City of Night (50 page)

“I merely wish to ask him where he obtained this ring.”

“No doubt. You will not, however, do so.”

Rath now intervened. He had never seen Sigurne and Meralonne argue, and he had no intention of allowing them to do so here. “He was told by an acquaintance, possibly a mutual acquaintance, that I might be in attendance at the ball this evening. She asked him to deliver it to me, should we meet.”

Meralonne looked at Rath. In the light, the gray of his eyes was the color of steel. “You expected this?”

“No.”

“And it is of significance to you?”

“Yes. Given my life and the choices I’ve made to be where I am, it should have no significance at all—but yes. What did you see, when you looked at the ring?”

“Death,” he replied. And then, as if questions were now to be traded, he added, “Was this acquaintance a woman named Evayne?”

“It was the name Kallandras was given. It is not, however, a name with which I’m familiar. And I admit that I would like a few words with her, myself.”

“That is not always the wisest of courses,” the mage replied. He was still for a long moment—utterly still—before he exhaled.

“What is the intent of the enchantment upon the ring?” Rath asked, for he was certain now that it was enchanted.

Meralonne glanced at Sigurne. She nodded.

“If it is a gift, it is a treacherous one.” The mage lifted a hand, and the ring came to rest above it. “There is a magic upon it that I have not seen in a very, very long time. It is not a magic that is practiced in the Empire, and not a magic that can be easily contained.”

“Is it forbidden?”

“It would be. If it had been studied and wielded in a way that the Order could see and understand, it would be. But the Order of Knowledge specializes in those magics that mortals wield; the other magics are less understood because they cannot be policed. This is Winter magic.”

“But Sigurne noticed something.”

“Sigurne has had an usual education, and she is adept. Matteos probably saw nothing.”

Matteos frowned.

So did Meralonne, although he frowned at the ring; he hadn’t bothered to give Matteos so much as a glance. “It is a death magic,” he said at last. “A Winter magic. But it is subtle, Ararath. Of old, such gifts could be given to mortals—in crowns, rings, necklaces, but in other things as well: swords and armor.”

“To kill them?”

“To kill them, yes, but at a moment of the giver’s choosing, if they so chose. They were worn as a symbol of fealty.”

“Of . . . fealty.”

“Yes. If you had no intention of ever displeasing your lord, what harm in the wearing of such a trifle?” His smile was cool and unpleasant. “It depends on the lord, however, not being capricious. Given the nature of people, it is not an item I would ever choose to wear.

“But this is different.”

“How?” Rath knew, or thought he knew.

Meralonne again looked at Sigurne, whose lips were a thin, white line. “APhaniel, where was this magic worked?” she asked, as if the effect of the enchantment itself were not of concern.

“I cannot say.”

“Cannot, or will not?”

He did not answer. Instead, frowning, he looked at Rath. “The ring has no master,” he said quietly. “It is death, and it is the type of death that only Winter can give so quickly. But it is not bound to any lord that I can see.”

“What does that mean?”

“If I am not mistaken—and I am aware that it is not my own life in the balance, so I can afford to be mistaken—the ring allows its bearer to call his own death.”

“There are many, many ways to cause one’s own death. All of them would seem to be more convenient. Certainly less costly.”

“And certainly more pleasant,” Meralonne continued softly. “It is not a minor magic.” He gestured, and the ring glided through the air to Rath.

“A question,” Rath said, as he took it.

“Ask.”

“What you detect, could it also be detected by the kin?”

“Yes. And no.”

Rath frowned.

“They will see what I see,” Sigurne told him. She glanced at Meralonne, who nodded.

“And why do you see it differently?”

“I would guess,” Sigurne replied, when it became clear Meralonne would not, “that he knows who made this ring. Or rather,” she added, as Rath opened his mouth to speak, “who bound it. What will you do, Ararath?”

He smiled. Taking the ring, he slid it over his left ring finger.

T
HREE TO FOUR. Not dark, not yet, but cold enough that breath was almost a thin mist in the air. Her breath. Carver’s. Arann’s.

Theirs: Carmenta’s. Three of his people. She didn’t know their names, but called them One-eye, Asshole, and Dog. They were armed. But so were Duster and Carver.

Duster glanced at Carver, a quick movement of eyes. He lifted a hand, signed:
wait
. Fair enough. Three to four were not
good
odds. She glanced at geography. They could retreat into the short alley between two buildings; the buildings were tall, and had no obvious yards. No real way to back out or run, but no chance that someone could crawl up behind you either.

Or they could retreat—run—to the crossroads, where Quarry met up with Scaffold. There, the roads were wide, and if there wasn’t a lot of traffic, there was an open tavern or two. It wouldn’t be the first time the den had ducked into one to avoid trouble.

It would, on the other hand, be the first time that they had no money to spend to allay the annoyance of the tavern’s owner.

And it might not come to that; three to four weren’t good odds—for them—but they weren’t a guaranteed takedown for Carmenta either. They might get away with exchanging threats, and backing slowly down opposite ends of the narrow street.

Carver clearly had that in mind.

“We’ve been seeing too much of you,” Carmenta said. His dagger caught magelight from its perch high above the night streets. Carmenta turned it. Duster almost snorted.

Carver shrugged. His dagger didn’t move much. “Small holding,” he replied. “Busy streets.”

“Too damn busy.” Carmenta shrugged as well, but it was a jerky motion. It was also some sort of signal; the three closed in, Asshole coming to stand by Carmenta. Duster called him Asshole because he wore an eye patch. One-eye didn’t bother. Dog began to talk, and it became clear why she thought of him as one: he yapped. She ignored him. For the most part, so did the rest of Carmenta’s den.

“You’re not working our streets.” Carmenta had to kick the yapper before he could deliver the statement. Like any good den leader, he didn’t much care for interruptions.

“Look like we’re working?”

Carmenta spit to the side. But he shrugged again. Odds in his favor, Duster thought, but he was still weighing them. She was looking at the road behind the rest of his den. And at his den, because she didn’t do the talking when they ended up in the same square yards of street.

She never relaxed. She could tell, by the set of Carver’s shoulders and jaw, when he did, and he was almost always right. But she was used to watching Carver; she was used to watching Carmenta’s den. She was used to scanning the street, in small, brief glimpses, for more of his den because Carmenta knew how to stall. Give him that much; so did they.

She was
not
used to watching Arann.

Carmenta said, “I haven’t seen the cripple in a month. Maybe you’re finally smartening up—”

And then there was no more question about a double retreat with some name-calling and some lame threats. Because Arann—Arann who was slow and who hated to fight and who it was
safe to ignore,
went berserk.

Carver stood there. They
all
just stood there. For seconds. Even Duster was frozen, her arms locked in place, her mouth slightly open. Arann barreled into Carmenta. He was shouting, but it was a wordless scream of rage; there were no syllables. There was no threat.

There was blood; some of it was his, some of it, Carmenta’s. Arann had drawn a dagger. Neither cut was deep. Didn’t have to be.

Carver swore, and then Duster wasn’t watching much of anything, anymore. They could retreat into the alley, but if they did, they’d have to leave Arann behind. He wouldn’t move when they moved; he wasn’t even aware of them, anymore.

Wasn’t aware, Duster realized, as her gaze skirted him, of the spreading patch of red across his left forearm. She slid in to one side, kicked Asshole’s knee, brought her fist up and into the underside of his chin.

“Arann!” Carver shouted.

She didn’t bother. She’d seen violence like this before, and she understood it on a visceral level.

“Arann, Mother’s blood!”

“He can’t hear you!” She shouted, kicking again, holding the knife’s edge, the knife’s point, back. Not even sure why she was bothering. Dog was uncertain; Carmenta was fighting. But Arann had the reach and the bulk; he just didn’t have the cunning.

And right now, he didn’t need it. Duster had always said he’d be damn good muscle if he wanted to be. He took another cut, to his right arm, and he roared. The two looked connected; they weren’t. She knew they weren’t.

Carver tried to grab Arann.

Carver went flying.

No one tried to take advantage of it either.

“Arann!”

Carmenta went flying in the opposite direction. Arann grabbed Dog, and pitched him across the road. He reached for One-eye, but One-eye jumped back. Arann started to walk across the road.

“Damn it, Duster—help me!”

“He’ll take your head off—leave him alone!”

He looked at her, and then—stupid, stupid, fool—he ran after Arann.

 

When the door opened into the apartment, silence started and spread in a wave. Jewel heard it, and rose, leaving her table and its endless slates behind. She took one look at Arann, and then glanced at Carver and Duster, who were supporting him on either side.

Carver shook his head. “It’s not bad,” he told her. “It’s better than it looks.”

“But it’s going to cause problems,” Duster added.

“What happened?”

Arann looked at her, and then looked away.

“Carver?”

He shrugged. “We ran into Carmenta.”

“His whole den?”

“No.”

“One-eye, Asshole, and Dog,” Duster said.

“And they attacked the three of you?”

“Not . . . exactly.” Carver glanced at Arann.

Jewel looked at Arann. “Come in. Arann, sit down in the chair.” She walked, stiffly, to her room. Picked up the bandages and the small jars that she had taken with her from Rath’s, and headed back out. It was always bad when the den wasn’t talking. It was worse when they weren’t even signing.

She helped Arann out of his shirt; there were two gashes, both on his arms, and they weren’t very deep. He sat there, shoulders slumped, staring at the hands in his lap as if he were surprised, somehow, that they belonged to him. Jewel set about cleaning and dressing the wounds he did have. Even if the bleeding wouldn’t kill him, infection could.

He let her move his arms, let her lay them against the table beneath the glow of diffuse light, and didn’t even wince when she started to clean them. He said nothing, did nothing; even his breath was quiet. If his eyes hadn’t been open, he might have been sleeping. They were, and he wasn’t. Nothing, in the end, was as easy as that.

Finch brought water and the scraps—the clean ones—they used as towels. Jewel grimaced and added Arann’s shirt to the scrap pile. He had another, although it was smaller.
How much smaller?
It was money. It always came back to money. To money and the lack of an easy way beneath the streets. She finished binding the cuts. Arann didn’t move. After a moment, she did, gesturing to Carver and Duster.

They went outside, into the hall. The bedroom door, such as it was, couldn’t even muffle the squeaks of mice.

“What happened?”

Duster and Carver exchanged a glance, and she tried not to let this irritate her. When had she become the person they had to hide things from?

“Carver?”

He shrugged. “Carmenta mentioned Lefty. Arann—”

She lifted a hand. “Never mind.” She looked at the closed door.

“Jay.”

She didn’t look at him. “What else can he do? He can’t shout at me. He can’t hit
me
. He can’t find Lefty, and he can’t bring him back.” She turned to them both, then, her hands shaking because she
could not
stop them. “What can he say to me that will do him any good? What can he say to me that I’m not
already
thinking? He knows,” she added, shoving her hands back to her sides, and turning away. “He knows, but it doesn’t help.”

“Time will.”

Jewel looked at Duster. They both seemed surprised that Duster had spoken at all.