One Man

by Harry Connolly

  “Come in, come in,” Harl said in Carrig. “Tell me about the delivery.”

  The man approached, taking a position on the other side of the counter, as he was supposed to. His gaze shifted from figure to figure: Harl himself, the heavies nearby, the room, the balcony, the rail, the other exit. His face remained impassive.

  Harl didn’t like to be kept waiting. “Well?”

  “Are you ready to let them go?” the young man asked in Carrig. His voice was a little rough, as though he didn’t speak often, but his accent was excellent. It was almost better than Harl’s. “That was the deal.”

  Let them go? Did he mean let the Pails live? Or were they planning to flee the city? A sudden chilly anger cleared Harl’s thoughts. “Deal? There’s no deal here, except the one I’ve already offered.” If the stranger recognized the threat in Harl’s voice, he didn’t show it. “Return what’s mine, and maybe I won’t have you skinned alive!”

  The stranger’s hand shot inside his collar, then slapped a small leather pouch on the counter between them. He moved so quickly that Harl’s bodyguards barely had time to uncross their arms.

  “What’s this?” Were they stupid enough to send a glitterkind ear to him personally? Here? And how had his people missed it?

  Harl untied the package and peeled the oiled leather back. White tar. There was enough here to hang every person in this building, even the ball boys.

  From somewhere very close, he heard the flat, repetitive gong of the constables signaling a raid.

  * * *

  Klung klung klung klung. Onderishta had been pleased when Fay Nog Fay asked to man the gong. This was his tip, and she trusted him to lead.

  It was risky, though. Harl Sota List Im was the big boss of organized crime in Koh-Salash, reporting to no one but his Carrig masters overseas, and he’d played that role for years. To survive that long, he had to be wealthy, smart, and connected. If this raid was a bust, Onderishta’s bosses would not trust her to try again.

  But Harl was also the man responsible for flooding Mudside and Spillwater with white tar, for running protection rackets in Low Market, and for a thousand other crimes, large and small. The bureaucracy wanted him.

  And with Fay’s tip that he would be personally accepting a delivery of white tar, the bureaucracy might get what they wanted.

  The ironshirts rushed into place. Two donkey carts were dragged into the alley that led to the stables, then flipped onto their side. No horse could jump that barrier.

  One team hit the front doors while another entered through the adjoining tea house. Were there other ways out? Onderishta wouldn’t have been surprised, but in the last decade, she’d bribed eight different employees to draw a map of the courts for her, and none had included secret exits or escape tunnels. Plus, the Upgarden decks were made entirely of skywood. It would have been easier to dig a trap door through solid granite.

  Mirishiya ran around a corner of the building, a mob of employees following close behind. “This way, quickly!” she urged, even as the constables moved in and pressed the forefront of the mob against the building.

  She approached Onderishta, smiling with crooked teeth. This was the first of the apprentices from Suloh’s temple, an orphan child who’d grown up as a sneak thief in the downcity plankways. “It worked just like you said,” she said, beaming. “I urged them to follow me to safety and ran them into your nets. Go again?”

  Trillistin, the second apprentice, was at the back of the mob, telling them there was no point in running. He was the other apprentice Culzatik recommended, but she had no idea why. He seemed a fine boy but nothing special.

  Crowds gathered. Shouting voices echoed against the buildings, and every few seconds, a belligerent fell to the ground and cried out that the cosh were beating them. It was chaos. The boy gawped at it all.

  Onderishta rapped a knuckle on the top of his head, and he gave her his attention. His hair was close-cropped like the child of servants that he was, and his eyes were wide and nervous. Although he and Mirishiya were the same age, he stood a head taller, no doubt because he didn’t grow up half-starved. “Both of you stay with me. You did fine work, but this is just the staff. Harl’s thugs would have taken you hostage.”

  Today was the day. She was about to collar Harl for possession of white tar. His sponsors among the noble families would not dare protect him this time. This collar would stick.

  And without Harl, dozens of tar sellers downcity would be stripped of their protection.

  This wasn’t the work Onderishta’s noble sponsor had given her, but to her mind, it was the work she was supposed to be doing. For once, she was going to make life in this city better for everyone, not just the Safroys.

  All they had to do was catch the bastard.

  * * *

  As soon as Kyrioc saw Harl’s reaction to the oiled leather packet, he knew he’d walked into a trap. Worse, he was the trap, sprung to catch more important prey.

  Harl’s eyes went wide. “You do this to me? To me?”

  He squeezed the package in his soft little fist, tar oozing from the ends, staining his pants where it dripped onto him. Then he threw it at Kyrioc.

  It was a good throw. An athlete’s throw. Kyrioc was faster. He batted the leaky package away with his elbow.

  Harl took a deep breath. “Sh’chee-yon—”

  Kyrioc threw himself to the side before Harl reached the final syllable. He couldn’t hear it—no human ear had ever heard all the spoken components of a ghostkind spell—but he recognized it immediately.

  This time, he was not fast enough. A rush of invisible power flew past him, but the edge washed over his face like a blast of oily smoke from a furnace. A blinding light and terrible pressure flashed against his eyes, then it was gone. He stumbled over a low piece of furniture and fell hard.

  Hands seized him. Someone kicked his legs, preventing him from gaining his feet. Someone else grabbed a fistful of his hair. Kyrioc couldn’t see who was doing it or where the attacks were coming from.

  He was blind. His eyes stung, and tears streamed down his cheeks. Harl’s spell had taken his sight away.

  Kyrioc raised his hands in a defensive posture, only to have them kicked away. He needed to escape. He started to call up his cloak of shado—no, his cloak of iron.

  But he couldn’t focus. Too much chaos, too much shouting, too many hands pinning his arms and pulling at his hair while punches and kicks slammed into him. Then someone pulled his hair so hard that his head tilted back, exposing his throat.

  There was only one reason for them to do that.

  This was the end.

  Finally.

  “Stop!”

  The attacks stopped. There was still shouting from the hall and the courtyards below—still the sound of the constables’ gongs—but while those distant noises were growing closer, this room fell still.

  “The magistrates will need to tie a noose around someone’s neck for all this tar. He’s the one who brought the bundle, so he’s the one who’ll swing.”

  There was a brief pause. Whatever vicious blow Harl’s thugs had been about to deliver never fell. Instead, they hoisted him to his feet, dragged him across the room, and threw him over the balcony rail.

  * * *

  Fay shouted, “No blades, no blades!”

  The constables didn’t need to be told, but he wanted the heavies to hear the order being given. We won’t escalate if you won’t.

  So, blades remained sheathed. Truncheons had been drawn but not swung. Heavies stood in the hall with their hands out, shouting at the constables to hold up, explain themselves, slow down, but the words blended together into an incoherent chorus of raised voices. The ironshirts, truncheons forward, pushed their way through the doors and up the stairs, the heavies offering only enough resistance to slow them to a crawl.

  If Harl had a secret way out, they were giving him time to reach it.

  Fay turned to Onderishta. Her expression was grim. She shouted something
several times, but her voice was lost in the din. By the fallen gods, the noise was awful.

  A sudden escalation in the shouting made him look up. Harl had appeared at the top of the stairs, and there was a smear on his right pant leg—Selsarim Lost, it wasn’t just a smear. It looked like a piece of white tar.

  If they captured Harl with contraband on his clothes, he would swing for sure, and Fay would be the one tying the noose.

  The thought gave him goosebumps. He was making enemies today—powerful ones—but his father had told him a person could judge their worth by the enemies they made.

  Fay smiled, his thoughts both grim and happy, and pushed.

  * * *

  Nothing focused the mind like the feeling of falling though open air. Kyrioc curled up, relaxed his muscles, and called up his cloak of iron.

  He did not fall far, and he struck soft, yielding wood rather than the stone-like skywood of the Upgarden decks. The impact still knocked the breath out of him and splashed a puddle of rainwater onto his face, but his cloak of iron blunted much of the impact.

  But not all. Any armor, magical or mundane, could only do so much.

  Kyrioc felt his sleeve soaking up the rainwater, and he rubbed the wet linen against his eyes. The stinging bright light faded slightly. He rolled over and pressed his face into the puddle, then opened his eye.

  A spell. Harl Sota List Im had cast an actual ghostkind spell.

  No wonder he was in Koh-Salash. Spellcasting was a capital offense in pretty much every civilization on the Semprestian, but in Carrig, they put your whole family to death, just in case.

  Kyrioc washed out one eye, then the other. The water neutralized the magic, growing warmer as it leeched the spell away, but the puddle wasn’t enough. He needed a full basin at least.

  He could see blurry shapes and colors. He blinked and blinked again, trying to force his own tears to flow harder. It helped, but not fast enough. The tinny clangs of the constables’ gongs were getting closer, and so were the shouting voices. Kyrioc rolled onto his back and nearly fell off the edge of the platform he had landed on.

  He caught the scent of horses and horse shit.

  A door banged open, then Harl’s voice ordered someone to block a hall with furniture, which was followed by the sound of a door slamming shut and latching into place. Kyrioc looked over the edge of the roof but couldn’t see anything moving. Harl was below with the horses out of sight.

  And he might know something about Riliska. If not, he would know other things, like who the Pails were and where they laid their heads at night.

  Kyrioc swung himself over the edge of the building and dropped down to the deck. His vision had cleared enough to see Harl—blurry but obviously him—climbing into a saddle. The stableboy was beside him, boosting him up.

  “Kill him,” Harl said.

  The boy drew a knife from his belt. Kyrioc still couldn’t open his eyes all the way, but he had blinked away much of the spell’s effect, and he knew immediately what the boy’s posture showed: body tilted, right arm held low, left bent close to the body. Someone had taught this kid how to fight, probably the bored heavies loitering around the place.

  The boy feinted as Harl gained his seat and dug in his heels. The horse took off and the boy hopped to the side, putting himself between Kyrioc and his fleeing boss.

  Then he lunged. It was a brave move—and well executed—but he was just a boy. Kyrioc sidestepped and slapped him on the side of the head. Not too hard, but the knife clattered against the skywood deck. The boy staggered and fell into the hay.

  Harl rode for the alley, which was the wrong choice. That way led to the street, straight toward the ironshirts, and the buildings pressing in on either side gave him no options except to go forward or retreat. Maybe he expected help from them, either because they were on his payroll or hoped to be. Maybe he wasn’t thinking at all.

  Kyrioc snatched the boy’s knife off the deck, but Harl turned the corner into the alley before he could throw it.

  The nag still stood where he’d left her.

  The boy had not taken the rig off her. She was still attached to the carriage. For a moment, Kyrioc no longer felt bad about that slap. He dunked his face in the horses’ water trough, then opened his eyes. The water wasn’t clean, but magic was its own contamination, and he’d take horse slobber over a spell any time. When he stood again, he could see pretty well, but the nag was spooked. He took up the reins, making soothing noises.

  She backed up, her cartload of potatoes moving across the mouth of the alley. He could hear shouting from the street, and Harl’s mount let out a whinny. Hoofbeats approached. Kyrioc knew Harl had met the ironshirts in the street and was now retreating.

  The back of the cart struck the building opposite, completely blocking the alley entrance. Kyrioc bounded into the cart and stood atop the potatoes, his arms held high and wide.

  A good, strong horse could have jumped the cart, and Harl’s horse was fine indeed, even if the rider looked uncomfortable in the saddle. But even a good horse will balk when a man jumps in front of it, arms splayed.

  Harl’s mount halted, head dipping low and rear lifting up. Harl lost his seat and went over the horse’s neck.

  Kyrioc sidestepped the falling body, but one of the burlap sacks ruptured under his foot, and he fell forward, striking his head against the wall and landing beside Harl’s mount. Harl himself plowed into the burlap sacks, breaking the far side of the cart and spilling the potatoes everywhere.

  Harl’s horse did not trample Kyrioc. It backed away, skittish. Beyond it, a swarm of constables sprinted toward them, eyes wild, voices yelling.

  Harl stood. There was a bloody mark on his forehead and he held his left arm close to his chest as though it was broken. He ran into the courts.

  The nag reared and kicked. A terrible rotting smell came from the cart, and the horse shied from it.

  Kyrioc couldn’t let Harl escape if he was going to find Riliska and her mother. He vaulted over the cart and landed on a burlap sack on the other side.

  And stopped.

  At his feet lay a dead body, half wrapped in a shroud. Harl must have knocked it from the cart when he broke through the side.

  Kyrioc couldn’t move.

  Couldn’t speak.

  He could only stare.

  Ironshirts ran toward him, shouting and waving truncheons, but they fell silent when they saw the body too.

  It was an adult woman, flayed from the neck down. Where her stomach should have been was just an empty cavity. Her scalp had been removed, leaving only exposed bone. Her eyelids sat sunken over empty sockets.

  He had not just delivered drugs for the Pails. Not just. He’d also brought Rulenya, child of someone he did not know, mother to Riliska.

  A woman stood beside him. Her gray vest marked her as a bureaucrat, and the exertions of the day had left her graying hair in disarray. Kyrioc assumed she was the investigator in charge of this raid.

  She’d been the first at his side and the first to notice Rulenya’s corpse.

  When she looked up at him, there was an icy hatred in her gaze.

  “Take him,” she said.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Onderishta climbed the stair and joined Fay at the tower window.

  The raid had been his chance. If they’d caught Harl with the incriminating evidence his source said would be there, Fay would have been, briefly, a hero. He would have immediately been offered a promotion into a position like her own—city payroll, private masters.

  Or he could have moved to a different part of the bureaucracy: the diplomatic bureaucracy, so he could visit relations in Carrig, or regulate goldsmiths, where the bribes were said to be life-changing, or as an aide to the High Watch, where he would be a whisper away from the most powerful nobles in the city.

  But Harl had slipped away. His men had been rounded up by the dozens, but the boss was gone.

  White tar had been found in the building—smeared into a sofa, as a
matter of fact—but there was no way to prove the boss was involved, because they hadn’t collared him. Fay and Onderishta had taken their shot, and they wouldn’t get another.

  Their only result was a corpse that implied a crime no one wanted to admit was possible.

  “I like coming up here,” Fay said. “I like real sunlight.”

  Onderishta didn’t speak.

  He sighed. “That informant sent word that we should move on Harl and I did it. Like I was taking orders. I wanted Harl so much that I didn’t even consider that I might be…” He looked down at his empty hand. “That body…”

  Onderishta gave him a moment to compose himself, then she said, “You examined her?”

  He shuddered slightly. “I did. In the years I’ve been working for you, I’ve seen a lot of corpses, but I’ve never seen anything like that. She hadn’t just been flayed. Her insides had been taken out. And her eyes. Do you think Harl is running a black-market hospital somewhere in the city?”

  “I’ve heard new rumors of a Lost Ward loose in the city.”

  Fay drummed his fingers on the sill. “A day ago, I would have rolled my eyes. This shit just doesn’t happen, but… Is there any doubt that Harl would cut people up for parts if there was money to be made?”

  “No.” Onderishta told him about her meeting with the Safroy heir and his suspicions about the package exchange they’d missed in Sailsday’s Regret. She even told him about the possible plot to frame the Safroys for treason.

  “So, the white tar we found at the hammerball courts wasn’t from the package we missed in Sailsday’s Regret? My Katr informant with the bells in his hair either didn’t know what was being passed—which I don’t really believe—or the white tar was planted, or your noble boss has it all wrong. I’m hoping it’s the last one, but if Harl is deep into black-market medicine, we need to jump on it.”

  Except there was no aspect of life in Koh-Salash more scrupulously regulated than healing magic. Replacing eyes, livers, skin…all of it was bound by careful procedures and bureaucrats who were not only the most rigid, self-righteous human beings on the face of the earth, they were given full authority to regulate each other, too. The lowest of the low could thoroughly audit the accounts of the head of the department, and if they expected to be promoted someday, they did.