by Julia Knight
He lifted the blade and prepared himself. Icthian style, always the best.
Kacha hesitated – she’d been ready to go for the magician’s throat, blade or not, until Vocho staggered in between with a murderous look on his face and a sword in his hand. The depth of that look, the truth of it, had her take a step back. She knew he hated her at times, just as she hated him. She knew he’d tripped her into the river, but he’d regretted it, she was sure from his panic when he’d pulled her out. He did all his petty little things to thwart her, or had done until that had all unaccountably stopped. This was more. This was all that nebulous hate hardened into a point like steel, and yet she wasn’t sure it was his; more like the magician’s at his back. Now a lot became clearer, like how and why Vocho had murdered that priest.
That revelation wasn’t going to help her now. Now she had Vocho in front of her, ready to kill her. Worse, Petri was at her back, and he had a sword.
Until he didn’t. A flicker of movement caught her eye, and she grabbed the sword as it flew past. Longer than she was used to, heavier, but she’d make do. She didn’t think then why Petri had thrown it, though it would trouble her badly later. For now she had worse things to worry about, foremost that she hadn’t beaten Vocho in years. Partly because she didn’t want to give away that she was Eneko’s assassin, and partly because she knew how much he wanted to win, how much of him was bound up in it, that it would crush him to lose. That thought was closely followed by the realisation that she’d probably have to kill him to beat him.
She didn’t have time for anything more than that because Vocho was on her, leading with a vicious slash to the face that would have killed her if it had hit home. She managed to dodge back, but speed wasn’t enough against Voch, it never was. He won because he was good. He came at her again, a series of lunges and thrusts that came close to turning her into a pin cushion. Vocho’s main advantages weren’t accuracy or technique, but strength and the ability to do just what you weren’t expecting. He never telegraphed a move, ever, and that was going to kill her like as not. Unless she did the same. No guild, no rules.
He came for her again, and she managed a sidestep, brought her sword around and got him a crack across the cheek with the pommel before she leaped back out of his reach. It didn’t seem to affect him at all, except to bring a snarl to his lips.
This isn’t Vocho. This isn’t the vain, grandstanding dick I know and love. He’s not fighting the way he can, the way he should if he’s really trying to kill me. If he was trying, I’d be dead.
Smoke obscured his face as he circled her, trying to find another opening, but she was sure he was sweating far more than he should, and there was something wrong with his eyes. Very wrong, as though he was both here and dreaming some vile dream.
Another flurry of blows, a desperate parry by her that numbed her arm, and then she saw it – as he twisted away, ready for another round, she glimpsed his back. Between his shoulder blades was a dark pattern, some sort of tattoo that moved and writhed.
Dimly she recalled Dom wittering on about magical tattoos, about a constant blood supply to keep the magic strong.
The heavier sword was beginning to tell on her, and she still didn’t know how to get out of this with both her and Vocho alive until, through the thickening smoke, she caught sight of the man behind him. A man with writhing patterns on his hands and a dark shine to his eyes. Beyond him she could dimly make out another figure, a woman with matching patterns on her hands. Controlling Vocho, like they had before, perhaps, when he’d killed that priest.
He came again, a great overhand blow that missed her by a scant inch, left him wide open, and left her in no doubt that this wasn’t Vocho – he’d never have given her that opening. As if to confirm this, a whimper escaped his clenched teeth.
Behind her Petri grunted at the sound of a fist hitting flesh, followed by a high pitched gasp. Licio wasn’t anyone she needed to fret about, by the sounds of it, though Petri himself remained a worry. So was the man behind Vocho – the magician, had to be. And now Vocho’s moves were turning them in a slow circle, bringing her closer to him.
The smoke was making it hard to breathe, and it was getting hotter by the second. She had to finish this, quick, before the fire finished them all. The magician was focused on Vocho, on his swordplay. On controlling him, she had no doubt. The man’s face had grown gaunt and grey, perhaps from some sort of strain. But he wasn’t paying much attention to her, that was the thing. So when Vocho came for her again, teeth gritted and eyes wild, she stepped back out of his path and brought her sword around straight at the magician. Who suddenly wasn’t there any more.
All that was left was a burning piece of paper which fell and ignited the rushes he’d been standing on. Flames leaped at her feet, joining with other smaller blazes, and heat hammered at her face and back. The fire now surrounded them on all sides.
Vocho slumped to the floor with suspiciously damp eyes.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Vocho blinked hard to clear the sweat from his eyes. The pain was ebbing as fast as it had come, and breathing was no longer white-hot agony. Red hot was bad enough, but he’d take it. He blinked again, went to scrub a hand over his eyes and found a sword in it. How had that got there? Where were the chains? And why was it so hot in here?
A hand grabbed him by the shoulder and he managed to stagger to his feet. The world didn’t seem much better from up here from what he could see, which wasn’t much because he appeared to be standing in the middle of a fire – a tad irresponsible even for him – and what he could see was bleary with orange-tinted smoke.
“Voch, come on!”
Hands pulled at him – Kacha’s hands. He’d been supposed to do something, hadn’t he? With the sword. Something important, but she wasn’t letting him. Petri bloody Egimont’s horsey face loomed out of the smoke, and Vocho had just enough time to wonder what in seven hells he was doing here before he was shoved towards a corner that seemed less smoky than the rest. Petri said something which Vocho didn’t catch, and then Kacha shoved at him again and they were on some stairs heading up into more smoke.
Vocho’s brain had been stirred with a big stick, or that’s what it felt like. He lost track of where he was, who he was with, what he was supposed to be doing. The whole world seemed to be made of thick black smoke that made breathing into wheezing gasps. Once or twice he caught a glimpse of a face covered by a sleeve or mask. It all seemed like that dream where he was running and running and never got to where he was going. Someone said something in front of him; another replied from behind. One of them was Kacha, and that relieved him. One of her more annoying features was always knowing what to do.
Finally they were out in fresh air that stung his lungs and made him cough out smoke until his eyes almost popped. His head cleared, a bit, and he found he was sitting on some grass that felt cool under his hands, though the world looked like it was sliding sideways. Probably his head needed to clear a bit more.
Whispers behind him seemed insubstantial at first, before they turned solid in his head. Kacha and Petri. Arguing at first, but then… but then a long silence that seemed to echo inside him. Petri Egimont helping to save him. He’d never live it down. He turned his head, ready to give the man a piece of his mind about that and every other sodding thing that had happened over the last couple of weeks, and longer, but his mouth clicked shut on his words.
They were somewhere outside, in some sort of garden. Cospel was there, sooty faced, looking nervous, helping him up. His eyebrows were talking again, but gods knew what about. Away to the left, though not far enough away for Vocho’s liking, a building was having a merry time as it burned down. None of that had shut him up.
There are some things a brother should never have to see his sister do, or even think about her doing. The way Kacha was looking at Petri bloody Egimont was one such thing. He was saying something, too low for Vocho to hear, and she was wavering, he could see it.
“It’s to
o late now. It’s been too late for me for a while,” Petri said loud enough for Vocho to hear now and put something in her hand. “But I meant this.”
She opened her hand, but try as he might Vocho couldn’t see what was in it.
Then it really was too late, which was a relief – for a minute he thought she was going to give in and he’d have to deal with Petri in his life again. A shout came from the smoke behind them, and there was the clicking crank of a gun being wound – two guns, three. Vocho staggered to his feet, almost fell over again and held on to a handy tree.
“Kass! If you’re quite finished talking to that walking arsehole?”
Egimont held up his hands in surrender. “You’d best go.”
“Who goes there?” came from the darkness.
“Now.” Egimont said. “Quickly! If they find you, I can’t stop them.”
Kacha looked up at Petri, and Vocho really didn’t need to see that, or worse the fleeting kiss that left Egimont looking as startled as a shying horse.
A last look, and then Egimont stepped smartly past Vocho and disappeared into the smoke. “Petri Egimont,” he said to the unseen guards. “I have the king here – he’s unconscious but I think he’ll be fine. I need some help getting him to the surgeons. This way.”
Kacha propped Vocho up, Cospel on his other side as they headed as quickly as they could in the opposite direction. Not easy when everything was still tilted and Vocho’s legs weren’t working properly yet, but everyone else seemed to be concentrating on what had happened to the clockwork so didn’t pay them much mind.
He had no idea how much later it was that he was sitting on a jetty down by the docks, lungs heaving, eyes clearing. He still had the sword in one sweat-slicked hand and on his back the faintest memory of pain, fading now like the night as dawn grew.
Kacha flopped down next to him, soot-streaked and sweaty, and dangled her legs over the edge of the jetty for all the world like they were children again and deciding what game they might play. She sneaked him a sidelong look, and the doubt in it panicked him a little. “Are you you again?” she asked.
“Have I ever been anyone else?”
Her sudden grin comforted him – familiar and reassuring, though it also meant tread carefully. “You did try to kill me. Again. I suppose that’s not really an answer, but you sound like you.”
He looked down at the sword in his hand, then back at her, all his old pride coming back in a rush. “Pfft. If I’d really been trying, I would have done it. You were lucky; I was having an off day.”
Her laugh echoed among the ships berthed in front of them, and the echo spread, made gulls take to the air and sleepy sailors on watch look over at them. It was an odd laugh – relief but with a note of something else.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted. It sounded pathetic.
Her laughter died away. “Are you? For what? Voch… Voch, I’d no right. Not to blow up at you like that. Not really, because you’re not the only one with secrets, eh?”
“They thought I was the assassin,” he said. “Eneko’s personal killing machine. I don’t remember much, but I do dimly recall that. I never even knew he had a personal assassin. And it was you, wasn’t it? For what it’s worth, I’d never have guessed. Not until Alicia told me, or hinted at it. You were always so touchy about the killing part.”
“Eneko always made out that they were not good people, and I trusted him. Besides, guild master’s apprentice, who wouldn’t want that? But towards the end I was starting to get suspicious because of Petri. I was right to, it seems. Not all the children on Apprentice Day go to the guild – the man’s a bloody slaver, Voch. Not only that. Eneko said all those dark jobs came from the prelate. Taking out slavers and the like. Taking out Bakar’s supporters for Eneko more like, slowly getting himself more of an edge. He wanted to rule Reyes himself, still does, and he was using me to do it. And I was blind because he was… I missed Da when we came to the guild, missed him something awful. I wanted Eneko to be my new da, someone to be good for, strive for, so I let him blind me, believed every word he said. I was a fool.”
Vocho shivered. “God’s cogs, Kass. And you couldn’t tell me?”
She laughed again, and that was more like the old Kacha he knew, the one before Petri bloody Egimont, before she’d been Eneko’s apprentice. The one who laughed more than she frowned. Still, he noted that she appeared to be wearing a ring again, Petri’s ring. He hoped like hells this didn’t mean Petri would be any part of his life, even peripherally.
“Voch, why do you think I let you win when we sparred?”
“You did not!”
“Did too, and I’ll prove it just as soon as you’re up to the challenge.”
They sat in silence a while, watching the city as crowds of people worked to unkink the mechanism – he had to ask her how in hells that had happened – and the streets moved back into their proper positions for the Threeday. The fallout from the jammed mechanism spilled everywhere – smoke over half the city, blank-eyed men and women milling up by the Clockwork God, the racheting sedans they used for taking clockers to the hospital working like the clappers. The word had got about that the prelate had ordered the hospital to treat any injured for free in the emergency, and the place was black with people, some of whom were after free medicine for warts or squinty eye or this funny itch they’d had just lately.
“What in hells happened, Kass? Are we safe for now?”
“I wish I knew. It should have been me, Voch. Dom said – and you’ll never believe who Dom actually is. They wanted to use Eneko’s assassin to murder Bakar. Maybe they were going to blame it on him, take out the guild that way. It should have been me with that tattoo, and I don’t think I’d have done any better.” A pleading sort of look from her, one he’d never seen before. “I’m not perfect, and I never wanted to be. I just thought it was the only reason Da and Eneko loved me.”
The closest he’d ever get to an apology, but that was OK. He thought everything might be OK after this. He wasn’t even slightly tempted to shove her off the jetty. Not today at least. “Yeah, well I never wanted to be the idiot either. We can swap places if you like – I don’t mind.”
A snorting laugh and they were children again sitting on the jetty working out what game to play. Those had been the best times, before they got to hating each other, before things had turned sour inside for both of them.
She reached inside her shirt – it had once been bright blue but was now more sludge grey – and pulled out a leather pouch. He recognised it as the one she used to keep kindling and tinder dry when they were on the road. It was dripping water.
“I think all those papers got a bit buggered in the river.”
“Looks that way. You were in the river?” That didn’t seem likely; after Vocho’s little escapade she’d made sure never to get too close.
“Only way out of the Shrive.”
“You escaped from the Shrive? Looks like you’ve got a lot to tell me. So what now? No papers, no proof, no nothing. Oh, and that magician is still alive, and he’s not going to be happy with us and what we know, not to mention we’re still wanted for murder.”
“You are, Voch. You are. I, however, have a possible invitation to go back to the guild.”
“Going to take it?”
“Not bloody likely.”
He watched her carefully and couldn’t decide how he wanted this conversation to end. Kacha, sister, bane of his bloody life, and she always had his back. Always that. “Why did you come and get me?” he asked. He’d not wanted to ask, but he’d always regret not knowing if he didn’t. “I ruined your life – you made that perfectly clear – got you thrown out of the guild and all that business with Petri. So why did you bother?”
She raised the unfamiliar sword in her hand. “Voch, you may be a lying little shit but so am I, and we’re blood. Blood is everything. Da taught me that, and you too in a different way. If anyone is going to kill you, it’ll be me. But probably not today. Probably.”
>
“Kass—”
“Did you know about Dom?” she asked. “Narcis Donat Chimo Ne Farina es Domenech. Missed one name out though, the important one. Jokin. Might be a handy man to have around.”
“I’m sorry. Dom is Jokin?”
“Oh yes, Dom. He showed quite a different side to him after you got taken. He’s in the Shrive.” She sneaked a peek at his back. “Looks like it’s fading. Sabates is too far away perhaps?”
“What’s fading? Kass, you are being so annoying I may have to try to kill you again.”
“The tattoo. Dom said, remember?”
“Not really.”
“How they made you kill the priest and try to kill me.”
“I told you. If I wanted to, I could kill you right now.” Although he wasn’t so sure all of a sudden. Fragments of memory kept coming back to him – a dark voice in his head telling him to kill her; it was for her own good and then he’d be the greatest duellist who ever lived; wanting to believe it, tempted to do it.
Another silence, a loaded one that Vocho didn’t want to break, but circumstances – a phalanx of guards in the prelate’s colours coming down the road – made him.
“What now? Are you going to tell me what the hells just went on?”
Kacha watched the guards as they made their way along the road, accosted every step by another person wanting to know what had happened, what was going to happen, and hefted the sword in her hand.
“Eventually. Most of it. First I say we get Cospel to find the horses.”
Vocho eyed Cospel, who was being suspiciously quiet. “And the gold, don’t forget that.”
He thought he might be getting the hang of eyebrow as a language. At the moment they seemed to indicate he should ask Kacha about the gold, so he did.
“Ah. Yes. Tiny little problem about the gold,” she said. “Though since the clockwork’s still seized, I’m sure Cospel can find it. Somewhere. If it hasn’t all been stolen. Can’t you, Cospel?”