One Man

by Harry Connolly

  “You’re right. It was nice to think about, but you’re right.”

  “Well, well!”

  “Selsarim Lost, someone up there likes us.”

  Tin heard a strongbox drop into the cart.

  “How do we get them to like us again?”

  “Oh, shit! I think I saw her give the signal.”

  “There it goes! How long should we wait for the next box?”

  “I’m staying until they start dropping bodies.”

  Tin tried to turn toward them, but the pain was too intense.

  “Someone’s finally coming around.”

  The shit-covered woman knelt beside her, bared knife in hand. Finally, the time had come, and they’d made sure she was awake for it.

  “The easiest thing in the world would be for me to cut your throat and roll you into the shit. No one would ever find you and no one would ever know. But I’m not going to do that. We’re going to haul you up to the tower. You know what they do to murderers, right?”

  Pitch and flame.

  “Pitch and flame, asshole. I’m going bring the families of the constables you killed to watch you burn, and I’m packing a fucking picnic.”

  * * *

  The Telmein Griavus moved through the darkness, letting the delicious anticipation of the chase play out. His victim looked back as she fled, her face beautiful with terror.

  Suddenly, he couldn’t bear it any longer. He bounded toward her. In a panic, she accidentally stepped into a stairwell and tumbled into darkness.

  The Telmein Griavus swept after her, angry that she might have died and denied him a meal. Koh-Salash was full of humankind, and he wanted all of them. Death spared no one.

  He found her sprawled at the bottom of the stair, leg broken but alive. The hunt had ended. He seized her by the throat.

  Stolen memories flashed through his thoughts: beatings received and given, knives in the dark, petals cowering in their shops, cheap brandy guzzled by the jug every night. A shitty life, with almost no trace of a soul clinging to it, but invigorating all the same.

  A familiar feeling came over him. So soon?

  He dropped his cloak of shadows just as the Crown of Night sparked to life.

  It would not last long. He hadn’t yet taken enough lives to sustain it, but it had been more than a year since it manifested on the deck of that pirate ship, and he could feel it close to the surface, eager to rise into the world.

  The wise would bow before him. The foolish would try to flee and be devoured. Rich and poor, adult and child—how he had always longed to taste the lives of children!—all would be pulled into the void. The Telmein Griavus would establish the kingdom on Salash Hill that was always meant to be here. A kingdom of the dead.

  The end of the era of humankind was about to begin.

  And for one moment, the Crown of Night cast its icy blue firelight all around him.

  There was a tiny gasp behind him. The Telmein Griavus turned and saw a small figure standing at the end of the hall.

  It was Riliska, child of Rulenya, her dirty cheeks streaked with tears.

  * * *

  The warrior with the bells in his hair couldn’t promise to come back for Riliska, but he said someone would come. He told her to wait.

  And she did…until she couldn’t bear to be in the same room as the doctor’s raw, bloody corpse. Then she ran into the hall.

  Where she entered a nightmare.

  She’d heard stories about winters in the lands to the north and south, when water got so cold it turned into stone, but she had never really believed it until she’d felt that blast of cold air in the corridor. She thought she herself might turn into stone.

  Then she saw it, a figure made of darkness, as if someone had cut a humankind-shaped hole in the air to reveal the nothing behind the world. No light could touch it, not even the crown of blue fire that hovered six inches above its head.

  That was the source of the cold. It was drawing in every scrap of heat in the hallway, including the heat of her own body. She could feel it pulling at her.

  A shudder ran through her body. All her life, she’d been surrounded by those who could—and often did—hurt her. Bigger than her. Stronger than her.

  But the figure before her was as far beyond the fuddled men who visited her mom that it felt as though she was discovering the real and true amount of pain that the universe was waiting to give her.

  Riliska must have made some small noise, because the darkness turned toward her.

  And she recognized him: The tall lean figure, hunched over as though in sorrow. The strange shape of its head, like a shadow cast by a man with shaggy hair. The way it looked at her…

  She spoke without thinking. “Good sir?”

  The blue flames winked out and the inky darkness floated away from the figure like smoke. She was right. Beneath that strange, terrifying figure was Kyrioc, child of No One, the only friend she had in the world.

  * * *

  Things happened quickly once the captain committed to the work. He barked out orders and his constables got things done.

  It was an impressive and intimidating spectacle. Fay had never seen military drills, but he expected they looked something like this, although probably without the bloodthirsty expressions.

  Three of their own had been killed. They were not playing by the old rules anymore.

  A team of constables returned with two women in a long cart. They were city engineers, a mother-and-daughter team, who specialized in repairing plankways.

  Just as the elder was explaining that the only replacement wood long enough was in a warehouse way out in The Folly, another crowd of ironshirts returned with a long plankway of ordinary wood they’d obviously torn out of the structure of Low Market.

  “What did you do?” the younger engineer began to shout. “What— You can’t just take the city apart! Do you know the penalty for stealing a plankway?”

  “I’ll pay it,” the captain snapped. “If the High Watch wants to put a noose around my neck for the choices I make tonight, so be it. And your objection has been noted. Now, is it long enough?”

  “It’s not my objection that—”

  “Is it long enough?” the captain insisted.

  “It is,” the older engineer said.

  They returned to their work, arranging ropes and pulleys, then shifting the stolen plankway into position to span the gap.

  The captain approached Fay. “We’ll secure the building then send for you. Until then, wait—”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “It could get bloody.”

  “I’m going. I don’t have to be first, but I’m going.”

  * * *

  Kyrioc saw the terror in Riliska’s face and immediately released the power he was holding. Morlin’s gift evaporated, and he was left with nothing but pain, exhaustion, and bone-deep shame.

  For a moment, he thought she might be a ghost. But no. Her chest moved as she panted in fear. And her eyes…

  It seemed impossible, but Riliska was still alive.

  I will bestow upon you a great gift.

  This was what the northerner meant. But Kyrioc, in his despair, had turned to killing instead of searching for her. He’d given up on her again.

  When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m sor—”

  She took a step toward him, and Kyrioc imagined the Telmein Griavus seizing hold of her and draining her life away. “No,” he said, stepping back. “I’m not safe.”

  Her upper lip trembled. “Did you come to save me?”

  He had. Of course he had. But he couldn’t say that aloud. It would have made him seem like a good person, and the worst kind of lie is the one you tell with the truth.

  “Did you?” she asked again. Her whole body trembled. Kyrioc wasn’t sure if she was afraid of him or—

  She ran to him. He dropped to one knee. She threw herself against him, striking open wounds on his side and back. He made no sound.

&
nbsp; He expected her to cry, to let the fear and terror of the last few days flood out of her in tears. She didn’t. Instead, her tiny rib cage shook as she took deep, shuddering breaths.

  A few seconds later, she was done. “I know a way out, but we need to find the red-haired man. He did a bad thing to save me.”

  Shouting and footsteps came from above, although it sounded far away. The little bureaucrat had finally arrived with his constables.

  Kyrioc lifted Riliska in his arms, then leaned the Childfall Staff, now as long as a sword, against the wall. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered as he pulled his cloak of shadow around them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Riliska heard voices but she couldn’t see a thing. She wrapped her arms around Kyrioc’s neck while he ran. It felt nice. She knew they weren’t safe, but she felt safe anyway.

  “Hide,” he whispered, and set her down. A moment later, the darkness seemed to fold into his body. They were in a tiny storeroom full of musty folded blankets.

  He slipped away, with a lopsided shuffling walk she’d never seen from him before. After a moment, he opened a door—she recognized it; they’d come to the baths—and closed it behind him.

  A moment later, one of the Pails’ heavies came around the corner. He moved with the same shuffling step, but his had a spring in it.

  * * *

  “Need the barbarian,” Kyrioc said as he shuffled into the room. He’d only seen the man’s stride for a few steps, but it was enough for his cloak of mirrors. The heavies let him enter the bath without challenge.

  There was another round of shouting from outside. “We should check,” one of the heavies said, but no one moved to do so. Eight…no, nine of the Pails’ heavies paced the room restlessly. They were trapped and they didn’t know what to do.

  Kyrioc kept his head down and shuffled to the northerner lying half-slumped against the edge of the pool. He looked like he was sleeping. A quick check showed his pulse was still strong.

  One of the heavies approached. “Need him for what?” she snapped.

  Damn. Kyrioc thought he’d timed things too tightly, but—

  “Hey, everyone!” They turned toward the doorway. The man Kyrioc was imitating shuffled in. He was holding the Childfall Staff. “Look what I fou—”

  “It’s him!”

  “Don’t give him a chance!”

  Maybe, if the heavy had dropped the staff and raised his hands, the others would have spared him. Maybe. Instead, he clutched it against his chest as though he was afraid they’d steal it.

  Kyrioc didn’t watch him die. He grabbed the northerner’s wrist and lifted him up. The effort made his side ache and his vision go fuzzy, but it passed once the man was on his shoulders. Morlin’s gift had brought him back from the brink of death, but he wasn’t anywhere near his full strength.

  The pounding was accompanied by the sound of splintering wood. The ironshirts were breaking through.

  “Why isn’t he changing back?” was the last thing Kyrioc heard before he slipped away.

  He was breathing hard before he reached the first bend in the hall. If Riliska’s escape route was far away, he might not make it. Luckily, she ran to meet him rather than hide as he’d asked.

  “This way!”

  He followed. Streams of blood ran down Kyrioc’s legs. Pain and exhaustion made it hard for him to focus, but for the moment, he didn’t need to. He only needed to stay upright, put one foot after another, and follow Riliska.

  They came to a door, finally, but it was barred. Riliska raised her tiny fist to knock, withdrew. She was afraid to make noise. Kyrioc kicked the door.

  “Go away!” a voice called from inside.

  The sound of stamping feet and shouting sounded above. Several voices began to scream in pain. Kyrioc kicked again, harder.

  “Go a— Who is it?”

  “Killer of Devils,” Kyrioc answered.

  The bar slid back and the door began to open. Kyrioc kicked it again, making it swing wide. The man on the other side—one of the Pails’ heavies, in threadbare, ill-fitting magistrate’s clothing—fell backward over a cart. Both toppled.

  Strongboxes hit the floor hard. One broke open, spilling bright silver coins. Riliska gasped.

  Then Kyrioc saw the hole in the floor and the rope coiled beside it. This had once been a gym of some kind, with weighted practice weapons and an armored target dummy in the corner, but someone had cut through the floor. The heavy, the strongboxes, and the rope made it clear what was happening. Tin Pail waited at the bottom of that hole, rescuing her money instead of her people.

  Kyrioc had promised to murder her, too, but it didn’t seem important now. His first goal was to get Riliska to safety. Once that was done, he’d worry about who needed killing.

  He set the Katr down. “Fill your pockets,” Kyrioc said. “And his, too. He’s going to need someone to take care of him.”

  Riliska dove at the spilled coins.

  The heavy didn’t challenge them. He dropped the rope down the hole, clutching it to his breast like a beloved child. Then, with a wary look at Kyrioc, he leaned toward a cloth-covered bundle on the floor—something so small Kyrioc hadn’t noticed it before—and picked up a leather packet.

  The practice dummy in the corner moved. Kyrioc grabbed Riliska and dragged her back against the wall. Steel flashed.

  Kyrioc covered Riliska’s eyes. The dead man’s leg slid over the edge of the hole, and the weight dragged him through. The man in armor, braids spilling from his full helm, tapped the severed head with the flat of his weapon. It dropped into the hole too.

  By the fallen gods, Kyrioc recognized that notched ghostkind weapon.

  * * *

  When the constables crossed, the captain went first. Fay’s bodyguards—two had been assigned—put him at the back of the line.

  Fay saw nothing but the aftermath. Heavies sprawled on the floor, moaning in pain, collars binding their necks and hands. Tin Pail was gone, and so was her red-haired barbarian.

  The Broken Man was nowhere in sight either.

  “All low-level nobodies so far,” the captain said, “many already dead.”

  Fay nodded. Constables were working their way down the hall, opening doors one at a time, shields held high.

  “Collar them,” the captain called, “but don’t kill them. You know what this lot has coming to them.”

  The ironshirts answered with bitter laughter. Pitch and flame. The dead heavies were the lucky ones.

  His bodyguards scowled at a blank spot on the wall. “Irritated, are you?” They looked surprised, as though he’d read their minds with a magic trick. “If you come with me, we might find a few higher-level targets to collar.”

  They nodded eagerly and he led them down a flight of stairs. If Tin Pail had an escape route, it had to be downward.

  Just as they reached an intersection, they heard the distinctive sound of a door being kicked open. The constables moved toward it double-time. They were as quiet as possible, shields and truncheons at the ready as they surged into the room. Fay could see nothing but the straps holding their breastplates in place.

  “You’re all collared!” the taller bodyguard shouted.

  Blood sprayed onto Fay’s face, splashing into his open mouth. He stumbled back, momentarily blinded. Then someone collided with him, knocking him into a pile of wooden practice swords. When he wiped his eyes clear, he saw a blade stuck deep into the door where he’d been standing. Kyrioc, child of No One, had pushed him to safety.

  The Broken Man had saved his life.

  The blade withdrew. His would-be killer was dressed head-to-toe in steel armor that gleamed even in the dim lantern light, and his head was covered in a helm that obscured his face. Thick black braids hung through the gap at the bottom.

  And he was carrying a ghostkind weapon.

  Fay glanced at his bodyguards, both stone dead on the floor. The one on the right had been cut through his steel helmet. The one on the left had been cut
through the sternum from collarbone to armpit, and his thick steel breastplate had split as easily as his flesh.

  Both had been killed with a single stroke.

  “Shulipik! Shulipik tuto-Beskeroth, stop!” the Broken Man said. “He’s not a threat to you.”

  The armored man tilted his head. “How do you know my name?”

  “You don’t recognize me?”

  “Kyrionik?” the armored man said. “Of course! I could sense someone nearby had eaten glitterkind flesh, but I didn’t know it was you.”

  “Shulipik, how did you get off Vu-Dolmont?”

  Shulipik lifted his helm’s face guard, but the lantern was behind him and his features were hidden in shadow. “I arranged for my cousin to follow Fair Season.” He shrugged. “I got my prize.” He gestured toward a cloth-covered bundle.

  Fay felt a chill. What prize could he be talking about? Unless it was the child-sized figure wrapped in that cloth.

  “No,” the Broken Man said, more forcefully this time. “I saw you killed. The ullroct caved in your ribcage.”

  “I took precautions.”

  * * *

  For so many years, Kyrioc had believed all those deaths on Vu-Dolmont were his fault. So many years.

  “You did it,” Kyrioc said. “Those deaths are on your head.”

  “I didn’t know,” Shulipik answered, his voice low. “I didn’t know what would happen. I wanted… I had a tumor. For all my skills in battle, I had a tumor no doctor could treat, and the bureaucracy would never sliver a dose large enough to save me.”

  “So, you cut one for yourself.”

  “I’d planned to take a finger. Just one. But once I saw all those giants, I got greedy and cut too much. Ate too much.” He picked up the lantern and removed his helm. The light struck his face. The bureaucrat cursed in surprise. Riliska cringed and hid her eyes.

  Kyrioc was not surprised by what he saw.

  The shape of Shulipik’s face was still recognizable, but his flesh was murky and translucent, like sewer water thickened into aspic. His eyes were dark, sunken pits without whites or irises. He still had a head, with a nose, mouth, and hair. But he no longer looked as if he was made of humankind flesh.