The Nine

by Tracy Townsend

  The Alchemist closed his eyes and sighed. “Where is the body?”

  “Upstairs, maybe. Haven’t gone up yet. You can smell the blood, though, up in the attic. His apartment.”

  He frowned. “It’s not safe here. You should come down.”

  “I feel perfectly safe,” Rowena spat. “I’m home now. I love it up here.”

  The old man cast about, looking for the ladder. Then he spied the open rectangle in the loft overhead. He squinted at the ladder’s feet, pulled far out of reach.

  Rowena smiled smugly. “I’m not coming down.”

  “Rowena, please. I am sorry.”

  “That doesn’t help! I don’t know how you did it, but the more I think of it, I’m sure it’s true—you went into my mind. If I think hard, I can tell. There are . . . there’s something in there,” Rowena said, her voice rising. The words piled up in her throat, threatening to choke her. “Some kind of footprint or fingerprint or I don’t know what. You left tracks. I wouldn’t have noticed them if I en’t thought to look.”

  “People typically don’t.”

  She’d had another volley ready, the fires lit and the launchers cranked, but the Alchemist’s honesty snipped the wicks. But only for a moment.

  “Who are you? What are you? What kind of a person can go knocking around other folks’ heads like it’s nothing at all?”

  “None of that is important now,” he murmured, looking about as if he expected something to emerge from the shadows.

  “The hell it en’t! What if I ran off right now and found myself some squints down at the pubs around the Commons, taking a pint after the day’s lectures? I could tell ’em all about you and your . . . your . . .” Rowena pawed through the jumble in her head, sifting for the right word. “Your irrational powers. Some of ’em might even be down the pisser enough to believe me. I bet it would seem pretty damned important to you then.”

  The Alchemist looked up at her, his dark face gone ashen. Suddenly, Rowena knew she had him.

  “They’d be giddy to get their hands on something like you and explain it, huh?” Her heart pounded with anger. And fear. She wanted him to feel that pain, too. “Probably send you straight to Lemarcke, to the Logicians. You hear all kinds of stories about how far their work’ll go in the name of Reason. Savvy?”

  “You aren’t safe here,” the Alchemist insisted.

  “What do you care, anyhow?”

  Silence filled the space between them. The old man looked down at his boots for a moment, his jaw working, chewing his response. He spoke at last, words tight as garrote wire.

  “If the aigamuxa came here to look for other parcels from your reverend doctor, and if they killed Ivor, they’re looking to tie up loose ends. You’re one of them, girl.”

  “Seems like you know a lot about folk who take care of loose ends,” Rowena answered. “Where’s our lovely dinner company now? Out knifing people for chronometers?”

  “Looking for you,” he snapped. “Because I asked them to. You can’t afford to be alone.”

  She snorted. “And what, I’m safer with you? Sleeping in your spare room, waiting for you to come tiptoeing into my head? I was wrong. You’re not some scientific bloke with a shop and a shingle. You’re a creature out of fairy stories. How many girls have you pulled up into that room before and played your games with, huh? Bet Rare could tell a pretty tale if she was of a mind.”

  The Alchemist’s eyes narrowed. Even at that distance, she could see the fury clenching his jaw. “That’s none of your affair.”

  Rowena glared down at the wrecked warehouse, her eyes suddenly blurry. “And this en’t yours! So shove off to your stupid shop and your stupid dog and your stupid—”

  The rafters creaked, a weight shifting among them.

  Rowena’s words tumbled back down her throat. Slowly, she looked up.

  It must have come down from the apartment above. She stared at the aigamuxa spidering its way through the skeleton beams, saw-teeth bared in a growl.

  “Oh, balls,” she breathed.

  “Rowena!”

  Her head snapped toward the Alchemist’s voice. He’d leapt atop a tumbled pile of grain sacks, gesturing to her.

  “Jump down!”

  Rowena gaped at the drop. Already, her stomach was plunging, but still—she looked back at the aigamuxa, almost near enough to swipe with its clawed hand—

  She grabbed the railing, vaulted to the top bar, and leapt.

  The Alchemist’s landing place felt about as hard as the floor itself. The sacks split, pouring out barleycorn and something else: the tiny, whistle-nosed bullets sifted secretly into the freight. Rowena gagged on a cloud of dust. She swam free of the spilling grain and ordnance, her left side screaming with pain.

  Big hands pulled her roughly to her feet.

  The Alchemist shoved Rowena behind him. He reached into the lining of his frock coat for something, eyes searching the ceiling.

  “Why hasn’t it come down yet?” Rowena whispered. The aiga prowled along a roof beam, rumbling, its gaze stabbing at the floor.

  The Alchemist pulled Rowena into the center of the room, away from the cover of the tumbled sacks and crates. She struggled, trying to twist free and turn for the door, but he hauled her close, dragging her heels through broken glass. Is he barking mad? Shouldn’t we be running away? At least running for cover?

  A twisted piece of metal jabbed between Rowena’s laces. Suddenly, she understood.

  Its eyes.

  Rowena looked down. She stood in the center of a shattered sea, full of reefs of nasty, jagged debris. The aigamuxa bellowed and flung itself onto the loft. But it stayed there, perched on the rail. It couldn’t come straight down on them without getting its eye heels full of metal and glass. Rowena gave the Alchemist a knowing smile, but he paid her no mind. He’d found what he was looking for in his coat—something small, the size of a lump of coal. He turned it in his hand, searching for the right grip.

  The aigamuxa’s shoulders tensed. It folded in, readying to spring.

  “Stay behind me,” the old man murmured.

  Rowena glanced back at the exit. There was another hunched form bending its way through the splintered doors.

  Rowena fished her boot knife out. “Okay, but . . . behind you en’t actually a lot better.”

  The Alchemist followed her gaze. That was when the aigamuxa in the loft hurled itself down, arms spread wide.

  The Alchemist grabbed Rowena’s shoulder with his left hand, pulling her around and under him as he hurled the tiny parcel in his right. It sizzled through the air, cutting a bright arc and then smashing with a burst of searing yellow light against the creature’s chest. The old man’s coat half-covered Rowena’s face. Through a buttonhole, she could see the aiga hit the ground, writhing and howling. It swatted at the burning chemical splatter on its chest but only coated its hands and arms in the smoldering stew. Its back arched up from the glass-covered ground, feet stamping in agony, eyes pouring blood.

  Rowena wanted to look away, and yet—

  The Alchemist turned on his heels, his coat sweeping over her face. Then he yanked it away, like a conjuror tugging a tablecloth free. Rowena pushed herself up, wincing at the shards of glass stabbing her palms. The old man had gotten his feet just in time to take the crashing weight of the aigamuxa from the doorway square in the chest. It barreled them both backward, tumbling over Rowena’s back like a sawhorse.

  Rowena fell, gasping, in the dust. She blinked stinging, gritty eyes, following the fight as best she could through the light of the chemical fire still licking at the dead aiga’s chest.

  Somehow, the Alchemist had rolled free of the aigamuxa. He had some kind of a short weapon in his right hand—a stiletto or dirk the length of his forearm. With a flick of his wrist, the weapon more than doubled its length, telescoping out and ending in a glinting, strangely forked blade. He danced away from the aiga, which bounded over the most treacherous ground to perch on slouched desks and overturned cha
irs. They swiped, and ducked, and stabbed, winding in close and parting again, and twice the aigamuxa nearly raked the weapon from the old man’s hand, forcing him back, coming nearer and nearer to hemming the Alchemist in.

  Rowena looked to the door again. Beyond, Blackbottom End promised open space for running, and empty stoops for sleeping, and the comfort of an alchemical lamp’s glow. She crept closer to it, fingers tight on her knife. Then she glanced back at the fray.

  The old man spotted her hiding in the shadow of the doorframe. He seemed about to say something when the aigamuxa snared one of the columns holding up the loft and swung around it, slamming its legs like a club against the Alchemist’s head.

  He fell in a heap, rolling to the side only a moment before the aiga’s fists crashed down where his head had once been. The creature crouched over him, hands at his throat, teeth bearing down. Too close for the Alchemist to raise his blade.

  Rowena knew she should leave. Leaving would be easier. She had every right to go.

  She kept telling herself that, even as she dashed toward the aigamuxa’s unguarded rear. Rowena drove her tiny knife into its bent knee. It howled in pain and whirled, snatching her up by her wrists and straight into the air, all teeth and slaver and blind, twisted features.

  Over the creature’s shoulder, Rowena saw the Alchemist’s hand close on his sword’s hilt. There was that wrist flick, and then the blade collapsed down, short enough to slip into the space between himself and the aiga.

  The blade streaked toward its throat.

  Rowena closed her eyes. There was a meaty, stabbing sound, a sizzle. Something made the hairs on Rowena’s arms lift, her skin prickling. And then, all at once, the aigamuxa’s crushing weight slumped over her.

  A moment later, there was moonlight again, and air. The Alchemist rolled the dead aigamuxa away with a grunt. A stench like charred offal wafted from the seared wound in the creature’s neck. The old man’s face was pouring sweat, his grayed temple matted with blood. The strange weaponette coughed blue sparks where it lay at his side. They stared at each other, panting and powdered with grain.

  “You might have been right,” Rowena said. “About it not being safe here, I mean.” She stood, knees trembling more than she wanted to show, and dusted herself with bloodied, stinging palms.

  She offered the Alchemist her hand and levered him up.

  “You’ll need a place to stay again, I think,” he observed.

  Rowena surveyed the room. “Might be, yeah.”

  The Alchemist sheathed his weapon and let his coat fall back, covering it. Without a backward glance, he walked toward the broken warehouse doors. “Come along, girl. Anselm is expecting us.”

  19.

  Rare Juells had watched them arguing under the Last Drop’s portico arch for nearly a quarter hour, amused at first at how well she could read them—their little snipes and jabs and negotiations, the Old Bear and Anselm reflecting one another like a pair of beveled mirrors. But the amusement wore thin as she considered how they both expected her to wait. To stand aside and to be a good girl, or whatever paternal nonsense ran through their heads.

  She knew these men better than they knew themselves. When Anselm clasped the Old Bear’s shoulder, casting a glance back toward her in the doorway, she saw already what would, inevitably, follow. He’d passed the old man a look of assurance, but it became a warning when it fell upon her.

  Don’t be difficult.

  And Rare had smiled in return. I’ll do as I like.

  Then the Alchemist teased his way through the knots of the Hangman’s Market, moving westward. Rare had watched his retreating form, a fire rising in her belly.

  “You’re taking the north.”

  She blinked at Anselm. He was slipping into his greatcoat, adjusting its cuffs.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You know the markets and squares in the upper quarters better than most,” he continued. Rare bristled at that qualification—better than most, was it?

  Anselm’s pale eyes flicked up from his buttons, looking irritated that she hadn’t already flown like an arrow. “The idiot girl is liable to get herself into trouble. The sooner she’s roped back with the Bear, the better for all of us. Especially you.”

  Rare stared at him, incredulous. “You volunteer me to hunt for the Old Bear’s pet urchin, and now you want to sell me the notion it’s for my own good? How kind of you.”

  He’d taken her arm, then, as if to turn her toward the lane. She snaked free with a venomous glare.

  “And what will you be doing while I run about looking for the girl? Asking after her welfare among the locals? Setting up a cozy bed back at the Regency?”

  He turned to walk away. And she knew she had guessed exactly right.

  “For thirteen years,” Rare said, her tone simmering, “you’ve taken his part. Over and over and over again.”

  Anselm flipped an impatient glance. “And for thirteen years, you’ve expected that to change.”

  “Shouldn’t I?”

  “No,” he said. “You shouldn’t.”

  They were too far apart to have traded blows, but the words had hit her like a slap, all the same. Rare had felt her jaw tighten, clamping down on a little cry of pain she wouldn’t permit Anselm to hear. Not now. Not ever.

  “Be sure to offer the girl my old room,” Rare answered. She swept past him, chin high. “The north, you said. Coventry and the Cathedral?”

  Anselm nodded.

  “I’ll see what I can do. Meantime, do yourself a favor. Don’t wait up for me.”

  That had been hours before, the midafternoon. She returned to her apartments in Stillhampton and traded her lavender dress and shawl for working clothes. She packed a little belt of tools and gathered it up under the short, slitted skirt worn over her long boots and leather trousers. By nightfall, Rare had sorted out a route for herself, and a plan, though they had nothing to do with Coventry Passage or the Cathedral Commons.

  They had to do with the Stone Scales.

  She approached the skeletal building from the shed yard at its rear. A musty, old hound lay roped to the doorjamb, his lead coiled up beside a box of bones and rags put out for his comfort. Rare’s heels barely rang against the cobbles, but it was enough to make the dog start from slumber. His hackles lifted, his rumbling throat making noises between a whine and a snarl.

  “Rab-bit,” Rare chided sweetly. “You useless old rug. It’s me.”

  The gray-muzzled hound sniffed Rare’s hands, wrists, boots, and finally her face, the half snarl’s back broken by the force of his wagging tail.

  “How’s mummy’s good boy, eh? Old Bear left you hanging, did he? Wretched Old Bear! Here.” She opened the clasp of the lead and unwound it from Rabbit’s neck. The dog’s good back leg thumped the ground as she scratched that place behind his scarred ear. “Come along, poppet. Show mummy where Daddy keeps his lovelies.”

  Barking like a puppy, the dog bounded up the back steps and through the swinging flap of his cutout door. From within, he nudged the drop latch with his nose, and the outer door swung open obligingly.

  “That’s my boy,” Rare purred.

  Smiling, she entered. Rare felt like herself again, wearing her leathers and silks, her boots with steel-toed innards, an alley pistol halter strapped to her thigh. Rabbit danced in the doorway eagerly.

  Still a useless watchdog, she mused, thinking back on the wiggly, lame fuzzball that had once been her puppy.

  There were many things Rabbit would never be—but he was utterly loyal to whoever did him a kindness.

  The first lesson Anselm Meteron had taught Rare Juells was to begin a job knowing what you’re looking for.

  “Never,” he’d said as they crouched on the roof of Regency Square, scanning the skyline of Corma and its brocade of galvano-graph cables. “Never go into a place looking for something to make the trip worth it. Know where you’re going. Know why.”

  Rare Juells had come to the Stone Scales looking to
take the things that would hurt the Alchemist the most.

  She ignored the till. She walked past the padlocked side room where the rarest and most valuable goods were kept. Rare climbed the elderly stairs, remembering at each rise precisely where the wood would groan.

  She stood at the door of her old attic bedroom, sweeping her magnesium torch’s unsteady beam over the room. She had left the Stone Scales and her adoptive father thirteen years earlier. Her bed looked as ready to receive her as Rabbit had.

  Know where you’re going. Know why.

  Rare continued down the hall to a smaller room, perhaps half the size of the last. She almost raised a hand to knock at its closed door. Then she stopped.

  Mother wouldn’t be there, of course. She hadn’t been for thirteen years. And yet . . .

  Rare turned the knob.

  The bedroom was not quite as she remembered. Its tall standing mirror was gone. The curtains badly needed laundering, but the bed was made and the chest of drawers’ surface clear of all but a little catchall holding a watch chain and cufflinks. An ivory comb rested in that little dish, the sort used to pin up a woman’s hair. Rare touched it, memory shivering through her. She lifted her fingers, and it faded, leaving only a familiar, creeping anger in its wake.

  Know where you’re going.

  Rare shook her head, as if to sweep it of debris. Then she rifled the chest of drawers with a purpose.

  Tonight would be her last in Corma. She had already bought a ticket for the lightning rail out east and would have it punched at first light. There were two valises under her bed, packed with everything she needed—everything, at least, that might fit in a bag.

  The business with the book and the aigamuxa had made things a bit hot, true, but Rare had had those bags in mind long before Rowena Downshire got herself cornered on the highstreets. If she was honest with herself, her life had been ending by degrees ever since the woman she called her mother died in the hull of an air galleon somewhere over the Western Sea. The Alchemist had disembarked that ship half the man he’d been when he’d boarded it. The half that remained hadn’t been strong enough to hold up an angry girl desperate for consolation.