One Man Page 2

  But to live there, they had to build their homes within the skeletons of two dead gods, each three miles long. Living above them on High Slope, it was easy to forget their true scale.

  Yth lay beneath, her back to the mud. Suloh lay atop her, ribs on her ribs. Hips on her hips. Just as they were when they were killed.

  And the Upgarden deck, constructed around Suloh’s glowing spine, stood nearly four thousand feet above the stony beaches of the Timmer.

  The nearest deck was Dawnshine, just two dozen feet below, but it didn’t extend this far east. The fugitive couldn’t have simply dropped down to it.

  Culzatik looked south. His view of Yth’s skull below was blocked by buildings. Turning north, he saw the back of a shop that extended beyond the edge of the deck, then underneath it.

  It was a private passage down to Dawnshine. The shop owner couldn’t have cut a stairwell through the skywood deck to the level below—it was skywood—but they could go around it.

  Culzatik suddenly realized he’d been there. It was a back entrance to a Dawnshine casino that Father had once dragged him to.

  The constables were blocking the public stairs and ramps out of Upgarden, but did this shabby fugitive know the deck well enough to…

  “Follow me.” Culzatik sprinted up the street, his skin tingling. He found the building easily, although he had not visited in three years. It was a hat shop with high double doors and a sensibly neutral carving of the flower of ice above the door.

  As he was about to enter, Aziatil blocked him. Culzatik felt a flare of annoyance, but it passed. Of course he shouldn’t be first through the door.

  Tyenzo stamped up the stairs through the doorway, advancing in the stance Father had taught them to intimidate unarmed citizens. His shield was high, his sword held above his head with point forward. The other guards followed, mimicking his stance.

  Culzatik went in right behind Aziatil. She did not take her hands from her long knives.

  The guards advanced through the empty shop. Culzatik craned his neck to look into the back room, where the passage down to Dawnshine was hidden. The door stood open. The elderly shop owner was visible.

  Then the old man moved sideways suddenly as if shoved, and Culzatik caught a glimpse of the fugitive. His shaggy black hair made it impossible to see any part of his face but his mouth, which was fixed in a tight-lipped frown.

  Tyenzo shouted, “On your knees! Get on your knees right now!” The guards leaned forward to intimidate him into surrendering, but nothing about him suggested—

  Without warning, shadow enveloped the fugitive, swinging around his body from both sides and meeting in the middle like a pair of weighted window cloths falling closed. For the briefest instant, where the man had stood, there was only a slash of darkness.

  Despite the summer heat, a chill of fear ran down Culzatik’s back. “Let’s go.”

  Darkness billowed from the scarred man like smoke.

  Magic again, but this time it did not fail.

  A moment later, Culzatik was back out in the street, Aziatil close behind. Another squad of six Safroy guards came jogging up. “In there, your virtue?” asked the armored woman in front. He nodded, but she approached the door without entering.

  “What the fuck is that?”

  Impenetrable shadow filled the room. The guards looked at it, stepped back, then began looking up and down the street as if they were about to run. Culzatik couldn’t blame them.

  “Hold positions,” he ordered. “Tyenzo’s people are inside. Be ready to seize anyone who tries to escape.”

  They did. Culzatik would rather have ordered them to join the fight, but Mother had taught him never to give an order that would not be obeyed.

  Then the darkness retreated like water draining from a bath. Culzatik followed it inside. “It’s fine,” he said to his bodyguard. “It’s over.”

  The fugitive was gone.

  In his wake, he’d left the Safroy family guards in disarray. Two were sprawled on the floor, clutching twisted knees. Two more lay unconscious. Shields and swords lay scattered around the room.

  By the fallen gods, who was this man?

  “I cut him,” a guard said. He was holding a sword with blood on the point. “He caught my arm and stopped me just as I was cutting him.”

  Tyenzo, crouching in the corner beside the shop owner, struggled to stand. He removed his hand from his lower back. His palm was covered in blood. “It wasn’t him you were cutting.”

  Culzatik knelt beside the shop owner. He was unharmed. Maybe the fugitive had shoved the man aside to protect him. “Do you recognize me?” The old man stared with wide eyes and said nothing. “No? It’s all right. It was a long time ago. Did you recognize him?” The old man shook his head. “Did he take the key?”

  To this, the shopkeeper had no answer.

  “He cast a spell on us,” Tyenzo said as he slumped to the floor.

  Culzatik moved to the center of the room. “No, he didn’t. A spell must be spoken aloud, and his lips weren’t moving.” There. He lifted the hidden latch, but the trap door was bolted from the other side.

  Which was probably for the best, considering.

  “Your virtue,” Tyenzo said, his face turning pale. “What should we say happened here?”

  Culzatik had long considered himself an accomplished prevaricator, but for the moment, his wits failed him. They’d gone in pursuit of a single fugitive, and look at them. The truth would make the family guard look like incompetent clowns.

  “Anything you like,” Culzatik said. “I wasn’t here. Just don’t mention that the man used magic. We’d have the whole city in an uproar.” No one would try to capture the scarred man alive if they thought he knew spells, and Culzatik still wanted to talk to him.

  He and Aziatil started back toward High Square.

  Who was that scarred asshole? And why had Culzatik run after him? It had been pure impulse, and impulsiveness was not a worthy trait for the new Safroy heir.

  High Square was empty. The stitches had fled, which meant the service had ended prematurely. Because of him.

  Culzatik flushed with shame. So much for never shirking his duty.

  The Safroys lingered near the monument, surrounded by their guards, attendants, and a few lingering well-wishers. Mother was talking with a tiny, elderly Carrig wearing the stiff, scarlet bonnet of the Kings’ Tower Apostles. After a brief handclasp, the Carrig glanced at Culzatik, then shuffled away. Two Safroy guards accompanied her.

  Why was a Carrig heretic standing for the Safroy heir?

  Father noticed him and tapped Mother’s shoulder. She turned, and her expression made everyone else shrink away. “Culza, what have you done?”

  “Mother, I—”

  “What’s the matter? Were you bored without a book?”

  “Mother.”

  His tone deflected her anger. She laid one strong, slender hand on his arm “Culza,” she said, her voice still tight. “I know you loved him, but—”

  “Mother, I idolized him.”

  Father came up behind her, and the expression on his face was pitiless.

  “He’s been gone more than seven years,” Mother said, “and we must prepare you to take his place.” Of course. She couldn’t let a day pass without implying that she didn’t think he was ready. “What have I told you about the family sail?”

  Culzatik knew the answer. If there was one thing he was good at, it was his lessons. “‘The parsu fills the sail and does most of the work. Eighty percent of your time will be spent doing things for the stitches who owe their loyalty to you. But when you ask the sail to make a change, the effect will be powerful.’”

  “No,” Mother said. Her tiny, close-set eyes looked as black as the fugitive’s magic. “Never show weakness. Not to your friends. Not to your enemies. Especially not to your fucking underlings.”

  This conversation needed to be over. “Yes, Mother.” He turned toward the constables. They looked as though they would have paid go
od silver to be anywhere else. “Did any of you see the man I wanted captured?”

  A constable stepped forward, removing his steel helmet out of respect. He might have been the handsomest man Culzatik had ever seen. “I saw him, your virtue. His hair was black and much too long, and he had a scar on his left cheek as if he’d been savaged by a dog. I saw nothing amiss in his behavior. He laid this at the monument.” He held out a bouquet of red poppies. Culzatik took it.

  “He’s still at large,” Culzatik said, “I want him brought to me alive.” It was ludicrous. He had not—had not—seen his older brother running from his own funeral. Beating six of the family guard in a fight, while saving the life of one.

  Doing magic.

  It was impossible. Still, Culzatik would have no rest until he saw the man up close.

  Before his mother could speak again, Culzatik bowed to her. “On my honor, I saw a knife in his hand,” he lied. “I feared he would disgrace the funeral with bloodshed.”

  She did not believe him for a moment.

  “You heard my son,” she called to the constables. “Your duties at the service are done. Bring that man to the south tower for questioning.” The captain of the constables nodded.

  Culzatik saw that the Safroy family investigator had come to make a report. She didn’t look happy.

  He turned his attention to the bouquet. Why red poppies? Kyrionik wasn’t a soldier. And why… He counted them quickly. Why thirty of them? It didn’t make sense.

  By the fallen gods, who was that man?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Two days before:

  * * *

  A typical Shieldsday evening on the two Apricot decks was like a lodestone for pickpockets, con artists, tar dealers, and even the occasional gang of kidnappers. They were drawn to the crowds of restless young merchants, sailors on leave, and careless teenage nobles the way rats were drawn to larders. Which was why constables were stationed everywhere. The ironshirts of Koh-Salash were not the cleverest humankind in the world, but they didn’t have to be clever to swing a truncheon.

  Tonight was not typical. Tomorrow was summer solstice, which marked the end of the year. The day after that would be Mourning Day, a day to honor the friends and loved ones who had passed on since the previous solstice. In short, a time for the Salashi to celebrate their achievements and contemplate their regrets.

  Which meant the Apricot decks would see more than the usual high spirits. There would be more of everything, except restraint.

  But not for Onderishta, child of Intermala, one of the city’s highest-ranking investigators, and the unofficial operative for the Safroy family. Tonight was a work night, and while Onderishta was part of the bureaucrat class and drew a government salary, it was Lanilit parsu-Safroy defe-Safroy blah blah-Safroy—and, to a lesser extent, her family—who chose her assignments.

  Onderishta’s superior had explained everything on the day of her promotion. As one of the wealthiest and most powerful families in the city, the Safroys could turn government staff into personal servants—unofficially, of course—when the need arose. As it turned out, the need arose constantly. Safroy errands kept her busy through all her work hours and many of her private ones, too.

  Not that Onderishta minded. It was a better job than most, even if it meant she was once again spending a Shieldsday—and holiday—evening sitting in a cafe on the edge of the High Apricot promenade without the company of Zetinna, her wife.

  The only thing that could have made her job better would have been if her work actually accomplished something beyond the narrow interests of her noble parsu. Koh-Salash was a fucking sewer, and it really should have been the work of inspector bureaucrats like her to clean out all the shit.

  By law, all bureaucrats were required to wear gray while on duty, and Onderishta wore green calf-length trousers and the multi-patterned vest of a reveler, with a discreet gray stripe on the lapel. But down here, an hour past sunset, when the only light came from the parts of Suloh’s ribs not blocked by the Upgarden and Dawnshine decks above, no one could tell.

  Drums began to pound in the platform hall across the promenade, and revelers cheered. Behind the slender wooden rail, crowds began to dance and sway as high-pitched flutes joined in. Beautiful shirtless boys walked the edge of the platform, selling watered-down brandy from a tray. Business was brisk despite the early hour.

  Not a typical Shieldsday.

  Onderishta watched groups of young women—and the young men who trailed behind them—hurry for the entrance. Most of the women had green, red, and black designs painted on their arms, hands, and nails, but few of their male pursuers made the effort. What had been sacred in Lost Selsarim had become mere ornamentation in exile. Not that it mattered. Selsarim was gone. They were all Salashi now.

  The roof of the platform hall was nothing but stretched, bone-white canvas, with a few holes to allow light in and body heat out. The parts of the hall far from one of the canvas holes were dimly lit by paper lanterns. It was just bright enough inside to recognize the face of your friends and to see the spatter of brandy stains on the cloth above.

  Sailsday’s Regret was only open one night a week, but they made the most of it.

  It was owned by Harl Sota List Im, the most important ganglord in Koh-Salash, and according to Onderishta’s employer, this was the likely spot for tonight’s exchange.

  What, exactly, was being exchanged had not been shared with her, which was annoying. No, more than annoying, it was infuriating. Unfortunately, as a commoner, it wasn’t her place to show her feelings to the family who doled out her assignments, not if she wanted to keep her job.

  Onderishta glanced around the promenade. There were the usual sit-down drinking places like the one she was in—although hers, being built against the eastern edge of the deck, offered a cool sea breeze. That was why they charged triple for their weak tea and cheap brandy. Nearby were body-painters sitting on their mats, shops that sold roasted strips of everything from cow to mouse, privy shops, and of course the alleys that ran between them all. Respectable citizens kept to the promenade. Addicts—stains of white tar on their faces visible in the distance—and kids in street gangs loitering in the alleys, giving the city constables a wide berth. The ironshirts in their gleaming steel did their best to keep the peace, for what it was worth.

  She spotted a huge figure leaning against a pillar. The man’s face was not visible, but she could see a maul strapped to his broad back. Presumably, he was a bodyguard for one of the dancers. Mauls were popular weapons for intimidation, and only certain classes were allowed to carry long weapons.

  Two ironshirts in full armor appeared at the top of the deck stairs, silhouetted by the glowing bones behind them. Onderishta immediately had a bad feeling about them, and she quickly realized it was well founded. They scanned the promenade and moved toward her as soon as they spotted her.

  “If you salute me,” she said as they came near, “I’ll have you both reassigned to latrine duty.”

  The nearest soldier, a tall woman with a crooked nose, had already begun to bend her elbow. She froze in place. Onderishta stood and sighed heavily as she fished her token from beneath her tunic.

  “We don’t need to see your identification,” the second soldier said. He was a squirrelly-looking little guy. “We know—”

  “You’re going to look at this token as though you’re searching for someone.” Onderishta handed it over. “Then you’re going to hand it back, and do the same with three other well-fed middle-aged women on the promenade, preferably ones with a bit of gray on top like me. You’re going to act as though you’re searching for someone specific but can’t find them. After that, you’re going to go into the Sunken Drum, find your captain, and explain how close you came to ruining my surveillance. Now give my token back and stop treating me like your boss.”

  The woman with the crooked nose suddenly leaned in close to Onderishta, as though about to threaten her. When she stepped back, she had Onderishta’s tea cu
p in hand. She gulped the contents and tossed the cup back onto the table with contemptuous carelessness, then strolled away.

  Prickles ran down Onderishta’s back. By the fallen gods, she’d told the constables to stop treating her like the boss, and they’d done it. If she wanted to maintain her disguise as a common bystander, she had to take that insult in silence.

  As the cafe owner rushed to bring her a fresh cup, all the while clucking his tongue at the rudeness of these young constables, Onderishta watched them harass another older woman with the same sullen disdain.

  It had been a good piece of improvisation. She’d have to remember that constable.

  Fay Nog Fay, her second-in-command, was standing beside a stall that sold long strips of something that was supposed to be lamb. He pulled a blue scarf from his sleeve and wrapped it around his neck.

  That was the signal. Onderishta sat back just in time to see Second Boar push through the crowd.

  Ten years ago, there’d been a whole crowd of street kids who chose the “Boar” name, a crowd of cousins, friends, and cousins of friends. Paper Boar, Rainy Boar, Copper Boar…they were quite the sizable young crew. They were led by a gigantic kid with wild hair who called himself Front Boar because he stood in front of all the others when there was danger. Of course, standing in the front—like trying to claim a tough-sounding name the way their cousins Iron Boar and Steel Boar had—was a good way for a kid in a street gang to make a target of himself. He did not last long.

  Second Boar was his younger brother but he grew up to be, if anything, even larger than Front. He stood nearly six and a half feet tall, with massive shoulders, arms, and gut. He looked more bull than boar, even with that big bald head, but he was smart and tenacious enough to rise within Harl’s organization, although that meant he’d left the other Boars behind.

  In this heat, most people wore trousers that barely passed their knees and vests without tunics, but Second had dressed like a magistrate: long black trousers, white tunic, green vest, untied green sash. Still, no matter how distinguished the clothes, no one could have mistaken him for anything but a criminal, not with that face.