The Thorn of Dentonhill (22 page)

Veranix wasn't going to let that happen. This was not going to be another fight like the one with Nevin. He wasn't boxed in here.

He swung up with the staff, sweeping the knife out of his way, and flipped backward. His feet connected with Coleman's chin as he went over—not as strong or as hard as he wanted, but enough to daze the knife fighter for a moment. Staying camouflaged, he pulled back, getting to the other side of the street, keeping most of his weight on his good leg. He was pushing himself, willpower alone keeping his body going. He didn't know how much longer he could keep it up.

“Close quarters or distance, no difference to me,” Coleman jeered, despite looking like he would drop any minute. He threw the knife in Veranix's direction, and dove at the body of one of the constabs, yanking his knife out of the dead man's chest.

Veranix jumped up to avoid the knives, grabbing the metal awning of a barbershop. His palms were sweating, he barely could keep a grip. Veranix flipped over to the top of the awning. Knife after knife flew past him, each one only a hair away from him. Breath short, heart hammering, every muscle ready to give out, he couldn't keep dodging. As another knife raced at him, he jumped off the awning. Wildly, he cast out the rope, wrapping it around a high tree branch jutting out over the park side of the street. Coleman kept his eyes to the sky, knives at the ready.

Veranix swung himself over the tree branch, looping high as he could before diving back down. He reeled himself down with the rope, catapulting at the ground.

Coleman was alert and threw two knives, and then two more, aiming wide; Veranix's camouflage and velocity made it impossible to aim accurately. One of the knives grazed Veranix's arm. It didn't matter to him as he plummeted hard and fast directly at Coleman, rope in one hand and staff in the other. Right before contact, he swung his staff, imagining Coleman's head was a tetchball and he was going for a triple-jack.

He hit Coleman's face, cracking the staff in half.

Veranix stumbled his landing, barely staying on his feet. Coleman was down, either knocked out or, more likely, dead. Veranix didn't feel like sticking around to check. Samael couldn't be far away, and given his skill with a crossbow, he didn't need to be very close, either. Veranix dropped the broken half of his staff. It was nothing he couldn't replace, just a polished stick of heavy wood, but he had a twinge of regret. His grandfather had given him that staff years ago.

He didn't have any fight left in him, he couldn't waste any more time. He mounted one of the Constabulary horses. It was a risk if the law caught him, but it was the fastest way to put some distance between him and the park. He gave it a sharp kick, and it started to canter down the street. Veranix steered it down Paller.

He wanted nothing more than to lie down on the horse's back and rest, only giving it the minimal leading it needed to reach Waterpath. Instinct told him not to let his guard down. He glanced back toward the park. Up on a roof, framed in the ruddy glow of the nearly full blood moon, he saw a figure running at full tilt, chasing him.

Veranix drove his heels into the horse, pushing it to a gallop.

The running man was beating the horse's pace, never losing pace to jump to the next roof or clear an iron grate. Veranix stole another glance and spotted the crossbow in the man's hand. It was undoubtedly Samael.

One block away from Necker Square, Samael overtook Veranix with a bold jump from a four-story row house to the one-story shop across the street, using the cloth banner over the shop to slow his descent. He charged forward, never looking at his feet, secure that every step was sure. Veranix was more than a little impressed.

Samael bounded off a railing, onto the awning of a tailor, down to a wooden cart. As he stepped off the cart, he twisted his body around, raising up the crossbow. He was going to block the way through into Necker Square, and Veranix knew the moment his feet touched solid ground he would shoot the crossbow. Crashing forward on the horse, Veranix had no way to turn or dodge or retreat. He couldn't cloak himself and the horse.

His hand went to the rope, and he lashed it out at Samael. Like lightning, it whipped forward and wrapped around the crossbow. Just as Samael landed on the ground, the crossbow was wrenched out of his hand.

Veranix barreled the horse forward, pounding toward Samael and knocking him on the cobblestones. Not losing another second, he turned down Necker and galloped at full pace toward the campus.

Samael got up from the road, disgusted with himself. He had underestimated the Thorn, and he should have known better. Cornered cats are always the most dangerous. He should have taken a clean kill shot back on the ridge, but he'd wanted to make sure the Thorn had the merchandise Fenmere wanted first.

He gingerly pressed his chest. He had probably broken a couple ribs. The gash across his skull was bleeding badly as well. Coleman was dead, in all likelihood, and he wasn't sure exactly what had happened to Pendall. He hoped he was still alive.

Lying on the ground in front of a smoke shop was the smashed remains of his crossbow. That angered Samael more than anything else. Pen and Cole were good friends, but the crossbow was a true treasure. He could rebuild it, of course, but that would take time and money. He bent down to look at the mess and see what could be salvaged.

He grinned. The scope was intact. That was an amazing bit of luck. He was certain the lenses would have shattered. He put it up to his eye. It worked fine. A small blessing on this poor night; the scope was the most expensive component of his crossbow.

Samael walked over to Necker, where the Thorn had raced away, and looked down the road through the scope. Sure enough, he saw the Thorn at the end of the road, getting off the horse. He gave the beast a few slaps until it ran off. Samael watched as the Thorn glanced carefully around, and apparently satisfied that he wasn't being seen, climbed over the University wall, and dropped down into the campus.

Now the night wasn't a total loss. He didn't get the Thorn, but he knew where he went. That should be worth a hundred crowns at least.

V
ERANIX PUSHED HIMSELF
on pure will to the carriage house. Kaiana had fallen asleep sitting on a bale of hay, her head lolled over to one side lying against the wall. Her book lay discarded at her side, and her lamp was burning low, almost out of oil.

Veranix stumbled over to her. He was already feeling terrible, but he knew it was about to get worse. Best to do this close to her.

First he dropped the rope next to her. Letting it go made his whole body shudder for a moment. He took a moment to catch his breath.

Next the cloak. Taking that off and putting it on the hay bale was like a hammer to the chest. Suddenly every muscle hurt. He didn't even bother trying to hold himself together, and slumped down on the ground, nudging Kaiana awake.

“Hey,” he said. “You said to wake you up.”

Kaiana opened her eyes blearily, and looked down at him. “Oh, sweet saints, Veranix. Another one of those nights?”

“Ambush tonight,” he said. “I should have expected it. Stupid.”

“You made it out.” She got up, stretching her arms and neck. “How bad was it?”

“Three real pros,” Veranix said. “An arrow almost missed my leg.”

“You were hit?” She bent down to examine him.

“I stopped the bleeding on it. A few small slices here and there. I got lucky, really.”

“Lucky is good,” she said. She looked him over. “Those pants will have to be burned, you know.” She crossed the carriage house, leaving him on the ground, and then came back with a cup of water and some dried meat.

“You think so?” Veranix asked. He took what she offered without question.

“I have no intention of washing or sewing them, all right?”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Where are my regular clothes?”

“Under the hay, back in the corner there,” she said, pointing into the empty stable. “Where are your bow and staff?”

“Casualties of the evening,” Veranix said. Summoning as much strength as he could muster, he pulled himself back to his feet. He frowned as he went into the empty stable and began stripping off his bloody clothes.

“If you plan on going out again in the near future, you can't go unarmed,” she said, turning her back to him. “Even with that fancy rope and cloak. Look how bad it is when you can fight back.”

“I need to have more nights where I don't fight anyone,” he said.

“That's a good choice too. Can you replace the weapons?”

“Staff is easy,” he said. He glanced around the carriage house, spotting several gardening tools. “I can see a few replacements right here.”

Kaiana snorted with laughter. “Master Jolen would love that. What about the bow?”

“It would cost a few crowns, but . . .” He trailed off, lost in idle thoughts, his mind too tired to stay focused. Everything in his body ached, but he might have just enough strength to get back to his dormitory.

“What is it?” She glanced back at him, and quickly turned away again. “Can you get your pants on?”

“Right,” he said. He grabbed the clean pants and pulled them on. The wound on his leg still hurt like blazes, but it wasn't in any danger of opening up, probably wouldn't get infected. He made a note that he would have to stretch it more than usual to keep it from healing tight. “I just remembered I have my father's old bow in the trunk in my room.”

“Sounds like you're all set,” she said.

“Even still, God and the saints willing, I won't be going out for a bit.” He tossed the cloak and the rope over to her. “They wanted that stuff, and Fenmere clearly has his mad on for it. So let's hide it and lay very low for a few weeks.”

She picked up the things and smiled. “Consider it hidden. Glad you've come to your senses on this.”

“I just need the rest,” he said. “Tomorrow is Saint Senea Day. Break from classes, and I'm just going to sleep all morning. I hear they're going to be doing
Three Men and Two Wives
over in Cantarell Square in the afternoon. You want to go see it?”

“Break day for you,” she said. “I still have work to do.”

“Right,” he said. “Sorry.”

“It's not a big deal,” she said. “
Three Men and Two Wives
? Raunchy junk.”

“It's hysterical!”

“Hardly,” she said. “Now, if it were one of Whit's history plays, like
Queen Mara,
I'd make it work.”

“
Queen Mara
? Really?”

Kaiana picked up a spade and held it up like a Druth pikeman. “This crown, this throne, this
kingdom
is mine by birthright. You tell every last traitor that I will hold it, alone if I must, even if the borders of Druthal be no greater than the walls of this room. I will keep the crown on my head for as long as I have breath in my body and strength in my arm!”

She was good. Veranix had no idea she had that in her, and had to respond with applause. “You know that speech?”

She snapped back to looking at him. “I know the whole play.”

“Wow,” Veranix said. “We should find someone to do
Maradaine XVI
. You could do a blazing good job playing—”

“If you say Queen Majara, I will hit you with this shovel.”

“Any role you wanted,” Veranix finished. He wasn't sure if she was joking or not. But even if she was interested in the stage, playing the half-Napolic former queen of Druthal was clearly not something that appealed to her.

“That play isn't even Whit, it's Kelter mimicking his style,” she muttered. She put down the spade and looked at the slices on Veranix's arm. “I think you'll live. Get back to your room before the sun starts coming up. I'll take care of this stuff.”

“Thanks, Kai,” he said, smiling. “One last favor?”

“You mean one last for tonight?”

“Yeah. Just . . . keep your eye on me until I'm in Almers. Make sure I get in there.”

“Right, right,” she said, playfully shoving him to the door. “Now move.”

Veranix slipped back out into the dark night. He was exhausted, sore down to his bones, but he also had a sense of rejuvenation. As he crept over to the side of Almers Hall, he began to feel almost giddy. He realized the damage he had done to Fenmere. The kind of anger, the kind of wrath that Fenmere had sent down on him didn't come from petty swats, or even a bloody nose.

Veranix climbed up an ironwork trellis on the side of Almers, pushing through the pain, ache, and fatigue. Just a few feet more. To stay focused, he started to think up a plan. He would lie low for the rest of the month. In Joram, he would start knocking dealers and pushers around the park, and the north end of Dentonhill.

As he reached the third floor, he thought about Maxianne and the other doxies. The kids with them. That gave him pause. Could they wait until Joram? Were things going to be even worse for them, with what he'd started? Would they think he had given up on them, left them to fend for themselves against Fenmere? They were going to have to. He couldn't help them if he were exhausted or dead, which he would be if he kept up at this pace. Blazes, he was already exhausted. When he reached the window to the third-floor water closet, he could barely muster the minute amounts of
numina
needed to pop the iron grate covering it.

He slipped in the window and magicked the grate back into place. It took every ounce of strength and willpower not to collapse right on the floor. He pulled himself over to the water basin and filled it. He bent down and sipped some, and then splashed the rest on his face. A glance at the mirror showed he had gotten most of the blood and dirt off himself, enough to not draw stares from anyone who saw him. Tomorrow he would go to the baths. That would be good.

He slipped off his boots and hid them in the bottom of the linen cabinet, behind a pile of sheets. The dormitory stewards didn't work on holidays, even on a minor Saint Day, so they would be safe through tomorrow. He left the water closet and trudged down the hallway. A few lamps still burned low in the third-floor common room. As Veranix slipped through, he saw Rellings sleeping in one of the chairs. He had a few books around him, so he might have been studying, but knowing Rellings, Veranix figured he was sitting watch.

Veranix noticed a sheet of paper lying in Rellings's lap. Despite the low light of the lamps, he could read it. Rellings had been writing a letter to Parsons's parents. They had already been informed by the University, Veranix was sure. He looked closer, and saw that the letter was far more personal, Rellings telling them of how sorry he was for Parsons's accident, taking blame for it, and good things about Parsons's life at the University.

Veranix never thought Rellings had it in him.

“Rellings,” he said, nudging the prefect. “Wake up.”

Rellings startled, opening his eyes and groping around at the arms of the chair. “What, who?” He looked up, focusing his eyes. “Calbert. What time is it? Why are you out of bed?”

“Water closet,” Veranix answered. “I'm not sure about the time. Maybe around four bells.”

“Mmm,” said Rellings. He glanced around, obviously still a bit disoriented. “Fell asleep in the chair.”

“Keeping an eye on us all, eh?” Veranix asked, but without the usual bite he would give to Rellings.

Rellings squinted at him, clearly waking up a bit more. “You should be in bed, Calbert.”

“You too, Rellings,” Veranix said. “You'll hurt your neck sleeping that way.”

“Right,” said Rellings. He stood up. “All right, go, Calbert.”

“Yes sir,” Veranix said, giving Rellings a bit of a wink. He walked over to his own door. “Holiday tomorrow, Rellings.”

“Right,” said Rellings, nodding as he picked up his books and papers. “No wake-up or walk to Holtman.”

“Thank the saints for that,” Veranix said. “Good night, Rellings.” He went into his room. Delmin was fast asleep, sprawled out facedown on the bed. Veranix peeled off his shirt and pants and dropped onto his own bed. He was asleep almost the moment he landed.

Fenmere hadn't slept the whole night. This had not been his choice. Lord Sirath and Kalas had invited themselves into his parlor at eleven bells, this time bringing two of their own heavies with them. They had spent the entire evening waiting for their merch to return, demanding food and wine from his staff.

In twenty years, Fenmere had never been muscled on like this. It was humiliating. The only saving grace to the whole business was the fact that Sirath and his Blue Hand boys didn't move in his normal circles. This wouldn't get tracked back to him, wouldn't carve into his action.

It was still degrading.

Fenmere had spent much time out of the parlor. Sirath, at least for the duration of the evening, had the grace not to follow him around the house. He spent much of the night waiting on the balcony outside his office, which from three stories up overlooked Inemar and the river. The night had been bright and clear, and he could see quite far to the north side of the city, making out the rough shape of high towers against the horizon.

Hainara had come at two bells. He had almost forgotten that he had arranged for her. He had presumed that the whole business would be done by one bell; the merch would be delivered, and the Thorn's head would literally be on a platter. She was to be his celebration. She wasn't one of those common street doxies; she was an artist, the real pride of his stable. Keeping her for himself tonight cost him another hundred crowns, at least, but she would have been worth it. With Sirath and his Circle still there, with no news from the Three Dogs, there was nothing to celebrate. Even Hainara's gifted hands couldn't lift Fenmere's dark mood.

The sky was lightening. A few blocks away, the bells over Saint Polmeta's would ring soon. Fenmere picked up his pipe, a small treasure of gold and ivory, and packed a pinch of
hemas
leaf into it. He lit a taper off one of the candles on the balcony, and lit the pipe. He took a deep pull of the smoke. It did little to calm him.