The Thorn of Dentonhill (15 page)

“Some kind of civil war in Kellirac.” There was more to it, of course, but Grandfather—and every other old Racquin in the circus—was always tight-lipped on the subject. Whatever the
yashta
was, it was too terrible to speak of, even though it was the main reason the Racquin were in Druthal. Veranix had given up asking by the time he was ten.

Kaiana must have sensed that he wasn't going to talk about it, either. “Fine. Practice. Quietly.”

Veranix spent the next hour running through his old routines, making a point of doing them without magical aid. Kaiana worked in silence, getting up to light lamps and fetch ink and paper.

“You're putting all your weight on your left arm,” she said after a while.

“I took a knife in my right shoulder, Kai.” Veranix jumped down to the floor. The wound was throbbing, but he kept himself from showing any signs of pain. Back in the circus days, he had done shows with broken bones. He could hold up through this.

“Still, be aware,” she said.

“Thanks for the tip.”

“I don't want you getting killed out there,” she said. “Practice more.” She kept working, scratching figures with focused concentration.

Veranix went down to the Spinner Run, grabbed the cloak, and came back up.

“The blazes are you doing?” she asked when he emerged.

“You said to practice,” Veranix said, putting on the cloak. Again he felt the sudden rush of
numina
course through his body. “Let's face it, I've been mostly using this thing on instinct.”

Kaiana scowled. “Fair enough.”

Veranix focused
numina
back through the cloak, willing himself to disappear. “Can you see me, Kai?”

She looked up at him, her narrow eyes squinting. “Sort of. You're the same color as the wall behind you, so if I didn't know you were there, I might not notice you. But looking for you, knowing you're there, I can make out your shape.”

Veranix didn't like that. He kept the image through the cloak, and quickly bounded across the room, doing his best to make each landing as soft and quiet as possible. He ended ten feet away from Kaiana, and right when he hit the ground, he whispered a bit more
numina
into his voice.

“Now?” he asked, the sound of his voice coming from the other side of her.

“Now,” she looked up again, in the wrong direction. “Now I can't . . . where did you go?”

“Here,” he said, touching her shoulder.

Kaiana grabbed his hand and yanked, pulling his body into her as she brought her knee up. She knocked the breath out of him, and he dropped to the ground, his illusion of camouflage vanishing.

“Sorry about that,” she said, though she didn't sound apologetic.

“Blazes, you're strong. You . . . you should come out there with me,” he said between gasps.

“No, thank you,” she said. “Are you all right?”

“Only my pride is seriously hurt.”

“That was a good trick, though.”

“Thanks.” He thought of something else he might be able to do. As he had the other night in Inemar, he focused the
numina
on changing his appearance. He kept the changes subtle, making his face a little thicker and older, his hair darker. This was a different experience. He had to keep his focus on it, as always, but with the cloak it was more like holding his arm in a pose, instead of holding his breath.

“How do I look?”

“Ordinary,” Kaiana said. “Is that what you were going for?”

“Not specifically,” he said. “But maybe that's what I was thinking about. Looking like a guy you wouldn't look at twice.” With another tweak of the
numina,
he changed the appearance of his clothes from the University uniform to the street clothes of a typical Aventil artisan. Plain and uninteresting. He went to the door.

“What are you doing?”

“I was thinking I might go get some dinner,” he said. “It is almost six bells.”

“You promised me you weren't going to go out there tonight!”

“I'm not!”

“Veranix, you go out there with that cloak on—”

“Just the cloak, Kai.” Veranix put his hands up defensively. “Promise you. No weapons, no rope. No trouble. I just want to find out what's going on out there. All right?”

“Don't start anything.”

“Of course not.”

“Stay in Aventil.”

“Absolutely.”

“I mean
nothing,
Veranix Calbert.” Her eyes were hot and fierce.

He put one hand over his heart, mimicking the form of the school pledge. “Even if someone tries to sell a whole carafe of
effitte
in front of me.”

She cracked a smile. “Blazes, no, if that happens take him down.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “But it will take that much.”

V
ERANIX REALIZED
he had never actually been inside the Turnabout before. He had walked past, glanced through the swinging wooden doors, but hadn't dared to step foot in there. It wasn't that University students were forbidden, or even ill-treated if they went in. It was understood, though, that the place belonged to the Princes.

The Turnabout had a certain run-down air to it. Not actually shabby or broken, like the Dogs' Teeth, but a worn, aged feel. Veranix mused that the place might be much the same as it had been when his father had been part of the neighborhood.

The faded wooden menu, hanging up on the wall, with its cracked paint and layer of dust and grease, looked like it had been there since those days as well.

“Eh, brother, you staring or you gonna buy?”

Veranix startled as he was nudged from behind. A couple of guys stood there. Veranix glanced at the tattoos on their arms— these were a couple of Princes.

“Right, yes,” he said, backing away. He went up to the barman and ordered a beer and striker. He glanced back at the two Princes. They had taken no further notice of him. A few moments later he had his meal, and was given a look that he should step away from the counter.

Veranix chose a seat in the far corner, kept his head down. He was amazed how easy keeping his magical disguise remained. He made a point of not relaxing, though. He couldn't afford to do that, if for no other reason than so he wouldn't have every eye in the room on him when he suddenly changed appearance.

The place was quite busy, though there was a hushed, subdued feeling to the room. Plenty of Princes kept their eyes on the door, always glancing as if expecting something to happen, someone to walk in at any moment, and prepared to do whatever needed to be done in that moment. From the tattoos, Veranix spotted two captains, but Colin was not there.

Veranix ate quietly, softly coaxing magic to bring snippets of conversation to his ears.

“. . . went down over to Lilac, it's totally clear, we could make a move . . .”

“It's clear because the sticks are cracking on Hallaran's Boys. That ain't gonna last more than a couple days, just to show them not to move on Uni kids . . .”

“. . . heard Fenmere is cracking every skull he can reach, trying to find the Thorn . . .”

“. . . big score like never seen . . .”

“. . . Fenmere had his boys cracking the Red Rabbits . . .”

“. . . he's crossing Waterpath?”

“The Thorn did that . . .”

“'Bout time someone did . . .”

Suddenly all the talking stopped, all eyes went to the door. An older man walked in, hair thin and white, but he walked with vigor and vitality, his arms strong and muscular. The Prince tattoo he wore showed stars and diamonds. This was one of the basement bosses.

The two street captains approached immediately, deferential. The boss brushed them off and went to a table. As he sat, the dull murmur of conversation started up again.

Veranix kept his attention on the boss, but other than the barman bringing him a plate of strikers and pie, no one came up and spoke to him. The boss ate silently and, while the rest of the room kept their eyes on him, everyone in the room slowly returned to their old business.

After he had eaten, the boss glanced around, and waved over one of the younger Princes. Veranix was ready to pull the sound to his ears when the boss whispered, “Where's Colin? Go find him, bring him here for this.” The young Prince ran out the door without question or comment.

Veranix's curiosity over what “this” was didn't wait long to be sated. A few moments later, two more men walked in the door. This time, every sound stopped dead. These two men had no tattoos on their arms. Instead they wore dark green vests and caps.

Hallaran's Boys.

Once Kaiana had cracked the code, the information in the dealer's journal came easily and clearly. It was a detailed look at the daily operations of the
effitte
trade, and she was sickened and fascinated by every bit she read. The raw numbers, the sheer amount of money that went in and out, and into Fenmere's pocket, boggled her.

The crowns Veranix stole from the dealer, that was nothing. Fenmere probably made that ten times over today.

She closed the journal in disgust.

There was a knock on the door of the carriage house.

That wasn't Vee, he never knocked, on the door at least. Master Jolen never knocked either. No one knocked on her door.

“Who's there?”

“It's Delmin Sarren,” came the response. She opened the door to find Veranix's skinny, string-haired, grinning friend. He was carrying several books. “Remember, we met earlier today.”

“I remember,” she said. “What do you want?”

“Is . . . is he here? He wasn't at dinner, and he wasn't in the room, and he wasn't at the library. He's never at the library, of course, but that's where I was and I didn't see him.” The boy was fidgeting and looking at the floor.

“He's not,” she said. “Get in here before anyone sees you.”

He cautiously stepped inside, as if not sure that he was really allowed to come in. She shut the door behind him.

“He went into the neighborhood,” she said.

“He's not . . . he's not . . .” Delmin let the question hang there, and he waved his hands around as if to pantomime fighting.

“He better not be,” she said. “He didn't take his gear, just the cloak.”

“Oh.” Delmin looked disappointed, and sat down on one of the benches. “Did he leave the rope?”

“He did,” she said. She remembered the incident in the morning. “You don't want to touch it again, do you?”

“No, no,” Delmin said quickly. “I just want to see it. Maybe you can tell me, for instance, how much it weighs?”

Kaiana sighed. Magic students. “One click,” she said, and went down into the Spinner Run, coming up with the rope. “I'd say it was five pounds.”

“Five? And how long is it?”

She uncurled it and laid it straight on the floor. “Huh. Ten feet, give or take. It seems like it would be more.”

His eyes went wide. He put the books down and crouched on the ground. He moved over the rope, inches away from it, clearly not daring to actually touch it. “It's really . . . it's fascinating to see the
numinic
flow through and around it.”

“You can really see it?” Veranix never talked about this sort of thing, and she was curious to know more.

“In a way,” Delmin said. “The theory is that the ability to sense the flow of
numina
is based in the part of the brain connected to the eyes . . .”

“So you interpret that sense visually?”

Delmin's smile grew wider. “Yes, exactly! I don't actually see it, I just think I do.” He turned his attention back to the rope, still taking care not to make direct contact. “As far as I can tell, the weave is laced with
napranium
, spun like thread. Fascinating. How much did Veranix say they were paying for this?”

“Forty thousand crowns.”

“A bargain,” he said. He walked back to his books and thumbed through it. “I've been doing research— or trying, at any rate—all afternoon. Information is . . . rare on the subject.”

“Because
napranium
is rare?”

“Yes!” He laughed nervously as soon as he said that. “You know, I try to drill this stuff into Veranix's head, and he never gets it.”

“He has a good, thick skull,” she said. “Good for getting hit, bad for learning.”

“No, he's—he's actually very smart. He just doesn't really get academic discipline. Of course, if he grew up in a traveling circus, that all makes sense. He probably had no formal schooling before coming here.”

“That's not a bad thing,” Kaiana said icily.

“No, of course not,” Delmin said. He shook his head as if dismissing a thought. “I forgot my point.
Napranium!
Very rare. Even just a few ounces laced into a five-pound rope would be . . . incredibly expensive. At least in Druthal.”

“But maybe in Poasia it's more common? Or in the Napolic Islands?”

“Which may explain why the Poasians invaded them back in the war. Not potatoes.” Delmin picked up a notebook and wrote something with his graphite stylus. “Worthy research topic.”

“Did you lose your point again?”

“Yes, I did,” he said. He picked up another book. “Information on
napranium
is rare, mostly reference to studies done by Tsouljans, Poasians, occasionally Kierans. Druth mystical studies are quite lacking.”

“Do you have a point, Delmin?”

“Yes, I do!” he said. “Or, maybe not. I mean . . . what I'm trying to say, between the rope and the cloak, that's a lot of
napranium
. Add in the skill and delicate work necessary to take the raw metal and make it into the rope and the cloak . . . it's kind of boggling.”

“What's boggling, exactly?” She realized Delmin was far too excited about many different things to be able to hold coherent conversation, and she needed to help him focus.

“Why?” he responded.

“Why what?”

“Why a rope and a cloak? Why not, say, rings, or bracelets, or a crown? What does it give . . . whoever actually wanted these things in the first place . . . what advantages do those forms of
napranium
give them?”

“I don't know,” Kaiana said. She hadn't thought about that, and she was certain Veranix hadn't either. He just thought they were useful to him. “Surely not for the same reasons Veranix finds them useful.”

Delmin considered that. “Probably not. But for whoever it is, those specific forms were specifically needed, else why go through the trouble?”

Kaiana didn't know, but if it involved people who were wrapped up with Fenmere and his business, it couldn't be good.

“When do you think he'll be back? Curfew bells are in a couple hours.”

“He'll probably be back before that,” she said. “He promised he'd stay out of trouble.”

The Turnabout was looking like it was going to become trouble. Two of Hallaran's Boys, probably captains by the look of them, were in the doorway, and every Rose Street Prince in the place was on their feet, each with a hand reaching for a weapon. Veranix himself instinctively built up a well of
numina
deep in his gut, ready to burst out if he needed to defend himself.

“Evening, Casey,” one of the Boys said. The boss in the back gave a whistle, and most of the rest of the Princes stood down. The two Prince captains stepped up to the Hallaran's Boys, arms wide. The Boys returned the gesture, then slowly reached inside their vests. They both pulled out a few blades and placed them on a table.

The Boss—Veranix figured this must be Old Casey—waved them over. They approached slow and easy. Veranix was still filled up with
numina;
it was starting to buzz at the back of his skull. He knew well enough not to hold onto it in his body too long.