One Man

by Harry Connolly

  “My husband went to his parsu to plead for help. Two days later, he was dead. ‘Fell from a stair,’ they said, but no one was fooled. The Pails and their thugs kept coming. They never paid for anything. It was a relief when they grew bored with us.

  “After a week without a single paying or non-paying customer, my daughter borrowed a cart from a friend and began loading our things into it, right out front. Tin Pail walked out of that building across the street and struck my daughter with a hammer. Just one blow, but it was enough. That was four months ago, and…”

  “I’m sorry,” Kyrioc said.

  “They’re animals. All of them. The ones who haven’t committed murder stand around and laugh while the others do. Meanwhile, I sit here in the dark and starve. If I could knife one, I’d cook and eat them like an animal. I’d savor every bite, too.” She looked out the window. “Why have you come?”

  “They took a little girl. I want to get her back.”

  “Your daughter, eh? They have little kids running in and out of that place all the time. She’s probably over there. You need a distraction? I could go over there and kick over a lantern.”

  Kyrioc shook his head. “No.”

  “Maybe start a fire or make them leave their posts?”

  “Do you have a hammer?”

  She huffed in disappointment. “They took everything we had when they took the cart away. Everything that could be a weapon, at least. Good steel knives and cleavers. A pair of iron mallets. Quality stuff. Only the pots, cookers and cloths are left.”

  “A cloth will do. Do they have a special knock?”

  “They do, and it changes. One two. One. One two. What are you planning? Kill the Pails? Burn the place down?”

  Kyrioc’s eyes had adjusted to the dim. He went to the wall and took a long, narrow apron off a hook. It was made of canvas, tightly woven, and dyed some dark color. “I’m just here for the little girl.”

  “Well, if you get a chance to fuck something up, don’t hold back. The universe would be grateful.”

  A stillness came over him. The idea of seeking out this Tin Pail, whoever she was, and taking revenge for this old woman was so tempting that he’d asked for a hammer without even thinking about it. He had not killed a humankind for a long time, but the idea of visiting the death of this woman’s daughter on her killer was a reflex he thought he’d lost.

  Rulenya was dead too, and that was on the Pails, along with who knew how many more.

  The death of a single child is like the end of the world.

  This woman had once had a family, and a parsu, and a business, but misfortune had taken it away. There were thousands like her. Misfortune visited someone every hour of every day.

  Koh-Salash was full of people who needed help. Making justice in a place like this would take an army. That’s why there was so little help to be had. With so much to do, no one bothered to do anything.

  Kyrioc was no different. He couldn’t let himself be distracted by the problems of the whole city. The stakes—one orphaned girl’s life—were already too high.

  First, he’d see that Riliska was safe. Then he’d kill her captors, if he could. Anything beyond that was too much for him to consider. Once he started seeking vengeance for everyone, the killing would never stop.

  He laid a silver whistle on the counter. It was more than he would have paid for the apron at the pawnshop. “Thank you.”

  * * *

  Wet Cinder hated his name.

  He’d come up with a little street gang from his apartment building: him, a neighbor kid, and a crowd of cousins from the first floor. When they were brought into the Pails’ organization, they decided to take the name Cinder. Well, Brisilit decided, because he wanted to be Bright Cinder, and the others followed along.

  If only Wet had taken something odd or absurd, like the others. Cold Cinder was still open when his choice came, and that would have been perfect, because it’s not really boastful but you still get people calling you Cold, like stone-cold killer.

  But the older heavies started calling him “Wet Noodle,” and by the time he realized he was supposed to fight about it—he hadn’t wanted to rock the boat, just fit in—it was too late. No one took him seriously, and he was stuck doing jobs like this—patrolling around a mostly empty warehouse in the shitty hours of the morning with a drunk.

  Worse, the drunk had brought along a flask of brandy—made out of glass in the Free Cities style—and she would not share. He could have taken it by force, but the boss always sided with her women over her men, even if the cause of the trouble was something provocative like not giving him some of her booze.

  Crooked Cap slipped her flask back into her pocket and pointed toward an alley with her cleaver. “There.”

  Wet saw him. Some drunk who couldn’t stay away from his favorite alley, probably. Drawing his knife, he stalked forward. Crooked was right behind him, struggling to keep up with her short, chubby legs. Orders were to keep this area clear, and if this vagrant showed the least bit of defiance, Wet was going to cut him as an example to the others. Cutting people felt great.

  Gray Cinder. He could have picked Gray Cinder.

  The figure retreated into the darkness, wood and other trash clattering under his feet.

  “You there. Hold.” That was what the cosh always said. It worked for them, but not for him. The figure kept moving away, and he was muttering. Wet couldn’t hear him clearly, but the drunk’s tone was contemptuous.

  By the fallen gods, Wet might have had to take that from the other heavies, but he wasn’t going to take it from alley trash. Crooked hissed at him to slow down.

  He caught up with the figure at the far end of the alley. It was dark here, and for a moment, it almost seemed that the figure was waiting for him.

  Good. Wet had always been quick with his knife, and now he was going to show what he could do. No more fretting about the consequences. No more warnings or threats. No more standing by while others made their moves. Sometimes, a person could make something happen because they put everything aside and just fucking did it.

  He was going to bloody his steel right now.

  Wet thrust at the still figure, but it seemed to flicker away. A heavy cloth pushed Wet’s wrist aside, then wrapped around his arm and pulled.

  At nearly the same moment, something struck the side of Wet’s face. The dark alley vanished behind a cloud of bright spots. Something struck his knife hand and his foot. Wet lost his hold on his weapon and his balance at the same moment, falling onto a jumble of stinking rags. The blows had come with such terrifying quickness, Wet was sure two more thugs had come to gang up on him.

  Crooked came up the alley, swinging her cleaver overhand with a grunted “Yah!” The silhouette barely seemed to move at all, but the blade missed completely. The silhouette’s hand and hers were joined together, as though they were going to pull on a rope.

  Then there was a flash of steel, and Crooked fell beside him onto the junk pile, her cleaver half-buried in her skull. Her lifeless eyes stared up at nothing.

  Death had come. By the fallen gods, he hadn’t thought it would be so sudden, but there it was. He hadn’t been beaten by a gang of enemies. One man had taken them both, and Wet’s only weapon was lost in the darkness and clutter.

  The silhouette rapped on a window shutter behind him. Taking advantage of the brief respite, Wet reached across and patted Crooked’s jacket, finding the bulge of her flask almost immediately. He stole it, pulled the stopper, and took a long, final draught.

  It was the best brandy he’d ever tasted in his life.

  When he finished, the silhouette had turned back to him. Wet’s eyes were adjusting to the dim, and he saw the man reach to his belt and draw out a little knife.

  By the fallen gods, he’d hadn’t even bothered to draw his weapon.

  “Stay.”

  The voice barely rose above a whisper. Wet nodded vigorously, then took another pull. The brandy seemed more ordinary now that he might su
rvive a few more seconds.

  In the wall above, the shutters opened. A pair of shining eyes peered down at him—hungry, hateful eyes.

  The silhouette grabbed hold of Crooked’s lapels and lifted her up to the window. A pair of long, bony arms reached out of the darkness and dragged her inside.

  Wet shuddered and took another pull.

  “Here! What are you shitwits doing?”

  High Cap had appeared at the mouth of the alley.

  “Tell him everything is fine,” the silhouette whispered.

  “We chased out a drunk!” Wet called. “Go back to your post.”

  Wet hated High Cap enough that he was tempted to tell him to fuck himself so he’d come into the alley and get his throat cut. But the silhouette wouldn’t like that, and the silhouette was his new boss. High walked away.

  The silhouette crouched in front of him. “I’m looking for a little girl. I think she’s inside that building. If you help me get her out, I won’t cut your throat.”

  If he did what the silhouette wanted, Tin Pail definitely would cut his throat. But that was in the future. Wet didn’t even have to consider it. He was already nodding.

  The silhouette led him away from the Pails’ warehouse, into the next block, then circled around to approach the rear of the warehouse from an alley. The streets were dark, but as they approached a lantern, Wet looked at his attacker.

  Which turned out to be difficult. Wet’s mind seemed reluctant to look closely, and when he forced himself, he saw a strange doubled image. One was a tall man with shaggy black hair and a horrific scar on his face. The other image was the inky silhouette from the alley.

  Magic. Wet shuddered. What could the other guards see? Would Tin forgive him if he told her the killer had cast a spell on him? Shit, no. He almost laughed at the idea.

  After only a few moments, Wet felt a knife blade pressed against his back, just above his kidney. They stepped into the street, the stranger at his shoulder.

  If he thought the two men guarding the back door, Two Cap and Ash Mouse, would notice a complete stranger approaching, he was disappointed. They glanced at him, then glanced away, keeping bored watch over the street corners and alleyways around them.

  The stranger’s magic had tricked them somehow. He was already ten feet from them, and they hadn’t issued a challenge.

  “Another privy trip?” Ash Mouse said.

  If Wet said the word alarm, they would have readied their weapons and knocked three times, hard and quick, on the door behind them. That let the heavies inside know there was danger. But Wet could feel the knife point, and he hesitated for so long that the choice was made for him.

  The stranger’s fist shoved him, hard, against Two Cap. Wet tried to drop and roll away, but Two, his face twisted with rage, seized him and wouldn’t let go.

  Then coppery-tasting blood splattered into his mouth. Two Cap’s head sagged to the right, a cleaver embedded in his skull. Wet felt the man’s last breath against his face. As Two slid to the ground, his hands caressed Wet’s ribs and hips in a mockery of affection. Ash Mouse already lay dead across the doorway.

  This was too much. Just because Wet hated most of the heavies in the Pails’ gang didn’t mean he could do nothing while they were slaughtered.

  “There’s a coded knock,” he said, amazed that he was about to throw his life away for people he despised. Was this how it happened? You suddenly reached the point where you were ready to give your life, even if it was only to give the alarm knock to his sleeping comrades inside?

  The stranger yanked his knife from Ash Mouse’s eye socket, then gave Wet a look that froze him in place. He raised his knuckle and knocked. One two. One. One two.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Kyrioc did not find her.

  Inside the warehouse, there was only one guard. Kyrioc took her out quickly and quietly when she opened the door.

  He was killing people again. And he felt nothing.

  The heavy helped him drag the bodies inside, then bolted the door. They were in a little storeroom or front office, with a counter and shelves full of wooden dolls with skull-like faces and outstretched arms, as though the tiny figure of Death was asking for a hug.

  In Kyrioc’s experience, when death came, it was often very, very small: A breaking stair, the vapor from a cough, the edge of a knife like the one he was holding. A tiny figure was exactly the right size for Death, as far as he was concerned.

  He pressed that knife against the heavy’s ribs and they went deeper into the building.

  The cloak of mirrors was tiring him, and his cloak of shadows would have been redundant in this place, so Kyrioc let both rest.

  They came to another storefront, but there was nothing on the shelves. The double doors to the warehouse stood unbolted. A ramp led from the entrance to another room, presumably the rest of the warehouse. A counter, some office cabinets, and a padded bench fit for entertaining customers were set against one wall. Beside the counter as an iron cage, complete with a sleeping occupant.

  Between them was a narrow flight of stairs. The heavy nodded in that direction. That was where they needed to go.

  But they found the room at the top empty.

  “I swear,” the man said, his palms open as if he were praying, “I swear I swear I—”

  “Be quiet. Where else could they be?”

  “No place! I don’t know. This is where they sleep at night. The boss doesn’t let us mix with them, not even to eat. I never even heard of another spot I swear by Lost Selsarim—”

  “If your boss killed her…”

  “She wouldn’t,” the man said, his voice almost pleading. “The beetles are useful. She doesn’t kill them—they’re little kids—and if she did, I would have heard about it. So—”

  “Be quiet.” Kyrioc had been so sure—so sure—that he would open the door, grab Riliska, and flee the building with her. He realized his hands were trembling. “If you don’t know where the kids are, who does?”

  “The boss? Or her brother? They’re in High Apricot, taking control of Harl’s most profitable hustle.”

  “White tar?” The heavy only shook his head, his eyes wide. “Say it.”

  “Hospital stuff.”

  Of course. The glitterkind ear, the way Rulenya had been cut apart… “Where in High Apricot?”

  “I don’t know, I swear. I’m just a guy they put on guard duty at the shitty end of the day. I don’t know stuff like that.”

  High Apricot was a large deck, and even at the dawn hour, there would be a lot of activity. “Okay. How do I find them?”

  “There’s… You…” the gangster was sweating now. “Wool Cap knows, but he only tells buyers, and they have to pay a fee and have someone vouch for them. All I can think of, you wait for a buyer and then…”

  “Then I follow them. Let’s go.”

  Leaving the heavy inside would be a good as murdering him, and that meant breaking his word. Kyrioc returned to the alleyway that gave a view of the front doors. Leaving the back entrance unguarded hadn’t caused an alarm. Apparently, no one expected much from the Pails’ heavies.

  It was not long at all before an elderly woman in an elegant white robe with a silver collar trudged up the middle of the street, a well-dressed Carrig gangster in tow. She looked tired but alert. They were met at the front door by a muscular heavy. The Carrig spoke briefly, then accepted a coin from the woman and walked away. After a brief conversation, the woman paid the heavy a larger handful of coins, then walked away.

  Kyrioc could barely hear the heavy beside him. “That’s one.”

  “You can’t remember anything.”

  “What?” The man gaped at him.

  “Tell them you can’t remember anything.”

  Kyrioc struck the heavy, hard, on the side of his head. He collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Kyrioc laid two shallow cuts on his forearms to make it look like he’d gone down fighting, then left him in the trash.

  He caught sight
of the elderly woman in her robe as she mounted the stairs into High Apricot.

  * * *

  After the old woman locked her in the room, Riliska lay awake. The smell was awful, and she could hear three different voices whining in the dark. When would her mom come?

  Just as her eyes began to close, the door swung open and a lanky man staggered in. Riliska knew a drunk when she saw one. “Scurry, scurry, scurry,” he said, over and over, although she didn’t understand why.

  The other children woke in unsettling silence, as though everyone felt the same fear she did. The kids lined up at the pot, then they were led down the stairs, through a pair of large doors, into the same carriage she’d ridden in.

  The only light on the street came from torches and lanterns. She suspected that was the only light this deck ever saw.

  The slow clop of the horses’ hooves and the gentle rocking of the carriage lulled her to sleep while the other children sat wide-eyed and whispering. Never with her, but never about her, either. She was invisible even to the people who had stolen her.

  “Scurry, scurry” woke her again. The children were being unloaded.

  As soon as she stepped out of the cart, a chilly breeze blew through her tattered clothes. They had come to the eastern edge of the city, and she could see the starry sky hanging above the black mountains on the other side of the Timmer Strait.

  Riliska couldn’t help herself. She stopped and stared at the twinkling lights. She’d seen stars before, obviously, but not often. They were beautiful.

  A line of torches showed the city wall was only slightly below them. She hadn’t realized they’d come so far downcity, and the thought scared her. Low Market lay to the north, while behind and above her was a large deck she didn’t recognize. In the dark, it was little more than faint candle lights inside looming shadows.