She turned her head to him, without wavering from the one-footed bird pose she was in. “You don’t need to run off, not if you don’t want to.”
“I don’t want to,” he said with a grin. “But if I have to go out the window, I should probably do it before there are too many people wandering about outside.”
She nodded. “Of course. But I will be seeing you around?”
He got out of the bed and started to pick up his clothes. “Well, I know where to find you, with only a bit of a climb.”
“I certainly won’t complain if you climbed in sometime after midnight,” she said. She switched legs in her pose. This time she winced and wobbled a bit.
Veranix pulled on his trousers. “Problem with your right foot?”
“A bit,” she said. “Twisted it on a bad landing from a sloppy Pantix Throw a couple months ago.”
That triggered another memory—doing a sloppy Pantix Throw in the midst of a crisis. A couple of months ago. In which the woman he had thrown up landed badly. But that would mean she was—
“I’m just glad it’s healed enough—what?”
Veranix’s face must have shown what he was thinking.
“Nothing,” he said, regaining his composure. He pulled on his shirt and vest and grabbed the rucksack. “I just was—nothing. It was stupid.”
Recognition crossed her face. “And that’s been your theme for the night?” she asked tentatively.
Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and her stance changed from one of graceful balance to poised for a fight.
Veranix snatched up the rucksack, his fists balled up and ready.
“Well,” she said coolly, “I guess you’ve figured out one of my other names, Thorn.”
Veranix didn’t even stay to retort. With a burst of magic he blew the window open and dove through it before she could say anything else. As he dropped to the ground, he pulled the cloak out of the rucksack and magicked it around him. He shrouded into near-invisibility while landing softly, and ran off as fast as he could until he reached Almers.
Leaning against the wall of his home dorm, he took a moment to glance back where he came from. He wasn’t being pursued, at least not that he could tell. But it didn’t matter. She knew who he was, where he lived, everything about him. Saints only knew what he had babbled about during the night.
He felt like kicking himself. The whole night he kept thinking there was something familiar about her but couldn’t figure out what it was. Now he knew. Just a few months ago she was trying to kill him.
Blackbird.
He had spent the night with Blackbird.
This had to rank among the stupidest things he had ever done. And that was an already impressive collection of idiocy.
Veranix was ready to head to the bathhouses and scrub himself within an inch of his life when he noticed a ribbon tied around the tree branch next to the entrance of Almers Hall. Signal from Kaiana. Maybe she found something out, which was more than he had managed to do for the past day.
Grumbling to himself, Veranix stalked down the lawn, early rising athletes already working their exercises in preparation for their Tournament events. There were more than a few runners, probably training for the Quint. There were also a couple of archers setting up some practice targets. Veranix sighed a bit as he made his way to the carriage house. Archery was a tournament game he would want to participate in, and he probably could have represented U of M quite well, save the restriction on mages as athletes.
That was a stupid rule made by close-minded people.
Alternatively, the Tournament should have a flat-out magic competition. That would be something he’d also earn the University some merit for.
And was there anyone here who could win at Floor better than him? Not that Veranix knew. That meant it would surely go to RCM because Emilia—Blackbird—she was. . . .
Veranix pushed that out of his head. He didn’t know what rutting game Blackbird was doing, but he’d be damned if he’d let her get the best of him. He was just glad to get out of there alive, with the cloak and the rope. Next time he saw her, he’d deal with her like an assassin deserved.
Approaching the carriage house, he spotted the tree outside the south wall, where Colin used to leave signals for him. For the first time in ages, there was one—white and red. Emergency.
What happened last night?
Veranix went into the carriage house, where Kaiana, Phadre, and Jiarna were all pacing about in quiet concern.
“Something going on?”
“Vee!” Phadre exclaimed. “You’re finally here.”
“Yes, I noticed,” he said. Their faces were all somber. “What’s happening?”
Kaiana actually brought him over to a chair and sat him down. “Were you out there as the Thorn last night? At all?”
“No, not a bit,” he said. “I . . . I stuck to the tetch squad, like we talked about, but . . .” He hesitated. No need to tell Kai or the others about Blackbird and everything involved with that. “It didn’t lead anywhere but too many mugs of beer.”
“I told you,” Phadre said. “I knew it wasn’t him.”
“I just said we needed to ask,” Jiarna said.
“What wasn’t? Ask what?”
Kaiana sighed. “Last night, while you were with the squad, the Thorn attacked a few Constabulary at the end of the Endurance. Killed one.”
“No,” Veranix said. “I wasn’t out there. I couldn’t have—”
“Exactly,” Kaiana said. “Someone is pretending to be you out there. The Red Rabbit who was killed, and now the constables. Except hundreds of people saw this.”
“Where’d you hear this?”
“That’s what’s being said out there,” Phadre said. He dropped a copy of the South Maradaine Gazette on the table, with the headline, “Thorn Turned Stick Killer.”
“Well, that’s not good,” Veranix said.
“Well, we don’t know exactly what happened,” Jiarna said. “But there’s something else.”
“What?”
“Delmin,” Kaiana said. “He’s at the stationhouse for questioning.”
“What? Why is he there?”
Kaiana handed over a smeared sheet of newsprint paper. “Constabulary sent copies of this to campus this morning. List of students who were arrested, detained, or otherwise brought to the stationhouse.” She pointed to Delmin’s name, where it said “Witness Statement” next to it. Veranix recognized the names of the other prefects Delmin was going to be spending the day with.
“Well, that’s good,” Veranix said. “I mean, if Delmin was a witness, he would know—” Veranix stopped himself. “Of course, he couldn’t explain how he would know that the person who attacked the constables was an imposter.”
“This is who killed the Red Rabbit the other night as well, right?” Kaiana asked.
Veranix nodded. “I would imagine.”
“So someone is pretending to be you, but killing gang members and constables?”
“Must be Fenmere’s people,” Veranix said. On Kaiana’s harsh look, he added, “Think about it! They’ve been unable to get at me directly, so with this, they attack my reputation.”
Jiarna shook her head. “Or possibly you’ve inspired someone who isn’t quite as noble as you are.”
“I don’t . . . it doesn’t matter why. Someone is trying . . . saints!”
“What?” Kaiana asked.
He almost blurted out the revelation he just had: everything Blackbird did the night before—cozying up to him, engaging him as a Racquin, keeping him drinking, and seducing him—all that must have been a ploy to keep him distracted so the imposter could do his job. They must be working together.
“I realized how much time I wasted last night is all,” he said. He pulled the cloak and rope out of the rucksack. “This whole social strate
gy is a losing plan.”
“But it’s not!” Phadre said. “Jiarna and I were at the Grand Sable House party last night.”
“And how were the ladies of Grand Sable?” Veranix didn’t imagine Vellia Sansar had any insights into the effitte trade.
“Grand, of course,” Jiarna said. “But there were quite a few ladies from Grand Sable at other schools, and they had their gentlemen escorts. We overheard quite a few people talking about wanting to get drugs and determining where to buy them.”
“And what did you find out?”
“Well, none of them wanted to tell me where when I inquired,” Jiarna said.
“You did sound like a constable when you asked,” Phadre remarked.
“I was being factual.”
“All right, not a constable. A professor.”
“Really?” Jiarna sounded pleased by that.
“A professor more interested in using the drugs for scientific experiment than recreation.”
Jiarna smirked a little. “I can accept that assessment. And that might actually be a study of merit . . .”
“Also,” Kaiana interrupted, “we found more vials discarded by the tetch field, as well as all around the boys’ dormitory area.”
“Any dorm in particular?” Veranix asked.
“Any. All.”
“How many vials are we talking about?”
Kaiana’s expression darkened. “At least thirty.”
“Saints, this—it can’t stand.”
“I know,” Kaiana said. “But I can tell you the tetch field was the only section of the Tournament sites where we’ve found them. Sticking to the squad, keeping an eye out is the best bet.”
“I don’t like it,” Veranix said. “Where are my weapons?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to go talk to Colin, and with imposters, assassins, and constables all looking for me, I’m not going to be unprepared.”
“Assassins? Which—”
“There’s always assassins,” Veranix quickly said. He did not want to explain about Blackbird, certainly not to Kaiana.
“Fine, Spinner Run.”
Seeing the concern on all their faces, he said, “I’ll stay shrouded, I won’t engage first.”
“Fine,” Kaiana said. “I don’t think it’s safe for you. I could go meet Colin.”
“You can’t.”
“I can’t?” she asked sharply.
He hadn’t told her this yet—it hadn’t come up before, and Veranix had been hoping to avoid the subject. “The Princes—the bosses in the Princes—they know who you are, that you’re in contact with the Thorn.”
Several emotions danced over Kaiana’s face, mostly anger and fear. “How . . . Colin told you this?”
Veranix nodded. “They know there’s a Napolic girl who knows the Thorn, who gave Colin information, and after you made the newssheets . . .”
“Right,” she said, then whispered, “Rutting saints and sinners.” She went down to the Spinner Run silently and returned with Veranix’s weapons.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
“Do they know about my dad?” she whispered as she handed them to him.
That surprised him. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“I should try to see him,” she said, her voice still low. “After the Tournament is done. I should do that.”
“If you want to,” Veranix said. “I could—” He let it hang as he slung his quiver over his back. Going to Lower Trenn Ward would be dangerous and heartbreaking. His mother was on the same floor as Kai’s father, both in a state of near catatonia. The one time Veranix had been in there—ostensibly to see Parsons, the former classmate in a similar state from effitte overdose—his mother had reacted to him. Fenmere supposedly had eyes on her, eyes everywhere. Going up there could risk her life and his.
And going there would mean seeing her in that state. That might be more than he could bear.
“We’ll talk about it later,” she said. Stepping back, she raised her voice a bit more, though it was clear that Jiarna and Phadre had heard everything. “You’ve got work to do out there.”
“Best get to it, mate,” Phadre said. “While the streets are still quiet.”
Veranix gave Phadre a mock salute while shrouding himself. But he was right; things were probably going to get noisy very soon.
Sergeant Tripper hadn’t slept a bit. He had been storming all over the stationhouse in futility. He’d been down to the examinarium, where Mal was laid out with three arrows in his dead body. He’d been in the task force office trying to pry answers out of Saitle, who had nothing useful to say. And he’d been up in the stationhouse ward, where Lieutenant Benvin was being cared for. The ward doctors said he might or might not wake up today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never.
There were a whole score of witnesses down in the sheephold, just ready to talk about what they saw, but he wasn’t going to be allowed to go talk to them. No statements, no questions. At least, not from Tripper or anyone else on the squad.
At this point, all of the squad proper was him, Pollit, and Wheth. Saitle was on his feet, but his senses were addled. That boy should go home and sleep it off. Jace hadn’t even checked in yet, which was the strangest of all. That boy was never late.
“So why can’t I talk to them?” he asked the desk clerk in front of the sheephold. “They’re just sitting right there waiting.”
“You ain’t allowed, captain said,” the clerk responded.
“Then who is going to blasted well do it, and why ain’t they already?”
“I ain’t been told that,” the clerk said. “But I was told definitely not you, or the chomie, or the freak.”
That set Tripper’s blood on fire. “Those your words or the cap’s?”
“I was told what I was told.”
Tripper wanted to make the clerk eat his blasted teeth, but that wouldn’t have helped. But it would have felt good. Enough people in this stationhouse gave Wheth and Pollit a hard time, or worse, and Tripper was fixing to see it stop. Even if it got him busted back to cadet. Didn’t matter—Wheth and Pollit were two of the best damn sticks he had had the privilege of serving with, full stop. Benvin had showed him that, and he wasn’t going to let his lieutenant down. Especially not now.
He stomped up the stairs, pounding through the inspectors’ floor, where the handful of specs just sat around chatting, none of them looking like they had anything urgent going on. He strode past them all and went to Captain Holcomb’s office.
The captain sat corpulently at his desk, looking over the newssheet while gnawing on a pastry of some sort.
“Am I disturbing you, Captain?” Tripper barked as he went in.
“The blazes is your problem, Sergeant?” The captain didn’t even look up from his newssheet.
“You want a list?”
“No, I want you out of my damned office.”
“We have a man dead, a lieutenant laid up, and what the blazes are we doing about it, Cap?”
“Nothing,” the captain said.
“The rutting—”
The captain slammed the paper down. “Nothing, Sergeant, and you know why? Because those are the regs. Something like this happens, it doesn’t get handled by our house. None of us. Not you or your two little friends that Benvin likes to put up on the plinth. None of my specs, or even the cadets here. Out of house.”
“Someone is going to come in here, and—”
“That’s the rules,” the captain said with a shrug. He picked up his paper and took another bite from his pastry. “You can take that up with the commissioner if you want.”
“Don’t think I wouldn’t!” Tripper snapped, but that was an empty threat.
“Cool yourself, Tripper. Word has already been sent, and we’ll get some inspectors in here to look after things.
”
“Who? When?”
“I ain’t got any idea,” Holcomb said. “Now get the blazes out of here.”
The hard stare from the captain told Tripper not to push any further. He stalked out, still fuming. He glared at the inspectors, as if to dare them to make a comment.
Jace came running over from who knows where. “Sarge! Found you!”
“Where the blazes you been, Jace?” Tripper snapped. “We’re hip deep in misfortune, and we can’t do a damn thing about it . . .”
“I did something about it,” Jace said quietly. Tripper must have looked shocked or confused, as Jace leaned in and whispered. “Soon as I heard, I knew the rules meant inspection from out of house.”
“Ain’t right,” Tripper said. “Ain’t no way someone’ll come in here and care what goes on in this part of town. If they ain’t already in someone’s pocket, even.”
“I know, but I called in a favor, trust me—”
“A favor?” Tripper thought his skull was going to explode. “Saint Marguerine, Jace, you’re a blasted cadet. What kind of favor can you call in?”
Two strangers in inspector’s vests walked up onto the floor, glancing about and taking the room in. One was a woman—Tripper had no idea there even was a skirt inspector in Maradaine—with red hair like a Waishen. The other was a skinny young man with wide, penetrating eyes. He took a few more steps onto the floor, and looked about as if expecting someone to greet them.
“Pardon me,” he said to the room at large. “I’m Inspector Minox Welling, and this is Inspector Satrine Rainey. We’ve come from the Grand Inspectors’ Unit to investigate the assault on one of your lieutenants.”
Tripper turned back to Jace, who was grinning a bit too much, given the circumstances. “Grand Inspectors’ Unit? How did you—”
“Simple,” Jace said, pointing to Inspector Welling. “That’s my brother.”
Chapter 6
DELMIN DIDN’T KNOW where he was or why someone was shaking him awake, not at first. He had dozed off while sitting on a bench, and his neck was in a terrible position.
“What, what?” he mumbled.
The Imposters of Aventil Page 8