“Looks that way.”
The girl with the braids cleared her throat. “Introductions?”
Guyen looked between them. “Ariana Thurl, er… miss—”
“Mist,” the girl corrected.
“A pleasure,” Ariana said dismissively. She turned back. “Well, are you going to vote?”
“Yes.” He turned towards the Nay lobby.
Mist shook her head. “Don’t do this, Greens.”
“I’ll see you later,” Guyen said, and strode up to the teller. He handed over his token. The Sendali stared back in disbelief, then looked between the two women, also holding out tokens. They processed into the deserted lobby.
“This ain’t gonna end well,” Mist muttered.
They wandered along the corridor, padding over expensive woven carpet, brushing oak panelling, passing stuffy, velvet-covered chairs, hideous portraits, and ornamental swords. “Looks like we have the place to ourselves,” Guyen observed. “Maybe he does deserve the rope.”
“The evidence presented at his trial was circumstantial,” Ariana said. “Besides, the verdict misrepresented the statutes.”
Mist tutted. “Daddy won’t be happy with you.”
Ariana tightened. “What do you know of my father?”
“I know he’s the High Justice.”
“Well, you have me at a disadvantage.”
“I’m—”
“I don’t care who you are,” Ariana snapped. “Just stay away from me.” She turned on her heels, heading back into the auditorium.
“Well,” Mist said, “what a stuck-up cow.”
They made their way back to their seats. Their votes made no difference. The motion carried.
The Grande Prime pronounced the result. “You have been sentenced to death, Xeithor Bala Higuen. The execution will take place by hanging at noon on the third Bannocksday of Loren, one week from today. In line with the statutes, the sentence will travel to your kin once removed.”
The man let out a muffled scream, slumping to his knees as the audience applauded.
“What does he mean?” Guyen asked. “Travel to your kin?”
Mist looked down at her boots. “They’ll hang his children too, and any brothers or sisters.”
The implication sunk in. “But that’s barbaric!” She only shrugged. Actually, even barbarians wouldn’t sink that low. Had every scrag that voted to execute him known this would happen? This place was dark.
The guards dragged the prisoner away on his knees, and the audience rose as the Primes left the stage. Guyen filed out the way they’d come, a leaf in a sea of milling Devotees. He found his way back up to the atrium, then gladly outside.
“Wait up,” called a voice. It was the girl, Mist. It would probably be rude to ignore her outright, but there was no reason to stop walking. She caught up, falling into step. “So, what Devotion are you with?” she chirped. “The one with all the good-looking men in?”
What was it to her? “Makers. You?”
She grinned. “Culture. I’m assigned to Intrigue.”
“What does that mean? Are you a spy?”
“Oh, nothing that exciting. Not yet anyway.” They reached the bottom of the steps. “That was some show,” she said.
“Vile,” Guyen offered. They cleared the gate and stepped onto the street. She regarded him expectantly. The conversation had run its course, hadn’t it? “It was nice to meet you,” he offered, turning to go.
She seemed put out by the dismissal. “Yeah, well, I’ve places to be too. Watch yer back, won’t ya, Greens.”
He searched for a suitable comeback. “You too, Mist. Don’t go evaporating or anything.” Globes! That’s weak, even for you.
She laughed. “I’ll try not to.”
“Right then.” He doffed his hat. “See you around.” He strode off, then realising he’d come from the opposite direction, turned back on himself.
A wry smile played on the girl’s lips.
17
The Streethawk
A sprawling confusion of narrow lanes and unfamiliar buildings stretched out from the Devotoria, crumbly, whitewashed apartments and misshapen houses leaning in on all sides, skewing any sense of east and west. It was early evening, and merchants packed up, shuttering speciality cloak, pipe and potion shops. Carriages swept by, horses shitting out manure as they went. Between rows and shops, mysterious alleys led to gods-knew-what vices. The city’s attractions were plentiful.
A gang of youths loitered outside a bookmaker’s, not working types by their smart threads, best avoided by their drunk behaviour. Better to walk on by in Carmain. This time of day had an ominous quality to it, not quite night, but late enough that citizens’ footsteps fell quickly.
A few blocks on, Toulesh disappeared around a corner. Guyen caught up to find him watching a crowd. They gathered in a secluded square overlooked by the backs of grand houses, colour bursting from well-kempt flower boxes. Apart from a few tradesman’s entrances, the square was devoid of purpose, one of those accidents of higgledy-piggledy city planning.
A shabby man stood beside a cart—the focus of the crowd’s attention. A streethawk, one of those chancer types skilled at conning unsuspecting passersby. He looked a sorry sight—eyes bloodshot, black-brimmed hat dog-eared and stained, what once would have been a natty suit now resembling something a tramp might have scavenged from a rich man’s grave. The contents of the cart piqued curiosity—a tall cabinet the size of a bookcase, the front panelled with glass, a maze of glinting yellow pegs inside. Six leather pouches hung from the bottom, embroidered in colourful thread with the symbols of Scarab, Adder, Wolf, Crow, Cat and Rat—the Signs of the Ages.
“It’s a one in six chance to quadruple your stake,” the streethawk assured a finely dressed young woman. “A simple game for an intelligent lady such as yourself. Just guess where the counter will fall.” He frowned. “Mind you, with a face as handsome as yours, you must be born lucky. Maybe I should pack up now.”
The woman fanned herself, expensive mauve silk draping her shoulders. “I hope you’re not trying to bamboozle me with flattery, hawk,” she said. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
He doffed his hat. “Madam, I wouldn’t know how.”
Her friend produced a purse from her bosom. Equally well-attired, strawberry blonde curls unwound beneath her lace headscarf. She took out a coin. “Let’s play, Verona. If we bet on different Signs, we stand a one-in-three chance to quadruple our money. If we split the winnings, we’ll double our stake.”
The streethawk nodded approvingly. Did that sound right? If only you were better with numbers.
Verona extracted her purse from the folds of her skirt. She lowered her voice. “You do know this is quite illegal, Marissa?”
“I know,” Marissa giggled. “Imagine what Papa would say.”
The streethawk rolled his eyes. They didn’t notice. “Excellent,” he said. “Ready your wits then, ladies.” He climbed up a step built into the cart, waving a shiny counter, and spent a good long moment pondering where to drop it, all part of the act. Then, with a flourish, he launched it through a slot at the top of the machine.
The counter bounced around as if charged with static, blue sparks fizzing around it. However intent on scrabbling its way to the bottom it was, the pegs seemed determined to avert its descent, pinging it back up, forcing it left, right, this way and that.
A whistling, whining wind rose up somewhere. Guyen glanced around, looking for the source. There was none. The air was perfectly still. His clamour? Odd. He rubbed his eyes. That was strange—now the counter wouldn’t come into focus. Was the glass reflective? He gazed into the blur.
A stream of ghostly counters appeared, trailing the original.
What the hell was that?
A shiver went up his spine. Did the glass have some special property? He stared, trying to work out what he was seeing. Then, as he watched, the stream compressed, caught up with the counter, and streaked ahead of it, racing around the
cabinet, a silvery-blue web. A second later, the stream of counters poured into the pouch marked Crow. Could no one else see that?
“Place your bets,” the streethawk crowed.
The women placed their coins in the trays in front of Crow and Rat.
Guyen balked. Their faces were vague silhouettes, human forms trailing wispy, black smoke. This was bad. This was very bad.
“No more bets,” the streethawk called. He jumped down from his step, shutting a lid over the coin trays. He trailed the sinister black vapour too.
A smog of nether light rose up around the cart, wispy blue and pink cotton candy threads wrapping the clapped-out wheels, outlining the wooden frame. Heat haze? That wasn’t really there, was it? The clamour chimed now, musical, on the edge of pain. Where was Toulesh? No response. The haze creeped across the flagstones, curling feet, crawling up the walls, outlining the flower boxes. He tried blinking the hallucination away. No good. Was he having a seizure? His knees weakened, nausea growing. He clenched his fists. This had to stop.
The clamour broke like ears popping from a sudden change in pressure. The harmonics died, replaced by the usual high-pitched hum, and the strange nether light faded away, the crowd coming back into focus, several offering him concerned looks. Heart beating ten to the dozen, he forced in sharp breaths, chest tight from the panic, fists unclenching. His hands hurt like a bastard where he’d dug in his fingernails. What just happened? The counter had fallen in the pouch he’d imagined it would. Coincidence? He needed to sit down before he fell over. Toulesh slouched beside the wall. He stumbled over to join him, propping himself up against the brickwork. Adrenalin coursed. He had to get a grip. Calm down. Reset.
Return, he sent Toulesh.
The simulacrum merely cocked his head, a disapproving frown on his face.
The streethawk paid out the woman who’d bet on Crow, and Sendalis surged forwards, coin in hand. For several minutes, Guyen watched feet, no one paying him any heed. He couldn’t face the game. It was too much, the hallucinations too real, like some devilish madness. Was this his curse at work again?
He risked a look over at the contraption. A city gent in a top hat placed a silver. The clamour rose again. He looked away. What the hell was that thing?
Several minutes passed before he plucked up enough courage to get up and watch. Now, two housemaids played the game, aprons stained, baskets full of vegetables. Again, the clamour rose and fell in strange patterns, musical in timbre, the counter a glittering blur. He looked away and the clamour retreated. He checked the floor. No weird haze. That was something, at least. The maids lost, wandering sourly off with their baskets.
He had to know what this was. He edged closer. A courting couple stepped in front of him. The streethawk engaged them in humorous banter, and the man produced his purse, withdrawing a gold. The crowd gasped. A whole gold? How rich did you have to be to risk that much on a game?
The streethawk raised an eyebrow. “A real man’s bet, if I may say so, guv.”
The man laughed, scanning faces. “What? It’s only a guilding, hawk.” Onlookers scowled at him.
“Right you are,” the streethawk said, jumping back on his step. He licked his lips. “Best of luck, guv!” He dropped the counter in the top of the machine.
A thousand different versions blasted out behind it, the clamour shrill again. As before, the stream of ghostly counters rebounded, shooting ahead, winding round the pegs, filling one of the bags. Guyen looked away as the man threw down his gold, in the wrong tray. The clamour died back to its usual high-pitched drone and the visions disappeared.
Several seconds later, the counter fell in the Scarab pouch. Globes! He’d predicted it again. This was just like the shenanigans with the fake silver, the way the counter blurred like that, and the clamour… He dug the coin from his pocket. It was out of focus again. He glared at it. The harps side solidified. What the crows was going on today?
The man who’d lost his gold shrugged. “Easy come,” he boomed, although there was more than a hint of annoyance to his tone.
His date was unimpressed. “You’re a damn idiot, Baranthen,” she scolded.
The streethawk retrieved the counter from the pouch, simultaneously pocketing his new gold. He caught Guyen’s eye. “What about you, guv? Fancy a flutter?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Not the lucky type, eh?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Not when you can see into the future. Guyen nodded at the cabinet. “How’s this thing work?”
“Work, guv? Gravity, innit.”
Guyen sent a measuring look. The streethawk sent an innocent one back. Damn. Maybe playing the game would shed some light on what was going on. He had to know. “Fine, I’ll play,” he grunted, proffering the silver.
The streethawk grinned. “Very good, guv. At your convenience then.” He climbed up and dropped the counter in the top of the cabinet. It began its clattering journey.
Again, the clamour rose, the counter splitting, ghostly facsimiles following it. Guyen breathed. This felt like some strange balancing act. But what was he balancing? Right on cue, the imagined counters rebounded, streaming around the machine in a maze of colour, falling into the Wolf pouch. He pulled back from the feeling and the ghostly stream evaporated, leaving the original counter pinging around the pegs by itself. He threw the silver down on Wolf.
“No more bets,” the streethawk called, covering the coin trays. Guyen willed the counter home. The streethawk fiddled with something underneath the cabinet. A scraping sound emanated and the counter jumped angrily out of its predicted path. Pain pinched Guyen’s temples. He blinked. It dropped in the pouch marked Rat.
“Unlucky,” the streethawk murmured.
Darkness of hell rose, anger unbounded. Injustice. Humiliation. “You damn cheat!” Guyen exploded. “You’ve got a lever under there!”
The accusation was plenty loud enough for the whole crowd to hear. Annoyed tuts sounded all around.
The man who’d lost a gold pushed past, poking the streethawk in the chest. “What is he talking about, hawk? This had better be a fair game.”
The streethawk shot Guyen an aggravated look. “None fairer, guv, on my life.” He cast an eye over his disgruntled audience and came to a quick decision. “Thanking you, ladies and gents. You all have a fine day now.” With a flourishing bow, he threw a blanket over the cabinet and wheeled the cart away.
The man started after him. His date caught his arm. “Leave it, Baranthen,” she warned. The man muttered darkly, shaking her off, but stayed put.
Well, he could leave it if he wanted, Guyen wasn’t about to. The damn scrag had swindled him. He gave chase. “Oi, I want my money back!” he railed. The bastard sped up, eyes on the rooftops as if he didn’t exist. They turned out onto the main road. Guyen snarled. “No one steals from me, arsehole!” He spun him round by the shoulder, grabbing a handful of shirt.
The streethawk glared. “Take your hands off me.”
“Fucking cheat!” Guyen kicked the cart, stubbing his toe. He cursed. “What is that thing?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your cabinet’s rigged, isn’t it?”
The streethawk twitched. “Just yer standard Faze game, guv. Now, please, unhand me.”
Something flashed at his waist. Guyen let him go. He wasn’t about to get into a knife fight, he didn’t feel right—foggy headed, out of control, angry. But he needed answers. He waved at the cart. “I saw something.”
The streethawk grimaced. “Did you now.” He fiddled with some catches, folding the contraption down.
“Tell me how it works. Does it create illusions?”
The streethawk regarded him curiously. “Why? What did you see?”
“You wouldn’t believe me.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised, guv. I believe lots.” He gave the cart a final poke, and the machine packed neatly away. He covered it with the blanket.
This probably wasn’t a good ide
a. What the hell. “I saw a thousand different versions of that counter of yours,” Guyen said, trying not to rant. “Trailing behind it, ahead of it, they all fell in the pouch ahead of time. It was… well, it was like I saw its future.”
The streethawk stroked his chin, expression somewhere between interest and disbelief. “If I were a gambling man,” he said, “which of course, I’m not…” He grinned wickedly. “I’d bet a gold you just saw a Faze signature.”
“A what?”
“Faze signature.” The streethawk wiped his brow with a handkerchief, probably white in its early years, now more a tabac-yellow. “All right, you want to know how the game works? I’ll tell you, but you mustn’t break the circle, loose lips might sink a man’s livelihood. Agreed?”
Guyen sniffed. “We wouldn’t want that.”
The streethawk huffed. “No, well… The counter’s made from quartz. It attracts Faze.”
“So?”
“Well, there may be a few levers and switches built into the cabinet, you know, for administrative purposes.”
Guyen suppressed a growl. “Really? And what do these levers administer exactly?”
“Well—Faze. They direct the counter where I want it to go.”
“Ha! So it is a trick.”
The streethawk showed his palms. “Hardly the crime of the century, guv. The punters like a spectacle, is all.”
Guyen snorted. “I doubt they’d see it like that.” He took a breath, calming himself. “I didn’t know you could use Faze that way.”
The streethawk brightened. “Oh yes, you can use it for lots of things if you know how to harness it.”
“And you’re some kind of expert, I suppose?”
He straightened his tie. “How very kind of you, but I’m more a keen enthusiast.”
“You still haven’t answered my question. What is a Faze signature?”
He shrugged. “Objects attract Faze. In theory, anything can be identified by its Faze pattern.”
“That doesn’t explain shit!”
“It does if you know how Faze works. It’s not limited by constraints like time. Sounds like you saw a future version of the counter, lit up with the stuff.”
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