Sworn in Steel (6 page)

I pulled the skewer away from the beggar’s throat. He didn’t raise his dagger as I leaned back and stood up—only rubbed at his leg and stared at me. I adjusted Degan’s
canvas-wrapped sword across my back, then dropped a gold falcon in the beggar’s bowl.

“My apologies, good Master,” I said. “I didn’t intend to use you so roughly.”

“And I didn’t intend to tell a Gray Prince to fuck off,” he said. “Consider us even.” I noticed that the coin I’d dropped had already vanished. I hadn’t
even seen him move.

I was just turning away when he spoke up again.

“Did you do it?”

I stopped. “Does it matter at this point?”

“Maybe. For me. For us.”

I considered his choice of words for a moment before I said, “I was there, but I didn’t dust him. If anything, he was the one trying to put the cross on me.”

The beggar’s eyes narrowed. “You can prove this?”

“As much as Crook Eye’s people can prove the opposite. But that doesn’t mean I’m lying.”

The beggar scratched absently at his clothing, his fingers chasing something unseen across his chest. “Crook Eye was always a bastard when it came to the students of the Begging
Law,” he said at last. “Tight with his ready, even when he was coming up. Had a quick boot for us, too. I’ll pass your side along to my family. Can’t say it’ll help,
but . . .” He lifted a shoulder.

I nodded my thanks and headed back into the street.

I’d known I’d been set up, but not like this. To put out word of a Gray Prince’s death before it could even be confirmed? Before they could get word back from the assassin?
That took more than balls. If Crook Eye had survived and come walking back into the city after he was proclaimed dead, he would have become a legend. And if I’d returned having cut a deal
with him? Well, whoever had started the rumor would have had two unhappy Gray Princes to deal with. Never a wise idea.

I shook my head in disbelief. No, if even one part of this scheme had gone wrong, everything would have collapsed. That meant the people behind this hadn’t just planned it; they’d
been sure of it. Positive. Failure hadn’t not only not been an option; it hadn’t even been a consideration. No matter what happened at the meeting in Barrab—angels, had they
arranged that, too?—Crook Eye had been destined to turn up dead, just as I’d been destined to be made the Cull.

It was well done. Hell, it was more than that: It was damn near perfect. Which meant it sure as hell hadn’t been pulled off by Rambles.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t know anything about it. Not by a long shot.

T
he sun was just beginning to flirt with the western horizon when I finally reached the top of Blackpot Street. The winding lane lay just below the
crest of one of Ildrecca’s five Old Hills, near what had once had been the center of the city but was now little more than a minor cordon with more history than prestige. When I first moved
here after becoming a Prince, I’d thought I might enjoy the breezes that came with the elevation; now, as I paused to wipe my face and catch my breath, I remembered why I’d chosen to
live down in Stone Arch cordon in the first place. My former neighborhood might have had its share of dangers and a stagnant stink, but I hadn’t had to worry about climbing up a hill every
time I wanted to come home—especially not after a full day of working the streets.

I’d spent the remainder of the morning and most of the afternoon making my way across Ildrecca. Normally, it wouldn’t have taken this long, but it was a minor festival day—the
Celebration of the Muster of the Lesser Host had fallen on the same day as the Feast of Tzemicles, angelic patron of alchemists—and the streets of the central cordons were filled with
revelers and guild parades and those legionnaires lucky enough to draw a black bean and get the day off. Even the alleys had been busy. Between the Morts doing their trade up against the walls, the
drunks spewing their festivities back out onto the cobbles, and the Tapsmen ambushing and robbing the lost and unwary, it had sometimes seemed there was hardly room to move.

That had also made it harder to nose for information, which was the other thing I’d been doing—or, at least, trying to do—on my way home. News of Fowler? None. Had anyone heard
where the news about Crook Eye had surfaced? Not a soul. Nothing but quick shrugs, ducked heads, and vague mumblings that sounded like answers but told me nothing. The street, it seemed, had little
to share.

Not that it was eager in any case. I was a Gray Prince now, and the Kin preferred to talk about their princes rather than to them. Street wisdom held that Princes were everywhere, that they had
their hands in everything: To attract their attention was to become their unwitting tool. As reputations went, it had its appeal: No one would bother you, and few would cross you. But in practice?
It made street life damn annoying, especially if you were used to working on it.

Part of me had been hoping I might prove to be the exception, that my recent pre-Prince status would let me bridge the gap between cove and crime lord. But it didn’t work that way, and
most Kin weren’t willing to take the chance. I might have been of the street a few months ago, but that history counted for naught after my rise. There were no easy mumbles or loose whispers
to be had—not by me. Not anymore.

None of which was helping me find Fowler, dammit.

I took the next turn and headed down Scrivener’s Way. Secondhand booksellers and binders’ shops ran in uneven rows on either side of me, jumbled and jostled together like an ill-kept
bookshelf. Here was Facheltrager’s, known for his collection, variously, of Second Regency erotica and Fourth Reform philosophy; there Falconetto’s, the best closet in town for ancient
fighting manuals; off to my left, Lazarus’s Bindery, specializing in false gildings and tooled covers. They, and the rest, were the main reason I’d moved here: to be close to the
purveyors of secondhand knowledge and their musty wares. That I didn’t get to frequent them as much as I liked didn’t detract from the allure. Their mere presence made the climb home
worth it. Most days.

I ran a finger under my rope-cum-baldric and winced. The weight of Degan’s sword had been digging the cord into my shoulder all day, and now it was beginning to chafe. I swung the
canvas-wrapped blade off my shoulder and sighed. Even with the rope tied north of the guard and down near the tip, it still looked more like a long bundle of cloth than a sword.

I weighed the weapon in my hands as I walked. Now what?

It wasn’t as if I was going to be giving it back to Degan. He’d made his feelings clear when he tossed his sword to the floor and walked out of the burning warehouse three months
ago. Nor could I ask him if he’d reconsider. In true Degan fashion, he’d vanished from the streets—disappearing like so many times in the past, only this time it wasn’t for
a dodge or a contract he’d taken on. This time, I knew, it was forever.

I’d wanted to go looking, of course—to track him down and find him, if only for my own peace of mind. But I hadn’t. Instead, I’d respected his wishes and kept my nose to
myself. Given everything I’d cost him, it seemed the least I could do.

And it had seemed to be working—right up until Crook Eye had pulled out Degan’s sword and waved it under my nose, that is.

Damn that lazy-eyed bastard, anyhow.

I moved Degan’s legacy to my left hand and picked up the pace. Five more blocks to home. Five more blocks until I could catch my breath and sleep and, maybe, think.

I’d gone all of two of those blocks when I felt a hand land on the back of my neck, take hold, and steer me into a doorway. It wouldn’t have been so bad, except the door was
closed.

“Wha—?” I said, but was interrupted by my head rebounding off the wood before me. I staggered back, then was shoved up against the door again. This time, the hand on my neck
held me in place while its partner grabbed my right arm and pinned it behind my back. My shoulder turned to fire. Degan’s sword fell to the ground with a thump.

“Who is it?” yelled someone on the other side of the door.

“Hello, Drothe,” said a voice close to my ear. A woman’s voice. “Not as hard to find as you thought you were, eh, Nose?”

I was still trying to figure out what the hell was going on when the hands yanked me back and spun me around. I half expected a blade at my throat, but felt myself pushed up against the stone
wall beside the door.

I had my wrist knife in my hand in an instant.

It got slapped out just as quickly.

“Ah, ah,” said the woman as she took a step back. “No steel.”

From the other side of the door, the sounds of movement and cursing. “Dammit, Cyril,” called the voice, “is that you?” Neither the woman nor I answered.

I blinked, my vision still recovering from my encounter with the door. The figure before me was an uneven shadow, silhouetted against the daylit street behind her. One of Crook Eye’s
people? A cove from Shadow’s old organization who hadn’t heard the vendetta was over? Someone else entirely?

Did it really matter?

I lunged forward.

The woman before me shifted, causing the light to glint off the copper-chased sword guard at her side.

I knew that sword—had one of its sisters lying on the ground, wrapped in canvas, not four feet away. A degan’s sword.

Crap. This was going to hurt.

Copper Degan slipped my attack with almost casual ease, stepping aside as the flat of her dark hand connected with the side of my head. I staggered, flailed my arms, and went down.

Behind me, I heard the door open.

“By the reborn Emperor, Cyril, I told you to . . . oh.”

“Go away,” said Copper Degan. “Now.”

The door slammed shut, followed almost immediately by the sound of a bolt being thrown. I wished I was on the other side of that bolt.

I climbed to my feet and turned around. Copper Degan was standing above me, arms folded, a look of mild disdain on her face. Or maybe it was boredom. I didn’t know her well enough to
distinguish between the two.

Street traffic was already rerouting itself, giving us a wide, cautious berth.

“Not a social call, then?” I said as I wiped my nose. No blood. I ran the back of my hand across my forehead. Blood, but not much. Still.

“Come with me.”

Copper turned and headed down the street, not bothering to see if I followed, not worrying about showing me her back. And why should she? She was a member of one of the best mercenary Orders in
the empire: My trying for her would only result in more blood being spilled—all of it mine. As for running, well, it would end the same way, only with more sweat thrown into the mix.

I retrieved my knife, made sure Degan’s sword was still hidden within its wrapping, and hurried after her.

Copper turned down a nearby side street. Five doors along, she stepped into a gap between an ink seller’s shop and a salve maker. I joined her.

“Just so you know,” I said, wiping at my forehead again and holding out the bloody palm for her to see. “This doesn’t come free. Not even for a degan.”

“If you think you can collect, you’re welcome to try.”

I ran my gaze up and down her, more for show than anything else. I knew I couldn’t take her. Taller than me but not tall, with a narrower build than you might expect and dark, tightly
braided hair, Copper didn’t look like a swords-woman. Aside from the heavily basketed sword at her side—chased in copper, of course, with the guard looking like a cascade of carved fish
scales protecting the handle—the only thing that hinted at her skill was the slight broadening at her shoulders. That, and her eyes. They were good eyes for someone in her trade: cold and
hard and distant—the kind of eyes you needed if your business was swinging steel for other people’s causes. The kind that said their owner didn’t give a damn about much,
especially not you.

I met those eyes, then looked away. Damn degans.

“Another time,” I said.

“Mm-hmm.” She didn’t sound worried. “We need to talk.”

“About?”

“What do you think?”

I sighed. “Look, I already told your Order—”

“I’m not here on behalf of the Order. I’m here on my own.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “Because you lied.”

I snapped my gaze back to her and held my ground. “Lied?” I said. “I was the only non-degan in a room filled with degans, answering questions about a dead degan and a missing
degan. I can’t think of many worse places to lie than that. How stupid do you think I am?”

“Just as much as you need to be.” Her finger found my chest and poked it. Hard. “We both know the tale you spun to the Order was garbage. A member of the Kin killing a
degan?” She shook her head. “How stupid do you think
I
am?”

“I don’t know you well enough to say. Care to give me a hint?”

Her finger thrust again, with less give than if she’d used her sword. I winced and took a step back.

“What happened to Iron, Kin?”

“I told you,” I said, shoving her hand away. “Shadow killed Iron Degan. How else do you explain finding Iron’s sword on Shadow’s body down in Ten Ways? He dusted
Iron and then he came after me. I saw the damn sword in his hands.”

“And you managed to kill the man you say killed my sword brother?” She ran her eyes over me again. “You?”

I shrugged. “I got lucky.”

“No one’s that lucky.”

She was right, of course: I’d lied. Through my teeth. The only reason I’d survived my encounter with Shadow was that Degan had distracted the Gray Prince at the last minute, allowing
me to kill him. Except I wasn’t about to tell her that story because I needed to keep Bronze Degan out of it; needed to keep the rest of the degans from knowing that Degan had run Iron
through with a single, precise thrust; needed to shore up the lie so they wouldn’t know I was the one who’d planted Iron’s sword on Shadow’s remains. Degan had saved my life
more times than I could count: I’d be damned if I was going to give him up to Copper and the rest by telling the truth—not when I knew it meant they’d hunt him down for
Iron’s death.

“Look,” I said, “believe me or don’t believe me, I don’t care. The story isn’t changing no matter how many times you shove me into a door. I would have
thought you figured that one out already.”