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Authors: Marshall Ryan Maresca

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BOOK: The Thorn of Dentonhill
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He bled some of it into holding his disguise, some of it into pulling the conversation over to his ears. It took a painful amount of attention, forcing him to bow his head over the table. If anyone had looked over at him, it must have seemed like he was drunk. He barely registered the exchange of posturing pleasantries between Casey and the Boys. He hadn't noticed Colin coming up to the table until his cousin had spoken.

“Beck, Rile, always a pleasure,” Colin said as he sat down with the two Boys and Old Casey.

“Good old Colin Tyson,” one of them said. “How's your feet?”

“Still running,” Colin said. “So what's the noise you're making?”

“We wanna ask you all. You losing the gates or something?”

“Feh,” Colin said. “Knights of Saint Julian were trying to make a play, I think. We'll show them to stay on Violet.”

“We didn't beat up the Uni kid, but we've got all the crack from the sticks.”

“Sticks cracking you ain't our problem, Beck,” Casey said.

“Says you,” Beck said. “They decide to crack us, then it's all over the neighborhood.”

“Sticks did do a real show of force out there today, boss,” Colin said. “It'll pass in a day or two. You know that.”

“The Uni kid pointed the sticks at us,” Rile said. “That's what they say, anyway.”

“Probably a setup,” Colin said. “You didn't come over here just to mewl like kittens, did you?”

“Shut your face, Tyson.”

“Saying this ain't nothing but mewling.”

“You want to throw?” Rile was out of his chair.

“I don't throw with kittens.”

Old Casey barked out, “Colin! Shut it!”

“Sorry, boss.”

“Colin's right, though. You Boys got a point or something? You wanted the parlay.”

Rile sat back down. “We can handle the blasted sticks. It's Fenmere's action bleeding across the 'path, that's the real problem.”

“That's happening?” Casey looked to Colin.

“Not business or rustle,” Colin said. “They're shaking for answers, nothing more.”

“Shaking answers?” Casey asked, his voice rising. Veranix winced, his magicking of the conversation made it blast his ears. “That's how any bleed starts.”

“They aren't doing a bleed,” Colin said.

“You know that?”

“They want a guy,” Beck said.

“The guy whose been giving them trouble, what are they calling him?” Casey asked.

“The Thorn,” the two Boys said in unison.

“Right,” Casey said. He turned to Colin. “So who is this guy?”

“Nobody knows,” Colin said. Veranix noticed the twitch in his cousin's eye when he said that.

“Nobody knows,” Beck echoed, his voice dripping with hostility. “Nobody knows about a guy called ‘the Thorn,' especially on Rose Street.”

“He ain't ours!” Colin snapped.

“You sound pretty sure,” Rile said.

“He one of yours, Rile? Maybe he's living down on Drum.”

Rile chuckled dryly. “Maybe he thrashed the Uni kid.”

Colin did not look amused. “Are we going anywhere with all this, or what?”

“We've got trouble,” Beck said. He was looking at the door, where a few more green-capped boys were coming in, looking nervous.

Veranix didn't think this looked like a brawl about to explode, at least not from the Hallaran's Boys. The Princes, to the man, were getting on their feet.

“Oy, oy!” one of the Boys said, holding up open hands. “All peace, all peace.”

“We should have done this at the church,” Colin muttered.

Old Casey shook his head. “New priest in charge over there. Doesn't want to get involved.”

Beck was on his feet. “What's the noise?”

“Sticks cracking across the neighborhood.” Veranix noticed one of the Boys had a gash across his skull.

“How bad?” Colin asked. More Princes had come to the door. Despite the uneasy looks between all the Princes and Boys, no one moved against the other.

“They're in groups of four, with wagons,” said a Prince. “They've been grabbing anyone on the street they see.”

“Anyone with a green cap, you mean,” said a Boy.

“Not from what I saw.”

Voices were rising, Princes and Boys were getting nose to nose, pointing fingers at each other. Beck and Rile were racing over to pull their guys away from the Princes.

Colin swore and looked around the room. Veranix hadn't realized how intently he must have been paying attention to his cousin until Colin was staring hard back at him. “What's your problem, stranger?”

Veranix flushed with panic. His disguise rippled and fell. Colin's eyes went wide and he jumped from his chair. Before anyone else reacted, Veranix focused his magic to disappearing. Colin was on his feet, charging over to Veranix's table.

Veranix ducked and rolled away to a far corner, long gone by the time Colin reached the table.

“Colin, what—” Old Casey snapped.

“There was—there . . .” Colin looked around. “I thought I saw something.”

Old Casey walked over to Colin, cuffing him across the head. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing, boss,” Colin said.

“Get this mess cleaned up.” Casey pointed over to the door. “Next the sticks will come cracking in here, and that's something we don't need.”

“Right,” Colin said. He went over to the crowd at the door. “Hey, hey! Rile! Beck!”

Colin started bullying the Hallaran's Boys, and Veranix slowly crept across the room, doing his best not to make a sound. He figured he could sneak out to the block's backhouses. The Turnabout, like most of Aventil, hadn't built water closets yet, and from that lot he should be able to cut through a flop or scramble over a wall to the next street over.

Chapter 13

C
OLIN HAD NO
idea what Veranix was playing at. Hitting Fenmere in such a loud and public way was stupid enough. Colin knew damn well this story of the jumped Uni boy was Veranix trying to cover his tracks. Blaming Hallaran's Boys for it, that was creative.

And stupid.

Then sneaking into the Turnabout, spying on him. What was he trying to do? Was he trying to prove something? Veranix was getting too clever, too overconfident, too damn magical for his own good.

Saints, what a mess Veranix had made. That was clear just from the fact that Casey was here, in the Turnabout, handling things personally. Colin almost never saw him anywhere but his basement office. He would have only taken such direct action if he had gotten word from Vessrin himself. And, blazes, Vessrin, the “King” of Rose Street, was almost more legend than man at this point. Colin hadn't laid eyes on him since he was a kid.

Colin swore under his breath. Rile and Beck had their Boys under control for the moment, and the Princes, while they all had their backs up, weren't about to move without a nod from Old Casey or one of the captains. Colin knew he wasn't about to give that nod.

“You all best get back to your own flops,” Colin told Beck. “Before this burns up.”

“Already full of embers,” Beck replied. “If I have boys who've been cracked and wagonned, then someone is going to pay for it.”

“Who are you going to make pay?” Tooser had stepped up, facing down the Boys. “You gonna crack the sticks back? Or the Uni?”

“Might as well crack Fenmere!” said another Prince.

“Only the Thorn doin' that!” one of the Boys said. Colin couldn't tell if the guy was proud or angry about it.

“What's this about a Thorn?”

A constab lieutenant stood in the doorway, a pack of sticks backing him up.

“What's it to you, stick?” Beck asked.

“Anything you barrel of rats do is my business,” the lieutenant said, eyeing the whole room. He wasn't from this neighborhood. Didn't even sound like he was from Maradaine. If Colin had to guess, he was from an eastern archduchy.

“You the new left in the neighborhood?” Colin didn't know this particular stick, but he had seen the type before, who looked at everyone on the street as the same. Rose Street Princes or Hallaran's Boys, Toothless Dogs or Red Rabbits, Waterpath Orphans or any other Aventil gang, this guy couldn't care less. Street cleaner. Every few months a new one of them came to the neighborhood, usually from the north side of the city, thinking they were going to be the one to change things.

They never lasted that long. This lieutenant would be no different.

“That's right,” the lieutenant said, tapping his brass badge. “Lieutenant Benvin.”

“Hear you all are rounding up the wagon, left,” Colin told him.

“Been some trouble down here, boy,” the lieutenant said. “We need to make sure you all aren't causing any more.”

“Who's causing trouble?” Colin asked. “We're all having a few beers, enjoying our evening. That a crime, left?”

“Depends on how you enjoy.” Lieutenant Benvin walked over to Colin and grabbed him by the lapels of his coat. He opened up the coat and pulled out one of Colin's knives. “What's this?”

“That there is my right, left. Ain't I a free Druth Man?”

“Right now you are. You think that lets you carry this?”

Colin grinned, baring his teeth. “It is the right of every free Druth Man to have arms and carry them on his person to protect himself from those who would impose false authority on his honest life.” Colin may not be a Uni boy, but he knew that part of the Rights of Man like the ink on his arms.

“And this is your honest life?” the lieutenant asked with a scoff.

“I think maybe you and your sticks should be on your way,” Colin said.

“Don't think you can tell me what I should do, boy.”

“Make a push, then, left, see how long that lasts you.”

Rile and Beck stood at his shoulder. The other Princes and Boys took their places as well. The two gangs would as soon tear each others throats out as look at each other, but against the sticks they would let that all drop.

The sticks behind Lieutenant Benvin all moved away from the door. The lieutenant didn't flinch.

“You got a charge on any of us?” Beck asked.

The lieutenant pointed to Beck and the rest of the Hallaran's Boys. “Why don't you take yours and go back to your own flops now?”

“We were just about to do that, left.” Beck whistled to his Boys, and they all filed out of the Turnabout. The sticks all scrambled out of their way.

“We still have a problem?” Colin asked.

“We'll see,” the lieutenant said. “It'll be nine bells soon. Let's make sure all yours are off the streets before curfew.”

“What are we, Uni brats? There's no curfew in the streets.”

“Let's pretend there is,” the lieutenant said.

“This won't roll, left,” Colin said.

“We'll see, cap.” The lieutenant gave quick salute to Colin, cocksure and mocking, and walked out of the club.

“Back to it all, boys,” Old Casey told the various Princes. Everyone slowly went back to their tables. Casey waved Colin over.

“The blazes was that all about?” he asked when Colin sat down.

“New left in Aventil, using this Uni brat thing as an excuse to try and crack us all.”

Old Casey shook his head and took a long pull off his beer. “Uni brat brings in the sticks, the Thorn brings in Fenmere, and we're squeezed in the middle.”

“That's life on Rose Street, ain't it?” Colin forced himself to laugh, to show Old Casey it was nothing to worry about. Of course Casey was worried, he was here, in the Turnabout, dealing with this, instead of farming it out to one of the minor bosses like Hotchins. As far as street level Princes were concerned, Casey was as high up as things got.

“What's the word over at Waterpath?”

“Ain't no word, not that I hear,” Colin said. “The Rabbits and the Orphans are getting pressed, and they're taking it.”

“Do we have to make Waterpath our problem?”

“I really don't think this is a bleed, boss.”

“And why do you think that?” Old Casey asked. His eyes narrowed. “You, of all the young ones on Rose Street, should know what happens when we don't pay mind to the signs. You've got a name to earn, Colin. It was your father—”

“Don't you get into it with my father, Casey!” Colin knew damn well what Casey was trying to do, trying to put his back up. It would work, if Colin let him.

Colin knew damn well that Aventil shattered and Fenmere got them all under his boot because of his father. He knew his own captaincy was earned despite his Tyson name, not because of it.

Every basement boss in the Princes knew they could rattle his hat by mentioning his father. His father the failure, who had done one thing right: protect his brother by sending him out of town when things were going bad. Everyone loved Colin's uncle. Even folks from Hallaran's Boys or the Waterpath Orphans would bow their head at the mention of Cal Tyson.

He was tempted to tell Old Casey everything—who the Thorn was, what he was doing, and let the bosses of Aventil do what they would with that. Blazes, if they knew he was Cal Tyson's son, they'd throw him on their shoulders and parade him around town.

He bit his tongue. Veranix was screwing everything up, but that didn't change the promises he'd made. He had promised his father that he would be there for Uncle Cal if he ever returned. He had promised his uncle that he would keep Veranix safe. He had sworn those things in blood, sworn them to Rose Street.

“What do we got to do?”

“We need to cool the air, that's what we got to do. You were playing the streets legit today, right? Keeping the sticks from finding fault?”

“Damn right,” Colin said.

“Smart. We've got to do something to blow the heat from Fenmere, then.”

“That heat will blow over on its own, boss.”

“You really think so?”

Colin thought for a moment. Casey wasn't going to let it drop easy, and he couldn't look like he was sticking up too much for the Thorn.

“Yeah,” Colin said. “Let's ride this heat a little longer, and if it gets any hotter, we'll do something to blow it off.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know yet, boss!” Colin got up from the table. “That'll depend on the heat.”

“Colin—”

“Trust me, boss. I've got it.”

Casey's beer was empty, and he signaled over to Kint the barman for another. “You say you got, you got it. But if I hear of more noise, I want to know you've done something, all right?”

Colin sighed and nodded. “If we need to do something, boss, I'll make sure it's taken care of.”

“Good man.”

“I better go check on the boys out in the streets. What with the sticks cracking down and all.”

Old Casey waved Colin off. Experience had showed Colin not to bother staying in Casey's sight once the wave was given.

Hetzer was waiting outside. “Some mess out here tonight, huh, cap?”

“Some mess, all right,” Colin said. “Where's Jutie and Tooser?”

“Hustling outside of the R&B. Should we go round them up?”

“Sticks are looking for an excuse right now,” Colin said. “Best not give them one.”

“At least let them use their excuses on the green caps, huh?”

“Sure,” Colin said, and led Hetzer down Rose Street.

Veranix scrambled out of the backhouse alley into the street, focusing his magic on blending into the surroundings. He didn't think anyone noticed him.

He could hear a lot of commotion around the corner, in front of the Turnabout. The Hallaran's Boys were clearing out one way, constables heading off the other. Looked like no blood was spilled, everything cooled down. Veranix was curious to find out exactly what happened, but he knew at this point, trying to satisfy that curiosity would only get him in deeper with Colin.

Colin was definitely mad at him.

Veranix scoffed. Colin would just have to get over it.

Someone walking past him looked around, confused. Veranix realized he was still shrouded, and his scoff must have sounded like it came out of nowhere. He slunk into the shadows and willed his appearance back to the ordinary looking man he was using earlier.

It was getting late, the curfew bells on campus would be ringing soon. The last thing he needed was for Rellings to have another excuse to dig into him.

He had only taken a few steps toward the University gate when he heard a scream. It had come from a few blocks up Rose Street. Possibly as far as Waterpath.

“Stop it! Stop it! Help!”

He turned and ran up Rose Street.

It was a woman's voice, a shout of terror. Veranix had gone charging toward her, and was past Bush and nearly to Waterpath before he realized he was unarmed.

He stopped his run, his heart pounding. He wasn't unarmed, of course, not really. Not ever. Especially not with the cloak on.

That would put him at risk. He'd definitely draw notice using magic. He shouldn't be drawing notice. He promised Kaiana he wouldn't get into trouble.

“Get your hands off of me!”

That was all he needed to hear.

There was already a crowd gathering at the intersection of Rose and Waterpath. Several gentlemen, well dressed for the neighborhood, were outside the general store on the corner, blocking the entrance. A woman, heavy-set with streaks of gray and a simple dress, was at the forefront of the crowd, trying to get into the store. Veranix wasn't sure, but he thought she was the wife of the proprietor.

She made another attempt for the door, only to have the men push her back at the crowd. The people caught her gently, but none of them made any further attempt to help her.

“Just stay over there, missus,” said one of the thuggish gentlemen.

BOOK: The Thorn of Dentonhill
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