KRONA
I told you to stay outside the cave and stand guard. I wanted to prove that I was the braver. You always strode around the cottage like a rooster surveying his farmhouse. A cock thinks himself a king in the same way you as a child thought yourself the queen—without knowing how fragile you really were. But this story isn’t about you, it’s about me and the dark cave. I scrabbled down between the gray stones, scraping up my delicate baby-skin, poking at my loose tooth with my tongue to give me focus. Every move I made, every stone I knocked free, made echoing noises. When I’d nearly reached the dirt floor, I saw a glint of gold. Real gold, and I was sure I’d found some lost highwayman’s treasure.
By the time Tray and Krona returned to the den, daylight was already warming the Valley’s floor.
“Go home,” De-Lia instructed them as they strolled in. “The recorder has your notes; he’s nearly done translating. Go home and get some sleep.”
Tray took her hand. “What about you?”
She nodded to a group of men in the corner adorned with glass ram’s horns, speaking with De-Lia’s superior. None of them appeared of good cheer.
“Martinets, still?” Krona hissed. “I told you—”
“Yes, thank you,” De-Lia said sharply. “I have to answer for our failures, as I should.” She didn’t add any extra weight to “our,” but it hit Krona with force nonetheless.
“I’ll stay with you,” she said.
“No. Go home. If they want to throw me on the stones of nepotism, you being here won’t help.”
“You need your rest, too,” Tray said. “You’ll start sleepwalking again if you don’t sleep regularly.”
“That’s why there’s a cot in my office.”
“All right,” he said, “but don’t forget to use it.”
Krona gave De-Lia one last look of guilt-laden sympathy, then turned in Leroux’s mask. Its use left her more limp, and she slumped her way to the stables. But as she rode home, her strength returned to her. Many others wouldn’t have been able to stand upright after a battle of the mind with Leroux.
De-Lia owned an apartment in the eastern publishing district. It sat over an inker’s, and the building often smelled of lampblack and evergreen resin. Krona had moved in to help De-Lia take care of their mother. Most unmarried Regulators lived in the den barracks, but captains and higher-ranking Regulators received perks—like apartments—and Krona had been given permission to stay with her sister.
The living situation allowed Krona to save most of her time vials. But what she was saving for was unknown, even to Krona. A mask? A trip to the Falls, or for tracing her ancestry in Xyopar? An instrument of some kind? She remembered a wonderful concert at the Grand Marquises’ theater—the cellist had been wanted for enchantment forgery, but that hadn’t dulled his ability to play. Yes, maybe she saved for a cello of her own. Or perhaps she saved for all of these things, or for something the world had yet to introduce to her.
Either way, one day she’d use her time for something special.
Theirs was a well-put-together neighborhood. A district focused on printing and literature could hardly be a home for denizens bent on criminal pastimes. The residents were mostly learned merchants, with a few guardians of the state like Krona thrown in. However, in order to cut a direct path from the den on home, she did have to tread through seedier parts of the city. Even at this early hour, Krona still passed one lone nightingale, her tattered skirts pulled up past the knee and her face made up by unskilled hands in a terrible parody of a noblewoman’s paint.
The nightingale approached her for a moment, eyeing the horse with an overly sweet entreaty on her lips, before taking note of Krona’s uniform. The woman decided against soliciting a Regulator. Though paying for an amorous interlude was not illegal, a smart nightingale knew to avoid clients better armed than they. With a dry snort, she slunk back into the shadows, scratching her rear in a rather undignified manner.
Soon after, Krona clopped onto her home street, and sighed with relief when she caught sight of the arched door that led up to the apartments. Its wood had been stained cobalt blue, and small yellow panes had been inserted here and there to make it appear as though large honeybees crawled across its surface.
The building sat next to a line of government-controlled stables, where the civil servants in the area boarded their horses in the evenings. She dropped her steed off with the stable master, patted the creature absently—she liked the horse well enough, but large animals had never appealed to her—then strode back toward the honeybee door.
She pulled forth her brass key ring and realized it felt heavier than normal. Her whole body felt heavier than normal. At any moment, she would drop into sleep; she just hoped she made it to bed first.
The thump thump thump of little shoes hurrying her way made her stomach drop.
What now?
Sighing, she turned from the door. Running toward her was Rodrigo, a neighborhood boy who often brought her notes from an informant, and newspapers in the morning. She cringed, hoping she wouldn’t see a headline soon proclaiming the Blooming Butcher was back.
Sure as daylight, the boy had an envelope in hand.
“Mistress! Mistress,” he called out between huffs.
“And what are you doing running letters so early?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice from slipping into a singsong lilt, since Rodrigo hated being spoken to like a child. He wasn’t more than twelve by Krona’s reckoning, but that was neither here nor there.
“Getting paid,” he said quickly, holding out both the letter and his empty palm. Digging in her satchel for her purse, she found a few five-second disks and dropped them in his hand. The feather-light glass coins tinkled hollowly.
“From Thibaut?” she asked, examining the inelegant scrawl of her surname across the paper while jamming the building key into its lock.
“Who else?” Rodrigo pocketed the time and drew his shoulders up around his ears as a sudden breeze stripped the streets. “Not that you’ll hear from him again soon.”
She paused, lock half turned. “Why’s that?”
“He’s pissed off some Nightswatchmen again. Saw two of ’em cuffing him about the ears before they hauled him away.”
“What did he do this time?”
“Was running his mouth at ’em, far as I could tell. Maybe he done more, hard to say. Expect he’ll spend more than a fortnight behind bars just for the spite of it. If…” Rodrigo thumbed at his brown nose and shuffled uncomfortably.
Krona knew stalling when she saw it. She flicked him an extra disk she’d palmed just for this sort of pause.
With a smile, Rodrigo caught it, secreting it away without an extra word. “If one of those Watchmen don’t beat him to death first. I think he insulted one of their wives—maybe one of their sons. Couldn’t hear exactly. All I know is they were right pissed and fixing to get violent.”
Great. Leave it to Thibaut to make a bad night worse.
“Do you know which jailhouse they took him to?”
“For a fiver, sure do.”
“You’re bleeding me dry, pickle.” She shook her head, resigned, and pulled out the time.
“Don’t call me pickle.”
It was back to the stables and the damned horse.
Red and yellow songbirds fought atop the iron spikes lining the roof of the single-story prison, battling for the best perch. White streaked the spikes and ran down the front door, detailing a long history of bird problems for the squat building.
Angry chirping rang all the louder as she entered, barely dulled by her helmet, punctuating the new day and her lack of sleep.
Inside, the Watchman at the entrance reclined in a rickety chair with his feet up on his desk. Feet that slipped as he startled. He hadn’t expected a Regulator to stride through the door so early in the morning. Or, indeed, at all.
The floor groaned as Krona crossed the slats, dust puffing up between the boards. The jailhouse was small and decrepit, the kind drunkards lost hours in, the kind where no lawpersons in their right mind would bring any sort of real criminal.
“What can—what can I do for you, Mastrex?” the Watchman stuttered, rearranging his papers and moving his half-filled tea decanter from one side of his seat to the other.
“A petty thief was brought in recently. Tall, blond, good-looking man, passed his sixth-fifth a couple years back.”
The Watchman sniffed dryly and craned his neck, popping a joint. “Can’t say as anyone like that’s been through here. All we drag in this early are vagrants.”
Thibaut was nothing if not dapper, easily discernable from a homeless man. And Rodrigo wouldn’t have lied to her—he’d have no reason, and it would risk too much.
A faint call—a yelp—emanated from beyond the entryway, somewhere in the small cell block that sat to the left, behind a heavy door and out of sight.
It wasn’t the yip of someone startled, or the common catcall of a riled inmate. The yowl resonated with memories of sudden pains and sharp blows. Her muscles coiled, pulling taut across her shoulders, as she immediately swept toward the sound. “Open the door.”
The Watchman scrambled out from behind his desk, attempting, awkwardly, to bar her path. “You can’t go back there. Need an order from higher up to interfere with the Watch, wouldn’t you? I have no occasion to let you through.”
Another cry, this one stiff and sharp—quick like a stab—echoed from beyond.
A thousand retorts tickled the back of her tongue, but she swallowed them down. In the time she’d known Rodrigo, he’d never been prone to exaggeration. If he said there were Watchmen gunning to see Thibaut ended, it was true. And as insufferably reckless and deviant as Thibaut was, she would never wish him a moment’s pain. Now was not the time to defend her pride with verbal spars.
“You best leave, Regulator.” The smug suggestion was underpinned by a series of thumps and whimpers beyond.
If she hadn’t been thoroughly exhausted—if she hadn’t been injured and assaulted and shocked and humiliated only hours ago—she would have tried to reason with him. Krona was nothing if not fair-minded.
But, as it stood, her body ached, her mind ached, and this rat of a Watchman was one of the last obstacles standing between her and her friend—even if she never deigned to call him that out loud.
Moving slowly, as though her limbs were filled with sand, she drew her saber, giving the Watchman plenty of time to react. “You best unlock the door,” she said evenly, echoing his arrogant lilt.
His frown of confusion was deeply satisfying. Protests flitted across his knotted forehead: But we’re on the same side. I’m a member of the Watch, you can’t—For him? You’d threaten a fellow member of the constabulary for him?
“What are you d—?”
“Keys, out,” she demanded, drawing up, squaring her shoulders, using her uniform to its full advantage.
Uncertain, his hand made an abortive move toward his pocket. Krona understood—if he let her in, he’d have to answer to his colleagues. And if they were willing to bash Thibaut around, they probably wouldn’t give much more consideration to knocking some sense into their glorified front doorman.
So she didn’t give him a choice. Raising her blade, she held it level with his throat. “What’s it worth to you, keeping me out?” she asked in a low voice, leaning in, making sure her eyeless faceplate filled his vision. “Because I guarantee that man back there is worth a lot more to me than you’re willing to give.”
His shaking wrist disappeared into his trouser pocket like a snake, sliding swiftly in and out. He jammed the key into its slot, then stepped back, swinging wide around her saber. With hands upheld—washed of all responsibility—he gestured her through.
“You beat it out of me,” he said firmly, his tone despicably conspiratorial.
Disgusted, Krona almost lashed out with the butt of her sword to give him a black eye. For good measure, of course. To aid in his chicken-shit story.
But she didn’t have time to play. Krona inched the door open, far enough to get a good view of the cells beyond but not to reveal herself.
The block was little more than glorified closet space. Three working cells near the front, with the stone crumbling around the bar fixtures, and at least a half dozen more out of commission. Some were used as storage, some had no doors, and some were missing their cage fronts altogether.
This jailhouse was one commissioner’s visit away from demolition.
The first two cells held semi-sleeping vagabonds, each with their hands over their ears to block out the sounds coming from the third cell, which held Thibaut.
Her thief sat hunched over on a cot, curling as best he could into the corner of the cell, hands cuffed behind his back.
“Ach!” he called out as a heavy boot came down on his insole.
Knowing better than to rush in, Krona tabulated the scene.
There were four Watchmen. Two in the cell with Thibaut, two outside. All of them wore shabby coats and fraying suspenders, each looking only one step above the vagabonds in cleanliness.
She took quick stock of their visible weapons, guessing they weren’t the type to roll over at a quick command, from a Regulator or otherwise. Should things turn sour, she needed to know who posed the greatest threat. He would need to go down first—through persuasion or force would be his call.
Both men outside the cell leaned against neighboring bars on either side of the narrow cell-block hall, arms crossed and faces turned away from her. Smugness radiated from the set of their shoulders and the casual nods they gave one another when one of their colleagues got in a jab they appreciated.
Neither sported holsters, nor sheaths. If she was lucky, they had no more than knives at their disposal.
One she saw in profile, catching a glimpse of his particularly petite nose and elfin chin. He was young, new to the Watch. Soft.
The second had weathered hands and an ungainly bow in his spine, emphasized by his protruding gut.
Inside the cell, one man did most of the talking while the other did most of the punching.
“You want another?” asked the talker. He was three days removed from his last shave, and surely weeks removed from his last bath. As he gave a meaningful glance to the man beside him, she marked him as their captain. He had an authoritative, if brutish air about him. “Go ahead, open your pretty mouth again and ask for another.”
The fourth Watchman cracked his knuckles, eager for the opportunity to land another strike. At the term “pretty mouth” he split his own lips with a cruel smile, looking over his shoulder to raise his eyebrows at his mates.
Several of his front teeth were missing, likely lost to fists that had answered his blows.
Thibaut glanced up at the taunt, uncurling slightly. His clever eyes gazed past the Watchmen, catching the line of black at the cell-block door. Recognition quirked the corners of his lips, and he smiled at Krona, revealing bloodied teeth. His once well-coiffed hair stuck up haphazardly atop his head, his usually pressed clothes were disheveled, and his cheek sported a bright-pink blotch that would soon purple. Despite all that, his grin broadened, knowing his salvation was at hand. “Funny, I said the same thing to your son just last evening,” he chuckled at the captain, spitting a bloody glob on the man’s shoe. “Poor boy couldn’t get enough of me.”
“My son is happily married,” the talker said smugly, refusing to rise to the bait.
“Well apparently his husband isn’t giving him enough—”
“His husband is a well-respected banker down on—”
“Well,” Thibaut tittered. “You know what they say about bankers.”
Damned idiot never knew when to quit.
“Why you smudgy piece of—”
As Toothless pulled back for a gut punch, Krona shouted and slid fully into the room, drawing everyone’s attention.
“How’d you get in here?” Little-Nose asked as his face blanched.
“Ask your boy out front,” she snapped. “And back away from my prisoner.”
“You’re a ways out of your den, Regulator,” said the captain. “Man’s behind our bars, so reckon he’s ours.”
“Not to play with as you please. Release him into my custody and we won’t have a problem. I won’t report you to the Martinets for abuse.”
All four men prickled. Little-Nose and Bow-Spine straightened. Captain Dirt and Toothless sauntered out of the cell, fists balled.
“Oh, what abuse?” asked Thibaut casually. “I can tell you, some people pay for this kind of treatment. If you’re looking to pick up extra time vials, gentlemen, I know a few nobles…”
“You ain’t even got a partner,” Captain Dirt said to Krona, ignoring Thibaut, head cocked to the side. “Which probably means you aren’t here in any official capacity. So why don’t you run along?” He snorted, wiping the spit on his shoe against the long, scratched line of a cell bar.
She raised her saber. “Turn him over. That’s the last time I’ll ask nicely.”
Bow-Spine and Little-Nose drew daggers, as she’d expected. Toothless stuck to his fists—which she could appreciate—while Captain Dirt ambled into one of the run-down cells, taking up an iron bar that had rusted at both ends.
Everyone moved slowly, yet deliberately. They were trying to call her bluff, and she theirs. No one wanted things to get bloody.
Except maybe Toothless. He grinned ear to ear, as though he hadn’t dared hope for this much action so early into his shift.
“You really don’t have to fight over me, there’s plenty to go around,” Thibaut quipped, sounding chipper, though he winced as he tried to sit up straight.
“Shut up!” everyone shouted, including one of the homeless men who’d given up pretending to sleep.
“See, I can take him off your hands,” Krona tried to reason. “Make sure you never have to hear him flap his lips again.”
They inched toward her, crowding her into the door. They weren’t going to let up, and she certainly wasn’t going to back down.
She doubted the Watchmen knew how to work in tandem. They’d individually search for openings, thinking of only her moves and their own, never trying to play off one another unless someone took her to the ground.
Toothless worried her the most. It took a confident man to face a sword bare-knuckled.
Which meant he had to go down first.
“Nah,” Captain Dirt said, swinging the bar up to rest on his shoulders. He pushed his way to the fore, standing beside Bow-Spine. “See, my problem ain’t with his mouth so much as his hands. They wander where they shouldn’t.”
“Think we ought to chop ’em off,” said Bow-Spine, “for the safety of the general public.”
“You wouldn’t dare remove such fine specimens from their even finer wrists,” Thibaut scoffed, faux scandalization dancing on his tongue. “I need these beauties in order to blow kisses to my admirers.”
“Would you—” Bow-Spine spun, teeth bared at Thibaut.
Krona saw her opening. Lunging forward, she smacked his hand with the flat of her blade. He dropped his knife in surprise, and she kicked it away, behind her.
Dirt swung with a shout—the bar careening toward her helm. Dropping to one knee, she avoided the impact, which sent Dirt off-balance. He’d expected to make contact and pitched sideways when he didn’t—knocking into Bow.
Toothless lost his grin, and Little-Nose lost his nerve. The former came forward while the latter stumbled back. Shoving his colleagues aside, Toothless reached down for Krona, heaving her upright by the front of her uniform.
Which gave her the angle she needed.
Arm outstretched, his elbow was vulnerable. Flipping her saber, she jabbed the heavy end of her pommel against the back of his joint.
He shouted and let go, his arm falling limp—clearly, alternating numbness and needles ran the full length of his limb.
Rising, she kicked out his left knee, pressing down on the cap from above until it popped out of place. He slid to the floor, gasping in pain.
“Stay down or I’ll take the other,” she commanded, just as Dirt charged her again.
He brought the bar down like a hatchet, looking to shatter her shoulder. She swung her lone bracer up to meet it. The metal clanged, but it wasn’t the same high-pitched catching of sword on sword, and her forearm still took the brunt of the blow.
Hissing through the pain, she parried the bar aside.
“To your right!” Thibaut shouted the instant before hot agony ripped through her love handle.
Bow-Spine had retrieved his blade.
“Enchantment-bearing bastard,” he hissed at her from behind, twisting the knife.
Snapping her elbow back, she caught him under the chin. He reeled in reverse, smacking his head against a set of bars and sliding to the floor.
The fire in her side pushed her from resolute to angry. Dropping her saber—letting it clatter to the floor—she dove at Dirt, wrenching the bar away with both hands before backhanding him across the jaw. He tilted to the side and fell, stumbling face-first into Toothless’s lap, where he lay still.
“You see that? You see?” Thibaut said conspiratorially to Little-Nose. “Uncuff me and Mastrex Regulator will spare you, I know it.”
Still gripping his knife tightly, Little-Nose weighed his options.
Taking high breaths through her nose, Krona straightened her spine and reached for the dagger protruding from her love handle. Though she burned from buttocks to shoulder, she could tell the blade inside her was short, and Bow’s aim was less than outstanding. Yanking it free, she growled through the spike of agony. Everything hurt like a bastard, but she’d live.
Scooping up her sword, right hand staunching the wound, she shuffled toward Little-Nose, who held his blade aloft, but trembled with indecision.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” she said, voice rough with the pain. “But is keeping this sniveling, pale, letch of a man worth that?” She swung her saber to indicate the three beaten Watchmen.
Dear Time, please say no.
She was exhausted.
“Letch is taking it a bit far,” Thibaut huffed.
Whipping her sword at Thibaut, Krona gritted out, “Gods help me, if you want to leave here with all of your fingers and toes—”
“Take him,” Little-Nose decided, knife slipping from his fingers. “Free him, hang him, hand him over to one of the Grand Marquises as an anniversary gift, I don’t care. Just take him.”
“Thank you,” she said, exasperation barely showing. If blood weren’t dripping down her leg and three grown men weren’t groaning on the floor, one might have thought she’d won little more than a haughty debate. “Now, out.”
Young man knew to do as he was told.
With the troublesome Watch dealt with, Krona attended to Thibaut. First she looked over his head wounds; they were nothing more than superficial. As she swept the fringe of his blond hair away from a cut, he hissed, whole body tightening.
“Sting, does it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” She patted his chin, avoiding his split lip, and did not rebuke him for the “sir.”
Even beat up and cuffed, Thibaut carried himself like a man who owned the city. He could beat the Marquises themselves in a tournament for pomp and superciliousness. And that was part of his appeal; nothing could dampen his mood or darken his view of the world. He was ever-positive.
An unusual trait for a thief, consort, and all-around public menace to possess.
“Well done, Regulator,” he said, taking in her thorough demolition and nodding with approval. “To whom do I owe my thanks?”
“None of your business, criminal.”
It was a show they were forced to put on, for safety’s sake. Informants soon became inform-nots if they proved too familiar with the constabulary. These Watchmen would keep quiet—why would they want to spread the tale of their utter ineptitude?—but Thibaut’s fellow prisoners would have no such shame to hide.
“But, answer me this,” Krona said, tone still rough-edged. “What do they say about bankers?”
“Haven’t a clue. Did you see the way his eyes bugged out at the very suggestion, though?”
Krona laughed silently in her helm. Cheeky bastard.
Satisfied with his visible wounds, she concerned herself with the hidden.
His gentleman’s coat had been pulled down to pool around his wrists, and his deep V-necked tunic hung loose about his frame. His trousers and boots were dirty, but bore no gouges or tears, and he still wore his signature green leather gloves.
“Lean back, against the wall,” she ordered, rucking up his shirt.
“Well, aren’t you forward?” he snarked, raising an eyebrow, but complying nonetheless.
“I don’t want to have you collapsing on me halfway to the den.” A bruise blossomed across the subtle ripples of his abdomen. “If you need a healer, I’d rather know sooner than later.” She pressed against his sides, looking for evidence of cracked ribs. Luckily, his bones were intact. “Anything else hurt?”
“Just my shoulders—uncuffing me should do the trick.”
“That’s a well-practiced joke. Do you tell it often?”
“Oh, har har.”
She pulled him back together as best she could, then helped him to his feet. He limped slightly as she led him out of the cell, but more from stiffness than injury. Needing to step over Bow, he kicked him instead. “You’re lucky you got the jump on me,” he said. “I could have had you down twice as fast as Mastrex Regulator in a gentleman’s fight.”
“Don’t you think that’s enough antagonizing for one morning, thief?”
As they hobbled nearer the door, Thibaut pulled up short. “Wait. Wait.” He shuffled over to one of the occupied cells and whispered, “Windom?”
The “sleeping” vagabond gave a grunt.
“My cot was empty, if you catch my meaning. Might I bother you to check yours?”
The heap of gray-and-brown tatters reached awkwardly beneath his bare bones of a bed, groping the underside.
Krona glanced at the Watchmen. Two were officially unconscious. Toothless groaned and rolled onto his back, but didn’t make any further effort to rise, or to push Dirt off his lap.
A gentle pop—that of dried wax pulling free from a hard surface—preceded Windom holding up an envelope. “This what you’re after?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
Krona grabbed Thibaut by the collar, hauling his ear close. “Are you telling me you got thrown in here on purpose? For that?”
“I’m not an idiot. You believe those overstuffed sacks could bring me in if I didn’t want them to?”
“Why do you think I’m in here?” Windom asked, sitting up. His hair was long, as was the style of the times, but was heavily matted with a beard to match. “It’s a dry place to sleep. And they’re obligated to give me a plate of beans.” He placed the envelope on the stone floor and flicked it, sending it sliding up to the bars.
“Mastrex Regulator?” Thibaut said, twisting to display his shackles. She huffed and he tittered at her. “I’ll have you know I’m letting you in on a very well-kept communications secret. The least you could do is pick up the letter.”
“I touch it, I keep it,” she informed him, crouching to do just that.
“Who says the letter’s not for you?” Thibaut asked with a smirk.
“Seeing as how we’ve never met, criminal, I doubt it.”
Remembering the game, his smile fell away.
But it did make Krona wonder if it was the truth. Had he gotten himself picked up by the Watch for her sake? The envelope was clean, unblemished by creases, and had an unpressed black wax seal. Extra wax on the back had kept it secured to the cot.
She pocketed it and rushed Thibaut away.
Out front, the young deskman was still there, sitting sheepishly in his chair, apparently pretending to be deaf, since that was the only “reasonable” explanation for why he hadn’t noticed the brawl beyond and gone in to help. Little-Nose was nowhere to be found.
“You remind them,” she said to the deskman in passing. “We all forget this happened, they stay away from my prisoner, and we don’t have to get the Martinets involved. And if I ever have to come calling here again, I expect a better reception.”
“Yessir.”
Outside, her horse picked at a patch of grass growing through the sidewalk. There were more people on the street now—the day was in full swing. Krona was sure she’d forgotten what sleep was like.
“You expect me to ride like this?” Thibaut asked, eyeing the mare.
“Of course not,” she said, pulling a length of rope from her pouch.
“You wouldn’t,” he said, eyes widening.
She almost felt sorry for him. Almost. But now that she knew he’d gotten himself in trouble on purpose, putting him through the paces seemed the thing to do. “Need to keep up appearances. At least for a few blocks. Don’t worry, I’ll go slow.”
Forming a loose loop, she lassoed Thibaut around the neck, keeping the rope’s end fitted in her glove, then mounted. Though she hated riding with her helmet on, she was well versed in climbing a steed while top-heavy.
Thibaut looked up at her from beside the horse with the pitiful expression of a lost puppy. He’d used those sad blue eyes to his advantage on more than one person in his time, and Krona would be damned if they were going to work on her. “It’s only until we’re out of sight. There’s an old tunnel to the Dregs not far from here. Blocked off, but it’ll give us cover.”
Resigned to his current predicament, he obediently hung his head and let her lead him.
Having Thibaut leashed was more satisfying than Krona would ever admit. Not because it kept him near her—oh no. Of course not. And not because it meant he wasn’t hanging on the arm of some well-dressed nobleperson as their consort-of-the-day, which was how he made his bread.
A well-tied Thibaut was a well-behaved Thibaut, and that was a simple rarity she was going to enjoy.
As promised, it wasn’t far to the disused tunnel, even in the crowded streets of morning. They had to contend with one blocked thoroughfare—a horse-drawn trolley had been stalled because of a stone wedged in its tracks—but beyond that their pace was fair.
The tunnel itself was a utilitarian eyesore stuck between two municipal buildings. Lutadites might have happily kept the way open, but it had been blocked from below.
Beneath Lutador proper was a second city: the Dregs, whose people shared its name. They were the disenfranchised and homeless who’d found homes with each other—outcasts with no place in Lutador society. They preferred their life underground, and—with the exception of the time tax and the emote tax—were left alone by the city-state officials, provided they remained below the streets.
The tunnel went back a few yards, and held a draw for various unsavories as a covered camp. But its placement near official government sites meant it was frequently patrolled and kept empty. It still smelled of campfire smoke, and the walls sported etchings made by sharp stones and shaky fingers.
Krona tied the mare outside and removed her helmet before leading Thibaut in. There she uncuffed him using a skeleton key from her pack. He did not pull away when she rubbed his wrists and arms to help the blood flow.
“Ach, pins. Pins everywhere.” He shook himself, snapping his elbows outward as if banishing the feeling. “Thank you,” he said after a moment. “Sincerely. I’d planned on spending a good long while in that stink hole, but I had not expected the complimentary beating.”
“Oh no? It sure looked like you were ordering from the menu.”
He pulled the tie from his hair, shaking it out before quickly pulling it back again. “Some throwback runs his mouth and I’m supposed to ignore it?”
“Yes.”
“But it’s so much more fun when you can taunt them with the truth.”
“What truth?”
“Is it my fault I give his son palpitations? The young man is striking, too—must look like his mother. Gods know his father was never aesthetically pleasing. But, alas, his husband must keep a tight watch on his time vials. Handsome boy couldn’t afford my company.”
“I’m surprised anyone can.”
Thibaut leaned against one wall and examined his gloves, rubbing away a bit of dirt and a fleck of blood. “I’m cheaper than you think.”
She glared at him. “No, you’re not.”
“I bet even someone on a Regulator’s salary could afford me,” he said lightly, barely glancing up.
Thibaut wasn’t a nightingale. He didn’t go in for nests and servicing anyone who came through the door. But he spent time with people he liked who had the time vials to spare. Spent time out and about—was seen. Nobles used him to pass the time while their spouses were away, or to make one another jealous. He let them dress him up in fineries, and take him to wine tastings, and balls, and trail him under their disapproving fathers’ noses.
If Thibaut had learned anything about himself since adolescence it was this: he was attractive. And, in the right company, a pretty face and toned stomach were as useful as a purse full of hundred-minute vials. He’d bought himself many secrets with the bat of his eyes alone.
But, as much as he liked to play the suave philanderer, he was a petty thief at heart. It was an addiction, really—it had to be, what with the number of times Krona had needed to spring him from a cell to keep him on the streets and his information flowing.
“That’s not how this relationship works,” she said carefully. “Why should I pay for an audience when I can punch out four lawmen and get it for free?”
“Relationship?” Thibaut pushed himself off the wall and shoved his hands in his pockets. He regarded her coyly, head lowered and cocked to one side. “Have the Five heard my prayers? Are you finally going to make an honest man out of me?”
“Oh, shut up. That might work on the nobles you press for information, but it won’t work on me.”
“That’s why our affiliation is different. You give me something no one else does.” He gently pushed into her personal space. She was a tall woman, but he was an exceptionally tall man. She had to look up to meet his gaze, but rooted herself to the spot. Refused to back away.
“Where’s my payment?” he asked softly, bowed lips parted boyishly.
“What, exactly, am I meant to be paying you for?”
“I told you: that letter’s yours. Course, you might need an interpreter. It’s likely coded. So, give it up. I’m sure you must have something.”
“I’ve trained you too well. Like an animal waiting for a treat.”
“My, aren’t we bossy today?”
She backed away, digging in her hip pouch. Free of his heat, she turned away and took a cleansing breath. “You’re lucky I’ve been expecting to hear from you. I don’t normally keep toys among my—” His fingers caught fast on her hip, and her breath caught near as quick in her throat. “What are you—?”
Kneeling down, Thibaut pulled at the frayed edges of her uniform, where Bow’s knife had found her. “This isn’t a scratch, Mistress. You need stitching.”
“The blood’s drying,” she said over her shoulder, trying to glimpse him at the odd angle. “Barely nicked the muscle, I suspect. What’s another uneven scar?”
“The blood is not drying,” he protested, “and in order to scar it has to heal. Come, let me see better.” He tugged at the tight, thick leather, trying to fold it aside.
“I didn’t know medicine lay among your credentials,” she said, helping to tug her uniform out of the way. Now it wasn’t just the wound that burned, but her cheeks as well. He was so close, she could feel his breath ghosting across the skin of her back.
“Truthfully, I’m no good with injuries,” he admitted, pinching the pucker of the split, making sure the skin lined up evenly. “But ignoring a wound doesn’t make it go away. Believe me.”
She caught a sad twinge in the edge of his voice, meant to ask about it, but his next prod sent a needle-like jab into her side and she gritted out a yelp instead.
“Pardon,” he mumbled.
“Are you helping or playing back there?”
“Funny how often you find my mucking about and my sincere efforts indistinguishable. You carry salvation sand, do you not?”
“That’s only for emergencies. It’ll make the wound ten times worse later.”
“But later you will have seen a healer.”
“Thibaut—”
“Mistress,” he countered in the same irritated tone.
She sighed, searching through her pouch once more, bypassing the tarnished trinket she’d been digging for in favor of a small silk purse. “Only a pinch,” she instructed, handing it to him. “The more you use, the greater the aftereffects.”
“Understood.”
Grains of pale sand slipped from the purse to form a neat pile in the center of his green-gloved palm. Faceted, they caught the light from the tunnel opening with a glint, like fine-cut gems.
Salvation sand was a powdered enchantment. Two parts silica sand, one part titanium flakes, one part snakewood dust. The ingredients were burned together and infused with magic—each particle bore its own microscopic enchanter’s mark.
Thibaut paused for a moment, silently calculating how many time vials it would take to purchase the teaspoon of healing in his hand. “You realize how much I could get for—”
“Yes, I do. So don’t waste it.”
Dabbing a bit onto his forefinger, he drew the sand across her wound. It grated, feeling at first like an assault rather than a salve. Her muscles twitched with the desire to pull away, to snap at him, but she held herself still.
Slowly, the pain ebbed. Her skin pulled taut in a sluggish drag while the cut disappeared—the injury vanishing as if erased.
It would only buy her an hour, if that. And when the enchantment gave way, when her body seized upon the intrusion, the cut would open again, bleeding profusely and extending deeper than the original. If she didn’t have it attended to properly, the damage would be worse than if she’d never used the sand at all.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, hurrying to straighten her uniform, to move away from Thibaut’s gentle touch.
“Always happy to attend to my mistress,” he said without bravado, handing the purse back. “Even if the balm is temporary.”
What a fine summary of her time with Thibaut: he was a temporary reprieve in a world full of wounds.
She weighed the purse carefully before placing it back in her pouch, but it was impossible to tell if he’d stolen a pinch or two for the lining of his pockets. “And now—” She located the old wind-up and tossed it vertically between them.
He caught it awkwardly off one shoulder and examined it. “It’s—I’m impressed. Where did you get it?”
“Knew you’d like it.”
It was an antique copper-and-bronze frog. It once possessed jeweled eyes, but those had long ago been lost, judging by the amount of tarnish in the sockets. With the proper key, the frog could be made to jump in a lifelike manner. With another, its mouth would open and its tongue would unfurl. Supposedly, it could snatch live flies out of the air. Such toys had been made by a single court artisan decades ago. When he’d died, a death mask hadn’t been enchanted. His intricate knowledge of mechanics and clockwork had been lost for good.
Unfortunately, the frog was not in the best of shape. But Thibaut liked to tinker; perhaps he could fashion the keys and fix the dents and dings.
Thibaut’s eyes sparkled as he rolled the toy over and over between his palms. Childlike giddiness quirked his lips and made Krona smile. “I’ve been looking for one of these for years,” he said with glee. “Mistress Hirvath, I could kiss you.”
“None of that,” she said, then laughed. “Only you would flirt with someone in a Regulator uniform.” After getting arrested, then trounced, and subsequently arrested again.
“You’re not half as scary as you think you are,” he said, returning to his lazy lean against the wall. He flicked the mouth hinge on the toy open and then shut again, already disassembling it in his mind.
“Payment made. That should buy me your letter, your ‘translation,’ and a few more tips to boot. These little delights of yours are getting harder to find.” He didn’t need to know she had a ripe stock of clockworks for him stashed away in her cubby at home. Scarcity drove the price up, after all; the better to buy more secrets with. It also made his elation all the more special for its sincerity and sudden onset.
“Are there other tips you’re looking for? That”—he gestured vaguely, meaning the envelope—“is in regards to your Belladino inquiry.” He squinted at her, jaw clenching noticeably as he tried to look past her layer of levity to the disquiet beneath. “Your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes this morning, so what happened?”
She let the mask fall. No use playacting if her performance was poor. “I haven’t been to bed.”
“Was there an incident at the Jubilee?” His gaze made the briefest of stops on her bandaged arm.
Her hand instinctually fell to her saber, though she had no intention of drawing it. The solidness of the pommel was comforting. “How did you know I was at the Jubilee?”
He held his hands up—frog included—to illustrate he was well intended. “How do I know the Second Grand Marquis is currently hobbled by gout? How do I know obscure religious records are disappearing from the Hall’s archives? How do I know about the guards stationed at the Valley’s edges to prevent anyone from traveling to the rim? Not a very good informant if I don’t keep well informed, am I?”
“Point one: two of those are conspiracy theories, not information—”
“And the third?”
“Everyone knows the Second Grand Marquis is far too fond of sweetbreads and kidney. Point two: you’re supposed inform for me, not on me, so why would you take special note of my assignments?”
“Does a dog not wonder where his master goes all day?”
“You’re not a dog.”
“Aye. Funny how you leap to decry that casting, versus the other.”
“You’d rather be a dog?”
“I’d rather you not obfuscate the point.”
“Fair enough.”
“Now, what happened at the Jubilee?”
The light pouring into the tunnel was far too bright, and Thibaut was far too chatty, and Krona was far too drowsy. He would only get a perfunctory story this morning. “A break-in. They distracted the crowd with loose varger, and then took several items of great—”
“Worth?”
“Hazard. We are unsure how they were able to get inside the gala so … efficiently.”
“You’d like me to look into it?”
Krona rubbed at her eyes before pinching the bridge of her nose. “Please.”
He tossed the frog lightly in the air, catching it on the back of his gloved hand and rolling it to his elbow, then back again before pocketing it, displaying a level of dexterity Krona was sure she’d never possess—even with a full night’s sleep. “Will do, Mistress. Now you, I think, have another appointment to get to.”
“Oh?”
He gently took her by the shoulders and turned her toward her horse. Any other time she would have resisted, but she’d given all her fight to the Watchmen and had no left for Thibaut. “Yes,” he said sweetly. “With a healer, then your pillow. I will look into your ‘efficient’ theft and call for you in the usual way once I’ve found something.”
“Thank you.”
“You must be tired,” he chuckled. “There are far too many niceties falling from your lips.”
“I can be amiable. I am amiable,” she insisted, though for the life of her she wasn’t sure why it was a point she felt the need to argue. Putting one foot in front of the other was growing more difficult by the moment, and her uniform suddenly felt too tight. Why was home so far away? Why were there still so many tasks between her and her cubby?
“Yes, a fact which you do your damndest to hide when you’re thinking straight.” They emerged onto the street and Thibaut gave her a shove toward her steed before stealing back into the shadows. “To bed with you, my dear. I’ll see you again soon.”
After several abortive tries, Krona heaved herself onto her horse and rode off, Thibaut’s second letter in her pocket and his chuckling lilt tickling her ears.