The Imposters of Aventil

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  Finding the alley was easy enough, same with the basement door. There seemed to be just the one door, down a few steps, and the only windows were small, dark, and ground level. If there was another way in or out, Veranix couldn’t see it.

  So the main door it was. The main door, clearly guarded by a shaggy-bearded, muscle-bound heavy.

  Stealth was not an option.

  Veranix dropped down to the alley, about twenty feet from the guard.

  “Hey.”

  The guard lurched forward at him, and Veranix shot the rope out, wrapping it around the guard’s neck. With a magic-assisted yank, he threw the guard against the opposite wall.

  That was a bit harder than he had expected it to be, took more out of him. The rope wasn’t as powerful as it used to be, he needed to remember that.

  The guard made no sign that he was going to be engaging anyone else for the rest of the night. He was still breathing, though.

  Veranix tried the door. Latched, from the inside. Maybe even a double bar. There were no subtle options. No amount of kicking would knock that down.

  He didn’t need to kick it in, though.

  This didn’t require finesse, but it needed power. He took a moment, letting the numina flow into his body, through the cloak and the rope, through the air around him, and built it up like drawing and holding breath. Slow and steady. He built it up, letting it fill him until he was ready to overflow.

  Then he turned that power into raw force, and channeled it out through his hands.

  The door flew in, off its hinges, and through the back of the room. It was like a crack of thunder, shattering half the windows. Delmin, wherever he was, surely felt the numina shock wave.

  Veranix dove through the door, drawing his bow as he hit the ground. Whoever was in here would be dumbfounded for a moment, and he needed to use that while he could. Two heavies were in the hallway, staring at the hole in the wall. Veranix took two quick shots, hitting them each in the leg. He charged down the hallway, nocking the next arrow. Another guy came up around the corner with a crossbow, but Veranix had the drop on him. He screamed as the arrow hit him in the chest, and Veranix knocked him in the teeth as he went past.

  The hallway opened up to a large chamber, where there were several crates stacked in the center of the room. Shelves with hundreds of glass vials lined one wall—some with effitte, some empty. A desk sat in the corner of the room, with journals and piles of goldsmith notes. He raced over to the crates, opening one up. It was filled with jars of effitte. Gallons and gallons of it.

  “Sweet saints,” Veranix whispered. This was the biggest den he had ever found.

  “It’s like I always say, boys,” a rough voice growled. “Big fish requires the right bait.”

  Veranix looked up, and saw a grizzled old soldier—scars and leathery muscle—coming through the door with a score of similar-looking gentlemen. A dozen more came in from the other entranceway. All of them had knives, crossbows, knucklestuffers, and cudgels, and they were blocking the only ways out.

  “The bounty is for his head,” the leader said, “so try not to bruise it too badly.”

  “Right,” Veranix said. “Can we all agree, gentlemen, not in the face? Some decorum.”

  “The only thing we agree on is this is your last night plaguing us, Thorn.”

  “Well, I never agreed to that,” Veranix said. With some hard and sloppy magic, he sent the crates flying across the room to the main entrance, crashing them into that set of heavies. Despite them being pummeled with wood, broken glass, and effitte, that probably would only slow them down for a short time. And that took more out of him than he was ready for.

  Turning to the smaller group, Veranix quickly drew three arrows and fired them in rapid succession, aiming for the ones with crossbows. Most immediate threat. He took one out, and injured the second before that group got too close to keep firing.

  Veranix flipped back to avoid the front man, a fast little rat with two knives, and put up his bow while taking out his staff. He whipped it around before his feet hit the ground, cracking the kid across the skull. No time for games or banter, he jabbed the dazed kid in the chest to bowl over the one behind him.

  Veranix spun the staff in wide arcs, as fast as his hands could move. Still at least nine of this group, and the only advantage he had right now was reach. Hard, fast hits, power over precision.

  “Surround him!” one shouted.

  “No, thank you,” Veranix said. Another quick and dirty magic blast—knocking them all to the floor, but nothing stronger than that. He followed that up with magicking up a sticky tar, coating them and the floor with the stuff. Those boys weren’t going anywhere.

  That left him nearly drained, as far as magic was concerned. Even with the cloak, it would take him a few minutes to recover. And the other twenty were getting up for their portion of the bout.

  “So,” Veranix said, holding up the staff, “anyone want to run?”

  Chapter 10

  THERE WERE TOO MANY OF THEM.

  For a brief time, Veranix used that against them. Twenty toughs, more muscle than brains or finesse, he got them to knock each other instead of him. He was faster, he was smarter, and with his staff, he had longer reach.

  But there were too many of them, and they wouldn’t stay down.

  He thrust backward with his staff, knocking one of them in the chest, and then swept it to one side while dropping into a lunge. One more was knocked off his feet while a punch went over his head.

  Someone else hit him in the side. He reeled back, taking a wild swing at whoever hit him. He didn’t connect with anything, throwing him off balance. He corrected, using his staff to keep himself on his feet. Then the staff was wrenched out of his hands. A pair of hands grabbed his head and brought it down upon a knee.

  Crying out, he charged forward, tackling the knee’s owner and bringing them down to the ground. Despite his head swirling, he pulled himself up enough to pummel that person in the chest, and then face, and face again.

  Two bruisers grabbed his arms and pulled him up in the air. He couldn’t pull free of either of them; they had him tight. Another one moved in front and delivered a series of blows to his chest and stomach.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  They were all laughing.

  He brought up his legs in the air, first to block the punches, and then to kick as hard as he could. He connected with someone’s chin, and pushed off—with as much magic as he could gather—to flip himself over, fast and hard. The two bruisers who had him by the arms didn’t let go, so they went with him. He landed on his feet, and they dropped on their heads. He stomped on one of them while dodging his own staff being swung at him.

  He risked the last bit of magic power he had to throw sparks and light in the face of the guy who had his staff. That guy cried out and clutched at his face. Veranix snatched his staff away and then smashed the guy with it.

  Veranix’s back was to the wall now. And there were still at least ten of them, including the leader, still standing in the doorframe.

  “That all you got?” Veranix shouted.

  The leader was about to say something, when he was yanked out of view. His screams were followed with a horrific bone-crunching noise.

  All the other bruisers turned to the doorframe, giving Veranix a chance to slam another one of them with the staff. A fist connected with Veranix’s face, hot blood coming out of his nose. Veranix lashed out at the closest bruiser, grabbing him by the hair and introducing his face to the brick wall.

  “I thought we agreed not in the face!” he shouted.

  Seven or eight left. Veranix wasn’t counting or seeing all that well anymore. Blood in his eyes, brain a blur.

  Another bruiser was suddenly yanked out of sight, but this time Veranix saw a rope pull him away. He instinctively grabbed at his own rope, just to make sure it
was still there. He didn’t have any magical strength left to use it, of course. Napranium only did so much.

  “So there’s a bounty,” Veranix snarled at the remaining men. “If you want it you’re going to have to earn it.”

  A rope sang out from the doorway, wrapping around the neck of one of the farthest bruisers. He was pulled off his feet, bowling over a couple of his compatriots.

  Suddenly a gray figure leaped out from the hallway, and in a flurry of feet and fists, four of those bruisers were rendered insensate.

  “Who in the—” one of the remaining ones started, but he was interrupted by a high kick to his chin, and then another to his chest.

  One more guy decided this was his moment, and dove at Veranix with two knives out. Veranix brought up his staff to block him, but before the guy closed the distance, a rope was around one arm and he was pulled down to the ground. He struggled to stand, and got a brutal boot to the skull.

  Figure in gray. Rope. This meant something familiar, but Veranix couldn’t piece the fuzzy thoughts together.

  He could barely stay on his feet. He let the staff fall to the ground.

  The gray figure was busy with the last two bruisers, but they were swinging at empty air while she was landing wrenching blows.

  She. Definitely a she. Veranix’s instincts screamed danger, even though he didn’t know why.

  Veranix fumbled to pull up his bow, nock an arrow. He had it up, even if he couldn’t focus on anything but a blur of gray.

  The last of the bruisers were on the ground, out cold or dead.

  “Stay back,” he said, drawing back the arrow.

  “Don’t be absurd,” the figure said, coming closer.

  Veranix fired, but she dodged the arrow without even breaking stride. The bow was taken out of his hands before he could get another arrow out.

  “Come to claim your prize?” he wheezed out.

  Her face came into focus. Emilia—no, Blackbird.

  “Saints, Thorn, you’re in a state.”

  “I won’t go easy,” he said. Despite that, his knees gave out.

  “I’m sure you won’t,” she said, catching him as he collapsed.

  He tried to struggle as she pulled him out, but he could barely move his arms, and by the time she had him out the door, he couldn’t even keep his eyes open.

  Cabie was a scrapper, having made her bones in the Princes by fighting in knuckledusters in basements all over town. Her nose was twisted three ways, but she could take a hit and give three more back any given day. Her crew never did hustling or paper jobs, they were around for cracking skulls and holding the line against Hallaran’s Boys. She was a captain Colin respected, and the bosses knew that. That was probably why they put her on this job with him. He waited outside the Turnabout—with a couple of the boss’s bigger heavies keeping an eye on him—as she approached with her crew of brawlers.

  “Heya, Tyson,” she said with a several-gapped grin. “How’s the word?”

  “It is what it is,” he said.

  She pulled him in a quick embrace, thumping him on the back. “Hear that.” In a low whisper she added, “This Orchid Street business they did to you is pure sewage.”

  “Appreciate that,” Colin said.

  “It’s what it is, though.” She whistled to her boys. “Let’s walk.”

  The crowd, despite being a collection of Uni revelers deep into their cups, made a path for them rather easily. Clearly none of them wanted a piece of Cabie and her boys.

  “So, last of the Rabbits, I hear?”

  “That is what we’ve got. They’re holed up in our flop, with their last captain, Sotch.”

  “Blazes,” Cabie said. “You didn’t swear on safe haven or something?”

  “Nah, nothing like that.”

  “Good. That’s just bad hoodoo, I’ll tell you. Already bad enough, scrapping someone under your roof.”

  “I’m glad you get it,” Colin said.

  “I do. Still, we got orders. I just wanted you to know . . . blazes, there’s a lot of not right in this.” She sighed, glancing at her boys. “Still, job’ll get done. Your boys are there with them.”

  “Such as they are.”

  “Problem with your boys?”

  “They ain’t really mine. They’re just the ones I’ve got.”

  She nodded. “And this is a haul job. This is some ugly.”

  “We got a wagon or something to drop them into?”

  “I ain’t a fool, course we do.”

  “And you know where we’re taking them.”

  “I know. But . . . you ain’t supposed to know. That’s what I’ve been told.”

  “This ain’t what Princes are supposed to be, you know? Certainly not between each other.”

  “I know, Tyson,” she said. “But it is what it is.”

  They were now at the sew-up’s office where Colin’s crew made their flop, and Cabie turned to her crew.

  “All right, let’s do this clean. Give them a choice to come without bruises. On my lead if it goes elsewise. Ockie, stay here and eye out for the wagon. Give a call when she’s in line.”

  Ockie, presumably, gave a nod, while the rest went into the sew-up’s.

  “You good, Tyson?” she asked him.

  “I ain’t ever a stranger to a brawl, Cabie. Wish it didn’t have to happen.”

  “Maybe it won’t. They could come quiet. Rabbits are already broken.”

  “Sotch won’t, and the rest’ll follow suit.”

  “Their choice.”

  They came up the stairs to the flop, where Ment and Vandy were standing watch over Sotch and the Rabbits—three of them—who were sitting around a plate of sausages and bread from the Old Canal.

  “Where’s Kiggy and Sella, and the new kid?” Colin asked. Might as well have as many hands available as possible.

  “Went down for a sip,” Vandy said.

  “Blazes is this?” Sotch asked as soon as Cabie and her boys were in view.

  “Time for you and your boys to come, Sotch,” Colin said.

  “Come where?”

  “Well, you can’t be staying here any longer,” Colin said. “This here is a Prince flop, and you ain’t Princes. So you’re going to go somewhere else.”

  “Where is that?” Sotch asked, her hand drifting to the knife on the table.

  “Where our bosses said,” Cabie said. “So come along.”

  “Like blazes.”

  “You got two choices, skirt. You can come quiet, or you can come with a few things broken. Either way, you’re going where we’re taking you.”

  “Best do what she says, Sotch,” Colin said.

  “Damn it, Prince, I trusted you.”

  “Why the blazes did you do that?”

  Sotch grabbed the knife and flung it right at Colin’s chest. Before he got a chance to move, Cabie’s hand moved like a bolt of lightning, snatching the knife in the air and hurling it right back, landing it in the thigh of one of the other Rabbits.

  “Now, look,” Cabie said while the Rabbit dropped to the ground wailing. “The bosses want you to come, and come still breathing. But if we lose one or two along the way, that’s the price of business.”

  “I’m gonna make one thing clear to you, slan,” Sotch said, yanking the knife out of her compatriot’s leg. “I’m a goddamned Red Rabbit, and I will not go quietly.”

  “She’s right, she ran away screaming last time I saw her.”

  There was a sudden buzz through the air, and three of the Rabbits dropped to the ground, arrows in their chests. Colin looked up to the sky-top window, where a cloaked figure dropped down into the room.

  “The Thorn!” Cabie shouted.

  But it wasn’t. Colin could see why people might be fooled, if they had only heard of him, seen a fleeting glance. But t
his was a fraud.

  “At your service,” he said with a flourish. With that, he threw something on the ground, and there was a flash of light and smoke.

  “He’s mine,” Cabie snarled.

  “He ain’t—” Colin said, but before he said much else, he was slashed in the arm, Sotch rushing past him.

  Cabie’s boys jumped in on Sotch. Colin could barely see them; the smoke filled the room. He could hear smacks and grunts. Someone was getting beaten hard, but Colin couldn’t tell who.

  “Everyone get him!” Colin shouted. “He’s a rutting fraud!”

  “How dare you!” the fake Thorn said. A hand grabbed Colin through the smoke, and another punched him in the face. Colin grappled his attacker, pulled them in close.

  It was Cabie.

  “We’re all turned around,” he hissed.

  “Grab Rabbits, get them out of here.”

  “Rabbits are probably dead, save Sotch,” Colin said. The smoke was thinner where Sotch was, and Colin could see she was holding her own against Cabie’s boys.

  “Then get her out of here,” Cabie said. “I’ve got this rutter.”

  She dove back into the smoke. Something else came flying out of there, landing in the stairs. Another flash, but this one came with flames instead of smoke.

  “Rutting sewage,” Colin said. He ran over to Sotch, grabbed her wrist and wrenched the knife out of it. Then he lifted her up and threw her over his shoulder.

  “The blazes you doing?” she shouted, beating on his back.

  “Saving your stupid life.”

  He ran at the far window and jumped through it. He and Sotch fell down, crashing through the awning onto a vegetable cart, Sotch taking the worst of the landing.

  “Holy saints!” Ockie shouted. “What’s going on?”

  Colin forced himself to get on his feet, despite his back being nothing but pain. He pushed Sotch’s dazed form over to Ockie. “Where’s the wagon?”

  “It’s over there, but it can’t get through the crowd,” Ockie said. “But what—”