One Man

by Harry Connolly

There was movement in the dark behind her, and Riliska stopped shouting. She could see silhouettes moving in the room, rising off the floor like hungry ghosts. The old woman’s footsteps retreated down the stairs. Whatever was in here, Riliska was trapped with it.

  Hands reached up and caught hold of her wrists, her legs, the hem of her tunic. She squealed in terror at the unexpected touch. She found she could break free easily—the hands were small and not terribly strong—but there were too many of them.

  It was then that she realized they were shushing her. Their hands were grimy but their voices were desperate. They were saying please, and when Riliska heard their voices, she realized they were children like her. From the sound of it, some were very young. She had woken them up.

  She let herself be pulled down onto the lumpy mats in the dim, hellish light. She let herself be shushed. And that was all it took to become one of them.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Onderishta could have kicked herself.

  She and Fay were rummaging through the mess in the dead woman’s apartment when she spotted something among the shards of a shattered jug. It was a claim token from a pawnshop.

  “How many pawnshops in Woodgarden?” she asked the nearest constable. Onderishta’s work took her all over the city, but most of her time was spent in the very wealthy neighborhoods or the absolute poorest. Woodgarden fell between.

  “Ah…” he answered, then looked toward the ceiling and began to count on his fingers.

  “A baker’s dozen,” said a second constable, “now that the Silver Purse burned down.” She was nearly Onderishta’s age and was still wearing chest plate and helmet.

  Onderishta lifted the little wooden disk. “This claim token doesn’t have an address, just an indecipherable mark. I haven’t seen one like this since I was an apprentice.” She had a good idea where it was from, but smart investigators didn’t jump to conclusions. “Anyone recognize it?”

  The young constable sighed as though he was making a confession. “That’s Eyalmati’s place.”

  “The one in the hall?”

  He nodded. “My father used to…”

  “You don’t have to explain anything you don’t want to,” Onderishta said. “They’ve been closed all day, haven’t they?”

  The older constable responded by wandering farther into the hall, toward the pawnshop itself. Onderishta followed. She and Fay had already spent an hour in Rulenya’s building, both searching the hall and talking to her neighbors. The gates had been locked since they arrived. “Eyalmati is his name? Where’s he likely to be?”

  The older one said, “On the floor of some tavern, with vomit and an empty purse beside him. He’s been drinking himself to death for years and goes on three- or four-day benders.”

  “How does he stay in business?”

  “He’s got a guy now,” the woman said. “Weird one. The neighbors call him the Broken Man.”

  “Oh, him!” the young ironshirt exclaimed. “I never liked that one, with that scar.”

  Onderishta looked at Fay. Fay looked back. “Describe him,” Fay said.

  The woman, perhaps reading their look, kept her mouth shut. The young man said, “Tall. Slender. Shaggy hair that hangs in his face. The morose type. He never talks, and hates to make eye contact. And he’s got a horrible scar on his left cheek, like he was bitten by a shark and then burned with acid.”

  That was when Onderishta could have kicked herself.

  She turned from the apartment door to the pawnshop grate. There was no more than six paces between them. Everything she’d wanted to know about their mysterious prisoner had been within spitting distance all day.

  “He started here about a year ago,” the older constable said. “Eyalmati says his name is Kyrioc, child of No One.”

  Onderishta pointed at the younger constable. “Get that fucking landlady down here with a key.”

  She arrived with an aggrieved look on her face, but one glance at Onderishta’s expression convinced her to remain silent. She unlocked the gate.

  The stench of rotting flesh billowed through the open door.

  Directly across the room, surrounded by a pool of dried blood and a torn Harkan wedding robe, lay the corpse of Second Boar.

  Onderishta felt Fay grab the back of her vest and pull her out of the room. She let him, realizing belatedly that she’d automatically started toward the body.

  Fay ordered the constables to search the rooms. They paused to buckle their helmets, looking at each other in a way Onderishta recognized well. If the killer was still inside, this might be the day they died. They went anyway.

  There were no killers in the shop or the connected rooms, no more dead bodies, and no live ones, either. Fay and Onderishta entered. The landlady didn’t have a key to the secure part of the shop, but it took Onderishta less than a minute to find the false wallboard where the spare had been hidden.

  There were no corpses in the storeroom, either. The place looked clean and orderly. A scan of the shelves showed nothing unusual: knives, tools, cheap jewelry…exactly the sort of thing desperate working people and petty pickpockets turn into coin.

  “What if this Broken Man,” Fay began, “whoever he is, was a distribution point for white tar? This would be a good cover, with people coming and going. Maybe the pickpocket was his woman and sold the tar for him on the sly. Make the daughter a courier, maybe.”

  “You figure she’s his daughter?”

  “Landlady says she’s nine or ten and he’s been working here less than a year, but maybe they know each other from way back.”

  “It’s fine to develop theories and to try to see how the evidence fits, but we have too many anomalies here. We’re not at that stage yet.”

  Fay shrugged. “Am I missing something?”

  Onderishta pointed toward the pile of cloth in the corner. “Five years ago, a Harkan rebel group took advantage of the general chaos of civil war and ‘liberated’ the contents of a warehouse. Inside, they discovered stacks and stacks of Harkan robes. It was too much for one ship, so they split their bounty into thirds and sold them to three different captains, telling them they were getting the entire haul.

  “One sailed to Ahsala and did quite well. The other two, knowing how much the Salashi love finery and old empires, came here hoping to make a killing.”

  “I remember,” Fay said. “They flooded the market.”

  “What had once been an extravagant gift for a wealthy woman became commonplace. I still wear mine on quiet mornings.”

  Fay crossed the room and picked up the cloth. “I had no idea you were such a hedonist. This one’s been torn open at the seams.”

  “Someone hid something inside it. I suspect our dead hand-painter and pickpocket got it as a gift a few years back. When she had to hide her prize, she stitched it up in this robe and pawned it. A clever idea, really.”

  “Which would make our morose pawnbroker guy…what? A patsy? Or an accomplice?”

  Onderishta was about to ask why Fay thought those were mutually exclusive categories when Trillistin charged up the stair and rushed to the doorway. He was not out of breath this time, but his close-cropped hair was damp with sweat.

  Before Onderishta could ask why he wasn’t hitting the hospitals, he blurted out his news. “There’s been a breakout from the south tower,” he said.

  “A breakout? What do you mean? Did Naufulin show up with a warrant to release Harl’s people?”

  “No,” the boy said. “It was a violent breakout.”

  That made no sense. It had been hours since the raid. By now, Harl’s parsu should have sent Naufulin to the tower with the paperwork for the heavies’ release.

  Unless word had already reached the noble families that constables recovered a collected body, and now the Lorrud parsu seemed to be withholding his support. Which worked in Onderishta’s favor.

  Could she have been wrong? Could someone have broken the unspoken rule of the downcity platforms and tried to turn the bureaucracy a
s a weapon against another gangster? If so, they were either an idiot or a genius. The investigators and constables were a spear with a point at each end.

  Still, even the hint of a black-market hospital raised the possibility of scandal, not to mention charges of treason. Even the Lorrud parsu would keep his distance from that.

  But if Harl’s people couldn’t rely on a bureaucratic release from their cells, they might send a force to smash open the cells. Onderishta threw the robe on the floor. “Let’s go.” She pointed at the landlady. “Keep this locked. No one gets in here unless one of us is with them, not even the guy who owns the business. Keep track of everyone who asks. Yes?” The woman nodded.

  They hurried down the stairs. “Casualties?”

  “Six,” the apprentice said. “No one is dead, but they’re hurt pretty badly.”

  Six! In a way, that was good news. It meant that they hadn’t let the prisoners stroll out. They’d fought. Harl must have sent a mob. “How many got away?”

  “Just the one.”

  She stopped on the landing. Fay and Trillistin stopped too. “Just the one what? Harl sent his heavies to rescue one person?”

  Trillistin wiped sweat from his face. “Harl didn’t send anyone. One of the prisoners fought his way out.”

  * * *

  Kyrioc didn’t like The Docks. It wasn’t just that, for a short time, he’d lived there as a beggar when he returned from Vu-Dolmont, although most days that was enough. The Docks always had a full complement of ironshirts, and most of them took coin from both their tower and the smugglers they were supposed to collar.

  But this was where the constables and investigators expected him to go. Kyrioc had no intention of leaving Koh-Salash, but the people hunting him would expect him to run and keep running until he was far, far away. And the best way to escape was by sea.

  So, he expected the ironshirts to be here, watching for him. His cloak of mirrors was powerful magic, but he hadn’t practiced it enough. He hunched forward and walked with a limp. There was no way to control what people saw when they looked at him, but if he behaved like an elderly cripple, the magic would fill the gaps. As long as they did not put too much attention on him, the magic should hold.

  The man he sought was easy to find. Coming down the plank from Quiet Speech, he stood a head taller than everyone else and wore the square hat of a ship’s captain, even though he no longer went to sea. His robes were silk, with simple embroidery down one side. Tasteful and restrained, considering his new-found wealth.

  He was surrounded by sailors carrying provisions up the plank. Behind him were a chubby, officious little man with a wax tablet and stylus, and two wary bodyguards.

  As Kyrioc approached, one of the bodyguards stiff-armed him. If he’d really been a cripple, the blow would have put him down. Instead, he turned enough for the hit to glance off.

  “Zikiriam admir-Vlosh tuto-Vlosh,” Kyrioc said quietly. “You know me.”

  Even as he spoke, the bodyguards realized he was not who he appeared to be, and they drew their steel.

  “Stop,” Zikiriam said without any conviction. Kyrioc let his cloak fall away. “I know a lot of people, grandfa—Holy fuck!” He clutched suddenly at Kyrioc’s elbow. “Kyrioc, my friend, I haven’t seen you in— Has it really been almost a year and a half since you stepped off my ship?” He touched the collar of his silk robe and glanced at Kyrioc’s tattered funeral clothes. His voice grew quiet. “I heard you were working in a downcity pawnshop. You should have come to work with me. I’d have made you a partner. You deserve it. More. By the fallen gods, how are you?”

  “I’m being hunted.”

  Zikiriam glanced around, then led Kyrioc closer to the ship, moving through the stream of sailors to a stack of crates beside a boom. “How can I help? Do you need a place to hide? A berth on a ship sailing today? Whatever you need, ask and you’ll have it. I owe you that much.”

  “I need information from someone who knows The Docks well. How do I find a couple of gangsters who use little kids as messengers and who have ties to the crew of Winter Friend? They may go by the street name Pail.”

  “I know the name,” Zikiriam said, “but not the people they belong to. If the Pails have ever been on The Docks, I don’t know about it. But their heavies and messengers are here every day, watching the ships and picking up cargo. See that dull-looking fellow over there with the scar on his forehead?” The captain nodded toward a man with a slack face, shaved head, and a green magistrate’s vest that was too small for him. He leaned over a young boy in orphan’s rags as though giving him instructions, then slapped him. “He must be breaking in another new messenger.”

  One of those two was going to answer all of Kyrioc’s questions. He just had to decide which, and what he would have to do to get it. If the child was like the other messengers, he wouldn’t betray his bosses easily, and Kyrioc did not bully children.

  But that shit-eater in the green vest? Kyrioc knew ways to make him scream.

  “Wait a minute,” Kyrioc said. “New messenger? Where’s the old one?”

  There was a shout from a nearby ship. A dockhand shouted something back, but he was too far away to hear clearly.

  “There he is,” the captain answered, “ducking under.”

  Kyrioc saw another boy in rags leap into the shallows, then head for the dark, stony space beneath the dock.

  Shit.

  * * *

  Outgoing: Winter Friend, Quiet Speech, Dandy.

  Incoming: Street of Gold, Gentle Autumn, Man of Bones, Falling Leaf.

  Jallientus, child of Jalliusha, paced up and down the docks, repeating the names until he was sure he had them. Tin Pail expected a daily report of ships coming and going on each tide, and only Jallientus could be trusted to get it right.

  It was easy work in the summer heat. While The Docks were never empty, the real traffic would begin with the fall harvest. That’s when he would prove that even though he was only seven—or maybe eight, it was hard to remember—none of the beetles were as trustworthy as him.

  Outgoing: Winter Friend, Quiet Speech, Dandy.

  Incoming: Street of Gold, Gentle Autumn, Man of Bones, Falling Leaf.

  Jallientus was proud of the responsibility he’d been given. He was proud of the quiet way he moved, and that no one ever seemed to notice him. Proud of his memory. Soon he would give his report to one of Tin Pail’s heavies, but he hoped it wouldn’t be Little Cinder again. Little’s memory was shit, and he tried to blame his mistakes on Jallientus.

  Tin Pail knew better, though. When she looked at Jallientus, he was sure she could see how quick and sharp and quiet he was.

  Jallientus sprinted beneath a roll of carpet as two deckhands carried it to a cart. Quick. Sharp. Quiet. He’d spotted a sail in the glow of Suloh’s bones—these waters were never truly dark—but it steered outward, away from the docks, toward the Timmer Straits.

  Fine. A name he would not have to remember.

  Jallientus turned his back to the waters. The city wall stood tall before him, higher than any stone wall in the world, he’d been told, and stronger, too, because it was made from skywood. He took an earnest pride in it. No invader had ever breached that wall. The city behind it was well protected, but he, who was nothing more than a gangland beetle, spent most of his days outside of it. Unprotected.

  Of course, the safest parts of the city were the highest ones. Down at the level of the docks, there was all kinds of danger: thieves, tar heads, child snatchers with their canvas sacks, and even bloodkind, if you believed the stories.

  Jallientus had never seen bloodkind, but he figured Tin Pail knew they were just another boogeyman story to keep kids in line. The little kids, not him. Bloodkind were supposed to hunt in Mudside and beneath The Docks, but Jallientus had run through the stony muck beneath The Docks many times—on Tin Pail’s orders, yet!—and he’d never seen anything scarier than a rat.

  If his boss wasn’t afraid to send him, he wasn’t afraid to go.
>
  Dockhands were unloading Man of Bones, and Jallientus recognized one of the men. He hurried near, caught the man’s eye, and crouched low. He was a big guy with gnarled hands and gray in his hair, but his expression was kindly. As he often did, the big guy took a fig from the crate he was carrying and tossed it to Jallientus.

  Sucker.

  As the mate of Man of Bones barked out a protest, the boy slipped over the edge of the dock and went beneath. The dockhand spoke with a weary tone. “Better to give him one than have him snatch one with each hand. Besides, he’s just a starving little boy.”

  Jallientus walked quickly away from the water into the darkness beneath the docks, partly so that no one would steal back his treat, but mostly because he didn’t want to hear what the dockhand said next. Jallientus didn’t need anyone’s pity. He had a job, a powerful gangster boss, and a future. Soon he’d have a street name of his own, and he’d spend his days relaxing and his nights doing grownup stuff. Life would be easy—

  A hand seized his ankle. He fell onto the mucky stones, striking his elbow and losing the fig somewhere in the darkness. Not fair.

  He kicked at the hand but it was like kicking stone. Whoever had him was strong. Not a tar head. Not—

  Jallientus’s hair stood on end and a high whine of fear escaped him. It was a little-kid noise, but as he kicked and kicked, he felt as helpless as a little kid.

  Something in the darkness let out a low, hissing laugh. No child snatcher could make a sound like that.

  This couldn’t be happening. He’d run beneath the docks many times. He’d been told to run beneath them. It wasn’t his fault that he was here right now with a…

  A pair of eyes glowed in the dark. Then the thing’s mouth opened, and he could see teeth that shone like stars in the dark. Teeth with two, long fangs with only a dark silhouette behind them. Bloodkind.

  The thing sank its fangs into his calf. Jallientus screamed this time, a high-pitched sound that echoed around him.

  But there was no one to hear. If Jallientus had stayed near the dockhand, the one who’d pitied him, the man might have tried to rescue him. Then the bloodkind might have killed the man instead.