Veranix didn’t know this part of the city very well. He had only a rough idea where the Pellistar Docks were, and he didn’t have time to search. Making his way to the river, he dropped down to the ground in an alley next to a pub. He hated the risk he was going to have to take, but he didn’t think he had much choice. He was going to have to ask directions.
He would have to look different to do it, as much as he disliked that. Most of the time when he was out on the streets, he’d use just a whisper of magic to hold his hood in place, and keep its shadow over his face in a way that obscured his features from any angle. That was easy magic; he could do it in his sleep. But no one would tell a mysterious hooded figure how to get to the Pellistar Docks, and he couldn’t risk having his actual face being seen this close to where he was about to hit.
Using magic to make real changes to one’s appearance, even minor ones, took a fair amount of concentration, and that had to be maintained the entire time. It was not unlike holding one’s breath. Unconsciously, Veranix did just that as he altered his short brown hair into red, grown out to his shoulders. His eyes went from green to blue, and a beard grew in over his face. His whole face felt like a hundred bees were walking on it.
He couldn’t hold it long, and he hoped he hadn’t made anything into a color that looked unnatural.
He went around the corner just as two men walked out of the pub.
“Oy, friends!” he said, making his best attempt at a Waish accent. Inemar was filled with foreigners, what with the Little East only a few blocks away, so it wouldn’t seem too strange. He hoped it was good enough to fool these two. “Where might the Pellistar Docks be?”
“Pellistar?” one of them slurred. “You looking for a barge this late?”
“That I am,” Veranix said. “I’ve got a berth on one, leaving inland in the morning. I spent the evening exploring yer fair city, and I’ve gotten myself lost. I just need to find my bed for the night.”
“Hmm,” the other one said, “It’s over there, two blocks, across from the butcher sign.”
“Much obliged, Druth friends,” Veranix nodded and walked away. His magical facade was melting, he couldn’t hold it any longer.
“How far inland, friend?” the first man called from behind him. “Itasiana? Fencal?”
“Just to Delikan for now,” Veranix said, not turning around. His heart started racing. He knew his eyes had already changed, his beard pulling back into his face. He couldn’t let them see that, but he couldn’t run off or ignore them either. “From there, who can say?”
“Ah, for the bird hunting,” the man said, patting Veranix on the shoulder, resting his hand on the strap of his bow and quiver.
“That’s right,” Veranix said. “It’s quite the sport there.” As a child he had passed through Delikan during the pheasant-hunting season, it was a huge event. That truth should keep the story unremarkable. He kept his attention on maintaining his long red hair, letting the rest go. He had to get away from these two without them thinking anything strange was going on, or the whole night would be skunked. Panic clawed at his stomach, making it all the harder to hold the change.
“Word of advice, Waish friend. Next time, leave your bow on your boat when you come into town.”
“Well said. I’ll be off now.” Veranix took a few more steps away.
“Good hunting, then.” Their footsteps went the other way. Veranix hoped neither one looked back, as his hair was short and brown again.
He hurried along the road, keeping his head lowered. Two blocks over, he found the butcher shop, and across from it, the Pellistar Docks.
A low warehouse stood at the foot of a gangway. Spotting a few crates near the wall, Veranix scurried up to the roof on pure muscle power. He didn’t want to waste any magic right now, not when he wasn’t sure what he was about to face.
From his vantage point, Dock 12 was easy to spot. Every dock on the wharf was well marked, but there were two lamps hanging on the sign for twelve. A barge was docked, tied up and still. No one was about.
Two bells rang.
Nothing happened for some time.
Veranix kept his position. Waiting was fine. It let him regain his strength. The scent of the river, though, made him glad he lived on the University campus. It was probably worse downstream on the west side of Maradaine, over in Benson Court, where the sewers fed into the river.
Two men in dark cloaks entered the wharf and, looking about nervously, went to the boat docked at twelve. One of them was carrying a satchel.
Veranix sat up, making sure his hood was in place. He drew one arrow, readying it in his bow.
“Oy!” one man called in a hoarse whisper, “You there?”
A skinny man stepped out from the barge. Even from this distance, with little light, Veranix could see he was old and scarred.
“You’re late,” the old man said.
“There’s been . . . difficulties,” the man with the satchel said.
“Long as there’s no difficulties with the money, then the boss gets his package.”
“No, none,” the other man said. He stepped into the lamplight. Veranix recognized him as the man who first caught him in the cannery the night before. He was now sporting a large bruise on the side of his face. “We want the package.”
“That’s the money, then? I don’t have to count it, do I?”
“Notes of exchange, from a variety of reputable houses,” the man with the satchel said. “Forty thousand crowns.”
Veranix resisted the urge to let out a low whistle. Forty thousand crowns was a ridiculous amount of money. This was either a huge shipment of effitte, or something else altogether. But something that was worth that much to Fenmere was all the more valuable to keep out of his hands.
“Drop the satchel and open it up,” the old man said. They did so. He glanced at the contents and nodded. “Good enough.”
“Where’s our package?”
“Over there. It’s in a sack at the bottom of the river, tied to that rope with the blue cloth.”
“The bottom of the river?” the first of Fenmere’s thugs said. “Are you crazy? Won’t that damage it?”
“Won’t do nothing to it.” The old man grabbed the satchel. He stepped back on his barge, and began to untie the rope holding it to the pier.
“Where are you going?” the bruised thug asked.
“No business of yours. You boys have some hauling up to do.”
Veranix was tempted to make his move now. If he could take out all three, he could get the package and the forty thousand crowns. In the back of his head, he already thought of places he could drop off that money. Saint Julian’s Church. Aventil Orphanage. The Lower Trenn Street Ward. Forty thousand crowns could spread pretty far.
Instinct told him to hold off, let the old man and the money go. Taking on two thugs was risk enough.
The old man pushed off from the pier into the darkness.
“I hate this,” the bruised thug said.
“Let’s get this thing and get out of here,” the other said. The two of them found the rope and began to pull. After a few minutes of straining, a heavy, wet sack emerged. Just as they got it onto the pier, Veranix shot the first arrow at the bruised man. Before even seeing where it struck, he drew a second and shot it at the other one.
The shots weren’t as true as Veranix hoped; the bruised man took one in the knee, the other in the arm. Both men cried out, and one dropped to the ground. The other drew out his sword with his good arm. Veranix leaped to the street, another arrow nocked. He snapped out another shot, and struck the man in the left shoulder.
“You’re gonna get it for that, whelp!” the man said.
“Why don’t you just kick the sack over instead?” Veranix said, drawing another arrow. “You’re not getting off the pier this way.”
“I’m gonna kick you! Co
me on, Bell!”
Bell, the bruised man, did his best to stand up again, as the other ran at Veranix. Veranix shot the arrow. It sailed past the charging man, who closed the distance faster than expected. Veranix had to drop the bow and flip backward to avoid the slash of the man’s sword.
Last night, Veranix had to run away. Tonight he had no intention of running. Last night, he was in a small room with no space to jump and dodge. Here he was in the open. Last night, he was unarmed. Tonight, he had his staff. It was in his hands when he landed on his feet again.
Two slashes of the sword were easily parried, the cheap weapon barely making a nick on his staff. Veranix kept moving, doing flips and jabs, never giving his opponent a still target.
“Get him, Francis!” Bell shouted.
“I’m trying!” Francis replied, desperately swinging at the empty space Veranix was just in. “He bounces around like a sideshow freak!”
Veranix struck him on the left side. “Don’t be insulting, Francis.” He blocked another attack, and then kicked at Francis’s knee. “I was never in the sideshow.” Francis crumpled. The staff greeted him in the chin as he dropped, and he fell backward. Veranix leaned over his unconscious body. “I was always the main attraction.”
Bell was up, weight on one leg, his sword out, but he hadn’t come closer.
“You again?” he asked.
“I didn’t have theater tickets,” Veranix said. “This show is much more interesting.”
“You can’t have the sack,” Bell said. “No chance.”
“Nasty bruise,” Veranix said. “Punishment for losing me last night?” With a magic-assisted jump, he did a double flip and landed on a support post near Bell. It was pure showmanship, intimidation. It worked. Bell’s face gave away his fear.
“Exactly.” He pointed his sword at Veranix, but still didn’t close the distance.
“Must have really flamed Fenmere, then,” Veranix said. “I take that sack, he’ll be fit to burn.”
“Not just him. You have no idea,” Bell said.
“I’ve got forty thousand ideas,” Veranix said. “If I give you a matching bruise on the other side of the head, you think he’ll forgive you?”
“You’ll have to kill me,” Bell said. His face was pale and clammy, and he was straining just to keep his sword up.
“Then I’d lose my favorite thug,” Veranix said. “Besides, who will tell Fenmere that I took his package?”
“Who are you?” Bell asked.
“Just the constant thorn in Fenmere’s side.” Veranix said.
He leaped at Bell, knocking the sword out of the way with the staff while kicking his face. At the same time, he magicked the floor beneath Bell to become slippery. Bell crumpled and crashed, dropping the sword, the breath knocked out of him. Veranix stayed standing on his chest.
“He’ll . . . find . . . you . . .” Bell managed to get out. “Destroy you . . . your family.”
“He already did,” Veranix said, and cracked the staff across Bell’s head.
Veranix grabbed the sack. Surprisingly, it was nearly dry, and was much lighter than Veranix expected. With another burst of magic, he leaped to a rooftop and headed west.
Chapter 5
VERANIX PUT SEVERAL blocks between himself and the docks before he stopped on the roof of a church. He climbed up to the belfry and looked back down to the street. No sign of anyone pursuing him. No sign of anyone looking up. He figured he was safe, at least for the moment.
He laughed quietly to himself. Souring a forty-thousand-crown deal was more than just giving Fenmere a bloody nose. That was some real damage, even if it wasn’t specifically hitting the effitte trade.
Veranix examined the sack. It was soft and light, like a laundress’s bag, no jars or glass vials. Veranix doubted that Fenmere spent forty thousand on washing his suits. It definitely wasn’t effitte, though, that was certain. He untied the knots holding the sack closed.
Inside the sack were a cloak and a rope.
That was unexpected.
For forty thousand crowns, there had to be more than just a cloak and a rope. Maybe Fenmere was smuggling something fragile, and these were used to protect the real merchandise. That made sense.
He grabbed the cloak and pulled it out of the sack. As soon as he touched it, he had a heady, giddy feeling. Energized, like he had just drunk several cups of tea. Or like he had pulled in numina without doing anything with it. He dropped the cloak, and the feeling went away. He touched the cloak again. Again, he felt it, definitely a numinic charge flowing up his fingers.
There was more to it, though. Veranix could sense it, though he wasn’t sure what he was sensing. His first thought was that the cloak was magical, but he dismissed that idea as ridiculous. Magicked things were incredibly rare, even forty thousand wouldn’t buy them. There was something about them, though, that had an aspect of magic. He wished he had Delmin’s gift for sensing numina.
He put down the cloak and picked up the rope. Again he felt a charge of magical energy crackling through his fingers, a connection between him and the rope. As easy as thinking about it, the rope came out of the sack, sliding into his lap. He could feel the rope, as if it were a part of his body, an extension of his arm.
There was a commotion on the street below. Someone was pounding on a door. “Open up!”
Veranix was startled, and the rope reacted. In an instant, it shot up, wrapping around one leg, an arm, a wooden crossbeam, the other leg. Before he realized it, Veranix was tied tight to the beam.
“Open!” yelled the man below. Were they knocking on the church door? Was it Fenmere’s men, looking for him? Would the reverend of this church let them in? Everyone else in Dentonhill was in Fenmere’s pocket, why not the clergy? Veranix couldn’t move, and every panicked thought just made the rope constrict tighter. He thrashed and pulled, but the rope moved with him, binding him further.
The pounding stopped, and the door opened. “Missed payments, Orly.”
“I know,” an old man’s voice said. “I’ve got some of it, but . . .”
“No but, Orly.” The sound of flesh hitting flesh. The old man cried out.
No one was coming for Veranix. That calmed him down, and the rope relaxed slightly. Not much, but enough that he could move. He twisted his left arm around behind his back, at an angle he could manage thanks only to his grandfather’s training. Painful, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it. The maneuver gave him a bit more mobility, and he was able to pull his arm out of the bindings.
Arm free, he grabbed on to the wooden crossbeam and pulled his body forward, sliding it out of the rope.
“No, I—” the old man cried out. “Please . . .”
“Too late for that.” More beatings.
That wouldn’t stand. Veranix put his hand on the rope, and focused, like he would to use any magic. He didn’t need to pull in any numina for this, the numina was almost falling into him. The challenge was to hold it back, tame it, shape it, force it to do what he wanted instead of overwhelming him.
The rope unwound, dropping him from the crossbeam. Veranix landed on his feet.
“This is what happens when you don’t pay!” The beater’s words were accentuated with punches. Veranix stood up and looked down to the street. The shop door stood open, the commotion inside clearly heard. Veranix spotted a house a few doors over, where someone looked out his window and then shut it.
What was wrong with the people in this neighborhood?
He couldn’t see the beater, not from up here. No way to get a clear shot with his bow. If he wanted to stop this, he’d have to go down there. If he did that, he could be spotted. After stealing forty thousand crowns’ worth of . . . whatever he stole, he didn’t need to risk pursuit or capture.
“Please, I can get it!” Hit. Hit. “Please!” Hit.
“Too late for that.”
Veranix had to go down there.
Veranix looked across the street and spotted a drying post on the roof of the building. He flirted with the idea of getting the rope looped around it so he could swing down to the ground. As the thought formed, the rope shot forth, wrapping tight around the post. Amazed, Veranix jumped out of the belfry, swinging on the rope toward the shop door. With the rope and his own magic, he slowed his descent to a gentle landing, the rope coiling back to his side as his feet touched the ground.
A muscle-bound goon held Orly, the old shopkeeper, up against the wall as he pummeled his face. The old man didn’t look like he could take much more, blood gushing from his mouth and nose.
“Enough of that,” Veranix said. The rope responded to his urges, flying into the shop and wrapping around the goon.
“Who?” the goon said as he looked at Veranix.
“Let’s take it outside.” Veranix yanked on the rope, half with the strength of his arm, half with magic. The goon was pulled off his feet, rocketing to the door. Veranix jumped out of the way at the last moment, and the goon shot out to land on the dusty cobblestone street. Veranix willed the rope to coil around his own body like a bandolier.
“You’re going to pay!” the goon said.
“I don’t have any coins.” Veranix drew his staff. “Will this do?”
The goon was not ready for someone who would give him a real fight. Veranix leaped in, staff spinning. He cracked the goon across the head, then flipped away. Dazed, the goon punched empty air.
“I’ll—”
“You’ll leave old shopkeepers alone,” Veranix said as he landed. He took hold of the rope again and magicked it to wrap around the goon. It flung out stronger and harder than Veranix intended, choking around the goon’s neck. The goon clawed at it, desperate to breathe. Veranix tried to pull back, but the numina was flowing hard, a raging river. Veranix felt himself getting lost in the wash of energy pounding his senses. He had to get control, anchor himself.
Veranix felt the rope constricting around the goon’s neck. Veranix forced the numina thundering through his body to submit, to be shaped by him rather than let it shape him. The rope was an extension of his arm, and he would have control over his arm.
The Thorn of Dentonhill Page 5