconds. He imagined the whole plan in an instant, his body tensing in anticipation.
Verci could do it too, if he called out, told him to run, to go now.
Raych and the baby could never make it.
He beat down the instinct to run.
“No chance,” Asti replied. The fire filled the hallway, racing along to block him from the apartment door. Lungs and eyes burning, he beat a clear path back and slammed the door shut.
“How bad is it?” Raych asked. She was out of bed, wrapped in a loose dressing gown, caramel hair framing her pretty face, with the baby clutched to her.
Asti could barely speak through hacking coughs. “Very,” was all he managed. He shoved the bedroll under the crack in the door, blocking the smoke that was starting to pour in.
“How are we going to get out, then?” she asked. Her voice cracked with fear.
Asti didn’t answer, but he heard a slight snort from his brother. Verci covered it with a cough, but Asti knew exactly why he laughed: Verci never walked into a room without immediately finding every way to get out.
Verci went over to the trunk by the bed and opened it up. While he rummaged through it, Asti pulled on a shirt and boots and grabbed his pack. Everything in the apartment that he owned was in the pack.
“Plan?” he asked Verci.
“That window,” Verci said, pointing to the one by the stove. “But not yet.” He pulled out an empty pack from the trunk.
“Verci, what are we—” Raych started.
Verci tossed the empty pack to Asti as he went over to Raych.
“Give me Corsi and get dressed,” he said. “We have to move quickly.”
“Quickly?” She looked stunned, but relinquished the baby to Verci.
“Put that on, Asti,” Verci said, crossing over to the kitchen with the baby. “Wear it across your chest.” Asti did it, and Verci put his son into the pack. He tightened the straps on the side so the baby was snug, close against Asti’s body.
“Verci Rynax, what the blazes are you doing?” Raych asked, pulling on a cotton dress.
“Keeping our son safe,” Verci said. He turned to Asti, “Get the window open and get out there.”
“If you think I’m going to let my baby . . .”
Verci went back to the trunk. “We need to climb down from the window, Raych. You can’t do that while carrying him.” He pulled on a shirt and grabbed another pack.
“Then you carry him!”
“I’ll be helping you, love,” Verci said. He threw a few more things into the pack. Smoke was filling the room. “No time to argue.”
Asti went out the window. There was a slight ledge, only a few inches, just enough for him to stand on. Above him there was only smoke and darkness; he knew both moons were roughly half full, but he couldn’t see them. The street below was chaotic, people shouting and pointing, running around in their nightclothes while the fire crackled all around. Directly below him was the canvas awning of Greenfield’s locksmith shop, stretched wide and tight.
“Awning, slide, street?” Asti called to Verci.
“Right,” Verci said. “Move.”
“Hold on, little man,” Asti said, rubbing the head of the baby. For his part, he was quiet, his big blue eyes staring up at Asti.
Asti sat down on the ledge, his feet a short drop from the top of the awning. Keeping one hand on the ledge, he dropped off, using his arm to keep his full weight from hitting the awning. Once his body was on the canvas, he let go, sliding down over the lip of it. A second later his boots hit the dirt. He stumbled forward, almost needing to fall into a roll, but he clutched at the baby and lurched backward, keeping his balance. Several people on the street cried and cheered.
Up on the ledge Raych cried, “I’m going to break my neck if I do that.”
“No, you won’t,” Verci said.
Asti looked back at the building. The whole place was on fire, smoke pouring out the windows. Verci lowered his wife onto the awning. Her eyes were locked on Asti, focused on the bundle strapped to his chest. Asti looked at the baby again, who was gurgling and smiling.
“He’s fine, Raych. Come on.” Asti held out a hand, though he knew it was a meaningless gesture. Verci stretched out, easing Raych down the awning until she was as far as he could get her without stepping on the awning himself.
“Ready?” Verci called.
“Do it!” she said. He let go of her hand, and she slid off to the ground. Her landing was sloppy, almost falling on her face before Asti caught her. Raych gasped and clutched at Asti. A moment later she was fumbling at the straps, desperate to get the baby out of his pack. Verci slid down, landing on the ground with practiced grace.
“That’s the whole place,” Asti said. The locksmith shop and the apartments above it were all burning.
The shop next door was burning as well. And the one next to it. The fire spread down Holver Alley as far as Asti could see. Every building was wood and plaster, pressed next to each other, nothing to stop it all from catching.
An old man grabbed Asti’s shoulder. “Look at that, Rynax! That’s magic fire, isn’t it? Has to be!”
“No, no,” he said, coming up with an answer that was somewhere between fabrication and gut instinct. “Magical fire always burns hotter, with blue and white flames.” Asti knew hardly anything about magic, but that was more than anyone else in Holver Alley. His word might be enough to quell wild rumors about mages starting this.
“Where’s Win?” Verci asked, looking around the crowd. “And the girls?” Asti glanced about. Winthym Greenfield wasn’t anywhere, nor were his wife and daughters.
“Did they get out on the other side?” Raych asked, holding her baby close to her chest.
“No chance,” Verci said. Asti knew the question was ridiculous, but bit his tongue. Greenfield’s shop was built right up against a solid brick wall, the back of the row houses on Kenner Street.
“They must be trapped,” Asti said. The shop windows were dark, covered in iron bars. No way to see in or break through. Asti touched the door of the shop. It was still cool.
“Asti, what are you doing?” Raych cried.
Asti tried the door, but it was locked. Of course it would be. “Verci, can you . . .” he called out, but his brother was already at his side.
Verci looked at the lock carefully. “Win’s very good,” he muttered. “It would take me at least five minutes.”
“No time for that,” Asti said. He scanned the crowd. Raych was in the center of his vision, screaming at them. Far behind her, towering over the crowd, was just the person he was hoping to find. Julien Kesser, the biggest bruiser on Holver Alley.
“Julien!” he called. The big man pushed his way through the crowd, Asti meeting him partway. “You all right, Jules? Your house all right?”
“No,” Julien said, his wide, sad face covered in ash and soot.
“I’m sorry, Julien,
” Asti said. “Win Greenfield and his family are still trapped.”
Julien nodded, and charged without further prodding. Verci scrambled out of the way as Julien smashed his shoulder into the door. It splintered and cracked.
“Asti Rynax, what in the name of the blasted saints do you think you’re doing?” Helene Kesser, Julien’s cousin, had come up right behind him, grabbing his wrist tightly. Her face and nightclothes were covered in ashes, black hair a tangled mess, and bare arms scraped and bleeding. “I barely got Jules out of our house. Don’t you dare have him—”
“I just need the door open,” Asti said. He glanced over at Raych, still crying at Verci to come away from the burning building. “Keep everyone else out, Hel. Especially Verci.”
“How the blazes—”
“Just do it,” Asti said. He took off his pack and handed it to Helene. Without another word, he pulled a cloak out and took it to the well spigot nearest Greenfield’s shop. He pumped it hard, but only a trickle of water came out. While he was doing that, Julien broke the door off its hinges with a loud crunch. Smoke poured out through the open frame.
Asti took a deep breath, put on the damp cloak, and ran into the shop. He could hear Helene yelling from outside, telling Julien not to go in after him.
Asti couldn’t see anything; thick smoke filled the shop. Eyes shut, cloak over his face, he went by memory to the back counter. He didn’t need to see to find his way; it was five steps straight, and then three to the right to the door leading to Win’s workshop.
“Win!” he called out. He could barely hear his own voice over the roar of fire. Blindly he found the door to the back room, and gave a silent prayer that it would be unlocked. He pushed his way in and tripped over something on the ground.
The fire blazed throughout the workshop, but on the floor the smoke was thinner. He had tripped over Greenfield’s body. Winthym lay flat on his face, breathing shallowly.
Asti shook him. “Win, come on.” Asti shook him again, but he didn’t wake.
Through the smoke, a hand touched Asti on the shoulder. Verci came crawling in, stopping right in front of Win’s body.