It gathered itself and leapt, reaching the wall of the chamber and hanging from it like an insect. After a moment’s pause, it scuttled upward into an open pipe, feet tink-tinking against the metal as it skittered away. At the same time, Hollis collapsed face-first to the wet stones. There was a large, ugly hole in the back of his neck, flesh peeled away as though something had torn its way out.
What the fuck is going on? None of it made any sense. Why would a plaguespawn hurt its master? Why would it flee? And what Hollis had said—
There was a new sound from outside the room, a whistling howl like a rising gale. Jaedia!
The door slammed open, and one of the thugs she’d seen outside stumbled through. It was the bald one, a short sword in one hand, bleeding heavily from a gash across his thigh. He backed up, lashing out with the weapon. It was intercepted by a line of swirling clouds, condensed into the blade of a haken. When they met, wind screamed a rising note, and the steel sword was sheared into two neat pieces. A moment later, a dozen blades of hardened air swept across the thug, and he exploded in a shower of bones and gore, blood splashing the wall of the cistern.
Jaedia Suddenstorm stepped into the chamber. She was tall and thin, lithe and flexible as a snake, with sparkling blue eyes and short, spiked hair the color of young leaves. The howl of the wind gradually died away as she lowered her haken, taking in the sight of Hollis’ motionless body.
“Maya,” she said, in her lilting southern accent. “Are you all right?”
“I think so,” Maya managed. Though I’m not sure why.
“Good.” Jaedia turned on her heel, eyes blazing. “Because I am going to skin you alive.”
*
After a few moments, Jaedia calmed herself and helped Maya down from the wall, though her expression still promised dire retribution.
“Honestly,” she said. “How could you be so stupid? I explicitly told you—”
“There was a girl,” Maya said, rubbing her wrists. “Two men brought her in here, bound and gagged. Did you see her?”
“Aye,” Jaedia said. “She’s scared to death, but she’ll be fine.” She held out Maya’s haken, and Maya took it gratefully. “What happened to you?”
“I got caught up fighting those plaguespawn, and one of those men got to me from behind,” Maya said, feeling blood heat her cheeks.
“A centarch of the Order, knocked down by a twopenny thug?” Jaedia glared. “You have to do better, Maya. When you get your cognomen, I’m not going to be here to pull you out of the fire.”
“I know.” Maya took a deep breath and blew it out. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t—”
“I understand.” Unexpectedly, Jaedia stepped forward and wrapped Maya in a hug, something she hadn’t done for years, not since Maya was old enough to be a proper agathios instead of merely a child in her care. Her voice was soft, and for a moment Maya thought there were tears in her eyes. “You have the heart of a proper centarch. I just need to knock a little more sense into your head.”
Maya said nothing and hugged her back. It felt like a long time before Jaedia finally pulled away, scratching her spiky green hair.
“What happened to Hollis?” she said, looking down at the dhakim. “You didn’t look like you were in a position to take him on.”
“I’m not sure,” Maya said. She shuddered at the memory of his exploratory touch, cold and clinical. “He … talked like he recognized me.”
“When he saw your face?”
Maya shook her head and told the story from the beginning. Jaedia’s frown deepened as she went on, then turned puzzled as Maya explained about the plaguespawn that had—attacked the dhakim? Escaped from him?
“I don’t know,” Jaedia said when Maya asked. “Never heard of anything like it, in all honesty. You’re sure it stopped when it found …”
She trailed off, gesturing at Maya’s chest. Maya nodded.
“That’s doubly strange, then.” Jaedia’s lip twisted. “I need to speak to Baselanthus. The old bastard owes me some answers.” She looked again at the corpse, then up at Maya. “And don’t think you’ve heard the last of this, either. Now, come on. Marn is waiting.”
Chapter 2
Deepfire was a city of many fogs, and after three years Gyre was familiar with the peculiarities of each. There was the black fog that issued from the Pit and meant it was time to take in your washing unless you wanted it stained gray. The rare green fog, which crept out of the crevices like a living thing and could kill a child in minutes. The falling fog, which descended in great gray waterfalls from where the cold mountain winds met the rising hot air from the cracked and broken earth, and the rising fog, billowing in tall columns from the sewers and storm drains.
This last was the most common, and it dominated the streets tonight, as it always did after a rain. It hung in tattered curtains, leaving beaded drops of water on the windows, softening the edges of the streetlights and turning their steady glow into a shifting, uncertain thing. To the east, the fog turned pink and then a sullen crimson, reflecting the glow from the Pit.
For the third time, Gyre’s hand came up to scratch at his scar, and for the third time he stopped, frustrated, on encountering the etched metal surface of his mask. Why did I ever start wearing the plagued thing? He knew the answer, of course—there were only so many ways for a one-eyed man to hide his identity—but he’d never meant to build a legend. In the taverns of Deepfire, people whispered about Halfmask.
Idiocy. Even if Yora thought it was useful. He tapped his foot impatiently, until the leathery slap-slap-slap of reptilian footsteps echoed up from the empty street. Finally.
A moment later two shrouded lanterns came around the corner. They hung at the front and rear of a heavily built coach pulled by a pair of ragged-looking thickheads. A driver with a long, spiked prod sat on the box, poking lackadaisically at the lizard-like beasts, while a half dozen men and women in leather vests with knives and cudgels walked alongside, peering through the fog.
Six was more guards than they’d counted on. At least we know the cargo must be worthwhile. Old Rottentooth clearly isn’t taking any chances after last time. Gyre waited a few more seconds, until the thickheads were just below him, fingering the stunner. The alchemical bomb didn’t look like much, just a clay oval the size of his fist. Gyre tossed it over the edge of the roof and jammed his hands over his eye.
The faint sound of breaking pottery was followed immediately by a monstrous crack, as though the carriage had been struck by lightning. The stunner’s flash briefly lit up the street brighter than midday, and Gyre saw the bones of his hands outlined through glowing orange flesh. A moment later, the light faded, and pained screams rose in its wake.
Gyre blinked a few errant spots from his eye and looked down. At least two of the guards were down, one unconscious on the cobbles and another one writhing and clutching her face. More important, the two thickheads were motionless, bellies pressed against the street and forepaws over their eyes. Ponies or loadbirds might have bolted, but a thickhead’s panic response was to hunker down and let predators break their teeth on its pebbly skin. It would be a few minutes before anyone could persuade the beasts to move. Perfect.