Chapter 5

VERANIX PUT SEVERAL blocks between himself and the docks before he stopped on the roof of a church. He climbed up to the belfry and looked back down to the street. No sign of anyone pursuing him. No sign of anyone looking up. He figured he was safe, at least for the moment.

He laughed quietly to himself. Souring a forty-thousand-crown deal was more than just giving Fenmere a bloody nose. That was some real damage, even if it wasn’t specifically hitting the effitte trade.

Veranix examined the sack. It was soft and light, like a laundress’s bag, no jars or glass vials. Veranix doubted that Fenmere spent forty thousand on washing his suits. It definitely wasn’t effitte, though, that was certain. He untied the knots holding the sack closed.

Inside the sack were a cloak and a rope.

That was unexpected.

For forty thousand crowns, there had to be more than just a cloak and a rope. Maybe Fenmere was smuggling something fragile, and these were used to protect the real merchandise. That made sense.

He grabbed the cloak and pulled it out of the sack. As soon as he touched it, he had a heady, giddy feeling. Energized, like he had just drunk several cups of tea. Or like he had pulled in numina without doing anything with it. He dropped the cloak, and the feeling went away. He touched the cloak again. Again, he felt it, definitely a numinic charge flowing up his fingers.

There was more to it, though. Veranix could sense it, though he wasn’t sure what he was sensing. His first thought was that the cloak was magical, but he dismissed that idea as ridiculous. Magicked things were incredibly rare, even forty thousand wouldn’t buy them. There was something about them, though, that had an aspect of magic. He wished he had Delmin’s gift for sensing numina.

He put down the cloak and picked up the rope. Again he felt a charge of magical energy crackling through his fingers, a connection between him and the rope. As easy as thinking about it, the rope came out of the sack, sliding into his lap. He could feel the rope, as if it were a part of his body, an extension of his arm.

There was a commotion on the street below. Someone was pounding on a door. “Open up!”

Veranix was startled, and the rope reacted. In an instant, it shot up, wrapping around one leg, an arm, a wooden crossbeam, the other leg. Before he realized it, Veranix was tied tight to the beam.

“Open!” yelled the man below. Were they knocking on the church door? Was it Fenmere’s men, looking for him? Would the reverend of this church let them in? Everyone else in Dentonhill was in Fenmere’s pocket, why not the clergy? Veranix couldn’t move, and every panicked thought just made the rope constrict tighter. He thrashed and pulled, but the rope moved with him, binding him further.

The pounding stopped, and the door opened. “Missed payments, Orly.”

“I know,” an old man’s voice said. “I’ve got some of it, but . . .”

“No but, Orly.” The sound of flesh hitting flesh. The old man cried out.

No one was coming for Veranix. That calmed him down, and the rope relaxed slightly. Not much, but enough that he could move. He twisted his left arm around behind his back, at an angle he could manage thanks only to his grandfather’s training. Painful, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it. The maneuver gave him a bit more mobility, and he was able to pull his arm out of the bindings.

Arm free, he grabbed on to the wooden crossbeam and pulled his body forward, sliding it out of the rope.

“No, I—” the old man cried out. “Please . . .”

“Too late for that.” More beatings.

That wouldn’t stand. Veranix put his hand on the rope, and focused, like he would to use any magic. He didn’t need to pull in any numina for this, the numina was almost falling into him. The challenge was to hold it back, tame it, shape it, force it to do what he wanted instead of overwhelming him.

The rope unwound, dropping him from the crossbeam. Veranix landed on his feet.

“This is what happens when you don’t pay!” The beater’s words were accentuated with punches. Veranix stood up and looked down to the street. The shop door stood open, the commotion inside clearly heard. Veranix spotted a house a few doors over, where someone looked out his window and then shut it.

What was wrong with the people in this neighborhood?

He couldn’t see the beater, not from up here. No way to get a clear shot with his bow. If he wanted to stop this, he’d have to go down there. If he did that, he could be spotted. After stealing forty thousand crowns’ worth of . . . whatever he stole, he didn’t need to risk pursuit or capture.

“Please, I can get it!” Hit. Hit. “Please!” Hit.

“Too late for that.”

Veranix had to go down there.

Veranix looked across the street and spotted a drying post on the roof of the building. He flirted with the idea of getting the rope looped around it so he could swing down to the ground. As the thought formed, the rope shot forth, wrapping tight around the post. Amazed, Veranix jumped out of the belfry, swinging on the rope toward the shop door. With the rope and his own magic, he slowed his descent to a gentle landing, the rope coiling back to his side as his feet touched the ground.

A muscle-bound goon held Orly, the old shopkeeper, up against the wall as he pummeled his face. The old man didn’t look like he could take much more, blood gushing from his mouth and nose.

“Enough of that,” Veranix said. The rope responded to his urges, flying into the shop and wrapping around the goon.

“Who?” the goon said as he looked at Veranix.

“Let’s take it outside.” Veranix yanked on the rope, half with the strength of his arm, half with magic. The goon was pulled off his feet, rocketing to the door. Veranix jumped out of the way at the last moment, and the goon shot out to land on the dusty cobblestone street. Veranix willed the rope to coil around his own body like a bandolier.

“You’re going to pay!” the goon said.

“I don’t have any coins.” Veranix drew his staff. “Will this do?”

The goon was not ready for someone who would give him a real fight. Veranix leaped in, staff spinning. He cracked the goon across the head, then flipped away. Dazed, the goon punched empty air.

“I’ll—”

“You’ll leave old shopkeepers alone,” Veranix said as he landed. He took hold of the rope again and magicked it to wrap around the goon. It flung out stronger and harder than Veranix intended, choking around the goon’s neck. The goon clawed at it, desperate to breathe. Veranix tried to pull back, but the numina was flowing hard, a raging river. Veranix felt himself getting lost in the wash of energy pounding his senses. He had to get control, anchor himself.

Veranix felt the rope constricting around the goon’s neck. Veranix forced the numina thundering through his body to submit, to be shaped by him rather than let it shape him. The rope was an extension of his arm, and he would have control over his arm.

He pulled the rope off, coiled it back. The goon dropped to the ground, unconscious but still breathing.

Veranix glanced back at the shop. The old man had gotten to the door. He looked terrible, face bruised and bloody, but he gave a nervous nod to Veranix. Then he shut and latched the door. Veranix hurled the rope up to the church belfry and pulled himself back up there.

He coiled the rope and picked up the cloak. Whatever they were, Fenmere was willing to spend a lot to get ahold of them. Their value was obvious to Veranix, but why would someone like Fenmere, whose business was mostly girls and drugs, be interested in them?

Veranix decided he needed a rested head to answer that question. He stuffed the cloak and the rope back in the sack, and headed for home.