“Vee, Vee, Vee!” they chanted.
“Hey now, hey now,” Veranix said, tweaking his voice just enough with magic to drown them out. “I won’t do that in this fine establishment. The proprietors would not appreciate it. And we should appreciate them. To our hosts!”
“Hosts!” they all shouted, and mugs went up and slammed down again. Tosler added, “More all around!” while pulling another fifty-crown note out of his pocket.
The barman made a hissing noise at Veranix and beckoned him over. Veranix leaned in, and the barman passed over the plate of sausage sandwiches that Veranix had ordered earlier.
“Thanks,” Veranix said.
“Oy,” the barman said. “You’re gonna let your brother know we were good to you and yours, yeah?”
“My brother?” Veranix asked. That was jarring. He hadn’t seen one hair of Soranix in five years. The idea that he was in Maradaine, in Aventil, was more than a little disturbing. “What do you know of my brother?”
“The Prince captain who’s always here,” the barman said. “We treat him good and you as well, and there’s no trouble.”
Veranix sighed. They were on Orchid. He didn’t even think of that. Of course Colin had been spending time in this pub.
“I’ll . . . I appreciate it,” he said to the barman. He picked up the first sandwich and was about to bite into it when he felt someone move up close next to him.
“That looks good,” a soft female voice said. “Care to give me a bite?”
Veranix stopped short, surprise freezing him. This woman—long dark hair, sultry eyes, and creamy olive skin—made his heart skip just at a glance. Gorgeous, in a strangely familiar way.
“A what of huh?” he said, all composure leaking out his brain. “I’m sorry, I mean. . . . You are?”
She leaned in, grabbing one sandwich, and whispered, “Help a girl out, hezzah? There’s a Pirrell boy in the corner whose been gawking at me.”
“Sure,” he said, brain still reeling, not catching up with other parts of his body. He turned around casually, noting there was a lone boy in Pirrell maroon and gray leaning against the far wall, nursing a beer, staring intently at this young woman. Then he looked back at her, really seeing her. She was wearing a Royal College of Maradaine uniform. “You’re on the wrong side of the river.”
“I’m where the action is,” she said. “That’s where my feet took me, all the way here.” She bit deeply into the sandwich, and then wiped the juice off her chin with the back of her hand.
“You cross over the bridge for the games?”
“No, for the sausages,” she said dryly.
“Right, of course,” he said, taking the sandwich back from her. “I meant, you competing, or you just here to watch?”
He took a bite, doing his damned best to not look like a fool with sausage grease on his face or onion in his teeth.
“Compete,” she said. “Floor and Beam, over the next five days.”
“An acrobat?” he asked. She had the figure for it, and her arms were muscled like any he had seen in the circus days.
“Gymnast,” she said. “At least that’s what the Unis call it. They’re not tenters like you.”
“You calling me a tenter?” he asked. And she said “hezzah” before?
“You have that look about you,” she said. “I mean, you look like one of these Maradaine kids, but you’ve got Racq in your blood.”
That’s why she looked familiar. She was also Racquin, or at least was raised it. Like him, she looked enough like the regular Druth that she passed it off.
“Veranix Calbert,” he said, extending a hand.
“Sescha, Veranix,” she said. “You don’t even hide it, do you?”
“My name’s my name,” he said, hand still held out. “You are?”
“Emilia Quope,” she said, taking his hand in return. “At least, that’s the name I use at school.”
“What’s your real name?” he asked quietly.
She leaned in, almost close enough for her lips to brush his ear. “I don’t give that easily.”
Veranix pulled back slowly, and let his eyes stay locked on hers. “I can be patient.”
“Pirrell boy still staring?” she asked.
Veranix let his gaze dart away for a moment. “Ravenously.”
“Creepy,” she said.
“To the Rose & Bush!” Blute shouted from the main table. The rest of the squad slammed down the last of their drinks and got to their feet.
“Your party is leaving,” she said.
“Apparently so,” Veranix said. Though the last thing he wanted to do at this very moment was step away.
“Well then,” she said, taking his sandwich from his hands. “I guess it’s to the Rose & Bush. Shall we?”
Lilac Street was a new kind of crowded mess, the likes of which Benvin had never seen before. Frankly, he hadn’t been warned about what this was going to be, and it made him incredibly angry.
The University had arranged to block off streets for the Endurance Run—seventeen and a half miles’ worth, ranging through Gelmoor, down south through Laramie, Reining, and the Colton neighborhoods, and then turning back up Waterpath to finish on Lilac right in front of the gates.
So in addition to keeping the general madness of the Tournament under wraps, Constabulary had to block off streets, guide traffic, and keep the crowd on the sidelines from being a menace. All while coordinating that effort with four other houses. Holcomb didn’t bother to mention any of this to Benvin and the other lieutenants until this morning, so they all had to scramble to get the work done. The fact that U of M won its match in tetchball didn’t help.
Captain Holcomb assigned Benvin and his people—including the cadets, because it was all-boots-out time—at the heart of the madness, the finish line of the Endurance. Barricades kept the fans and onlookers on the walkways, the crowd pressed tight against each other in near frenzy. And this was before the runners even arrived.
“At least we’ve got a good view of the finish line,” Mal said.
“That hardly matters,” Benvin said. “We got word on when the runners will come?”
“Not yet, Left,” Mal said. “Jace hadn’t come back.”
“Right,” Benvin said, grumbling. He glanced through the crowd. A whole mix of students, professors, Aventil locals, and who even knew what. Then he spotted a bunch of rose tattoos over near the gates.
“Mess of Princes,” he said to Mal. “Where’s the rest of our squad?”
“Lost sight of them,” Mal said. “Except Saitle. He’s near the gates.”
“Stay here, and call Saitle over. I’m going to talk to those Princes.”
“Don’t do nothing stupid, Left.”
Benvin frowned at Mal while he wormed his way through the crowd to the Princes. There were about six of them, and they seemed to be focused in purpose, leading a group of out-of-towners through the crowd.
“Oy,” Benvin said, tapping the one with the captain stars on her shoulder. “What do you think you’re up to?”
“Helping you out, stick,” she said like a whip. She gestured for him to join her under the awning of one of the shops.
“What makes you think you’re helping me out?” he snarled at her.
“Listen, you have a mess of a crowd here for the Endurance, and that’s boss, but you also got folks who just want to get around town to the pubs.”
“Well, they’re going to have a tough time with that.”
“See, that’s where me and my crew come in. Safe walks for Uni kids is what we do, Left. We’re getting them through the crowd to where they want to go.”
“And find their purse missing when they get there.”
“No jot, Left. Nothing of the sort,” she said. “We’re helping out the neighborhood, just like you.”
“D
on’t you dare say you’re like me, Prince,” Benvin said. “What’s your name?”
“Deena,” she said. “You think I done something wrong, Left, then throw on the irons. But all we’re doing is helping folks get around. Making your life easier.”
“I don’t need you to—”
“Hey, look sharp,” she said. “First racers are coming in.”
“How do you—”
“Got ears, Left,” she said. She pointed down Lilac. With a wink she slipped into the crowd, and Benvin lost sight of her. He couldn’t pursue her, not with the first runners about to approach.
He pushed back to his position. “We got them coming in?” he asked Mal, who now stood with Saitle.
“Haven’t heard yet,” Mal said. “No sign of Jace or the rest.”
“Something’s coming,” Saitle said, peering down the street. “Crowd’s agitated.”
“Why are—” Benvin asked when it became apparent. Clouds of colored smoke filled the street, bursting forth in quick succession, approaching the finishing line. “Sharpen up.”
He pulled out his handstick, hearing the thunder of hooves from inside the smoke. A horse burst forth out of the closest cloud, with a rider in a maroon cloak on top. As soon as the horse was clear, the rider leaped off, flipping in the air and landing gracefully on his feet, a fighting staff drawn.
The Thorn.
“Constabulary!” he said joyfully. “Just what I was hoping to find!”
Benvin didn’t look to see if Mal or Saitle were with him—of course they would be. “Take him down, irons on!” he shouted, and charged in.
The Thorn had suddenly ridden into the middle of the square, and was fighting Constabulary. It was impossible. Delmin knew it was impossible.
This was not Veranix in the middle of the street, goading the Constabulary to fight him. The smoke was not magic, either. There was nothing magic at all here, no numinic flow around the person purporting to be the Thorn. Knowing these things didn’t make watching it any easier for Delmin.
“Saints, is this really happening?” Garibel asked.
“I don’t know,” Delmin said, transfixed. He really couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“Ha ha!” the ersatz Thorn shouted, spinning his staff around and cracking it across the skull of the Constabulary cadet who had charged in on him. “Come on, sticks, I don’t have all night!”
The two other constables—one a patrolman, the other a lieutenant—were on this imposter with their handsticks. The false Thorn parried both of their attacks, spinning his staff faster than Delmin could see. Whoever this fraud was, he could move like Veranix. He knocked the patrolman off his feet, letting him concentrate his attention on the lieutenant.
“Shouldn’t we do something?” Dannick asked.
The fake Thorn was now striking at the lieutenant brutally. The lieutenant had held his own defense briefly, but soon the barrage of attacks was too much for him. The imposter cracked the lieutenant across the arm, knocking the handstick to the ground. With the constable disarmed, the fake Thorn smashed the lieutenant across the skull, and then whipped the staff around to do the same to the other side.
The constable dropped to his knees, clearly dazed out of his senses. The staff came up high, and was about to brain the man.
Despite himself, Delmin jumped out into the street and fired a blast of white and blue sparks and flame at the imposter. Doing even that made his knees buckle, and he almost dropped right next to the fallen lieutenant. The fraud dropped the staff to cover his eyes, backing off from his attack. Delmin knew he didn’t have much power behind what he just did, and the fake Thorn was more surprised than injured. Nothing Delmin could have done would have really hurt him; he simply wasn’t that magically strong. He was already winded, heart thundering in his chest.
But this fake Thorn had no way of knowing that.
“Not another step,” Delmin said, holding up his hands in something that might seem menacing. “That was a warning.”
The patrolman jumped up on the fake Thorn, trying to grapple him to the ground. The imposter was having none of that, twisting his body in such a complicated way that the patrolman was flipped over and thrown off. The patrolman rolled with it and was back on his feet, ready to give this fake another round.
But the fake Thorn had his bow out, and put an arrow in the patrolman’s chest.
And then another.
And then a third.
It all happened too fast for Delmin to even react or understand what was happening before it was too late. If he were a better mage, a stronger one, maybe he could have knocked those arrows out of the air before they—
They killed the patrolman.
This was the vase exercise all over again, and like every damn time in practicals, Delmin had failed.
Except the vase was a man.
The imposter turned to the lieutenant, arrow nocked.
Delmin made his hands glow, which was all he had strength left to do. Even that made him feel like a gust of wind would knock him down, but he kept up a stern face. “Don’t even try.” He was angry enough to make it sound like something resembling a threat.
The fake Thorn—whose face was obscured by hood and a mask over his mouth and nose, nothing at all like Vee’s magical shadow—winked at Delmin. “I suppose it’s good enough.”
Suddenly more bursts of colored smoke appeared around him—nothing magical, Delmin would feel that—and when they cleared away, he was gone.
Delmin dropped the glow and let himself fall to his knees. Glancing around, the crowd was still in a stunned stupor. The constable cadet was laid out on the ground, blood trickling from his head. The patrolman was clearly dead. Delmin looked to the lieutenant, with great purple welts on either side of his head. One eye was open, spinning wildly in its socket, while the other was shut.
Delmin turned to Garibel and Dannick. “Yellowshields! Hurry!”
The two of them ran off, while the rest of the crowd stood in stunned silence.
Delmin glanced at them all—hundreds of people—and realized that each and every one of them would swear blind to every saint that the Thorn just assaulted two Constabulary officers and murdered a third.
Delmin was the only one who knew that wasn’t the truth, but there was no way he could possibly make anyone else believe that. Not without telling the whole truth.
And the whole truth wouldn’t be any better for Veranix. No matter what, he was doomed.
Chapter 5
DAWN CREPT INTO Veranix’s awareness like a thief, bringing him out of a deep, restful slumber, the likes of which he hadn’t had in as long as he could remember.
He had no idea where he was.
There was a blur of events in his memory, which involved various pubs in Aventil, several beers, and a stunning young woman.
A stunning Racquin young woman.
Emilia. That he remembered. That was why he had ended up drinking more beers than he had ever intended. Because she was.
It looked like he was in a dormitory room, but it certainly wasn’t his. It wasn’t even Almers—the paint of the plaster walls was a warmer shade of beige, the woodwork was a little more refined. The differences were subtle but noticeable.
“Morning,” a soft voice said near him. “Vek se voa?” How are your feet? She spoke in Sechiall, the Kellirac tongue Veranix associated with his grandfather and the old Racquin at the circus.
“Khe nias ra,” he replied. They’ll keep moving. That exhausted most of his Sechiall, but there was also something familiar about the exchange that he couldn’t put his foot on.
“Glad to hear it,” she said, pulling herself up to sit. They were definitely in the bed together. His clothing was definitely in a pile over across the floor. As was his rucksack with the cloak and the rope. At least he had managed to hold on to that.
“Where are we and when did we end up here?”
“We’re in my room,” she said. “Or rather, the room they put me in on your campus for the Tournament. My room is across the river, and you were in no state to stumble that far. Nor was I.”
“So how did we get past the prefects and floor matrons?” he asked. “I mean, even in the summer, there’s rules about boys in the ladies’ dorms.”
“You were ranting for a while about having a flop in Aventil that we couldn’t use,” she said.
“I loaned it to some friends,” he said.
“Yes, Phadre and Jiarna. I remember that. You mentioned them quite a few times.”
“Your memory is remarkably clearer than mine,” Veranix said.
She leaned down and kissed him, slowly and softly. “Do you remember that?” she whispered.
“It has a vague familiarity that I’m willing to keep exploring,” he said with a smile.
“Good,” she said. “But I imagine those prefects and floor matrons are already up and about, with watchful ears.” She paused and laughed. “Or whatever phrase would work for ears.”
“Attentive,” Veranix offered.
“Attentive,” she said, grabbing a shift off the end of the bed and pulling it on. She dropped down off the bed with a preternatural grace.
“How did we avoid them before?” he asked.
“We’re on the second floor,” she said, “Which you declared as ‘child’s play,’ and scrambled up the wall to the window.”
That memory found its way back to Veranix’s mind. As did several others.
She began a series of floor stretches, not unlike the ones Veranix usually did, the ones his grandfather had taught him since he was a child.
“When’s your match?” he asked.
“Over the next three days, first round is this afternoon at two bells,” she said absently. “And I should probably go to training for a while.” She stood up and began working balances.
“I should—get on a few things as well,” he said casually. She seemed to have shifted her focus to her exercises, and he was probably overstaying his welcome.
The Imposters of Aventil Page 7