Back | Next
Contents

Undercurrents
by Marisa Wolf

Three hours of meetings, and Dagore hadn’t had a single drink nor cause for violence. Neat tricks, both, given he was in the back room of his usual bar, Bait, and taking conversations with several of the most dangerous residents of Muckers.

Broadside’s largest populated section, called Muckers so long it had become the official name, stretched along the majority of the city’s harbor. Built mostly on marshland and mud, it made for a precarious life, which made for tough residents. Dagore had been born and grown up there. Embodied the spirit of his people, some had said.

It wasn’t a compliment.

He took it for one anyway.

Even if currently the “spirit of his people” was tired, frustrated, and about to drown the dregs of patience along with the gods. Not just for a long night’s work. That was typical. But the fact he’d looked for a certain companion for long days past, and neither seen nor heard from her . . . Was she avoiding his messages? It had been a long, long time since anyone dared to avoid him.

“Talaver’s next,” Murian said from his lounging slump by the door.

“No word?” A spike in his midsection cleared the drag of Dagore’s distracted boredom. He’d sent a pair of his largest, smartest men to poke around Talaver’s block early in the morning. Following up on a vague twist in his gut, something just a little off. He’d expected them back before Talaver himself arrived for their semi-regular check in.

“Nothing yet.”

Dagore grunted in response and glanced at the notes in front of him. He’d memorized it all, but the hashmarks and coded shorthand might be enough to distract him from the fact he’d been sitting for hours. Could practically feel the slow chime of the water clock down the street, marking all the time he’d been on his ass inside a bar not drinking, rather than taking a turn through his streets.

Drowned gods in their depths, he missed the days he hadn’t been the boss.

Constantly on the move. One altercation after another. Jobs he could do himself rather than send someone else to do.

Problem with being real good at the work that kept Muckers moving was it brought more work. Accordingly, he and his brother had collected more and more of their quarter’s dissatisfied population who also wanted profit, power, and the appropriate use of applied violence. And when it came to “become the boss” or “report to a boss,” well . . .That decision was easy enough.

Only person who’d ever successfully told Dagore what to do was his older brother, and Elgin had been out of Broadside more than he’d been in it by the time the choice was on them.

So here was Dagore. Top of the Muckers heap. Half a dozen Watch captains on his payroll, and far more gambling-ring runners, fight callers, and people who wouldn’t be welcome in the fancy streets of the Hiane district on their best day. Good business. Profitable.

Less fun than it used to be, back when he could bash heads on the regular.

Dagore dropped the unhelpful line of thought and tapped his knuckles on the thick table in front of him. Murian shoved off the wall, cracked open the door, and stuck his head out.

A murmur of conversation followed, and Dagore glanced at the empty mug in front of him. Though mildly tempted, he neither sighed nor gestured for someone to jump forward and refill it. He wasn’t here to sip a good ale, after all. He was here to intimidate, glower, and ensure business continued smoothly.

Murian opened the door wide, and Talaver strode in. Met Dagore’s eyes clean, didn’t flinch or bluster.

Still. The twinge in Dagore’s gut didn’t fade, and he didn’t have to put any effort into the faint scowl he bestowed upon the other man.

“I brought my ledgers,” Talaver said easily as he sat. “Not copies though, so if you need to keep them . . .?” He trailed off delicately, because he couldn’t very well outright tell Dagore the boss couldn’t keep them now could he?

Dagore flicked a finger, as though it didn’t matter. It didn’t—he’d glance over them, but the numbers would tell him only what Talaver wanted him to see, and he already knew that wouldn’t matter. “Business is good, then?”

“It’s the usual. We have a new Hiane son attempting to run up a tab without paying, but we’ll have that settled soon enough.” Talaver scratched the back of his neck as he slid his wrapped pages over with his other hand.

“How deep?”

The conversation continued, numbers, details, all very normal.

Then Sennet stuck his head in without knocking. Met Dagore’s eyes. Nodded.

“A moment,” Dagore said, interrupting Talaver’s cheerful recitation of the brawl that added to the previous night’s take. Sennet entered the room, crossed to Dagore’s table, slid a paper to his boss.

Dagore unfolded it, scanned the contents, and inclined his head. It was enough. More would come out if needed, but he had more than enough to act on the trouble he’d scented.

“Something more pressing?” Talaver asked, mildly interested. Not insulted. Not making a big deal about it.

The man was good. Not a hint of concern in his expression or bearing. If only he hadn’t gotten too greedy too fast, they both could have continued to make plenty of money.

Ah well. Even the gods had drowned—far be it from a normal man to resist temptation.

“You could say.” Dagore stood, clasped his hands behind his back. “What’d we agree to, at the beginning of our arrangement?”

A shadow of worry in the wrinkles of Talaver’s forehead. “Clean books. No killing unless it’s necessary. Lower rates for Muckers boys, keep the highest for the Hiane types slumming it.” Talaver lifted a shoulder and resettled himself in his seat. “Come to you with solutions, not just problems.”

“In that order.” Dagore made a tsking noise, gestured with one hand. Murian and Sennet had hold of Talaver before the man finished registering the danger. “I don’t ask a lot.”

As impressive as Talaver had been before, he ruined it now. Predictable excuses. Wild offers of riches and wealth he couldn’t possibly cover. Pleading. Rage.

Dagore ignored it all. Stood uncaring watch as words turned to grunts, then groans, then wet sounds that spoke of nothing but pain.

His hands clenched, remembering the precise pressure it took. The angle of knuckle to flesh. The order of an effective series of breaks. But that wasn’t his job anymore, and no one saw the flex of too-empty hands behind his back while the work was being done.

***

A knock at the door, in the pattern for “news.” Nothing that concerned the Talaver business, or they would have simply come in. There were more than a few runners out and about today, and maybe there would be something more interesting. He called for whoever it was to enter, and the door opened on Jep, one of his newest, youngest runners. Good lad. Fast. Interested but not unduly so.

Dagore twisted his head to crack his neck and stretched his hands. His clean, unmarked hands. He stepped away from the action, none of which required his further attention, and gestured for Jep to approach.

The young man didn’t so much as glance at the body sagged in the corner, nor the man above him, and Dagore noted it as another mark in the boy’s favor.

“Letter for you, boss.”

“From?”

“The Donnavia. Ship’s still under quarantine.”

“They signal for a pick up, or did they deliver it?”

“Signaled.”

Not uncommon, but that shift in his gut told him there’d be more. He took the letter without further conversation. Sealed. Wax emblem he didn’t recognize, streaked in red and gold. No obvious signs of tampering. His knife slid under the seal and through in a single smooth motion, and the paper unfolded into a short letter with instantly recognizable handwriting.

This one’s got some required special handling. You’re the only one who can touch it. Ky’s expecting you. Hope to see you soon, shoal.

Unsigned, but that didn’t matter. Emphasis of heavy ink on certain parts of certain letters, the odd blot in very specific places—the sender could only be one person.

Elgin.

He’d learned his letters alongside his big brother, knew the shape and flow of the man’s words as well as his own.

Elgin traveled, found things of value, and trusted his younger brother to use the criminal connections of Muckers to resolve projected value into actual profit. Minus two other connections of Ky Felanel, Dagore provided nearly all the non-Harborwatch marked goods into Broadside.

Dagore didn’t work for Elgin. Didn’t work for Ky. But if anyone could hand a directive over to him and not get dragged under a ship for the trouble . . .

It had been a long time ago, felt like, when Dagore had been Elgin’s shadow. His older brother had been all the family he remembered, and Elgin had saved his life literally and figuratively more times than either of them cared to count. Between Elgin’s cleverness and Dagore’s nose for trouble, they’d not only survived but also gathered more street kids along the way—there were shortages aplenty in Muckers, but orphans were never one of them. With all the flash and bravado of street kids, they’d called themselves the Shoals. They were the danger that people had to navigate and a shiny group of fish, and they thought themselves very, very clever.

As they got older, cutesy names fell away. Work got more interesting, and then bloodier, and then a little less so. Dagore shot a glance to the bloodied corner that held what had been Talaver, and revised his thought. Work got less bloody for Dagore, if not for those under his responsibility. Elgin had finagled a deal with Ky, who financed his early travel.

With time and effort . . .and a few murders, they’d figured out more and more ways in and out of the city, bypassing the Council’s laws and the reach of the various Watches. The Harborwatch kept every ship that came to Broadside’s port in deep anchor for weeks. But the pace of business occasionally required a much shorter turnaround.

Dagore never had much liked waiting.

The Eye will be all over this. Anything Elgin and Ky determined needed “special handling” was guaranteed to be something the Broadside’s pet killers would want to crack down on. If the Harborwatch was good at their jobs—and, unfortunately, they were—the Eye was excellent.

Well. So am I. Dagore wouldn’t be in his position if a little thing like the ruling Council’s special rippers were too much for him to handle.

Murian returned, wiping his hands dry on one of Bait’s bleached towels. “Boss, another runner’s in with a business proposition to knock over a bilgehole on jeweler’s row—”

“Does it look good?” Dagore didn’t need to approve every job his people did—didn’t grow a good crew, making all the calls that way. They didn’t do a lot of out-district heists, though. Nor did he have time for it, not with Elgin needing things. Just about the only person in the world who could consider telling Dagore what to do. So it figured that this was the time Murian would find something big, worthwhile, and a pain in the ass. Though Dagore had resources even beyond Muckers, people who could help with thieving.

“Looks interesting for sure.” Murian tipped his hand side to side, ended it palm up for leaning toward yes.

“Then we’ll do it. Nice work.” The men exchanged nods, and Dagore added, “Send a runner to Cima’s crew.” Dagore had worked with Ky for a long while, which meant he’d come into contact with the better crews that worked with the fence. And the best, in his opinion, was Cima’s. There were five total in the family of thieves, each with their own strengths. As a group, they were clever, fast, successful, and as an individual, Cima was all those things and then some.

Dagore didn’t think that solely because their years-long flirtation had tipped over into quite a bit more, recently. In fact, he wouldn’t have wasted time flirting if those things hadn’t been true to begin with. Add in those legs, those eyes, the weight of her hair in his hands like . . .

He trusted her with the job. That she was easy on the eyes was a scoop of sweet for a boy raised on Mucker’s sour.

“You want to float this one out?” Murian didn’t sound doubtful, just like he was ensuring confirmation.

“There’ll be room to share off the top.” With a careless gesture behind them, he added, “Especially now we won’t be bleeding profit in Talaver’s blocks.”

“Fair enough.” Murian clapped a hand to the side of his leg and followed Dagore out of the room. The staff at Bait had their own clean up crew and would take care of what remained of Talaver without any directives from Dagore.

The were some perks of being the boss, after all.

***

Once the last dregs of the sunset had been swallowed by the sea, Dagore took two men and his favorite small boat. The Slips, named for Muckers’ blindingly strong home-distilled alcohol, moved through the water like a predator.

Oar locks always oiled and muffled, angled oars made to dip soundlessly and shove them through the water, dark, nonreflective stain inside and out. She was a simple, clean-lined beauty, and the three of them rowed their respective pairs of oars in the fluid, continuous motion of long practice. They feathered the oars at exactly the right moments, without a single stray splash to carry over Broadside’s harbor waters.

The lights of the city blurred behind them as the mist rose over the waters. An excellent night for sliding into the quarantined part of the deeper waters—little illumination from the moons, plenty of cover from the Harborwatch’s tower light, and a relatively straight shot to the Donnavia.

Relatively because it would be foolish to head straight for a target. There was always the chance, no matter how faint, that someone had eyes on them. Dagore hadn’t escaped the Watch’s eye—nor the Council’s Eyes—this long by assuming no one was looking.

As the boat cut through the calm night waters toward the edge of the harbor’s protective bend, they slowed. In near unison, each took one of their two oars out of the water, leaving two in the water on one side and a single oar on the other to hold their position. Dagore lifted the long glass and surveyed the faint glow of lanterns that leaked through increasing fog to mark each of the moored ships. Several brightened and dimmed, but only one was set in the pattern that meant his path was clear.

He stowed the long glass and put his oar back in the water. Sennet and Permain waited, and when he didn’t lift it again to signal a call off, they followed suit. Count of three, and then their synchronized motion continued.

They moved relatively slowly but along with the gentle pull of intertide. The two moons were too far apart for a heavy low or high tide shift, but the midtide was enough to make good time in their current heading. Before long the Slips nestled against the ocean-side of the Donnavia. Sennet tossed up the float that indicated they were there.

No panic resulted above—they were expected, after all—but it took a few minutes for the rope ladder to be lowered gently toward them. Good. Meant the ship’s crew hadn’t seen them coming.

Sennet stayed with the Slips, and Permain followed Dagore aboard.

It all went smoothly until it didn’t.

The captain didn’t ask more questions than he needed to, the crew had worked with Dagore’s men before, and no one went sideways, instead remaining calm and on target.

Dagore went belowdecks, opened the indicated crate, lifted the stone box within, and was halfway up the steep stairs when an overly cheerful voice bellowed, “’Lo the boat!”

Several members of the crew took up the sound.

Bilge shit in buckets.

With crap visibility, clearly the Harborwatch had chosen to check on their quarantined ships up close, rather than rely on the light tower. Smart. Inconvenient when they were smart.

Dagore knew Sennet would handle the boat, floating her out careful and silent. He couldn’t go as fast with one set of arms instead of three, but Slips was a small rig for a reason.

The Donnavia had only been moored to the harbor chains for two days, so it was unlikely any member of the Watch would climb on board. So for the second time that day Dagore’s arms tensed for action he couldn’t take.

Instead he held still between decks and listened to the carrying conversation between ship’s captain and Harborwatch, and imagined all the things he couldn’t do.

Knock the man out and douse him with actual slips so he woke up reeking of Muckers liquor, ruining his report to his supervisor.

Unleash Cima on the pack of Council enforcers to talk circles around them and vanish like the thief in the night she was.

Ease off the side of the Donnavia, swim underneath it, pull himself aboard the Harborwatch boat and slaughter everyone on board.

Same silent underwater, but pry a hole in the boat and let them sink into the grasp of the drowned gods. The Harborwatch would rather take their risks with the predators of the deeps than break quarantine and suffer the deadly touch of the Eye.

None of it was practical. He had no ship-breaking tools, no reserve of alcohol, no Cima. Could only wait until the captain successfully completed the formalities, the Harborwatch shipped off, and the captain himself shadowed the hatch above. Finally, he did.

“Clear, friend, though not sure when your boy will be back.”

“When he’s sure it’s clear.” Dagore swallowed back a grunt and shifted the stone box against his midsection. He didn’t bother to argue the “friend” as it was a smarter move than using his name, no matter how much distance the captain had let the Harborwatch take.

“Which might be awhile.” Dagore stood as though he hadn’t been in place with a heavy box for an endless stretch of minutes. “Anything else that might be to my interest on your ship?”

***

Night was too far gone for Dagore to tromp through Broadside’s districts with a box of suspicious provenance, so he returned home to Muckers. No one waited at his elevated house, and the two men accompanying him peeled away before he hit the bottom step.

He’d tried to wave off guards at his home, but that was one fight being “the boss” hadn’t let him win. Instead they’d compromised, and he had none visible. His most trusted men handled the detail and ensured everyone was paid very well, and Dagore allowed himself a few hours a day pretending half the city didn’t want him dead.

As he reached his door, he didn’t hesitate. He shifted the box under one arm—awkward, but enough to clear one hand for his longest knife. No specific twist to his gut indicated danger, but the lines over his doorknob were shifted. Someone was there. Inside his house.

Dagore opened the door as though this were not the case, body slightly to the side so the stone box would block an immediate attack.

A feminine figure, heavily shadowed in the dark, sat on his table.

In the flash of a second he had to brighten, he realized it wasn’t Cima at all.

“Terio,” he said, perfectly calm. His heart rate hadn’t even had time to change. “Don’t remember sending an invite.”

“Cima didn’t want to keep you waiting.” There was something in the woman’s voice he couldn’t—maybe wouldn’t—identify.

“Don’t remember asking for alternates, either.”

At that, Cima’s older sister and the occasional leader of their crew laughed, full-throated and deep. “Not like that, Muckers.” The figure slid from the table, leaned away, and a lantern flared softly to life. Slow and low, so as not to ruin either of their vision. “You sent us a job offer.”

“That.” He put the box down as though it were nothing of note. Terio’s eyes followed it regardless—thieves. The good ones always had a sense for value. “It’s not one I have time for. Seemed to fit your flow.”

“Normally we’d agree, but looks like we might be going straight and narrow.”

“That a fact.” He raised his eyebrows, tilted his head. Terio’s appraisal shifted from the box to him.

A bit admiring, sure, and thorough. But professional, with none of the heat that flared between him and Cima. She was pretty, Terio, but too serious for him. Dagore had plenty of loom and intimidate himself, didn’t need it in a partner.

He cut the thought off—he didn’t need a partner. Already had his brother sending him on jobs and weighing in on his business. No need for more distance between him and the work that needed doing.

“It is for now.” Terio swung her arms free to indicate her lack of threat.

He wasn’t fooled, but he wasn’t worried, either. “Still working with Ky?”

“We are.”

“Let her know I’ll have something for her tomorrow night, will you?”

Terio didn’t glance at the box again, but he could feel the curiosity she barely held in check. “Knew you didn’t need us for the job.”

That’s wasn’t what I was . . . Again, he crushed the thought. Unnecessary.

“Need’s a strong word.” He grinned, then stepped aside and gestured at the door behind him. “See yourself out.”

“Will do.” She didn’t wince or flinch—that had never been Terio’s style—but her step around him was respectfully wide. “Our apologies we couldn’t make the job.”

Ours. Not Cima’s. Fair enough.

He locked the door behind her, considered switching flops again. Sleep somewhere else. Somewhere a crew of thieves didn’t feel comfortable appearing inside of just because he was tumbling one of them.

The thought faded even before he finished it. That wasn’t how it was with Cima. And he didn’t need to move—that crew might be very good at what they did, sure.

But so was he.

And while they stole . . . well. For the moment, what he did was apparently stow a box until he could deliver it to a fence. Because his brother asked him to. Not a lot of hidey holes in his flop, and for lack of a better place, he pried up the floor boards under his bed. The box fit easily in the prepared space, and no one would get to it without waking him up.

Not even clever, charming thieves.

***

The next day went easy, as such things went. He approved a carefully controlled fire, leaned in a doorway while his boys rousted some men who’d tried to push their luck a little too far the night before.

Nothing that took much of his brain space, so he took the time to run through his options for getting the box to Ky without being noticed. Something moved deep in his stomach but he ignored it. Would be nice to talk his plans over with Cima—no one understood a smuggler like a thief—but he’d been doing this a long, long time before she’d ever washed up his way. Besides, he still hadn’t heard back from her.

Nor should it be that hard a job, delivering a single box to Ky. Though he and the fence had intermediaries for a reason. Too many of the Watch knew exactly who Dagore was, so his walking an odd box through the streets would call attention.

If he was seen.

If it was odd.

“Boss.” Murian approached him by the docks, a slump to the tall man’s shoulders that promised nothing good.

“What is it?”

“Movement by Gavriel.”

“Watch?”

“Rippers.” Murian fell into step with him, looked straight ahead.

“The Eye’s out in Muckers again.” Not uncommon. The city had been isolated for centuries, and what little traffic they got in was quarantined to keep plague out. Sailors made up most of Muckers’ itinerant population, and when quarantine wasn’t enough, sailors were blamed. The Eye existed to shut down the spread of illness by any means necessary. They only ever had one means, though. Kill the sick. Burn the structures. End the threat.

Their ruthlessness meant some called them Rippers, but Dagore refused them the courtesy of a catchy name. They were the Eye, and he delighted in blinding them where he could.

“Any word of sickness?” he added, and Murian shook his head rapidly. “So they’re just on the move?”

“Not asking anyone anything. No one’s dead. They’re just . . . out.”

“But they identified themselves?”

“One of ’em’s recognizable. Fights at the Ebb Tide sometimes, broke his nose enough times he doesn’t do disguises great.” Murian twitched his shoulders as though keeping back a shudder. “The other one walks like him. Not Watch, so figure he’s an Eye, too.”

“Well spotted.” Dagore clapped the other man on the back. “Keep a look on them, but not too close.” Unbidden, he thought of the box under his bed, but Gavriel wasn’t anywhere close to his place.

He couldn’t stay inside all day, nor walk his streets with a box his brother had entrusted only him with and pull attention, so he’d have to hope it was a coincidence.

Hope it was a coincidence, and turn his rounds back to the blocks around his flop, just in case. Maybe he’d get lucky and get to dispose of a body or two himself after all.

***

Barrels of oil-soaked fish filled the cart, and the stolid old mule and reinforced wheels moved more quickly over the smooth stone of Ossington than they ever could through the mud of Muckers. Lamps along the street were hazy but lit, and the water clocks chimed in vaguely pleasing tones.

Ossington was considered barely a notch higher than Muckers to most of Broadside, but Dagore could appreciate its graces the few times he bothered to visit.

The night was heavy with the last reaches of summer heat, and Dagore hadn’t bothered with a long coat or hood. It would stick out more than his face in the shadows, and if he’d timed their path right, he wouldn’t encounter a single Watch patrol.

A small distraction to the north should attract all Watcher pairs from the area, allowing him a clear path through Ossington’s winding roads to Ky’s shop at the edge of Hiane. The box in the false bottom would go to her, Dagore would go home, the fish would be delivered to the restaurant that had a standing order for the “delicacy” of Muckers, and everyone would get a good dawn’s sleep.

It was a solid plan. Could have worked.

But if “could haves” were rain drops, the whole world would’ve drowned with the gods.

At the head of Ky’s street, three figures resolved out of the shadows. The broadest one stepped forward, chest out.

Green coat. Watch, not Eye. The Toadies, for their jackets and their position up close and personal with the Council.

A small bit of luck.

“Where you off to then, citizen?”

“Delivery to the Catavar,” Dagore replied, voice pitched low and Muckers accent thick.

“Why so late?” The first man again, as the other two spread out and approached the cart.

“They need it for opening.” Dagore made a show of shrugging, like the whims of his betters were beyond him. “And not many outside Muckers like sharing the road with our fish.”

“Maybe seal the barrels better,” the man approaching Dagore’s left said. “We smelled you coming.” The street lamp across the way was enough to illuminate the sneer on his face, but Dagore could hear it, clear as water, in the Toady’s voice.

“Then you know I’ve got what I say I got.” Though utterly calm, Dagore allowed irritation into his voice. Just a man doing his job, trying to get it done.

The streets around them were quiet. Not a scuff of boot or clatter of loose rock to say any of his men were approaching. They were too good for that, of course, but it was equally likely they’d been pulled by the distraction, or any number of other possible interruptions.

“We’ll be taking a look all the same,” The first man said, still in place, smartly out of reach as the others approached.

Seemed an awful coincidence, three Watchers posted at the top of Ky’s street, when Dagore had a delivery to make.

Pressure in his gut said it was no coincidence at all, but he didn’t need that herald to tell him. He let go of the cart and stepped back, as though making room for the Watch to look.

Stepped wide.

Let the man on the right grab his arm. Waited until the one on the left ducked to run a hand along the underside of the cart.

No fools, these.

All the worse for them.

After far too long restraining his tendencies, Dagore released the knife from his sleeve and stumbled against the Toady who held him. The taller man grunted and shifted his weight, and Dagore muttered an apology that made him lean closer.

In excellent timing, the Toady at the cart called out and the first man turned his attention toward him. Dagore didn’t need them to make it easy for him, but he wouldn’t ignore the opportunity.

In a smooth motion he straightened, brought his arm up, covered the Watcher’s mouth and dug the knife through the man’s throat with his other hand. The mule stared ahead, jaw working, unfazed by the motion and blood.

Dropped the silently dying body gently to the ground. Crossed the street, around the cart. Slammed a fist into the broad man’s face, whirled to kick the bending man in the gut.

Couldn’t let them sound the alarm. Dagore had a knife against their swords, but they hadn’t seen him coming, distracted by the outer false bottom of the cart.

Why have one false bottom, when two would do? The larger one, full of Council stamped papers, provided excellent cover for the box no one but he could touch. Perfect to pull the attention of the Watch, leaving him space to slice another set of vocal cords and kick another man in the face hard enough for the Toady to spew teeth and blood and various other liquids.

Easy enough to finish the job from there.

Slide open an empty barrel.

He didn’t have room for three bodies, but he could probably fit two. Maybe slide the last one into the hollow bottom of the cart? No, that would take too much—

“I see what she sees in you.” The approving drawl, warm and directionless, snapped him upright, knife flat against the sides of his legs.

His heartbeat slowed almost immediately. He wasn’t quite as undisturbable as the mule, but he knew that voice. “Ky.”

She waved her cane—no. She slid the sword hidden in her cane back into its compartment, and even in the dim light he could tell she had smiled.

Ky was barely taller than him, all angles from the sharp cut of her pants to the severe lines of her yellow-bright hair. Her smile had edges, but she’d never cut him. Not yet.

“I was ready to help.” The disappointment was so clear in her voice he knew she didn’t mean it, but she snapped her fingers and turned her back. “But you were faster than I expected, and I’m glad I got to see instead. Impressive.”

“Do you—”

“They’ll clean up in a moment.” She held up her fingers again, as if to explain the purpose of her snap. “Can you bring just my delivery, or must I take the whole cart?”

“What, you don’t have use for four barrels of fish?”

“Three, I think. And a bit of pickled Watchmen.” Her sigh, though soft, carried through the moisture-laden air between them. “I’d hate it to go to waste.”

He didn’t ask which, and cast a cursory glance to either side of the street. No alarm had gone up, and no lights had flickered on or off in any of the windows. People in this area minded their own—and so close to Ky’s business, they had little desire to know more than they needed to.

With a pause to wipe his knife clean on the nearest green coat, Dagore returned to his cart. He slid an extra treat to the mule, as a valued member of his organization deserved. Each filled barrel in the cart’s bed was heavy, but he’d learned the knack of moving them as a gangly youth. Their heft offered no challenge to him now. He shifted two, slid open first one hidden door, then the next, and lifted out the stone box.

By then, two of his men and three of Ky’s had arrived, and all set wordlessly to their various tasks. The mule would get properly spoiled at the end of the delivery, and Dagore didn’t need to think any further on the barrels.

He gave them all a nod and followed the fence to the alley entrance of her shop.

“It’s been a while,” he said as the door closed behind him. The back room was lit at exactly the level of brightness to keep from shocking night-adapted eyes, and he gave it a once-over without allowing too much interest in his appraisal. Ky could be touchy about her secrets.

She was hardly alone in that.

“Not much has changed,” she replied carelessly, and pointed to the single clear table in the room. He put the box down, stepped back, and considered if leaving would count as fleeing the dragon’s lair.

But the dragon smiled, all teeth, and it was too late for him to go. “Did you open it?”

“No. Elgin didn’t ask me to, and I’d rather some distance from whatever it is the two of you are up to.”

“Who says we’re up to anything?” She leaned her hip against the broad table and kept her eyes on him rather than the box.

“It’s you,” Dagore replied, with the sort of slow smile that didn’t need to be all teeth to threaten. “And Elgin. And my job is done.”

“It’s not.”

“I’d argue, but I don’t have to.” Dagore shrugged. “I don’t work for you.”

“No. But you still care about your brother.”

Shit in the drowned gods’ sea. He took care not to stiffen, not to blink. Only tipped his head to the side and regarded her. “Don’t see what the two have to do with each other.”

“A part of this shipment needs to be dropped in a house in Hiane. If it isn’t, your brother’s movements will become unfortunately constrained.”

“You’re telling me someone in Hiane has connections in another city?” Unlikely. So few did.

The Council. Ky. Him. Maybe three other people, none of whom lived with the obscenely wealthy in Hiane. The rest of Broadside focused on Broadside, same as they had in the centuries since the world burned. Other places might as well be stories, like the drowned gods and lost relics themselves.

Unlikely wasn’t impossible, and he smoothed his face ahead of whatever answer she might give.

“I’m telling you someone in Hiane is expecting something very specific from your brother, and if you don’t deliver it, there will be consequences for him.”

“Then he should have put that in his letter—”

“Dagore.” Ky made a noise low in her throat and shook her unnaturally bright hair out of her face. “It’s you or no one. I can’t be seen delivering this. Elgin thinks he can still trust you. Can he?”

“You don’t usually ask stupid questions,” he said, still weighing how serious she was.

“You don’t usually require them.” She waved a hand, and three of her rings caught the soft light from the chandelier above them. Two more, dark stone, wrapped like shadows against her pale skin.

“Why is it, exactly, that it’s me or no one?” He tried, not for the first time, to figure out what his brother had gotten into on foreign shores. It had gone far beyond profit, but he couldn’t parse the direction. Beyond sinking like a stone in the depths, as far as Dagore saw it.

“You can ask her for help, but we both know you don’t need it.” Ky spoke with a lightness that edged toward, but didn’t quite reach, mocking. The fence was talking about Cima, clear as Mucker’s mud. His turn to make a noise deep in his chest, rejecting her mixed taunt and compliment.

“And you’re keeping her occupied elsewhere, I take it.”

“Does it make it better if I tell you it has nothing to do with you?” She lifted a single shoulder and a single eyebrow, then turned away. “Here, I’ll repackage the delivery.”

“Your kindness knows no bounds, Felanel.” Dagore considered killing her and being done with it, but it was a passing thought, no real weight to it. Like the sharks in the deep, he was a predator, sure, but not a monster. He only killed when there was a need, not for convenience.

Not for simple satisfaction.

Whatever was off about this whole situation tugged insistently somewhere in the back of his head, in the center of his gut. And killing Ky wouldn’t answer or solve it. It would cause only trouble, rather than lead to any solutions.

She lifted an awl-shaped tool, pressed it into an indentation in the side of the box. With a soft grunt, she finagled something and then lifted off the top.

Dagore didn’t bother to look inside. It wouldn’t be that easy to decipher the mystery, and did him no good for her to see him craning to take in what all the skulking and hiding was about.

“I am kind,” Ky said, as though there hadn’t been a long pause since he’d spoken. She put the awl on the table, and lifted something out of the box.

Another, smaller, flatter stone box.

He couldn’t even pretend surprise.

“Kind, but not particularly nice. They aren’t the same, though who am I to tell you that?” The faint sound Ky made might have been a laugh, but he didn’t dwell on it.

“Where am I going with this, and what do I need to know?”

“You don’t want to see?”

Dagore didn’t choose to repeat himself, and after a moment she twitched her lips and pulled the stone apart. He hadn’t even noted the seam.

Ky tilted the bottom of the stone box toward him, and the black velvet lining made the object upon it glow. A knife—slightly longer than could be properly classified as a knife, but not quite a sword. A deep, smoky silver-gray metal, shining like it sat in the sun freshly polished, rather than lay in a box in the middle of the night. The hilt was darker, studded with three winking gems in the pommel, but the grip begged for a small, strong hand.

A fitting gift, for a thief with an eye for jewels.

The moment the thought occurred to him, he dismissed it. Not because the ostentation of the knife’s flash was more suited to Cima’s little brother, Meesh, all show and boast. No, it wasn’t Cima’s taste that was in question. It was the immediate stab of pain that lanced through his body in pure rejection of the weapon.

Whatever that knife was, he’d kill with a cheery song in his heart to keep it far from Cima’s hand—or even Meesh’s. Or anyone he knew. Deliver it to some rich knob in Hiane? Fine.

“Who’s the target?”

“The target?” Ky cocked her head and studied him as she closed the box.

“That’s a murder weapon, shine or no. You making moves in the upper city?”

Her eyes narrowed, but her posture didn’t shift. “It’s just a delivery.”

“That no one notices.”

Ky nodded, and despite the casual slump of her lean, he could read the wariness in her.

“I’m not the one you get for subtle.”

“I don’t know, you definitely led Ci—”

Dagore hadn’t had much patience to begin with. Ky needling at him didn’t increase his calm, but he’d taken worse from better. He let his face drop all expression, leaving only the flat, affectless look that had stopped hardened killers cold. While he didn’t step toward her, he shifted his stance ever so slightly. Ready to move, should moving be needed.

Ky straightened from the table and eased her foot back, but after that fraction of a moment’s reaction, a slow smile spread across her lips.

“It’s like that,” she murmured.

“Where’s the knife going?” he asked instead of politely inquiring what she meant. Dagore was done with this, whatever “this” was, and finally she seemed to understand.

She told him with an efficient minimum of words—just a drop, in a house, behind a gate. Clear directions. Easy approach.

Despite her brevity, the twist that told him trouble was coming deepened into an ache. The inside of his nose burned, but maybe that was just the lack of Muckers’ scent in the air around him.

Every step toward Hiane made it worse. Kept his head on a swivel. There was plenty to see.

***

The streets widened and smoothed as he moved into Hiane proper. In Muckers, the houses leaned against each other, united against the storm and tides. In Hiane, the buildings spaced apart. Shorter. Flatter. Like Hiane snoots, distant and haughty from their “lessers.”

Ridiculous or not, it was a good thing, that space, as well as the shadows they left, because more than once he had to slide into an alley, turn his steps. The lights were brighter here, and the water clocks every other block had their own illumination. Can’t let the rich forget what time it was, given how valuable each tick must be for them.

The Toadies patrolled, but Dagore knew how to walk like a man with a purpose and not a person of interest. There were few others out at this hour, but as the shops fell away and houses moved back from the street, he caught flickers of motion at the edges of corners. Figures that slipped away before they could be fully seen.

They didn’t move like the Watch. Too much of a prowl, not a march. A shadow of movement at the edge of his next turn sent him down a different side street, and this time he registered the profile of the man. Too hard-faced to belong to Hiane.

The Eye was out.

No question who—or at least what—they were looking for.

Putting out an Eye wouldn’t be as easy to hide as killing a few of the Watch. The Council would kick over like a barrow of seabugs, razing the streets until they had an explanation.

Once more Dagore stifled his propensity for violence, strolled. Hands in his pocket, box tucked under his elbow. Just a package to deliver.

Casual. Unhurried. Unworried.

The block ahead held his target house, and he walked along the upright prongs of the fence.

Climbable. He kept it in the corner of his eye and reevaluated. Cuttable. The barrier existed to pretend at strength and security.

Dagore didn’t even lock his door.

The gate loomed up ahead, and the skin along Dagore’s back prickled. Someone was behind him. Quiet.

Too quiet for the Watch. Far too quiet for a drunk getting home late.

Without hesitation or a sign of awareness, he continued toward the gate.

The presence behind him closed the distance.

Dagore took stock of his weapons. Didn’t include the knife in the box at his side.

If the gate were locked. If the hinge stuck. If he dragged a foot at all.

He’d have to fight at least one Eye. Probably more. In the middle of Hiane.

Moment of truth.

Would someone die in the streets, or—

He slid his free hand from his pocket, turned casually toward the gate, pushed it. Like he did it all the time. Like he lived there.

The gate swung open. Soundless. Without resistance.

Dagore strode down the path, didn’t glance into the long-leaved plants on either side. Certainly didn’t look behind himself.

Threw the gate closed behind him.

It didn’t bounce off anyone, as far as he could tell. He walked until the path curved, then slid between bushes and studied the area.

No one came.

Some night bird hooted, then shrieked. The longer he stood, the louder a susurrus of sounds rose around him.

Figures. Even the bugs in the rich neighborhood sounded nice. Not at all like they’d burrow under his skin and breed if left unattended.

After several long counts, he finished the job without seeing anyone—including the bird and the bugs.

The streets were empty when he left.

Even when he walked home, relieved of the box, and swaggered through the city as though asking for an incident, his path remained clear.

It should have been a win. He should have gone home and slept with a job well done behind him, but instead he lay awake long after the sun rose. Imagining what else moved in his city that he couldn’t see. What Ky had Cima doing, to keep her so busy.

Throughout the day, as he moved through his Muckers, his thoughts wouldn’t ease. Something was off with this shipment. Elgin’s letter. The Eye, too interested. Ky, a little too tense, showing her fangs.

If it were just a one-off, he could let it go, but that wasn’t the feeling he got. Elgin would write again. Ky would pull him back. Once more he considered sending a runner for Cima. She had a way to put two and two together to find seven, and he could use her brain.

That same feeling told him if he sent for Cima again, he’d get one of the last two members of her crew. Gaudi or Ackles, always full of their respective brands of good-natured sunniness. He didn’t want that. Worse if either of them showed up at his doorstep, full of discomfort because Cima . . .

Cima was avoiding him.

His clever thief, as deceptively beautiful as the sea. Full of undercurrents that could drown a man. The gods had drowned—who was to say he could avoid the same fate?

Dagore had a knack of anticipating trouble. That ability to navigate unfriendly waters had taken him from the deepest mud of Muckers to the top of the predator-strewn waters of Broadside.

But, it turned out, he could still be surprised.

Didn’t much like that.

“Boss?” Murian tipped his head toward the knot of men ahead.

There was more work to be done. Something to uncover between Elgin and Ky. Plenty of dangerous waters to navigate. He couldn’t worry about Cima, not now.

He turned to Murian and inclined his head.

One set of shoals to navigate at a time. He’d navigated worse.

Dagore always saw trouble coming.

He hadn’t seen it in Cima.

Shit.

Marisa Wolf is a second-generation nerd whom started writing genre stories at six. At least one was good enough to be laminated, and she's been chasing that high ever since. Over the years, she's taught middle school, been headbutted by an aligator, earned a black belt in tae kwon do, and finally decided to finish all those half-finished stories in her head.

She's currently based in Texas, though she lives in an RV with her husband and their two absurd rescue dogs, so it's anyone's guess as to where in the country she is.

Back | Next
Framed