The boy with the unreadable expression lost his balance and fell over the heavy’s corpse. He dropped Wooden’s knife.
A second slower, and Kyrioc would have had a blade in his kidney.
The boy cursed, grabbed the knife again, and attacked, slashing wildly. Kyrioc caught his wrist and lifted him off the ground. The boy spit and cursed, kicking his small feet. The blade slipped from his grasp. “I’ll kill you! Kill you!”
Kyrioc set him down and picked up the knife. The boy stared at the metal point and fell quiet. “Why?”
“You think you can fuck with the Pails? One of us is gonna kill you, and I hope it’s me. It’s gonna be me!”
“You don’t have to be his slave anymore.”
“Fuck you! You don’t scare me!”
Kyrioc got down on one knee so they were eye to eye. “I’m not trying to. All I want is a little girl they took. Nothing more.” The boy’s expression didn’t change. “None of you have to return to the Pails if you don’t want to—”
“I do! I’m loyal!”
“Then you can save Wooden’s life.” He offered Wooden’s knife to the boy, handle first. The boy didn’t take it. “Maybe you’ll get a reward. Take this to Tin and tell her I want to exchange her brother for Riliska, child of Rulenya. No tricks. No one gets hurt any more than they already are. No one needs to know. All I want is the girl, unharmed.”
“Why?”
“I owe a debt.”
“You’re going to pay this debt with your life!”
“Yes,” Kyrioc said. “If I have to, then yes.” Kyrioc pulled the knife back. “Talk to Tin Pail first. If you tell the heavies on the street outside, or the cosh on her payroll, or anyone, I’ll kill him. Even if it looks like I would die too, I’ll kill him. The exchange will happen at Sailsday’s Regret at dawn. If anyone comes for me before then, he dies. Got that?”
He jutted out his tiny chin. “I’m a fucking beetle. I can deliver a secret message. No one will even see me from when I leave here till I speak to my boss.” Nodding, Kyrioc extended the knife again. The boy snatched it and ran for the ladder. “No one can follow me, either. You think you can trick me to take you to my boss, but I would never! You just try!”
He reached the top of the ladder and sprinted away.
Wooden groaned as he started waking. His complexion was no longer ashen. The children backed away. Kyrioc walked toward the worktable. When Wooden saw him, he tried to crawl away, steel chain rattling, but that made his ankle flare with pain. He wailed and fell still, his long, slender fingers probing the swelling on the side of his face.
Kyrioc took a bowl of ulund nuts and resin from the table, along with one of the leather mittens. They were too small, but he slipped two fingers into one.
He stood before Wooden. “Nice clothes.”
Wooden writhed and tried to cry for help. Kyrioc shushed him and knelt. Wooden tried to push his hands away, but he didn’t have the strength.
“Do you know how much it hurts to ride in a bouncing, jolting carriage with broken bones?” Wooden didn’t stop struggling, but he seemed to lose his enthusiasm for it. Kyrioc scooped resin and white seed from the bowl and smeared it onto Wooden’s lips.
The injured man’s eyes rolled, and his breathing came harder, his nostrils flaring with each breath. Kyrioc touched the smeared leather to Wooden’s nose just as he sucked in air, and little flecks of resin and seed flew up into his sinuses.
“That should do it,” he said, standing.
Wooden’s gaze became unfocused. He slumped to the ground.
Kyrioc turned to the children and opened one of the dead men’s purses. Copper coins glittered in the lantern light, alongside a few bits of silver. He drew out the largest silver coin he could see—a beam—and held it up. The children gawped at it.
“Do you know the girl I’m looking for? Her name is Riliska.” The children shook their heads. Kyrioc knelt and took the oldest girl’s hand. It had been painted with curving green vines with the face of a red cat on her pinky nail. Then he touched a few of the other kids’ hands. They lifted them to show the art.
He raised his own left hand. The art Riliska had painted there had faded over the last few days, but not by much. “Do you know where I can find her? You won’t have to go there with me.”
The children all looked at each other, their expressions closed and careful. Finally, the two oldest nodded.
“Thank you. Are you hungry?”
* * *
Killer of Devils did not usually follow beetles into the Pails’ hideaway, but there was something about the boy’s body language that caught his attention. Beetles typically skulked and cringed, but this one charged across the empty plaza like a bull.
Killer himself was just returning from a meeting with Black Apricot to arrange a secure transfer of funds. Tin Pail suspected Black was the most likely candidate to move against her, but the older woman was polite and businesslike. She did not even try to buy his loyalty.
In all, a rather dull errand.
But that running boy intrigued him. As Killer stepped onto the long plankway that connected the plaza to the spa, he raised his arm. The guards at the entrance made the beetle wait.
“Sir,” the child said impatiently, “I have a big message for Tin Pail. I can’t tell no one else.”
“Of course. Let’s go together.” The child considered that, then nodded. Killer fought the urge to smile. “Tell me your name.”
“Hoppila, child of Uzwillia, sir, but I’ll take a street name soon. I’m hoping to become a Pail, if the boss will let me.”
“What name will you choose, if you can become a Pail?”
“It’s hard to decide, sir, because it’s a choice that follows you. You don’t want to be a grown man with a name only a little child would like. Maybe Cracked Pail? Or Shiny Pail? Picking Silver would be like bragging about how rich I plan to get, but Shiny sort of hints that without being too obvious, if you see what I mean.”
This time, Killer could not hide his smile. When he had been exiled from his homeland, his own son had been slightly older than this boy, and he had been just as serious. “I think I do.”
“But my favorite at the moment is Blue Pail. I like that one because when my mother was still alive, she would take me to the edge of the deck to look at the sky. She loved that color. Good sir, do you think that’s a little kid’s name? Do you think I’d regret it when I’m grown?”
“I cannot speak for you, but I would cherish it.”
“Thank you, good sir.” Hoppila wiggled his fingers, clearly anxious about something. “Good sir, I got an urgent message.”
“We will run together.”
* * *
Tin Pail paced back and forth in her bedroom, fighting the urge to close the shutters every time she passed them. This was the largest, most comfortable bedroom in the building—a suite for wealthy guests, and she was sure that decrepit old bed had seen its share of fat merchants and underage whores.
But that was long ago. This place was hers now, just like the hammerball court in Upgarden, the tar cookery in Mudside, the black-market medical staff, and a thousand other little ventures. It didn’t matter what had been there before. Now it was hers.
All she had to do was hold on to it.
Looking eastward over the city walls, she could see the moonlit Timmer Strait. The watchfires and patrolling soldiers were only a few hundred feet away, and she wondered about those archers. If she stood at the window, could one of them spot her, nock, bend, and hit their target at this extraordinary range?
Not normally, but nothing about these times was normal. She had her bodyguard—Killer of Devils, she thought, remembering her decision to speak his name boldly. And then there was the asshole. The pawnbroker.
Who knew how many others were out there and what they could do? The Clutching Hand were supposed to have spellkind weapons. What if they were already inside the city, ready to take the point to her?
If she closed
these shutters, she’d be surrendering to her fear. Worse, it would be an absurd fear—a fear of spells or whatever. If she gave in to it now, she’d never stop.
Because one thing was sure—someone was going to try to take the point to her.
She’d won over Harl’s Salashi heavies, but using them to purge the foreign friends had been costly. She was shorthanded while Harl’s lieutenants were at full strength. Yes, she’d backed them down in the burning room, but they wouldn’t stay backed down. They were going to come after her.
So would the cosh. And then, when word reached Carrig, the Amber Throne would move against her.
Tin laid her hand on the hammer. Harl had gone about unarmed, but Tin didn’t dare. Not yet.
She imagined, once again, fighting alongside her brother in some brothel or casino—him slashing wildly, her smashing in skulls. When that day came, it would be glorious, but she wanted it to be years away. On the day she went down fighting, she wanted to be as rich as a Harkan emperor, wearing gold on every limb.
Her plan to deal with the Amber Throne required a few peaceful months of business as usual downcity so that the cosh, the eye, and the High Watch would be invested in her. For that, she needed the support of Harl’s lieutenants.
It’d be a bitter pill for them. She wasn’t even twenty-eight yet, younger than any of them. As far as they were concerned, she hadn’t paid her dues, and the big project Harl gave her went to shit before it began.
Never mind that Harl had set up that stupid exchange. Blame rolled downcity.
So, they would test her.
She had to be ready. She had to recognize where that first provocation came from and respond with speed and intelligence. And she had to be mean about it.
That was the way to win their trust and respect. After, she’d talk about how they were going to defy the Amber Throne. Together. How they’d split the money that used to float away across the Semprestian.
If she couldn’t manage that, she and her brother were doomed.
There was a light knock on the door. Tin’s stomach grumbled. She was still waiting for her evening meal. This was a good spot to lie low, but with all the coming and going, they were bound to attract attention. Either this had to become her official headquarters—which meant hiding the glitterkind elsewhere—or she’d have to move soon.
She opened her door and saw Wool Cap standing in the hall. “Message, boss. Beetle says it’s urgent.”
She hurried to the dining hall. Everyone was gathered there, waiting beside empty tables.
The hall—the place they ate—smelled moldy and dank. Fuck this place. Time to move. If she had to, she’d return to her warehouse in Wild Dismal and work from Harl’s hammerball club.
Her club. Her club.
“Where’s the food?”
Wool looked uncomfortable. “We sent a couple guys to get it, but they’re worried about poison, so they’re being careful.”
Tin shrugged. If she was going to die, she didn’t want to do it clutching her guts while she shit blood. Checking for poison was fine by her.
Killer of Devils stood in the middle of the room with the beetle beside him. The boy looked anxious. When she nodded, he lifted his shirt and removed a bundle hidden on his back.
“Boss,” he said, unwrapping it, “I’m sorry, but your brother’s been made hostage.” Then he threw back the cloth and revealed Wooden’s steel knife.
Tin stared at it, then at the boy. Here it was. Already. “From the beginning.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Riliska knew something was wrong when the room went quiet.
It didn’t happen suddenly. The beetles were always silent. The kids in Riliska’s neighborhood screeched and cried and laughed, but the beetles were too frightened to speak aloud with heavies around.
It was the gangsters who were talking—complaining, mostly, because they were hungry. More than a few had been drinking, and Riliska didn’t need anyone to tell her how dangerous that could be. But when the grownups fell silent, everyone turned toward the boss.
Tin Pail was standing at a high spot on the sloping floor, talking to one of their own. He was about Riliska’s age—she had painted a bear’s face on the big knuckle of his left hand, and he had called it a wolf. She hadn’t argued. Beyond that, he was one of the kids who never spoke with her. He seemed to have no friends, but that didn’t mean he was bad, just quiet.
“How many guards?” Tin suddenly yelled. “How many guards did we have on the building and the approach?”
The red-haired barbarian answered, his voice sounding utterly calm. “Half again what Harl placed there.”
“How many attacked the building?” Tin shouted at the boy.
The beetle—Riliska didn’t know his name—could be heard clearly when he answered. “One.”
Voices were lower after that. Riliska knew something big was happening, but she didn’t dare leave her chair to move closer. Curiosity was dangerous.
Then Tin looked right at her.
Riliska’s blood ran cold. It was a big room, and she was as far from the boss as she could get without going into the hall. She couldn’t have been the one Tin was looking at. It must have been someone else.
But there she was, staring directly at her.
* * *
Killer of Devils agreed with his employer. Yes, it was bullshit. The hostage exchange was a pretense.
“It has to be,” Tin said, pacing back and forth. “All those ulund nuts and a whole fucking kettle full of white tar. And the money my brother was collecting? He should have had a satchel full of silver in his belt. No. Fuck, no. He wanted something else. Did he follow you? Did you lead him here?”
Little Hoppila pulled himself up to his full height. “Never. I know what I’m supposed to do.”
“But you couldn’t stick a fucking knife in his back! You’re old enough to take the point to someone when they’re not looking, aren’t you?”
“I tried! He…” The boy swallowed, looking nervous. “It was like he knew.”
“It is the same man,” Killer said, “and he has his own godkind magic.”
“Like yours?”
He shook his head, making the bells in his beard chime. “No. He carries darkness with him like a cloud, a trick I have never heard of before.”
Tin paced back and forth. The room was full of children and half-drunk street heavies, but it was so quiet, Killer could hear her harsh, ragged breathing. “This is bullshit. A guy like this doesn’t just fall out of the rafters. Who is he? Where does he come from? He can’t be one of the Clutching Hand. They carry spellkind weapons and they’re all Carrig, aren’t they? Our guy is Salashi. Don’t the Clutching Hand recruit from Carrig slums and orphanages?”
“I do not know for certain,” Killer answered.
“This asshole didn’t have any kind of weapon?”
“An iron bar,” the beetle answered.
“Against me, he had none but what he took from those he fought,” Killer answered.
“Shit. He can’t be one of the Clutching Hand. They couldn’t have reacted to Harl’s death so fast. And who is he working for? Cotton Stair only hires other Stairs, so probably not him. Unless he went for an independent contractor. Dirty Straw is ambitious, you can tell that by looking at him, but he…”
“He would not come sideways, with an obviously false demand for an exchange.”
“Exactly. He’d just take the point to Wooden and display him somewhere public, because he has no fucking imagination. Black Apricot is clever enough to make a move like this, and Low Market is the most lucrative deck in the city. She could afford to hire someone. But how could she have known ahead of time?”
She had jumped ahead and Killer could not follow. His expression must have shown his confusion, because she scowled.
“This asshole’s been on the fringes of our business for days now. He wanted the package Harl was delivering to us, so he sent two of his people to grab it—the nail-painter and the creep too st
upid to use a street name while he’s stealing shit. When they got caught, he came after them. To protect the members of his crew? Fuck that. Not those two fuckups. He was after the glitterkind. And what did we do? We’re shorthanded, so we brought the painter’s kid into our organization. She’s seen the inside of our operation, and he knows it. You think he wants some kid? Fuck that. He’s after that glitterkind. The whole thing.”
Killer of Devils felt an unexpected tingle of excitement. This was a war council. After so many months of living like a gangster, he finally had the chance to wage the war he was meant for. He might finally have a chance for honor.
Tin shouted, “You! Beetle!”
Hoppila stood tall, proud to stand beside her.
She grabbed him under the arms and threw him through the window.
The boy vanished into the darkness with no sound other than a gasp of surprise. One of the smaller children screamed. When Killer glanced toward the sound, he saw the girl at the center of this mess—Riliska was her name?—rush to comfort the child.
And to hush her so she would not draw the attention of their boss.
“Hear me!” Tin shouted to the room. The assembled gangsters, both her own people and those who had flocked to her after she supplanted Harl, stared in shocked silence. “Everyone keeps saying this asshole has magic! Everyone keeps saying they tried to kill him but couldn’t. Well, I don’t give a shit. There is no magic in the world that can protect you from a knife in the heart, and killing assholes is what you are here to do. When an enemy shows their face, I will be right beside you, hammer in hand. Every motherfucker piles on, no shirking, no excuses, or I’ll kill you myself. Now get ready! We have an asshole that needs to be murdered.”
Killer of Devils barely heard her. He stared at the darkness beyond the window.
In this city, children fell from stairs and platforms every day. Sometimes, they hit lower decks and made a mess. Sometimes, they missed the decks and vanished into the mud and shit beneath the city. That beetle, whose name Killer had already forgotten, would be the latter. That eager, loyal boy who had hoped to become a Pail like his boss…
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