Shadowcloaks

by Benjamin Hewett

  Her description of Jimmy makes me nervous. “Powerful beyond belief” doesn’t sound like him. “Petty beyond belief” is more like it. I guess I’ve become accustomed to people with unnatural power. Petty or not, I can’t afford to let Jimmy reset his trap.

  I can use this. I can use her. But how? Stir up discontent? Start a riot. “Will you deliver a message to someone else?”

  Selwin frowns, evidently not enthused with the idea of playing messenger for the likes of me. Then she nods. “Yes. For Carmen. I owe her that much.” Lady Selwin’s gaze drifts to Lucinda, perhaps looking for confirmation that there is a brigade of stuffy, self-righteous paladins just outside the city. When Lucinda doesn’t confirm this, Lady Selwin grimaces. “You did bring allies, Mr. Steeps? Carmen implied you had connections in Fortrus.”

  Should I tell her the truth, I wonder? That we came all alone, underfed and nearly spent, thinking we could stand against the might and fury of Byzantus.

  I look at Grippy’s bloody grin and Markel’s lifeless form. I look at the dockworkers holding the ‘Shade down. I see Barkus towering over the rest of us like the broken leader of some fallen abbey, the Altus Mitre.

  No. I shouldn’t tell the Lady that I am weak, and Lucinda’s spent. Lucinda has been right all along. I’ve been going about this the wrong way. I glance at her, and she smiles, understanding me perfectly.

  “Oh, yes,” I say to Selwin. “I’ve got connections. More than you might expect.”

  I stand up, giving poor Markel a final look, squaring my shoulders. There will be time for grieving later. For now, they expect me to lead. I see it in their faces.

  And finally, I have a plan.

  “Barkus.”

  “Yes, Master Steeps.”

  His voice is loud in my ear. He’s been at my shoulder this entire time, like a good lieutenant. Maybe I shouldn’t punish him. “Ink. Paper. Now.”

  FIFTEEN

  “That’s it,” Lucinda says as I put the finishing touches on my note and seal it with hot, dripping wax. “I’ve moved everybody into Tom’s lair. Markel’s body, too. And as much food as we could carry in one load.”

  “Thank you, Lucinda. And a rope?”

  “All set. We’re in position.” She looks from me to Selwin, then to Barkus, Roderic, and Grippy. Her gaze lingers on Tamara before returning to the letter. “Better come at a run, Teacup.”

  I nod, but don’t say anything as Lucinda heads downstairs. I wait another second before pulling my ring, the nice, golden one from Carmen, out of the wax.

  There’s just the six of us now, plus one unconscious and mostly naked Nightshade, who is tied and gagged in the middle of the commons. Sort of unconscious. Lucinda said he was starting to come around.

  “Take this to the grey house on North Tower Street,” I tell Selwin. “If the doorman asks what it’s about, tell them it’s a full disclosure from Teamus Steeps.”

  Selwin nods, looking both stately and confused.

  “Tamara, go with her,” I say. “For a few blocks at any rate. Once you get clear, tell the people that you saw me at The Black Cat. Say outrageous things. Tell them I’m breaking their swords with my bare hands. Tell them I bit someone’s leg off with my bare teeth. Tell them . . .”

  “I get it,” Tamara says. Her face is worried, but her jaw is set. Spreading rumors is the perfect job for her. “Make it outrageous,” she repeats.

  “Right. People won’t believe what you say unless you exaggerate. Then hide. Do not come back here.”

  Tamara looks askance at Barkus, but he confirms my instructions with a nod. “Aye,” Barkus says. “Do what Master Steeps says, my girl.”

  His meaty paw catches her, pushes a couple of kings into her palm. I’ve never seen Barkus willingly part with that much money. There is kindness in his face, as if he realizes he may never have the chance to show it again and is trying to show it all at once. He tries to hug her with his handless arm, and she hugs him back.

  Her fear shows that she understands what this means.

  “Master Steeps knows what he’s doing,” Barkus says more gruffly. “Sort of. So get moving, or it’ll be for nothing.”

  Tamara slips out the back door, quiet as a mouse, with Selwin and my letter at her heel.

  Roderic puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’re a good man, Master Steeps.”

  I shrug. He’s about twice my size, and while his hand is heavy on my shoulder, his words are even heavier. I can feel the new oaths settling across my shoulders like an inky, black shadowcloak. “Just make sure she delivers my message.”

  “Aye.” When his hand leaves my shoulder and he passes through the back door, Barkus bars it. Now there are just three of us.

  From the kitchen window, I can see Selwin in the rain, waving toward the rooftops. Toward all the rooftops.

  Tamara begins screaming. “He’s inside!” she screams. “The Nightshade Slayer is inside.”

  Selwin joins in. “He’s killing them. He’s killing everyone!”

  “There goes my other hand,” Barkus mutters, as the shout goes up seven ways.

  “Pro’ly yer head,” Grippy offers, tipping a flagon of oil across the kitchen floor and into the kitchen hearth. The hot coals smoke for a second and then flare. Fire begins to crawl across the floor as we flee the kitchen.

  There’s a pounding against the barricaded front door and the smashing of glass as a large stone crashes through the front window.

  “Should’o known, yer plan involves burning things and running away,” Grippy says as we sprint down the cellar steps.

  “Nonsense,” I say, feeling the lightheartedness of action. “I’m not running away. This is a diversion. With teeth.”

  Grippy grunts, sounding unconvinced as he sloshes through the lake of spirits we’ve made of the cellar.

  “Is this deeper?” I ask. “Did you add your reserve barrels?

  “Aye,” Barkus says. He needs a bit of butt-hoisting to get through the barrel-shaped portal in the wall. “Added . . . added . . . only the strong stuff.”

  By the time Grippy is through, the fumes are making my eyes water. Here I notice it should be too dark to see, even for my ring, but I can still see. I’m the last one through the portal, and I spin around with the sheaf of burning parchment Lucinda hands me. In the dancing flame I can read the name “Steeps” near the bottom, amid the twist of curling paper. This is The Black Cat’s tax summons.

  I glare at Barkus, who is just below Lucinda on the ladder. “Arrived after you left,” he shrugs.

  Feet slap wooden floor above, pound down the cellar steps. The whole inn seems full of them. Splashing now.

  I let go of the wadded tax summons, watch it float like a golden leaf toward the lake of aqua fortis, listen as the lintel above the cellar door creaks.

  “Harder.”

  The Black Cat denizens, led by Lucinda and Barkus, haul on the thick rope wrapped around a compromised door frame. I reach up and add my strength. A charge passes up the rope from my hand and something in the lintel cracks.

  There is a cloak of fear on the face of every Nightshade in the cellar as the beam sags, jamming the door mostly shut.

  I grin at them. “Go to Hell,” I say, closing the barrel door. “And tell your friends I am coming.”

  When the fumes ignite, the barrel door explodes in fire and splinters, knocking me from the ladder. I listen from my back as the flames devour my second home, listen as the beams, stone, brick, and tile collapse into the cellar. I don’t move again until the ceiling begins to collapse.

  SIXTEEN

  “He is coming. He is coming. He is coming.” They whisper it as I limp back along the tunnel that leads to the city model. It echoes like the city above. I can feel it. I can feel her, Rose, throbbing in my head like an angry note that has turned sour on itself, two strings vibrating out of tune. It isn’t supposed to be this way, but I don’t care. I ignore Rose and try to focus on Carmen.

  “He is coming,” the city sings above us.


  I ignore that, too. Tom’s Lair is secure. I’ve checked all the crevices Barkus has told me to check.

  “Can you get them out?” I ask Barkus when I return to the underground antechamber. He knows I’m not talking about going back through The Black Cat. There’s nothing left but a pile of rubble, ash, and smoldering ruins, and no tunnel into it for the ‘Shades to backtrack.

  Barkus nods at me. “Aye.” He traces his fingers along the model. “Chauncey Street. I happen to know he liked this one. They’ll be safe.”

  “Barkus, exactly how much do you know?”

  “A great deal more than we have time to discuss.”

  Of course. Layers and layers of Tom, of deception and guile. And Rose, Pale Tom’s lost daughter. I’m sure of it. I shake my head to clear the thought away. “Just get them out, Barkus. Get them to safety.”

  “Are you sure I shouldn’t come with you?” he asks. “I know the tunnels better than any.”

  Grippy grins in the now well-lit model room. His eyes flick across my burned eyebrows, the blood on Lucinda’s tunic, and the two dockworkers cracking their knuckles behind him. “Yer askin’ to watch the masters work?” he cackles at Barkus.

  Lucinda places a hand on the innkeeper’s shoulder. “Barkus.”

  His shoulders sag, his show of bravado complete. For all his physique, he isn’t a fighter. He dithers with the mock-up of Lady Selwin’s Manor, delaying his departure again. It’s obvious he’s been down here many times. “And you, Master Steeps? Do you remember what I showed you?”

  I point. “The exits from Selwin’s are here, here, and here.”

  “And the traps?”

  “Here.” I point to four locations to avoid at all costs.

  “You’re missing one.”

  “Here.” I point to the large, central tower of Lady Selwin’s manor. It may have been a part of an early city wall at some point, but it is now in the dead center of the house. Its footings are dug deeper into the earth than the tower's height, and at the base of this is Tom’s underground entrance, two giant footing stones that aren’t set properly, massive things with a gap between them large enough to let a man pass. “How did he trap the tower footing, Barkus?”

  “I have no idea how a Dreadlord might trap a tower footing, Master Steeps. You’re the . . .” He bites his tongue.

  He’s right. I don’t like being called that.

  “Nightshade Slayer,” Lucinda finishes.

  “Right,” Barkus confirms. “That.”

  Lucinda moves to the corner, helping Sylvie feed the orphans unfortunate enough to be in the kitchen of the The Black Cat when I arrived. They grin up at her with big, bright eyes and thank their Lady Lucinda as she moves on to comfort an older man with no teeth.

  The rest of the patrons, a few less than a double-dozen, are strung out down the exit tunnel, resting or speaking together quietly in clumps. When Lucinda passes, they all smile, even Gerard.

  Except for her radiant smile, Lucinda looks deadly as she passes among them. No wonder. She’s wearing the hardened leather jacket and pauldrons from the Nightshade who killed Markel. Bracers, belt, boots, and cloak, she’s taken them all. That explains why he was tied to the chair, mostly naked.

  Lucinda’s smell is less radiant. From her mismatched style, she took a few things from the ‘Shade who was dumped in the flooded cellar as well. Underneath the thin, black gambeson, however, she’s still wearing her white blouse. It pokes out in a couple of places, the golden thread stitching she insists is visible only to the pure in heart throwing tiny pinpricks of torchlight on the tunnel wall. I’m far from pure, but the thought makes me smile, softens me. These people need her, need encouragement.

  Sylvie is the only one who doesn’t smile at Lucinda. Instead, Sylvie turns to look at Grippy every few seconds with a worried expression.

  Focus on your plan.

  “Barkus, you’re my man,” I say. “I need somebody out among the people tonight, telling my story. They know you. These Nightshades stride about in their black cloaks, bold as brass, but most of them are scrubs and shadowboys, cruel gophers like Sanjuste. They have venom but little cunning, and I need them overconfident. Tell them we went down with The Black Cat. Tell them how sad and glorious it was. I need them cocky. I need them making mistakes.”

  I run my hands through my hair. “I’m going to find the ones who coined Lower Ector as New Byzantus and bring it down around their ears. Then I’m going to rescue Carmen.”

  “People will die,” Barkus says quietly. “Old friends are already afraid to be seen with me.”

  “The more people die, the more the living will know we are right.” I point to an inscription on the model, an inscription that Tom himself must have made:

  They will flee in the night.

  They will weep at dawn.

  I will salt the earth with bone meal so fine that children will trod unknowing upon them.

  “He wasn’t talking about his victims, Barkus. He was talking about the Dark Brotherhood.” Even so, I feel darkness gather around me as I pick up the black cloak Barkus has brought me from Tom’s coat room. It’s a shadowcloak like the ones worn by high Nightshades, but the fabric is better than anything I’ve seen before. It reflects no light, is a pool of inky darkness. It smells of prairie sage, and that reminds me of Carmen.

  I focus my attention on the innkeeper. “In twenty-four hours, Barkus, everyone will want to talk to you.”

  “Aye, lad. I suspect they will.” Even without Magnus’s ineffable luck and Cobalt coked to the gills with Aenese flower, he believes in me. His posture is straight and proud. “I suspect they will.”

  Lucinda is still smiling as she does one last check on her patchwork armor, doing her best to ensure her vitals are covered. Grippy motions to his two friends from the docks and they lumber up, cracking knuckles and doing the muscly things thugs do before a fight.

  I lead my small group of fighters away, down the long, dark tunnel to Selwin’s manor, suddenly understanding what it means to be home: people who care about you and your loved ones. I glance back repeatedly and notice the two orphans still watching us. They’re getting all the wrong ideas.

  I don’t correct them, though, or tell them to turn around. That wrong idea is hope. We are hope for the city, as slim-wicked as that may seem. We are hope for all those, like Markel, who almost lost their souls.

  I don’t fear retribution. I smile because there is so little room for receiving it. The pain already overflows its banks. They’ve torn me from my children. My homes, any I have known, are smoldering heaps. My city is in chaos. They’ve killed my friends, and the ones who aren’t dead yet will be if I fail. I don’t fear retribution, because I am retribution.

  I am coming.

  SEVENTEEN

  In the wee hours of the morning we take turns napping beneath Selwin’s manor, flipping the hourglass Barkus gave us for this purpose since we’re too far below ground to hear the bells toll. The timing of our movement is critical, and I hope it doesn’t take too much time to move through whatever trap Barkus anticipates here at the footing of the manor. He was adamant there would be something here, but he doesn’t think it was meant to keep us out of the manor but rather to keep the manor out of the tunnels. Cryptic.

  The hours are heavy on my eyelids and the stone floor is inviting and soft. I let go of the grinding worry and close my eyes. Why not? For good or evil, it will soon be over.

  The city opens to my mind as I shutter my eyes. The whole city spreads out above me, like Tom’s model, only I don’t have the means to reach through walls and touch it.

  I can the sewers above, starting to gather water. Above them, the skirmishing has died down and bucket brigades have disbanded. Rain lashes the city, desperate to get clear of the rain that is following it. People are closing shutters and hunkering down to weather the storm, whispering that it is the Nightshade Slayer’s doing, and that he will put things right in the morning.

  The apothecary, Madam We
aselroot, turns fitfully in her bed. Her shop is clean and ordered, and she’s set fresh linens on her guest bed as if expecting someone.

  When lightning strikes the bell tower, she shudders awake. I can feel her mind questing out. “Master is that you?” she whispers. “I thought you were dead.”

  I open my mouth to tell her I don’t know what she is talking about, but I haven’t yet found my voice, and the room vanishes like smoke in the gale.

  For a time, I flow like wind in the tunnels.

  #

  Lucinda taps me on the shoulder. “Teacup.”

  I’ve been sleeping, and surprisingly, without the horrific dreams that have haunted me for the last few weeks. Instead, my thigh itches where I stabbed myself and I have the fleeting desire to cut through an invisible chain around my wrist.

  “Teacup.”

  I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes. There is no chain, just a vague dream and a sawing motion that disappears as I wake. “I’m up, Lucinda.”

  “Let’s leave ourselves a little margin,” she says, setting down the hourglass a half-turn early.

  She’s a smart one, she is.

  Grippy rousts his dockmen. I don’t think he’s slept, but they have, in the way men sleep before battle, the way of an acquisitioner before his execution. Still, they grin up at him as he cusses them awake. They could break him like a twig, but they don’t. They grin, rise slowly, and tower over him. There’s something that passes in those smiles that I don’t understand, a look that says they’d follow him to the ends of the earth.

  “Yer job?” Grippy asks.

  “Smash things.”

  “Guard your backs.”

  “And carry o’ lass Carmen, if she’s hurt,” Grippy reminds them.

  “Aye.”

  One of them slaps a massive cudgel against the palm of his hand, as if the sting of it will make him live longer. The other balances a twisted bar of metal between his hand and the floor. It’s handle has been wrapped in dock-leather, but there is something familiar about its shape and color.