Shadowcloaks Read online

  Grippy’s pasty, green face reddens and his claws tighten on my wrist and throat, though they’re pretty tight to begin with.

  “Where’d you get o’ll this?”

  “Gift,” I manage. “Your sister.”

  “Which one?”

  Like I could make this up. He’s never told anyone about his family, let alone the names of his sisters. Cynical bastard.

  “Davaria,” I choke out.

  He releases me slowly. There’s only one way I’d know that name. “Yer . . . yer met my family?” he asks, incredulous.

  “We saved their lives,” I say, knowing I need to press my advantage while I have a chance. “S’been a hard winter. We brought them wolf meat.”

  Evidently, he buys it. Grippy glances at his thugs and they relax. I can’t help noticing Grippy’s eminence in the human world has risen considerably, as if Petri’s death left him room to grow. It probably helps that Sanjuste and Frank are also out of the picture. Without those three, the dockworkers must have been lost. He seems more certain of himself. More dangerous. Less likely to slink and more likely to stand his ground.

  In typical goblin fashion he downplays my claim. “It’s been o’ hard winter for everyone,” he says, but I already know I’ve won because he relaxes. His eyes shift around the room, never staying on one person for more than a few seconds. “We’ve all had ta pull together.” He helps me straighten my jacket.

  “It’ll be good ta have yer back, Teacup,” he growls. “I heard about what yer done to those ‘Shades up north. Yer got some work to do here, o’ man. I haven’t had a decent game a darts since they nipped the seamstress.”

  He watches my reaction when he says this, but I don’t let my feelings for Carmen show through.

  “We’ll get her back, won’t we?” I say.

  Grippy snorts, doesn’t take the bait, not directly, not exactly volunteering to help. “It would be nice. On’y good players in this town are ‘Shades now, and they cheat.”

  “Worse than you?”

  Finally he grins. “Maybe.”

  I study his face for a moment, while Lucinda’s crowd drifts toward a table. He’s a lot like his mother. He’s got his mother’s teeth. The two sharp canines match Ownie’s to a tee, and his eyes are clever and quick. But his elongated features are not from Ownie. Here he resembles his sister Davaria, and I try to imagine what his human father must have looked like.

  “Grippy—”

  A colossal crashing sounds from the kitchen, the sound of hard-fired earthenware plates shattering on hearth, followed by a stack of empty wooden bowls cascading across the kitchen floor. They drum against the stone of fireplace and hearth, each resonant as they bounce.

  This is followed by swearing, in the usual manner. The commons erupts in laughter and impolite clapping. Lucinda grins until Tamara yanks her down, nearly to the floor amidst their little crowd, just as the kitchen door bangs open.

  An angry man dressed in black, leather armor, black sash, and a black eyepatch storms into the common room, raging over his shoulder about what he’ll do the next time some serving wench drops a stack of bowls on him.

  There’s no time for me to hide.

  “You,” he says, at first with surprise and then conviction. “You!”

  He yanks out a black sword and stalks toward me, catlike and confident. There’s a black ring on his left hand. “You turned this damn town upside down when you left and now I’m going to fix it.”

  “Uh. Oh.” Grippy says.

  I notice there’s a lot more space around me than there was before. I edge toward the open room, away from the wall, playing for unencumbered space, pulling his gaze away from Lucinda’s group.

  She understands, opting for surprise over weaponry. She explodes from her gaggle just as he turns to follow me, knocking Fat Madame Boucher aside and hammering him in the temple with her fist. Boucher falls out of the way, rolling like a dumpling and shrieking.

  Eyepatch spins. His pivot gives his sword arm the momentum to head-chop a melon, but Lucinda catches his wrist, stepping sideways to absorb the momentum.

  It’s a bad place to be. He’s got ring-reflexes and an abundance of small, pointy objects stashed about his person. Lucinda has just her sheathed sword and dagger, both out of reach.

  Moment of truth.

  Before he can yell a warning, before he can finish Lucinda, I plant my dagger in his back.

  I feel the icy echo of it in my own back, in my bones. Both his weapons clatter to the floor, the sword once held high and the dagger aimed for Lucinda’s stomach.

  It seems strange in retrospect to have been around so much death without having caused any. I’ve hurt people, but this is different. This is nothing like knocking a man off your roof in self-defense. This is intentional and meditated.

  My blade slices through the leather armor, pierces his heart from behind. I know instantly he’s dead, though it will be another minute for fait-accompli. I feel the blood pouring out as I jerk my blade free and dance sideways from his falling corpse.

  I’ve never killed a man before.

  Not like this.

  There’s a searing pain from my ring finger and a palpable sense of despair howling in my ears. Tight, black, spider-threads twist about my soul like a marionette spun in upon itself.

  First kill.

  First kill.

  First intentional kill.

  You only feel this once, Nightshade.

  Revel in it.

  I stumble backward as my vision narrows. I feel coldness in my face as the blood drains away. I feel the horror of what I’ve done. I expect him, Pale Tom, to come to me, as he often does, but his silence is the long stillness of death. There is no pale face but Sylvie’s as I fall backward into the bar. The room spins. I can’t see. I can’t breathe.

  A cool hand comes to rest on my shoulder. Lucinda’s. She helps me to a chair, keeping back a gaggle of blurry faces. The tightness in my soul fades. Or rather, it retreats into the background as she steadies me.

  Kill her.

  I turn my head from side-to-side slowly to bring the world back into focus. The people, my people, are staring at me with a reverence I do not merit. They’ve heard the rumors of Teamus Steeps, Nightshade Slayer, but now they’ve seen the evidence.

  Only they’re wrong. I can’t be the Nightshade Slayer. Because now I’m a Nightshade.

  Lucinda hands me a cold, wet cloth. As I clutch it, she gently wipes the blood from my hands with another cloth. “Teacup, what happened? Are you sick? Did you hit your head?”

  “No,” I say quietly.

  She pokes and prods me, deftly looking for a cause that she won’t find.

  “Poison?”

  “No.” I put my head on the table and moan softly, feeling sick. Murder. Each step I take toward Carmen tangles me more surely in Tom’s misery. This isn’t what I want. I want Carmen and a quiet life of prowling the rooftops. “Sodding sodgrass.”

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “I’m one of them now.”

  “Let me see your eyes,” Lucinda demands imperiously, grabbing my face.

  At the same time the front door clatters open. Instinctively, Lucinda drops her head to the table, next to mine, both hidden behind a crowd of Black Cat regulars, but I do one better. I slide under the table and peek out from between the thicket of legs as my spinning stomach settles.

  “Barkus?” bellows a coarse voice with a southern accent.

  I see a hint of wet, black trousers. As the man looks toward the kitchen the crowd around our table closes ranks imperceptibly, further hiding Lucinda from view. The corpse is nowhere to be seen and there’s an oddly placed table where it used to be. Cover for the new bloodstain.

  Barkus rumbles out of the kitchen with a skillet in one hand and a towel over his bad arm. “Yes, sir?”

  “What’s going on here? Where’s Galfer?”

  “With the kitchen girls. Can’t get him to leave them alone. Lend me a hand?”
/>   “Not gonna lend you a hand, Barkus. You lost that one for a reason.” He shakes his chin at Barkus. “Or was that a joke?”

  “No, sir. It was not.”

  “Good.” Coarse-voice is already halfway back to the door. “Don’t mess with us again, old boy, and you might just make your next Deepwinter. When Galfer’s done in the kitchen, tell him I want his report.”

  “Yes, sir.” Barkus pretends to walk toward the kitchen, but I suspect that’s not where Galfer is. I suspect his body is swimming in a pool of blood and alcohol. I can see the streaks along the floor.

  The commons holds its communal breath, waiting for this moment to sour. I can actually hear the rain outside. That alone should be enough to stop the Nightshade, if he has a lick of sense. The Black Cat is never silent.

  The ‘Shade senses it. He stops slowly and turns, sniffing the air. “I smell blood.” He doesn’t notice the oddly placed table, but the tone in his voice deepens. “Barkus. Why do I smell blood?”

  Barkus freezes. “I . . . I don’t . . . You can?”

  Deadly silence. Like the last flea on a dog’s flank, waiting for the teeth.

  The ‘Shade should shout now. He should blow one of those twang-boxes. With his friends outside, it’ll all be over in a matter of minutes.

  He puts fingers to his mouth to whistle.

  I hear a soft chuckle, interrupted by a hiccup. “I shmell blood, too,” Markel giggles. Hiccup.

  “What’s that, you drunk?” The ‘Shade lowers his fingers a bit. “You say something about the blood.”

  “Shertainly. I’m . . . hup . . . I’m your man.”

  “Markel,” the ‘Shade says, relaxing, “come here.”

  Markel totters away from the crowd. “Yesshir?”

  “You seen Galfer?”

  Markel doesn’t respond immediately, blearing around the room, seeming to forget where he is. But there’s something odd about the way he does it, a hair too calculating.

  “Markel.”

  “Yesh?”

  “Come here, you drunk.”

  Markel stumbles toward the door, reaching out a hand to steady himself on the ‘Shade. Miraculously, the man grins. Evidently this isn’t the first time he’s gotten friendly with a drunk. Markel breathes in his face.

  The ‘Shade twists a bit to avoid the eighty-proof breath, causing Markel to stagger, lose his grip, and catch himself on the man’s other shoulder.

  “Markel,” the man sighs. “Where’s Galfer?”

  “Downshtairs, shquatting on an eysh block. I punshed him in the walnutsh ‘caush the kitschen ish off limitsh . . . The girlsh don’t . . . The girlsh . . .” Markel forgets what he’s saying. He sways, hand slipping down the man’s back. Markel is taller than the ‘Shade and slides up to his armpit on the man’s shoulder.

  Markel giggles a little. “But you don’t. You leave the girlsh . . .” He tries to pat the ‘Shade on the head.

  The ‘Shade grins, and yells toward the cellar. “Galfer, get your ass up here, balls or no balls. I told you to leave the girls alone.” He turns to Markel, who has sagged so far he’s practically whispering in the man’s ear. “Clear out, Markel.”

  He tries to push the drunk off and that’s when I see it. Markel tenses.

  The ‘Shade’s eyes narrow. He tries again to push Markel away, but Markel doesn’t budge. Markel’s posture straightens as his arms slip sideways. He locks his hands tight around the ‘Shades’s back and falls forward, burying the man against the hard floor planking. They haven’t even hit the deck before the ‘Shade’s dagger punches twice through Markel’s back in rapid succession. Markel jerks, but he doesn’t let go.

  “You . . . . bastards . . . got something coming,” Markel says. There’s no trace of slurred speech as he smashes his head down on the Nightshade’s face even as the man twists his knife. Then Grippy is there, dockworkers just behind.

  For a moment I can’t see a thing, though I hear the scrabbling. Patrons flood around Markel, Grippy, and the Nightshade. The man tries to yell, but somebody shoves a wet rag in his mouth.

  “Bar tho door,” Grippy growls.

  Someone does, quietly.

  “Kitchen, too.”

  The crowd parts for me as I approach, revealing a ‘Shade pinned to the floor by two brawny dock workers and Fat Madame Boucher. She’s sitting on the shade’s feet and cradling Markel in her arms. Markel’s got four red blooms on his white shirt, four splotches that spread like budding roses.

  The Nightshade struggles but I can feel he’s weaker now, bleeding. I see a ring and severed finger clattering to the tavern floor, and Grippy’s bared teeth, bloody and frightening. “See me now, Brothers o’th Broken Abbey,” he says. “I have brought you this ring.”

  “I see you, Griphurk Razlenok,” Barkus says quietly from behind us. He stoops down, picks up the ring, and hands it to me, almost ceremoniously.

  But Markel is still gasping on the floor. He is all that matters to me in this moment.

  “I tried to protect her . . . Teacup. I tried. I swear I wasn’t drunk.”

  “Who?”

  “Carm . . .” He can’t speak. There’s blood coming out of his mouth. Madame Boucher’s tears bathe his face.

  I put my hand on his forehead. It’s the first time I’ve touched him willingly. The heat is fading with his blood. The pallor deepens quickly, but he smells clean except for the sweat, blood, and Madame Boucher’s tears.

  “I will find her, Markel. I will punish them.”

  I don’t think he hears me.

  “I’m not . . .” He can’t finish the sentence.

  “Not drunk. I know.”

  Lucinda puts her hand on his head, lips moving quietly in prayer, but it’s too late. He’s already dead.

  My heart breaks. I haven’t cried since Sara died, but I cry now, my tears joining Boucher’s, wishing I could know who Markel had become.

  There’s a noise behind me as the grey-cloaked lady pushes through the crowd. She’s highborn, for sure, with a posture meant for framing up pillars. In all the jostling her hood has fallen back and I recognize her, though I’ve never seen her up close.

  It’s Lady Selwin.

  I snarl, flexing my fingers as I stand, gripping my weapon.

  She stops advancing and carefully removes the grey cloak, like any proud, old woman might. Her bony hands place it softly, with reverence, on a nearby table. The plain, brown dress she wears beneath the cloak is a striking thing, art in the work of understatement. It accents the older woman’s figure, though at first glance one might mistake it for the same pressed linen that a shopkeeper might wear on a cold day. At the edges it betrays itself. It has sable fur at the cuffs and collars, and a silk underlining. I suspect it is quite comfortable.

  Quality.

  She can’t help herself. Even her attempts at discretion are telling.

  Lucinda grabs my shirt, tensing. She knows who it is, knows how this all looks. It’s wasted effort. One look in Selwin’s eyes and I know she is not the enemy. She didn’t sell Carmen out. She was trying to protect her. The call for blood in her eyes would make a Dreadlord quake. “I told her not to come,” Selwin says in a steely voice. “I told her to stay in her damn hiding spot.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Nightshades came to my house on Deepwinter’s Eve. I knew why they were there, but I swear I warned her to stay away. She didn’t listen.” Her grey eyes probe me for acceptance.

  “That sounds like Carmen,” I say quietly. I pull the note from my pocket, now blood-stained and drenched with sweat from the last two horrific days. It still has a quarter of the non-descript seal on it, the rest broken and lost in the recesses of my pocket, ground to waxy bits. “Hide” is all it says.

  “This yours?”

  She recognizes it immediately, raises her hand so I can see the matching signet, one I might have recognized were I not so exhausted. “I should have done more,” she says. “I should have gone to Byron.”

&nbs
p; “It wouldn’t have stopped her.”

  There’s a man in the crowd, too. A fighter, with a gait and bearing that look familiar. He pushes to the front as well, though it’s a bit easier for him.

  “Mr. Steeps, tell us what to do. They’re covering the exits,” he says. “One or two of us might make it out, but . . .” He trails off at the intensity of my gaze.

  “Captain James?”

  He shakes his head as if ashamed, pulling back his hood. “Roderic.”

  Once handsome, his face is a raw puckering of fresh scars. “James didn’t make it through the winter.” He says this with the intonation of an older brother driven by guilt. The likeness between the two is unmistakable. Everybody loved James. James laughed and smiled and didn’t make enemies easily. You could count on James to try to do the right thing, even in seedy Lower Ector. I can only imagine how much his family loved him.

  Roderic spits a broken tooth onto the floor of The Black Cat and tries again. “Tell us what to do, Master Steeps.”

  Lucinda gives me an odd look. Master Steeps?

  I look at the others in the room, the closest thing I have to friends in this world. Almost family. I look back to Lady Selwin, the wheels of my mind turning like Tom’s old machinery. We don’t have much time before the ‘Shades outside realize there is a problem. I don’t have time for confusing questions and lengthy answers. “Is Carmen still alive?” I ask.

  Selwin nods. “In a cage in the Merchants' Gallery. I saw her this morning. They leave her locked up and mostly unguarded.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  “The people are whispering. I heard rumors. This seemed like the best place to find you.” She looks around nervously. Any moment now the ‘Shades might come looking for their too-silent comrades.

  “Take a message back to Carmen,” I say. “Tell her I’m coming. Tell her I love—”

  Lady Selwin cuts me off, shaking her head. “No. There’s a man there, made of white stone and powerful beyond belief. He sits at my table and steals hope from the people who look at him. If he sees my face, he will know the truth. You don’t want him expecting you.”