Steel's Edge (15 page)

Charlotte leaned closer to him. “Jason, whoever told you this nonsense isn't your friend. Women aren't horses, or dogs, or cats. We're human beings, and the sooner you figure that out, the less likely you will wake up with Miko's knife in your throat.”

He stared at her.

“You asked me what I want. I want to crush the slave trade. Having a fling with you doesn't appeal to me. You're handsome, but you're too inexperienced and too arrogant to be good in bed. Having ridden many horses doesn't make you a good rider; it just proves that you can't recognize a good one or don't know how to keep her. You're too young for me, and in ten years, when you improve, I will be too old for you. So let's not speak of this again.”

A thin, high-pitched sound came from the wall. Miko was snickering.

Jason turned in his chair and looked at her, outraged.

She giggled some more.

The crime lord blinked and turned back to Charlotte. “Some people would be worried. Words like that can get your throat slit.”

“Some people don't realize healing can be done in reverse,” she told him. “Why don't you ask Voshak what he thinks about that?”

Richard stalked across the floor and came to stand by her side.

“You're as crazy as he is,” Jason growled.

“Now you're getting the idea,” Richard said.

“Even if we sack the Market and you get your information, what can you do?” Miko said suddenly. “You're only two. The slavers are hundreds.”

Richard grimaced. “I know. It's a shame, really. I would've liked to give them a sporting chance, but sometimes life simply isn't fair.”

Charlotte smiled. You had to admire the man.

“Your face is restored to its former beauty.” Richard turned to Jason. “Are you going to hold up your end of the bargain?”

Jason rose and pulled the hood of his cloak over his face. “I'm on it, old man. I remember. You said the ship lands at midnight. Where is he planning to dock?”

“Teal Inlet.”

“Meet me two miles north of it tonight at ten.”

He left the room, Miko in tow.

“What now?” Charlotte asked.

“Now we go to the city,” Richard said. “I have contacts here. We'll need them for tonight.”

*   *   *

IN
the daylight, Kelena didn't look any better, Charlotte reflected, walking with Richard along the canal. It smelled the same, too. At least the dead body was gone, probably swept out to sea by the tide. They had left the dog at Jason's house. She didn't the see the harm in his coming, but Richard pointed out that if he bit someone, they would likely be drowned in the nearest canal. They locked him in a room with a cow femur from Jason's kitchen.

Richard turned into the narrow alley between the houses, barely wide enough to let them move side by side. The alley opened into a small courtyard, formed by the tall walls of surrounding buildings. Another, much wider alley to the right led from the courtyard, and three men blocked it. They didn't look friendly.

Her throat tightened. Her pulse sped up, and an uncomfortable heaviness filled her chest. Charlotte swallowed, but the tightness refused to dissolve. There was going to be a fight.

It's just a physical reaction,
she told herself.
It's just fear.
Her anger and outrage had numbed her yesterday, but that armor had melted during the night. She was very much aware she was alive. She was afraid.

Charlotte squared her shoulders. She had to handle it.

The front man, hard, large, bald, with swirls of dark tattoos running over his pale scalp, grinned. His lips stretched unnaturally far, showing a mouthful of two-inch-long fangs. Spiked strips of metal covered his knuckles.

His magic washed over her, grating against her skin like a handful of sharp sand. A familiar revulsion drowned Charlotte. Her fear spiked in response. The man had been modified with illegal magic, the kind the Dukedom of Louisiana used for the Hand, its covert agents. She'd dealt with it before. A modification made its recipients stronger, faster, and more deadly. It also robbed them of their humanity and was nearly always impossible to reverse.

Charlotte focused on the two friends of the alligator-mouth. The one to the left was tall, armed with a short mace tipped with a fist-sized chunk of metal. The one to the right, leaner and probably faster, carried two knives. The red rash on the knife fighter's neck indicated a case of advanced luries, which is what happened when one had sex with unhealthy partners without protective measures.

Of the three, the modified alligator-mouth man posed the biggest threat. Charlotte felt the magic stir inside her. It yawned, stretched, like a cat rising from a nap, and licked its teeth. Infection wouldn't be fast enough. She'd have to tear into them and try to cause organ failure.

“The man with the strange teeth is enhanced with illegal magic,” she murmured for Richard's benefit. “The one with knives has a swollen groin.”

He blinked. “Thank you. I'll take it under advisement.”

She'd never done a direct unhealing before. Infection, yes, but nothing that caused internal bleeding with the exception of her slip with Elvei. A coppery taste appeared on her tongue. Adrenaline.

The alligator-mouth realized that his toothy display wasn't having the desired effect. “You're lost,” he called, his voice deep.

Richard kept walking. She followed him, the dark currents spinning inside her.

“Don't worry, we'll show you and your bitch the right direction.”

“So kind of you,” Richard said, and then he
moved
.

One moment he was next to her, the next he had smashed his hand into the alligator-mouth's throat. The man jerked back, and Richard twisted him over his arm, driving the full weight of his opponent to the ground. Before the leader landed, Richard hammered a kick to the macer's knee. The cartilage crunched, the leg bent the wrong way, and the man crumpled. Richard caught the mace, pulled it from the falling man's hand, and pivoted to the knife fighter. The handle of the mace danced in his hand, sinking solid blows—head, solar plexus, groin—and the knife fighter dropped to the ground, curling into a ball.

Alligator-mouth surged to his feet and lunged at Richard, hands out, jaw gaping. Richard knocked his right arm aside, locked his hand on the man's wrist, jerking it down, smashed the mace handle against the nerve cluster at the base of the man's exposed neck, and hit him again just below the jaw.

The big man staggered, as if drunk, waved his arms, fighting desperately to remain upright, then half sat, half fell on the ground, his eyes dazed.

Charlotte closed her mouth.

It happened so fast, she didn't even help. She had simply stood there. The healer in her cataloged the injuries: one traumatized throat, one tear to the posterior cruciate ligament of the knee—a partial at the very least. A full tear was more likely with impaction of the anterior aspect of the femoral condyle against the anterior aspect of the tibial plateau. Richard had kicked the attacker so hard he knocked the bones of the leg together, bruising the femur and tibia. A full tear would mean a healer like her or a ligament graft, because once that ligament ripped completely, no surgeon could sew it back together. Two concussions—one mild, one severe—one sprained neck, one sprained arm, multiple bruises, and three dignities irreparably damaged. All in less than five seconds. And he hadn't even unsheathed his sword.

Richard approached her and held out his hand. Shell-shocked, she rested her fingers on his, and he helped her step over the bodies into the narrow alley leading from the courtyard.

Talk, she told herself. Talking makes you appear confident. She couldn't afford to let him know that he'd shocked her. She had to appear cool and collected because that's what he needed in a partner. “I thought Jason would better control his territory,” she said. Her voice sounded normal. She'd expected it to shake.

“They were probably his men,” Richard said.

“What do you mean?”

“You humiliated him,” Richard said. “This was the way he showed his displeasure.”

“I suppose you'll now point out that this is the result of me speaking for myself.” Just try it . . .

“That would be satisfying for me, but not entirely accurate. I've visited the city on four occasions since he took control of the Cauldron, and he prepared a lovely surprise for me every time. The hardest was an Erkinian woman. We fought for three full minutes, and I thought she'd kill me.”

They seemed to have a love-hate relationship. Jason admired Richard—she'd read that much in his face and the way he looked at him—and wanted his approval, while at the same time resenting Richard for it. “Jason has father-figure issues, doesn't he?” she asked.

“Yes.” Richard sighed.

“In that case, it's good that you're a human Cuisinart,” she said.

“I'm sorry?”

“A Cuisinart. It's an appliance from the Broken. You put vegetables into it, push a button, and it chops them into tiny pieces.”

Richard frowned. “Why would you need an appliance to chop vegetables? Wouldn't it be easier to chop them with a knife?”

“It's meant to save time,” she explained.

“Does it?”

“Well, cleaning it usually eats up most of the time you save on chopping.”

“So you're telling me that I'm useless.”

“It's a neat gadget!”

“And I'm hard to clean, apparently.”

She checked his face. Tiny sparks danced in his eyes. He was pulling her leg. Well. If that's how it is . . . “Considering last night's argument, I think that you're remarkably difficult to clean.”

“There probably is a retort to this that's not off-color,” he said. “But I can't think of one.”

They reached the middle of the alley. A street person sat on the filthy pavement, a sad, hunched-over figure swaddled in rags. His hair hung over his face in an oily gray tangle. A bitter stench of rotting fish rose from his clothes. He looked old and tired, his face a mess of grime. The dirt was caked so thick she could barely see his eyes, his pupils milky white. He was suffering from cataracts.

The beggar raised his cup and shook it at Richard.

Richard glanced at the beggar. His expression didn't change, but his eyes turned darker. Richard bent down and dropped a coin into the cup. “Third tooth,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Two hours. Bring your brother.”

The beggar pulled back his cup, his head drooping lower.

Richard straightened and took her firmly by the elbow. His touch was light, but Charlotte realized she wouldn't be able to get away. Richard drew her away from the beggar, down the alley.

“Don't look back,” he murmured. “That was George.”

The urge to turn around was overwhelming. “George Drayton? Éléonore's George?”

He nodded.

Her heart beat faster. The boys would have to be told what happened to Éléonore. She was their grandmother. They deserved to know. Her throat closed up. What would she say? There was no way to soften the blow. It would be devastating. She was a grown woman, and seeing Éléonore's body burning had torn a hole in her life that filled with grief, guilt, and anger. They were children who had known Éléonore all of their lives. She was the safe haven of their childhood, the one person besides their sister who loved them no matter what and would never abandon them. She made their world safer, and now that illusion of safety would be ripped away. Charlotte swallowed. She had to find the right words somehow.

It occurred to her that George sat in filth on a street. “Why is George dressed as a beggar? I thought the Camarine family had adopted the boys?”

“He and his brother work for the Mirror.”

They're spies? Wait a minute. “Richard, George's only sixteen. Jack should be fourteen.”

He took a second to glance at her. “Yes?”

“Aren't they too young? They're barely in their teens.”

“Some children are less childlike than we like to pretend,” he said. “At George's age, I had killed two people and watched my father's head explode as he was shot dead in a market. What were you doing at sixteen, Charlotte?”

The long field filled with moaning people surfaced from her memory. The coppery scent of blood, mixed with the toxic stench of warped magic, and the smell of smoke rising from the town a few fields away.

“At sixteen I was healing the victims of the Green Valley Massacre.”

“And George is being inconspicuous to—”

A boy shot into the alley ahead, slid on garbage, caught himself, and dashed toward them. Reddish brown hair, cropped short, handsome face, dark eyes, completely wild with excitement. She'd seen this boy before in a photograph . . . Jack!

“Run!” Jack yelled. “Run! Go, George!”

Behind him a mob of enraged people spilled into the alley, brandishing knives and clubs.

The beggar-George jumped to his feet. “What did you do?”

“There he is!” the man at the head of the mob roared. A rock whistled past their heads, ricocheting from the side of the building.

“Run!” Jack yelled.

Blue lightning shot out of the crowd—someone had flashed.
Oh no.

Jack jumped six feet in the air, avoiding the glowing ribbon of magic by a hair, bounced off the wall, and sprinted straight at them.

“Hi, Richard, hi, pretty lady!” Jack dashed past them.

Richard grabbed her hand. ‘We have to go!”

They broke into run and chased after Jack, running fast on the cobbled stones. George swore and tossed something over their heads at the crowd. A dry pop burst behind them. Charlotte glanced over her shoulder. A plume of dense white smoke filled the alley. People coughed.

The blue-glowing whip of someone's flash struck out of the smoke, licking the cobbles. Someone in this mob was throwing magic around blind. This city was insane.