by eden Hudson
When we were seated at an inconspicuous point near the middle of the upper level, I started scanning the crowd. It was going to be a trick spotting Marinette in that writhing mass of humanity. Spectators were still pushing in, but the emcees announced the first fight. It wasn’t Sawtooth vs. Trocar, so I didn’t pay much attention as the first dog’s beautiful, sparkly, and scantily clad handler led him down the aisle to the cage.
“What’s with his neck?” Nick asked, raising his voice to be heard over the raucous howling of the crowd. “Is that…is he wearing armor?”
I glanced at Dog #1’s spinal spikes, then went back to scanning the crowd. “It’s strategically placed and sharpened metal, the better to tear his opponent to pieces with. Oh, and he’s had his jaw replaced with metal. Probably sharpened, too.”
“That’s legal?”
“No, Nickie-boy, this is all very illegal.” The crowd went nuts and I had to yell so Nick could hear me. “But the metal add-ons are well within the rules of dogfighting. As long as the dogs are still ninety percent natural and nobody poisoned their metal before a fight, they’re not cheating.”
Nick digested this, then turned back to watch the second competitor accompany his dainty, fake-jewel-encrusted handler to the cage. I took a quick break from scanning the crowd to appreciate the second handler’s enormous breasts. Each funbag was easily as large as her head, but perfectly proportioned. Her surgeon deserved every cent she’d paid for that plasty.
When the handlers had retreated safely to cageside, the heavy cast-iron door slammed shut. The clang of the door had the effect of a starter pistol. The dogs leapt at each other. The ensuing crash and scrape of metal on metal and metal on flesh rang out over the bloodthirsty howl of the crowd.
I didn’t cringe, but my skin crawled. It sounded like a head-on collision, like what had happened to me and the ’Shan, only worse.
Nick was watching the fight with a look of extreme concentration on his face.
I elbowed him in his massive triceps. “You’re supposed to be looking for Marinette.”
“Right,” he said without looking up. “But…there’s a lot of wasted potential there. If you could position the metal plates for optimal movement as well as to inflict passive damage…”
“Do you want that fragment of your soul back, Nick, or do you want to redesign metal add-ons?” I said. “Because I’ve never seen Marinette. I’m a blind, anosmic man playing Find the Vagina in the dark here.”
That got through his thick skull.
Nick started searching the crowd. “I’m looking.”
The first two fights passed without a Bwa Chech-sighting. Our big money round—Sawtooth vs. Trocar—had just started when Nick pointed down toward the ring.
“There,” he said. “That’s her. She just sat down between those guys right behind that handler.”
I raised my wristpiece, pretending to take a picture of the current dogfight, and snapped a shot of the private cageside box Nick was pointing to. I pulled up the picture and zoomed in on the tiny, dark-skinned woman in the bright red party dress smoking a black-papered cigarillo. Her cheekbones and chin stuck out like razors under her cool-toned purple-brown skin. She looked as if a hearty fuck would snap her in half—if her pelvic bone didn’t slice your dick off first.
Her twiggy wrists were completely bare of tech, but I asked Nick anyway.
“You’re positive this is her?”
Nick nodded. “Hundred percent. She’s even skinnier than I remembered.”
I touched my breast pocket, feeling the lump of the blood pill in there, but I didn’t take it. Marinette hadn’t given any indication of knowing that Nick—or anybody but the dogfighters—was there, and I didn’t want to waste my only neutralizer before it was necessary.
I kept an eye on her while Trocar wiped the cage with an increasingly lethargic Sawtooth. For such a scrawny chick, the Bwa Chech sure was energetic. When Trocar delivered the killing blow, slicing off half of Sawtooth’s face, Marinette threw her head back and screeched with delight. Obviously, the Courten witch’s divination had been right on target.
Which meant the divination of Marinette’s power was probably just as accurate.
My scalp and neck tingled with excitement. Later on tonight, I would be retrieving an invaluable magical item from a First Earth antisaint with centuries of demonic know-how at her skeletal fingertips.
Holy balls, I was the best thief in history. Not just since the Earth was revived, but ever. All of human history.
Don’t celebrate the lift before you’ve sold the item and removed every trace that you were ever involved, my father’s voice intruded. The only person who can catch you is you.
“Truer words, Lorne,” I breathed, my voice disappearing in the roar of the spectators. “Truer words.”
The greatest thief in human history wasn’t going to catch himself tonight.
***
Marinette had showed up late to the fights, and she lingered long after they were over.
Nick and I didn’t have any trouble blending in with the loiterers. Nearly half of the spectators hung around afterward, celebrating their favorite dogs’ victories or mourning their deaths, and mooning over the most beautiful handlers. Women by the score and plenty of men, too, slipped off to the dog cages to throw their genitalia into the ring for the customary post-show congratulatory copulation with the winners.
Marinette wasn’t part of that group, though she waved on several men and women who came to her wearing expressions of intense petition before disappearing in the direction of the dog cages. Forsaken initiates must’ve required their patron antisaint’s permission to screw walking scrap metal repositories.
Finally, when the majority of the crowd had drifted away and the janitorial staff began to filter in, the skinny Bwa Chech and the two men who’d been flanking her all night headed toward the old salt plant’s rear exit.
“This is it,” I told Nick, shoving him at the stairs. “Go out the front. Get a cab and take a tour of the city if you want to stay out of the rain, but stay mobile and keep an eye on your wristpiece. I’ll set mine to send you nav markers as I go. When I make it to her arachni-hole, I’ll message you the location. Then while I’m waiting for you, I’ll slip in, grab the soul jar, and slip back out. Do not come to me until I message you.”
Nick grunted. “I don’t like it. What if you get into trouble? If I’m not there—”
“Then you can’t be used against me.” I gave him a more forceful shove toward the stairs. “Who did you beg to do this job for you, Nickie-boy? Whose way did you promise to stick to?”
His pale gray eyes narrowed and his thin lips pressed together as if he were biting them inside.
“That’s what I thought,” I said. “Now get your fat ass out of here before she sees you or I lose her.”
NINETEEN:
Carina
Miyo found Yisu at the apothecary’s house the next day. Yisu’s burnt hand was wrapped in a green- and brown-pasted bandage that looked as if it would probably smell overpoweringly bitter in a version of the game with better sensographics. She was sorting one-handed through an army of multicolored jars of all shapes and sizes spread out across the floor.
“Hello,” Miyo said.
Yisu picked a square brown jar out of the multitude and headed for the shelf with it.
Miyo followed her. She knew the apothecary wasn’t home because she had waited patiently for the old woman to leave.
Yisu refused to look at Miyo. She shelved the brown jar at a spot that looked completely random.
“How’s your hand?” Miyo asked.
“Wonderful.” Yisu shoved back past Miyo to the jars on the floor. “Never better.”
Carina didn’t roll her eyes, but she did thank God that she wasn’t a teenager anymore.
“No need to thank me,” Miyo said, dripping sarcasm on everything.
Yisu plucked up a spherical blue jar with pewter feet on the bottom to keep it from rolling. “
Oh, excuse me, Priestess! Thank you for the worst pain I’ve felt in my entire life.”
“Did you want to die?” Miyo snapped. “Because if I hadn’t read Envishtu’s will in your hand, they would’ve burned your whole body to him. Eternal slave to Envishtu. Does that sound better to you?”
“Compared to—” With a visible effort, Yisu stopped herself. She slammed the blue jar onto a high shelf, then went back to get another.
“Compared to what?” Miyo demanded. “Compared to helping them make slaves? Compared to serving a cruel god against our very natures? Compared to living this lie for another day? Another minute?”
Yisu didn’t say anything, but her stiff shoulders lowered a bit. She sighed and picked up a deep green flask and checked that its carved wood stopper was tight.
“Did you… Did you want to die?” Miyo’s voice was soft this time. She wasn’t angry. She truly wanted to know.
Carina thought back to the first Tithe of the Gods ceremony she had been a part of. “Was it your first time mixing the Draught of Envishtu, Yisu? Or had you mixed it for the ceremony before, but never seen it forced down their throats?”
Yisu quit fiddling with the green flask. She didn’t move at all. When she turned around, tears stood out in the aquamarine depths of her eyes.
“Why did you do it?” Yisu asked. “Why didn’t you just tell them?”
Miyo sighed. “I’ve got enough blood on my hands. Envishtu has blessed me all I can stand. Kind of like you.”
Yisu’s brows pulled down into a glare. “You’ll be burned for blasphemy like that.”
“I haven’t been yet,” Miyo said. “And we both know what your hand said.”
Yisu is no longer Cautiously Curious about you.
Yisu is now Reluctantly Trusting toward you.
Carina smiled.
***
“So your plan is to, what?” Yisu asked, sitting cross-legged amidst the remaining bottles. “Tell them not to skin slaves anymore?”
Carina shook Miyo’s head. “It would never work if we tried to go that drastic, that suddenly. We need a slow build to a change. Start small. They’ve repented. They’ll want to give Envishtu the best of everything. They may even want to burn the slaves to him, just so he can see how committed they are. Is there any potion or draught you can make up that would make them think that was wrong?”
At first Miyo thought she would have to clarify what she meant by thinking something was wrong—it was a concept she had never heard anyone else in Tsunami Tsity discuss—but Yisu just nodded that she understood.
“In the old stories, Envishtu sometimes showed his displeasure through boils,” Yisu said. “Quatrefoil leaves give off an oil when crushed that irritates the skin and causes severe blistering within minutes. If some were to be mixed in with the Blood before you anointed the raiders, they would come back covered in boils before they even had time to reach another village. No raid, no slaves to sacrifice.”
“But how would I do it without getting covered in boils myself?” Miyo asked. “If I look like I’m displeasing Envishtu, too, then I can’t tell them what his judgment means.”
Yisu’s aquamarine eyes scanned the jars until she found a pink one with a tassel tied around the neck. She picked it up with her unbandaged hand and gave it to Miyo.
“When you hear the next raiding party start to form up, rub this all over your hands,” Yisu said. “Cover them. It will neutralize the quatrefoil.”
“Will it turn my hands pink?”
Yisu laughed, a tinkling sound punctuated with tiny snorts. “The color of the bottle is just for identification purposes. It’s axolotl venom. Completely colorless.” Then she turned serious. “But make sure you don’t have any wounds on your hands when you put it on. And don’t touch your face or mouth until after you’ve washed it off. It’s highly toxic.”
Carina slipped the bottle into the pocket of Miyo’s body-hugging skirt.
Congratulations, Miyo! You’ve made an Ally!
When the lettering disappeared, Yisu was staring at Miyo with those bright aquamarine eyes. “We’re really going to do this, aren’t we?”
“We’re the only ones who can,” Miyo said.
TWENTY:
Jubal
There’s an art to tailing people without being noticed, and like everything else I do, I am a master at it.
Some of it is palpable and distinct—watching for minute head movements that might suggest your target is about to turn around or look over their shoulder, keeping a minimum distance, frequently altering your appearance enough that the you they see now couldn’t possibly be the you they saw a few minutes ago, and above all, NEVER trying to hide, as even the unconscious inkling that your presence might not be completely coincidental can set off all sorts of internal alarms for people, even when they can’t put their finger on why.
But most of tailing is vague and intangible, more gut instinct than anything observable or concrete. Just feeling what to do and going with it.
I slipped into the crowd wandering toward the exits, staying well behind the Bwa Chech but keeping an eye on her and her two-man retinue. She had gotten a Jug’O’Rum somewhere and was taking swigs of it as she walked. She looked over her shoulder once as we made our way to the door. I let my eyes meet hers briefly before continuing on to the rest of the crowd. Neither an exaggerated stare nor a sudden jerk away. In spite of my eyes’ striking chocolate color, long lashes, and ruggedly handsome brows with a character-ridden scar—further emphasized by the brilliant white lighting in the old salt plant—Marinette didn’t seem to take any special notice of me beyond the brief but inevitable admiration.
She and her flunkies disappeared through the doors of the plant about twelve paces ahead of me. As soon as they crossed the threshold into the night, I silenced my wristpiece, started the nav marker that would alert Nick to my position, then whipped on my jacket and ventilator.
When I stepped out into the dark antemeridian rain, I was completely different from the handsome stranger with loud tourist shirt Marinette had seen inside. My eyes and hair and skin could be any color in the dark, everybody had on a jacket or coat, and several wore ventilators.
The main obstacle, as with every on-foot tail, would’ve come if Marinette had been handed into a waiting car. This was something I was prepared for, however. I opened my SilverPlatter app and did a quick load of all surrounding vehicles’ nav systems. All I had to do was tap the icon that corresponded to the vehicle Marinette left in and I would be able to track it to wherever it stopped.
But the emaciated Bwa Chech didn’t get into a car. She climbed onto the back of the larger, boxy man from her crew while the lankier one held an umbrella over her head.
Interesting. I turned to look down the street in the opposite direction, then shut off the SilverPlatter and set my nav app to send Nickie-boy my location every ninety seconds.
When I turned back, the big man had begun to jog down the street with Marinette on his back. Her other flunky kept pace alongside, holding the umbrella. Very interesting indeed.
I gave one last longing look around as if I were disappointed in whoever was supposed to pick me up. Then I set off walking down the street after the weird, galloping trio.
***
After Marinette and her makeshift ride left Crystebon’s waterfront industrial area, it became impractical for me to follow them at street level. The foot traffic had dwindled down to nothing. Additionally, Umbrella Guy’s job required him to run alongside Marinette and her man-pony while trying to hold the umbrella over her head, so he could easily have noticed me in his peripheral vision and wondered why some devilishly handsome stranger was walking the same direction they were now that everybody else inconspicuous had disappeared.
When they took a corner more than a block ahead of me, I shot down an alley, climbed up onto a dumpster’s lid, pulled down the ladder of a rusty fire escape, and sprinted up the three flights of stairs.
By the time I made it to the roo
f, I was out of breath, but I spotted the galloping trio without any trouble. The deserted, dimly lit street below lent an air of eeriness to a sight that would have been funny under other circumstances. My breath steamed out into the night as I watched them. Big guy carrying a skeletal woman on his back while another guy ran alongside keeping her ladyship out of the rain. Hilarious, right? But watching the scene play out in real time, knowing what she was, made my spine shiver under my skin.
A clop-clop-clop echoed up from the street.
My eyes traced the man-pony’s tailored slacks down to the bare feet poking out the bottom. Stuck to the pale sole of each foot was a curved piece of metal that threw sparks every time it hit the sidewalk.
A horseshoe.
I swallowed and shook out my shoulders to dispel another shudder.
Down below, Marinette dug her heels into her man-pony’s butt. He broke into a hobbling, painful-looking run.
I hopped down from the flat roof I was on to the lower, pitched roof of the building beside it. My sneaks slid for a heartbeat on the wet slate, then caught. Leaning into the slope, I climbed up, then ran along the ridgeline. The slate roof jagged off into a pair of doglegs. I took the northerly one, careful to keep Marinette in my sight.
I had to run and jump to the next building—a gap of what looked like three feet, but felt like a thousand on tired legs. I hit the roof on the other side, skidding again in the runoff from the rain.
Once I got my PCM cured, I needed to exercise more regularly. The best thief in history shouldn’t be exhausted after climbing a few roofs.
You’d think the PCM would have pared away some of that festering flab, my father’s voice said. It’s just like you to out-eat the disease that’s eating you alive.
I ignored him. Marinette took a left turn, so I climbed up and over the peak of the roof, then went into a controlled skid down the other side. There weren’t any buildings or nearby cranes or scaffolding to help me cross the street, so I clambered down the downspout at the corner of the building. My sneaks sunk into the marshy rectangle of weeds masquerading as a yard.