Hope stepped out of the hall into the golden afternoon sun. She never would have thought the air of New Laven would seem fresh, but after nearly a day stuck in Gunpowder Hall, she breathed it in deeply. She looked up at the commander astride his horse. He looked down at her with mild curiosity. Behind him, fifty soldiers held rifles, all of them pointed at her.
“Will you kill me now?” she asked calmly.
“There is one who wants to speak with you first,” said the commander. “Surrender your sword and I will take you to him.”
“And no one else will get hurt.”
“I will withdraw my men from this place,” he agreed.
Handing the Song of Sorrows to the imperial commander may have been the hardest thing Hope had ever done. Other events had been far more painful, but those she had been helpless to prevent. The act of relinquishing one of the most sacred items of the Vinchen order, entrusted to her by Grandteacher Hurlo, to a man who neither knew nor cared about it, was something she had to do of her own free will. With icy hatred blazing in her eyes, she held the sheathed sword up to him horizontally with both hands. He leaned over in his saddle and took it almost indifferently.
“Chain her,” he said.
Two soldiers hurried over and wrapped her wrists in a chain, securing it with a large padlock. One handed the padlock key to the commander. The other handed him the end of the chain, which he fastened to the front of his saddle.
“Come along, then.” The commander wheeled his horse around and gave the chain a yank as he led her away from Gunpowder Hall. The soldiers parted to let them pass, then closed ranks behind them. Hope glanced back, expecting to see the soldiers turn as well and follow them. But they remained with their rifles pointed at the hall.
“You said you would withdraw your men.”
“I know the Vinchen have an almost religious zeal concerning honor,” the commander said. “But the thieves, cutthroats, whores, and traitors hidden away in that place are the worst scum in the empire. They have no honor and deserve none in return. I cannot allow them to think they have won a victory today, however fleeting. We’ll keep them pinned down in there until we repair the cannons you disabled last night. By that time they might be so starved, they’ll already have killed each other. If not, we’ll sweep in and clean up that filthy hall at last.”
“You tell me this and still expect me to cooperate with you?” Hope asked quietly.
The commander chuckled. “You are disarmed and in chains. What could you possibly do?”
A strange roar came from within Gunpowder Hall, like a hundred voices shouting in unison.
“What in God’s name was—” began the commander.
Then the door burst open and Red and Nettles charged out, a mass of people behind them. The soldiers had not been expecting a frontal assault and fumbled with their rifles. But Hope knew they would recover before Red and Nettles reached them. It would be a massacre, unless someone stopped them from firing.
“This is what I can do.” She pulled hard on the chain, jerking the horse a little off balance. In the second it took the commander to steady his mount, she jumped up behind him. She pulled her chained hands over his head, pressing her upper arms against the sides of his neck, cutting off part of his airflow as she yanked the reins from his hands. She wheeled the horse back toward the soldiers, and snapped the reins on the horse’s neck, sending the animal charging back into the battalion of soldiers. Their shots went wide, and they didn’t have time to chamber another round before the people of Paradise Circle crashed into them.
Had the commander been able to speak, he might have kept his troops in line, rallying them to fight off the horde of thieves, cutthroats, whores, and traitors that descended on them. But at that moment, the commander could barely breathe, much less speak. He fought weakly for control of the horse as Hope grabbed the padlock key from his belt. He managed to take hold of the reins, but by then, Hope had opened the padlock. She shook off the chains, grabbed the Song of Sorrows, and pulled them both off the horse. She twisted as they fell so that the commander hit the cobblestones first, and she landed on top of him. She hauled him to his feet, but he had already been knocked unconscious by the fall.
“Hope!” called Red from the other side of the battle. “You okay?”
She smiled as she drew the Song of Sorrows, then she threw herself into the thickest part of the fight. The soldiers were better trained, better disciplined, and better armed, but they were outnumbered and without their commander. They did not run, however, and for that reason, Hope gave each one she confronted a quick and honorable death.
It wasn’t long before most of the soldiers lay dead or dying on the cobblestones. That was when Hope saw the man in the white robe standing on the other side of the street. She wiped her blade clean on a nearby soldier’s tunic, then walked purposefully toward the hooded figure.
“When I first heard the report of a female Vinchen leading a rebellion at the Three Cups, I thought it a mistake,” the biomancer said with a voice that crackled like fire. His head was bowed so that Hope couldn’t see his face. “After all, women are no more allowed to join that order than they are allowed to join mine. But when I heard a second report of a female Vinchen disabling my cannons, I knew I must investigate.” He lifted his head to look directly at her.
It was the biomancer with a burn mark on his cheek. Hope had been so afraid that Big Sig had been wrong, or that there was another biomancer with similar features. But there was no mistake. He was older, the hair beneath his white hood mostly gray. But she knew at a glance that it was the man who had murdered her village.
“Even though I came to find this supposed female Vinchen,” continued the biomancer, “I did not expect her to be wielding the Song of Sorrows. My great-grandfather helped forge it for Manay the True. How is it you come by that blade?”
A cold wave of wrath surged within Hope’s body. Through gritted teeth, she said, “This sword was entrusted to me by my teacher, Hurlo the Cunning. And it will be your doom.”
“Perhaps,” said the biomancer. “But not today.”
He snapped his fingers and there was a sudden flash of light. Hope blinked back the spots as she lunged in his direction. But it was too late. Her blade met only emptiness. When her vision cleared, she saw him several blocks away, running away like a coward.
“No!” she snarled, and ran after him.
* * *
A Vinchen warrior was balanced in all aspects, at one with his surroundings and at peace with himself. When things became faster on the outside, he became quieter on the inside. He remained in the current moment, undistracted by memories of the past or thoughts of the future.
Bleak Hope was none of those things.
She sprinted after the biomancer, all the buried rage and pain of the past ten years burning through her system like lamp oil set ablaze. She was vaguely aware that a sound somewhere between a growl and a hiss was escaping from between her clenched teeth, but it was nothing compared to the roar of vengeance in her mind. This night she would do it. This night she would be free.
The biomancer led her through winding back alleys and crooked side streets. She wondered if he knew where he was going, or if he was randomly weaving from street to street. He had been smart to get away from the main roads. In these darkening skies, the gas lamps would have starkly illuminated his white hood. But even in those unlit back streets, the white on unrelieved gray mortar and brick was easy to spot. She would lose him for a moment, but a flicker out of the corner of her eye was all she needed to stay on his trail.
Still, it wouldn’t be long before the sun was completely down. Then it would be too dark to even pick out white on gray. She needed to catch him before then. She could continue chasing him, hoping he began to tire before the sun set. Or she could try a different tack altogether. Captain Carmichael had once said to her, Hope, my girl. Sometimes you’ve headed right into the wind and you make no progress at all. That’s when you have to tack from side to side. Some problems are better to come at from an angle. She needed a different angle now if she was going to cut the distance in time.
She jumped to a narrow awning above a door, then to a window ledge, and finally to the roof. Then, even though every instinct in her cried out to run, she knelt down on the hard wood slats. She closed her eyes and listened. She heard her own breath and heartbeat, fast and hard from exertion and anger. Beyond that, she imagined Hurlo saying. She heard the coo of a nearby dove and the scritch of a rat. And beyond that, Hurlo would have said. She heard someone opening a window and dumping something liquid. She heard a horse whinny. Further still. And there it was. Harsh gasps of breath and the soft leather shoes on cobblestone zigzagging unevenly.
She launched herself across the rooftop, to the next, and the next. He didn’t know she had stopped following after him, so while he continued his circuitous route, she headed straight as an arrow to intercept. Six blocks later, she landed in front of him just as he rounded a corner.
He skidded to a halt. “You are as skilled as any Vinchen I have seen. But it will take more than skill to kill me.”
“What is your name, Biomancer?” hissed Hope through clenched teeth.
“Teltho Kan,” he said, looking slightly amused. “If you think to report me to some authority, you are—”
She snapped her sword out so fast, it was nothing more than a flicker. His eyes widened as a trickle of blood ran down from a horizontal line freshly made on his forehead.
“Ten years ago, you massacred the village of Bleak Hope. I am its vengeance.”
Teltho Kan sighed heavily. “Vinchen and their precious vendettas. It couldn’t be helped. I was doing important work, developing a new weapon to protect the empire. The parasitic wasp program is one of our most promising—”
“Any emperor who throws away the lives of his people so carelessly is not fit to rule. Now, if you have a weapon, I suggest you draw it. I will grant you every warrior’s courtesy, though you deserve none.”
Teltho Kan’s eyes were looking increasingly uneasy. He glanced up at the setting sun and said, “Even if you did manage to kill me, you would not last a day. They would hunt you down and kill you by some means too horrible for you to even contemplate.”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Hope. And in that moment, it didn’t. With the death of Teltho Kan, all debts would be paid, all oaths fulfilled. The idea of a life beyond vengeance was not something worth considering.
Teltho Kan’s eyes narrowed. “I see.” He pulled his hands inside his sleeves. “It is a shame you chose to betray the emperor. Despite your gender, you would no doubt have been useful to him. Steadfast determination of this kind is rare. But I’m afraid I must deny you your life’s ambition.”
He stretched out his hands, which were as burn-scarred as his face. A silver bracelet on each wrist gleamed in the fading light of the sun.
Hope raised her sword, unsure what biomancery he had planned.
But instead of attacking, he brought his wrists together sharply so that the bracelets gave a muted chime. The sound of the chime grew, and his hands and face began to shimmer. Hope thrust the Song of Sorrows into his chest, but it was too late. He was gone, leaving only the empty white robe, which now hung limply on the end of her sword. She stood there for a moment, staring dumbly at it. She had been close. If she had simply killed him on sight, it would all be over. But she had insisted on a warrior’s courtesy: knowing his name, declaring her intention, and giving him a chance to fight, just as Hurlo taught her. Now she was back to the beginning, not even knowing his location. Worse, he knew she was after him now, and would no doubt be far more cautious.
She suddenly felt so heavy, so sick, and so tired. Even her sword felt heavy in her hands. She let the tip droop so that the robe slid off and fell to the cobblestones. It felt like the earth was pulling her down. She dropped to her knees and bowed her head until her chin touched her chest. The final light of the sun cast everything in sharp relief. The sounds of the city buzzed all around her, but in this empty alley, there was nothing. No light, no sound. No hope.
She looked down at the Song of Sorrows, gleaming even in the dim twilight, a small line of Teltho Kan’s blood where she had nicked him along the edge. She had failed. She was not worthy of this blade or this life. She turned the sword so that the point faced her. She placed the pommel against the cobblestones, and set the point to her breastbone over her heart. She may not be truly a Vinchen, but she could die a Vinchen death.
“Never did knock you for a quitter,” said Red.
She looked up and saw him, arms folded, leaning against the wall. His attitude and voice were casual, playful even. But his eyes were crimson steel.
“I failed.” Her voice sounded as hollow as she felt.
“How’s that?” he asked.
“He escaped.”
“So we’ll catch him again. Can’t very well do that if you’ve got a sword in your chest.”
“He knows I’m after him. My one advantage, the element of surprise, is gone. I’ll never get close again.”
“Your one advantage?” he asked. “Leaving aside the fact that you’re the greatest warrior alive, what about your other big advantage?”
“Which is?”
“Me, you Southie salthead.” He walked over to her, rubbing his hands together. “Now, let’s see what we’ve got here. His robe, eh?” He knelt down next to it and turned the hood inside out. He pulled a few strands of gray hair out of it. “This his?”
Hope nodded, her sword lowering slightly.
He pointed to the blade. “That his blood on there?”
Again she nodded.
“Now all we have to do is find out his name.”
“It’s Teltho Kan. He just told me.”
Red suddenly grinned wide. “Then, my darling molly, we are all chum and larder here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You may not have noticed, what with running around like a madwoman, but we’re not in Paradise Circle anymore.” He gestured around them like it was obvious at a glance. “We’re in Silverback.”
“So?”
“Biomancers aren’t the only ones with unsettling abilities. There are people in Silverback who do many strange things. Fortune-telling, necromancy, and bloodwork.”
“I still don’t see your point.”
“It has to be seen to be believed.” He held out his hand. “Will you trust me on this and leave off impaling yourself? At least for a little while?”
He still believed she would fulfill her oath, even when she did not. Had she lost her resolve so easily? Sure, Teltho Kan knew she was after him, but that might even work in her favor. He might be running scared, more prone to rash mistakes. And it was true that Red was an important advantage. Not just because of his extensive knowledge of New Laven and his uncanny accuracy with a throwing blade. He had just bolstered her faith when it was at the lowest it had ever been. That advantage was immeasurable.
She took his hand and let him help her up to her feet.
“We will try this bloodwork of yours.”
“Sunny. Just have a care you don’t smear what’s on the sword. She’ll need that.”
“Who?”
“Old Yammy. The wag who’s going to get us on the right path again.”
* * *
The differences between Paradise Circle and Hammer Point had been one of degree. If Paradise Circle was poor, Hammer Point was destitute. If Paradise Circle was dirty, Hammer Point was a festering sinkhole. If the people of Paradise Circle were hard, the people of Hammer Point were stone and steel.
Hope had expected Silverback to fall somewhere on that spectrum, probably on the nicer side, since it was the neighborhood that stretched long and thin across the city, acting as a buffer between the downtown poor and the wealthy uptown communities. But as Red led her through the early-evening streets of Silverback, she saw that it was nowhere on that spectrum. Instead it seemed to exist purely in its own world. The streets were crammed with theaters, art galleries, craftsmen of all kinds. Brightly colored wares spilled out onto the streets, with people calling out sales and bargains.
“Silverback is an artistic community,” said Red. “Some of the finest painters, musicians, poets, and performers in the empire call it home.”
“They certainly like dressing colorfully,” said Hope. It seemed everyone around her was a riot of colors, sometimes matching, sometimes conflicting, but always bright and vivid. Performers were on nearly every corner. Musicians, acrobats, and jugglers for the most part. Crowds gathered to watch, sometimes cheering, sometimes mocking.
“There’s more street lamps in Silverback,” said Red. “And there’s street cleaners who take your garbage away for you.”
“Why?”
“The lacies like it pat when they come down here for a gallery showing or a play. And there’s at least twice as many imps on patrol here. They don’t bother protecting the artists, of course. Just here to make the lacies feel safe.”
“It must be a terrible thing for those lacies,” said Hope. “To be so afraid of other people.”
Red gave her a funny look. “That’s an interesting way of looking at it. I suppose you’re right.”
Hope and Red walked down the boisterous streets of Silverback for a while, a small island of quiet.
“Here we are!” said Red at last. “Madame Destiny’s House of All!”
“I thought you said we were looking for someone named Old Yammy.”
“Sure, but you don’t bring in the customers with a name like that. Come on, I bet she’ll do that thing where she looks at us like she knew we were coming. I can never tell if she’s bluffing.”
He opened the door just as a woman came out. Hope had never seen anyone like her. Her long brown hair was tied up in a highly intricate series of braids. Her face was painted an unnatural shade of orange, and small flecks of gold had been somehow adhered to her eyelids, making them so heavy that her eyes were only half-open. Her lips were painted a bright blue. She wore a long blue silk gown that seemed to be interwoven with gold thread. She had gold jewelry around her slim wrists and long neck. Hope could only gape at this strange, impractical creature, dimly aware that the woman was staring back at her with unease.
Red yanked Hope to one side.
“Sorry, your ladyship,” he said, turning on a smile that gave off more light than the nearby street lamp.
The woman did not respond, but hurried past.
“What was that?” asked Hope.
“That was a proper lacy from uptown.”
“Do they all dress like that?”
“They do when they’re down here,” said Red. “I doubt they go in for that much bother if they’re at home, just putting their feet up. But I can’t say for sure.”
“Why was she painted orange?”
“How should I know? Just because I have some lacy blood doesn’t mean I understand their fashion. Now let’s go inside. We don’t want to keep Old Yammy waiting.”
Hope wasn’t sure what she expected to find in the House of All. Perhaps crystal balls, exotic tapestries, luridly colored rugs, and bits of bone hanging from the doorway. So she was a little disappointed when he led her into what appeared to be a normal kitchen, similar to the one back on Galemoor. Wooden cabinets with a thick butcher block on top, a basin, and an iron potbellied stove. The only obvious difference was the rows of glass jars, unlabeled, that were filled with leaves, powders, and other things she couldn’t quite determine.
A woman stood in the middle of the kitchen. Hope had been expecting Old Yammy to be old, but this woman couldn’t have been more than forty. Hope wondered if this was an assistant. But then Red smiled and walked over to her, arms outstretched.
“Old Yammy!” He wrapped his arms around her.
She gave him a level gaze, not so much hugging as allowing herself to be hugged. “It’s Madame Destiny while I’m working, Rixidenteron.”
“Right, and it’s Red when I’m with my friends, keen?”
“Rixidenteron?” asked Hope.
“It’s the name he was born with,” said Old Yammy. “It no longer suits him, but I call him that out of habit, and perhaps nostalgia for happier times.” She squinted at Hope, brushing a lock of her black hair back behind her ear. “But you would know something of that, wouldn’t you?”
“Why do you think that?” asked Hope, her expression guarded. There was something about the way Old Yammy looked at her that made her feel oddly exposed.
“I am Madame Destiny. I know many things.”
“Yeah, yeah, enough with the japery,” said Red. “We’ve got a serious thing to talk to you about.”
Old Yammy gave him a tolerant smile. “You always do.”
“We need to find someone. We’ve got his hair, his blood, and his name. That’ll work for a dowsing, right?”
“It will.” Old Yammy walked over to one counter, motioning for them to follow. “Show me.”
Red held out the strands of hair. Hope had wrapped her sword loosely in the white robe instead of sheathing it. The sheath was a perfect fit for the sword and would have wiped the blood off. Now she carefully unrolled the robe, never letting it touch the end of the blade where the blood still darkened the edge.
Old Yammy sucked in a breath when she saw the Song of Sorrows. “This sword! I have never seen its like.” She reached out hesitantly and touched the flat of the blade with her fingertips. “It has a power all its own. Enmeshed into the steel itself.”
“It was forged with the help of a biomancer,” said Hope.
Old Yammy touched her finger to the blood, then brought it to her mouth, licked it, then spat. “And you seek a biomancer as well.”
“Is that a problem?” asked Red.
“In finding him? Normally. But if we use this sword as the dowsing wand, it will magnify the bloodwork.”
“Will that harm the sword?” asked Hope.
Old Yammy laughed. “There is no power you or I could conjure that would hurt this blade. It is safe. But know that the moment someone else’s blood touches it, the bloodwork will be dispelled and you will no longer be able to use it to search for this man.”
“So you won’t be able to use your sword to fight,” said Red.
“I can use it sheathed. Or I can use other weapons. If the need arises.”
“Likely it will.” Red turned to Old Yammy. “Trouble seems to follow us.”
Old Yammy rolled her eyes. “Can’t imagine why.” She patted the counter. “Lay the sword here.”
Hope felt uneasy as she set the sword down, as if she were a protective parent, despite Old Yammy’s claim that they couldn’t harm it.
Old Yammy laid the hairs on top of the blood, muttering something quietly under her breath. She took a bottle with a yellow liquid and sprinkled a few drops on the blood and hair. Then she took a jar of white powder and covered the blade liberally with a thick coating of it. “When the flames appear,” said Old Yammy, “call out his name.”
“The flames?” asked Hope, alarmed. But before she could act, Old Yammy struck flint, and a spark leapt onto the tip of the sword. The entire blade from point to hilt was engulfed in fire.
“Teltho Kan!” Hope called out, louder than she’d intended.
The fire went out as if snuffed, leaving the blade completely clean of powder, blood, and hair.
Red cleared his throat. “Did it—”
“Shh!” said Old Yammy.
They stared at the blade for a moment. Then slowly, it began to move, as if being rotated by an invisible hand. It stopped once it was pointing in a northwesterly direction.
“That is your way,” said Old Yammy with absolute confidence.
“It will always point to him?” asked Hope. “Even if he moves?”
“Until you dispel the bloodwork.”
Hope had been skeptical. But seeing the sword move of its own accord kindled a warm gratitude within her. “How can I repay you for this?”
“Rixidenteron knows my payment.”
Hope looked quizzically at Red.
He rolled his eyes. “A painting.”
“By who?”
“Me.”
“I didn’t know you were an artist.” Yet another facet of him that she had uncovered.
He glared at Old Yammy as he said, “I’m not.”
“Nonsense,” said Old Yammy. “An artist is anyone who makes art. And that, you do.”
“Only when you ask me to.”
“It’s a good thing I do, then. It’s what your mother would want.”
Red flinched when Old Yammy mentioned his mother. “Fine, okay, I’ll do it.”
“Did you know Red’s mother?” asked Hope.
Old Yammy smiled. “I did. And it was a pleasure. The art the two of them made together…to this day, it has no equal.”
“Yammy, please don’t,” said Red.
“There’s a new exhibition of her work over at Bayview Gallery. Did you know that?” asked Old Yammy.
“Bayview?” asked Red. “Seems a little lacy for her stuff.”
“Not at all. You should go see it, since you’re in the neighborhood.”
“We don’t have time,” he said curtly. “Let’s get this painting done with so we can start our search. What do you want this time?”
Old Yammy frowned thoughtfully. “A portrait, I think.”
“Of who?”
Old Yammy pointed at Hope. “Her.”
“Me?” asked Hope.
“Her?” asked Red.
Old Yammy nodded. “That’s my price.”
Red looked at Hope. “Sorry. Do you mind?”
The idea of having someone stare at her in complete concentration like that for so long made her skin crawl. But any excuse she could think of sounded like childish vanity. If this was the price to pay for tracking down Teltho Kan, she would just have to endure it. Surely she had suffered worse. “No, I don’t mind,” she lied.
“Wonderful.” Old Yammy smiled. “I’d like it with natural light, not lamplight. So you can get started first thing in the morning.”
* * *
Old Yammy lived above her shop in a small bedroom that afforded no room for Hope and Red. Instead, she laid thick quilts on the kitchen floor by the potbellied stove. The kitchen was dark except for the flickering orange of the stove. Hope could hear laughter and music from a nearby building. She wondered if the music in this neighborhood ever stopped. Oddly, she hoped not.
“This kind of reminds me of that first night, you and me sleeping in Missing Finn’s shack,” said Red.
“It was actually during the day,” said Hope.
“Right. Then we headed to Hammer Point that night. And all hells came rolling in.”
They were silent a moment, lying side by side.
“Thank you for killing Drem,” Hope said quietly. His death still hadn’t lessened the loss she felt for Carmichael. But she was grateful he was avenged, nonetheless.
“The pleasure was all mine. Although I wish you would have been there to see the astonishing bank shot I made. One for the storybooks.”
“I think Carmichael would have liked you. Despite your insistence on presenting yourself as a rogue and a thief.”
“I am a rogue and a thief.”
“You never spoke about Old Yammy before,” said Hope suddenly. It was a small detail, but it seemed significant to her somehow. Yammy seemed like the sort of person who might appreciate his more refined qualities like reading and math.
“I don’t talk about her a lot. People from my past in general.”
“But you still visit her.”
“Well, sure. She’s one of the most quality people I’ve ever known.”
“Do you talk to Filler and Nettles about her?”
“Not much,” he admitted.
“Have they ever met her?”
“Filler did the once. When she came down to Paradise Circle and found me.”
“You see, this is what I mean,” said Hope. “You may be a rogue and a thief. But you’re also a lot more than that. A scholar, a storyteller, and now I discover you are a painter as well? Why do you keep these parts of yourself separate?”
Red was silent for a long time. Hope began to wonder if he would even answer. If he even knew the answer.
“I guess because,” he said finally, “I never met someone who could really see all the parts of me before.”
Hope thought back to when she’d first learned that Red became an orphan at the same age as her. Their lives had been so disparate, but this one similarity was like a spike driven into the center of their being, on which their dreams, fears, and desires all pivoted. She had never known she could be so different from someone, yet understand them so well.
“Hope?” asked Red.
“Yes?”
“Back in that alley earlier today. You wouldn’t really have killed yourself. Would you?”
Hope sighed and closed her eyes. “The Vinchen code says that the only true vengeance is the death of the offender. If the warrior fails in this, better that he die than live in such dishonor. I thought I had failed.”
“And your honor is worth that much to you?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “My vengeance is.”
* * *
Teltho Kan awoke naked and shivering in a dark alley near the western coast of New Laven. His skin felt raw, as if he’d been scraped all over with a dull razor. The cold wind raked painfully at him as he got slowly and unsteadily to his feet.
That had been a bad jump. So little time to prepare. No buffers, no safeguards. And he wasn’t getting any younger. Another one like that and he might leave his skin behind along with his clothes.
Still, it had been necessary. He’d never have expected a rule follower like Hurlo to do something as heretical as train a female in the Vinchen Way. Perhaps he’d gotten eccentric in his old age. Or senile. The reason didn’t really matter. He’d trained her well. She would have to be dealt with.
Teltho Kan looked down at his naked, shivering body, rail thin and taut with stringy muscle. First things first. He needed some clothes.
He walked unselfconsciously out to the main thoroughfare. There weren’t any street lamps in this part of town and there weren’t many people about. It was somewhat amusing to watch the few people who walked past him pretend not to see the nude old man lurking in the shadows.
Finally he saw a man around his height and build. The man was wearing a white peasant shirt, breeches, and boots with barely a sole intact. It wasn’t ideal, but he didn’t have time to be picky. When the man walked past, he stepped out of the shadows and touched the man’s neck.
“Hells to you,” growled the man, and stepped away.
Teltho Kan watched him take three more steps. When he brought his foot down on the fourth step, his leg broke with a loud crack. The man screamed and swayed on one leg. Then that leg broke. As he fell, the man put out both arms to catch his fall. Those both broke on impact. The man lay there, all four limbs bent in unnatural directions. Teltho Kan continued to watch as the man wailed in agony, thrashing around, each movement breaking more bones in his body. Finally the man was only a quivering, whimpering mass of odd angles. Teltho Kan knelt down and tapped the man’s forehead. His skull caved in, and he grew still.
Teltho Kan pulled the clothes off the body, which continued to make little pops and cracks at each movement. At last he was dressed and warm.
This girl of Hurlo’s had sworn vengeance on him. If there was one thing Hurlo was likely to have burned into her brain above all else, it was fulfilling oaths. He’d always been implacable that way. If she was anything like her grandteacher, she would find his trail again, sooner rather than later. He needed to prepare. Next time, he would be ready for her.