One Man

by Harry Connolly

  Zikiriam paused. Now that he’d reached the climax of his tale, he looked a little lost. Fay felt Mirishiya glance at him, wondering why he didn’t urge the man to continue, but silence was the best tool for that.

  The sea captain spread his scarred hands. “I’m not telling this the way I normally do, you understand.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, if I’m telling this tale in a tavern or to a pretty girl, I embellish it. For one thing, I never tell anyone Kyrioc’s name. He’s always ‘the mysterious boarder.’ Partly out of respect for his privacy, you understand. Partly because I didn’t know his name until days later. I’m not so sure it’s his real name, anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  Zikiriam shrugged. “Just a feeling. The way he said it. But if a man tells me his name is ‘Pinch-Me Cock,’ I’ll say ‘Pleased to meet you, Pinchy, my friend,’ because why not? A person should be able to choose their own name, I say. So, it was just a feeling, and I didn’t much care.”

  “And it makes a better story,” Fay said, trying to get things back on track.

  “You know what makes a great ending for this story?” Zikiriam said, leaning forward eagerly. “I tell them that when we finally arrived in Koh-Salash, delivering him back to his home port after so many weeks, I opened the berth and found him vanished. Sometime in the night, he had disappeared, just like a ghost. Oh, the ladies love that ending. If I think my audience is more conventional or sentimental, I’ll describe a teary-eyed mother waiting at The Docks for him.”

  “But that’s not what happened.”

  “Oh, no,” Zikiriam said. “Not at all. We pulled into our slip. I offered him, once again, a share in the bounty for that pirate captain, or from the goods taken from his ship, or even just an honest job. He simply shook his head. All he took from me was a change of clothes and the meals we fed him aboard the ship. When he walked down the plank into the city, he didn’t look back once.”

  “You were going to describe the fight,” Mirishiya said.

  “The fight is the best part of the story! Swift, bold strikes! One man against many! The pirate captain crippled! The pirate crew throwing down their weapons in terror! When I tell it, it’s like an old tale of adventure.

  “But the truth is I didn’t see any of it. The night was darker than any I’ve seen before or since. The watch lanterns on Scream for Mercy seemed to wink out, as though a shroud had been thrown over them. I heard the clash of metal. I heard screaming. By the fallen gods, I heard screams that haunt my dreams to this day. But all I could see was growing darkness and the flicker of blue firelight.”

  “Blue?” Fay asked.

  “Yes. I went to Suloh’s Tower later to ask about blue flames. They can make them there, but it wasn’t the same as the light I saw that night—icy blue fire that hovered in the darkness, while men and women screamed in terror and begged for their lives.”

  He looked around at his office as though it was evidence of something important, and perhaps it was. Kyrioc, child of No One—or whoever he was—had not just saved Zikiriam admir-Vlosh tuto-Vlosh’s life that night. He’d changed it for the better. He’d made him a rich man.

  Icy blue fire.

  Zikiriam sighed. “Ruined.”

  Fay was surprised. “What was that? What was ruined?”

  Zikiriam stared at his scarred hands. “Him. Kyrioc. The man who was trapped on that island for weeks or months. Whatever happened to him there, it ruined him.”

  * * *

  Onderishta sat with her eyes closed, reviewing everything she knew about the last few days. Where was Harl? Where was the package? Had that woman really been collected for her parts? And what was her relationship to that pawnbroker?

  The curtain opened without any warning, and Culzatik entered. He glanced in the mirror, frowned, and tried to smooth his hair with one ink-stained hand. “Did she see you?”

  He meant Essatreska, of course. “She did not, your virtue. Gurrishil brought me here before she arrived. I should say that I would be pleased to send you written reports—”

  “I would be displeased to receive them,” he said quickly. “Paper can be intercepted and altered. Face-to-face is more secure. Have you been putting those two apprentices to use?”

  “I have, your virtue.”

  “Good. Keep them close and teach them. Trust them.”

  “Yes, your virtue.”

  “And please send the girl to me by the end of the day. I have a special task for her.”

  That was a surprise. Didn’t the Safroys have a veritable army of people at their beck and call already? They were Onderishta’s apprentices. Any tasks they needed to undertake should go through her.

  But then, he had plans for her. “Do you intend to replace me, your virtue?”

  “I do.”

  Onderishta could not have been more surprised if he’d sprouted wings. “I— I’m happy in my current occupation, your virtue. Haven’t I served your family faithfully for many years?”

  “Let’s talk about it later. I hadn’t planned to bring it up until after the Safroy family survived this threat. Acceptable?”

  “Yes, your virtue,” she said uncertainly.

  “Good. Where do things stand?”

  “A woman has turned up dead in Upgarden. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.”

  “Only the usual chancy gossip.”

  “In this case, the gossip is true. She was skinned and eviscerated as though being collected for a hospital. The medical bureaucracy thinks it’s a trick to misdirect our investigation.”

  Culzatik nodded. “What do you think?”

  “That she was placed on Harl’s property so the scandal would deprive him of the protection of his parsu.”

  “What about the package?”

  Onderishta shrugged. “Either they found it or events made it unimportant. I figure it’s the former, but I haven’t heard enough to be sure. No one seems to be looking for it, at least.”

  “Do you think this corpse proves the package was what we think it is?”

  What you think it is. “Not on its own, but lends weight to the theory.”

  “But you still think it could have been a delivery of white tar.”

  She sighed. Once upon a time, she could lie, blank-faced, to anyone. Now, even this boy could see through her. “It’s possible, but I would be surprised. Harl has a little warehouse full of the stuff somewhere in the city, and more comes in every day. Would he go to such lengths for such a small amount? If he was hurting for money or if it was a brand-new special concentrate, maybe. Neither seems likely. Besides, Second Boar was paid a small fortune for that package, so I have my doubts that it could be tar.”

  Culzatik leaned back and rubbed his chin with an ink-stained hand. The ink was dry, thank the fallen gods. Onderishta had no intention of telling this well-heeled young man to wash his noble face.

  “To appearances, then, Harl was expecting a delivery and he got two, neither of which he particularly wanted. And of course, the constables were right there to catch him.”

  “And several of his top heavies are still sitting in south tower cells. We’re trying to track down the man who gave us the tip. All we know is that he’s a Katr bodyguard for one of Harl’s underlings. What we don’t know if he was acting under orders or if he was betraying his employer.”

  “It’s rare for a Katr to turn on his master, isn’t it? All that honor and such?”

  “Your virtue, if he’s working for Harl’s underlings, I’m guessing honor isn’t his highest priority.”

  Culzatik smiled crookedly. “Did you know I made a study of bodyguards? The Free Cities have pit fighters, and they really hone their skills there. They also have that crazy pride that makes them fight to the death for some spoiled, snot-nosed Salashi heir. Usually, anyway. The Katr don’t do that because their loyalties aren’t for sale. Who serves and who commands is rigidly codified. So, I suspect that if a Katr is working for a bunch of low-level tar dealers, his honor
is the only reason.”

  Onderishta couldn’t imagine a concept of honor that allowed the selling of white tar to children, but at the same time, she couldn’t see how her employer could have “made a study of bodyguards” and then hired a local woman who had placed near the bottom of the tournament and who went about armed with nothing but a pair of long knives.

  However, it wasn’t her place to question these things, even by her expression.

  Onderishta said, “We’re still hunting for Harl, although so many constables have taken his coin, it’s hard to know who’s tracking him and who’s hiding him. And we’re still trying to figure out who the scarred man is.”

  An odd look came over her employer’s face. “What scarred man?”

  She described him and his role in the raid at Harl’s club, then his escape from the tower. Culzatik’s narrow face darkened, and she decided not to mention the incident at Suloh’s Tower with the bloodkind.

  “I want to speak to this man.”

  “That’s— Pardon me, your virtue, but that would be unwise.”

  A crooked smile came over his face. “Do you mean to forbid it?”

  Yes. But she didn’t dare say it aloud to this overconfident young man who’d lived his whole life up in the sunlight with his books. What did he know about the real Koh-Salash? What did he know about the way people lived inside the corpses? He didn’t even have the common sense to hire a proper bodyguard. The skinny young woman who followed him around couldn’t intimidate a greengrocer. “He’s dangerous. Violent. He’s probably the one who skinned that woman. He’s definitely the man who delivered white tar to Harl. Besides, if the constables catch him on the street, after what he did in the tower—”

  Culzatik shook his head. “I’m relying on you to prevent that. Have you heard about the man I chased out of my brother’s funeral service?”

  “Vaguely,” she answered carefully. “This is the fellow who threw hot pepper into the eyes of the guards chasing him?”

  As though enjoying a secret joke, Culzatik smiled again. “Perhaps. I wasn’t there. But he had a scar, too.” He laid his ink-stained hand on his face exactly where the Broken Man was scarred.

  “You think they’re the same?”

  He shrugged. “Tell the constables whatever you have to, but bring him in alive. After I’ve met with him, we’ll reassess.”

  “Is there anything else, your virtue?”

  He sighed and affected a rueful smile. “I think we both know that’s more than enough. Thank you, Onderishta.”

  They stood. “It is my pleasure to serve, your virtue. I’ll send Mirishiya to your compound.”

  Onderishta pulled back the curtain and stepped into the main room of the shop. Custom required her employer to leave first if he wished, but she had a lot to do before that boy had her replaced.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Tin Pail had never been to High Slope before. She’d never even gotten close enough to look at it. What would have been the point? The compounds in High Slope were for nobles… Actually, they were for rich nobles. People with noble blood who couldn’t afford solid ground settled in The Folly or somewhere like that.

  Now here she was, riding in a cart with Harl’s head in a bag beside her, winding her way up The Boulevard. She’d left her brother back in Wild Dismal, looking after the white tar they’d taken from Harl’s warehouse. Their bodyguard was with him mainly because, in this transition time, she was more worried about him than herself.

  Soon, they would have to stick close. After today, she expected someone, somewhere would put a bounty on their heads.

  It had better be a high one.

  She nodded off, sleeping fitfully while the cart jolted and bounced. It had been a long night, stretching out into midmorning. Tin had a lot to do, and it wasn’t the sort of work she could pawn off on her heavies. Or onto Wooden, for that matter. Preparations had to be made. First, High Slope. Second, Spillwater. Third, Low Apricot.

  Then, if everything went according to plan, Koh-Salash would be hers. For as long as she could hold it.

  She didn’t realize she’d nodded off again until her driver said, “We’re here, boss.”

  Tin took a deep breath, grabbed her bag, and hopped down from the cart. “Let’s go.”

  She told the heavily armed and armored guard at the front gate that she had an important message from Harl. There was some fuss and delay about whether she needed to give it in person or whether she would be allowed to enter without being searched, but as she expected, they were too afraid of Harl’s name to challenge his orders—even secondhand orders. Tin willingly turned her hammer over, and the house guard seemed pleased to have gotten that much of a concession from her.

  The servant showing her the way was in a hurry, but Tin wasn’t. She’d never seen so much decorated wood. Every wall was painted, every door carved with the most intricate designs: a sailing fleet, clasping lovers, twined jungle vines, stalks of wheat. And on the lintel above every door was the same mark, a mountain inside a circle.

  Rueljun parsu-Lorrud ward-Lorrud defe-Lorrud admir-Lorrud hold-Lorrud was enjoying a late breakfast at a table set beneath an ancient apricot tree. Sitting with him was his wife, Luthella, and a young man with the same long, pointed nose and gloomy face as the old man. When the younger fellow saw Tin and her heavy approaching, he stood.

  “Thank you, Uncle. I’m off to my appointment.”

  As the fellow passed, he kept his eyes downturned. Tin nearly laughed.

  A man in a mail shirt entered from a second doorway. He walked gracefully, a machete in each hand. At his breast was a cloth insignia showing the encircled mountain. The Lorrud bodyguard.

  The parsu of the Lorrud family was deep into old age. His hair had turned a dingy gray and the wattle at his throat hid the line of his jaw completely. His posture was hunched forward, like a scavenger bird, and he did not look comfortable as he turned toward her.

  “What message could be so important that Harl interrupts my breakfast?”

  “Only this, your virtue.” Tin set the bag in the middle of the table, loosened the drawstrings, and let it drop, revealing Harl’s swollen face.

  Rueljun reeled back in his chair, his spoonful of stewed fruit clattering on his plate. He put his hands on the arms of his chair, as though about to rise up in anger, but instead let go with a helpless little tremor. The bodyguard stepped back three paces, his sword hand pressed over his mouth as though he were about to be ill. Only Luthella managed to keep her composure. She flinched in surprise, but only slightly. After a moment, she shrugged, spooned some jam onto a piece of bread, and continued her breakfast.

  The parsu’s voice was thin and strained. “What outrage is this, eh? What outrage is this?”

  “Harl and me are making the rounds,” Tin said. She pulled the bag over the head, cinched it, and tossed it to her heavy. “We’re explaining how the world has changed, and helping people during a time when smart choices must be made.”

  “You’re taking over for Harl,” Luthella said.

  “I am. You’re going to support me the same way you supported him, and I’ll be happy to tithe you like a proper stitch. And unlike Harl, I won’t skim. I won’t have to, since I won’t be paying off our foreign friends.”

  Rueljun huffed. “Preposterous.”

  “We don’t need coin,” Luthella said mildly. “In fact, we don’t even want it. We’re too liquid as it is, and we don’t dare spend the bulk of it. If we bought any more farmland, mines, ships, or trading houses, the High Watch would turn against us.”

  “Wouldn’t like that,” Rueljun muttered. “No, never.”

  Luthella folded her hands in her lap, a smile on her face. She was few years younger than her husband, and her eyes were large and expressive. Her hair was the color of steel, her gaze almost as cold and sharp.

  She made Tin feel like a precocious child. Tin wasn’t sure if she should admit that she admired the older woman or just plunge her thumb into one of tho
se pretty eyes.

  “What Harl brought us,” Luthella continued, “was connections within the Carrig empire. Silks, peppercorns, aromatics— Have you seen the latest fad for steel jewelry? Rings and necklaces and such? We prompted that. You see, we import these goods at such reasonable prices and then sell them again at a slender profit or give them as gifts. Lavish gifts. To our friends.”

  Rueljun grunted. “It’s the only way.”

  “Exactly, dear. Tell me, young woman, do you think the High Watch tolerates—tolerated, I suppose I should say—our support of a foreign gangster? They hate it. They really do. But they don’t hate it as much as they love having nice things.”

  “Especially,” the old man grunted, “when the nice things are right in their homes for guests to admire, while the gangster is out of sight, ruining some common person’s life.”

  “Among the noble families, being a distribution point for splendor gives us a remarkable degree of influence. Young woman, can you keep those trade arrangements open?”

  Just being asked was annoying. “No.”

  Luthella spread her palms. “Well, then.”

  Tin pulled out the young man’s chair and sat. “You don’t want money? All right, then. The stick.” She tore off a piece of bread and spooned some of the stewed fruit onto it. The handle of the spoon was also marked with that Lorrud mountain. Maybe they did that so they could reclaim stolen property. “That pathetic mop handle that just left? Your nephew, yes?”

  “My heir,” Rueljun said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “If we can’t come to terms, or if you move against me, I’m going to destroy him.”

  The old man chuckled. “My nieces and nephews outnumber your pickpockets and bully boys. He can be replaced.”

  “Dear,” Luthella said gently, “she’s not talking about killing him.”